𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, ph.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢𝐢. the kids table.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢𝐢. —— the kids table.

─ i ─

Pick never really slept in after getting drunk the night before, because he just felt too uncomfortable. It was either a headache waking him up, or his dry throat demanding water as it was the case this time. His eyes blinked heavily in the room he didn't recognize at first, he needed a couple more seconds before he figured out where he was. Rome's apartment, Rome's bedroom, Rome's bed. Pick groaned, looking down towards his injured arm and he noticed a smaller hand holding his wrist on Pick's stomach; it seemed like Rome was trying to keep Pick's arm in one place even in his sleep, so that Pick wouldn't move it too much. Pick moved his gaze to Rome's face, the boy was still sleeping soundly, occasionally mumbling something under his nose; Rome was a sleep talker which Pick found out recently and usually it was just gibberish, sometimes one or two words. He even said Pick's name once, but then said he didn't remember what his dream was about.

Pick carefully freed his wrist and put Rome's hand on the bed, pulling the covers a bit higher on Rome's body before getting out of bed and making his way towards the kitchen. He needed two glasses of water before his brain started to function properly again, and then he decided to take a look around as it was his first time being at Rome's place. It wasn't snooping, he told himself, because he wasn't even touching anything, but he needed something to pass the time until Rome woke up. Pick knew he should probably leave, he needed to take a shower and get the suit from his home before the wedding, but it didn't feel right to just disappear on Rome like that or try to wake him after he spent half of the night taking care of drunk people that couldn't get home on their own. He didn't know why he was so sure that Rome would come get them if Jane called him, but he wasn't kidding when he told his sister that they're there for each other—it seemed that simple, but it wasn't, and for Pick it meant a lot.

The apartment wasn't very big, the kitchen was divided from the living room by a counter and narrow hallway. There was a big iron bookshelf instead of one of the living room walls with space left next to it as the passageway, but the shelves weren't filled with books, instead there were various plants and small decorative items or pictures in pretty frames. Pick walked around it, glancing at the yellow couch with a small glass table in front of it; there was a camera left there with even more pictures scattered around it, and Pick sat down, curiously looking over the photographs.

And he knew that Rome was a good photographer, great even, because his teacher praised him on every possible occasion during the trip to the countryside which Pick found quite annoying at the time, because he was scared Rome's head would soon be too big to fit through the doors of their shared cabin. But Pick didn't know him that well then, and now he was aware of the fact that Rome always found such praises embarrassing because he was never fully satisfied with his work, but he took them humbly and strove to do better. Pick never really looked at the pictures that Rome took of him before, which seemed silly in hindsight, but the truth was that he wasn't interested in it at all; he was just doing what Porsche asked him to do, which was helping Rome with a stupid project so Porsche could score points with shorty's best friend. And later... well, he kind of forgot that everything started because of that project.

Looking at the photos now, Pick couldn't quite describe how he felt. It was like seeing himself through Rome's eyes and it was... well, strange, for sure. The pictures were beautiful, but Pick didn't know how to phrase it so it wouldn't seem like he's stroking his own ego because he wasn't calling himself beautiful, it was just the way Rome could capture the simple everyday moments in a way that made them seem more important. And that was the thing about Rome, wasn't it? Life gave him so many beatings and he was still clinging to every single day, finding those glimpses of light in the dirt, just like he did with his camera. Pick didn't think he was anything special, but the person on the photographs seemed to be, at least to the one behind the lenses; even as early as the trip... Porsche was right, Pick really was dense.