desire [ art donaldson x patrick AU ]

II.

II.

[invite]

.・。.・゜✭・.🔪

╰┈➤ ❝ [𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞.] ❞

𝐴𝑈𝐺𝑈𝑆𝑇

𝑇𝑊𝑂 𝑊𝐸𝐸𝐾𝑆 𝐿𝐴𝑇𝐸𝑅.

<art>

𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓. He hadn't been to the gym in weeks. He was an athlete, an ex-tennis player, who was at the top of his class in college. And, while in college, Art was mentally and physically focused. Driven by the desire to succeed and out-champion his tennis enemies, he was at the top of his games, unrelenting in the face of women, alcohol, and college parties. He was determined and committed to go pro, but that dream sunk with a brutal loss Art never recovered from. Since that brutal loss, the one that mattered the most to scouters aiming to recruit to professional teams beyond college, Art swore to never play again. But he liked to stay in shape post tennis. He liked to challenge himself, pick up a few weights here and there, but recently, running was what kept his mind healthy. It reminded him of that peaceful place he found, his nirvana while playing tennis, when it was just him, his opponent, a racket, and the neon yellow tennis ball. Running was a much different sport than tennis, but cardio was needed for conditioning. You had to be fast running across the tennis court to send the ball flying back over to your opponent. So when he picked back up the urge to run, whether on a treadmill or terrain, Art felt a little bit like his old self again. It wasn't that he hated what his life had come to since college and tennis, Art was simply looking for an ulterior escape than drinking and partying with Patrick and his other buddies at bars and house parties. There was certain level of maturity to taking care of your physical health, and Art felt it reminiscent of his college days.

And, for two entire weeks straight, Art had not entered the apartment's gym. Most nights he was eating garbage and drinking beer occasionally with Patrick. On the weekends, however, Art outdid himself. Patrick was the partier, and he had friends that Art had never even known existed until his best friend said that he was going to someone's birthday party, or their bachelor party, hell, even gender reveals. And Art was always the plus one.

It was as if his sole mission was to blackout and forget that the night never even happened.

And Art never objected, hardly complained, but he had for this night.

He saw it in his physique how his poor diet choices and blackout missions to devour as much alcohol as he could had his taut muscles deflate a little. The tone to his body slackened in just two weeks of no weight lifting and running.

And, truthfully, Art had a lot on his mind. There was work, which was a stressor in and of itself. He worked as an accountant—so mind numbingly dull and colorless, but it paid well. He also coached and trained young kids at a fitness center part time. But he hadn't stepped foot in the fitness center since he was coaching the child of a man he played against in college a few times. He won every single game against that man, and yet, there was a jolt of jealousy; Art would argue it was envy of its worst kind. Whether it was because his dream of becoming a pro tennis player failed, or because the college guys he knew were growing up and having kids, Art knew either fact hurt him.

He was still living with his best friend.

He was an accountant.

He wasn't actively on his way to making a family with the love of his life.