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diyasgarden · 1 month ago

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no pomegranate trees

patrick zweig x reader, 4.9k words, features mentions of blood

I was treasuring my past, I was treasuring your future [taken from in our garden there was no pomegranate trees by Şükrü Erbaş]

Patrick’s made the street vendor blush now. A soft rosy color against the depth of her cheekbones, only emphasized by the way her gaze sheepishly flits down to the table in front of her. Her eyes run over the piles of citrus and pomegranate. A futile attempt to regain some composure that only serves to make her look more flustered.

The slight upturn of his lips becomes more defined as you both take her in. It’s the same smirk he would use to convince a caterer to give him a bottle of champagne when you were teens and too bored at whatever gala you were dragged to. Or at one of those dinner parties to deflect questions when everyone felt entitled to know your dreams and mock you for it. He’d use it when visiting you in a new city to snag a few extra drinks at a club or get out from paying the full taxi fare. So routine, it feels intrinsic to his spirit. The sharp, lopsided smile blooms an odd sense of comfort in your chest, its familiarity mildly drowning out the worry about this random trip to visit you.

He took a red eye after some challenger in the midwest, and landed in Istanbul at eight in the morning. When he called thirty minutes later to tell you he was here to visit, “What? Can’t I surprise you?” was the only thing he said when you asked if everything was okay. Right before he hung up, he let out a laugh. A small chuckle that felt pushed out of his throat, and you regretted not asking about the tournament before the call ended.

He leans over the table, closer to the street vendor who’s flush deepens at the action. “Please?” he asks, still grinning like the Cheshire cat. He fiddles with the money in his hand, thumb running over the wrinkles of the dollar and folding the edges aimlessly. She lets out what you think is a quiet giggle, but the bazaar is too loud to actually hear. Tired of watching the exchange, you look around to the other stalls by where you stand. Tables of produce and barrels of spices mostly, with booths lined with Persian rugs and copper pots in the distance. If you squint, you can see the fragmented light of mosaic lamps as afternoon descended into night.

Even with the sunset around the corner, there’s a lingering sense of spirit to the market. A potent vibrancy of sounds, smells, and people, that navigating made you feel close to the heart of the city. Or as close as you could, only living here for a month. It wasn’t like any of the other places you lived. Not that you could really group any together, each with their own withstanding singularity.

Often you’d wonder if Patrick felt the same way about the places he went to on tour. If every country club had its own energy or if any city struck out more to him. Although, you’d never ask. He’d answer it of course, but you couldn’t help thinking it’d be an insult to you both, and frankly it was just another question on the long list of things you wanted to ask him.

You turn to look down at the piles of pomegranate in front of you, aimlessly reaching to cup one of them. The fruit is a little larger than your palm, firm to touch and vaguely leather-like. You squeeze to see if you can make some sort of mark on the hard exterior, but when you move your hand to the next pomegranate you see no indication you ever touched the first. Your fingers draw small shapes against the rough skin of the second, slowly stopping when you see Patrick’s hand come up to touch the same one. His thumb brushes against yours, the rough skin of a callous sending a pleasant shiver up your spine before he moves to pick up the pomegranate, along with the first one you touched.

“We’ll take these,” he tells the shop vendor, reaching over to give her the money in his hands.

“Seriously?”

It takes Patrick a moment to even register the question, too occupied in trying to capture every detail on the walk back to your apartment. Sometimes he imagines a common thread between all the places you’ve lived. An intangible likeness that calls to you, even if the only true connection is the fact that you’ve lived there.

When the playfully sarcastic tone of your voice pulls him away from the stray cats and street signs, he laughs. Deep and genuine, the sound seems to echo down the street. It’s a stupid question, but he can hear the slight undercurrent of unease in your voice.

“I haven't converted any cash since I got here,” he starts, with a small chuckle, thumb pressing into the skin of the pomegranate in his hand. He has one in each palm. The globe-like fruit fits perfectly in his grasp. “It makes no difference, she can just go take it in for whatever they use here.”

“Lira,” you sigh with a delicate smile. The edges of your eyes move in turn with your lips. Titled up to the sky with a ripple of gentle wrinkles bound simultaneously in content and worry that fill him with warmth regardless. The sight prompts a grin on his own, and he looks away in front of him, hand flexing against the firm curve of the pomegranate as you get closer to your apartment. Of course you’d know that. Now living in Istanbul for how long? Three weeks? A month? It’s not like you stayed long in one place anyway.

