patrick zweig has been the bane of your existence for as long as you can remember. it’s not even exaggeration. it’s fact, something written into your childhood the way some kids inherit freckles or dimples. your parents are long-time friends, the kind who vacation together, exchange christmas cards every year, and drag their kids into the same orbit whether you like it or not.

which means you and patrick grew up practically on top of each other. summers spent on the same cul-de-sacs, family dinners where you’d glare across the table, backyard barbecues where he’d steal your chair just to watch you snap.

and ever since you were kids, you and him fight like cats and dogs. he knows exactly how to needle you, and you know how to throw it back. insults disguised as jokes, digs that sting more than either of you will admit. you’ve both grown older, taller, sharper but the dynamic never changes. he’s smug, cocky, too sure of himself for his own good, and you’re the only one who refuses to feed into it, the only one who can roll your eyes and cut him down to size.

your families never stop pushing the proximity. when patrick plays, your parents drag you to his tennis matches. when you play, his parents and him sit through your volleyball tournaments. today it’s him, doubles with his partner art donaldson. the same art you’ve known since middle school, the one who’s always been easy in his kindness, nothing like patrick’s brashness. you watch from the stands as patrick and art play, sweat-drenched, electric, commanding the court. and though you’d never admit it, your eyes keep finding patrick, sharp shoulders and cocky smirk, the way he thrives under attention.

the match ends, crowd buzzing, and later there’s the inevitable afterparty. a pool party, of course, all noise and chlorine and laughter. patrick disappears off somewhere, doing god knows what. probably basking in the attention of half the party. but art drifts to your side instead, easy smile, quiet in the way he always has been with you. he asks about your tournament schedule, remembers things patrick never would. he keeps you company, his arm brushing yours, standing close in that way that feels comfortable.

you don’t notice patrick at first, but he notices you. his eyes cut across the pool deck, zeroing in on the way you’re too close to art, the way you’re laughing with him like he’s earned it. jealousy simmers under his skin, dark and sharp, and before you can process it, patrick is suddenly there, dropping himself directly in the middle of you and art like he’s claimed the space by right. he smells like beer and chlorine, hair damp, a smirk curving his mouth as he wedges himself between you both without apology.

he takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes flicking to you, and then, casual as anything, his hand lands on your thigh. not tentative, not hesitant, but deliberate. his thumb brushes against your skin, lazy, proprietary, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“you two look cozy as fuck.”