Art can't fucking help it, okay? He always wants what he can't have. Can't even call it want, with how many years have ticked by and his stupid schoolboy crush still hasn't dispersed. Yearns might be a more appropriate term, actually.

Art spends almost every summer over at the Zweig estate. He has for as long as it's mattered, staying in Patrick's wing, obviously, which also happens to be your wing. It means every night, he's subjugated to the sight of you, fresh out the shower; water trickling down the caveats of your collarbone, locks of hair plastered to your forehead, pyjamas clinging to your damp form. He doesn't even know when he started noticing these things. For all he knows, he's like a second brother to you.

Why else would you be perfectly content to wander about, post-swim, wrapped only in a towel, completely omitting any undercIothes. Patrick had caught him staring, once (you were so fucking perky under there! It was impossible not to look), and his best friend had just rolled his eyes, jabbing a finger at you and hollering "Cover up, sIut! You're givin' my buddy here a bon-" before Art had promptly shoved him in the lake.

This fucking lake. For all the egregious opulence that the Zweig manor is adorned with, historically, the three of you have spent most of your summers here. Perhaps that's why you feel so comfortable, pulling off your top and calling for Art to do your back, legs dangled in the cool water. It's normal. Totally normal. He's the one making it weird. Patrick's family. Patrick's family. He repeats in his head. Patrick's fuckin family!

"I- yeah. Sure." Art clears his throat, grabbing the sun-screen and hoping the sheer force of his blush could be blamed on the summer's heat (he does burn, easily). He rushes to your side. Your legs dangle off the side of the dock, into the water. Skinny-dipping is on the itinerary for today, Art remembers, and for a moment he almost staggers off the side and into the water at the mental image.

Fuck. He's so fucked.