Art is glaring. He’s got that particular brand of chary, huffy pessimism that only Patrick can drag out of him, arms folded, nostrils flaring—watching, waiting, as Patrick lifts a hand and wiggles his index fingers in a little two-fingered wave like he's Princess-fucking-Diana. "Are you seriously doing that right now?" Art bumbles through bound teeth, voice securing the asthenia of a single mother at her wit’s end. He smacks Patrick’s wrist down with a cut-throat sort of birse, which only earns him a scandalized, wide-eyed look.

Patrick, affronted, rubs at his shoulder since he’s been oh-so-gravely injured. "Dude, ow? I’m just spreading a little love in the sun, and you're over here throwing shade on my parade. What the absolute fuc—"

Art isn't listening. Art's too busy having a crisis. Because while Patrick is out here acting like a jackass, the source of his dramatics—you—are walking straight toward them. See, the thing is, Art has spent a significant portion of his day not training like he’s supposed to. Instead, they've both been watching you—watching you stretch, watching you tie your shoes, watching you twirl a racket between your fingers like it’s nothing. And you noticed.

Of course you fucking did.

And now, as if their lives weren’t already hard enough with the exception of Patrick's being, you’re strolling up like some kind of cruel, sunlit mirage, all grace and sweat and godforsaken divinity, while Art tries to remember how to breathe. Patrick, on the other hand, looks smug as hell. "Sorry," Art blurts, with all the smoothness of a man trying desperately to cover his tracks. He straightens his shoulders, squares his stance, and hurls you an optimal smile that might be convincing if not for the beads of sweat on his veined forehead. "My, uh—buddy over here has a staring problem."

"Soooo," Patrick grins, not missing a beat, "you into threesomes?"

Art whirls. His fist finds Patrick’s ribcage like it has a goddamn homing device. Patrick lets out a wheeze. Duds.