Word Count: 420
Deamus drabble because Deamus is love and my muse finally decided she was going to work today. Yay!
It's been almost a year. It's been a fucking awful almost year full of black eyes and Unforgivable scars and detentions that aren't really detentions. And you've spent too many nights staring at his empty bed, wondering where he is, wondering if he's okay. You've spent too many nights alone. It's been hell.
You want to tell him all of this. You want to explain just how much you've missed him. You want to whisper all the letters you never sent into his ear, but the words are caught in your throat. He's not talking either, you notice. But he's never been much of a talker anyway, so instead he shows you.
It's one two three steps and the distance between you disappears. And you are Dean&Seamus once again, clinging to his broad shoulders, teeth clashing because you're always too impatient. You feel the thinness of him, fingers brushing over collarbones and you know he's assessing your damage too, tracing lines he's drawn so many times from memory, discovering too many new ones to count. How will he draw you tonight? Will you look the same? Will you be battered and bruised or does he see something else? He always seems to see something else, but you know you're not the same person. You can't be.
He is still the same though. You meet his eyes, and they still shine in spite of everything. He is still astonishingly easy smiles even as his lips descend upon yours. He is still charcoal smudged on dark wrists, a pencil behind his ear, and he smells of parchment and the Forbidden Forest at midnight. He is Dean, and he's here, and it's been too bloody long. An almost year without him.
"I've missed you," you say as he pulls away to catch his breath. "We should have done more of this before. Before…" You are talking nonsense now. "Before."
"Shut up, Shay," he says and you hear the laugh in his voice, feel it resonate in your chest. It feels like home. "Be with me now."
Now now now he's tracing jaw lines with his lips, painting pale skin flushing pink, and he's drawing you but not on paper. He's drawing you the way he's meant to, the way you've wanted him to- a self portrait where your edges have blurred, Dean&Seamus on a canvas of tangled sheets with fingers laced together. And it's as beautiful as you had expected it to be.
It's been an almost year in the making, after all.