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Summary: Back in middle school on a field trip, Damon recalls seeing a pretty drawing of a crow. Luckily enough, he has the chance to compliment the artist herself five years later.
The study of Renaissance paintings had never been Damon’s cup of tea. Apparently for art class, this trip to the art museum was supposed to be some sort of ‘once in a lifetime’ opportunity.
If this were a professional arts class, he’d understand. Studying the strokes, the techniques, the story behind them, and expressions they wore was something necessary for making their own works. Many successful artists copy them and end up getting grand fortunes and fame.
But this was an elective, with a class of students who had joined for the easy A+. Well, any excuse to skip school is a good one, he just wishes he was dragged along this endless tour of paintings and art history. Even when he tried getting away by ‘going to the bathroom,’ he always got found around ten minutes later.
After two hours of walking and yawning at the talkative guide, it was lunchtime.
The students dispersed themselves in the outside area, where there were tables and seats, some of them full with other visitors. There were just enough to sit them all.
There was one last empty table for two. He didn’t have any other choice, so he had to sit down. When he did, he noticed a stray, blank paper opposite of him. He hesitated for a second if someone else already sat here, but there was no food or personal belongings. He figured they must’ve just left it behind, so they’d come back to get it and leave him be.
He opened his paper bag and nommed on his PB&J. Chattering and laughter echoed in his ears from the tables behind and in front of him, a reminder of his quiet table.
It didn’t matter too much anyway, most of them were going through middle school with no aim to be the absolute best. Their companionship was unnecessary, it’d just be an obstacle in Damon’s strive to be a starring debater.
Their admiration and respect for him would be astoundingly high, which was the least they could do for him as their absolutely lesser selves. Someday, he’d even earn the respect of those on par with him.
His mom would always remind him of that whenever he felt down. He was only slipping further and further away from that reality each moment he had to question himself, so he appreciated the help. Even if her tone was more expectant and commanding than encouraging, don’t some people find those two one in the same?
No matter how far his imagination on his future career went though, his eyes couldn’t leave the paper. He chalked it up to boredom, as his lunch was almost gone, so he had some time to spare.
In such a short amount of time, it felt like everyone had passed by his table, so maybe the owner left it there on purpose. It wasn’t crinkled up, but maybe they couldn’t even bother to do that.
He reached over for it and grabbed a pen in his pocket. The next meeting at debate club would be collecting everyone’s points and thoughts about some sort of political issue that blended into the many he’s already done so far. He was more than prepared in terms of his research, spending the entirety of last night remembering it in full detail. But he needed to figure out how to present them and which order to go in. To imagine his opponent's words and find which was the right way to refute them.
Just before he put pen to paper though, he wanted to check if the back was blank too to consider the font size.
To his shock, his eyes fell upon a detailed pencil sketch of crows. One large crow stood out among the other smaller and sillier doodles, perched on a tree. The shading was defined, different shades of black and gray blending into one another. The artist must’ve used a white color pencil as highlights, and with the way the head was tilted downwards, it seemed to be contemplating. Some eraser shavings clung on, but it was so beautiful you could hardly notice the troubling areas.
The doodles lacked the same serious and meaningful detail, most of them making weird faces. Some were shocked with their comically large eyeballs popping out of their head or grooving to the side and enjoying music. One was even pooping on another, as the victim had provoked them.
All in all, elegance mixed with the artist’s clear innocence presented itself on this paper. Damon was never particularly talented in art, and if he couldn’t do it from the beginning, there was no way he could keep doing it. Most of his classmates' art pieces are just ridiculous, the museum’s art lacking meaning. So for a second, he was tempted to keep it with him.
But even if it looked pretty to him, it wasn’t his. It wasn’t his example of his talent to flaunt and keep, even if he couldn’t get why anyone would leave something like this behind. He certainly never could draw, but the artist seemed to be born for creation.
If he kept holding it any longer, his sense of pride would get contorted even further, e which is something he can’t afford to do.
He placed the paper back down to the original spot and decided to walk around the area for a bit, waiting until his teacher would gather his class up for the remaining hour of the visit.
He hoped the art would return to the creator.
Thankfully though, the worried girl would come across his table and find what was hers. Her lenses had gotten blurry from her tears, so she was glad it was left mostly undisturbed and no one had tampered with it.
She didn’t quite recall the drawing facing the front, but it wouldn’t matter who saw it so long they didn’t know it was hers.
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His artistic skills never really improved, even as he grew older. At least he had some dignity to not draw Eva as a stickman for this art contest. His chair was turned the other way from facing the table in the dining/kitchen area, opposite of Eva’s. The thought of the look of concentration and coolness she would have as she scribbled away, the unchanging determination to capture what he was to her came to him once or twice, but he dismissed it.
They agreed on an alliance the first day the game started, purely because she’d convinced him that they both need someone as an alibi when a murder does happen.
