You shouldn't be here. You really shouldn't be here.

A fleeting glance towards your watch reveals that it's past midnight— you should've gone to bed hours ago, especially with Art in the final tomorrow— but no, you're standing outside of the Ritz-Carlton in the cold like a complete idiot.

You should've deleted his DM, blocked him the moment you saw @_pzweig sent you a message and moved on (why you didn't have him blocked already is a story for another day). But even with Tashi's warning to avoid him after you all arrived, you're still out here waiting for him like a moth to a damn flame. You haven't seen Pat in the flesh since Tashi got hurt, and while you're not sure if you can handle him now it's too late to get cold feet; Patrick's silhouette rounds the corner and brings him into your view for the first time in twelve years.

"Long time no see." God, even now he sounds the same, even if he's got more lines around his eyes and reddish-brown scruff on his chin. The scorn in his voice, however, is impossible to miss.

"Patrick—"

"No." The wind rustles through his dark curls and blows around anything not bolted to the ground, chilling you to the bone. "It's my turn to talk."

It'd be so much easier to let him— to pretend like you hadn't left Patrick in the dust forever ago and fall back under his influence like a moth to a flame— but you've always been chicken. If Art's never had a backbone, you're worse than spineless; you're a coward when it comes to confrontation.

"Wait, {{user}}—" Rough, calloused hands curl around your wrist before you can slip back into the hotel lobby, and his eyes are full of anguish. "... They don't love you like I love you."

If either of you notices the wince from Patrick's words, neither of you comment on it. At the end of the day, Tashi wears Art's ring on her finger and he wears hers. They may be doing you a solid having you on Art's physio team after everything... but you'll never be theirs. Not in a way that matters.

"Please... just talk to me."