Poetry
-o-
At the edge of the Great Lake, Dean Thomas sits with his back against an old tree stump. A few feet away, Seamus is lying face up in the grass, humming quietly as he bathes in the sun. No one else has thought to come around this side of the castle, and it feels like the first piece of freedom they've had all year.
"These are the moments I live for," Dean murmurs happily. "They're just something my soul needs, you know?"
Seamus turns to look at him in disbelief. "Why is everything you say like something out of a bloody poem?" he asks. Dean laughs softly.
"Sorry. I don't mean it to. I guess I just say things how they feel."
"Then you feel too much," Seamus grumbles.
Dean can't argue with that.
"Well, how does it feel to you?"
"Warm. A little itchy."
Dean laughs again. "Not literally, Shay. How does it feel?"
Seamus looks out across the Lake, staring at the spot where the sky touches the horizon on the other side. He decides to humour Dean, just this once. "It's… still. Like- like time could've stopped and we wouldn't even be able to tell."
"Now who sounds like a poem?" teases Dean.
Seamus rolls over, unconvinced. "Sounds better when you say it, though."
"Maybe. I've had more practice."
"It's not that." Seamus sighs, resenting Dean's modesty. "You just see more in things than I do. You find poetry in anything."
"Is that such a bad thing?"
Seamus lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Maybe not. But not everything's got beauty in it."
Dean glances at Seamus. Sunlight dances off the sandy-blond highlights in his hair, and his brow hangs low over his eyes as he picks at a blade of grass.
"I disagree," he replies simply. Poetry wouldn't be enough for how this feels.
-o-