#NEED a Tashi Donaldson attitude adjustment

[artdcnaldson]

(https://www.tumblr.com/artdcnaldson/754864459441405952/have-a-new-fic-idea-based-around-being-art-and?source=share)

Oohhh, and you start to put on walls again, and ArTashi can't figure out what's going on, maybe just stress (I love them, but they can't always read what the other needs) while you try to separate and get comfortable with being just you again bc you're sure they'll fire you and tell you to be well and send you back to your poor little house

Exactlyyyy exactly!

You’re so caught up in your own insecurities about your position within the relationship and within the family that you don’t even recognize the ways they’re still trying to include you. Like Art has you tugged against his side while you’re watching a movie, or he’s holding your hand, but he looks at Patrick a few times and you take it as a personal slight. Tashi is so caught up in coaching Patrick that you lose a little bit of the time you have with her in the evenings, drinking wine and talking and just being together.

They bring Patrick into the bedroom and you look at him like a flea ridden dog. Has he been tested? (Yes) and that you don’t want to touch him (You don’t have to). But you have to watch them touch him, kiss him, lavish him with all the attention that used to be yours. Like one of the cuckoo birds that implant themselves in nests and steal all the nourishment from the real babies.

So maybe you start isolating, like you’re preparing yourself. You get distant with Tashi and Art, and that’s fine, they expect that you might just need some room to adjust. But then you start distancing from Lily, and she doesn’t know what’s going on, she just knows you’re not playing tea party or reading with her anymore and it’s upsetting.

And then there’s Patrick. Right next door, sharing a bathroom with you. Smarmy, self assured, teasing. He likes to crowd into your space, like he’s already trying to push you out. He’s an asshole, and you always leave the conversations pissed off and seething. He ruined everything, and he’s the one that gets them? What does he have that you don’t?

But you don’t know that’s just how Patrick flirts, that he likes to crawl under your skin, to make your blood run hot. Art and Tashi had trusted him when he said he’d “handle” you, that he’d win you over easy. He just didn’t expect that they’d chosen such an upright, prissy bitch for their third.

Tashi gives up on Patrick’s plan after Lily comes to her crying and asking why her nanny hates her and doesn’t want to be her friend anymore. She’ll just have to fix things herself, like she always does. God knows Art won’t be any help.

[voidsuites]

i want your time (don’t ask me questions)

“SORRY… just give me a sec,” the blond man above you huffs, muscular arms on both sides of your head as he keeps himself propped above you. he adjusts on his elbows with a small grunt, eyes narrowed in enough frustration to create that familiar little crease between his brows. “one second, i promise.”

he’s making you— your body, really— wait. not intentionally, of course, but it’s happening regardless. there’s been a handful of moments in art’s life where his body’s put him in this kind of position; freezing under pressure when he needs it to perform.

it’d happened the night he’d asked tashi to be his coach— she’d said yes, they’d gone back to her hotel room, things had gotten heavy— but of course he’d got caught up in his head and things hadn’t… risen to the occasion. they’d gotten there eventually with tashi’s encouragement, but it’s just humiliating that it’d happened then— and now it’s happening again.

tashi had always been able to coax it out of art with her no-nonsense outlook, and before her it’d been patrick and his devil-may-care attitude. they both knew how to read him in their own unique ways, whatever needed to get done to get art where he needed to be and to get things over the finish line.

so maybe he’s still figuring things out— figuring you out. where you fit in into all of this… whatever role you’re meant to play in the twisted process of getting art out of his own head. are you going to coach him up or goad him into oblivion?

“i’m sorry,” he hisses again, and with another grunt he drops to the mattress beside you and lays flat on his back. it takes all of the strength within him not to just fist his fingers into his hair and pull it out in clumps. “fuck.”

he can’t bear to look at you; you’re probably looking at him like he’s some broken thing that you hadn’t signed up for when you agreed to go steady. you’re younger— younger than he’d normally go for considering he’s got lily and the tabloids are always looking for a reason to follow him around— but you’re an angel and he’s been awful with saying no to the things he can’t have now that he’s retired and single.

long gone are the days of “earning” breaks from trainings and longing looks at the things not on his diet plan (no more need to sneak fries from lily’s happy meals) but what good is having the freedom to do and have what he wants when he can’t even get it up?

you’d signed up for art donaldson, not some middle-aged guy who can’t get it together and make his partner feel just as good as they do with him. what good was his body if it couldn’t perform? he couldn’t be there for patrick, couldn’t continue playing for tashi—

art stands in a huff and pulls the waistband of his briefs up over his hips before his hands rest on his hips. he starts pacing the length of the bed, but not without looking your way guiltily while you pull the bedsheets up over yourself and make his stomach plunge. damnit, donaldson.

“i-it’s not you,” he reasons, because it’s the truth, “it’s me. i can’t get out of my damn head—”

“art,” you try and cut in, but he’s not having it. not when he’s like this. “art, babe, what’s wrong—”

oh, god… here we go again. stop asking questions. “nothing, just give me a second—”

“— art, hold on—” stop prying, stop trying to find a way in—

“— this happens sometimes. i promise it’s not you—”

“art.” he barely has time to protest again when your hand clamps around his wrist, nor does he try to. your eyes have gone wide as they plead for him to make sense; to put words to thoughts and actions to those words. “… baby. talk to me.”

and he melts, broad shoulders sagging before he drops back to the mattress. it should be worrisome to see a man like him practically cave in on himself when he lays back on the mattress, but it’s the rare side of art donaldson that the media doesn’t get a glimpse of. here in this moment, he’s less of the unshakable tennis mogul the public knows him for and more of the mortal man desperate for comfort that lies beneath.

“will you… will you hold me?” art asks eventually, swallowing tightly when he looks over in your direction again. you’d think he’d asked for the impossible with the way he holds himself; hunched shoulders, downcast eyes, and blunt nails digging into the heels of his palms. “please?”

he doesn’t know how you’ll react— if you’ll laugh at such a request, scoff and look at him with disdain— but none of that comes. instead, you scoot his way and let your arms wind around him and your chin settle into the crook of his shoulder.

“i can do that,” you whisper. gentle fingers trace the skin of his side, over the dips and grooves of his ribs. “whatever you need— whatever you want.”

he swallows again, ignoring the guilt in his chest as he nods. “okay.” he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for the “but” to leave you; waiting for the other shoe to fall in return for your patience… but it doesn’t. it’s not going to. maybe that’s where you fit into all of this: being the unwavering support that allows him to bend even when it goes against all expectation.

his calloused fingers curl around your own after another stroke over his torso, and slowly but surely he brings them to his lips to press a kiss over your knuckles. “i love you.”

if he can’t show it to you by following you blindly for years on end or by winning you endless slam titles to prove it, maybe the words are enough. maybe they can be enough, this time.

and maybe he can be enough too. no more tennis to eat up all his time (even if he misses it on occasion) just the things that are important and matter. lily, the foundation, you… and everything else he’ll keep himself open to.

“i love you too.” art’s sure his sigh of relief doesn’t go unnoticed by you, considering the early hour and the air of silence that accompanies it in moments like this. you shift closer and—

… oh. there we go. a snort leaves the blond as he shakes his head, glancing down briefly before he turns to you with that boyish grin of his.

“… were you still up for another round?”