Chapter Text
Here’s the thing: Druig was never even supposed to be an Art Kid.
He had needed an art GE and, fully intending to knock the requirement out his first semester, signed up for Drawing Fundamentals with Professor Attonito. And only because all of the bullshit film classes that counted towards arts credits were already filled.
Attonito was artsy and not like other professors and insisted all of his students call him Rich. Which Druig refused to do.
Druig did, admittedly, come at the whole situation more than a little negatively. He was majoring in criminal justice, and absolutely could not see the merit of being categorically forced to take a drawing class. When he was a criminal justice major. Seriously.
The problem was, Druig was apparently pretty damn good at art. Who knew?
He spent a whole semester grumbling and dragging his feet through Attonito’s class, slowly becoming just a little hell-bent on making the guy’s life suck. Which would have been great, except for the fact that it never worked. Druig would add an unbelievably out of place werewolf into the background of the most boring still life of a vase anybody in the history of the world had ever been made to draw, and Attonito would praise him for “subverting expectations of Northern European Middle Age still lifes by emphasizing community ostracization.” The class would be assigned a study on iconography, and Druig would turn in mutated angels crawling out of a drainpipe. Which were then hailed by goddamn Rich Attonito as a “criticism of the perceptions of the Holy as depicted in modern interpretations of ancient religions.”
It quite literally could not be more bullshit if it tried, in Druig’s humble opinion. It being goddamn Rich Attonito, his Drawing Fundamentals class, and the powers that be who decided criminal justice majors should have to take an art class for GE requirements.
The only thing that had been holding him back from losing his mind completely was the knowledge that he could leave it all behind once the semester was over.
The cosmic gods of college had other plans, though, and Druig was absolutely 100% positive that his academic advisor was sleeping with goddamn Rich Attonito.
There was no other explanation for Professor Wright setting up a meeting with Druig and asking him what he knew about the visual arts program.
“Nothing,” Druig had responded honestly. “I’m a criminal justice major.”
“I know,” Professor Wright had replied patiently, which they obviously did, because they were Druig’s advisor and, you know, worked in the criminal justice program.
“What do you know about the visual arts program?” Druig had asked, because he hadn’t known what else to say.
And so Professor Wright had pulled up a digital version of the portfolio Druig had been required to compile throughout the semester for Attonito’s class.
“Where did you get that?” Druig had asked, sitting up straighter in his chair.
“Hush,” Professor Wright had said, in a way that was probably meant to be soothing, but all it did was confirm for Druig that 1. Every professor at this school was insane and 2. Attonito and Wright were fucking.
Professor Wright had spent the next hour explaining to Druig how much he would benefit from taking on visual arts as a minor. Because, hey, turns out Druig was good at this, and Attonito spoke very highly of him. Druig didn’t want to ask when it was coming up in conversation.
He had tried to explain that criminal justice was certainly going to prove to be more than enough work for him, thanks, and he definitely wasn’t an Art Kid, double thanks.
Professor Wright was insistent, though. They seemed to really like the mutated angels, which was fair, because the angels were pretty sick.
“Look, Professor,” Druig had said. “With all due respect. This isn’t, like, what I do. It was just something I was doing.”
Professor Wright had given him a look, and Druig had no idea what it meant, so he didn’t say anything. He tried not to shift nervously under their gaze.
“Just think about it,” they had said, finally.
Druig had left their office more than a little lost.
He had called his parents, mostly because he was sure they would confirm his suspicion that this whole thing would be a waste of time when he was supposed to be focusing on other things. But that wasn’t exactly what they had said.
Sure, his mom had sounded like she wasn’t really listening, and his dad was only getting part of the story between his mom’s half-assed attempt at a game of telephone and whatever he had been busy with when Druig called.
But in the end, they had told him it might be a good thing, that it would make his CV more cultured, and something about that detached assessment had made Druig feel a little sick.
And then his dad had reminded him not to let it get in the way of the important things. And that had definitely made something unpleasant twist in Druig’s stomach, followed quickly by the overwhelming desire to piss off his dad.
Druig had emailed Professor Wright that night asking about the gameplan for declaring a visual arts minor.
So, really, Druig was never meant to be an art kid. Let alone a capital A, serious, hanging out in the art lounge Art Kid.
But he had warmed up to it fast enough, taking to the dark room in his Photo class like it had been waiting for him all this time on the other side of the mirror. Through the looking glass? In the back of a wardrobe? Whatever, he wasn’t an English major.
