Patrick Zweig X Art Donaldson - Blog Posts

the road trip

or, how they spent their last summer.

an: not reallyyyy proof read, so if you note any grammatical errors, mispellings, etc. feel free to let me know. creds to @ithemes for the border, and a special thank you to my dear friend @blastzachilles for reading most of this. you will never fail to bring me out of a well-practiced shell. i hope you enjoy, and, as always, likes, comments, critiques and reposts are very appreciated.

Despite what everyone thought of him, and his general raucous demeanor, Patrick was a good driver. Maybe it was the devil-may-care attitude that kept him from getting that clammy-handed nervousness that Art defaulted to behind a wheel, but it earned him the title of “Pre-Graduation Road Trip Driver”. He only pretended not to be insulted when everyone clapped Art on the shoulder and told him to say a prayer before getting in the passenger seat. Patrick was reckless with plenty of things, sure. Reckless with girls, reckless with his body, reckless with the amount of Four Lokos he drank the night before Ms. Anderson’s logarithm test, reckless with himself. But not Art. Never Art. It’s the only reason Art had stuck around so long, he thinks.

He was proud of himself and his little Honda, one that he’d gotten with his own money and a smile so bright it exposed the chip in one of his bottom teeth. Art had asked him about that when they’d first met, why he only ever smiled with the right side of his mouth. So he pulled down his bottom lip with his index finger, exposing that little semicircular inconvenience, the one that hissed when it met with cold. “‘S from a fight”, he’d added with a lax shrug, hoping the nonchalance wouldn’t betray the fact he was dying to tell the story. But Art couldn’t read him that well, not then at least, and nodded. Said something about being ‘more careful next time’. Art didn’t notice the sag of his shoulders, either. 

It’s funny, now that they’re on this trip, commemorating their last summer together, 12 to 18 went by so fast. The woman at the gas station in Maryland had said it was sweet for two boys of their age to be so close, ‘Usually sibling rivalries only get worse around college, what with the competition for the better letter and all’. She had no way of reading why the boys had winced, Art shoving his hands into the pockets of his cargos, rocking back and forth on his heels like a guilty toddler. Patrick just said, “Not brothers”. That seemed to throw her off kilter more than that thick tension growing in the inch of space between Patrick’s hoodie sleeve and Art’s bare arm. “Sorry, sorry. You two just… seem like brothers.” They laughed in that way only two people who want to be anywhere but their current standing is, grabbed their cigarettes from off the cracked countertop, and left with the ring of the bell above the too-heavy front door. 

That night, when they’d curled up on the scratchy sheets of their motel beds, which groaned beneath each movement, Art turned towards Patrick, picking at his nails and flicking the detached skin somewhere across the room. “Why’d you say that?” He asked, mumbled through concentration, like lifting his lips just a micrometer further apart was some Herculean effort. Patrick turned over, staring at the blinking orange lights of the digital clock on the nightstand. “Say what?” Art looked up then, rolled his shoulders back, the thin pillow letting out a puff where his head met it. “That we aren’t brothers”. There wasn’t offense in his eyes, stormy and addictive in all the ways that made Patrick remember he was the worse of the two, but curiosity. Well, the obvious answer was that they weren’t. Patrick grew up one place, under some surname attached to ‘dignity’, ‘family pride’. Some surname no one ever bothered to remember the proper pronunciation of. And Art? He grew up under the setting sun in mid-July, allowed to dirty his clothes because they were never expected to remain white. Somewhere where grass was allowed to grow without getting cropped down to just above the root. All-American, sweet as cherry pie, golden retriever boy with a starched collar for church and an ever-burning fire on the grill. Art grew to know what softness was, and Patrick could play parrot, replicate it with enough accuracy to be recognizable, and enough lingering signs that it was an approximation to make people hope it just got quieter with time. 

