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grimsonandclover · 29 days

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hi j came across ur blogs and FINALLY. someone who doesn’t write about puppy art or stepcest. i tbh would read anhtbjng abt patrick but i love childhood best freind patrick fics or enemies to lovers fics the most!!

All I Want For Christmas

Childhood Bestfriend!Patrick Zweig x classical singer!reader

Song of the post 'WHAT'S IT TO HIM? - Quadeca'

Yes! I don't yuck other people's yum but I noticed how it's everywhere in this fandom, which is fine, it's just not for me! There are some versions of puppy!characters that I can enjoy, but not when it gets really into the puppy stuff, ykwim? Stepcest and any other incest things are a hard no from me, though. Anyways, fuck, I love these two tropes so much, I could eat them for breakfast lunch and dinner and still have them as snacks and still never tire. but childhood friends to lovers >>> im such a softy for it. I wrote this the moment I saw your message, so it's semi-proofread, more so just me writing the little story I thought of as it came to me. if you want a smutty part two lmk and ill write it in a flash

I have no clue where the Christmas theme came from, it just kinda happened. I don't even celebrate Christmas lmao.

This was meant to be a blurb. Now it's a 5k word slow burn blurb. Hope you enjoy!

also the song linked has nothing to do w the story lmao, it's just what's playing. <3 quadeca

SFW

5.3k words

childhood bestfriend!Patrick Zweig, Never dates Tashi/Loses Art!AU, slow burn, timeskips, no content warnings

--(x)-- 1998 - 2006 --(x)--

You both grew up quite rich, you and Patrick Zweig. Going to the same charity events and galas and birthday dinners as kids because your parents would drag you both along to brag about your accomplishments. Patrick's parents would brag about how he's a tennis prodigy that's gonna go pro one day, have you seen him play? And your parents brag about your voice and your grades, how youre gonna get into any school you want (which you would be able to anyways since theyd just pay the school board). You've got the voice of an angel and since you were four they'd make you get up at parties and events and sing something by the piano. You were groomed to love the spotlight just like Patrick was groomed to love the rush of tennis.

Patrick loved hearing you sing. When you'd be ushered over to your spot by the piano player and ask the adults what they'd like to hear, Patrick would sit up from his slump at the dinner table or sofa, perking up like a dog being told its time for treats. He didn't really know anything about music, he just knew your voice did something in his chest.

You loved seeing him play. Your family had plenty of casual tennis players of its own, tennis being quite a popular sport amongst the wealthy. You understood the gist of it, but that wasn't why you asked your parents to go every time Patrick got to play. You wanted to go because it felt like the closest thing to seeing a shooting star up close. He was like a fireball on the court, even from a young age. His couches kept trying to train the unique serve out of him, you could see their cringing from the sidelines whenever he'd do it, but eventually they stopped when they realized how much he won with it. Because he did. A lot. It was mesmerizing to watch.

One Christmas the two of you finally properly spoke to eachother. You were both ten. Your parents had all gotten wine drunk in the other room, leaving the kids to try and get along in the Zweig's living room. The Christmas parties were always held at the Zweig house, it was the biggest. Didn't matter that they were Jewish. Never even crossed their mind, too big of an oppertunity to schmooze and secure business deals. Patrick never gave it a second thought, just happy he got gifts.

You two had just sat down by the fireplace as the other older kids convened on how to sneak some liquor without anyone noticing. You were too young to care about things like that, instead talking to eachother about school and your respective passions. It was the first proper conversation you'd had even though you had practically been in each other's lives since birth. Patrick liked hearing about the unserious gossip from your all-girls private school, how once again you were on the deans list and top of the class. He found it the funniest thing in the world when you confessed that you'd cheated on a math exam, your weakest subject. How you'd done that quite often actually. Patrick liked knowing you weren't as perfect as your parents boasted you to be, because that made you actually perfect in his eyes.

You liked hearing about the rowdy boys at his school and at tennis practice, and the stupid fights that would break out. Patrick would tell you about the famous tennis players his parents would get him to meet, some even practice with. How they'd comment on his serve, too, and when Patrick would imitate their voice and mannerisms, youd laugh till your stomach and cheeks hurt. Patrick decided then, at ten years old, to commit your laugh to memory. It was a sound as beautiful as your singing.

That became your routine at every dinner and every party your parents would take you to. You'd find solace and company with eachother, a rare, true friend in your world. You both never told your parents about the friendship because even then you knew they'd try and take advantage of it. Turn it into some political relationship, breed you two to marry or something for their benefits.

When Patrick's parents sent him off to the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy when you were twelve, you cried into your pillow for hours. You'd promised to write eachother, but there's only so much writing a twelve year old can do before they get distracted. Your meetings went from twice a month to once a year. The Zweig family Christmas party.

Just like when you were ten, the two of you would meet up by the crackling fireplace and swap stories, updating each other on your lives. You performed with a real live orchestra last week a version of Silent Night and your mother cried from the crowd. Patrick was sorry he couldn't be there but you handed him a CD with a recording of the night, knowing he'd want to see it, and he said it was the best Christmas gift he'd ever gotten. He hadn't even watched it yet, but he knew. The tennis racket once owned by Bjorn Borg was a pretty great gift too, though (he'd keep it hung on his dorm wall for his entire time at the academy, then later in a case in the trunk of his car to keep it safe).

He had met a kid named Art at the academy, and he talked about how they became fast friends. Best friends. You didn't really have much time for friends, too busy with school and all the extracurriculars your parents had signed you up for since birth. It was kind of like that for Patrick before he left, and you were happy he got the chance to meet someone at the academy. Art sounded great, and you wished you could meet him.

The next year you did it again, but at 15 Patrick got pneumonia on Christmas eve and couldn't come. You sat by the fireplace alone, picking lint off your sweater. Not much had changed apart from his absence. The older kids, now nearing college, were still thinking of ways to get alcohol. Some messed around with eachother in the various rooms of the house while the parents were off doing whatever parents did, not having much else to do. You stayed by yourself, watching the fire and praying to God that Patrick would be okay.

The year after, Patrick was back. He was older now, and so were you, of course. You were both 16 now, puberty catching up with the both of you in the year you hadn't seen each other.

Patrick had started properly shaving now, and when you first laid eyes on him, waiting for you by the fireplace, the slight shadow of hair on his chin and jaw was the first thing you noticed. Your eyes trailed up the stubble to his cheeks, which had lost the baby fat and now made the apples of his cheeks much more visible, especially as he smiled up at you. He called your name excitedly, standing up to meet you in a hug. You had hugged before, but he never wore cologne before. He had clearly gone through a growth spurt, too, and easily could rest his chin on your head. When you pulled back from the hug, you grabbed his shoulders and held him at arms length, just looking at him. He did the same for you, taking in the slight increase of height yourself, the more mature glow in your skin, and, since he was still only a teenage boy and still Patrick Zweig, your new boobs. His eyebrows raised, a slow and impressed whistle blew from his lips as he gave you alook. "You've grow." He smiled, and you swatted his arms while you blushed. "Look who's talking." You said, poking his biceps. Tennis academy did him good.

