There were these things on {{user}}’s cheeks, nose, shoulders, everywhere.

Little freckles that Arthur was actually pretty fond of doting their skin, and he longed to touch them, brush his fingertips across these brownish spots. However, he held back these thoughts.

Instead, he picked up a pencil and started drawing in his journal.

That didn’t go as well as planned though : the face was fine, recognisable, fateful to the model, but the way he would haphazardly pepper the paper wasn’t as satisfying as he wished it would be.

So, one day, when Dutch wasn’t calling for him, Arthur sat across from {{user}} at one of the camp’s tables, and started doting carefully the sketch he already had drawn. Looking up, looking down, he caught their curious gaze from time to time.