𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄, 𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘. - 𝐀.𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐒𝐎𝐍

STANCE, SERVE, RALLY - Thirteen.

"Artie!," Patrick triumphantly burst into their living area, scaring the living daylights out of Art - who was sat on the sofa watching the French Open.

He was nestled in the corner as he always was - Art liked corners.

They were weirdly comforting, a source of safety for him - he didn't have to watch his back so much.

He was snug in his grey Stanford drawstring hoodie he'd received in the mail only a few days before as a welcome gift from the university - however, it was at least a size too big, so it fit looser than the rest of his sweaters.

A terrible habit of Art's was prominent - an oral fixation of his that meant that his mouth had to be occupied majority of the time - hence why he was seen chewing gum almost wherever he went.

Even during practice, which was 'dangerous' - Patrick said it was a choking hazard, apparently. But he couldn't help it.

If it wasn't chewing gum, it would be his pens and pencils when he attempted to study, cigarettes when he went out in the evenings, or, when he was back at home with his parents in the country - wooden toothpicks.

Apparently, his Grandfather used to have the same fixation, Art's father told him. His uncle apparently had similar habits too.

It made Art feel a little less strange knowing it ran in the family - at least he could label it as an inherited behaviour.

He couldn't explain it - it was like he became entranced. He just needed his mouth to be doing something almost twenty-four-seven.

Tonight, he'd settled for absently chewing the knotted end of the drawstrings of his hoodie. He didn't even realise what he was doing, before Patrick petrified him.

His figure loomed just to the right of Art so he fuzzed in Art's peripheral - it was only when Art felt a presence within the room - looking away from the television screen, turning his head in Patrick's direction unexpectedly.

"Fuck!, Jesus-," Art flinched, the rest of his body automatically twisting quickly to Patrick's direction as he pivoted on the sofa, "-Where the hell have you been?"

"Oh, you know," Patrick casually began, slumping onto the sofa beside Art - lifting his arm behind Art's head to rest on the back of the sofa.

"-Just seeing Tashi and having the best sex ever."

"Nice." Art minimally reacted by nodding, dismissing the typical crude answer - instead, he reached over to the coffee table to retrieve the television remote to pause the tennis he was watching.

"And," Patrick leant closer to Art, like he was about to share a sacred secret, "-guess who was there."

Only one logical answer - and Art would happily use this rhetorical opportunity as an excuse to pronounce her name.

"Alaska."

"Bingo, boy!" Patrick lifted his arm from behind Art's head on the back of the sofa, using his hand to smack Art excitedly round the back of the head as some kind of masochistic reward for his correct guess.

Luckily, Art was now almost entirely desensitised to Patrick's boisterous acts of affection aggression towards him that had been consistent through almost the entirety of their friendship.

He could usually anticipate when Patrick found out something he finds amusing, and when he'd lurch at Art to play fight or aggressively ruffle his hair as a result.

Because what man can ever communicate their emotions in a normal way?

"I'm not done," Patrick lowered his voice, Art could now feel the hot, prickling sensation of his breath fanning against his cheek, "-you wanna know what she said? About you?"