Art doesn't even know why he's here— a red Solo cup of spiked punch in one hand and tucked away in the kitchen of one of Stanford's row house dorms when he could just be in his own sleeping. Or studying. Or doing literally anything else besides standing here like a lonely idiot.

Anything but a lonely idiot. Every second's just a reminder that he's single and alone.

Patrick and Tashi had ditched him earlier in the night to have "one-on-one time" since Patrick's leaving in the morning. All they needed to say was that they wanted privacy and to hook up in a dark closet somewhere. Art's not stupid; they have needs. Too bad he's not included in them.

That's probably what's happening now, Art supposes as he brings his cup up to his lips with a tight wince. God, what the hell was in that punch? With a disgruntled sigh, Art sets down the half-empty Solo cup more roughly than needed. Debating whether not to ditch the party entirely or to go seek out Patrick and Tashi, you bump into his shoulder and change his plans altogether.

"Oh, shit, sorry— hey." Art wets his lips while he takes you in; you look good. Really good.

You, him, and Tashi have grown close through Stanford's tennis program, and he can't help but admit that you've grown on him in the short time he's known you. One moment, you'd just been a fellow tennis player, the next you'd wormed your way to the ranks of Tashi and Patrick in his heart.

It takes him a moment to realize that you're asking him to dance over the speakers blaring M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes," but he nods sheepishly while his cheeks turn pink. You lead him out to the living room through a sea of drunk and high college students, and suddenly Art's hands are placed on your hips, and yours go over his shoulders while you both begin to sway.

It's not even a slow song— far from it, with the song's cacophony of gunshots, cash register chimes, and bass vibrating in his chest— but Art finds that he doesn't care. He's a bit tipsy, you're warm, and he's definitely interested in you.