But as days passed, he questioned the status of their partnership. Everything they did with each other was to serve as an assistant to the other. An extra pair of hands, something reminiscent of his old highschool debate team members if he had to describe it.
The thing is, they didn’t treat him well outside of business and where they needed each other. He didn’t want them to, as fake cordiality is more insulting to his IQ than being cutthroat.
But Eva?
He could never really know what’s going on behind her mind, even before she was revealed as a liar.
The pencil shook a bit in his hands at the thought of her thinking differently than what she implied, causing a shaky line on her nose. He erased it and steadied himself so she wouldn’t notice, if the girl could even pick up what was going on behind her back.
They couldn’t work all the time, but they didn’t leave the other’s side even then. From short breaks where he could hear her pencil tapping against her to-do list to feeling the brush of her long hair on his shoulder as the two sat side by side reading their own books they got from their rooms.
Sometimes it was little more than just silence. Sometimes he’d even go on a short ramble about the character inaccuracies of them, and he’d argue she promoted it some way or another. There was mainly no reaction from her whatsoever but her eyes not gliding on her own pages and no fingers flipping them.
He considered talking about these weird little… ‘hangouts.’ What she thought about those peaceful moments where they could spend time together even with their circumstances. What she thought about him.
But every time he could, he ended up getting distracted by the tranquility of it all, and then they had to go off to deal with some other important business.
Besides, he was sure that there was no point asking her if she was going to be annoyingly obscure about anything else.
Despite the origins of his feelings about her nature being distrust and frustration, it now came from a reluctant place of…worry? They needed to rely on each other, so he’d wish she could be a bit more honest with him. He knew they were necessary to each other wasn’t the only reason why he’d care, but it had been a long while since he’s felt this way about someone. Attributing transactional and logical purposes for them to stay by each other’s side was the only thing making him not feel foolish for being all talk about everyone being naive, but entrusted her.
He glanced at her, trying to ignore the bits of progress he could see on her paper. He wondered if acknowledging this peace would make her flee. She was not one to be flighty, even if vulnerability was a fragile matter; at least, that’s what he assumed. He couldn’t imagine an Ultimate Liar as someone who is treated kindly in society.
So he couldn’t be sure what would happen to them if he opened his heart, or what would happen after they escape.
She looked back at him, about to call him out for ‘cheating’ if he looked a second longer. He turned his gaze back to his poor reconstruction of her before such lecture. The hair’s curls were uneven against the other in terms of length and size. Something about the jawline was too sharp and cartoonish, reminding him of those big ‘scary’ antagonists he saw on ads for children. She could be intimidating, but as days passed, she reminded him more of a mystique figure who strangely cared for him.
He sighed. He could win debate arguments but barely figure out how to draw faces or, god forbid, fingers.
“Don’t think too much about it,” Eva said, a response to the sound of his eraser frantically rubbing against the paper. “I don’t expect artistic masterpieces from just a debater.”
“…Right. Well, don’t blame me if you don’t like it. You’re hard to draw.”
He added that last part to shift blame. It’s hard to accept you just suck sometimes.
“I’ll take that as a compliment on my style.”
And she playfully retorts back. It’s an uncommon and rare response from someone as composed as her, but he likes it.
They’d be exchanging the final drawings and no lie could hide the fact he’d keep it.
They wouldn’t be leaving each other anytime soon.
But what would that entail? Would they continue to stay by each other without ever being able to say how much she meant to him as a friend?
He leaned against the back of the chair.
“Time’s almost up,” she says. He isn’t really sure if it is; he hadn’t kept track. From the tilt in her head, it’s almost like she suddenly decided that now was the time for the grand reveal. Was it a tease, or a way to talk to him?
What an odd lie that'd be.
“I give up on this anyway,” he scoffs. He places his pencil in his pocket, stands up, and takes his chair to face the table and to sit next to her.
Something about how he’d so quickly moved his chair to be near her, the deep but undeniable piquing interest on how she interprets him, is a more eager reaction than he’d even expect of himself. Yet he didn’t mind it too much. Neither did she, if she noticed.
Her sketch was held to her chest, his hanging on his side.
“…”
“…”
He blinked at her, her eyes facing downwards and contemplating. The way she narrowed her eyes or her lips tightened told him she was thinking. If she was pulling a strand of hair, then that’d be the most obvious giveaway.
But she couldn’t.
“…I expect you to not judge me if you want to not receive the same.”
A hint of insecurity, masked behind that same factual tone she uses to discuss evidence.
He’d seen bits of it, yet, he could never say much in response.
“I won’t care that much.”
It’s weird for her to let even the smallest pieces of herself get to others. Is that what they called trust? He wasn’t sure.
He set his paper on the table first, already flustered from how childish it was. Eva stared at it for a moment, but her reaction was to only place her drawing down.
It definitely wasn’t what Damon was expecting.
