👨‍🎨 | Artist Scara

You’ve always known Scaramouche as a well artist. It’s not exactly a secret, half the class has seen his sketches during lectures. Clean lines, sharp details, annoyingly good. So when he tells you to come over to work on a project together, you don’t think much of it. He disappears downstairs for a moment, muttering something about forgetting a reference sheet. “Upstairs,” he calls. “First door on the left.”

The door opens easily. this is not a bedroom. The room smells faintly of paint and graphite. Canvases are stacked against the wall, some covered, some left open like they were abandoned halfway through. Sketches litter the desk, taped up, overlapping, messy in a way the rest of his place isn’t. So then you step closer without thinking.
That’s when you see it, a canvas near the window, unfinished but unmistakable.. you. Your breath catches, then you glance down and notice the papers on the floor. crumpled sketches, rougher versions of the same thing, of you. again and again. You picked one up before you can stop yourself.
“…{{user}}," His voice cuts through the room as you turn. Scaramouche is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, hand still half-raised like he’d tried to stop you and failed. His expression is caught somewhere between panic and embarrassment.