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diyasgarden · 16 days ago

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merry christmas, please don’t come

“Oh, golden boy, you shined a light on our home and at your best you were magic we were sold. But don't tell 'em what you told me. Don't even tell 'em that you know me.I would rather burn forever”

from “Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call” by the Bleachers

“What do you mean Patrick isn’t coming?”

Art doesn’t know how many times they’ve had this conversation. (He stopped keeping track after the fifth time)

Memory loss, a dwindling attention span, and blanking. All problems the doctors said his grandmother would struggle with after her stroke. He’d expected difficulties with remembering her routine or where she was. Even the people around her. General things, he could walk her through. Not something so specific. And frankly, considering all the things she could forget, this feels like a cruel joke.

He lets out a steady exhale, stepping closer to where his grandmother stands by the small fir covered in lights, tinsel, and other markers of the Christmas season. Sebastian, the old tabby, is nuzzled right by where his grandmother placed the small, wrapped box under the tree, looking up at him with a cautious gaze.

“He isn’t able to come this year,” Art repeats, reaching to the home-made popsicle candy cane ornament hanging at arm’s length on the tree. It was the decoration he made with Patrick when he came to visit Christmas in 2000 — the first of a long line of ornaments they’d make together for the holiday.

His grandmother lets out a gentle, albeit unbelieving scoff as she shakes her head. “He always comes,” she remarks, a blatant dismissal of Art’s words.

His thumb rubs aimlessly over the painted birchwood decoration, as he looks back at her with a tentative gaze. She wasn’t wrong, Patrick would always come for the holiday. After spending Hanukkah with his folks, he’d fly out to the midwest by the twenty-fourth and spend the rest of winter break with him. “For a proper Christmas experience” he’d tease, although Art knew that he just didn’t want to be at home.

Now it’s the twenty-third and he was nowhere in sight.

“Well he isn’t this year, grandma,” Art sighs, eyes quickly darting back to the tree. The ornaments he made with Patrick are there on nearly every other branch. His thumb presses down harder on the candy-cane popsicle, continuing it's steady back and forth motion, as his eyes jump from one decoration to the next.

Her eyebrows knit and she looks down to the present she placed for Patrick, Art’s gaze trailing behind her’s. In smooth, cursive black sharpie, the word “Pat” is written on top of the metallic red wrapping paper. It's small enough that Art can’t figure out what it is, but its presence may as well take up the whole room.

“Did he say why?” she suddenly asks, instantly looking back up to him.

The question is ironic. As if Patrick had any say in the decision. As if he chose not to come. Really Art should just say "he isn't welcome here" and move on. But that's an over simplification in itself.

Art turns his head up to her and settles with: “He’s busy.”

t wasn’t a lie. The last time he checked, Patrick was somewhere in the Mediterranean, probably trying his luck with the European tour. Or at least that’s what Art gathered from Patrick’s recent facebook posts. (He allowed himself a peek every once in a while to keep his curiosity at bay)

His grandma takes in a soft inhale, looking back down at the present. Sebastian moves away from the box to rub against her leg with a purr, and she looks down at the cat, before shrugging. “We’ll keep it in case he comes.”

He supposed the danger of going no-contact with Patrick meant that his old friend really had no way of knowing what Art expected.

And Patrick always had a tendency to see what he wanted.

we'll keep it in case he comes

Suddenly, Art feels a sharp poke in his hand, and he turns back to where his finger holds the popsicle stick decoration to see a splinter in his thumb.

He stares at it for a moment and then yanks the decoration off the tree.

It’s around midnight when he goes to properly handle the decorations.

He tip-toes down the stairs, cautious to avoid Sebastian on the railing who is already looking at him with an accusatory gaze. If it wasn't for the cat's general hatred of him, he'd assume it knew exactly what he is about to do. When he walks to the kitchen to grab a trash bag, he can hear the cat hiss. Drawing out an eye roll as he creeps towards the tree in the living room.

