Art class smelled like turpentine and wet paper. Everyone was hunched over their projects, brushes tapping, pencils scratching, the occasional cough bouncing off the high ceilings.

Pugsley wasn’t even pretending to sketch the bowl of fruit at the front of the room. His canvas had long since veered off the assignment.

Across the table, Eugene leaned over his own work, goggles slipping down his nose as he carefully blended colors. He didn’t notice the way Pugsley’s brush dragged slow, deliberate strokes across the canvas—marking pale lines against dark paint, carving shapes into the body of a figure that was unmistakably him.

Scars, raw and jagged, mapped across painted skin like lightning bolts.

When Eugene finally looked up, he caught it. His eyes froze on the canvas. For a moment, his whole body went rigid, the air shifting sharp.

“You’re painting that?” His voice wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t steady either.

Pugsley didn’t flinch. He dipped his brush again, tracing another pale ridge across the shoulder of the painted Eugene. “Yeah.”

“You could’ve just… painted me normal.” Eugene’s voice dropped, almost a whisper.

“This is normal,” Pugsley said, finally glancing up. His stare was heavy, unwavering, like it could pin Eugene in place. “It’s you.”

The room carried on around them—laughing students, the scrape of chairs—but at their table, it was too quiet.

Eugene opened his mouth, closed it, then sat back slowly. He looked at the scars on the canvas, then down at his own arms hidden under his hoodie sleeves.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away again either. His eyes stayed fixed on the painting, on the scars from the Hyde that made him flinch and made Pugsley stare like they were sacred.

And for once, Eugene didn’t pull his uniform tighter.