You had never thought about it before, but that one year apart and your reunion woke something in you up. Patrick Zweig was hot. You didn't know, but that same part of his own brain ignited. The whole night you two still talked as normal, still giggled over stories and swapped gifts. He got you a necklace made from your favorite metal, a tiny but intricate tennis racket charm hanging on the bottom. It was simple, but it was so precious.

"So I can be with you more than once a year." He explained, and you couldn't help yourself when you pulled him into the biggest hug you could manage. It was the most heartwarming gift you had ever gotten. And it made you laugh too, especially when you reached over to give him his gift.

When he opened it, his eyes widened and laughed, picking up the simple silver chain bracelet with a tiny charm of your initial on it. You were a little nervous to give it to him, worried it seemed too couple-y of a gift instead of something you'd give a friend, but now that anxiety had gone. He put it on immediately, and you were so grateful that he didn't think it was too girly or soft for him to wear. Patrick Zweig could be crude and perverted (something you realized when he let slip the way he looked at some girls back at the academy), but he wasn't insecure. Not in that way, at least.

You sat a little closer together that year, knees brushing as you caught up. Art was still his best friend and you two made plans for how you could meet. You were still singing, the Christmas time performance of yours now a yearly tradition. He was still never able to come, but he promised one day he would. The other kids were now too old to come to his house, off at college dorm parties, some even old enough to be already married and having Christmas parties of their own. The living room was much more quiet for the two of you but it's not like you ever noticed them much before. The one true new addition was the cigarette that now dangled from his lips. You had initally scolded him for the new habit but it didn't take long for it to be passed between the two of you as you spoke. You did your best to not think about how it had touched his lips and then would touch yours.

When graduation came around and it was finally time to go off to college yourself, your heart sank a little. College meant you two would be too busy with your own lives to come back, and your parents already weren't too committed to dragging you along with them to their events anymore. When you sat by the fireplace for that final year, you found you had less to talk about. Life felt pretty slow for you, especially with your lack of real friends. It was the same deal every year. School, choir, then independent vocal lessons, then horseback riding, then the youth advisory board, then tutoring. Your days were all a countdown to Christmas, the one day of the year you weren't some busy prodigal daughter with too many responsibilities on your shoulders, but Patrick Zweig's best friend. That was the only thing expected of you.

Maybe not in the way Art Donaldson was, but you were his best friend. He was the love of your life, you were sure of it.

He asked about your plans for school, and you said you'd probably go to Julliard if you got accepted. You were being humble, of course. You got your acceptance letter months ago. Patrick, not knowing that, assured you that you would. "They'd be stupid to not let you in." He smiled, cigarette balancing between his teeth and his bottom lip. You nudged your shoulder against his, thanking him for the vote of confidence. When it was your turn to ask him, he shrugged.

"Ah, I dunno." He blew smoke from the corner of his mouth, away from you. Patrick sat, thinking to himself for a moment before turning to face you. "I've been thinking about it, and... I don't think I'm gonna go." He shrugged again, and your eyebrows pulled back in surprise. "Do your parents know that?" You asked, knowing they'd never allow him. The Zweigs loved boasting about how Patrick was going to continue the family name. Tennis might be his gift, but they expected him to finally grow up and be an adult, not a tennis player.

He shook his head, turning back to the fire crackling before you. "Fuck them," he whispered with a smirk. "I'm gonna go pro. Play at challengers and shit until I rank for the bigger stuff. Play at Wimbledon or the Olympics or something. Don't wanna risk an injury at some school before I can even do anything real, you know?"

You nod your head, understanding. It made sense for him, you just were worried about how his parents would react.

"Art's gonna go to Stanford." He said, lips a little downturned at the mention. "He wants a safety net, I guess. I don't really know." He blows another puff of smoke, handing the cigarette over to you. Then he turns to you again, chuckling a little humorlessly. "Gas is gonna be a bitch, going from California to New York."

"What do you mean?"

"Going back and forth to see you and Art." He said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, shocked you even asked. "Guess I could fly," Patrick thought to himself, thinking over the logistics of it, then seemingly deciding it would work. "Worth it."

Your chest constricted a little at the thought of him going through all of that just to see you. You insisted that he didn't have to, that you'd gladly fly over to see him instead of the other way around, but he persisted. "You'll have school and friends and shit. I'll have plenty of time to come over. Plus, you know, phones exist." He teased.

Patrick was right. They did, of course. For some reason, though, you two never called. Never even thought about it. It was a little nonsensical and you laughed, and he joined. You promised that you'd start calling him, and he promised you the same thing.

When you hugged him before you had to leave, you pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Patrick."

He grinned, cheeks warming and turning pink. "I'm Jewish." He laughed, giving you a final hug. "Merry Christmas."

--(x)-- 2010 --(x)--

Graduation night at Alice Tully Hall was intense.

Four years had gone by in a flash and it was already the last week of May-- actually, it was already the end of graduation itself. Your cap was on your head and diploma in hand, the other one busy shaking the hands of the few late family and family friends that had come over to congratulate you. You were exhausted, both from the four years and from the night. All you wanted was to go to your apartment, flop onto your bed face first, and sleep the night away.

You had spent almost the entire celebration biting your nails and scanning the hall for the two pairs of eyes and smiles you wanted to see the most. When your name got called and you walked up on the stage, and your mother cried in the crowd like the night of your first concert, and your father gave you the same, unattached nod that was the closest he could get to saying he was proud of you. Patrick had told you he was gonna be late, just having finished a challenger in Philidelphia the same day. You just didn't think late meant missing the ceramony entirely.

Patrick was sitting in thick New York City traffic, banging his fist on his steering wheel, yelling at the car next to him. Art was in the passenger's seat, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You fucking moron! Dumb fucking cunt! You know how much this is gonna cost!?" Patrick yelled, pointing to the driver's door that now had a dent in it. The traffic was so heavy he couldn't move, and he didn't want to get out in case it budged. He knew he was late, and now some guy in a truck, in a fucking truck in New York City, had just bumped into the side of Patrick's car. The dent wasn't anything that would permanently damage the car, but it was pretty nasty. "Who taught your to drive?" He yelled, almost leaning fully out of the window now. Art reached over to pull at the back of his shirt, trying to get him back in. "Are you blind!? We're in the middle of traffic and you still managed to hit me?"

"Christ, Patrick, get back in the fucking car!"

Patrick swatted his hand away. "My best friend is graduating and now I gotta pick her up with this shit on my car. What's your insurance!? I'm gonna sue the shit out of you!"

Cars started beeping at him and the driver in the truck was yelling back just as colorfully. "That piece of dog shit almost looks better with it! You should be fucking thanking me, asshole. Maybe your insurance will give you a better car!"

"A better car!?" Patrick was red in the face. "Why don't you let me return the favor then!"

"Oh, shit." Art was scrambling over the center console to really pull him back, knowing it was seconds away from getting violent.

--(x)--

You were leaning against the front doors playing with the tennis racket necklace you had never taken off when you got a call from Art. You had gotten it from him the first time you met him freshman year, it being the one connection you had to each other for the whole school year. He had become a really close friend of yours, even through he grainy speakers of your phone. You picked it up eagerly, the first thing you could hear being angry beeping in the background and a voice that sounded like Patrick yelling.

"Art? Where are you guys? What's going on?"