He found he wasn’t absolute garbage at his painting class either, and just like that, he was a junior who frequented the basement of the South Art Building on a regular basis. Sure, he didn’t always feel like he fit in with that crowd, like everyone was a bit more intense and way more talented than he was, but it was nice to have long tables to spread his work out on and a locker to store his acrylics and oil pastels in so he didn’t have to remember to bring them back and forth.
And that was how he wound up here.
He wasn’t supposed to be an Art Kid, but college requires GE courses, and his professors had questionable morals regarding confidentiality, and also probably (definitely) a secret workplace relationship, and so Druig has a locker in the basement of the South Art Building.
A locker someone had seemingly broken into, just to leave behind an envelope.
Druig hated being an art kid.
Hate, he thinks as he stares at the envelope sitting on top of his sketchbook, might be a bit of a strong word. It’s just that the artsy crowd comes with a certain flair for the dramatic. And not that he can’t appreciate the drama, but he likes it a whole lot better when it doesn’t involve someone magically entering his locker and leaving behind mysterious envelopes.
Druig wonders fleetingly if this is some sort of artistic serial killer thing. There could be, like, a ransom note in there for all he knows. Or an ominous threat. With the little magazine cutouts of letters and everything.
Or maybe it’s just an envelope.
There’s nothing written on the face. When he flips it over, he sees it has a red wax seal.
Seriously? Who uses wax seals anymore? What was this, the Regency? The Victorian era? When did people use wax seals? He’d have to ask Sersi.
Druig glances around the locker area, but he’s alone. No sign of potential South Art Building serial killers.
He opens the envelope carefully, making sure not to damage the wax seal. Because even though it’s weirdly old-fashioned, he thinks it’s pretty cool.
Inside the envelope is not, in fact, a letter asking him if the lambs have stopped screaming.
It’s a drawing.
The paper is textured in a way that makes him think it’s handmade. The drawing is a pencil sketch of a tree, grand and imposing. It could be an oak tree. Or maybe a maple tree. (He’s a reluctant art kid, not an enthusiastic tree kid, okay?)
It’s pretty fucking awesome.
Druig had never felt strongly about trees one way or the other, if he was being honest, but he can definitely appreciate how beautiful the drawing is. His eyes trace from the base up the trunk, amazed at the level of detail in the tree’s bark. The bottom half is definitely a realistic approach, but something changes when he reaches the branches. They’re undeniably still based in reality, but drawn with a more whimsical style. Some of the branches are spreading out, like they’re stretching, others are curled in on themselves at curves that are just pushing impossible. If he had to guess, he would say the artist was very fond of this particular tree.
And then he stops guessing, because he’s starting to sound like goddamn Rich Attonito in his head, and that’s the last thing he wants.
Still, the drawing is awesome. Druig just doesn’t understand why someone put it in an envelope, sealed that envelope with wax, and broke into his locker. That’s the part that’s most concerning to him, considering the fact that his locker has a lock. It’s in the name.
He thinks about it for a moment, and realizes it’s very possible he forgot to lock up before leaving the lounge the night before. He’s been tired lately. Maybe someone had been doing their good deed of the day, snapping his combination lock shut, and decided to leave behind a cryptic envelope they had on hand as a gesture of good faith between art kids. It’s probably not the most Out There thing to have occurred in the South Art Building basement.
Druig carefully slides the drawing back into the envelope before tucking the whole thing inside his sketchbook, which he throws into his bag. He locks up, making sure to listen for the click and tugging on the lock for good measure.
Druig rounds the corner into the main area of the lounge slowly, aiming for casual (and likely missing by a few city blocks) as he scans the room, as if someone is going to be decked out in a neon sign that says “I may or may not have broken into your locker to leave behind a drawing of a tree.” Or maybe something shorter and more to the point like “arboreal Santa Claus.”
There’s only a few people around, working at the large wooden tables that take up a majority of the room, and none of them seem the type to commit either A) tree related breaking and entering crimes or B) enigmatic envelope random acts of kindness involving wax seals.
There’s… Audrey? Aubrey? Druig is god-awful when it comes to names. All he knows is that Audrey-Aubrey has blue hair, drinks a lot of herbal tea, and likes to sit on the table while she paints her canvases, which she’s doing right now.
