Creativity Month: DeanPiers, puddle
Showtime, "Nowadays": "Isn't it great?"
True Confessions Day: Write about someone confessing something
Buttons: "I can't take this anymore.", moon
Lyric Alley: Do you feel the same when I'm away from you?
Liza's Loves, Evillustrator: Write about a crush being revealed
For Laura. Happy birthday, dear.
Word Count: 1827
I.
Dean groans, watching helplessly as his sketchbook falls from his hands and lands directly in the puddle. Slowly, the dirty water creeps over the page, and he watches the ink bleed over the paper. Swearing under his breath, he grabs it quickly, flipping through the pages. They can't all be ruined, can they?
"Rotten luck."
The voice startles him, and Dean nearly drops his beloved sketches in the puddle a second time. He turns his dark eyes to a scrawny boy with milky white skin splattered with freckles. The stranger pushes a hand through his black hair, offering Dean a grin.
"You dropped your sketchbook."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah. I noticed."
The grin fades for a fraction of a second. Dean suspects no one has ever dared to use sarcasm with this bloke. Though he doesn't look scary or intimidating, Dean has enough experience with bullies to recognize one.
"Cheeky," the other boy snorts, his lips relaxing into a genuine smile. "I like it." He offers Dean his hand to shake. "Piers Polkiss."
Dean accepts his hand, though he can't help but to hesitate. Part of him is so convinced that this is some sort of trick or trap. "Dean Thomas," he says at last.
Piers nods. "Good to meet you."
…
They have nothing in common, but Dean doesn't mind. Piers is obnoxious and abrasive, and maybe he's a bit problematic, but he's Dean's first and only real friend. That has to count for something.
II.
"A private school, huh?" Piers asks as he and Dean walk through the park.
Dean nods. He doesn't know how else to explain his upcoming absence. After all, he's still coming to terms with the fact that he's a wizard. How could he ever explain it to Piers?
"In fucking Scotland," Piers adds, shaking his head.
"In Scotland," Dean confirms.
Piers exhales deeply. "I'll miss you, mate."
Dean almost laughs. It's the closest Piers has ever come to saying something deep and emotional. His lips twist into a smile, and he nudges his friend gently with his shoulder. "Not like I'm going away forever," he points out.
"Nah. You'll just be gone for nearly a whole year."
There's a hint of sadness in Piers' voice that surprises Dean. Why should it matter so much? Piers has his other friends— the group that Dean doesn't approve of, the ones Piers is so careful to keep away from Dean. Really, he probably won't even notice Dean is gone. By the time winter holidays come around, Piers will probably have forgotten Dean exists at all.
But at least he can pretend that he'll be missed.
…
He doesn't expect to feel this much sadness when he leaves. His mother and sisters accompany him to the station, but he still feels so lonely. Even as his mother reassures him and promises that he'll make lots of exciting new friends, Dean realizes he doesn't want new friends; he just wants Piers to be here with him.
III.
When winter holidays come around, he's surprised to find Piers waiting for him when the car comes to a stop outside the house. His mother offers him a confused look, but all Dean can do is grin. He had been so afraid that distance would make Piers give up, but here he is.
"Don't be too long," his mother says simply. "I'm not taking your things up by myself."
Dean leans over and pecks his mother quickly on the cheek. "You're the best, Mum," he says before throwing his door open and rushing out.
Piers greets him with a grin and a quiet, quick jerk of his head. Dean nods, and they begin to walk. The cold, December wind cuts into Dean's skin, and he can feel the icy kiss of snow flurries beginning to form. Still, he doesn't turn back. He's missed Piers too much.
"You're back," Piers says.
"Very observant of you."
Piers rolls his eyes, his thin lips tugging into a scowl. In the three years they've known one another, Dean is still certain no one else talks to Piers the way he does. If they do, Piers probably makes sure it's only once. Dean wonders if he should feel flattered to be the exception; mostly, he just wonders why he's so special.
"I'm not going to be here for Christmas," Piers says, and Dean can't figure out why his heart sinks at the announcement. It isn't as though they've ever spent holidays together; they're just friends. "Visiting my aunt and her family in Portmeirion."
"Sounds fun," Dean says. "Pretty village. I've always wanted to see it."
Piers' mocha brown eyes twinkle with what looks like a cross between excitement and hope. It's such a simple thing, but it makes Dean's stomach twist itself into knots. "Maybe we can go together some day," he says before digging into his coat pocket and pulling out a poorly wrapped lump. "It isn't much, but happy Christmas."
