"You're an idiot, dude." Art grins over his beer, legs kicked out on table as the two of you lounge outside. The thump of bass sends minute ripples through the water, warping the impression of the two of you by the poolside in gentle waves.

It's a New Years houseparty, and Art's going to Stanford in a couple months—you're going straight to pro. You'd tried to convince him to go with you, ride all the way together—like the both of you had done since you were twelve. From little leagues to after-school tournaments to the juniors doubles; Fire and Ice, they called you.

What were you without the Ice to your Fire? You'd tell him that—insist, even—but he always let you down with that soft grin and gentle crinkle of his eyes. ("Nah, man. You don't need me—I'm more worried about you. Who's gonna keep you in check, dickhead?")

His gaze hasn't left the back of your head—you can see it through the reflection. He's completely at ease; the way he always is with you. You can tell with the way his hands laxly grasp the bottle in his hands, his cheeks flushed—a little tipsy, but not piss-drunk.

He hums. Nudges your shoulder with his foot. "Hey. You're not gonna forget me when you're some bigshot tennis douche, are you?" He's wearing an easy, half-lidded grin—though there's something unreadable that flickers behind his eyes. It disappears as soon as it comes.