Near her is the trio Druig has mentally dubbed The Three Musketeers, three people who seem to never be separated and who always play Icelandic pop music when it’s their turn with the speaker. The nickname is lacking, he’ll admit. He’s workshopping it.
There’s a candle burning, which isn’t a rarity even though it’s definitely against fire regulations, and it smells oddly, specifically, like apple pie. There’s music playing quietly from the speaker, Druig is pretty sure it’s Ziggy Stardust. Everything is on par for the course.
And then, he notices Makkari.
Druig is bad with names, but Makkari is impossible to forget.
She’s hunched over a table, sketching, with what is quite possibly an industrial sized bag of Skittles sitting next to her sketchbook. She looks as if she’s entirely in her own world.
She’s wearing a black hoodie, and Druig realizes he’s staring when he glimpses the name of a band he’s never heard of adorning the front. There’s a mug in front of her that looks like it was made in the kiln upstairs, by someone who should not be allowed near the kiln upstairs.
(Which isn’t a judgment. Druig is convinced the kiln is possessed.)
All of this is normal for Makkari. What’s unusual is that she isn’t with Kingo.
Kingo is another name Druig can’t forget, simply because Kingo won’t allow anyone to do so. Objectively, Druig is sure Kingo is a nice guy, and Druig holds no ill will towards him. Subjectively, Druig thinks he would use just about any means necessary to shut the guy up. Bribes. Organized crime. Prayer. He’s willing to get creative.
Druig has never had a class with Makkari until this semester, probably due to the fact that he’s only a visual arts minor and Makkari is in some weird advanced major program separate from the usual suspects in terms of art majors. He’s heard other people in his classes talk about it, and the consensus seems to be that no one is exactly sure what goes on in that program.
He thinks they like, knit, sometimes. A bunch of them did a candle making project once. They’re always making these insanely cool pieces Druig isn’t smart enough to understand that get displayed in the North Art Building. Druig saw the professor who heads the program exactly one time, and he had genuinely thought he was looking at Ms. Frizzle from The Magic School Bus.
So, he had never really spent time around Makkari until they wound up in the same Painting II class this semester. Along with Kingo. Spotting Makkari and Kingo apart was a rare sight, which was kind of starting to become a problem for Druig, who actually wanted to talk to Makkari about her art but didn’t want to deal with Kingo’s theatrics.
It was maybe possible that Kingo wasn’t the only thing stopping Druig from talking to Makkari. Druig was just inherently a little intimidated by the more serious art kids, like they were going to sense the lack of talent and dedication just by looking at him. Like they knew he didn’t belong.
He doubts Makkari would think that, though, which was the next problem. She was incredibly nice. She was always smiling, and Druig is self-aware enough to know that he can be kind of a downer when he’s around super happy people. He probably wouldn’t be Makkari’s first choice of classmate to discuss her art with.
And that’s another thing, Druig isn’t great at talking about art, outside of basic compliments. And he means them, he really does think Three Musketeer #2 did a cool painting of their aunt’s barn. He just has trouble getting past that point, he never knows what else to say. Druig gets the feeling it’d be ten times worse with Makkari, like there’s a direct relationship between how cool a piece is and how bad he is at articulating that fact.
And he definitely doesn’t want to go through that in front of Kingo.
Which is why he should take this opportunity of Kingo being nowhere in sight to tell Makkari just how awesome he thinks her layered tarot card collage hanging up in North Art is.
She hasn’t noticed, but he’s definitely been staring for too long now.
Druig is absolutely bone-tired. Which is, he decides, probably not the best state for him to try making friends in. Plus, he has studying to do for his other classes. He’s trying not to think about it.
He’ll find a moment tomorrow to talk with Makkari, this way he’ll have time to write something decent down that he can hand to her. Tomorrow. But for now, he is in desperate need of caffeine.
He could use the Keurig in the lounge, sure, but it’s only 7 o’clock. Which means if he’s lucky, Sersi might still be working her shift at Starbucks. Which means the most flawless, delicious, miraculous latte the world has ever seen. Druig is fully convinced Sersi is putting straight magic into the cup.
He heads for the door that leads upstairs, sparing one last glance at Makkari who is still hyper-focused on whatever she’s sketching, her nose scrunched in concentration. Is he staring too much? Is it getting creepy? He feels kind of creepy.
“Goodnight Druig!” Audrey-Aubrey calls as Druig opens the door, preparing to ascend the stairs.
“Night!” he calls back.
He really needs to learn her name.
Sersi is working, thank god.
“Hi!” She greets him cheerily as he leans heavily on the counter, like the proximity to caffeine is reminding his body just how tired it is.
“Hey,” he sighs.
“You look dead on your feet,” Sersi continues, grinning, as if Druig’s corpse-like state is amusing to her. It probably is.
“I think I’m past dead. I’m dead so much I circled back to undead and then died again,” Druig complains, rubbing at his eyes.
“Wouldn’t you have to be undead at some point to circle back to it?” Sersi asks, picking up a cup and scribbling his usual order on the side. Druig thinks it’s a little redundant, because she’s going to make it herself anyway, but Sersi can be a bit of a stickler for routine.
“Is that what they’re teaching you in that Medieval Euro class? The intricacies of the undead?” he asks, very glad that the campus Starbucks is always near empty at this hour. The exhaustion is steadily creeping into his bones, and he doesn’t know if he could handle any Looks being thrown his way because he’s discussing the logistics of the undead at the Starbucks counter.
“Why would they be teaching me that in Medieval Euro?” Sersi asks as she crouches down to grab a carton of soy milk from the fridge.
“Isn’t that where vampires started?” Druig asks. Sersi’s head pops up from behind the counter.
“Started? You know vampires aren’t real, right?” She stands up, soy milk in tow. She leans forward and drops her voice lower, faux serious. “It’s important to me that we’re on the same page about this.”
Druig tries very hard not to roll his eyes.
He is not very successful.
“You know what I mean,” he says, and Sersi laughs as she starts steaming the milk for the latte Druig wants now more than ever.
“It depends on what type of vampire you’re talking about,” she concedes. “Or what you consider a vampire. There’s a ton of lore from a bunch of different cultures. I have a friend who knows all about that, actually. She took a whole class on Dracula. You should ask her.”
“Can she get you to make my latte any faster?” Druig asks, smiling as widely as he can in an effort to prevent Sersi from throwing the double shot she just pulled right into his face.
Sersi looks like she’s considering it.
“You should be more appreciative of the love and care I put into your shitty drinks,” she settles on, punctuating her point by executing a pretty impressive flower in the foam of his latte.
“I do appreciate you,” Druig insists. “Oh, that reminds me, I wanted to ask-”
Just then, his phone vibrates in his pocket. When he pulls it out and checks his notifications, he sees it’s a text from Thena. His body fills with dread almost instantly.
The message is approximately seventeen book emojis and a single question mark. Awesome.
The thing is, the immediate and overwhelming dread has nothing to do with Thena. It has everything to do with her wanting to meet up in the library and study for the American Constitutional Law test they have in two days.
Druig tries to shake it, but he just can’t. He can pretend, though.
He looks up at Sersi to see her taking pictures of the latte art, presumably for her Instagram.
“I hate to interrupt your shoot for Food Network Magazine,” he drawls, and she throws a drink stirrer at him without looking up from her phone. “But I need to request a peppermint mocha.”
“Fine. Only because I like Thena more than I like you,” Sersi agrees, as if this isn’t her job.
“You’ve only met Thena like, twice,” he complains. Because Thena is too lazy to get her own Starbucks. And Druig is, despite any potential evidence to the contrary, a good friend, thank you very much.
“That’s more than enough,” Sersi says solemnly. He doesn’t disagree. Thena is pretty awesome.
Sersi (finally) hands over the latte that’s about to get its big break on Instagram, and starts telling Druig about all of her latest Boy Troubles as she makes Thena’s drink. Druig chimes in at every pause – mostly to tell Sersi she’s stupid for putting up with stupider boys – and tries his very hardest not to let his unease swallow him whole as the upcoming test lurks in the corner of his mind.
Sersi sends him off with well wishes and enough caffeine to keep him up for the next few hours, and it isn’t until Druig is halfway to the library that he realizes he forgot to ask her about wax seals.
“The weirdest thing happened to me today,” Druig says by way of greeting, dropping down into the armchair across from Thena and coming dangerously close to spilling one or both of their drinks.
“Nice to see you too!” Thena smiles. “Give me my coffee.”
Druig complies, sliding the drink across the table between them.
“Ask me about the weird thing that happened to me today,” Druig instructs as he hauls his stupid, evil constitutional law textbook out of his bag.
“Hi Thena! How was your day?” Thena asks, not even trying for a passable impression of Druig, seriously. “Oh, it was great Druig,” she answers herself. “I got to pet a dog, and they restocked the vending machine in the lecture hall-”
“Hey Druig,” he cuts her off. “Thanks for buying me Starbucks for the third time this week!”
Thena pauses, considering, as she sips her drink.
“Fair,” she decides. She takes another sip, and sighs happily. “Mercy’s sake, how does Sersi do it?”
“One of these days it’ll be your turn to buy coffee,” Druig grumbles. Thena cracks a smile.
“It’s not my fault you’re always already in Starbucks whenever I want to hang out,” she dismisses him airily. Druig rolls his eyes.
“It’s like you know. Do you have me chipped?”
Thena just smiles and wiggles her eyebrows.
It’s a joke, obviously, but he also would not be surprised if she somehow had him chipped. He’s definitely not going to be worrying about that as he falls asleep tonight.
Druig met Thena at the start of his second semester, in Criminology. The class was, unfortunately, not limited to criminal justice majors, and therefore featured an overwhelming number of freshman boys who thought Law and Order was real life. It took Druig all of one class session to realize that he and Thena were the only two people who weren’t loud and insufferable. And also, probably, the only ones who could apply any meaningful level of critical thought to basically anything. Thena seemed to independently come to the same conclusion, and that was that. Cue talking shit about their peers and drinking a lot of coffee for almost two years.
Druig was lucky, really, because there was no one he would rather study for Dr. Kearny’s wretched constitutional law tests with.
Kearny’s class was a bitch and a half. His tests were delivered directly from hell, and if you worded one thing wrong he would have your ass for it, and Druig was seriously reaching a point where he wasn’t sure if he could take it anymore-
“So what happened?” Thena asks, cutting off Druig’s mental spiral.
“What?” he asks. Thena rolls her eyes.
“The weird thing that happened to you today, drama queen. What was it?” she presses.
“Oh!” Druig lights up. “Oh, it was so weird, T. You know my locker in the basement of South Art?”
“Where I hide my illicit belongings sometimes, I’m familiar,” Thena nods.
“Yeah, so- wait. You’re joking, right? You’re not actually using my locker to hide anything illegal,” he pauses, “...right?”
Thena motions for him to continue, which isn’t reassuring.
“Well,” Druig resumes, albeit reluctantly. “I stopped by earlier to get my sketchbook, and there was an envelope. In my locked locker.”
“Was it a ransom note?” Thena asks.
“It was a drawing of a tree,” Druig explains. The envelope and drawing are right in his sketchbook where he left them. He could easily take them out to show her, but something holds him back. As much as he had been dying to tell Thena just minutes before, now he wants to keep part of this to himself. He’s not sure why.
“Huh,” Thena nods. “Okay, I’ll give that to you. Pretty weird.”
“Right!” Druig exclaims, and then immediately cringes and glances around quickly, because even though they’re not in a silent section of the library, people can still be vicious about that kind of thing. When he realizes no librarians or business majors are going to come eat him, he turns his full attention back to Thena. “Right!” he repeats, this time in a whisper-yell. “It’s weird! How did they get in my locker!”
“You could have left it open,” Thena offers, swirling her Starbucks cup like it’s a glass of wine, which is how Druig knows she’s invested in this.
“I could have, but even if I did, why leave behind a drawing?” he asks. Thena shrugs.
“You’re the art kid, shouldn’t you know more about art kid courting rituals than I do?” she asks. That stops Druig’s entire train of thought cold.
“Art kid what?” he asks, baffled.
“Someone’s writing Druig love letters!” she gasps, mock scandalized.
“It was a drawing. Of a tree,” Druig corrects, sipping his latte. (Seriously, how does Sersi do it?)
“When is a tree not a tree?” Thena poses, mimicking Druig as she takes an over exaggerated sip of her drink. She leans forward in her seat and whispers, “When it’s a love letter.”
“Alright, no more telling you about my art minor adventures. Noted,” Druig nods to himself, cracking open his textbook and studiously ignoring Thena’s laughter.
“Oh come on!” she manages to get out around a fresh wave of giggles. What a hardship it must be.
“A tree is never not a tree, anyway. How is a tree ever- nevermind,” Druig sighs.
“Okay, okay,” Thena holds up her hands placatingly. “Say it’s not a love letter. It’s still a compelling mystery and I’m along for the ride.”
