Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter novels, movies and characters belong to Warner Bros. and J. K. Rowling.
A/N: I wrote this off of a prompt (from 2005) I recently found on the Deamus community on L.J. It asked to use four of the following words: Cracker, Toothbrush, Rosary, Glorious, and Fingerprints. My fic Ave Maria is based on of the ending of this, because it somehow ran away from what I had intended it to be. Still, I hope you enjoy!
Glorious
Glimpses of a dream pass by his eyes in the calm solitude of the waiting window. It's one thing in Seamus' life that wants slow and still and calm. One of few. He may always seem in a rush, and in a way he is, in a way no one but Dean has ever been able to describe. Even Dean can't explain him in words, though Dean uses art that is far more magical for not being enchanted. Far more enchanting for its lack of magic. Seamus' constant movement blurs the edges of Dean's sketches, and the movement is tangible despite being untouched by the charms that grace the castle walls. That art, that inherent magic Seamus has only ever known Dean to posses is beyond his words. It is perfection. It is glorious. Seamus hardly thinks he's seen anything quite so breathtaking. He jokes that it's because he is the subject of these creative endeavors, but he can hardly lie to himself.
Now, as he sits, cold leaching into him from the unsealed cracks around the edges of the glass pane, he waits for the other thing he wants slow and still and calm. Dean enters. Seamus can sense him, and his stomach does an odd flip he hasn't yet accustomed himself to. He wants to hear the quiet voice say "Shay?" half a question, half an announcement of his presence. Instead, Dean simply crosses the room to him, standing silently beside him as the view into the swirling snowy darkness changes the same way it has been for minutes that somehow seem like hours to Seamus.
Dean doesn't say the view is beautiful, or picturesque, or, Merlin forbid, magical, or any of the sappy things that Seamus suspects he's thinking. Seamus suspects Dean would love to sketch this scene; he is no doubt imagining how much black he'd need to cover the canvas, how to make the pinprick flakes swirl in a whorl that swallows you in the same way he makes Seamus move. Seamus guesses Dean isn't quite sure himself how he makes his art come alive, that it's simply a natural talent that surprises Dean as much as it amazes others. Seamus has no reason to think this, but he guesses from the way Dean will stare blankly at a canvas or his sketchpad for full minutes, stops work and simply gazes before becoming once more absorbed into his work. Seamus has always wondered if there is anything else in the world that can absorb Dean the way creating art does. He hasn't found anything yet that does.
Dean shifts beside him, and Seamus finally tears his gaze from the mesmerizing snowfall, tears his brain from its racing commentary, his senses from drinking in the presence of the boy he knows too well yet not enough. He grins, and looks into the dark-soft eyes that have accompanied him through six years. A smile is broad on Dean's face, Dean the artist, Dean the muggleborn, Dean whose innate happiness most people cannot see. But Seamus always has, and he will until the day that inner brightness fades.
And somehow Seamus knows Dean isn't thinking about drawing or painting or art or the view out the cold glass, because that smile is for Seamus, and no one else can see it. Dean's eyes are subject to the goofy grin when they adore him in that moment, as they do all others. Seamus lifts a hand from his lap, the crinkle of plastic too harsh and real as is any noise in these moments with Dean he tells himself every day mean nothing.
"Cracker?" he offers, and it is the first word spoken between them and the sign for them both that this is just going to be another normal casual friendly encounter, and once again they won't address the sparking fire that has been lit by their smiles. Seamus doesn't know Dean is slightly crestfallen, this time, as well as every other; Dean himself refuses to acknowledge the slight lurch in his gut as he reaches out to take a salty delite from the proffered package.
He holds the foodstuff delicately, nibbling at the corner, and Seamus laughs uproariously as is his custom when seeing Dean behave overly polite. To enhance the disparity between their eating methods, Seamus shoves his fist into the plastic sack and, still chuckling, shoves a handful of crackers into his gaping mouth. He chews with his mouth open, too.
Dean grins. The humor of this friendship is infectious, and even if no one but Seamus sees it, Dean's secret smile is never more satisfied than when they're together.
Seamus shrugs his legs off the window ledge, kicking his heels against the wall and staring at Dean, who no longer has a cracker to conceal his unrefined glee. It wouldn't have had much chance, in any case.
After a moment, not a second too soon, Seamus leaps off the windowsill, eyes sliding past Dean into the dorm, where he spins in a dramatic circle before falling back onto Dean's bed. It's not long before he's rifling through Dean's things, Dean sitting on the bed beside, ignoring the constant commentating Seamus has running about the half-concealed personal belongings he's sifted through a million times before. Dean is unconcerned, an empty page in front of him being filled with darkness by his nimble fingers. He's recognized by now that he'd waived his right to privacy when he'd accepted Seamus as his friend. He learned on the Hogwarts Express the first day he'd ever met Seamus that nothing would ever be safe from his sticky fingers and prying eyes. Prying, in Seamus' case, simply translated to curious. Or bored. Or, even, very occasionally, suspicious. But, it was always a good-natured suspicion, and Dean had never since kept anything he didn't want Seamus to see.
