Title: Broken Together
Genre: Harry Potter, Post-DH
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Seamus
Summary: Dean shows up on Seamus's doorstep one day.
Part of the Daughter of Mine mini-series. A sort of prequel to 'Neither Do Storks or Cabbage Patches'. Part of the Turquoise-'verse, a collection of stories from all the Epilogue kids that center around a main plot.
--
Seamus heard the unfamiliar knock and he reflexively had wand out at the ready as he opened the door—but then broke out into a grin.
The grin pulled all wrong at his face, but he didn't care how long it had been since he had even smiled, because—Christ—it Dean was standing in front of him.
It was then that Seamus realized that it was Dean standing on his doorstep and the grin dropped.
Dean—who didn't have the normal hum of color under his dark complexion, whose eyes were open and disturbingly hollow of their usual curious flicker—as if ready to replicate everything later with a pencil and paper—all of that was just… gone.
The black Londoner's eyes focused suddenly, as if only then realizing exactly where he was and who he was staring at. "Ah… I—Look…" He paused, letting his words trail off before his eyes—once so full of pencil strokes and charcoal lines—dropped to the ground. "Nevermind, I'll see you later." He muttered, making to move away from Seamus and the doorstep.
As if possessed, Seamus groped for Dean's arm and clung to it like it was his only anchor to the world—in which case, it was. "Don't." Don't go, don't leave me alone, I've been alone for a long time. "Stay." Stay here, stay with me, please stay. The words Seamus didn't—couldn't—say resonated in the air around them.
Dean turned back to face him, his eyes full of something that Seamus could only say looked like a wound, that was afraid to be touched, finally beginning its healing. "Okay."
And that was the last word Seamus heard from Dean for a long time.
--
When Seamus approached him, Dean noted that the usually soft-lined Irish man was all hard angles and ragged shapes. It wasn't like usual, where such a display would make him ache for his sketchbook—now he just sat and his hands didn't even twitch for a well-sharpened pencil.
"Dean, mate, look…" Seamus's elbow jutted out sharply from his body as he rubbed the back of his neck, his body refusing to soften to the light and comforting strokes of the flat. Instead, Seamus remained as frayed and jagged lines. Dean mused darkly that one would probably tear the paper trying to get the right sort of outline for Seamus at the moment.
The shorter man let out a sigh and the hard angles sunk into themselves slightly, "Is there something bothering you? You know that I'm… yanno, here and all—for you, right?" He ended what was supposed to be a statement with an unsaid question.
Dean's eyes flickered as they watched the jagged lines fiddle nervously, before responding quietly, "Can I stay here for awhile?"
The sharp angles curved to more sloppy, loose loops in one smooth flex and Seamus grinned in his broken way that reminded Dean of cracked glass, "O'Course, mate."
And they were alright then—they could be broken together at least.