You moved to London after he first went on tour, in pursuit of some vision for yourself. It wasn’t a surprise, you and Patrick spent years discussing it. Him playing tennis and you traveling the world in search of something deeper. While he didn’t understand exactly what you’re searching for, he assumed your heart would eventually guide you to it. He just hadn’t expected it to take you to so many places.

“Well she can go convert it for lira then,” he adds jokingly, voice slightly clipped. He wants to make some joke about how you’re settling into the country, but in between the jet lag and the thoughts in his mind nothing comes. He should have told you he was coming to visit. Called at least before the flight took off, but it’s all a blur to him. He was driving by an airport after his game, and the next thing he really remembers is the flight attendant telling him they landed in Turkey.

His hand squeezes the pomegranates, the friction stinging against his skin.

“I had lira, you know. I could have given it to you,” you suddenly say, stopping in front of the door to the apartment building. He turns to see you looking up at him with gentle concern. Eyes wide and lips parted like you have more to say. He has to physically restrain from pressing his thumb against the space between your eyebrows and pushing away the knit of worry that’s formed. He can’t decide if you look like an adult waiting for an explanation or a child waiting for an apology.

He shakes his head, but can sense you’re about to protest anyway. Shifting both pomegranates to the same hand, he steps to open the door. “Now where else would I practice flirting in Turkey?”

He’s been holding the pomegranates the entire way back. A tight grip which you’re convinced must sting. He has more calluses now, you think. Physical burdens of the tennis racket which hurt just to look at.

You press the elevator button, and sneak another look at him. Tennis has always more or less left Patrick tan, but it’s more prominent now. Each day in the sun marked with a new freckle or wrinkle. Delicate little things which emphasize his age, no matter how much the boyish smirks or humor clings to his youth.

Your gaze drifts down, following along the vein in his arm back to his hand, still clutching the pomegranate. Your hand gravitates to his, reaching for the fruit, but he moves just as your finger grazes it. The elevator doors open with a ding and he steps in, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Whatcha doing?” he asks, the smirk teasing a reappearance.

“I can hold one,” you insist, stepping in beside him. You try to take it once more, and again his hands move before you can. He holds it up, too high for you to grasp as the elevator doors close with a metallic thud.

“I mean sure…if you can reach it,” he grins, immaturity pushing its way to the front.

When you roll your eyes and lean against the elevator wall, his look softens to something gentler. His hand comes down to his chest and he cradles both pomegranates as the elevator moves up. The weight of his gaze remains on you, pushing your own to the ground. Now you stare at his mud stained shoes, an exhausted greyish brown against what was once white. It’d probably take at least five washes to get the stains out, stomach churning at the thought. With a stronger resolve, you look up again. “Give me one”

“It’s fine”

“Just give me one, Patrick”

“No,” he chuckles, shaking his head. You don’t have another chance to try grabbing it as the elevator opens to your floor, his free hand extending to guide you out. With a sigh, you step into the hallway, hand digging in your back pocket for the key as you walk towards your door. Patrick follows, pomegranates still pressed to his chest as you come to a stop. He hovers closer, as you move to push the key into the lock.

He’s never had any concept of personal space. You can feel him next to you without a glance, heat radiating off his body in waves. The smell of cologne and sweat fill your senses. Distracting enough that you hold your breath to unlock the door. Finally pushing it open and stepping in with a deep exhale.

You turn on the lights and look at Patrick. With his free hand he closes the door, locking it before turning back to you. The slight reddish stubble against his chin catches the light with a sharper shine than the browned undertones of his unruly curls under the light. His hair isn’t long, shorter than when you were teens, but the dark curls still move without any order.

Closing the door and kicking off your shoes, you ask, “I’ll put the pomegranate in the kitchen?”

He steps away, not even letting you reach for it this time. “I'll cut them soon.” Still holding them tight as he moves to kick off his own shoes. For a moment you imagine just grabbing it and running away, not giving him the option to say no. A silly thought. He’d be fast enough to stop you anyway.

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, turning away before you unwillingly give into impulsivity. “I’m making tea”

He followed you into the kitchen, unsure what else to do with himself. The apartment is furnished and decorated. Warm in its own way, but he’d much rather stay closer to you than just wander back and forth taking in the pictures on the walls. The pomegranates remain close to his chest as he leans against the fridge, watching you standing over the stove and pouring water in the dual teapot. He imagines you every evening coming back to this apartment alone and making tea for yourself.

