Muse
Words: 989
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Harry Potter
Beta: None
Warnings: None
He draws Harry constantly. There are times when he draws his lover unaware, sleeping or cooking or gardening and so lost in his thoughts he does not realise Dean is there again, sketchpad in hand as he brushes charcoal against paper.
Other times, Harry poses. Sometimes he sits there on a chair, smiling straight at him as if this were an official looking portrait, but more times than not it is when he's tired an naked, fucked out and enjoying his afterglow, or when he's seducing Dean onto his bed and the man just wants to capture him just like that before he takes what is offered and loves him until he's lost in it.
It is a little strange, perhaps, for him to be so smitten with one subject, to have sketchbooks upon sketchbook, sheets of random paper and many a painting depicting the same person in so many different states, especially since its him.
Dean has always had a short attention span when it comes to these things. He draws many things, explores with media and style and subject constantly, and always moves on before long. But Harry is... interesting.
It is not that he's beautiful, though he undoubtedly is. But then again, so are storms and oceans and little cottages and happy children. So is a bird of prey in its element, a falcon diving or a rabbit on a meadow. He doesn't draw Harry again and again because he's beautiful. He draws him because Harry Potter is infinitely fascinating to him, a masterpiece he cannot capture no matter what media or art style he uses, whether he paints him on big walls or doodles him on small corners of his page, whether its sleeping or eating or mad or laughing.
And it makes him angry, because he tries so hard. He works for hours, wrist sore and eyes even more so, fingers aching from holding a piece of charcoal or pastel or a paintbrush, but it doesn't matter because he can never get it right.
And Harry doesn't get it. He smiles and kisses Dean deep and tells him he's flattered, that Dean got it so right, "it looks exactly like me" or "do I really look that good to you?" and it frustrates him because they're not good enough. They're never perfect. He never looks at paintings of Harry tall and beautiful in pressed robes and lose his breath like he does when he sees Harry lounging around in his sweatpants and Dean's t-shirt.
But then, late at night long after Harry has given up on convincing him to come to bed, he walks into the dark room and lights a candle and sits by the bed in an old chair, and his fingers fly across the thick, creamy paper like they're possessed, pressing dark lines and faint shadows into the sheet and in that moment, he feels like he's so close. Like all he has to do is add a line, brush his fingers just right across the bridge of Harry's nose and the lines will breathe as they come to life, as they bloom into perfection and end his suffering-
It never happens, and those are the nights Dean stays awake for hours and hours just drawing. But they're also the nights when he feels like he can breathe again, and like it's okay if he never paints Harry in the colours he deserves. Because he knows that, once he does, he'll lose interest and move on, and he never wants to lose interest in Harry.
Perhaps, he wonders, this is what love means. He has always cared easily, making friends that stick for years in the span of an afternoon, but even all that seems almost shallow compared this. So perhaps this is indeed love, but Dean thinks it is closer to obsession, to letting someone define the deepest parts of him and rearrange the order of his life, and it is terrifying, because what if it is one-sided? What if Harry grows tired, leaves him, what would he do then? Because Dean knows, the way people know their heart is beating, that he can't live without Harry. Not anymore. You can't possibly build your entire being around one person, and somehow expect it to remain steady when it's core is gone.
And it scares him seeing as, where Dean cares easily, Harry loves like he breathes, like he has an eternity of space in his heart to just hand out. He has loved and lost so many times that Dean is sometimes afraid he'll just be another in a long line of those gone past. But then he sees his lover asleep on the couch waiting for him, and he knows that's unfair because Harry loves just as deeply, just as madly as Dean does.
It's just not in the same way. Harry doesn't love like him because he's not him, but when he wakes from nightmares and Dean's is the first name he calls out, or when his lips automatically turn up when his eyes land on Dean - that tells him all he should need to know.
And so, when he's feeling in a particularly sweet mood, he'll set aside his sketchbooks and just appreciate Harry. He'll fuck him, love him until Harry lays on the bed covered in a thin layer of glistening sweat and panting as his eyes close and his heart calms. Harry is most sensitive then, and every brush will send him sighing and moaning in relaxed afterglow as Dean paints shadows along his curves and make a flowers bloom on his skin.
He doesn't feel frustrated at all then, just pleased that he has this, is living this, can touch and kiss and adore however he desires. He calms then, and though these moments are brief, it is at those times that he knows with a certainty that his love for Harry will last forever.