Chapter Text
Art couldn’t keep his eyes off Tashi Duncan. Even from all the way up in the bleachers, he could see the sun glinting off her dazzling smile. Her clear skin shimmered and glimmered under the rays of the setting sun, its oranges complementing her warmer undertones.
He watched her slick braid sway as she zeroed in on the erratic ball, bouncing haphazardly from her side to Pat’s side to her side and back to Pat’s. Art’s eyes darted from Tashi to Pat as he followed the ball, a green aura swelling in his heart. An acrid taste crept up his esophagus into his mouth as their smiles grew, their eyes never left each other, and their energies synchronised.
It was bittersweetly unexpected that Tashi and Pat would last so long. Art expected fire and fire to decimate each other, set alight a match of tension and leave a pile of ashy regrets. But they seemed to fuse and become a reckoning force, a dominating presence at Standford. Pat’s fire never burned Tashi and Tashi’s never burned Pat’s—they were each other’s warmth.
He wished he could express some kind of contempt, but his attempts were futile, transparent as freshly cleaned glass.
Acrid became putrid in his mouth, bile traversing up his throat. He had to swallow it; he had his chance to be down there but it slipped from his fingers. All he could do was cool the fragments of contempt and green bubbling in his chest with the memories of his and Pat’s friendship.
When they won the Junior doubles together, when he taught Art to jerk off (god, he wished that story had never resurfaced), when they’d spend entire nights together smoking and talking about girls. All those parties where it would be just them and a can of beer. He would trade Tashi to relive all over again.
Right?
Yeah, right, of course, absolutely.
“Hey, Art, what’s the score?” Pat yelled, panting between most of his words. Pat’s smile glowed as the sheen of sweat on his forehead did, Tashi’s radiance radiating onto him like a contagious disease. Perhaps that’s why Pat became another person around her, sick with her passion and determination. Perhaps Tashi used black magic to keep him in a trance, Art wouldn’t put black magic above Tashi.
“5 Tashi, 2 you,” Art called back down nonchalantly. Pat cursed loudly and Tashi simply laughed, throwing her head back slightly. God, it was such a melody, a lullaby. It made Art momentarily forget all the negativity brewing within him, a consequence of being alone with his thoughts.
“Pat, not even Jesus’s miracle could save this match, give it up!” Art added sarcastically, plastering a smile across his face. Maybe he should squint his eyes a bit for believability. Maybe it would be better if he left it like this and let Pat find the potential undertone to his message. Art wasn’t quite sure whether he was wholehearted with the underlying jab, Pat was his best friend after all.
“I would let Tashi beat me any day! I would never give up on letting Tashi use me for her ego!” Pat deflected jokingly, flashing Art a lopsided smile. Pat locked eyes with Art, irises glinting with knowing. Of course, Pat catch the message immediately, he’s had a decade to read Art front to back, back to front. Hiding anything from Pat was an impossible feat.
“Let? You never stood a chance,” Tashi snapped, appalled at Pat’s humour. “You can’t even score the points that matter, your technique becomes sloppy halfway through the game.”
Art watched the grip on Pat’s racquet loosen a little, his smile stiffening as he began feigning the look. Tashi raised an eyebrow at him, challenging his opinion against her credibility. Both Art and Pat knew this would be a futile fight if it was lucky enough to become one.
“Thank god this is a friendly match,” Pat commented lightheartedly, muscles tensed as he raised his arm ready to serve again. Tashi positioned herself and missed all the signs, nodding in approval of the serve. Pat let a few seconds beat, his eyes boring into Tashi’s. Art couldn’t see his face but he could definitely see the curses and challenges in his eyes, ready to rival Tashi’s silently.
The “friendly” match continued and Art was almost ready to doze off. He didn’t want to return to the rabbit hole of his thoughts but didn’t want to leave. If he left, he would lose these extra moments with Tashi, these moments of genuineness that only breathed around tennis. Not even Art could get such radiance and warmth from her, all he could do was mildly satiate her. All Art was to Tashi was fuel to her fire, and he was ready to devote himself to being her gasoline.
If things were better, in an ideal world, he would be one to fully satiate her and fit into the mould she destroyed and ravaged for. He could be her ice, her gasoline, her water, her bark—anything.