He likes to imagine what you do in each city. How your life is spent in a new place each time. Years ago he’d picture you moving somewhere new and exploring, making friends, and finding time to write and draw and do all the other things which made you happy. Now he isn’t really sure what you do besides what he sees in front of him.

What would you tell him if he asked? Would you be honest? Lie about some grand adventure? Probably just deflect the question as a whole, but he wants to anyway. It's a desire rooted in concern that reeks of greed.

“Jet lag?” you ask softly, shaking him out of his thoughts. “It looks..” you purse your lips, “like you may pass out.”

Something about your voice makes it seem like he’s going to fall apart in front of you. As if there were stitches between each limb that would come undone, reducing him to a pile of bones that you’d have to put back together. He can’t help but snort out a laugh.

“I’m serious,” you add, and when he looks at you he sees the knot of worry between your brows again. The worried wave of wrinkles scrunching tighter than before.

For a moment he debates explaining the image in his mind, about him falling apart and you slowly rebuilding him, bone after bone, but it’d probably just make you more upset. No words come together in apology, so he sighs. With the deep exhale, he murmurs, “Just tired… I’ll sit down.” He pushes his back off the refrigerator, taking one last look at you and your worry, as he forces himself to the living room taking the pomegranates with him.

The sharp smell of tea circles around the apartment as you pour it from the pot. You can feel Patrick watching you from where he sits in the living room, looking a little too out of place in your apartment. Both too big for the small ottoman he’s sitting on and for the space at all. His hand is playing with the flimsy crown of the pomegranates on the coffee table in front of him, and you look away to stare at your faint reflection in the black tea. Slowly, you move your hands to the tray the thin-waisted cups rest on, carrying it with you to the living room. You sit on the ottoman across from Patrick, and place the tray down by the pomegranates.

A weird sort of silence has formed between the two of you. The sounds of the street come in from the window, a honk every now and then, but neither of you have made a noise. It seems as if time has stopped within the walls of your apartment, giving birth to some half-silence that is too much to bear. Trying to fill the void, you pointlessly murmur, “Turkish tea.”

Thankfully,it’s enough to break the quiet. “Didn’t know,” he quips sarcastically, bringing back some sense of normalcy to the moment. You both reach to take a cup, but you just hold yours as you watch him bring the glass to the plush of his lips. He takes a sip and his nose slightly wrinkles as he puts it back down on the coffee table. “Strong…,” he says, kissing his teeth.

Weakly you chuckle, looking down at the deep brown of the tea which is too dark to be anything but over brewed. “I’m still getting used to making it.”

Now he laughs, an odd forced sound that reminds you of the call when he arrived. The same one from right before he hung up. “So not fully settled then” he says, tone weighed down by something heavy. Some mix of frustration and worry you can’t pull apart.

You look back at him, but even he feels the weight of his words. He looks to the side, before you can even look him in the eye. You bring the glass in your hands up to your lips, trying to push it down with the tea, but it makes the feeling sting down your throat.

When he finally looks back at you, he lets out a shaky exhale. His exhaustion is so glaringly obvious, you think the only way it could be more apparent is if he wrote “I’m tired” with a marker on his forehead. There is not a part of his body or any action not tinged with a weariness you knew was because of tennis.

His lips part to say something, but without much thought you interrupt to ask, “How’s tennis?”

“What?” he asks back, eyebrows furrowing as he sits up straighter.

With more determination, you repeat, “How is tennis?”

He lets out that awful laugh again. “You’re asking me how’s tennis?” mockingly shooting the question back at you, voice tinged with an incipient anger.

“It’s just a question,” you sigh, shaking your head. Placing the tea down in front of you, you momentarily look at the pomegranate on the table before turning back to him.

Patrick huffs, looking at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes pierce into yours before they go downcast. “I know,” he concedes in a murmur, still not making eye contact.

He says nothing more as you still wait for some answer to your question. It’s almost as if the half silence has returned, but this time you can hear the faint sound of his breathing. You open your mouth to ask once more, but he speaks before you can.

“What do you do here?” he asks, eyes suddenly looking right at you again.

It takes a moment to even process the question, and in the confusion, you only repeat, “What do I do here?”

“Do you have friends? Or are you writing something? Painting? Music? What?” he spits out quickly, volume increasing with each word.

“Patrick–”

“I mean what do you tell people when you move to a new place? You have to say something when they ask!”

“What?”

“What do you do!”

His voice is sharp, with a contorted sense of urgency that causes your heart to speed up. He’s out of breath, just looking at you with furrowed brows. A knot in your chest, as you watch his own heave up and down.

Then, unexpectedly he asks, “Are you happy?”

