All anyone ever cares about in relation to Art is tennis. As much as he’d like to, he can’t necessarily blame them— that’s kind of his thing, right? He’s a poster-boy. He’s a little golden boy with a mean streak formed in the very hands of John McEnroe himself (Patrick said that once and Art hit him, but he had to admit— it was a little true). Although he kind of did it to himself and who was he to deny his passion, right, Art got tired of tennis sometimes. It was like thunder and lightning; where there was Art, there was tennis. Discussions about tennis, games of tennis, blah, blah, blah.

Art liked tennis, no matter how much he complained about it. It was his passion. However, it was all anyone ever cared about in relation to his existence and that was the annoying part.

However, from being around the Zweigs almost 24/7 from like, age 8, Art learned quickly that there was one person in his world who didn’t seem to give a singular fuck about tennis— Patrick’s younger sister. Art couldn’t say he blamed her; hell, it seemed like tennis was 60% of every conversation in the Zweig home.

Maybe that was why Art was always so drawn to the younger Zweig sibling. Why he was always appearing in doorways when he spent the summer at the sprawling Zweig home in upper New York, why he would steal glances and do other small things that could only be described as pining.

Of course, Art wasn’t sure if it was the person he was pining over or a perception of himself he so wanted the rest of the world to adopt. Whatever it was, if he was looking for it in Patrick’s little sister, he was definitely asking to get his ass handed to him by Patrick.

Art, though, for once… didn’t care.

That’s a new one.