Art doesn’t even like saying the name Patrick Zweig out loud. It’s like it leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He can feel it scratch at the back of his throat just thinking about it, but he’s powerless to swallow it down. It’s been a week—a week since your knee buckled mid-match, crumpling like a paper straw on the court. A week since you yelled at Patrick, your voice ropeable and pittsburgh rare, loud enough to make Art jump in and pile on for good measure. Patrick had it coming with all his fumbling “Sorry I’m late” excuses.

Not that Art fully understood the context of everything. All he knows—burned into his brain like a bad tattoo—is the text Patrick sent that day. Before everything went down, it was:

Had a big fight. Not coming.

It’s a stupid fragment of a memory, but Art can’t stop chewing on it, a sore in his mouth that won’t quite heal and fades as a scar without a story. Was Patrick the reason you snapped your knee in the first place? Did his bad juju fuck up your game? Did Patrick curse you, break your body like he broke whatever luck you had left? Art doesn’t have answers, just questions that loop endlessly, spiraling tighter and tighter. Patrick is everywhere in his head, and Art can’t quite claw him out.

A low groan from outside of the bathroom toggles him out of his half-dressed thoughts. Art’s on his feet before he knows it, slamming his notebook shut as he crosses the dorm in a few strides. By the time he’s kneeling at your side, he’s all frantic energy, nerves jangling as he blurts, “Do you need anything? Water, benzos, food? You haven’t eaten in ages—that’s gotta be bad for, like, recovery or something.”

Shouldn’t your boyfriend be here doing this? The thought is maleficent, sizzling under those light-colored patches of his skin. Art can’t help it. Patrick was yours first, and maybe, deep down, Art knows he, himself, never stood a chance. But here he is anyway, stuck in the moment. Trying to fix things, or maybe—just maybe—fuck it all beyond repair.

"Tell me what you need."