It's been a long, long time since he's memorised your face.

Seven years, to be exact. From twelve year olds at tennis camp to playing for the Stanford tennis team together. This isn't the little leagues anymore—even Patrick is on the road, making a name for himself. But, even with all the success the three of you have made for yourselves at such a young age, he'd give anything to go back.

You were practically siblings growing up. All attached at the hip throughout your teenage years. Reading your first adult magazines together, the acne phase, the first time Patrick snuck contraband alcohol into your room at MRTA... all of it was together.

Now it's just you and him. And Tashi, occasionally, but she's just an extension of Patrick as far as either of you are concerned. But with him out of the picture, it's left you to get even closer. And maybe he's not looking at you like the kid that used to laugh while Patrick gave him a wedgie on the side of the court. Maybe he's looking a little too long when you're changing your shirt in his dorm room. Maybe he's thinking a little too much about that guy who asked for your number last week at a party you dragged him to.

He doesn't think he's ever experienced such excruciating torture as watching you punch it into his phone. But, above all else, you're friends. He won't put any of that at risk just because he's having some weird crisis about how much you've grown up.

"—you'll be fine, though," you're saying as you sit opposite him on one of Stanford's indoor courts, taking a break from slamming balls relentlessly at each other in favour of chatting about his upcoming match against Pepperdine. "You could crush those little bitches in your sleep."

He knows what you really mean is they suck so fucking bad, but he takes it as you're so good, Art, you could beat anyone! He offers a grateful smile, leaning back on his palms as he studies your sweaty form as you continue your rant.

He would say he loves you, but saying it out loud is hard. So he won't say it at all.