The Wrong Picture
Disclaimer: Rowling owns.
A/N: This was written for the Jan 14th prompts on the Prompts, Oh Prompts thread on NGF.
Pairing:
Lysander/Scorpius
Prompts:
painting
splash ; romanticise ; dream
'my art does not want to subscribe to the view / that unhappiness commands the world' - Sri Chinmoy's "Art"
The room was quiet except for the deep breaths of the boy and the occasional splash of the brush when it came in contact with the paint or the paper.
He concentrated on his work, trying his best to forget all his frustrations.
Painting would make it better, he told himself. It always did.
Whenever he felt bad, painting was the only thing that could somehow, soothe the feeling. It didn't make it go away; it just made it easier to endure.
And like always, his worries seemed to drop to the background. Nothing mattered now but this art in front of him; only this room full of art.
But sometimes, late at nights, when there was no painting to soothe him, he couldn't help but dream about that boy; that platinum-haired blonde boy, who was the cause of all his troubles. He would dream that the boy would come to him and tell him that he had been wrong all this time, and would give him a kiss and ask for forgiveness.
But then reality would hit him. Dreamer boy Lysander would fall in the midst of the unhappy world, and realize that it was all just dreams. He would realize that the same boy from his dreams was actually out there professing his love for someone else.
Despite all this, he was here. He was calmly painting and engrossed in his work.
He dipped the brush in the dark blue paint and brought it close to the painting, and he streaked the brush across a part of it. It was done at last.
As he looked at his completed work, he realized, with a jolt, how different this was from the world; from reality.
The landscape in the painting was evergreen, and the blue sky was shimmering over it. The trees and valleys in the back looked almost real. Even he had to admit it was beautiful.
But in reality, the world wasn't so beautiful, was it? He had endured too much here, and he knew it better than anyone. This romanticized painting was wrong, wasn't it?
Though, all he could think now was that his art seemed to disagree. It wasn't going to be the cruel place he had seen, it only wanted to be the land he wanted it be; and maybe, it wasn't so wrong, after all.
I really loved writing this! Haha, my first slash fic. If you've read this much, then please leave a review!