"Oh my god," Art said your name, a little frantic. "Okay, so, uh, we're running late, I know-" there's some shuffling you can hear, and you cut in. "The ceremony is already over." You tell them, a little disappointed. Art frowns but his attention is pulled back to the situation at hand.

"Congrats on graduating! Um, anyways, I called cause Patrick's kinda losing his shit right now. Some guy hit his car--"

"Oh my god! Are you guys alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, we're fine. It's just a dent. But now the two are in the middle of the street and Patrick's getting his ass kicked." He sounds nervous, because of course he is. His best friend is catching fists to the face. "I tried to help..." Art continues, and his hand goes back up to touch the future black eye he's now sporting. "But, um, I just wanted to let you know that I don't think we'll make it over-"

In the background, Patrick interrupts, managing to gather the strength to push the giant man from on top of him. "Oh, we're making it!" He yells out loud enough that you can just hear it over the speaker, then throws another punch at the guy's jaw. Patrick's nose was bleeding and his eyebrow was cut, and the other guy wasn't looking all that great either. He spat at the guy, adding "You made me miss her graduation." with another punch.

The cars around them suddenly started move, and the two friends froze. Traffic was moving again. The guy got another good punch onto Patrick before he was able to scramble up and run back to his car, yelling at Art to start driving before the guy caught up.

They finally got to Lincoln Center looking like a pair of hot messes and you spent the weekend in your apartment with them sleeping over, caring for their cuts and bruises and catching up, smoking out your apartment window. It was the best weekend you'd had in years.

--(x)-- 2019 --(x)--

The crowd cheering was deafening, and the spotlight was blinding. Nonetheless, you took a bow, thanking the audience for the night. Your hand reached out to the orchestra and another round of applause boomed. Nobody could smile bigger than your were. No one could beat the butterflies in your stomach.

It was the week before Christmas, and just like you had since you were 12, you were performing a concert. This time however it wasn't on a small stage at a theater in your hometown, but at Alice Tully Hall in New York City, the same hall you had graduated in nine years ago.

The lights dimmed and that was your cue to leave, first excitingly hugging the musicians who played so beautifully that night. You thanked them all, wished them a happy holiday, and walked off stage. Waiting for you, as always, stood Patrick Zweig.

The years had done him well. Tennis kept him built like a marble statue, age refined his features, and his own laziness left the slightly auburn stubble on his cheeks to grow out. He was wearing the one tux he still owned, slightly tight around the arms and legs as he outgrew it.

Patrick had long cut contact with his parents, becoming financially independent (much to the dismay of his bank account), and no longer had to deal with the constant phone calls about how he was letting down the Zweig name with his tennis career. The days of them bragging about his talent were long gone, it was meant to be a hobby, not a career. Who was going to take over the Zweig family business now? He couldn't give less of a fuck. His designer wardrobe slowly sold off to pay for all the gas he consumed driving from matches to his best friends throughout the years, shedding his past with every article of clothing.

Patrick made sure to never repeat the same mistake as your graduation. At every event, he was there. Early, if possible. Never joining tournaments or challengers held on the same day as important events like tonight, not that there really were any on Christmas Eve. He made sure to make up for all the time you weren't together growing up.

Patrick held a bunch of roses in his hands for you as you approached, enveloping him in a hug. "Flowers are from the three of us." He spoke into your hair, referring to him, Art, and Art's wife Tashi. Free hand wrapping around your shoulder to squeeze you back with equal amounts of love. "Lily even made you a card. You were incredible, like always. Incredible."

You smiled up at him, kissing his cheek before hugging again. When you pull back, you look around him for the aforementioned Donaldsons. "They're waiting for Art to finish pissing. Whole night he kept complaining, drank too much water on the ride here but idiot didn't want to get up in the middle of your show and go." He chuckled, handing you the bouquet. You loop your arm into his, the feeling of him grounding you after the intense rush of adrenaline and emotions that came with performing to such a large audience or such a special night. Walking out into the main hall together, a couple people greet and shake your hand, some asking for pictures. A person even recognized Patrick, which was quite uncommon with his career now dwindling down an unfortunate and unsuccessful path (You were sure any day now he was gonna pick back up and climb the ranking again. You made sure to tell him after every match).

The two of you leaned against a wall as the attention died down and people began going home. In your heels, you were tall enough to rest your head comfortable on Patrick's shoulder. He smiled at the gesture, leaning his head on yours. Closing your eyes, you took in the whole night. The fading adrenaline, the sweat that gathered on your forehead drying, the sound of the crowd getting quieter by the second. The material of Patrick's tux on your cheek and ear, his steady and relaxed breathing, the warmth of his embrace, the musky cologne he had been using since he was a teenager.

Patrick enjoyed the moments alone he had with you. He wasn't Patrick Zweig the failed heir to the Zweig throne just like how he was a failed tennis player. He was Patrick Zweig, your best friend. That was the only thing expected of him.

Longer than Art Donaldson ever was. You were the love of his life, he was sure of it.

He inhaled the scent of your hair and your perfume, arm wrapped around your shoulder as his thumb rubbed comforting circles on it. When he closed his eyes, he replayed how you looked on the stage while you sang. You were as beautiful as your voice. Always had been, always will be. Every performance of yours took him back to when things were much simpler, when he'd watch you by their otherwise untouched piano at formal dinners and you'd sing a Sinatra song for the parents. He could almost taste the roasted chicken, almost feel the silverware in his hands.

Your hand reached up to your chest and your fingers played with the little tennis racket charm, a habit you'd had for years. Patrick loved knowing you kept the necklace on after all this time, even on nights like this where you could've replaced it with something much more grand and expensive.

He had never taken his bracelet off. Even in the brief relationships or hookups he'd have and partners would question what the initial stood for. He'd never answer, just tell them it was important to him.

You opened your eyes again when the sound of little feet in little shoes click-clacked on the tile floor towards you, your name exclaimed from eager lips. Lily bounded up to you, her honerary aunt, and wrapped her arms around your waist. Art and Tashi followed behind her.

Lily pulled back from the hug, looking up at you. "You were like a superstar!" She beamed, one of her front teeth missing. You hug Art and Tashi who compliment your dress and your performance before leaving with them to the dinner reservation you all had, Patrick's arm still around your shoulder as you walked.

At dinner, through mouthfulls of spaghetti, Lily asked you constant questions about what it's like to sing and be on stage. You answered every single one, and at the end of her little interview she made an announcement. "When I grow up I wanna be a tennis player like mommy and daddy," she started, Tashi scolding her to stop talking while she's eating as she wiped with a napkin at the corners of her daughter's mouth. Art's bottom lip jutted out in a little pout, melting in the hands of his daughter. "But, I wanna be a singer-tennis player. So I can wear pretty dresses like you."

You laugh, coming to Tashi's defense. "Your mom wears gorgeous dresses, Lily."

"Yeah, but she doesn't wear them on a stage. I wanna do that."

Point proved, you shrug. Patrick turns to look at you as he's sitting directly beside you. He doesn't say anything, just admires you under the dim and moody lighting of the resteraunt as you talk with Lily, resting his chin in his hand and smiling into his palm. Art and Tashi share a knowing look.

The night decidingly comes to an end when the couple announces they need to put Lily to bed.

"I'm not twenty anymore," Tashi says, handing the bill to the waiting server. "I knock out at ten P.M."

Patrick drove you home like you agreed, and it was assumed he'd stay the night like he often did on your couch. As you changed into more comfortable clothes in your room, he grabbed his own clothes from the trunk of his car and changed in your bathroom. Afterward, he silently observed as you washed off your makeup and took down your hair from its simple updo. It felt domestic. It felt like something a boyfriend does with his girlfriend after a long day. Patrick let himself pretend for a moment that that's exactly what was happening.

When you were done the two of you sat on the couch and cuddled, debating on what movie to wind down to as you settled into his arms as he laid his head against the arm rest.

"Home Alone?" You ask, grabbing the remote and flicking through the options. He shook his head.

"Watched that with Art and Lily just last week. What about Elf?"

You agree, and the movie begins to play. The volume's low and you spend more time talking to each other than actually watching, one of your hands on the arm wrapped around your chest scratching up and down and the other resting on your stomach. Patrick's hand on your chest toyed with your necklace while the other arm rested on your head, lazily scratching as you watched and talked. Neither of you realized when you both fell asleep there.

The sun rising through your window wakes you up, the light bright against your eyelids. You shifted a little, lifting your head but keeping your eyes closed. The first thing your senses picked up on was the warm body of Patrick underneath you, steady rising and falling breaths and the lignering scent of the cologne he applied yesterday still faintly on his skin. His hands were still on your chest and head when you woke up, sliding off when you moved to look at him.

The stresses of adulthood were almost undetectable on his face. Patrick had the same freckles littering his skin that he had as a kid, and you used to tell him that in a crowd of identical people you'd be able to pick him out just by the freckles on his waterline. Did that make sense? Probably not, but it did when you were fourteen. You didn't really care, to be honest, just wanting him to open his eyes so you could see the freckles there again.

As if he could hear your thoughts, his eyelashed fluttered before opening. The first thing he saw was you.

Like an angel. His tired brain though for a moment he died and went to heaven.

"Goodmorning." He rasped, morning voice deep and scratchy. You smiled, looking out the window at the falling snow. "Merry Christmas." You say instead. "I'm Jewish," He chuckled, a hand raising to brush a strand of hair from your face before whispering "Merry Christmas" back. He said the same thing every year.

You stayed silent like that, laying on his chest and just staring at him as he played with your hair. There was some sort of unsaid agreement between the two of you, something your souls communicated with each other without your knowlage as you slept. Patrick felt like his heart could stop at any moment with how etheral you felt.

"What do you want for Christmas?" He asked, breaking the quiet in the room and whispering it like a secret.

Your eyes moved from his to his lips, and at the action his tongue darted out to lick them. It felt like the 21 years you had been best friends slipped away from your fingers and had gone. Time was gone. Reason was gone. The only thing left in the entire world was you, him, and the couch. You knew what you wanted. You had wanted it since you were sixteen. He's sure he's wanted it since the creation of his soul.

His hand moved from your hair to your jaw, both of you slightly breathless, eyes on the other's lips. His calloused hands told you, you weren't dreaming despire how hazy reality felt. His breath on your lips told you, you were still alive despite how heaven-like reality felt.

Patrick leaned in, his nose rubbing on yours and your foreheads touching, lips mere centimeters apart, eyes barely open. His best friend. His soulmate. He was never whole when he wasn't around you.

He kissed you on Christmas morning, the charm of your inital on his bracelet tickling your shoulder, the tennis racket on your necklace resting on his chest.

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myladybelle · 3 months

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𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐍? | chapter ten

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’ve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and you’re forced to embrace a life in the sport you’ve been too afraid to claim for yourself. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.8k 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): challengers content warnings, reader wears a tube top and jeans, reader wears a dress, joke about alcohol poisoning, use of y/n 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: ahhhh it’s so good to be back!! thank you for your patience and enjoy this chapter of patrick-filled goodness x 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐔𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 – 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝟐𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟖

Navigating through the dense crowd of people attending the US Open had an electric atmosphere. It was a blistering New York summer day, and the air was thick with the mingling scents of food carts and sunscreen. As you manoeuvred through the crowd of spectators, you didn’t bother to use the map you were handed at the entry gate. After all, you’d been at this venue often enough for the Junior Championships to know your way around the USTA Tennis Center.

Your grounds pass with reserved seating hung from a blue lanyard around your neck, gifted by Nike to celebrate your exclusive endorsement deal. You officially signed the deal five months after it was sent and two months after your breakup with Art. Once you grieved your relationship, you had the mental clarity and independence to decide that you were going to be a professional tennis player.

The sense of liberation after you decided to go pro was overwhelming. Pursuing tennis felt like shedding a heavy, invisible weight, allowing you to breathe deeply and fully for the first time in years. It was a choice you made by and for yourself, and your decision sparked a fire within you, turning each training session into an exhilarating journey rather than a chore. The path ahead was challenging, but the freedom of following your heart made every step feel like embracing your true self.

As per your new contract, you were decked out in Nike at the US Open: a white tube top, your favourite white sneakers, and white socks, all of which had the small signature tick that identified Nike’s brand. Though your comfortable blue jeans made your outfit more casual, you still felt like a walking Nike ad.

Even though it had been almost a year since you and Tashi stopped being friends, you couldn’t help but think of her and her previous Adidas endorsement. You used to think that being on billboards and shooting campaigns was a pressure that you were right to have avoided, but it ended up giving you a new confidence about going pro.

The ground radiated heat, and every step on the scorching pavement made you feel parched by the oppressive heat. Heading to Arthur Ashe Stadium for a match you were thrilled for, you moved with the flow of the crowd. In the crowd of people, the spectators’ voices blended into a cacophony of excitement and chatter, ecstatic for the first round of the US Open with so many promising new players in attendance.

As you weaved through the bustling crowd, someone pushed you, sending you to the edge of the group as people hurried past you to the stadium entrance. Trying to catch yourself, you collided with someone going in the opposite direction, knocking the hotdog and soda cup from their grasp.

“Shit!” you exclaimed, dropping to your knees to help pick up the scattered items. Your hands moved quickly, picking up the now-empty cup and hot dog wrapper. “I’m so sorry, let me replace those for you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” a familiar voice replied.

Your eyes shot up and met the lake-blue gaze of Patrick Zweig.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably, equal parts nervous and exhilarated to see your old friend. It had been a year and three months since you last heard his voice and saw his face. And God, what a face he had. Even though it had been so long, he didn’t look nearly as nervous as you felt. An easygoing smile graced his lips, and you stared wide-eyed as he held his hand out to help you up. Accepting it, your heart raced, pounding in your chest as if trying to escape.

His usual tennis bag was slung over his shoulder, indicating that he may have been playing in the Open. You were too distracted to ask, eyes studying his familiar figure and noting its subtle transformations since the last time you saw him. His arms were hardened with muscle, and the dark bags under his eyes indicated that he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in months. His dark brown curls seemed slightly longer, framing his face with stray tendrils, and he had those same deep, rich blue eyes that shone and took your breath away.

“Patrick,” you said softly, your voice far more tender and kind than he thought he deserved. The way you said his name always sent a shiver down Patrick’s spine, and this time was no exception. His lashes fluttered as he shut his eyes, willing himself not to have such a noticeable reaction to his former best friend’s girlfriend. “I didn’t realise it was you.”

“Glad I still have that element of surprise,” Patrick replied playfully. “Always keeps people guessing.” You didn’t realise it, but Patrick was quoting what you said to him the day he won the Junior US Open. I’m just channelling my inner Mona Lisa – always keeps people guessing.

Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He was hungry. Hungry to look at you and see how you had changed, hungry to figure out whether you hated him, hungry to know if you were happy, hungry to know if you ever thought of him, hungry, hungry, hungry.

All his life, Patrick was told that he was insatiable. He wanted more than he should, and he didn’t care what it cost to get what he wanted. You were the only thing he had ever given up. And there you were, standing before him, making it nearly impossible to fight off his gluttony.

The soft colour on your lips and the gentle curve of your smile made his head spin. Patrick had resigned himself to the fact that you would never be friends again, and he would never have the privilege of setting his eyes on you in person again.

Your curious, critical gaze made Patrick flush so dark that he wasn’t sure he could blame the hot weather, so he crouched down to pick up his ruined lunch, an awkward silence stretching between you.

“I’m really sorry about your food,” you repeated, trying to fill the void.

Tossing his food in the trash, Patrick assured you, “It’s fine. Seriously, don’t worry about it.” He pointed to the ground pass around your neck. “So, I’m guessing you’re here to watch Nadal?”

You grinned. “You know me well,” you praised. “Yeah, I think his match starts in like ten minutes. Hence the pushing that led to me spoiling your meal.”

Nodding, Patrick shoved his hands in the pocket of his shorts to stop himself from reaching out to you. He felt the magnetic pull of your presence. Like the ocean drawn to the moon’s gravity, he found himself subconsciously aligning his every move and thought to you. You still smelled of your fresh, earthy, and warm perfume, making his pulse quicken as the scent drifted over to him. The last time he saw you, it was intertwined with the scent of Art’s cologne.

“Are you here with Art?” Patrick wondered, readying himself to be dismissed because your boyfriend was coming and wouldn’t want to see him.

You froze. A pang of hurt tightened your chest, memories stirring like restless ghosts. What hurt more than Art being mentioned was Patrick’s unawareness of your breakup. You always guessed he hadn’t read any of your emails over the last few months, but the confirmation was a sharper pain than you had imagined.

“Um, no. We broke up,” you revealed, crossing your arms over your chest. The slight wobble in your voice betrayed the depth of your pain.

Patrick’s eyes widened in shock, the irises expanding like saucers. “I’m sorry, I had no idea,” he apologised.

“You might if you ever read my emails,” you suggested, trying to keep your tone light-hearted as you smiled sadly. “It happened back in December.”

Patrick knew there was no excuse he could give that would let you walk away satisfied in time to watch your tennis idol play, so he nodded, taking your words on the chin. “So who are you here with?”

“Nike, actually,” you confessed, your tense smile shifting into a genuinely excited grin. Your eyes shimmered with joy, the sparkle dancing like sunlight on water, so familiar to Patrick that it took his breath away. “They got me a ground pass to enjoy the next two weeks.”

“Nike, huh?”

“Yeah, they wanted to do something nice for me after I signed their exclusive endorsement deal,” you added, revealing even more of what Patrick had missed while he was gone. His jaw dropped, eyes widening as he processed the exhilarating news. “I guess they figured they’d let me enjoy one last Open as a spectator before I play next year.”

“You– Are you fucking kidding me? You’re going pro?” Patrick nearly yelped, grasping your shoulders in excitement. You laughed, nodding. “Y/N, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!”

When Patrick dropped his bags and pulled you into a tight hug, you happily returned it. All your anger and sadness at his absence over the last year faded. Patrick laughed heartily, pride and happiness filling him as he thought of all the times had said you had learned to love tennis when you first got to Stanford. Nobody was more deserving of a Nike endorsement than you.

“Thank you,” you acknowledged, squeezing his waist before letting go.

“Wait, you aren’t quitting school, are you?” Patrick worried, brows pulling together in concern.

He may not have understood it the night you met, but he knew now how important Stanford and getting a college education was for you. Not only did you find a genuine community there, but you loved learning, and the thought that you would quit school in favour of going pro didn’t align with his understanding of you.

“No, no, I’m graduating a year early. This is my last year,” you assured him. “My roommate from last year is graduating early too. She’s in business and marketing, so she might hit the road with me and be my manager when I go on tour.”

Subconsciously, Patrick shifted closer to you, wanting to feel the same passionate excitement you exuded. Your voice filled his ears, making his heart ache with a bittersweet longing. “I didn’t realise you had a roommate last year,” Patrick commented. When the smile slowly faded from your lips, he winced. “Shit. Listen, I know I’m an asshole and you have every right to be mad at me, but maybe we could catch up later? If you want to.”

“The match is starting soon–” you said, glancing down at your phone for the time– “So I should probably get going, but we could grab dinner tonight or something? On me. Consider it my culinary apology for dropping your lunch.”

Patrick chuckled. “Sure, I’d love that,” he agreed, a broad smile forming.

“Great,” you replied, relieved that he wanted to catch up. “I’m at the Renaissance Hotel in Flushing, room 409. Does eight work for you?”

“Sounds perfect, I’ll come by,” Patrick promised. He checked his watch and added, “You should go find your seat before you miss your favourite hunky Spanish tennis god.”

Your nose scrunched. “Don’t ever say the word hunky again,” you pleaded. “I don’t know why but it sounds creepy when you say it.”

Patrick smirked. “Not even about myself?”

Snorting, you swatted Patrick’s bicep and rolled your eyes. “I’ll see you tonight,” you said, waving and following the crowd to the stadium.

Patrick watched you walk away, admiring you openly now that you weren’t looking at him. The last year of his life had been agonising without you in it to brighten his days. After he got the email about your first anniversary with Art, Patrick had to stop reading them for his own good. It was different to see you in person, and his heart still ached with a yearning he couldn’t suppress. Every glance exchanged felt like a dance of unspoken desires, drawing him closer.

“Fuck, I’m in trouble,” Patrick muttered, picking up his bags and getting himself a replacement hot dog and soda.

𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝟒𝟎𝟗, 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 – 𝟎𝟖:𝟎𝟎𝐏𝐌.

At eight o’clock on the dot, Patrick anxiously waited outside your hotel room. His breath came in shallow, rapid bursts as a nervous energy coursed through his veins. It had been over a year since he had last spent time with you, yet somehow, it felt like it was just yesterday. He remembered everything—not just how you looked, but also how you felt in his arms, and the way your honeyed words made him feel better. Never in his wildest dreams did Patrick think he would have the chance to stand outside your door and reconcile, to look into your eyes and say all the things he had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times.

“Just fucking do it,” Patrick muttered to himself. With a deep, shaky exhale, he knocked on your door and waited with bated breath for you to open it. He exhaled slowly, trying to give the impression that he wasn’t nervous as he heard your footsteps approach the door.

“Hey,” you greeted when the door swung open, smiling at Patrick.

