Somewhere in the Zweig residency, occupying one of the less fancy rooms, you lay on the dusty couch that's far too small for your own frame. Sneakers kicked off somewhere on the floor, feet perched up, youe gaze travels from one boy to another.

Patrick, the tipsier one of the two, needing just two glasses of cheep vodka is already mentally floating somewhere else, rambling about some of the boys' early matches.

"I'm telling you, we fucking destroyed those australians. They traveled half of the world just to get their asses kicked by us."

He's gesturing widely, fingers running through his curls. He keeps twisting all the stories, making Art cringe internally. The blond guy sips on his own can of beer, gazing up at his overly confident friend with an annoyed look.

"You know we lost that match, right?"

Art reminds Patrick with a small scoff, the corner of his pink lips rising in a cheeky smirk. He shoots you a glance, making both of you giggle.