Started as a drabble, ended as this. Sort of poetic, maybe? Thanks to me beta, iie nome. Or gher's muse. Whatever the name is here.

Sometimes he likes to talk in circles.

It won't be long before my head spins, listening to a tale of mixed paranoia and exultation. His metaphoric talking goes on and on, and, as abrupt as he began, he'll stop. He'll sip his tea and stare with calculating grey eyes, and I know a picture is forming. A shadowy painting, maybe, or a scrawling dark sketch.

Drabble becomes art, and in some way I am proud to be one working cog in the process.

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Artistic quirks aside, he carries a perfectly normal conversation most of the time. Quidditch, work, snark commenting; It's like talking to my best friend. I suppose he is my best friend.

His smirk, his laugh: all of it has become something I am accustomed to. How this came to be is too long a story to tell, and I'm sure you can find it somewhere else. You pick whichever tale tickles your fancy.

I think what it was was that the person that I know today - this high maintence artist, of open mind and heart; this indulgent better side of him - was hiding from himself. Maybe I unlocked it and showed it to him, but he says not to flatter myself so.

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His kiss is amazing. A taste sometimes like peppermint, and sometimes something exotic. All the time. It's ectasy whenever he so much as touches me. His tongue is pointed - it teases, dragging out to the most - invigorating? - erotic? - moan-inducing? - beautiful? - exotic? - sensual? - sensations imaginable.

I never ask how he became so experienced. It feels like natural talent, and I like to pretend it is. That he's mine, only mine. In some moments of possessiveness, those words might be whispered into his ear, soft past his blonde strands of hair. Always a moment of entanglement - limbs, sheets, hands, hair, him, me, all tangled up so. Silk of his skin, hot breath , all firing my nerves until he is all I feel and all I know.

Desire, lust, Draco: Sometimes these are the only things I understand.

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Paint in the bedroom strikes me as odd initially. It also tickles a little. But then, somehow...

Color of lust, same as the spreading flush on my cheeks, coasts along the inside of my thigh, his fingers trailing just behind, and, oh, being in touch with art could never be so good. Surreal - that's how it always is with him. Like dancing, like rain, he's everywhere, chill of a brush on fevered skin and warmth of featherlight touches and kisses in his wake. Spinning, flying, where's up and where's down? Wanting, yearning... And he's there, suddenly solid, and soon I'm nearing,

reaching,

and tumbling over the edge.

"Now do you appreciate my art a little more?"

Husky and haughty like only he can do. I'm nodding before I even realize it.

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Sometimes I think I talk in circles too.

Maybe I just forget what is present and what is past. I find myself continuously set in one while the other is happening.

And one day, I was caught in the present while the past was happening.

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The calculating look is on me now. A soft smile is tugging his lips. I love him, but sometimes, sometimes...

Is he changing the subject with silence, or is this just a natural bout of oddity? He is mumbling about light or shadow. I am asking who came to call today.

He tells me no one. The lie sends a spark of anger to light my eyes, tofire the fuel to an eventual argument. He knows it will come, later. But now, he is all mysterious smiles. With one last calculation and the deception of an almost-kiss, he retreats to his workroom.

I am left with only his air of mystery and the musing of a strange vistor for a moment. But then work, the now, fills my head.

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Tomorrow he'll be dead,but tonight he's still mine. I hope I'm not giving you an illusion of foreknowledge that does not exsist. I am clueless but for sensing his tension, but for the quiet contemplation in his eyes, but for some sense inside us that said we should be together tonight. One last time.

I've forgotten all about vistors or ; the day was too stressful. I seek a night of contententment, comfort, him in my arms, gentle roving and soft caressing, watching of blonde hair ghosting over closed lids. What I get has all the same feelings with more erotism, perfect in its sense of loving devotion.

'I love you.'

It isn't the first time he has said that. But it's rare, only coming in moments he feels is right. The rarity gives it an extra edge of expression, of beauty. I breathe in the sense of it, the sense of him.

'I love you too.'

He tells me he painted a picture for me, but I shouldn't look at it until later. I don't.

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Fin.