His jaw dropped, gaping at your appearance. “Oh shit, I totally read this wrong,” Patrick said, flushing with embarrassment. You had answered the door in a pale blue dress with a fluttery, flowing skirt and a scoop neckline, making you look like an angel come to life. Your hair was styled to perfection, and you looked ready to go to a fancy restaurant or party. Patrick, on the other hand, wore shorts and a t-shirt and carried two six-packs of beer. “I thought this was a drinking-your-woes-away-and-catching-up-on-each-other’s-suffering kind of night. But you look incredible and I’m here in my slippers.”

Waving away his concerns, you shook your head and invited him inside. “No, no, it’s totally fine,” you promised him. “You look great, I only just got back from a Nike thing and I’m running a little behind. I was hoping you’d be down for a night of room service and alcohol poisoning. Come in, you can look at the menu while I change into something more comfortable.”

Patrick followed you inside, glancing around your hotel room as he gained insight into your new life. The soft murmur of the tennis channel played on the television in the background, and a well-worn Stanford sweatshirt lay on your otherwise neatly made bed. On the bedside table was one of your favourite books, well taken care of but visibly yellowed with age. As you went to the bathroom and said something about Patrick making himself at home, he hummed in agreement, taking in more of the room and uncovering how it was undeniably filled with pieces of you.

In the bathroom, you were panicking.

Valentino had been kind enough to lend you a dress for your Nike event that evening, and it had to be returned in perfect condition. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t undo the zipper behind you. The last thing you wanted was to break a priceless, beautiful dress, especially one you couldn’t afford to pay for now that you were trying to be more financially independent.

“Hey, Patrick?” you called out for your friend, biting your lower lip as you waited anxiously for him to respond.

“You okay?”

“Actually, I can’t get this zipper open, do you think you could give me a hand?” you replied, letting your hands fall to your sides as you stared at your reflection. The sudden crashing of things falling down sounded in your hotel room. “Patrick?!”

“Shit,” he muttered, crouching to pick up all the things he accidentally swept from your bedside table at your question. “Uh, I’ll be right there!”

You started to feel nervous. You weren’t sure that you were ready to be vulnerable with Patrick, not just in terms of him helping you with your dress but the conversation you were about to have with him. He had always been someone who could see right through you. From the day you met him, it was clear he could tell every time you put on a front, even the practised mask you wore to impress your mother and peers.

Patrick understood you innately, not just because you were raised in similar environments but because he knew who you were and accepted you. It was an intimacy you had never felt before meeting him, and it was one of the many reasons you rejected and ran away from him when he asked for your number two years ago.

Your pulse quickened, and your hands felt slightly shaky when Patrick opened the bathroom door and entered. “It’s the zipper on the back of my dress,” you said quietly when he met your eyes in the mirror.

The mere thought of his presence made you feel giddy and nervous all at once, exposed and vulnerable despite being fully dressed. When you were with Art, you knew exactly where you stood with Patrick. He was your friend, someone you could support while he was on tour, and someone who listened to you without judgment. Now that Patrick had ignored your emails, you weren’t sure what the parameters of your relationship were.

Patrick’s heart raced, pounding against his rib cage as beads of sweat formed on his brow. With shaky hands, trembling with anticipation, he undid the small hook at the top of the zipper. You shut your eyes when you felt his fingers on your back, and a delightful shiver ran down your spine as you felt your cheeks warm. You felt Patrick hold his breath. Something about this indication of his nerves made you feel less uneasy. Your legs felt weak, and your knees wobbled slightly, a wave of warmth surging through you as Patrick carefully dragged the zipper down, revealing more of your bare skin to his eyes.

You felt like a delicate glass sculpture, poised on the edge of a high shelf as if Patrick was afraid the slightest touch would shatter you into pieces.

When the dress was unzipped, you looked at the mirror to thank Patrick. He averted his eyes and said, “Okay, I’ll see you out there,” before leaving in a hurry, shutting the door behind him. Patrick was really starting to regret accepting your invitation. His feelings for you hadn’t gone away and he didn’t know if he could hide them.

Two hours later, Patrick was glad he had come. When you joined him, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized Stanford t-shirt, the both of you ordered copious amounts of room service that Nike paid for and cracked open your drinks as you caught up. He had forgotten how easy it was to talk to you, how his lips lost all their apprehension and shared everything with you, regardless of how badly he thought he should keep it to himself.

You were something like a truth serum, always eliciting honesty and vulnerability.

Patrick confessed that he had made it past the qualifying rounds for the US Open but lost in the first round, and he was in a terrible mood when he ran into you that day. Even though Patrick didn’t think he would ever tell anyone about the last year on tour, he had no problem admitting that he was incredibly lonely and had a terrible time without being able to rely on Art.

“So, can I ask?” Patrick wondered when there was a lull in the conversation.

You smiled knowingly at your friend. “It was mutual,” you insisted.

Patrick rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing as a mutual breakup. Especially not with Art,” he added. “There’s no way he would have ever broken up with you.”

“Except he did, because we broke up with each other.”

“Did he plead temporary insanity afterwards?” Patrick joked, grinning as he sipped his beer. “If anyone’s cut out for the relationship big leagues, it’s Art Donaldson.”

“Well, I don’t anticipate that he’ll be single for long,” you admitted, glancing down as you picked at the label on your beer bottle. “I’m expecting to hear the news that he and Tashi are together any day now.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit,” you disagreed. “I know them, and they’re going to get together eventually. One day, I’ll see their wedding announcement in the news, because everything we do ends up in the news, and I’ll just sit there, my heart breaking all over again.”

“Because Art was yours first?”

You shook your head. “Because I loved them, and they’re going to get married without me. I’m never going to see her wedding dress and I’m never going to be there the moment they–” your breath hitched, effectively cutting you off– “God, I loved them both in ways I didn’t think I was capable of until I met them. Until Tashi and I became friends I was convinced I was unlovable. Everything my mother told me, everything she put me through, I thought it was because she couldn’t love me; because nobody could. What other explanation was there?”

Each vulnerable revelation made Patrick’s fist clench in anger. He wondered how you could think that; someone as genuinely good as you should know that everyone wanted to have the privilege of loving you.

“And then came Tashi and she made me realise what friendship felt like, real friendship. So I thought, hey, it doesn’t matter if you never fall in love because you have love, you are loved,” you said.

Patrick tried to smile. “And then came Art,” he added.

You laughed quietly at the monotonous way he said it. “He was everything to me for so long. I think losing him right after Tashi made it worse, but that was part of the reason we had to break up. I loved him so much, but I think he may have loved me even more.”

Wincing a little at the hurt tone in your voice, Patrick wondered, “You really think they’ll get together? You think they’d do that to you?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time a guy who liked me fell for her,” you joked, referencing Patrick’s casual relationship with Tashi.

He didn’t laugh. “I didn’t fall for Tashi,” Patrick denied, brows pulled together at your insinuation. “What makes you so sure about them?”

You sighed. “My mom always said to love is to lose,” you explained, meeting Patrick’s eyes. He nodded, listening intently and waiting for you to go on. “In the game of love, falling for someone means risking the inevitable loss of them. Just like in tennis, where love means zero points. They both risked something, Art in his relationship with me and Tashi in her pursuit of tennis, and they lost it. They need someone to fill those spots for them. Who better than the only other person who knows what it’s like to love and lose me?”

