the painter // george weasley //

23

 In Bed, The Kiss (1892) by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

"It's not my fault."

"Olive.."

"Mhmm?"

"You love me right?"

She took her forehead off his, and backed away, looking him in the eyes.

"Of course I do." Her eyes softened as they looked in his, wiping a tear off his cheek.

She was seeing this man, no this boy. He was still a boy, his childhood ripped away from him. Even though she knew Voldemort wasn't going to just stop over here, he was going to come for them eventually. Especially, after the original American witches. But she was lucky, she had her childhood still. She went to school, to learn, not to be brought up as these child soldiers. Most to all her portraits are of children, most of the people she had met, were still children. Nothing was ripped from her, not till she was old enough to understand why.

She sees a scared boy in his eyes. Afraid that the things he loves, he cherishes, will be ripped from him again.

"Of course I do, Gee."

"Gee..." he whispered into a smile, he loved that word. Probably more than her 'i love you's', because he had only ever heard it come from her mouth. It was like she was saying 'i love you', without even saying it. His eyes closed, "Promise me.."

"Anything." She furrowed her brows.

"If I push, because I will. If I try and push you away.." He choked, "Don't leave me. Please."

Those words don't fit, coming out of this mans mouth. Those begging words coming out of George Weasley's mouth, did not fit him at all. He is this tall, strong man. He went to war and survived, he'd seen death and destruction. Yet here he was, begging. Like a child. Like an innocent soul.

Her hand gently caressed his chin and pushed his head up to face her.

"Open your eyes," she whispered, "George, open your eyes."

Finally looking, he saw hers. He was seeing his saving grace. Her. She was strong, she wasn't afraid of anything. That's what he believed; in all honestly she was afraid of everything. Her biggest fear now, losing him.

"I promise you." She was also promising herself. She couldn't let this one get away.

He placed both his hands on her cheeks and pulled her in. He felt at ease when ever they collided. Two worlds colliding into one, yet they fit each other like one. She lived the life he dreamt about, the life he told himself he had lived. A normal one.

When their worlds collide, his grief is set aside, only for her. It's her, he lies with, it's her he opens up to. Why does he make her promise to not leave him? If he loved her so much, why would he push her away? It's not her he wants to do this to, but to himself, because it's his own self sabotage. It's the life he grew up with, in his eyes things shouldn't be perfect. Not as perfect as her. Because perfect things get destroyed. He doesn't deserve her. Happiness, she was his happiness. He honestly believed he didn't deserve happiness.

"Darling," George hummed into her lips, "I am madly in love with you."

Her lips crashed into his and he kissed back with no hesitance. His grip on her tightened, like any minute she would simply disappear.

"I'm not going anywhere." She whispered, like she knew his grip was making sure she was still there, that she was real. That she was his.

The sun started to glimmer through the blinds of her bedroom. She hadn't realized the hour, she awoke from his screams, was so early. The morning sun, almost like a spot light, lit the two up. In a sea of sheets, she was the most beautiful thing he's ever set his eyes on. She was over him, sat on his lap, legs on both sides of him. He caressed her sides, admiring her curves, her being. Her arms were works of art on their own, scattered with her tattoos. Her art. His hand stopped near the newly healed tattoo on her right arm. He was apart of her now.