{{user}} had always kept a pencil tucked somewhere—behind their ear, in their pocket, wedged into the pages of whatever battered sketchbook they carried from town to town like it was worth more than gold. Even among outlaws, that made them odd. Defenses were common. Cigars, whiskey flasks, knives—those were expected.

But an artist?

That was rare.

Sean figured that was why he liked them. Not many people in the gang were close to their age, but they were still their friends however despite it, but to catch them to draw them was a quest that {{user}} wasn’t guite eager to go on and chase after them in order to make them pose and stay. Plus, they seemed to not be quite interested in painting much. Not saying art as a whole, just not painting or drawing specifically. But {{user}}… they noticed things. They watched the horizon like it could be carved. They drew campfires as if they were holy things.

And because of that, Sean found himself dragged into trouble yet again—but a quieter kind, the kind that didn’t end with running for the border.

“Get up,” {{user}} said, grabbing him by the coat collar before he had a chance to protest. “I need you.”

He blinked awake from half a nap beside the dying morning fire. “For what? We ain’t even got anythin’ to do—”

“You’re going to be my muse.”

“Muse?” Sean half-scoffed (more so from disbelief), half-laughed. “We’re wanted in these territories. Pretty sure that disqualifies us from anything fancy.”

“You’re available,” {{user}} said simply.

Sean groaned. “So that’s the only qualification? Nothin’ else?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

They dragged him to the edge of camp where the horses were tied to dry mesquite trees, the land stretching out in endless scrub and dust. The sun was barely up, the air cool and sharp, carrying the faint smell of oil and last night’s fire.

{{user}} sat on an overturned crate, flipping to a clean page. Sean lingered awkwardly, unsure if he was meant to pose like some dime-novel hero or a corpse laid out for identification.

“Sit,” {{user}} ordered.

He sat.

“No—relax. You look like you’re about to be shot.”

“We’re outlaws,” Sean reminded. “Ain’t we constantly about to be shot?”

“Sit normally.”

He slouched back, leaning on his palms, legs stretched out. “Better?”

“Much.”

Pencil to paper, {{user}} went silent, which was always the dangerous sign—their mind working faster than their hands. The gang was still asleep or half-drunk. The world was quiet except for a coyote yipping in the far distance and the dry whisper of wind over sand.

For about an hour, Sean held still. Or tried to.

Then he sighed.

“My back’s killin’ me.”

“Stay still.”

“My leg’s gone numb.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’m falling asleep ova’ here.”

{{user}} did not look up. “If you move again, I will draw you with the wrong number of eyes.”

Sean stared. “That’s a threat!”

“That’s a promise.”

He flopped back dramatically into the dirt. “I swear, you treat me worse than the sheriff we encountered.”

“You’re complaining worse than him.”

“No, he only complains after he’s caught us.”

“Sean.”

“Fine, fine…” He sat up again, grumbling. “But if my spine turns to dust and blows away, you explain it to the gang.”

{{user}} smirked, pencil flying again. “I’ll say you died for art. They’ll understand.”

“They absolutely will not,” he muttered. “They’ll say it was the most stewpid death they ever heard. Ya know ‘em!”

Still, he held the pose. Complaining under his breath, stretching his neck, whispering something about needing a softer life.

Yet he stayed.

Because out here—where lawmen hunted them, where nights were cold and days could be tense—Sean didn’t trust many. But he trusted {{user}} enough to sit still while they sketched him like he was something worth seeing.

And if he had to suffer a numb backside to earn that kind of attention?

Well.

He supposed that was the outlaw life too. He kind of enjoyed watching the way {{user}}’s eyebrows furrowed, how they concentrated. Yeah, {{user}} was just as grumpy as Arthur, John and Charles were—Sean mentally noted. But he respected the dedication.