“You are not along for the ride,” Druig insists immediately. “You’ve been removed from the van. I kicked you out. No being along for the ride allowed.” Druig does not want to imagine what having Detective Thena along for the ride would entail. She’d probably start interrogating everyone with card access to the South Art lounge. It would become a legal investigation.
“Why are we driving a van in this metaphor?” Thena asks.
“It’s the Mystery Machine,” Druig replies flatly, like it’s obvious, because it kind of is. “Also, there is no we. Because I kicked you out of the van.”
“Out of the Mystery Machine,” Thena clarifies, nodding thoughtfully.
“I hate you,” Druig asserts. “Like, so much.”
“I’m not teasing you!” Thena protests adamantly. “Maybe it’s someone’s way of saying they have a crush on you! Wow, you’re so cool, here’s a tree I drew. It’s sweet!”
Druig sighs.
“Well, we’ll see if I receive the rest of the forest, and then we can revisit the idea of it being a love confession. And in the meantime, you will not launch a full-scale investigation into the arts department,” Druig emphasizes, pointing sharply at Thena.
“Scout’s honor,” Thena promises solemnly, holding up three fingers.
“No, nope, I want to hear you say it,” he insists. It’s Thena’s turn to sigh.
“I will not launch a full-scale investigation into the arts department,” she recites dutifully. There’s a pause. “Unless Druig does something stupid that gives me cause to,” she adds, finalty clear in her tone.
Druig knows how to pick his battles, so he lets it go.
“Wonderful, marvelous, now can we study for this test so I can go back to my dorm, pass out, and do it all again tomorrow?” he asks.
Thena hums in agreement, fishing her textbook out of her bag and dropping it onto the table with a resounding thump that is too loud for any section of the library, silent or not.
“You look even more exhausted than usual,” she observes. “Did you eat dinner?”
“Sure,” Druig says easily.
“Starbucks isn’t dinner, Druig,” she chides. Druig scoffs.
“Starbucks is totally dinner,” he argues.
“Promise you’ll eat food.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“A vegetable.”
“Absolutely not,” he refuses. “Where am I supposed to find a vegetable on campus? Do not say the salad place. The lettuce is disgusting and the salad ladies scare me.”
“Maybe they’d be nicer to you if you didn’t call them the scary salad ladies,” Thena points out. Druig tries to protest that he only said it to their faces once, but Thena is talking over him. “We’re going grocery shopping after Kearny’s test. I’m not sure you even remember what fruit looks like.”
“Do you know how often I have to stare at fruit due to my life choices?” Druig deadpans, and it wasn’t even really meant to be a joke, but it has Thena cracking up even though it’s not funny, and Druig isn’t far behind.
In a few minutes, they’ll have to hunker down and go over their notes on individual rights and due process and other things that make Druig’s skin itch. But for now, he can forget about it all and laugh with his friend until one of the business majors starts shooting him dirty looks.
After five hours in the library – or maybe six, he kind of lost track after a while – Druig drags himself through the hallways of his dorm. The caffeine had helped for the first few hours, but as the mental battle of gluing his eyes to his textbook took its toll, the energy had been slowly sucked out of him once again. He was pretty sure this qualified as sleepwalking.
He stops at the vending machine, because Starbucks isn’t dinner, and picks up a bag of Skittles before retreating to his room.
Druig is considered lucky, he knows, because he had a roommate, but doesn’t anymore. The guy had up and dropped out, no warning. Thinking about it always makes Druig uncomfortably fidgety.
He’s lucky, though, because he never got another roommate assignment, and he functions a whole lot better having a room to himself anyway. More importantly than that, though, he won’t have to explain himself to anyone after he does this.
There’s an empty cork board hanging on the wall over his desk. His parents kept shipping it off with him every year, and Druig could never find a purpose for it. He wasn’t crazy about looking at his own art, and he wasn’t exactly dying to pin up photos of his folks.
Now, though, he has something.
He retrieves his sketchbook from his bag, carefully removing the envelope. Once he gets the drawing out, he takes a brief pause to throw back a handful of Skittles and contemplate the best placement of the drawing on the board. After some internal deliberation and a few moments of picking out the purple Skittles to eat first, he grabs a pin from his desk, and the tree finds its home in the top left corner of the cork board.
He tucks the envelope into one of his desk drawers, opting not to throw it out even though he has no use for it.
He just can’t part with the wax seal.