To distract himself, he locked in on their techniques. He measured Tashi’s angles, force, backhand, and in-and-out, face pinched as he struggled to find any flaw in her technique. Pat, on the other hand, was slightly flimsier than Tashi. His angles were a few degrees off and the force he exerted fluctuated, a detriment to a few of his shots. Art was in no position to judge sitting on the bleachers, swatting the nitpicks into the back corners of his mind.
“Tashi is way too good to be playing against the rat from Flushed Away,” a sudden voice commented behind him, externalising the thoughts he had just compartmentalised. Art, too deeply immersed in this pity party, jumped and turned to see a twiggy girl sitting beside him.
He could recognise her, she was that Kehlani girl from the elusive computer science major. Kehlani, what was it? Ackers? Archer? Something beginning with A, Art wasn’t well-acquainted with her.
“The rat from Flushed Away happens to be my best friend,” Art commented, slightly taken aback by her forwardness. Kehlani was undeniably stunning with her wavy raven hair in its signature ponytail, four piercings on each ear, and tanned olive skin. Her most notable feature was her eyes which were auburn in the setting sun. The sun sought to unveil the mischief hidden in them, the hunger for entertainment.
She wasn’t Tashi, though, she could never be Tashi.
“Oh,” she responded, face stretching into a grimace. “She chose him over you?” She questioned, eyes flickering from the court to Art. Barely one sentence into their conversation, she already stung him where it hurt most. The pang in his heart translated into a flicker of bitterness spreading over his face, instinctively returning to its quintessential friendliness.
“Excuse me?” Art questioned. Kehlani smiled against the straw of the Diet Coke bottle, staring at him like he was a little bit stupid. The way she stared at him pricked at him, drilling a black hole into the abyss of green he seemed to be building within. He wondered whether her reading abilities extended to social cues or resided nose-deep in nerdy math textbooks.
“You’re essentially sitting under a thundercloud, do you know how miserable you look?” She quipped unabashedly, leaning back and stretching her legs onto the bleachers.
“Do you think before you speak?” Art blurted in disbelief, face scrunching in confusion. How could someone be so forward? So inconsiderate and self-absorbed? Her nonchalance, the slouch of all her muscles, made Art’s muscles tense, his internal nitpick rising from its corner in a grand comeback.
“Not particularly,” she answered honestly, shrugging, “I find it unnecessary.”
“Why would it be unnecessary? You’d end up upsetting someone,” Art critiqued bewildered. Kehlani smiled again, bemused as Art began to rile up. Even Art could sense himself being uncharacteristically triggered, ready to blow up and dramatise the next minor inconvenience. Minor inconvenience seemed to manifest as Kehlani and her awful first impression.
“Is it normal for you to be this worked up?” Kehlani retorted, elated by Art’s rising irritation. She looked at him with the wondrous joy of catching him at the wrong time, a time when he let himself be susceptible to being unmasked and grumpy.
Tashi Duncan, what have you done to me?
“No, just a bad time, sorry,” he apologised, acutely aware of his sudden attitude. He never used to be this serious, not until Tashi. Kehlani’s smile abandoned its sarcasm, melting into something softer. It seemed to be her unspoken way of finding solidarity, an assurance she understood despite the evidence otherwise.
“Coke?” Kehlani offered, lifting the straw and tilting the bottle in his direction. Art shook his hand in polite refusal and Kehlani let the matter die then. “Is it Tashi Duncan? Are you, like, in love with her or something?” She probed.
Art remained silent, staring at her incredulously. The idea embedded itself in his waking and dreaming thoughts and plagued his ability to function normally. Every time the ball bounced off the racquet, Tashi’s nod of acceptance flashed behind his eyes. Tashi became his adrenaline during his matches, her voice barking orders in his ears. He moved mechanically and subconsciously at her every spoken and unspoken order.
Even outside of tennis, he memorised every detail about her: her curl pattern, her meal pattern, the moment of hesitation she takes before rejecting a chocolate bar, and the way she loosens when she talks about Pat. Art was piecing her together, unpacking her as closely as he could while she shut herself from him. Art wanted to ask Pat about everything he knew of Tashi and make him send a full report on her, but even with their decade of friendship, he knew his boundaries.
He had long acknowledged his deep admiration for Tashi Duncan, but it was purely a thought, maybe a few actions. He had never articulated it, never let it into the universe. The all-consuming remained within the confines of his mind and organs, contained within his vessel. Did he want to ruin that?
“You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal,” assured Kehlani, following the statement with a sip of her coke. She dug into the front pocket of her jeans with rhinestone patterns and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “If this bullshit gets depressing, I’m hosting a party nearby.” She announced, offering him the piece of paper.
Art stared at the paper for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell her to fuck off or not. Something about Kehlani discomforted him–maybe her unapologetic openness, her perceptiveness, her ability to read him. Regardless, Art wondered whether he wanted to associate with her.
His gaze flickered to Kehlani again, who raised his eyebrows at him again. She wasn’t wrong to say this bullshit was getting depressing, maybe Art could use a break from tennis and Tashi.
“What’s a computer science major doing hosting a party?” Art joked as he unwrapped the note. She scrawled the address, the date two days from now, her number, and her name on the note. Oh, Ackehurst! Right, he was close enough with it.
“I have to save my people from the likes of you sports majors who think we’re losers,” Kehlani quipped lightheartedly, rising with a begrudged sigh. “See you around, Stuart Little, good luck with whatever this is.” She addressed, grouping a farewell wave and pointing towards Tashi and Pat in a single gesture.
“See you around, Ackehurst.” Art bid as he watched her walk off from the bleachers, tossing her completed Coke in the bin.
***
The sweltering summer heat crept through the walls and diffused into every corner of the room. Night descended over Stanford, sending the campus into a standstill. The breeze was a faint whistle through the open window, barely bristling Pat’s or Art’s exposed skin.
The best friends sprawled over the narrow expanse of Art’s dorm room, shirts long abandoned in the heat. They lay side by side, staring at the chipping ceiling as Pat absorbed his exhaustion. Art lay there silently, allowing Pat to regain enough energy to start his typical debauchery.
Serene moments like this, where it was nothing but him, Pat, and the stillness of the world outside them, almost made him forget Tashi, tennis, and the complicated emotions arising from the mess.
Soon enough, Pat leaned on his left elbow, closely hovering over Art’s face. His breath fanned over Art’s face, his deep brown eyes boring into Art’s. There was a pause, strands of tension slowly knotting as they remained unmoving, conscious of their breathing.
“Who was that girl?” Pat demanded solemnly with a smile. There it was, that expression he had whenever Art talked to Tashi and the other girls. Pat Zweig wasn’t subtle with that plastered smile and vulnerable tone, but that seemed to be the point. Art was supposed to notice, it wasn’t feigning, it was honesty in its rawest form.
“Who?”
“You know, the girl with the coke from the bleachers.”
“Oh, you mean Kehlani Ackehurst?”
“Yeah, her, what’s her deal?”
“Nothing, she’s just some weird computer science major with no social awareness.”
Pat smiled wider seeing Art frown slightly, “You’re reacting!”
Art gently thwacked Pat’s forehead away from him and leaned against his single bed. Pat leaned against a desk leg and raised his eyebrows, nursing a beer as he awaited Art to explain the details.
Art dutifully did so, omitting to mention his blatant jealousy. Pat’s knee shot up as he intently listened to Art, his smile becoming a teasing smirk as he watched Art’s lips scrunch and sour. Even Art was astounded by his muscles and their involuntary movements at the mention of Kehlani Ackehurst.
Art concluded the explanation, fishing the note from his back pocket. Pat leapt at the note with such fervour that Art hissed concernedly, fearing Pat would shred it to pieces. Pat’s eyes glittered as he read the details, and Art shook his head. To think Art was stuck
“It’s about time you got your own girl and stopped ogling mine,” Pat half-joked as he handed the note back to Art. Art tensed slightly as he accepted the note, fingertips ghosting each other. A newfound self-consciousness arose in him, vividly aware of how he had been read like a novel by two people.
Oh, god, Tashi must know by now, right?
“Don’t call this weirdo my girl, she has no respect for anyone,” snapped Art, returning the note to his pocket.
“That’s not important,” Pat dismissed, waving a hand in Art’s face, “The important matter is whether you’re gonna go or not.”
“I mean, think about it, Art, she personally invited you! You have to go!”
She invited me at the expense of your miserable relationship, he thought, biting it back down immediately.
“I’ll consider it, but I’m probably not going,” Art compromised, shaking the thought away. “But there’s no way you can force me to go, got it?” He added firmly, taking a swig of his beer. Pat nodded exaggeratedly with a teasing grin, a clear indication of his refusal to abide by Art’s request. Art simply shook his head as Pat snickered and extended his legs to touch Art’s.
Art reciprocated the action and locked eyes with Pat as he downed a sip of his beer. His eyes were deep, deep cocoa that constantly glittered; they were a night sky condensed, soothing, enigmatic, homely. In still moments like these, Art often found himself lost in them, reminding himself of their fond, intimate moments. He recalled their first day at the academy, when Pat first confessed to sleeping with Tashi, when they mas–
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
They both broke eye contact and averted their attention to the door. Seconds later, before either of them could properly process what was occurring, the knocking started again, somehow more aggressive than before. Pat slipped his shirt on and scrambled to the door with apprehensive haste, the haste of recognition, of terror. He looked almost ratty and pathetic with his dishevelled appearance and furrowed eyebrows, and Art knew there was only one person who could elicit this reaction from anyone.
Tashi Duncan stood at the door with arms crossed and an unimpressed frown. Art subconsciously found himself cowering at the sight of Tashi, terror coursing through his veins despite clearly not being the subject of her disappointment.
“We need to talk,” she demanded Pat, not sparing a second glance at Art in the room. Either she didn’t notice him or didn’t care for him, both of which unsettled him. The least she could do was glare at him and wordlessly cuss him out for whatever sins Pat committed. If Tashi were to stare at him with such ferocity, then maybe he would outdo Pat’s crimes. Actually, no, he would be whatever she wanted to be–clean, angelic, innocent, he would never ever defy her.
His unease heightened when Pat closed his dorm room without so much as a grimace back at him. If this had been back at the dormitory, then Pat would’ve turned to snicker at him or beg him for his help, but it was just…cold. The closed wooden door seemed to mock Art, giggling at his puppy-like disquiet as he pined for his exclusive access to them and their relationship.
No, they couldn’t do that to him, no, no, no. He had to know right now, he had a right to know as Pat’s best friend, as his brother. So he arose and crept towards the door silently like a mouse, pressing an ear to the door.
“What the hell are you still doing here at Stanford? You need to be searching for more matches, not loitering here with Art!” Tashi chastised Pat. (She mentioned him!)
“I’ve been playing matches for weeks, is it so wrong to see my brother for at least a day?” Pat snapped back. Art could envision Pat’s gritted teeth, the rage swirling in his eyes, and the way he would lean closer to Tashi. Hopefully not close enough to kiss her passionately in a moment of tense rage.
“You’ve been playing matches, not winning them. And I can tell why, you always tank the third set! If you’d just focus like Art did, you’d so easily be able to win all your matches!”
(Another mention!)
Patrick scoffed, “Why is it that every fucking time we meet you bring up tennis? Some days you praise my tennis, other times you curse my tennis, and you never fail to bring up Art’s tennis! Please, can we stop talking about tennis all the damn time, you’re my girlfriend, not my coach!”
“Do you know how fucking embarrassing it is to have my boyfriend lose all his matches? You need to let me fix your game.”
“I’m not playing college tennis, it’s a whole other world out there! There’s no Duncanators following me around everywhere!”
Tashi scoffed, “I’m so sick of hearing you call me sobbing about all the screw-ups you’ve made, it’s a waste of my goddamn time, especially if you’re not going to listen to me.”
“What do you expect from me? Complete compliance? Subservience to the Oh So Great Tashi Duncan? I’m not a member of your fan club. If you want Mr Tashi Duncan, then go be with Art!”
“Fine, fine by me, he’s smarter, better looking, and really fucking good at tennis! Much better than you’ll ever be!”
Art listened unmoving like a statue, intently like a whimsical child. He listened as Patrick’s footsteps receded and Tashi remained still for a few seconds before sighing and retreating to her dorm.
The entire dormitory hallway probably knew how tumultuous Pat and Tashi were; they were probably predicting Art was Tashi’s next boyfriend, her next project. He would pounce on the offer to become Mr Tashi Duncan, but his reluctance rose as Pat’s distressed expression flashed behind his eyes. His stomach churned thinking about the humiliated state his proud friend, his fiery brother, was reduced to at the relentless attacks of Tashi and her intensity.
