A/N: As much as I tried, I couldn't write Seamus with an Irish accent without it sounding wrong, even to me.
Only loosely based on the song You by Keaton Henson, but nevertheless he's a beautiful artist who I highly recommend.
:o:o:
If you must die, sweetheart, die knowing your life was my life's best part
:o:o:
We sit cross-legged on your bedroom floor, backs against the same wall, wooden paneling cold against the skin of our feet. Your knee, just a shiver from touching mine, bounces restlessly. Even so, you're more still than you've ever been.
We haven't spoken yet. Not when you opened your front door to find me on the doorstep; not when you snuck me upstairs under your mother's nose. Neither of us can find the words, but really, we don't need them. The look of fear stained into your tired face says enough.
"You've seen it, then," I say. It comes out rough, like sandpaper on my tongue. You look at me, and eventually nod. The newspaper cutting scrunched into my pocket presses harder against my leg, as if the headline ('Muggle Interrogations Begin') might soon become another layer of skin.
"I'm not going back," I tell you, and this time, when you look at me, you do nothing. "It won't be the same… you know that, don't you? With Dumbledore gone-"
You interrupt, saying "It's the safest place to be," but I hear the effort it takes for you to sound so firm.
"I believed that, when we were twelve." This forces out an almost-smile that I catch just before it slips off your face. "But nowhere is safe now."
"Hogwarts is, if you're with me… I-I'll fight them myself-"
"I know," I say, my hand crossing the distance between us to your arm. I just hold on to it, and you let me. "I know. But I can't let you do that for me. You know I can't."
After a moment, you slump back against the wall, your arms falling limp in defeat. And still, I hold on.
"Then let me come with you," you plead. I feel the words in my heart and in my throat and suddenly I can't speak. But somewhere in the silence, you hear my answer.
With a long breath, you run a hand through your hair. It's darker than it used to be, but here, with the streetlights shining in through your window, the flecks of colour come through as if the sandy-haired boy I met in first year is fighting to get out.
"You," you eventually say, and I can't tell if you're holding back anger or tears, "are the best part of my mess of a life."
"No, Shay, I'm not," I tell you, firm (like you've always hated). "I can't be-"
"You are."
I shake my head – once, twice – and you say it again. "You are."
"Seamus, please… they're going to come after me. They'll realise that I haven't come back and they'll try to find me," I say. You must feel me shaking against your arm, because you bring up a hand to grip mine. "And I'm scared, Shay, but you know the most stupid thing? I'm more scared of hurting you, of- of leaving you, because I know what me dying will do to you-"
"Then live!" you shout. It's too loud and we both freeze-
Nothing, except the buzz of a television set through the floor. So you say, quieter, "Just fucking live."
And we both know I can't promise that. Instead, we slip back into silence as if it's just another language.
It's like this that we fall asleep, my hand on your arm and our backs against the wall. When we wake in the early hours of the morning, our feet have left footprints of warmth in the floorboards.
I hug you before I go, as if, by holding you, I can keep myself together. You hug back, and I think that, perhaps, you were the one keeping me together all along.
"I can still come with you," you say as I open the door, reading me as well as you always have. I smile sadly and step out into the empty street. The air is already warm, and thick with uncertainty.
"Goodbye, Seamus," is all I say. You offer another almost-smile (it's harder this time, what with the tears) and I return it, just to give you something to hold on to. For a second, it almost feels like we're Dean and Seamus again.
And then you let me go.
:o:o:
If you must live, darling one,
Just live
:o:o: