Everett wasn’t an artist and he certainly didn’t see fit to consider himself much of a critic. Growing up alongside Julien, he’d absorbed a limited vocabulary. He could point out a figurative piece or an impressionist one. He could use the terms, “perspective,” and “proportion” or suggest that some technique looked as though it must have been intricate -- words Julien used (often with frustration aimed inward). Still, at the end of the day, Everett knew what he liked and he knew what he disliked. He knew when to raise a brow and admit that he didn’t understand. And, he knew that that glare Julien fixed on the sheet was a hint that it wasn’t time to press the matter.<br/><br/>The door swung open again. Maddison was the next to arrive, briefly relighting the room before falling into the same trap as Everett. The second remark about Julien’s drawing prompted their mini lesson on the art of perfectionism. Fighting the smile that worked its way to his lips, Everett put on his best sympathetic face as he brought his hand up onto Julien’s shoulder with the hopeful interjection, “good practice, right?”<br/><br/>He let that contact linger, maybe too long, until the door burst open and crashed into the wall with a violent<i>bang</i>. Julien jumped then fell to his knees in search of his lost glasses. Everett trailed after, taking a half step forward before stopping himself to look back at Maddison. He tossed his head in Case’s direction. With a smirk, teased, “there. That’s the body.”<br/><br/>Julien made his way back to the desk. Somewhere in that flash of a second, the mood settled back down to something more serious. Julien began with a stutter and grasped his sleeve. Everett twisted his arm away just enough to reposition Julien’s hand so he could take hold of it entirely – interlace their fingers and pray that Julien wouldn’t be too offended by his sweaty palms. Everett looked down at their hands and then back up, between Maddison and Case, unsure just how much more needed to be said.<br/><br/>“So,” Everett cleared his throat, “Julien’s my hot date to homecoming.” He paused again, expression softening with worry as he searched for some confirmation. He hadn’t formally asked – not yet – and maybe it was a big assumption. “Probably,” Everett added quickly.<br/><br/>“Because— I mean—” Taking a page from Julien’s book, he resettled with determination to be straightforward. “Because we’re dating. And have been. For a year.”