Title: Escapism

Author: Meridian

Rating: G

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Summary: We all have our way of escaping from the pressures of life, here's Harry and Draco's.

A/N: Happy Birthday Gigiaiko!!!! Thanks to Electric Android for the beta.

~*~

When people look at my lover they never see beyond his angelic face. They get lost in the grey universe held within his eyes or the silken threads of his hair, as a light breeze gives it the perfect ripple.

In many ways I can see how they never get past his face but I cannot understand it. I never saw his beauty, only a hateful, spoilt brat whose pointed features gave him a sneer that put the fear of Malfoy into those of weaker minds. I did not fear him, I did not find him beautiful, I hated him ruthlessly until the unthinkable happened. My passion now is only for loving him.

His fingers hold the book gently. Lazily he turns a flimsy, yellowing page. His eyes are fixed on the written words, he seems so at peace. When he reads he forgets about the outside world, he willingly falls into another fantasy realm. We all have our own methods of escapism.

I've never been able to sit and read for hours. I never used to do anything much, other than think. I would lock myself in my own brain, it was more torture than escape.

Then I met the real him.

At first I used to doodle while he read, it's amazing how long scribbling can keep you occupied, but I became bored so quickly. When I first started drawing him, I thought it impossible. My child-like sketches seemed so far from his ethereal beauty. He never moved while he sunk into his book, but when he was finished he would look at my pictures and smile.

They say practice makes perfect, well maybe not perfect but certainly recognisable. I can see his face forming from the rushed lines of my pencil. It's him, the nose, the eyes, the same expression of concentration he gets when he's completely enthralled in the words he holds in his hands.

We have lain like this for hours on end. I lose myself tracing the contours of his perfectly formed shoulders. There is nothing but paper, pencil and him. I doubt I will ever get tired of drawing him. I can see the small differences in his posture, when he rests heavily on his right arm instead of left. Some days he wears a smile, others a sadder expression, his mood changes and I think that it might be something to do with which book he's reading.

Today is the same, an hour has passed already. A familiar head and shoulders can be seen on my page. He lies bare-chested tonight, the candle light flickers across it, dancing an arrhythmic dance. I stroke the bold line of his ribcage, leaning in to kiss the smooth flat skin just above his navel. My lips linger and time has no meaning between us.