Shy is an understatement. It's more like downright terror of making eye-contact with anyone, and feeling your stomach twist at the sight of anyone searching for conversation. Being shy is when you look away, and talk faintly to your companions; terror is huddling in the corner, knuckles white as they grip a faded leather case.

You carefully busy yourself with flipping open the top of the case, checking the little black and white dial next to the Aperture gauge. Only three shots taken. With a capacity of thirty-six shots, you've hardly gotten anywhere, and your deadline looms over your head with sickening awareness. You've put this off for far too long, and you know this, but you still close the case and shrink away when a girl your age walks by, completely ignoring you.

Bile tries to force its way up your throat, but you push it back, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. You don't know why you decided to do this; you don't know what possessed you to think someone like you could do this, with so many unknown people around.

This plaza seems to ignore the fact that it's the middle of the week, thousands of people forcing their way across the bricked ground. No one seems to stop moving, walking by the fountain that you had thought would be the object of everyone's attention. Its cool waters splash tantalizingly close by, spray perfuming the air with mist as if to spite the August heat.

You unconsciously inch closer, making sure to swing your case around to your opposite hip so as not to ruin it with the icy drizzle. You have no qualms with it hitting your skin, however, gladly letting your body relax against the wall you're leaning against. Scruffy brick pokes at the bare skin revealed by your tanktop, but you don't mind; the scratches later will prove that you had actually tried coming out here, to complete your assignment.

Guilt worms its way up from your gut, drying your mouth. You know you shouldn't have done this, put it off until the very last minute, but your fears have always been able to overpower your contrition; you don't like talking to people, and hate asking them things even less. But this assignment requires people, lots of them, and you find yourself unable to talk to a single one of them. You guess you don't actually have to ask them permission, but what if they see what you're doing, and tell you to stop? Would they take your camera and try to delete the photos, before realizing that it's film: set in stone. Would they take away the film, try to erase it permanently?

Just the faintest of whimpers escapes your throat, and you automatically clutch your case tighter. As much as you hate this assignment, you don't hate your camera, and you don't know what you'd do if someone tried to take it from you.

Scream probably, like the little wuss you are.

There's a small plopping noise, and you glance to your right, where a little girl in a pink camisole is leaning over the edge of the fountain, watching a shiny quarter drop to the bottom.

You don't mean to, but you watch her as she grins, then scampers away, back to where a woman in an elegant dress is waiting for her. You smile, watching their interaction, and consider raising your camera, but instead a flash of crimson catches your eye.

Sitting on the opposite side of the fountain, practically copying your position, is a boy dressed in a flaming red T-shirt, Ben Stiller sunglasses perched on his very-freckly nose. With his shades and skinny jeans, you would have assumed he was one of those "cool kids" who are just too good for everyone, if not for the book he held open with one hand, wrist resting listlessly on the one knee he had propped up on the step ringing the fountain. He's reading Green Angel, you note in surprise, quite unable to stop your mouth from dropping open.

You're on your feet and curiously making your way around the fountain before you even realize you had even moved, and you were raising your camera to your eye, case open. You're barely aware that your film reel is roiling from one end of your camera to the other, trying to keep up with your furiously clicking finger.

You're dangerously close to him realizing you're there when he sighs and cards a finger through his platinum blonde hair, ruffling the perfectly straight locks. You cock your head to the side, lowering your camera slightly, and see he's almost at the end of the book: your favorite, and least-favorite part. The poker-face he has on must be because he's reached the sad part.

You have the sudden urge to walk up to him and ask how he likes the book, but you social ineptitude locks your knees and freezes your feet to the sparkly cement. A chance like this is... astronomical. You've never heard and definitely never seen anyone that knows about the glorious book the blonde-hipster has tucked between his fingers.

"You have good taste in literature." Words tumble off your tongue like turpentine, stinging you as you realize you had walked right up to him and had started speaking.

He looks up in surprise, or what you assume is surprise; he's completely expressionless, eyes hidden by tinted plastic. He seems to look you over, and an eyebrow quirks above the rim of the shades.

You want to run and hide the face you're positive is blushing furiously, but again, your feet betray you and hold his level gaze.

"Do I?" You think you catch a slight Texan accent, smothered by the tone of someone who thinks "he's just so cool".

"Yes, you do. Just wait 'til you get to the last chapter." When had you become so talkative?

You see a slight upturn to the corner of his mouth, and take a quick second to wonder why he keeps his face so guarded.

"I take it you enjoyed it then."

"Yeah, immensely. Hey, do you mind if I take your picture?" Welp, you actually just said that. Commence your plan to abscond and never show your face in public again.

"I don't see why not." You force a timid smile in response, taking a step back and bringing the viewfinder of your camera to your eye. You spend a second adjusting for light difference, then take the shot.

Did he just smile?

You don't really know, so quickly close the case back around your camera, offering another shy smile.

"Um, thanks. Well, I should let you get back to reading." He gives a minute nod, and you turn away, walking quickly away from the plaza and checking the dial on the top of your camera.

You used up your entire roll of film.

A/N: I JUST WROTE DAVEKAT. WHY THE HELL DID I JUST WRITE DAVEKAT? I have absolutely no idea. I guess I was just having major DaveKat feels recently (blamed on Ao3 for it's many amazing ficlets).

So anyway, this is actually my final for English XD I know right? It was only supposed to be a page and a half, but this is just over two. Fun Fact: something very similar to this happened to me (The final was supposed to be a true-to-life narrative, but I took artistic liberties), and really the only thing that's different is that it's, well, Dave. And actually the guy I talked to was around twenty-five or something, while KK and Dave are obviously around the same age XD

People, go out and write DaveKat KK death fics. I have only found two worthy of reading, and there are so many DaveKat Dave death fics out there! It's like people are always playing KK as useless or something, and Dave always swoops in to save the day. Go make KK save the day, since I can't write death without making it sappy as shit XD

Note: Green Angel is the single most glorious book to ever exist. Everything about it is just so... perfect. I've read it three times, and it's made me cry every time, but not because it's sad or anything; it just ends so perfectly and heart-wrenchingly, I just can't even- * ahem *

Okays, I think that's all I have to say. I'm in the process of writing the next chapter for Des Ailes Dorées, and I'll hopefully have that up soon.

Ciao for now! ^-^

~Webs