The place is only illuminated by the yellow-toned string of lights on the tree, and he just stands there, taking in all the ornaments he is about to take down.

Some wash pin-figures

Couple of snow globe bulbs

Many paper snowflakes.

And the candy cane popsicles.

He lets out a deep exhale before quietly pulling each decoration from the tree and placing it gently into the trash bag. He moves quietly and focuses his eyes on the motions of his hands, not allowing himself to look at any ornament longer than he has to. Only Sebastian’s displeased purrs filling the room.

By the time he’s done, his stomach churns at the sight of the tree now mostly decorated by store bought figures, tinsel, and lights. It’s a foreign sight he keeps looking at, up and down, until eventually the little present with the cursive “Pat” written on-top catches his attention.

The metallic red wrapping of the little box reflects the Christmas tree lights back like a kaleidoscope. Art just stares down at the sight, still unsure of what the present is.

Hesitantly, he bends to the floor and gingerly reaches for the box, picking it up in a sluggish motion. It fits into the palm of his hand, and makes no noise. There's a certain weight to it that he can’t place. and his thumb deliberately runs against the tape of wrapping paper.

Then with the same sluggish movement from before, he puts it back down underneath the tree. His hands flex against where he holds the trash bag, and he remains on the ground. Eyes tracing the loops of his grandmother's handwriting and the fractured reflections of colored light.

When he eventually pushes himself to go back upstairs, he puts the bag in the back corner of his closet. Tucking it away behind some old duffle bags from his time at the academy before dragging himself to bed.

Patrick posts a photo of a Turkish marketplace on the twenty-fourth. Somewhere in Istanbul. Or Izmir.

Art doesn't really care where.

At least he was right about it being the Mediterranean.

authors note: this is me fighting the art donaldson hater allegations!! not really sure how i feel about this, but i think of art and patrick everytime i hear this song and knew i had to write a fic based on it for them. although i did change the line for the title, just so it would fit better with the final product. many mixed feelings on this, but i hope you enjoyed it!! tell me what you think!!! and if you want an edit of artrick to this song...check this out!

art credit: from the December 1960 issue of the new yorker

#art donaldson had a bit of a grinch moment here #is it obvious that i don't really write art... either way i won't lie this was fun to explore #he's such a fascinating character #i want to crawl into his mind and live in his head #this desire exists with tashi and patrick too...but there are other much more stronger desires which take precedence there...yeah x10 #also sebastian mention!! again!! shout out to lilli!!!#challengers #art donaldson #patrick zweig #artrick #mike faist #josh o'connor

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diyasgarden · 1 month ago

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goddess

"what am i, jesus?" "yeah"

(tashi duncan x f!reader)

The essay is crumpled by the time you reach Tashi.

The infirmary is a small building; plain and tucked away between some trees at the far end of campus. Simultaneously inconspicuous and irrelevant. At best an after-thought, only identifiable from the words “health center” plastered across the front.

It’s surprising you didn’t miss it, and you can’t help but feel indignant at the fact that this is where they brought her. But the feeling is quickly washed away with the growing sense of dread that gnaws at your chest.

Abruptly, you’re hit with the idea that you’d walk in to not find her at all. That there would be no sign of her existence within those four walls. It’s illogical and unfounded, but the thought lingers as you force yourself to the door.

You have a faint memory of meeting Tashi. A blurry recollection of bumping into her at the dining hall and a vague outline of the conversation that followed. The only thing you actually remember are noticing her hands.

It wasn’t anything physical about them that drew your attention. You couldn’t care less about how they actually looked, you were captivated by her movement. Instinctive yet deliberate. As if every action was simultaneously spontaneous and methodical. A dichotomy that gave each motion an innate intensity. A power hidden in the folds of the universe, which only she could reach.

You didn’t have to watch Tashi play to know she’s special, you just had to watch her hands.

You knew that from that first moment alone.

The rubber soles of your sneakers squeak against the tiles as you walk into the room, your breath coming out in short little pants from the run. Your hands flex against the papers in your hands, as a breath of relief slips out upon seeing her.