“Fuck,” Patrick swore. “Now that’s a tennis metaphor.”

You chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for tennis,” you pointed out. “My dad was a children’s tennis instructor at the club my mom trained at when she was a pro.”

A soft, affectionate smile played on Patrick’s lips. “Really?”

“One day my mom was practising her serve and he stopped and gave her some advice,” you recalled, feeling a wave of fondness wash over you as you remembered the story your dad told you. “She was shocked because she’d already won a couple grand slams by then and nobody ever gave her pointers. Instead of being offended, she liked that he was kind and genuinely wanted her to improve. My mom fell in love with the way he loved tennis, and when they got married and she got pregnant, getting me into tennis felt like the perfect way to extend that.” A bittersweet smile played on your lips. “She got pretty carried away over the years, but she started for the right reasons,” you said.

“Wait a second, is that why you have an insane serve? Because of your dad?” Patrick realised, tilting his head curiously as he observed your expression.

“Yeah!” You laughed happily. “My dad likes to joke that he made my mom’s serve more accurate and powerful when she was four years into her career, and he helped me get it right when I was four years old.”

Patrick hummed thoughtfully. “I always wondered why nobody questioned how Tashi kept beating you in all your matches,” he commented. “With all those fucking aces up your sleeve? You should be winning all of your serves, and you break her serve all the time. The fact that nobody’s realised you were letting her win is insane.”

You blinked, momentarily unable to process the weight of his words. Patrick’s astute observation hung in the air between you, a bombshell that shattered the peace of the moment. You stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, mouth agape in surprise, as you searched his face for any sign that he was joking. Patrick’s expression remained resolute, and the cheeky, all-knowing grin on his lips made your heart hammer in your chest.

“H-How?” was all you managed to get out, wondering how on earth Patrick had known.

The fire in his eyes never simmered, each look scorching your skin. “I was in love with you for an uncharacteristically long time, Y/N,” Patrick confessed. “I knew from the first day I watched you play that you had the skills, talent, and dedication to be a much better player than Tashi. The only thing that was missing was the desire to win.”

Your pulse quickened, a rush of adrenaline heightening your senses as you struggled to maintain composure. The air felt charged with tension, uncertainty hanging thick between you as you tried to reconcile his unexpected revelation with the reality you thought you knew.

You felt the intensity of his gaze locking onto yours, a silent conversation passing between you. His eyes, once casual and friendly, now held a depth that mirrored your own emotions. Every shared glance carried a heavy weight, charged with new meaning. Patrick had spoken about his love for you in the past tense, but it was unspoken that his feelings hadn’t changed. The moment stretched, filled with a heavy silence.

“Why did you stop reading my emails?” you questioned, his confession too heavy to acknowledge before clearing things up.

“I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”

“Fuck you,” you scoffed. “I poured my heart out to you twice a week for one and a half years, of course I wanted to hear from you! All I got was one measly email back wishing me and Art a happy anniversary.”

“Okay, fine,” Patrick conceded, agreeing to tell you the truth. “After the accident I figured you wanted nothing to do with me, so I wasn’t expecting the emails to keep coming. But they did, and I was wallowing in grief and anger and guilt, and the last thing I wanted was to screw things up for you.”

“Why would you screw things up for me?”

“Because apparently I screw things up, it’s what I do,” Patrick decided.

You shook your head, frowning. “That’s bullshit, Pat.”

“I was in love with you,” he emphasised each word. “You, my best friend’s girlfriend and casual-non-committal-almost-girlfriend’s best friend. So when Art said you never wanted me and you knew from day one it was always going to be him, I thought I should just let go. Save myself the trouble down the road.”

Your head spun with the sudden revelation. “What are you talking about? I never said that, it’s not even true. When did Art tell you that?”

“Stanford, the day of the accident,” Patrick explained. “He said that you told him you rejected me the day of the Junior US Open finals because you never had feelings for me and he was always your first choice,” he recalled.

“I never told him anything about the Junior US Open finals, he overheard us talking when you asked for my number,” you replied. “I would never say that because it would be a lie, I had no idea what I wanted that day.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know.”

You searched Patrick’s eyes, finding traces of the loneliness he had endured in the last year since you had spoken. In the depths of his gaze, you sought echoes of quiet moments spent in solitude, the weight of unspoken burdens he had carried alone. There, amidst the flicker of emotions, you glimpsed fleeting shadows of vulnerability masked by a brave façade. It was familiar because you had done it your whole life, and every subtle shift in his expression caused you to ache as you remembered how much it hurt to live like that.

Sighing sadly, you pulled Patrick into a warm hug, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and melting away the months of separation and uncertainty.

“Promise me you’ll start reading my emails again?” you asked. “And that you’ll reply?”

Hugging you around the waist, Patrick nodded as warmth flooded through him. “I promise.” He buried his face in your shoulder, breathing in your familiar scent, feeling a sense of safety he hadn’t felt in a long time.

At the end of the night, you walked Patrick to the door. You couldn’t help but feel nervous butterflies swarming in your stomach, their wings beating softly as you studied him. His dark curls fell in unruly waves, framing a face that made your heart stutter. His dark blue eyes, framed by thick lashes, held depths of mischief, reflecting the characteristic intensity you associated with Patrick. With a strong jawline and a hint of stubble, he exuded a quiet confidence that drew attention without seeking it, embodying an allure that was both enigmatic and inviting.

“Can I ask you something before I go?” Patrick asked, grinning at you from the open doorway of your hotel room.

“Go ahead.”

“You aren’t still breaking up with tennis, are you?” he teased. You laughed with carefree joy. “Because I would really like to have your number.”

Nodding as you grinned, you put your number in Patrick’s phone, giving him another chance to admire you without knowing. He was relieved to have rekindled his friendship with you, and yet, he found himself grappling with the same issue as last time. Patrick’s feelings for you had never truly faded, and if they hadn’t disappeared after a year of distance, he knew they weren’t going anywhere now. With every smile you directed his way and every shared laugh that resonated between you, Patrick felt the urge to confess growing.

“Use it, okay?” you demanded, staring pointedly at Patrick as you handed him his phone. “Like, tomorrow.”

“I will,” Patrick assured you. “Listen, I never thanked you for the night of the accident,” he realised.

“No–” you shook your head defiantly– “You don’t need to thank me for that, anyone would have helped you.”

Patrick smiled. Your words had made him realise exactly why he loved you. “Anyone could have done it, but you were the only one who did.”

𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐀, 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐘 – 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝟐, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟕. 𝟏𝟏:𝟑𝟖𝐏𝐌.

You felt uncharacteristically numb. As quietly as possible, you trudged down the hallway and headed towards your dorm. Your ears were ringing, and all you could hear was Tashi’s anaesthesia-induced crying when she woke up from her surgery and wailed about how she was never going to recover well enough to be great at tennis. It was incoherent, loud, and painful to listen to, and you felt useless regardless of how much you tried to reassure her. Tashi was in so much pain, not physically but mentally and emotionally.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon your shoulders, your body aching with the fatigue of winning your tennis match in straight sets. Every step felt like a small victory over your tiredness, and you were grateful you were given a single dorm so that you wouldn’t bother anyone coming home so late.

