Painting

Painting

Paint. It is paint on his hands and in his hair and on the floor and on his robes and on the canvas. He has a brush but it is lying idly in a jar of water; Harry Potter does not need brushes; he would like to feel Draco Malfoyfs replica with his own hands--he believes it will turn out more real that way.

There is the white, blue, gray, and slightly brown mesh of the sky which is the background: they are in the Owlery, in the middle where the window is, surrounded by hoots and feathers and owls staring curiously at them through half-lidded eyes: it is a slow mail day; they want rest. But as long as Harry and Draco and a canvas and paint are in the room, the owls will either have to turn away or tuck their heads into their wings.

Draco is staring quizzically at Harry as he scratches his nose; his hand comes away only to smear a bit of green on the side of his pale cheek. Malfoy wants to laugh, but Potter tells him to keep the damned pose, itfs a good one and itfs a rare one: Draco Malfoy sitting on the windowsill of the Owlery with a bucketful of emotions besides hate and anger and spite on his face; without a robe on during a cold November day, his white shirt clinging gently to curves only he could have. If you squinted, Harry thinks, you could almost see him smiling.

The wind whips irritatingly and it musses up Dracofs hair to just the right amount and Harry quickly dips his fingers in the white paint, the white paint that is mixed with the yellow paint that is mixed with a small amount of silver paint: the hue and tint that is the boyfs hair. He knows he is too old to be finger painting, but it is just as a certain song goes: 'Fingers trace your every outline/paint a picture with my hands'. It is that song and Harry knows it and he lives by it, because as he traces out a faint outline of the neat tufts of Draco's hair, he can feel it, soft and gently spiky, in his hands, and that is what makes the canvas like a bed and that is what makes the paint like a blanket of lust.

It is not often that Potter finds himself blushing but he is; in loads that remind Draco of apples and cherries and raw salmon. He snickers. Raw salmon. I amaze myself sometimes.

"Don't do that," Harry snaps when he catches Draco snickering. "It ruins the atmosphere."
"I haven't ruined anything," Draco drawls, watching an owl pass him to deliver a rather large parcel. "Maybe your fantasy, but thatfs it."
Actually, Harry notices as his finger involuntarily adds the twist of mouth, the painting hasnft lost anything. It looks even better, maybe. If you stood three feet away and cocked your head to the side and squinted like an idiot, yeah, it would look better. He snorts. "Shut up, Malfoy."

He continues painting and realizes he is nearly finished--the only thing that needs to be painted and painted over and then painted over again, as a good painting is supposed to go, is Dracofs mouth. The snicker didnft help, and neither did a smile (it was too weird) or a straight line (it made him look pissed). Damn the boy for having so many emotions, the average teenage boy only had four: anger, pent-up sexual tension, irritation, and pent-up sexual tension.

Well, he doesn't have any pent-up sexual tension, does he, a little voice says in Potter's head as he dips his fingers in a pale pink, since he's got you.

Cherries, apples, and raw salmon inflame his cheeks.

"Aren't you finished yet?" Draco asks by the window, pretending he is not whining when he really is. "It's quite cold. I have gooseflesh. I'm catching a cold."
"Stop complaining, Malfoy," Harry says, pondering on how to finish the chef-d'oeuvre--the masterpiece--he has created. Quite full of yourself, arenft we, Potter? "I'm almost finished and you and your frail immune system can wait a few more seconds."
"But I want to be warm," Draco moans (he's not pretending anymore, apparently), locking eyes with a disgruntled Harry. "I want to be in bed."

He smirks.

It is then that Harry understands why so many girls refer to Draco as the Walking Smirk; it's because he really is one: it is his signature; that little upturn-sliver-of-white-teeth-thing. It will add, Potter knows quite well, that flair that he wants for the picture. In one sweeping motion, the tip of his pinky finger produces a thin, upwards-curving line that is the smirk. Satisfied, and with a bit of blue paint on the edge of his nose, Harry steps away from the picture and surveys it.

"You're finished!" Draco says loudly from his perch atop the sill. "God, I thought you'd never be done. Is it good? Do I look sexy?" Excitedly, he jumps off the high seat and lands agilely next to Harry.

Yes, you do, he wants to answer but never will for fear that Draco's ego will become the size of a hippogriff. (It is nearing capacity, and Harry wants to do something about that.) You look like the arrogant, selfish smirking thing that you are. It is true; the smirk on Dracofs face is what adds to the painting, and is what makes Draco say,

"Holy shit. What the hell is up with my arms, Potter? I look like a bowtruckle."

...And is what makes Draco say,

"But besides that rather major flaw, I must admit that you did capture my elegant essence."

While Harry is rolling his eyes, Draco reaches out and smudges the blue on Harry's nose so that it comes off on his thumb. Malfoy looks at it and wrinkles his nose. "Ugh, Muggle paint," he mumbles, wiping it off on Harry's already-stained robes. "It smells bad."
"When you paint my picture, you're going to have to get used to the smell," Harry remarks, smiling at a bit of red on Draco's collarbone that he hasn't noticed yet. But Draco looks back at him, eyebrows shot up to the ceiling.
"Paint your picture, Potter? I think not. Not with my hands, anyway. Ifd use a real brush, made from only the finest hairs of whatever animal I choose to violate, and real wizarding paints, because they donft smell awful, and of course Ifd paint you naked."

Harry smirks this time; and watches as Draco stares at his mouth appreciatively.

"Paint me naked, huh," Harry says, taking Draco's hands in his own. "Why don't we start? Without a canvas."

Paint. It is paint on his hands and in his hair and on his nose, and on the canvas and on the floor and five seconds later it is on Draco, and none of them mind. Because they are creating their chef-d'oeuvres with their hands, skin against skin, and the actual paint, both of them know, can come later. Much later.

-Fin-