Tashi sits on the cot, eyebrows knitted pensively with a frown staring at the brick wall in front of her. Her arms are crossed against her chest, heaving in a melancholic rhythm. For a moment you expect her to scream on the top of her lungs or burst out crying, but she remains stoic.

Her knee is wrapped in what looks to be yards of gauze that is blinding under the overhead fluorescent lights. It beckons your attention with its unsettling glow and you drift to it’s call, your vision flooded with white.

In the periphery of your view you see a tan movement, followed by the noise of a soft shuffle. Your eyes instantly dart back up to Tashi to see that she is already looking at you, her eyes slightly red and swollen.

Your heart drops.

You want to carve your knee from its socket with your bare hands and leave it beside her. Give it to her as a replacement. If you could, you’d do it. Maybe give her your whole leg if that is what she wanted. It’s not even a question.

You told Tashi you’d be late earlier in the week, during one of your yoga sessions. An important part of her routine she roped you into. And while you had no real interest in yoga, you also had no interest in ever denying her. Struggling through asanas was unimportant.

“He said he wanted me to stay a bit after class to talk about my paper,” you explained, voice somewhat strained from holding your breath and hands slightly trembling from trying to keep yourself in downward dog.

She came down onto the mat beside you, releasing the position into a sitting one. Her hands moved to your waist, gently coaxing you into the proper formation and you exhaled instantly at the contact. “He didn’t say about what?” she questioned absently, preoccupied with your pose.

Your professor had a tendency to be vague via email, one of those people who never truly started trusting the internet. As a result his emails were brief and unintentionally ominous. This one simply read:

Hello, Please stay after next class to talk about your mid-semester paper. Sincerely, Professor Thatcher

“Just that he wanted to talk about my paper” you responded as her hands moved away from your body, a sense of loss pooling in your stomach. “I’ll just be a bit late to your game,” you frowned, coming down onto your own mat to sit beside her.

Tashi shrugged, as she moved her foot to rest on the opposite thigh. “You’ll come after?” she said, adjusting her other leg in the same way, settling into the lotus pose.

“Of course,” you responded without thought, and caught her eyes flick up to yours with a half smirk on her lips before falling back to your lap. Her hands reach towards you and she begins to move your legs as well.

“What class is it again?” she asked, also contorting you into a lotus. A futile effort, although that doesn’t deter her.

“Asian religions"

She hummed, getting you halfway into the pose. Her gaze pulled away from your lap back up to your face with the same half-smirk. “I swear you do more for this elective than any other class,” she remarks amused.

“Who realized religion is complex?” you sarcastically retorted, a smirk on your own lips now. She laughed in response and little wrinkles formed at the edge of her eyes, the sight turning your smirk into a soft smile. It dipped to a frown as soon as you remembered what the conversation was about in the first place.

You were flippant with routine. Always eager to skip a class and never the one to follow your parents to mass every weekend. But you were always consistent with her games. Routine was only mundane without her.

Tashi’s hand reached to push a lock of hair behind your ears. “It’s only one match,” she whispered looking into your mind. You took in a deep breath and met her gentle eyes, the disappointment morphing into a knot in your chest. The sense of dread lingered as she smiled softly. “How interesting can playing Pepperdine be anyway?”

The dramatic irony isn’t lost on you, it’s just too tragic to acknowledge.

You should have taken the knot in your chest as a premonition.

Her hands tremble. A small, involuntary motion that makes you feel ill.

You’re seated across from where Tashi is on the cot. You ache to be closer, but the only seat next to her is already occupied by Art. Somehow having wormed his way into a place he doesn’t deserve.

Like always, his presence and proximity bother you, but there is also a small joy in the fact that it is only Art. Tashi had told you Patrick was visiting for the game, but at the moment was nowhere to be seen. You don’t ask about him either, not one to question small blessings.

