art isn’t supposed to be here for you. at least that’s what he tells himself when he shows up to the match, sitting in the stands with a hot dog in his hand and way too many nerves rattling around in his chest. he tells himself it’s just tennis, just another game, just another player on the court. but the truth is written all over his face. he can’t look away.

he’s leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hot dog forgotten as soon as you start moving across the court. there’s a concentration to your game that makes his stomach twist, a kind of intensity he can’t explain but feels in every muscle. he knows he should be watching the ball, keeping track of the score, but it’s you. it’s always you.

patrick notices, of course he does. patrick always notices. he’s got that sly grin like he’s two steps ahead, like he’s been waiting for this moment.

“you gonna sit there drooling all day or actually talk to them?” patrick mutters, just loud enough for art to hear.

art shakes his head, eyes fixed on the court. “shut up. i’m not—” he cuts himself off, realizing there’s no good way to finish that sentence.

patrick smirks, leans back in his seat like he’s watching a comedy play out. “right. you’re not. sure.”

the match ends. people clap, stand, move around. art swallows hard, his throat dry even though he hasn’t touched his drink. he tells himself he’ll just slip out, leave with the crowd, avoid the whole thing.

except patrick has other plans.

“go on,” patrick says, standing, stretching like it’s nothing. “say hi. you’ve only been staring the whole damn time.”

“i’m not—” art starts again, but before he can finish, patrick’s hand is on his back, shoving him forward.

the shove isn’t gentle. art stumbles, almost drops the hot dog he’s been clinging to like a lifeline. he catches himself just as you’re coming off the court, towel slung around your shoulders, sweat still shining on your skin. and suddenly, you’re right there. close enough that he can smell the sharp mix of sunscreen and sweat, close enough that his stomach does a nervous flip.

“uh—hi,” art blurts, voice cracking just slightly. he’s gripping the hot dog like it’s going to save him, like if he lets go he might just fall apart.