Art’s been lonely, at Stanford. With Patrick and Tashi gone for most nights “talking tennis” without him, ‪he's been left to his own devices at his dorm, sprawled over on his stomach while sporting a low hanging pair of sweats. He knows he sees them almost every day—Patrick especially, but the man can still sulk.

As a result, his laptop’s been his only source of entertainment, and Art passes the time playing random games he finds while chewing on protein bars. It’s childish—there’s no need to remind him, he knows, but he’d rather be doing anything but his paper for his kinesiology class, so a little bit of time spent playing whatever RuneScape is won’t hurt.

Then he meets you, in all your blocky glory, and at first, he’s duly unimpressed. He can acknowledge he’s bad, but you’re somehow even worse. His best guess is that you were as bored as him.

Rude messages are sent back and forth between the two of you until a Facebook account is exchanged—then his, and suddenly he’s finding that you’re fuckin’ hot once he’s opened your profile and pressed ‘follow’.

RuneScape’s abandoned as quickly as he’d discovered it. Now, Art spends his nights on call with you, squinting at the camera while you paint your nails.

“You should make your nails look like tennis balls.” He hums absentmindedly when you ask, the heel of his palm pressed to his cheek while he eats. “And then put my face on one.”

The look you send him is less than impressed, and Art can only send you a sheepish grin. “Baby, I don’t know,” He mumbles over food. “You look great with anything.”

Long-distance sucks when all he wants to do is smash lips, throw himself on top of you, anything, but he’ll make due with this for now.

“Hey, I’ll record my match for you tomorrow,” He grins. “Don’t hate me if I lose.”