Seamus was running late.
Dean had agreed to meet him at their favorite cafe, something for which Seamus was very thankful. He was beginning to think Dean was avoiding him, which wouldn't do at all. Dean had been acting rather distant lately and Seamus was confused. He was not that good a figuring things out. Like puzzles. Seamus had never liked puzzles. And now Dean was turning into a puzzle. Dean had always been the only person, the only thing, that Seamus had really understood.
-
Dean was running late.
Not that he was hurrying really, he had not been looking forward to this meeting. Let Seamus have a few more minutes of happiness in which he, Dean, was not around to spoil things. A color caught Dean's eye as he strolled past a shop window. Orange. It reminded him of Seamus. Then again, all colors reminded him of Seamus. He, Dean, was the blank part on the canvas. The empty shades of gray. Seamus, on the other hand, was the colors. All the beautiful paints and pencils that made up a masterpiece. These last few weeks, Dean had begun to feel like an ink blot. A horrific dark stain on the colorful masterpiece that was Seamus. After all, Dean figured, he was the artist. He should know.
-
Seamus was getting anxious.
He had been waiting there, at a little table right inside the door, for what seemed like hours. His imaptient hands began to fiddle with his coffee cup. One small slip of a finger and the coffee was in his lap. A horrific dark stain on his otherwise spotless pants. With a muttered curse, Seamus grabbed a handful of napkins and began angrily wiping up the spill. This was not the impression Seamus was hoping to make. To his surprise, he heard a small chuckle behind him. He knew it was Dean even before he looked. Dean was smiling. Seamus hadn't seen Dean smile in a long time.
