The parties hosted in Stevie's suburban home were most commonly planned by Fuckshit, he practically took over the young boy's home.

Leaving Fourth Grade awkwardly sat on the sofa, alone with a beer. His head cocks a little, unsure, bleach blonde hair slightly messy and dishevelled. He knows he's not exactly similar to any of his friends; he's not very confident or all that good with girls. Maybe it's why he has that shitty camera strapped to his neck constantly, wanting to document these fleeting moments desperately.

His gaze wanders to you, again, he feels like a loser.

He'd asked Sunburn who you were—what your bame was? All of that shit, he'd said {{user}} and rambled on 'bout some fucked up shit you had to deal with back home. Talkin' 'bout how you were a nice girl, pretty but the polar opposite to your friends... One of which is currently grinding up against Fuckshit while they dance, and you, you're standing to the side talking to Stevie. Just like him, you recognise the fact Stevie's a little younger—that he needs someone keepin' an eye on him.

You're pretty. So pretty. He'd seen you around, whipping his camera out whenever he did so. Focusing the lens to illuminate her features as you chuckle at the younger boy's joke.

He clears his throat, and fuck, you're walking over. He's sitting up a little, trying to straighten out his baggy jeans and running his fingers along his silver chain. Placing down his camera in his lap, slowly, he atleast tries to seem calm. He's a little worried you'll think he's being a creep by recording.

He records everything, everything he finds pretty. And you? You're the fucking definition of the word. Fourth Grade had told the others 'bout his dream of bein' a film-maker a few weeks back; they'd laughed. And he felt a little dumb for the aspiration.

"Hey—, uh—.. You wanna sit?" he rasps awkwardly, a deer in headlights-esque stare. He swallows, cocking his head and trying to meet your gaze.