This was why he was confident as Seamus rambled on about the state of his underwear, the hideous porn that Ron had slipped to him, and even his handwriting on Transfiguration and Potions notes. Dean smiled and laughed and let his eyes wander to survey Seamus discreetly, only to return them instantly to his fresh drawing when Seamus held up a new object for inspection. This was why the first time fear crept into his veins was when Seamus fell silent for the first time in ten minutes. As the waves of sound rolled away, Dean's ears pricked and he froze, waiting for the moment when Seamus would rip his attention from the sketchbook and demand an explanation behind the acquisition of some new addition to Dean's belongings. It didn't come. Slowly, Dean raised his head to examine Seamus. A page of Dean's History of Magic notes was clutched in Seamus' hand. There were doodles in the margins partially concealed by Seamus' fingertips. Seamus eyes had gone blank as he gazed down at the parchment. Dean tried to surreptitiously sneak the page from his friend's hands, but Seamus has drawn back to life, and held it tighter to himself. Before Dean got the chance to ask what was wrong, Seamus pulled a sheaf of parchment from a pile beside him on the bed, and covered the offending document, launching quickly into a new rant on DADA and how Snape was an enormous greasy bat. Dean let it pass. He returned to his charcoal drawing, but kept an eye on where Seamus placed that pile of parchments, keeping track of where he moved it six different times. He wanted to know what Seamus had seen that had made him so uncharacteristically silent.
Seamus was cold, colder than he'd been at the windowpane even though he had a warm comforter bunched up around his waist and Dean's warm body close enough that their thighs and elbows and shoulders brushed every time they moved. In fact, Dean's closeness had made him warm in a way he refused to acknowledge, but the chill in his brain and his chest had not been touched. History of Magic was ridiculously boring, notoriously so- had Dean spaced out so much that he'd not realized what he'd doodled? The picture of the man, from waist up and shirtless, on the side of the page was unmistakably the same as the image Seamus faced in the mirror each morning. Dean must have done the doodle from memory, which begged the question- how much did Dean stare at him naked? So, alright, he was shirtless nearly every night in front of the lads, but that didn't give Dean an excuse to remember the lines of his body so well.
Surely, this was a fluke. Dean had never drawn anything like this before, at least not that Seamus had managed to get his hands on. Either Dean's imagination had gone haywire while listening to Binns' lecture, a real possibility, or he'd been concealing immoral feelings for his best mate for an undetermined length of time. Seamus hoped to God it was the first.
After he'd scattered Dean's possessions everywhere and the other boys had come up from the common room, Seamus headed into the bathroom to prepare for bed. Since the tense moment with the History of Magic notes, everything had been normal, or at least Dean thought it had. The camaraderie and easy routine the two of them had had only skipped a beat, then Seamus had been back to cracking jokes and leaving the both of them laughing. As Harry, Ron and Neville chatted and changed into pajamas, Dean picked up his things and carefully replaced them into his trunk. On the pretext of organizing them by subject, Dean hurriedly rifled through the stack of parchment that contained his History of Magic notes. Despite the near-instantaneous return to their friendly banter, Dean was curious what had caused Seamus' momentary lack of composure. He had not yet located the correct page when Seamus returned from the bathroom, wearing his pajama pants, holding his toothbrush, his hair tousled messily in his usual fashion. His eyes were drawn to Dean at once, and suddenly Dean felt guilty for prying, although the notes he was shuffling through were his own. After surveying him for a moment, sea foam irises hooked dark-soft eyes and stared in a way that Seamus had never stared before that left Dean feeling raw and examined. Seamus raised the toothbrush to his mouth and disappeared into the restroom once more. Dean was struck still for a moment, then returned to his task as quickly as he could.
Eventually, he found the first page of History of Magic in the stack. He scanned the doodles that filled the sides of the parchment until his eyes found it and fixated. His brain took a few seconds to process the drawing, and in that time his jaw dropped open. When his brain caught up, he quickly scanned the room, relieved to see that his dorm mates had noticed nothing unusual. He slid the parchment out of the stack into his pocket, and hurriedly replaced the pile in his trunk where Seamus had found it. He'd just finished organizing the last of his belongings when Seamus emerged again, mouth clean (or, as clean a mouth that cussed so much could be).
Seamus didn't look at Dean as he sat on the edge of his bed, as Ron and Harry said goodnight and Neville took his turn in the bathroom. Seamus rolled over and closed his hangings. Dean climbed under his covers, shut himself in, and lit his want with a whispered lumos. He pulled the parchment from his pocket, his Charcoal stained fingerprints smearing the edges of the page. The drawing of Seamus was left intact. Dean didn't remember drawing it. Binns' lecture had been droning on, and he'd spent the lesson staring at Seamus' head. His face was in profile to Dean, and he could see himself idly scratching out the lines of his nose, the familiar angles of his face, but he'd thought then that he'd dozed off. Dean tried to confront himself honestly. What were his feelings for Seamus? At this point, no matter what they were, Seamus deserved to know the truth.
Seamus, who had been raised devoutly Irish Catholic.
Seamus, whose Da had disowned Seamus' Uncle Matthew when he'd come out to the family.
Seamus, whose priest had had such a kind face and such gentle fingers when they'd lain themselves across his arms while he'd said his prayers.
Seamus, who'd been such a disappointment to his father when he'd gotten his Hogwarts letter.
Seamus, who'd discovered that kissing Lavender Brown after the Yule Ball was not half as exciting to him as being close to Dean.
Seamus, who even now curled in his four poster, clutching at his rosary and chanting, repressing the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…