#the temperature's been weird lately I think idk. like switching between hot and cold

[butnobodycame627]

update: my head feels less fuzzy now I think I'm alright

[saucerfulofsins]

Tried to write a prompt for golf(general) but idk what this is. Absolutely living for your snippets though. Good luck in uni tomorrow!!! ❤️🔥✨

So much of their life now is rushing between, escaping, stolen moments outside of the noise. A suspended breath in the dark garden at a house party inhale, exhale the first few steps on the ice, the swish click of hotel room doors locking out the world . The itch that builds season over season until he wants to scream - wants to grab his hand and run until they aren't anyone, anymore. No expectations. But for now, this - selfies and signatures in the carpark, at the desk, the price to pay for a few hours on the green, closest he can get to nature, to head empty focus, just breathing, here. Nothing cuts like a dive into cold lakewater but it's close as he can find in the city. Being able to share that with pat just makes it all the more precious. Watches him walk up to the green, dorky yellow polo, putter in hand, deep in consideration. Sun breaking through grey skies. He's not gonna solve this one, can taste the shape of it though. Doesn't have an answer for this. No expectations but the space between them. Melting, condensing, expand and retract. Feet together head bowed, focus as he putts. Delicate and direct. Nothing surer than the truth of it, Nothing more dangerous than the hope. Jonny turns away, eyes closed against the sun.

Thank you! Uni was intense but good! All my classes are back in person, and seeing people is weird now? (I’ve basically been entirely on my own for the past year and a half). I really just feel weird with all this ~contact~ I guess. (Don’t worry btw, I only have 3 seminars, and I think the biggest of those is maybe 20 people, I’ve had my jabs and most people around me did too, masks are still a thing, and there’s a ban on coming to class w/symptoms even if they are non-COVID).

Also, I know absolutely NOTHING about golf except that there’s a ball, there’s a stick, and in Dutch “minigolf” is called the 100% worse “midgetgolf.” (I am also very bad at it, from what I remember, give me beer pong any day).

FINALLY. I DO remember asking for fluffy prompts but… I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry fjdfjfjdjkfjg. Can I blame this prompt coming in a little late, please? (seriously though lmk if I should rewrite this as fluff)

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Although their numbers match seamlessly, their careers, (their bodies, once), Patrick’s never been especially keen on nature. He doesn’t get that same drive Jonny does—he doesn’t need fresh air and open spaces and deep lakes to really clear his head, to feel like he’s living.

They used to talk about this, sometimes. This weird difference, where Patrick feels best in the thick of a crowd, walking in a city street—no matter how hot or how cold the weather. He has his place at Lake Erie, of course, but that was always because of the space, because of the privacy.

Jonny chose his lake cabin for all the other reasons. He wants to sink his feet into the sandy mud, he wants to feel the water lap at his ankles, smell all the different scents—wet algae and pinewood and the thick, soft moss that coats the ground.

He wants to feel sun on his skin, and he wants to clean, grill, eat the food he caught with his own hands.

Over the years, he’s sought that experience in Chicago. He’s never found it, even when all the elements are there—when he doesn’t put enough distance between himself and the city, its glass and asphalt still weigh him down.

Over the years, he’s found the closest he can get is out on a gold course. A good midway point between rink hockey and nature—the manicured lawns are like the temperature-controlled ice, the club and ball equal stick and puck in their semantic purpose. Hold one, hit the other. The mechanics put him at ease, leave him able to do something that feels productive.

More than that, golf is something Patrickenjoys. It must be because he can keep his shoes clean, can keep his expensive watch on. It must be because it reminds him of hockey, too, because Patrick’s never happier than when he has a stick in his hand.

(Jonny isn’t going to think too much about what that means.)

Their friendship continues to change. They used to be closer than they are now, and when they fell out, things were bad for a few years. This, the golf course, is where they learned to be okay with each other’s presence again.

It’s easier to talk when they don’t have to look at each other.

The wide space of the course offers more time, more privacy, than a rink ever could.

Green is a calming colour, the air here is fresher than it is in the city, unfiltered, pure. Jonny can close his eyes and inhale, just stand here for a moment without feeling like the world will slip away from under his feet if he’s not careful.

Patrick’s walking a few metres ahead of him. He’s wearing another eyesore of an outfit, like he’s trying to emulate all the colours that might go into a hockey logo. They are definitely the kind of colours that go into sponsor logos.

Patrick doesn’t need those colours to catch Jonny’s eyes. Jonny’s not sure if he knows that.

He wants to say something but bites his tongue instead. That, too, is easier here. Swallow all those words, all those feelings, and feel them settle in his stomach. They’re heavy, but bearable—full like he is after eating too much of a good meal. He’ll go home later, have a drink, feel the discomfort dissipate the way it always does as he processes this.

His turn. He aligns his putter with the ball, putts, edges past the hole. Patrick whistles, laughs, shakes his head. Jonny tries again, gets it right this time.

Two tries to get it right. It stings; he only ever had one shot with Patrick and promptly blew it. Or maybe they both did, he’s not so sure anymore. It’s been years, and his memories have gone hazy, now, all twisted up with bad dreams and what-ifs.

Patrick’s good at this, takes to golf the way he takes to hockey. Oddly, he doesn’t look smaller out of his gear and skates. If anything, he looks larger. His precision control is visible in each line of his body, and that contrasts against the immediate relaxation after his swing. He’s like an on-off switch, calculated and perfect, and he steals Jonny’s breath each time he does it.

(This is the only moment Jonny still allows himself to watch.)

Patrick grins when Jonny manages another bogey. They’re not really playing against each other, right now, but competition’s in their blood and Jonny’s fallen behind.

There’s nothing malicious in it, either, but Jonny can’t shake the feeling that this is becoming a metaphor for their lives. Patrick, on par with all plans he set out for himself, and Jonny, trying to catch up but eternally falling behind, further and further as he is haunted by the mistakes from his past.