sparks~drarry

Paint Me Pretty

Description: An AU where Harry is selectively mute, choosing to stay silent after he startles his parents so badly they veer off the road, killing everyone in the cat except for himself. And when he meets Draco, a deaf artist attending the same university, they immediately hit it off.

Warnings: none

Song: Young God by Halsey (not sure if I've used this song before...)

Length: 1k words
__________________
Harry's POV

The world around me buzzes with sound. Everything is sensation, the hiss of the wind, the whistling of the leaves, the groaning of the trees. Beneath my feet, fiery leaves crumble to golden ashes, and above, the sky rolls with gray sorrow. Across the expanse of red speckled stones, students mill about, chatting with one another as books and pencils spill from their arms.

I focus on the sights, rather than the sounds. That hurts too much. As I let myself silence the barrage of noises assaulting my ears, just the way Uncle Moony taught me to, I swear the colors become brighter. The dull sky is suddenly a brilliant, jovial silver, the burnt orange leave the same color as the tip of a candle flame, the grayish paint of the university pale blue.

A small smile curves my chapped lips. I turn away from the rest of the students and make my way towards the art department, the one place that's utterly silent, always. Of course, you'd expect the library to be that way. But you're completely incorrect. The library buzzes, just like a faint crowd, with quiet noise, like an irritating, teal eyed fly beating its wings against your ear. The art department, however, is eternally silent, beautiful in all it's colorful glory.

When I make it to the art department, I carefully set down my books on one of the chairs before proceeding to wander around the empty chairs, my gaze, burning from the harsh wind outside, settling on one student in the midst of a barren space. His hair is that of spun silver, and though I can't see them from where I stand, I find myself expecting his eyes to be a brooding gray, or perhaps a sky blue or brilliant green, like my own.

However, when he turns to face in my direction in order to take a grab at the paints set out before him, I find that none of my assumptions were true. From where I stand, I can clearly see that his eyes are blue, not nightly blue or a color of that section but rather the most beautiful gray blue. Not that of the university, no, but the same shade as a wondrous storm.

We make eye contact, and he startles, his hand splaying out to knock over a container of soft pink paint. He blinks rapidly.

I wave. He ducks, a graceful blush spreading its way like dye over silk.

Hesitant, I sign, what's your name?

I can tell he is quite startled. Perhaps he does not speak ASL? However, I am pleasantly surprised as he motions the same set of words back at me, carefully avoiding eye contact, his gorgeous gaze set like stone on my hands.

H•a•r•r•y. I sign, and a smile tilts the edges of his satin lips.

D•r•a•c•o. He then motions me closer, his pink and green splattered hand a porcelain spider. Beautiful.

I drift in his direction, and take a peak at his canvas. The whole thing is covered with colors so bright they irritate my eyes, from a luscious pink that forms cherry blossom trees to a vibrant blue that makes up the sky.

Beautiful, I sign, and he blushes.

How can you speak A•S•L? I am deaf.

I am mute.

True?

Yes. Chosen.

But why would you do that?

I just can't speak.

Since childhood?

No.

Since when? He took no shame in his blatant - and mildly rude - curiosity, his sky eyes sparkling.

Since three years.

He bears his teeth in a smile that could possibly be sad, then grabs a paintbrush from a cup that sits on the chair to his left, dips it in emerald paint, then proceeds to splatter it on my face.

I blink. Seeing my bafflement, he lets out the most gorgeous laugh I have ever heard, a melodic songs that brings to mind purple and pink and blue.

Fun? He signs.

I shrug, my smile growing wider before proceeding to dip my fingers in blue paint and dab it on his nose. He lets out a little squeal and immediately retaliates with a swipe of paint across my white t-shirt, eliciting a rough gasp from me.

Even though I just met him, I feel like I've known him for a million years, his sly smile and his sparkling eyes and those delicate glass hands that create beauty with a mere brushstroke.

My grin becomes devious as I dip both of my hands in bowls filled with ebony and white paint and splatter them on his loose blouse, which dips with the heaviness of the paint. He scowls playfully, and grabs a bowl of velvet purple paint before proceeding to spray it onto my face.

I grab another bowl, this one with a slight amount of dandelion yellow paint, fully prepared to paint him pretty with it until... Until he makes eye contact with me, and we both freeze, our limbs turning to crystal.

Slowly, shakily, he rises his hands and signs, I know you.

When I repeat the message, his face burns crimson, an erotic expression that makes me want to place my lips on his velvet ones, savoring the strange tasting paint on that mouth and running my dandelion fingers all over his ruined blouse-

****

Three weeks later, I am doing just that, with paint running down our faces like happy tears and my now scarlet fingers painting stripes down his blouse, until both our faces are green and red and pink and orange-