“Happy?” you repeat, more to yourself than him.

“Like here, are you happy?” He leans across the coffee table closer to where you sit. You hear your heartbeat in your ear and the knot in your chest hardens to exasperation.

“You’re asking me if I am happy?” you snap, your own frustration seeping into your voice. “You randomly show up and now you sit here asking me if I’m happy?”

He doesn’t wait a moment, moving in even closer. “Well are you!”

“Yes!” you scoff.

“You’re happy?” he repeats with the awful laugh, the question now rhetorical and cruel. “You’re happy moving from place to place. Just wasting away the trust fund throughout Europe?” making a sharp hand motion alongside his words.

“Jesus,” you mumble, looking away.

“What?” he questions, sounding offended at your dismissal. “You used to make things, be…be passionate…” he pants, clearly out of breath. “And now…you just keep moving from one place to another and for what?”

“You don’t get to judge me!” you shout back, head snapping in his direction. “You’re the one wasting away because you can’t even hit a ball right”

He says nothing, staring at you. Breath ragged as he takes in your words, face twisting from anger to hurt. The reality of what you said sinks in, clarity coming too late. Your lips part in apology, but he just forces out that laughs again.

“Okay,” he says, pushing away from the table with a force that knocks the pomegranates to the floor. You watch the fruit roll away as he walks out of the apartment.

He dangles the cigarette between his lips as he searches himself for a lighter. To no use, of course. It takes him a moment to remember he couldn’t bring one on the flight, and that he’d probably have to go back up to the apartment to borrow one from you. He huffs, just keeping the cigarette between his lips.

The night wind hits him gently. He wants to take a walk, but his legs feel rooted to the ground. Leaning against the building wall, he looks up, trying to see if he could see your apartment from here.

Patrick remembers you called to tell him about the move. You were still in Berlin then, and he was at some tournament in the Midwest. An irrelevant challenger he only made a hundred from. He tries to remember exactly how you told him, but your words are hazy. Now some deformed product of his own mind, born in some desperate need for clarity.

Instead, what he does remember is the musky smell of motel sheets he laid on, spent from the game, and confused by the news.

“Istanbul? Like Turkey.”

“No, like Italy,” you laughed, before pausing with a slow exhale. Then softer, you said, “Of course Turkey.”

He remembers laughing at the joke, before his chest constricted at your tired breath. “I thought you were enjoying Berlin”

You didn’t respond at first, but he remembers your soft breaths into the phone. Measured and deep, to a rhythm he memorized when you both were sixteen. “It was just… time for a change.”

“A change?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “A change”

He accidentally bites down on the tip of the cigarette between his lips. The bitter pungent taste overtakes his mouth, but he still doesn’t move the cigarette.

You don’t move for the next couple of minutes, just staring at the pomegranates as they come to a stop. They rolled alongside each other, before getting too close, and pushing off the other in opposite directions. One to the left and one to the right, now both standing still on each side of the room. Slowly, you push yourself to stand and move towards them.

You bend down, reaching to pick up the first pomegranate, now slightly dented from the fall to the floor. Your hand runs over the soft dimple, taking in the purplish tint of the area. A growing bruise that would only darken with time. Your legs guide you to the other pomegranate across the room and as you hand wraps around it, you feel another dent. Just as deep and big, it feels identical to the first. You run a finger against the concave curve trying to find some difference, but both dip in the same formation. Holding one in each hand, you straighten each arm to properly look at the subtle marks. Barely visible against the deep red of the skin, but there nonetheless.

You walk to the kitchen, placing the fruit on the counter. Stacked in a way so the bruises rest against each other. You hold them like that, before slowly stepping back and just looking at the two fruits. The dents press into the other with ease, each fruit supporting the other, and it dawns on you it’s probably from when they hit each other rolling, not from the fall itself.

You leave them like that before going to your room.

He’s not sure how long he was outside, but by the time he forces himself back into the building, he is relieved you didn’t lock your apartment door. Quietly, he rotates the knob and pushes it open, to be greeted with nearly the same sight he left. The lights are on, and the two cups of tea rest on the coffee table, but you’re nowhere in the room. Neither are the pomegranates. He walks around trying to find wherever you moved them, before finally stopping in the kitchen. Both on the counter top, one leaning against the other. With a deep exhale, he moves in front of them. He picks up one in each hand, both feeling heavier than before.

Knives, he thinks. He needs a knife.

