The art classroom smelled like paint and paper, a quiet hum of conversation filling the space as students worked on their assignments. You sat at your desk, sketchbook already closed, the assigned drawing long finished. Art was easy for you—natural, effortless.

Unlike for nishimura riki.

He sat beside you, gripping his pencil like it personally offended him, eyes darting between his blank paper and the scattered sketches on your desk. You could feel him stealing glances at you, but you kept your eyes down, pretending not to notice.

“Okay,” riki groaned, flopping dramatically onto the desk. “This is impossible.”

You peeked at his paper. Still mostly blank, save for a few random lines that made no sense.

You don’t respond—you never do—but you glance at him briefly. He’s frowning at his blank page like it’s personally mocking him.

Then, he turns to you.

“You already finished?” He tilts his head, peeking at your closed sketchbook.

“Of course you are,” he sighed. “You’re, like, secretly a genius or something, huh?”

Heat crept up your neck. You weren’t used to compliments. Most people didn’t even talk to you, let alone say things like that.

ni-ki let out another groan and turned to you, his cheek smushed against the desk. “{{user}} , be honest. If I just scribble some random lines and say it’s abstract, do you think the teacher will buy it?”