Don't Judge the Love (Youtuber One-Shots)

SetoSolace (Waiting)

Snap!

I whip around to face my mom, who is holding her expensive camera up in front of her face and clicking the button one more time – for good measure, as I'm sure she'd say. "Mom?"

"Sorry, I'll put it away. Wait, where is he, though? Who are we staring at?"

"Oh my Notch, Mom, I'm not staring."

"Right, right! My bad. You're aiming your gaze in his specific direction for an overly extended amount of time. Silly mistake, it won't happen again," she says, and then she winks and I groan and she laughs.

"Mom," I beg, feeling my cheeks heat up. "Stop it."

"Oh, come on, now! Where is he? Is it that kid on the swings – oh, dear Notch, I sincerely hope it isn't. Ew, Seto, he's picking his nose! Quick, fall in love with someone else!"

"Mom, that isn't him. You can calm down."

"No, I can't! Not until I see him. Which one is he? There are, like, five boys here. Approximately two of them are cute."

"Approximately?"

"I mean," she shrugs, "approximately."

I roll my eyes. "Um, okay, so, please don't stare, Mom, but he's the one on top of the rock wall." I glance around at the trees, downright refusing to look anywhere in the boy's general direction.

She makes a weird gasping noise. "Ooh, Seto!" she squeals as she takes a quick picture of the boy, and I have to shush her before she can scare away every living creature within a five-mile radius. "Dang, though, hon, that boy is cute! Just your type, too."

"Mom, please."

"Come on, let's go talk to him!"

"What!?" I screech, and the boy looks up from his notebook just long enough to raise both eyebrows at me and my mother. "Oh, oh, my dear Notch. Mom! He just freaking- crap!"

"You know, you lose the majority of your smarty vocabulary whenever you're embarrassed," Mom reveals, and I groan again. "Seriously, though, come on! You can't be shy, Seto. You have to take these chances while they're still here."

Sadly? She has a point. He won't be here forever. I won't be here forever.

"Fine, then. Lead the way."

She bites her lip to hold back another squeal, and then she stashes her camera in her purse, puts on her patented "calm and collected" face, and strides toward the rock wall with a confidence I may never possess. "Hello, young man. What are you drawing?" she asks casually when we arrive. Oh, he's not writing, he's drawing. An artist, then? Or maybe he's just bored and trying out something new.

"Hmm? Oh, hello. Mostly I'm just drawing anything that happens to catch my attention. Or, you know, anything that will sit still long enough for me to properly sketch it." He shrugs and smiles and I think I would faint if it weren't for my mom's comforting hand on my back.

"Oh, that's nice! So how interested are you in art?"

"Very interested, ma'am," he replies, lighting up. I have to make a conscious effort not to sigh all lovey-dovey like. "It's my passion, I love it! I consider myself a professional artist."

"By the looks of that amazing tree replication, you are a professional artist," my mother compliments him, staring in awe at the notebook page. I'd like to see it, but it's tilted away from me, and I really don't want to lean forward. That would look too eager. I think?

"Although it would be nice if you had the chance to try something a bit different – more complicated, maybe? I know you could do it, but, gosh, I'd love to see it," Mom says as an afterthought.