"Yeah. Fuck. Yeah." A sentiment he's so fucking familiar with that it blows him away. He wasn't a foster kid - but he was the same kind of unwanted. That's exactly why he obsesses over elaborately plated food, and exactly why his personal art is a relief.

This is a relief, messy colours, streaking orange in with the soft eggshell blue. He puts a palm on her bicep, paint smeared over her tattoos, which he keeps meaning to ask about but not right now because right now he's saying, "I kinda like you imperfect," painfully honest. Pink high on his cheeks.