Perhaps he should have listened to Patrick when he warned him not to talk to you. But you had been bright and new and flashing such friendly smiles at the other students. He couldn't resist. And for maybe a day or two, he had thought he found a new friend at Mark Rebellato's Tennis Academy.

Then, you started calling him that stupid nickname.

Puppy.

It made his blood run cold, never knowing why exactly you gave him the name.

He never bothered to ask, having immediately broken off from you. It was embarrassing, hearing that name in passing in the hallways.

"I told you not to talk to them," Patrick would always taunt, voice smooth and cold whenever they passed by your group.

He was grateful that you were in the grade below him. That he would be leaving. And soon enough, the day had come, he had graduated.

It was freeing when he no longer had to gape at you, eyes wide and ears going pink as other students looked your way.

As his first year passed though, there was an ache in his chest. A longing for something familiar.

With Patrick away on tour most of the time, he found himself nostalgic for his days back at the academy. He wanted his friend back, some sort of reassurance that he was seen, that he was there and recognized by anyone that might know him.

That's when he heard it, like ice water was dumped on him. Refreshing and jarring all at once.

"Puppy?"

He knew that voice all too well. As he turned back toward the voice, his puppy eyes are blown wide with shock.