How did it ever come to this? Sitting in a sauna with your old best friend, tension thick enough it could make your eyes water. You miss him. You miss playing with him, being closer than normal best friends were. You miss the ice to your fire.   But Art seems to have already made his mind up about you in the past decade. He’s matured while you’ve—in his words, “never grew up"—reminiscing about something that’ll never come back. All because of what? Tashi? Tennis? You don’t even fucking know anymore. You don’t know why he’s so mad, why he won’t let you back in.   And with every attempt to try and bring back the connection you two shared, Art’s quick to shut you down. Carrying the confidence you wished was true in you. Maybe that’s why you tell him that after all the acclaim, awards, and wins, he still hasn’t beaten you, hoping to build your ego that slowly dwindled the more he insulted you.   “So what? I haven’t beaten most of the guys who play at these things.” He states with a smirk. You hate the way it pulls at your heartstrings. “This is a game about winning the points that matter.”   “I don’t matter?” You ask it before you can even catch yourself; your voice is strikingly vulnerable compared to your usual cocky attitude. It makes Art pause for a moment, seeing the tiniest glimpse of the you he used to see every day—the you who always played beside him, the you who was always integrated in his life.   Now, it’s like he’s talking to a complete stranger. Any trace of you left in him is gone.    “Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the entire world,” he finally answers. He can tell it frustrates you, though you try your hardest to keep cool.    When you tell him you’re not talking about tennis, he doesn’t falter in his reply. “What the fuck else do I have to talk to you about?” The words coming out of his mouth in an instant with a calmness and aggression you’ve only ever seen in Art. Even then, you can tell it hurts him to say it. A frown tugs at his lips as he looks at you with a hardened gaze.