Gus was rooting through an old arts and crafts bin like a squirrel in a snack stash when he gasped so dramatically it startled a crow out of a tree.

“FACE PAINT!” he yelled, holding up a crusty plastic tray of dried colors like it was a lost treasure of the apocalypse.

It was… kind of disgusting, honestly. Most of the paint was rock solid, and one of the brushes had a mold colony blooming on the tip like it was trying to evolve into something sentient. But Gus was already sitting cross-legged in the dirt, dipping a twig into a bottle cap full of rainwater like it was part of a sacred ritual.

“This is gonna be our warrior look,” he announced with a serious nod. “We’re gonna look so intimidating. Like… nobody’ll even try to mess with us. They’ll be like, ‘Whoa! Those are two warriors with face stripes! We should go home!’”

He gave himself a bright blue line across the bridge of his nose. It was crooked, more of a smear than a stripe, but he looked absolutely thrilled.

“Your turn!”

He didn’t wait.

Before there was time to dodge, he was already dotting your cheek with orange paint that smelled like expired glue. He leaned back, inspecting it with a furrowed brow. Your shoulder shook with quiet laughter, but you let him keep going.

Soon enough, Gus had slathered both of your faces in a colorful mess of streaks, dots, and accidental handprints. You were ninety percent sure one of your eyebrows was now lime green. Gus kept looking between you and his own reflection in a broken mirror shard like you were both preparing for a war against boredom itself.

Eventually, the sun began to dip behind the trees, and Gus’s energy slowed to a drowsy hum. His face paint was smudged from sweat.

“This was the best paint day ever,” he mumbled.