desire [ art donaldson x patrick AU ]

III.

III.

[bag]

.・。.・゜✭・.🔪

╰┈➤ ❝ [𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥.] ❞

𝑆𝐸𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑀𝐵𝐸𝑅

<art>

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 came and went.

Art was torn; how should he approach Mal? He felt like the right move was to hand over her bag and never speak again, but it felt... unfinished? Art didn't understand it, because what felt unfinished? Their acquaintance?

And the first week of September commenced.

It began with Art finally growing the balls to hand over Mal's gym bag. The same bag that sat on the floor, closest to the foot of Art's bed.

He hadn't opened it to explore its contents, although the curiosity was ever growing and tempting.

In truth, Art admitted he went to the gym for a week straight after seeing Mal there the first time. He hoped she would return so that they could pick up where they left off; it kept him motivated to return. But she never showed up, and he never handed over the bag.

One night, in the middle of that night, Art was seated on his couch, watching baseball re-runs with Patrick, slightly buzzed and warmed with the alcohol sloshing around in his stomach.

Again, he found himself drinking and wasting another night away, when he should be exerting energy at the gym. It was as if Art made progress just to ruin it—back at square one.

To worsen his irritation, Art recalled the frat boy incident that caused him to have Mal's bag in the first place.

Art was going to tell Patrick all about it, but decided against it. It wouldn't take much for Patrick, sometimes acting as the devil on Art's shoulder, to convince him to rummage through her stuff instead of focusing on what truly mattered.

If Art had told Patrick what that kid's girlfriend said to Mal, there was no doubt in his mind that his best friend would find it hilarious and side with those assholes. And he was going to want every single detail of what occurred, what Mal looked like, and if there were any noticeable parallels of the real her versus the pornographic character she played.

Admittedly, Art really didn't want to come to Mal's defense, either. It was difficult for him to explain, but Art felt like Patrick would see it through the lens of a teenaged boy, and, coming to Mal's defense for the hundredth time it seemed, came with embarrassment. He felt like he was trying too hard.

Or, maybe, Art was simply coming to a woman's defense, because he felt it was the right thing to do. He was growing up, maturing; the younger, misogynistic Art of the past would have been fighting laughter when hearing the whole not-enough-come-on-her-face jab—it disgusted the matured Art. 

And it was then, and only then, when he was on the couch, watching an old baseball game, beer in hand, that he thought now was the time.