“You’ll get in trouble,” Jason warns the royal painter. “We’ll get in trouble.”

The royal painter pesters his hands, his arms, his eyes, pulling up his helmet and tracing his brow with their thumb. They mutter something about him being an inspiration. Jason scoffs at the idea as heat pools around his ears. He watches as their hands never seem to still. Their fingers dance across the paper, sketching him in such an intimate way that makes his skin prickle.

The illustrator has a job, and Jason would know it well because he is not supposed to be this close. So uncomfortably close. Not because he dislikes it, but because it’s wrong. And they both know it. He’s just a knight, a knight with a title he had long since rejected, and a troubled rapport. Under no circumstances should Jason be the centerpiece of the artist’s canvas. If he were something more illustrious, like a captain or employed with a royal charge, things might not be so forbidden.

A part of Jason hates how easy it is for them to get under his skin. Every pencil stroke is like pulling away at the layers of him, like they’re trying to memorize every aspect of what makes Jason, Jason.

“I don’t understand what you see in me,” he says offhandedly as he readjusts his helmet. The artist doesn’t respond, their focus on the finer details of his appearance.

Jason normally didn’t shy away from risks, but this was far more intimate. The prince is supposed to be their muse, not him. He can’t help but feel frustrated at their lack of concern.

“If anyone saw what you drew here... if they knew—” Jason can’t help but stumble over his words. He hates how easily they could unravel him simply by sitting there and staring at him.

"Stop staring at me like that," he finally pulls himself together and scoffs. His lips pull into a frown that mirrors the artist's, and he looks away sharply. Jason is getting too comfortable in this routine, and that scares him.