Then again, what really made someone a brother? If it was just the DNA, then that meant nothing. Patrick knew just what it was to be related to someone, and not have them be family. To love someone, but never like them. And wasn’t Art doing better then? Art had seen Patrick laugh, cry, trip over an untied shoelace and fall face first into a puddle. He helped him up after snorting a little, rarely one to fully laugh, like the sound was some kind of finite resource. And Patrick had seen the worst of Art, from his slobbery first kiss, the one where he bit the girl’s lip too hard and she’d pulled away bleeding, to the one summer he’d dyed his hair black. He fancied himself a philosopher at the time, something about ‘reflecting his inner darkness’. Even if Art claimed it to be there, that Patrick had grown so accustomed to seeing it he hardly recognized it as being bad anymore, he could never quite pick through his own admiration to find it. So that night, stereotypically, Art dug out his grandfather’s old pocket knife, the one from one of the World Wars, and cut a line across their right palms, Art’s just a bit straighter than Patrick’s. When they pressed their hands together, wincing at the pressure against the weeping gashes, they didn’t shake their hands, like the men they were growing into. Just held them there, flat palm to flat palm, dripping into the non-descript, darkly colored carpet, just looking. Brothers now. Art wrapped his hand in toilet paper, flicked off the rickety lamp with stained, formerly white lampshade, and went to bed. Patrick just watched himself bleed for the night, and then watched Art sleeping. 

It was harder now to drive, with the pulsating behind his hand, like a miniature heart had grown there, occurring with each day spent driving. But they’d arrived in Colorado a night or so ago, spent yesterday making good of those cigarettes by a lake they didn’t bother to check the name of. Two girls had come by, never shared their names, and the boys didn’t share theirs. They all just passed cigarettes back and forth like they were secrets in their own right, like they weren’t all sharing saliva, like they didn’t recognize the sunkenness in each others’ eyes as matching the sunkenness in their own brains. Patrick thinks sometimes that he’s got cinder blocks tied to his feet, one’s he can’t see, and that’s why it’s so exhausting taking that first step out of bed each morning. He wondered then, if he walked out where the water swallowed up his lower half, and he tilted his head back to greet the invisible face of God, with eyes of stars and flashing plane lights, stretching his arms out like he’d catch the breeze in his embrace, if he’d sink to the bottom. When the girls left, and Art had passed out against the trunk of a tree, he’d tried. He was only slightly disappointed to find that it wasn’t all that deep. Art woke up when the press of Patrick’s wet boxers touched his thigh, and he didn’t seem mad. He smiled, actually, with the left side of his mouth exposing moonlit teeth. Patrick wanted to ask what there was to smile at, but realized maybe it was just him. He doesn’t know why he kissed him, or who started it first, but Art slinked off afterwards into the backseat of the car, leaving Patrick to curl his hands into the dirt until he knew how to carry his own weight again. They didn’t talk about it the next day, or the day after.

After Colorado, they’d gone to Nevada. Something about Art ‘needing the ocean’. They’d found an empty little dock to perch on, Art sitting at the edge to allow the soft, mid-ocean waves to lap at his skin like a dog. The ocean had always reminded Patrick of Art. He thinks it’s the stillness among the chaos that bears the resemblance. Patrick had always loved the ocean, some of his fondest childhood memories spent jumping over the incoming crash of water on the shore. If he had to forget everything, he hopes he’d fall in love with the ocean all over again. He’s sitting behind Art, but only by a bit, bare, crossed feet in line with his hips. “I was reading something the other day. Did you know Patrick means noble?” He huffs, watches the way Art’s back dimples and ripples with muscle, the way that his hair looks a richer gold in this light. His hair looks like the sun. Or maybe, the sun looks like it. “I don’t know about that.” He replied after a breath. He wanted to tease back, say that Art meant… well, art, but he realized that there’s not one way to define what art is. People argue on it all the time, and he’s not intelligent enough to be the one to define it. But it’s usually beautiful, even where it’s ugly. It usually evokes something. And Art’s all unscathed besides where he tore a patch of skin off his knee, wet and pink with the newly exposed layer awoken before its time. He’d fallen off a rock while trying to get a picture of the sunset. He deleted it afterwards, anyway. The colors weren’t right. Art was holding a bottle of something, unopened and dark, the condensation dripping in and out of the divots created by the spaces between his fingers. He sits back on his elbows, squinting under the glare of the sun, and in it he thinks he can see disapproval. He flicks his shades over his eyes. “Hey, Art?” Art doesn’t turn his head over his shoulder to meet Patrick’s eyes, just hums a little, shoulders moving with it. He’s staring at something. Thinking, maybe. He usually is. “Do you think, you know, after you go to Stanford, we’ll still be friends?” Art lifts his head, softens like he’s fourteen again, and Art, who fancies himself a philosopher to this day replies, “I think we’ll always know each other”.