Only the sound of breathing fills the poky space. Art is watching you, probably as vexed by your presence as you of his.

(Sometimes you wonder if all the Apostles quietly despised each other as well. You’d understand why.)

You don’t have to turn to already see the impassive expression on his face, so your eyes remain glued to Tashi’s hands. Watching the little erratic tremors as you bit back nausea. There is no fluidity to the uncontrolled movement. It’s just hollow.

“What’d he say?” Tashi suddenly asks, breaking the unnerving silence. There is an inflection in her voice which is both bitter and pained, an aftertaste of the day’s events. There is nothing to indicate the tone is directed towards you, but you flinch anyway.

“Huh?” you mumble, not having processed her words.

“Your professor,” she starts with an exhale. “What’d he say about your paper?”

Your eyes dart down to the wrinkled papers on your lap, thumb pressing down on one specific crinkle in the vain attempt to straighten it. It feels insignificant. The essay. The professor. Pointless to even think about, much less discuss.

When you look back up, you see Tashi is looking at you with a desperate wide-eyed interest. She bites the inside of her cheek in unsettled anticipation and it dawns on you that she is trying to fill the room with something besides the obvious torment. Without much of a thought, you murmur “Something about nuance.”

“Nuance?” she questions, a vain attempt to continue the conversation.

You nod in response. The interaction is blurry, the moment charged with the desire to leave the game and the memory clouded with the panic of finding out about the injury once you did. But you remember him mentioning nuance. “He told me I needed to be more nuanced,” you repeat, with another small nod in her direction.

“What was the paper on?” Art asks, also picking up on her need for a distraction.

You swallow, pushing some hair back from your face, “the living goddesses of Nepal.”

Kumari was the actual term. A connection between humanity and the divine was how Professor Thatcher described them. “An incarnation of the celestial for a few years,” he said in lecture, although you didn’t catch anything after that. Drifting off by then, your mind already thinking of someone else.

You’re grateful that Art doesn’t probe on why you chose the topic. Although, you’re sure he would have understood.

You think anyone who knew Tashi would.

You told her once.

“You’re like god,” you whispered to her drunk in the living room of Kappa something, too drunk from whatever concoction made by the frat brothers for their Halloween party. You were dressed as a cat, fallen to the ground while dancing inebriated, and clinging onto the soft, white fabric of Tashi’s angel costume as she tried to help you stand. You looked up to her, blinded by the flashing lights of the room and her radiance, and whispered those three words like a prayer.

She had no verbal response, just pulling you up with a small smile and soft laugh. Her hands moved from your arms to your cheeks, gently cupping your face and tilting it.

She pressed a kiss to your forehead.

The infirmary has settled into another, heavier silence. There is no sound loud enough to fill the space. None of you try.

Her hands still tremble.

The paramedics arrive eventually, whisking Tashi off to a proper hospital for examination. You take the name of where she’s gone and walk to your dorm, using your essay as a stressball as you plan on how to visit her the next morning.

A wave of exhaustion hits you the minute you cross the threshold into the room, and you walk straight to the bed. The tiredness sinks into your bones when you sit down. The day's events smothering you at once as your fingers play with the corner of the page.

You look down at the shriveled papers in your hand and take your first proper look at it all night. Red pen scribbled all throughout, little notes on grammar and word choice, but at the heading in all caps is written WHAT ABOUT THE AFTER?

Oh right. That’s what he said.

“It’s an informative paper, just…” Professor Thatcher started when you went up to him after class. His voice trailed off as he debated the right word, finally deciding, “just a stale one.”

“Stale?”

“You lack nuance,” he clarified, with a flick of his wrist, looking back down to the red marking on the paper.

Your eyes darted to the clock on the wall and then back to him. “I mean…how much nuance is there…” you said with a forced smile, a weak attempt at a joke to resolve the conversation and leave for the game.

If he noticed the attempt, he made no comment. “You don’t consider the after,” he remarks, looking back up to you. His eyes narrowed as you snuck another look at the clock.

“The after?”

“Yes,” he reiterated. “The after.”

“What... after?” you asked, eyes flicking to the clock once again.

“Well you mention how they lose their status after puberty, but don’t actually talk about their life…sans godhood,” he explained, watching you carefully. Daring you to look back at the clock.

You weren’t present enough in the moment to process what he was saying, but felt the need to defend your work anyway. “Well..when you’re worshiped like that…i don’t think you can just let it go…it’s what everyone knows you for”

“Exactly.”

You waited for him to say more, but were only left with an awkward silence. Your eyes darted to the clock once more, and heard a scoff like noise from his direction. He pushed paper into your hands and with a hint of irritation said, “Just re-write it based on the feedback I wrote. Give it back to me next week.”

You left the next second without a second thought.

WHAT ABOUT THE AFTER?

The words are a taunt.

You put the paper down on the bedside table and let your exhaustion carry you to sleep.

The hospital is a bus-ride away from campus. You’re on it by the time the sun starts to rise, trying pointlessly to distract yourself with the sky’s pinkish hues.

It’s a large hospital, but it doesn’t take much to find Tashi. You tell the lady at the front desk her name, and her face flashes with recognition. She points you in the direction to go and sends you off.

Three minutes and an elevator ride later, you stand in front of her hospital room. You knock on the door out of courtesy, but quickly push yourself in, unable to handle the distance anymore.

Tashi is laying on the hospital bed looking out the window. There are dark circles around her eyes and her lips a fine straight line. Her head shifts to acknowledge your presence, before she turns back to the window.

You don’t move a muscle.

Your mind goes back to when she kissed your forehead at the Halloween party. She spun you after that, dancing to the music with her in your arms. You clung onto her to keep yourself upright.

If it wasn’t for her, you would have fallen.

“They took a couple x-rays” she begins, finally breaking the trepid silence of the room with a low, solemn voice. She looks away from the window in your direction, without properly looking at you.

You inhale apprehensively, swallowing slowly before you speak. “Yeah?” The question you can't bring yourself to ask lingers in the air.

She turns back to the window, watching the sun finally reaching its rightful place in the sky. Her eyes go distant and you wait for the words you fear.

“They said I might not play again,” she whispers, eyes still on the sun. Her finger imperceptibly pulls at the sheet on the bed. Your focus is on the subtle motion, watching the way she pinches it between her thumb and index. “I might never play again,” she repeats, her voice louder as if properly hearing herself for the first time. Her brows furrow as she confronts the possibility, trying to reconcile it with everything she’s known.

Her hands move to push back her hair in a swift, intuitive motion.

“It doesn’t change anything.”

She lets out a shaky, humorless laugh, before turning to face you. This time your eyes lock and she gives you a small, sad smile.

She knows what you mean.

You both know it’s true.

authors note: about a month ago in the midst of Navaratri a frat boy ran into my friend's "Religions of Asia" class and rolled down the lecture hall as if acting out the "Jack and Jill" nursery rhyme. the incident was so off-putting to the professor he decided to turn the entire class virtual from that point on. as a result, my friend now plays his lecture videos while we eat together each Wednesday and this idea was conceived during one of those lunches (so thank you frat guy ig?). this is more experimental than anything else i've written, so i am very curious to know what you all think. i hope you enjoyed it, or at least understood what I was trying to say lol

art credit: taken from the French poster for Satyajit Ray’s Devi

#playing fast and loose with tenses here...my bad...it'll happen again #i think i should have worked on developing this idea bit more but i really want to share it ...so here y'all go #diya vs writing a fic which is also a character study #(spoiler alert SHE LOSES)#reader kinda hates everyone except tashi and yk what that is okay #tashi duncan is a living goddess 😆😆😆#tashi duncan is a living goddess 😔😔😔#i think about the kumaris of nepal for a little bit too long and get very sad #challengers #tashi duncan #tashi duncan fic #tashi duncan x reader #art donaldson #patrick zweig #zendaya

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