He puts the pomegranates down and looks around again, trying to find something to cut the fruit with. When he finds the thin knife block, he pulls out the first one he can reach. He turns back to the fruit, gripping the blade in his left hand and moving his right one to hold the pomegranate steady. He takes a deep breath as he tightens his grasp on the fruit.

There are gentle thuds from outside your room. You didn’t hear the front door open or close, but you know it’s Patrick from the sound alone. It’s the thud of his steps, steady and gentle, becoming softer as he walks farther away from you.

You close your eyes as you lean against the bedroom door, not ready to go back out, as you try to follow the sound. In the distance you can still hear him walking. Shorter steps, but still steady and gentle.

The pomegranate has a soft waxy sensation, slightly slippery. His hand squeezes again around the rough surface, pressing the fruit to the counter. He moves the knife to the dense exterior, trying to push its way down the middle, but it remains stuck in the width of the peel. He tries pushing it again to no use. With a huff he pulls it out all together, trying to steady himself before thrusting it into the pomegranate again, getting deeper but still barely into the flesh.

The sound of the steps are replaced a more aggressive thud in the distance that keeps repeating. For a moment it sounds like he’s punching the wall or something like that, not enough to make a hole but enough to create a vibration that lingers. You step away from the door, and still hear the harsh thumps. Your heart picks up beat to the disjointed rhythm of the noise, as you finally open the door.

What are you doing?” he hears, looking up to see you now walking towards the kitchen.

Aligning the knife with the valley of the first cut, he harshly retorts, “What does it look like I’m doing?” He lifts it up and hacks into the fruit with a force unstable enough that it shifts in his hand.

You step closer to him, opening your mouth to say something to no words. Each movement of his arm is ragged and sharp, no fluidity as he pushes the blade into the fruit. His grip on the fruit jolts which each cut, getting closer to the blade each time.

The subtle grooves of the fruit press into his callouses. You're standing close, he can tell, but his eyes remain on the pomegranate. It's almost fully split. He holds it tighter, as he brings the knife down again.

He’s not lucky this time.

You hear him before you see the blood. The guttural groan of pain, accompanied by the clang of the knife falling to the floor.

The fruit, now cut down the middle, leaks red all over the countertop, merging with the stream of blood from his hand. The same deep shade, indistinguishable from the other.

His eyes close in pain, hearing your frantic steps in every direction. The sound drowns out as he draws in a breath and is met with the smell of tart and metal. A bitter sweetness that overcomes him, only to be pushed away with the sharp ache of the wound. It shoots up his arm to his head, which now throbs to the rhythm of his former cuts to the pomegranate. He leans against the counter with short, panting breaths.

Suddenly, he feels you take the injured hand. The touch sends a wave of relief up his arm now, followed by a guilt that constricts his chest. You press a soft cloth to the wound. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “Stay still,” repeating the words in a hushed succession. You hold it tight to his skin, burning in an oddly comfortable way.

Slowly he opens his eyes and looks at you hunched over the cut. He can feel the depths of your breath brush against his hand with each exhale. He turns to the counter, pomegranate finally cut open, laying in a pool of red. The other one has someone rolled closer to it, both resting in the combination of juice and blood.

“You’re fine," you repeat once more. His eyes turn back to you, still hunched by his hand. The white cloth you hold is stained red, and the guilt grows tenfold.

He rasps, “I’m sorry.”

You say nothing, too focused on the cut, so he repeats louder, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say, not looking up at him.

He lets out a tired exhale, as he says your name. Quiet and firm, wanting you to meet his eyes. When you do, he repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Eyes wide, you stare at him for a moment. He watches the familiar knot of worry between your brows slowly come undone, as he feels your grip on the cloth relax. You nod softly with your own exhausted exhale, “I know.”

“I am too,” you add in a quiet whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah”

author’s note: hi!! it's been some time since i've written a longer piece, and this idea has been lingering in my head in November. a combination of an old poem i wrote and a specific scene which came to me during a fever dream when i had the flu, so silver lining of that experience i guess. been feeling very unsure about my writing, but i needed to get the idea on paper. special shoutout for @cha11engers to beta reading certain scenes and motivating me to not let this rot in my drafts!!! thank you all for reading and please please please tell me all your thoughts <3 i love you guys!!!

#patrick zweig and pomegranates two of my favorite things #now i want pomegranates #and patrick zweig #can anyone guess what scene came to me when i was sick? i feel like it may be obvious lol #“tag your gore” i did!!#challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #challengers 2024 #patrick zweig fanfic #josh o'connor #patrick x reader #no pomegrante trees

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