MATCH POINT , art donaldson

XII.

2006.
stanford university, california

" I HAVE TO GO." Elodie's laugh rings out across the entire of Art's dorm room. Her body pinned by his own atop the unmade sheets of his bed. Her eyes pushed closed as he continues to kiss every inch of skin that is available to him.

" stay." is what he mumbles against her skin, it tickles her. It's what he's been mumbling since the first night she spent in this room three months ago. It's an ongoing battle — one that art and Elodie alike are not sick of yet.

She smiles, exhaling heavily " I promised Tashi I'd meet her-" she stopped as she looked to the clock on Art's bed side " twelve minutes ago!"

She pushes on his chest, the blonde boy falling to the opposite side of the bed. As she stands up, wiping off fictional dirt from her jeans, looking to the boy who is watching her. Leant on his arm as he lets asoft smirk on his lips as he watches her — counting every bit of good karma he had to cash in to have her here.

In his bed, to have her calling his name — in the stands of his matches cheering him on with that prideful smile. Stand in the corners of parties with his arm hanging over her chest with her hands holding his arm.

He loved that he could just touch her — there was no second thought about it. Kiss her cheek when he would walk to her after a match, hand around her waist when she was speaking to someone else at a party.

And the only thing he loved more is that she would melt into his touch — their bodies fused with every collision of skin since that first night. Her body would lean back onto him, she wouldn't even have to refocus her attention to just lean her head on his shoulder blade.

If anything, he couldn't stop touching her — Patrick once made a joke that he might as well have superglued Art's hands to Elodie. If it's not both when they're stood up, it's one on the back of her chair with his fingers gently pressed against her upper back, or he's pushing hair out her eyes or tracing circles on her thighs with the pads of his fingers.

Maybe it was the thought that if he let her go, she'd never come back. He had heard the talk, why exactly the Aphrodite incarnate herself was 'slumming' it with some reputation-less tennis player.

The girl who had paparazzi photos of her leaving the apartment buildings of NFL players and movie stars. And yet here she was, hand in hand with some tennis player who nobody knew the name of.

Art saw the eyes of jealous football players at the parties who watched as Art would look at them as he lowered his hand further down Elodie's body. And how her head would pull further back until she whispered " let's get out of here," in his ear.

And he'd creak the window just the slightest bit more open as they fucked. Wanting people to remember the name that Elodie Reiner screamed into the air — that he was a name worthy enough to pull at her vocal cords.

The rare nights that they'd spend apart — where Tashi would drag her out to clubs with their fakes, Elodie would find herself in the corner of the club. Texting the boy who was lying in bed with the empty left side he wished was occupied.

And she would show up, however late in the night or early in the morning. Elodie always showed up at his dorm room, heels in her hand and that stupid smile on her face that he couldn't ignore as he groggily opened the door.

He would take off her dress and replace it with one of his own shirts. and Elodie would sit on his bathroom counter as he used the pack of makeup wipes she left here to take the makeup off of her face.

And she'd kiss him, tell Art that she had missed him and he'd smile and tell her to stop getting lipstick on his face.

Art looks at her, " you'll be at the match later right?" he hums, his fingers taking her wrist as he slowly reels her closer. Elodie standing between the space in his legs — hands cupping over his cheeks, small stubbles protruding out of his skin.