Clemente
Clem shrugs a little at Oliver's explanation, though he grins lopsidedly at the older boy. Maybe it's because he hasn't ever really gotten to draw, or paint, or any other artistic endeavor. Maybe it's his age, his determined nature. But the idea of being disgruntled that way kind of boggles him. "It ain't that pressin' dude. 's not a race, no such thing as improving 'fast enough'." As if to prove his point, he scratches the charcoal over one of his previous sketches, and starts on a new one immediately after. To Clem it's just natural to keep going, but maybe Oliver will take his advice to heart. The blond sits next to him, and Clem tenses for half a moment almost habitually. Can't help the instinctive way he catalogs Oliver's body type, his weaknesses, the odds of Clem being able to get away if things get sticky. But then he forces himself to relax, to focus on his charcoal until the anxiety fades to a dull, manageable simmer. "Well y'can ask me, or Bastien. He's real good. I'm just like, another pair of eyes." He doesn't understand Oliver's reluctance to ask Bastien, doesn't even consider it. But he does set down his charcoal, wiping his hands absentmindedly on his pants - something Rexanna is sure to skin him alive for once he realizes what he's done - to turn and face Oliver properly.
i stopped being a kid the day
you sent me down here to die
