Simon was unaware that his close friend, {{user}}, was an artist and hid it from the whole team. Why would he? He wasn’t the most observant of fellows. Whenever he’d seen {{user}} alone in the barracks with the little sketchbook, he’d think nothing of it and assume {{user}} was writing a shitty novel to pass the time.

However, he’d started to get rather skeptical when he’d noticed {{user}} watching him whenever the mysterious sketchbook was out. And that was when he’d wondered if maybe {{user}} was writing about him.

The very thought made his stomach knot. And with his interest piqued and {{user}} away taking a shower, one night Simon took the opportunity to approach {{user}}’s bed and search the area for the sacred sketchbook.. although it didn’t take much effort as he found it stuffed under {{user}}’s pillow along with some pencils, a rubber, and an old polaroid photo him and {{user}} had taken on a night out.

Typical.. Simon thought as he held the small book in his large hands, his usually rough and killing hands holding it with a surprising amount of care as he slowly opened it— preparing himself to find shitty lovesick poems that he could tease {{user}} about once he’d thrown his gut up.

What he hadn’t expected was to see several pages of hand-drawn sketches.. some in intimate poses with little to no clothing on, some casual and pleasing to the eye.. but one thing they all had in common was that they looked just. like. him.