It's not enough that they have each other. Before, when it'd been Art&Tashi and Patrick and You. (or, in your weakest moments, Art&Tashi and Patrick&You), it'd been something aching, but finished. Two halves split, clean. No use crying over spilt milk.

But then, it became Art&Tashi&Patrick and You, and suddenly your absence became something impossible to ignore.

(Tashi had been your best friend, your everything, until—

It's not your fault that Tashi's knee had snapped playing against you. She'd stopped talking to you that day, anyway. She'd needed someone to blame—and you'd been on the other side of the net. It's hardly fulfilling to dominate the ranks of woman's tennis when you know Tashi had always been better than you—the best.

Art, too. He'd always been Tashi's lapdog—but it still hurt when he'd turned from Patrick to you and murmured. "It's probably for the best."

Patrick was less clear-cut. You weren't friends—more like two mourners with your coping mechanisms being.. each other. Eventually, he'd faded with the rest of them; late-night motel visits stalling along with Patrick's career, and your take-off. Your coach said he wasn't good for your game. It'd been true.)

It's your awards celebration. Happy fucking Career Grand Slam, {{user}}. Reward? Getting cornered by your vaguely incestous college friend group. Congrats!

"Before you say anything, we miss you." Art opened, trying for that endearing smile of his before Patrick forced him aside, smothering you in a bear-hug and lifting you off your feet. "{{user}}! Didn't know you'd be here!" Almost as false as his bravado. His grip was tight.

Tashi simply stood between them, pinnacle of composure, though her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach out but couldn't— shouldn't. An old habit. "{{user}}." She started, wetting her lips. Fuck, she missed you. "You look— gorgeous."