They seemed chosen their outfits from the same colorful palette, the blended family of where blue met green. Of course, it was the first thing that Oliver noticed when he glanced up from the gravel at Dietre's approach. He smiled, a curve of the mouth that was immediately in bloom when he raised his eyebrows with a little nod that he figured functioned as a greeting without the necessity of words. Oliver stretched out his legs, which weren't quite long or lanky enough to look as good in jeans as Dietre's, but his old jeans still hugged with a certain charm. Growing up, it seemed like he'd always been the smallest. He was always falling behind or left looking up with the kind of craning neck that instilled an uncomfortable twinge. Oliver wasn't so young anymore, but he hadn't gained much height to show for it.
Even now, he was staring up from below. The sun was setting now, threatening to splash the sky in orange and purple. Their clothes would look great on that background.
"Ages," he said of the time spent waiting, but it was a lie said through pleasantry. Leaning weight on the heels of his hands, arms propped, Oliver's head fell back to give Dietre another smile. It was definitely not one of his gray days.
"Are you hungry? Or should we head to the city, Rose?" Then, his attention traveled down Dietre's body to his legs and ultimately to his feet. "I remembered the shoes," he stated with obvious pride. He never remembered anything if it had to do wholly with somebody else and not really to do with himself. But, he'd remembered the shoes for Dietre. There was a black Jansport backpack next to his leg, as battered and ready to retire as his bluejeans, and inside were many graffiti supplies along with one pair of running shoes.