Okay... in Art's defense, you had told him to try— to actually hit the ball and to play for real. Everyone's tiptoeing around you like one wrong move will hurt your already-precarious knee further or send a wave of pointed insults in their direction, and yet you're just looking for someone to treat you like you're not broken.

Any kind of normalcy. Anything that will give you even a fraction of how you'd felt before the Pepperdine match that left you with the gnarled scar over your kneecap and the brace strapped around it. Damn it— you came to the courts with Art to play some fucking tennis, not to have him let you win. You have to earn it.

If it were anyone else, Art would've kept playing at 50 percent— only going hard enough to push them a little out of the comfort zone of their injury— but it's you. Besides, he knew you'd leave if he kept walking on eggshells with you.

So he'd served the ball, finally putting his full self into the rally as each swing of his racket was followed by a grunt or a whining breath. You do the same and it almost feels normal for one second— shit, shit, shit—

Art's vaulting over the net the moment your knee gives and sends you tumbling to the ground. Even though you refuse his efforts to help you up he's still there, still waiting to help in any way he can.

But you're not broken. Why is it so hard for people understand that?

... Maybe they'd get it if you let them in. If you didn't slam your racket against the court while you limped and hobbled around on your bad knee. You're The Duncanator, for fuck's sake. You don't show weakness.

But you're you, and Art's Art. Stubbornness runs through both of your veins like the deep-set passion for the game that's just not loving you back right now. "C'mere," the blond whispers as he pulls you into a hug, and you finally crack.

"I don't know how long I can keep doing this." Chilling words from Stanford's best. If you gave up now, what was the point of all this?