Game On (An oc x DRV2 au)

Chapter Twenty-Five

After the weird run-in with Flauros in the haunted house, the rest of it isn't nearly as scary.  Especially because Will uses this time to finish his movie lecture or whatever.  I will admit, it was pretty funny hearing him lose his sh*t and point out any movie references in the haunted house.  So to the relief of my sensitive heart, I don't nearly pee myself anymore.  

We all part ways after going to check out something labeled 'FUNHOUSE', only to find ourselves stumbling through one of those stupid mazes of weird mirrors and stuff.  Slightly disappointed, we all agreed to go do our own things and meet back up at dinnertime.  Now, I'm at the beach, finally putting my artistic abilities to use.  Call me basic, but I'm recreating my view of the ocean from the shoreline.  To be fair, this is the first time I've gotten to use my tablet since before Hope's Peak, so everything's a bit rusty.  I get back into the swing of things pretty quickly, which isn't much of a surprise considering I'm the Ultimate Digital Artist and all, but it's still nice to know that I haven't magically lost all of my skills.

I'm on my fifth layer of shading on the water when I swear I hear something.  Like the scratching sound of a pencil against pater, and not in the bad way.  In fact, it's almost rhythmic, in a sense.  Confused, I look to my side, and-

"Azrael!" I say excitedly.

Startled, the poet practically jumps out of his skin, instinctively hugging his journal tight to his chest to prevent anyone from seeing his work as he tries to figure out the source of the noise.  Finally, his panicked ice-blue gaze falls on me.

"Oh, hi, Sophie," he says quietly.

"I haven't really seen you around recently," I comment. "Where've you been?"

"Around, I guess.  Spending more time on my poems."

So he's throwing himself into his work.  I have a feeling I know why.

"Are you doing okay?" I ask gently.

Azrael hesitates before saying, "I guess."

I glance over at the journal in his lap. "Whatcha writing?"

He shrugs. "Nothing good."

"I'm sure it's great." I won't push him to show me or anything, because as an introverted artist myself, nothing causes me greater anxiety than when someone asks to see what I'm working on.

"It's really not, but thanks." And there it is.  The typical artist response to a compliment.  

"Your art is cool too," he adds after a second.

I snort. "Thanks, but no."

We stare at each other for a moment before laughing quietly together. 

"It's just an artist thing, I guess," Azrael shrugs, pulling on the strings of his hoodie.

His tremendously oversized, thick, dark-colored hoodie.

"Azrael, it's, like, ninety degrees out," I tell him. "How the ever-loving f*ck are you not dying of heat stroke?"

He sinks deeper into his hoodie at the question. "It's comfortable."

"Yeah, in Antarctica, maybe."

"Seriously, I'm not that warm!" he insists.  However, I can see him sweating beneath of his thick, fluffy hair.  This kid's lying skills are sh*t.

"Come on, we're getting you inside to somewhere with AC," I insist, reaching out and gently tugging on his arm.

"Sophie, I'm fine!" he objects, stubbornly refusing to budge.