House: Hufflepuff
Class: Herbology
Type: Drabble
Prompt: (colour) Black & Yellow
WC: 619
TW: None
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"Dean?" Seamus paused on the step that led down onto the small winding path to the conservatory, his toes curling over the harsh edge and brushing against the dew-soaked grass. The morning air bit at his face, bracing like his mam always used to call it when every window in the house was thrown open under the guise of cleaning.
The building stood, half-hidden in the shadow of an overgrown fuschia bush and desolate despite the explosion of delicate pink flowers. The covered windows were featureless black voids and Seamus couldn't hold back a shudder, drawing his dressing gown tighter around his neck as he stared into the empty glass eyes.
Before the war, they had talked about a place like this, him and Dean, in the quiet moments just before dawn when the night seemed darkest. Seamus could still feel the press of the radio against his cheek, enchanted to work with the grounds of Hogwarts as he curled onto the other boy's bed in an almost empty dormitory. He had to charm away the indentations when he woke, bleary-eyed and stumbling from the lack of sleep, but it had been worth it just to hear Dean's voice.
At times it seemed like they were still in those moments of stolen time, waiting for the next fight to erupt around them, never able to relax. Even now, when Dean painted, he would emerge from the conservatory, his head bowed and hands covered in black paint, destroying anything he might have tried to create with it.
Seamus wobbled, arms stretched out to steady himself like an amateur tightrope walker as he picked his way down the path, small stones biting into the balls of his feet with every step. Pausing in the doorway, he leant down to peer through the keyhole.
For a moment, he couldn't see anything.
He drew back, an old fear crawling through the pit of his stomach, bracing one hand on the door to rake his foot over the soft fabric of his pyjama bottoms to try and dislodge some of the stones. He should be dressed. What if he needed to run?
Footsteps on the other side of the door made him pause, almost bouncing in his impatience. Seamus knew those footsteps as well as his own heartbeat. He had shared a dormitory with the other man for years before they moved in together.
"Morning—" Seamus gasped, staring at the vision before him, illuminated in the open doorway before Dean kissed him. It was rough and messy, their teeth knocking together hard enough to make Seamus wince, twisting his fingers into Dean's hair to move him with a gentle tug as Dean's hands cupped his face, smoothing abstract lines over the curve of his cheekbones.
"Sorry," Dean laughed when they parted to breathe.
There was yellow paint flecked along the bridge of his nose like stars against his dark skin, blurry as Seamus pressed his forehead to Dean's, their noses bumping together with every breath.
"What's this for?" Seamus asked. Beyond Dean, he could just make out the conservatory. Beneath the cover of the heavy fabric over the windows, it shone yellow like trapped sunshine.
"I wanted to bring some happiness. Too many dark days recently." Dean kissed Seamus once more, letting himself linger before he drew himself up to his full height, Seamus' hands falling to cup his waist. "You look beautiful in yellow, Seamus."
"Yellow?"
Dean drew him forward, the floorboards warm beneath Seamus' feet and pointed to the floor-length mirror on the wall.
They were both standing, leaning into the other for support, with dark bags beneath their eyes but both were grinning from ear to ear and covered in yellow paint.