Word Count → 000
Micah is derp. Cute derp.
He struggled to keep up with her optimism and energy, the male too distracted by her constant proximity and genuine smile. Why wasn't she bothered to be with him? Wasn't his presence taxing on her? How could she manage to keep smiling so sweetly, as if nothing was wrong with the world, as if there were no murderers or rapists or as if creatures like his father didn't exist? How could she be so happy standing there, with him, the complete fool unable to even manage his way through simple conversation? The boy tried his utmost not to let himself fall enraptured by her beauty and energy, and at every opportunity forced his gaze to his fidgeting fingers or to the ground, during which his body shook with nervous tremors and he wracked his mind trying to piece together words to make sentences that wouldn't quite make him sound so stupid.
"N-No!" he gasped, raising and shaking his hands, now trembling with obvious trepidation due to the sudden spike in anxiety. "I-I-I mean, m-my art isn't re-really good, a-a-and I didn't finish it a-anyway, so, um, I..." She peered at his spray paint can and queried about it, at which he breathed a sudden sigh of relief at the slight change in subject and nodded. "I-It's spray paint, m-ma'am. Th-they're really hard to find, b-but I don't really like regular paints and c-canvases and stuff..." A shallow shrug. I must sound so silly... she must hate me...
"I know Slade, k-kind of," he commented on the name. Slade had been the one Skye had tried to force into his company during a gathering of sorts due to their commonalities in interests, but the two hadn't been able to hit it off. There hadn't really been any words exchanged between the two. He said nothing more on the subject, and only smiled weakly and awkwardly when the weasel was brought up closer into their midst. The boy was not quite sure what to make of it — a beautiful girl with a weasel companion, of all animals — but he certainly didn't want to touch the thing, for fear of fleas, or lice, or he could have rabies, or...
"I-I'm sorry," the boy said suddenly, bowing his head and allowing his long, twirling and winding curls to fall before his eyes. "I-I-I'm not re-really good at m-meeting people... I-I'm not really good at anything... s-so it's okay if you w-want to go, y-you don't have to pretend to be interested i-in me or anything... I-It's okay... I'm sorry..."
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