You jumped a little when you saw Patrick sitting on the floor against your door. “Oh my God, Patrick,” you exhaled in relief, kneeling beside him and giving him a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay! Where have you been?!”

“Wandering around, convincing your RA to let me into Tashi’s room so I can get my bags,” he replied lifelessly, limp arms barely hugging you back. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she had surgery and it went well,” you parroted what the doctors told you. “How did you know which room was mine?”

“I asked around and I’ve been waiting for you to get back ever since,” Patrick replied. When you parted, his eyes were downcast, a veil of sorrow shadowing their usual sparkle. “I have nowhere to go and I wasn’t sure if you hated me, so I’ve been sitting here waiting to find out.”

You rubbed your tired eyes, sitting on your legs beside Patrick. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you for something that wasn’t your fault,” you promised. “I know I didn’t say anything when you came by earlier but I was in shock and processing really slowly. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I might hate you.”

“Does Art?” he asked, his voice was raspy with hurt. “I just feel like he never wants to see me again.”

“Art’s gone through a lot today,” you explained your boyfriend’s weird behaviour. “Something about the injury really struck a chord with him and he’s had this haunted look on his face ever since. I really doubt it’s personal, it’s just been a crazy day.”

“He’s never yelled at me like that before,” Patrick whispered. “I know him. I just feel like everything ended back there.”

You furrowed your brows, deep in thought. “Where are you staying tonight?” you questioned, changing the subject.

“I was supposed to stay with Tashi until tomorrow.”

“Okay, well you can stay here tonight,” you offered your room, smiling encouragingly at your friend. “I was going to stay with Art anyway, so it’s an empty room and you wouldn’t be putting me out.” You chewed on your lower lip as you hoped Patrick would accept your offer. “Please? I don’t like the idea of you wandering aimlessly for the night.”

Patrick’s eyes were glazed over with unshed tears, reflecting the weight of his sorrow. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied earnestly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll figure this whole thing out.”

When you returned to your room the next day, Patrick was gone.

𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝟒𝟎𝟗, 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 – 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟔𝐏𝐌.

Patrick gazed at you with an adoring fervour that spoke volumes without a single word. His deep blue eyes, pools of affection and admiration, traced every line of your face as if committing it to memory. You always knew there was a passion in his eyes when he looked at you, but this was different. It was unabashed, no longer hindered by his respect for your relationship with Art.

His feelings for you had broken free, and you were transported back to the night in his hotel room when you first kissed him. You could still taste it. You remembered the brush of his lips and the feel of his tongue, and you had memorised the heat of his hands on your body.

With hooded eyes and flushed cheeks, Patrick maintained his stare. “You didn’t know from the beginning that you were going to be with Art?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“I didn’t know,” you echoed. Your face felt hot, and your heart was hammering in your chest like a ringing bell tower.

“Why did you tell me to ask Tashi for her number? And don’t say you were breaking up with tennis, what’s the other reason?”

You swallowed harshly, nervous and vulnerable under Patrick’s gaze. “From the minute I met you, I knew you saw right through me,” you confessed quietly. It had been a few months since you stopped wearing your friendship bracelets, so you wrung your hands nervously instead of fiddling with beads. “You ignored when I used humour to deflect and asked me questions I would have been too afraid to answer, but I did because you were asking.” Patrick wetted his lips, waiting for you to go on. “I was fucking terrified of you because I had nowhere to hide.”

The light in your hotel room was exactly like in Patrick and Art’s room two years ago. Orange, low, and perfectly reflected in the blown pupils of Patrick’s eyes. It was like a fire igniting between you, a rush of electricity that signalled the beginning of something powerful and undeniable. Last time, you had indulged the night in the hotel room and pulled away the next day, too afraid of getting burned. But now, after all this time, you craved his effortless understanding. Regardless of how much you loved Art and your relationship with him, it was different with Patrick. He could see the depths of your soul without words, and that no longer scared you.

It was exhilarating.

A large hand brushed your cheekbone before taking hold of your face gently. “If you don’t tell me to stop right now, I’m going to kiss you.”

You shook your head, lips crashing down on his in an act of bravery. As Patrick stepped further into the room, you let the door slam shut behind him and dragged him inside. If there was a part of your brain telling you this was a bad idea, you ignored it. Nothing felt bad or wrong about this. In many ways, it felt like a long time coming. You sighed happily as you felt his tongue against yours. Whatever memory you had of the first time you kissed barely lived up to the real thing.

Smirking against your lips, Patrick picked you up by the waist and set you on the empty hotel desk. He didn’t hesitate to press his body against yours, standing between your legs and urging you closer. Patrick kissed you like a man starved. Like you were the only thing that could satiate his hunger. There was no adjustment period. You found your rhythm with him right away, groaning when he deepened the kiss. Your legs wrapped around his middle, recalling how Patrick always wanted to be as close to you as possible. Every inch of your mind – every corner and crevice of your consciousness – screamed Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.

He was like an all-consuming fire, casting heat over every thought, impossible to extinguish.

Nearly gasping for air, Patrick pulled away just long enough to help you remove your oversized t-shirt. When the garment was gone, he raked his eyes down your body, now clad in a dainty tank top, eyes hooded, and lips kissed red and raw.

“Holy shit.” Patrick sighed, kissing your collarbone twice before removing his t-shirt.

“Holy shit,” you echoed, grinning breathlessly at him.

You knew Patrick was gorgeous, but he was a different kind of gorgeous as he stared down at you with dark, adoring eyes. As he drank in your appearance, an awestruck smile graced his lips, struggling to keep his composure as you ran your hands down his defined arms and played with the waistband of his shorts. You traced the small white lines of old scars on his skin, making his breath hitch from your delicate touch. Patrick had never been touched like this, so softly, as if he might break. It was a new sensation, so tender that it made him shut his eyes so you wouldn’t see them roll back in his head.

“Patrick,” you murmured quietly. “You’re beautiful.”

“You are the most magnificent, stunning, perfect person I have ever seen,” he retorted, opening his eyes and tenderly sweeping his thumbs across your cheeks. You sucked in a breath, stunned by the genuine devotion in his voice.

From the moment he first laid eyes on you, Patrick had thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world. But now that he knew and loved you, it was on a different level. It wasn’t just how your eyes sparkled, or your smile lit up a room, though those were undeniably captivating. Your sweetness, the thing you thought Patrick wouldn’t like you for, made you glow before him. You embodied beauty in every sense; your compassion, your resilience, and how you made Patrick feel like the luckiest man alive simply by letting him hang around.

Nobody ever spoke to or treated him like he was delicate, and he loved that you did.

In one last show of tenderness, Patrick captured your lips in a sweet kiss, gentle and affectionate. “Say you’re mine,” he requested, whispering against your mouth.

You smiled. “I’m yours, Pat,” you vowed.

And it was true.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: i almost ended the chapter without the whole make out scene after stanford, are you guys glad i kept it in? 🤔

#patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig #patrick zweig imagine #challengers x reader #challengers fanfic #challengers fanfiction #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson #tashi duncan #josh o connor x reader #mike faist x reader #fic: guilty as sin?

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