A main pencil headshot of him with a sharp expression. His mouth was closed, so he got that impression from the eyes; he looked so defiant. He never really stopped being ready for any argument hurling his way. Maybe you could say he was annoyed, but the eyebrows didn’t furrow in a way to suggest that. Whether it was his own bias or genuine interpretation of him from her…he thought he looked determined. Ready to knock down an opponent nd win.
Many other smaller doodles of him accompanied. Some were full body chibi bodies where his eyes had this indescribably stupid aura from how big they were, others were serious poses. Pointing, hands in his pocket, even one of him…smiling?
The main drawing was the impression he thought he gave. But the other small drawings…sure, Eva acted like she was a bit higher than him sometimes, but he didn’t think he acted low. He didn’t even think she could draw this many pictures of him when he could only draw a poor reconstruction of her.
Her lines and curves reminded him of a distant memory, but he argued to himself it was just similar styles. They weren’t the same same, just..very similar. The strokes were cleaner, more swift and had thought in every one of them. But the charm and overall purpose of the artist’s minds were alike.
He glanced up to see her reaction. Her eyes were widened a tad more, but not in repulse. To grasp what was fully in front of her.
A finger traced the figure.
“I’m flattered,” she said, her expression unchanged, but there’s a tease streaming with sincerity flowing in her voice. “Your artistic ability is up to par with what I imagined.”
He frowned, letting out an indignant hum.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She was already facing the table, but she further turned her head to the side away from him. Her black curls covered any way to see a trace of emotion on her face or indication she was looking up or down.
“Nothing,” her thoughts barely constrained behind her usual, factual tone. “You are what you say you are is all.”
He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t find it in him to take it seriously like his usual competitions. When the time came to be declaring and assertive with her, he grumbled instead.
Why would he let himself get bothered by her to complain but not debate?
Looking back at her drawing, he said, “I guess the opposite applies to you.” She adjusts herself a little, and her watchful eyes fall back on his own. Like a crow studying a slithering snake— a potential predator with venom— in the distance, she was anticipating his next move.
Act carefully.
“You never appeared as a girl who liked to draw,” he clarified.
He actually meant that she didn’t share about her hobbies. Did the absence of words count? Not really, but he wanted to find some semblance of relatability.
Maybe this art competition was her way of filling in what words couldn’t say.
She twirled a curl, eyeing it as she thought.
“I’ve done a bit of sketching in my freetime ever since I was younger,” she finally stated. “To pass time.”
Her eye for detail certainly didn’t only affect her in a literal sense.
“You must’ve had a lot of free time, then.”
She hums, the answer to the question that implores her to elaborate. His frustration boils, but only in small fumes, that are doused when she turns to face the table again and looks at him.
“Better to distract yourself with an actual hobby than focus on the duties of a Liar, as important as it is to keep watching your track of lies.”
…Nevermind, the supposed explanation was hardly any better.
“Track of lies?” he inquires. She breaks contact, tilting her head to the side. It almost touched his heart to think she wanted to explain the meaning behind her complicated title to him.
“…Yeah. With the reputation for being a liar, you have to pay attention to what you say is true and what is a lie. You cannot lean towards one more than the other, as one will strip you of your talent, and another will make the purpose behind your talent collapse. Essentially the same thing.”
He didn’t understand what ‘purpose behind your talent’ meant, but he nodded anyway. If he had to guess, an Ultimate Liar that only lies probably wouldn’t be a good liar if everyone knew they lied.
A mix of truth and lies.
“Well, I didn’t spend that much time on that for nothing,” she suddenly said to switch topics.
Words get caught in his throat. He hadn’t fully comprehended what to say yet.
“It’s..” he started off, his actions already getting the better of him.
For a rare moment, when the glint of hope of what’d he say appears in her gaze, he understands her. Words can be a bit too limited to mean what he wants to say. Usually, he’d take the objective approach, as words just mean what they mean. You said them to communicate an observation. He could call it detailed, realistic, eye-catching, etc.
But he can’t let those kinds of words just tumble out of his mouth. She doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t know why, as his brain knows it’s just an artwork. But that logic is muffled by his heart for once. She’s his ally, a friend (Was it right to say that just yet?), and deserves words..more intentional and graceful.
What words that match that description? He’s unsure; he always is when it comes to being sentimental. It’s beautiful, it’s thoughtful, it’s kind, it’s—
Since when did she turn to face him?
His heart pounded, from the intensity of the moment or her distance, he didn’t know. This girl was making him travel into unfamiliar territory of being unaware, and only wanting to venture further.
“…It’s lovely. I like it. Thank you.”
Do personal sentiments help? He hopes so.
And his hopes are granted, because she smiles.
He’s not the type to look at art and think beyond the surface, unless it was for practical purposes. But the only thing stopped him from matching her expression, was his face heating up in awe at how the art’s nature matched the artist.