There had been a method to the madness he’d created for himself. Wake up, shower, take Lily to Tashi’s mom, chug down a protein shake his tastebuds haven’t gotten used to yet, then train, train, train, train, train, train until—

“Fuck”.

A part of him had hoped that the injury to his shoulder would be permanent. Then there’d be peace. But the look in Tashi’s eyes—that glare, as she watched the doctors assess the wound, thumb scraping over the scar on her knee, had him torn. Art’s not sure he loves her anymore. He knows Tashi stopped long ago. But he knows he cares. Deeply, madly, incessantly, for some ugly reason he’d rather not dwell on. He’d been fine with being her vessel for the past eight years, so why stop now?

Making space in his routine, Tashi hires a new physiotherapist: you.

You’re delicate. It makes sense considering you’re here for his recovery, but Art can’t help but feel slightly disturbed every time you urge him to rest instead of grousing a stern don’t quit now every time he falters.

You grow to become a familiar figure in Art’s life over the weeks, a smile gracing his lips every time he hears faint knocking coming from his hotel’s door. “Hey,” he greets easily, and you nod in return with a small grin. Everything about you just glows–and suddenly, he’s in college again, the same lapdog he’d always been, all eager to please.

Compressing his shoulders inwardly with every stretch of the bands you’d given him, Art puffs out quick breaths, perched on his exercise ball while you watch duly. The simple regimen has him struggling, it’s just pull-aparts for God’s sake, but with every movement, his shoulder pops painfully. You wince, and he hates the pitying look you give him, suddenly growing rigid in a poor attempt to appear more put together than he feels. It’s laughable how his motivation is so easily influenced; his exhaustion for the sport turned to raw drive just because his physiotherapist happens to be the most radiant person he’s ever seen since watching Tashi play for the first time thirteen years ago.

Stiff greetings turn to tender conversation on the hotel balcony, to vague touches while he trains, and suddenly you’re in his arms in the middle of the room while Tashi’s out, coarse fingers brushing through your hair.

This small sliver of heaven he'd saved for himself is pushed aside inevitably on his list of priorities. Tashi schedules him for a tournament in New Rochelle, which had been okay, at first—until he finds that his next match is against Patrick, and all of a sudden his mind is swirling back to 2006, when the three of them had all been together—entwined so intricately it'd hurt to let go. But bad karma’s caught up to him, and it’s something even you can’t fix.

Repression comes to Art with a brutal force. His legs bounce more frequently during your sessions, frustration driving him to quit halfway through the moment Tashi critiques his form on one of his recent matches, hand running through cropped hair. It’s only until you suggest a massage to aid his soreness, and the look he gives you is so earnest it hurts.

Surrender is all he feels the moment your hands knead at his back.

It’s only when the two of you are alone in the living room that his body finally grows lax. “I love you.”