He knew he should call Patrick and form some lame excuse about how he left something behind that they both wouldn’t buy. If Pat called him and assured him they were fine, he would attempt to entirely slay the beast of his obsession with Tashi.
The phone rang once, twice, thrice, four times, and a fifth time before sending Art to an automated voicemail response.
When he called a second time, the phone rang once, twice, thrice, four times, and a fifth time before sending Art to an automated voicemail response.
When he tried for the third and final time, the phone rang once, twice, thrice, four times, and a fifth time before leaving Art without any of the answers he desired.
What was he to do? Should he do anything? He hadn’t a clue, all he knew was that this could be solved tomorrow, after a good nights rest.
***
A sweltering night welcomed an even more humid afternoon where most of the tennis students found themselves fanning their sticky bodies with their sheer polo shirts. Some of his classmates lay on the floor of the indoor courts, some sat high up in the shade of the bleachers, and he and Tashi were the only ones playing out in the courts.
Granted, it was lunchtime, so it made sense that their classmates would retreat as soon as possible, but being around Tashi Duncan was a relentless feat. She seemed to forget what a break was even as her heart pounded with vicious speed and her entire body rained torrents of sweat. Her eyes were sharper today and her jaw clenched so tightly Art was worried her teeth would infuse into a grotesque fusion of bones.
“Tashi! Let’s stop for a moment, please!” Art panted, dropping his racquet as the ball bounced past him. He doubled over as his ankles pulsated and his stomach stung with a stitch. He eased himself into a cross-legged position as he let his body catch up, and return to homeostasis. He was tempted to lay on the ground, let the mild chill of the ground futilely attempt to soothe his searing body, but he refrained. Imagine what Tashi would think of him.
“You’re losing your stamina, Art,” chastised Tashi. “Keep this up, and you’ll end up like Pat.” She grumbled almost inaudibly. It was evident a good night's sleep did nothing to extinguish their bushfire; their tragedy reached its climax. A sense of dread coursed through his veins as he craned his neck to look up at Tashi.
Even when her face was burdened with the weight of disappointment, Tashi still stunned him. Her disappointment made her so domineering, especially as he sat in a pathetic slouch on the floor. The sun behind her made her shadowy, almost enigmatic. She looked like a deity with her halo of fiery rage. He would melt if he stayed around any longer.
“Art.” Art immediately jumped, reacting as quickly as his nerves did to a burn. Her tone became so icy, sending shivers down his entire body despite the humidity. His immune system seemed to react to her chill that plagued him, making him woozy as his body went into overdrive.
“Is everything alright?” He inquired tentatively, omitting to mention overhearing their argument the night before. Tashi simply tossed her racket to the side and chugged her water, leaving a heavy tension in the air filled with only the sound of their pants. Her gaze lingered on him, icy with disappointment, sending shivers throughout his burning body.
His body could handle ice–after all, everyone called him the “ice” of “fire and ice”–but something about Tashi’s gaze was colder than that, colder than any glacier, than Antarctica. He couldn’t move or respond, simply rooted to the spot as he created a pool of sweat by his feet. The gaze spoke the volumes Tashi refused to: I know you know and you know to stay out of it.
But could he stay out of it? Could he idly watch as Tashi and Pat let their fire rage and catastrophise everything in their path, nothing but destruction in their wake? He wished he had the adamance to force himself into the matter, intervene and cool the fire blinding his best friends, but he was merely ice, and he melted into submission.
He averted his gaze first, relenting the match to another classmate as he replenished his energy. As he sifted through his bag for a snack, his fingers brushed over a piece of paper, causing him to frown. He knew energy bar wrappers and that was the furthest from that. He frowned as he pulled it out, revealing the scrawl of Kehlani Ackehurst.
The party details stared at him invitingly, Kehlani Ackehurst's voice ringing in his ears: If this bullshit gets depressing. Art begrudgingly found himself agreeing with her, a moment of clarity and self-awareness amid the mist of his obsession with Tashi. This bullshit was depressing, very depressing; watching Tashi and Pat burn and fight and stab at each other and, by extension, him.
Maybe he needed a night off, maybe Kehlani Ackehurst's party was not an awful idea.