This was written for the Hogwarts History of Muggles Assignment: write a story set in the 1920s and the Valentine's Day Date Competition on the Golden Snitch (DeanSeamus, (creature) crow, (word) self-sacrifice, (colour) black, (dialogue) "If you can run faster than me, I'll take you on a date." / "Excellent, I finally get to eat at that new French place." and (dialogue) "If you are going to get a tattoo, at least make sure it's meaningful.").
Word count: 1048
Ashes To Fire
Seamus dreams of fire these days, of the searing heat that came with the flames, of the flares of light that burned across his eyelids as the bombs feel from the sky.
It's been three years now, since the war ended. Three years now, since Seamus had gone home, and yet he could still taste the ashes and the smoke whenever he woke up, red and gold flickering at the edge of his vision.
They tell him he was lucky – an inch closer, and the shrapnel would have killed him, would have torn him apart the way it tore apart everything else.
("They didn't believe me, when I told them you weren't dead yet," Dean had confessed when Seamus had finally reopened his eyes.
"Can't get rid of me that easily," Seamus had replied, dry lips struggling to shape a smile.
Dean had huffed, and had held Seamus' hand tight in his own under the covers for as long as he had been able to – for as long as no one paid them any mind.
He had left after that, gone back to the battlefield. His departure had seemed to suck all the light out of the room, the sweet scent of death and decay suddenly cloying at the back of Seamus' throat.
"That's a good friend you have there," a nurse had told him later, and Seamus had hacked a laugh.
"The best," he had replied, and trying not to let the fondness seep into his tone had been the hardest part. It always was.)
They tell him he was lucky: instead on losing his life he only lost an arm. On most days, he doesn't feel lucky. On those days, he has Dean to help him.
.x.
Dean draws the world in shades of black these days, death and crows and Seamus, always Seamus.
The lasts he hides and keeps only for their own eyes – he knows what the world would say, knows what people would think. Bad enough that the town looks down on them living together, thinking them brothers – thinking that Dean only stays because Seamus is infirm, because he lost his hand during the war and still isn't used to the prosthetic that replaces it.
But better looked down upon by some than chased away by all, and if that means that Dean must lock up the pieces he truly loves, he will.
He draws the battlefields instead, bodies staring up at the sky with eyes that will never see anything again, corpses pilling up until their individual features are no longer discernable. He draws death, flying above on midnight wings, beak sharp and dangerous as it looks for its next meal.
(There had been a boy, a wide-eyed, blond-haired boy who had had too much heart for this war. Dean had sworn to protect him, to keep him safe and in the end the boy had taken a bullet for another kid.
He had died quickly, but in the end that had been the only kindness Dean had been able to offer him.
"Self-sacrifice," their sergeant has spat with disgust, "this war is no place for it," and Dean had burned, burned with rage.
They had all drunk to the boy that night, but the alcohol had done nothing to bank the fire.
He and Seamus had fucked that night too, quick and dirty and desperate in the darkness of the trenches, and for a long time that had been the only thing to truly feel real in that war.)
.x.
They don't live in London – they can't stand big towns anymore. They don't like the countryside much anymore either, but anything's better than the noise of the capital. The nature helps – everything is green here. There was little green during the war – there was little life too.
Sometimes, when they have really good days, they dress up and go out. Dean knows all the best places to have a little fun, and most of the times no one even cares that Seamus dances more often with the man he came in with than with any of the girls he meets there.
The music and the alcohol, and most of all, the secrecy, give back to their lives the spice they had been missing. They don't miss the war, but after so long spent sleeping with one eye open, dreading the next day, adjusting to civilian life again has proven difficult. Seamus doesn't think it'll ever go back to the way he used to – doesn't think he can retrieve the boy he used to be before the flames (doesn't think he even wants to, sometimes), the same way Dean can't go back to being the boy with colors spreading from his fingertips.
These nights, Dean smokes the cigarettes Seamus used to, and the red nub at the end is the only fire Seamus can stare at without shivering these days. Dean is the only one Seamus can taste smoke on without his mind casting back to the screaming.
Sometimes, on those nights drenched in secrets and all the things they shouldn't do, Seamus almost feels alright again.
.x.
"I think I want a tattoo," Dean whispers one morning, trailing his fingers across Seamus' naked shoulders.
Seamus hums and opens his eyes wearily, blinking away the sleep slowly. "If you are going to get a tattoo, at least make sure it's meaningful," he manages in between two yawns.
"Hello to you too," Dean laughs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on the lips he knows so well. "And you know me, what else would I get?"
And Seamus doesn't know why, but he smiles back and laughs too.
.x.
"If you can run faster than me, I'll take you on a date," a boy with blues and greens spread across his cheeks had once told the boy who looked like a bad decision, grin cheeky and wide.
"Excellent, I finally get to eat at that new French place," the boy who smelled like old smoke had replied with a wink that had been just as cheeky as that grin.
"Oh, it's on."
They had run after that. Seamus can't ever remember where to – but that doesn't matter now. He's just glad those two boys aren't as lost as he thought they were.