Dean tears away the flimsy paper and holds up the West Ham beanie. A small laugh bubbles from his throat. "You hate West Ham," he muses. "Did you wear a disguise when you bought it so no one would know?"
"Of course. I wouldn't be caught dead buying that," Piers laughs.
Dean's cheer quickly fades, replaced instead with guilt. "I didn't get you anything," he mutters.
He hasn't had time. What could he buy Piers in the magical world that would make sense?
Piers rolls his eyes. "You don't have to get me anything, stupid. Just let me be nice. You know that's a rare occurrence."
"It shouldn't be."
"Yeah." There's an edge of bitterness in his friend's voice. "I'm working on it."
"Dean!" his mother calls in the distance.
"I'd better go," Dean says. "Have a good holiday."
…
He never wants to take the beanie off. Over the years, Dean has received many gifts, but this one is different somehow. This one is more special than anything he's ever owned.
IV.
The years go like that. Dean goes to Hogwarts and comes home. He and Piers fall back into their familiar routine. He doesn't understand why he seems to live for those moments in the Muggle world. Shouldn't he be more eager for the excitement and splendor of the magical world?
He lays awake in his dormitory, watching the clouds drift over the moon. His mind is too restless for sleep to be a possibility. No matter how hard he tries, he can't stop thinking about Piers.
"I can't take this anymore," he groans, pressing his pillow and hoping that being plunged into darkness will help him relax.
It doesn't. He's still wide awake, still thinking of Piers, still trying to understand why.
And then it hits him, and he feels like a complete idiot. He has known Piers for seven years, and it's just now clicked.
Dean groans and sits up, holding his pillow to his chest. Falling in love with your best friend is absolutely terrifying to begin with, but this is worse. No matter how good Piers may be to him, he's still a bully. Maybe he isn't as bad as some of friends, but he still doesn't like people who are different.
"Fuck," Dean mutters, shaking his head.
…
He knows that he'll never be able to tell Piers. After all, he doesn't want to jeopardize their friendship. But his mind always wanders back to Piers, and maybe he's reading too much into every little kind gesture, but he wonders if Piers ever feels the same pain that Dean feels when they're apart.
He's never been one for wishful thinking, but he can't help it now. He wants to dream, believe, and wish.
V.
This is stupid. Before the week is out, Dean will be a fugitive, on the run from the Ministry and its hateful registration act. He needs to get a head start; every second he wastes could make all the difference.
And yet he finds himself outside the Polkiss residence, trembling and praying. Piers meets him in the garden.
"What's up?"
Dean opens his mouth to tell him, but the words won't come out. He can't even craft a clever lie about how he has to go away, about how this might be the last time they see one another. A war is going on, and he wishes he could be just as oblivious as Piers is.
Instead, a different truth spills from his lips. "I fancy you. More than that, actually. Two years ago, I realized I… I love you."
He wants to kick himself. He'd just wanted to say goodbye and have one last good memory to carry with him on the run. But it's too late to take the words back now, and he tries to tell himself that maybe it's for the best; he could die in this war, and maybe it's best that he doesn't die with any regrets.
Dean waits for the fallout— a homophobic slur, Piers' sharp, bony knuckles crashing against his jaw. Instead, Piers only smiles. "Thank God," he laughs, and the relief is clear in his tone.
"What?"
"Isn't this great? I've been dropping hints, too scared to say it… But you… God, you're so brave, Dean."
Relief washes over him. It had been an impulsive confession, but at least it isn't a mistake. Dean wants to smile because the world is a little brighter now, but he can't. It doesn't matter if Piers feels the same way. He still has to run.
Dean leans in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. He wants to kiss him harder, but he settles for something chaste, gentle. Time is not on his side, and he knows that if he gives into temptation, he's doomed. He'll never want to leave.
"I have to go away for a bit," he says, trying to ignore the way his trembling hands perfectly match his quivering voice. "A… It's an art retreat before school starts. Only fifteen people made the cut, and—"
"And you're brilliant, as always, and you've been accepted," Piers interrupts. "Draw me like one of your French girls, okay? All I ask."
Despite it all, Dean can't help but laugh. He presses one last kiss to Piers' lips. "I will. I promise."
"I'll see you soon."
"See you soon," Dean echoes, and he hates himself for saying it when he knows that his future isn't promised.
…
He draws. Even on the hardest, darkest days, he opens his sketchbook and draws a thin, freckled boy with dark hair standing beside a puddle. He draws the same boy holding a beanie and again, standing in a garden under the milky moonlight.
His world is falling apart. But Dean still sketches with a smile on his face.
The world may be a dark, scary place, but there's a boy who's waiting for him, and that's enough to make him believe that he can make it through.