Patrick heard something, maybe fate’s, breath hitch, as if something had clicked into place. Something had been decided for them, and for the most part, they were none the wiser. Patrick grins that right-mouthed smile of his, rests his back against the splintered wood of the dock, hands crossed behind his head. For now, he can only hope that decision is something good.

thinking about Patrick and Art qualifying for the olympics... thinking about wether they would share a room or not... thinking about the adrenaline when they win... thinking about the booze that's gonna be flowing through their veins when they win...

omg anon you're so right.. theyre both so excited to have qualified at all, art definitely cries when he hears the news, and patrick pats him on the back as if he doesn't have tears brimming in his eyes too. the trip to the olympics is quick, and from the moment they step into the village it's like their bodies are buzzing, looking at each other with both excitement and.. something else. when they get to their shared room patrick is more casual about it, telling art it's like their tennis academy days, but art is more bothered, worried about being in such close proximity with patrick. and to his credit, patrick definitely doesn't help.. art comes back into the room after a shower and sees that patrick has pushed their beds together, claiming that "you like to move around too much, you need more space than me". by the time night falls on the first day patrick is completely passed out on his side of the bed, just in a pair of his boxers. sliding into the bed far away from patrick, art falls asleep. waking up at the crack of dawn, art immediately freezes when he realizes patrick has absolutely moved closer to him, now practically wrapped around his back. art gets up quickly and takes a cold shower to wake up (and calm down the uncomfortable bulge in his shorts). the competition day goes by in a flash, with patrick cracking his usual jokes about their competitors and art wound up so tight he could snap in a second.

the whole game, art feels like time is moving in slow motion, hes never felt closer to patrick, the two of them communicating without saying or doing anything, just knowing what the other one wants to do. of course they win, and patrick does his signature move of jumping into arts arms, but this time it feels different.. as if the whole crowd was drowned out and it was just the two of them on the court. when they break away patrick is immediately looking towards the crowd and preening himself, and art is left to just watch him (which the tabloids do talk about, but that's for arts manager to deal with).

that night at the after party they are swarmed with admirers, buying them drink after drink and looking at their shiny new gold medals, art and patrick are pretty much split up from the moment they enter, patrick swarmed by already tipsy fans, grabbing at his clothes and skin and art is swarmed by professional tennis wannabes who are looking for quick advice and tips.

hours go by and without patrick, art is bored, deciding to slip away from the party and go back to his room, almost smashing into patrick on the way there. laughs and teases echo through the hallway as they struggle to open the door in their state, finally getting it open and pretty much toppling on the floor. theyre both flushed and sweaty, big wide smiles on their faces, art flops onto the bed on his back, staring at the ceiling that's slowly spinning. a big thump startles art out of his stupor as he turns his head and is met with patricks curly head of hair, smushed into the mattress. before art can stop himself hes reaching over and playing with patricks hair, the dark pretty curls calling to him in his state. laughing into the sheets, patrick pushes himself up onto his elbows, hovering over art and before either of them say anything, patrick drops himself down and presses his lips to art, more aggressive and needy than he may have wanted, but the alcohol running through his veins doesn't give him much choice. art doesn't even try to pull away, why would he, when he knows deep down in his heart he was wishing that would happen. the kiss deepens, and a rush of adrenaline causes art to flip them over, now patrick is on the bottom, his fingers woven into arts and his legs straddling his waist. art swears hes dreaming when he feels the pressure of patricks bulge against his own, rocking their hips together like it's second nature. never taking their lips off eachothers, art gasps into patricks mouth when his hand dips into his shorts, grasping his throbbing dick with his warm palm. both of their heads swimming with lust (and liquor), all of the sensations are heightened for both of them, patricks hand on arts cock feels better than any hook up he's ever had, and the feeling of arts hips rocking against patrick makes his eyes roll back. the frantic movements from both of them pushes them both to the edge embarrassingly quickly, arts hips stuttering when he paints patricks hand in cum, and patrick finishing in his pants like a virgin. pulling away, both of their cheeks are red and their lips are swollen and slick with spit. climbing off of patrick, art changes into pajamas, his bashfulness quickly returning as he facing away from patrick to change. patrick doesn't feel the same shyness as art, just stripping down and immediately passing out on the bed. even with his embarrassment, art does lay down next to patrick smiling when, in his sleep, patrick still turns his body towards art, his head flopping onto his shoulder. before arts eyes flutter closed, hes happy to know he's leaving the olympics with more than a gold medal <3