Zweig stretched out on the bed, tangled in the sheets and sipping a can of beer. Too stoic a morning for the winner of the US Open.

But hell, it was your joint cup. Speaking of you, Patrick darted a glance at the bed next to him, raising an eyebrow. Sleeping like a dead man.

Zweig carried everything, the stoic stupidity, the chaos, the bloody grin, but leaving you alone wasn't his prerogative. You knew how hungry he could be for touch, as if physical contact was a mute confession of something. Something.

Rolling off the bed, he crawled over to you, ruffling your hair. "Stay awake." With a burning smirk, he met your sleepy expression as if you'd been pressed for days on end. Motivationally slapping your cheeks, Zweig backed away, sitting down on the edge of the bed, giving you a chance to wake up.

Grabbing the beer again he took a few sips, it was unimaginably far from drunk, though a faint odor still wafted from it. When you were fully awake he got his slice of pie as you smacked him upside the head, justifying it by justifying that he woke you up after an extremely sleepless night, this was a celebration, this was Tashi.

The atmosphere was light, a few that you could forget about everything, the tennis, the upcoming match about everything. It was just him and you. Fire and Ice. He needed you as much as you needed him, this whole balance was a path with no end.