Summary: Dean is drawing Seamus. "And so into the drawing Dean poured his emotions, his hopeless anger, his terrible sadness. Unrequited love pushed his aching, graphite-blackened fingers on." A bit of Seamus/Dean– well it can be either fluff or angst depending on how you want to look at it.
Pairing: Seamus/Dean
Spoilers: None
Warnings: This is slash. If you don't like, you press the little back button.
A/N: If you review, I'll love you forever and ever. Thanks to Val Mora, of course, and to that rabid plot bunny that made me write this. And without further ado...
Curve of his Jaw
The curve of his jaw.
His chocolate eyes.
It was midnight or close to, and by the dim glow of the common room fire, a dark figure was drawing, his pencil scratching quietly across the page. Dean Thomas was up late– a not entirely unusual occurrence. His art had always, and would always, be more important, even, than sleep.
The ebony hair.
The warm, dry hands.
Across from him, Seamus Finnegan lay fast asleep on one of the large, overstuffed, crimson armchairs.
Even asleep there was still a smile on Seamus' sleep, and laughter and humor glowed from his still form. But any hint of mischief that might have traced across his smile was gone. Asleep Seamus was an angel, some ethereal figure, the dim firelight casting a halo around his shaggy blonde hair.
Asleep, Seamus was beautiful.
The way he laughs.
The way my heart pounds.
And the picture unfolding on the page in front of Dean was the mirror image of the boy across from him.
The way he makes me ache.
The flutter in my stomach.
He hadn't originally intended for the picture to turn into his best friend, but with Seamus lying across from him, his pencil had taken on a life of its own.
The way we fight.
And as the drawing progressed, turning into Seamus, Dean found himself focussing in on every little detail, the minor imperfections indistinguishable from the minute good qualities, each adding-- something to the boy in front of him. As each one, in turn, revealed itself, Dean found himself loving Seamus still more.
The way we laugh.
Though, and his heart clenched at the thought, Seamus would never reciprocate his feelings. Seamus had Lavender. Seamus was his friend. Seamus was straight. There were a million and one reasons why Seamus wouldn't love him.
There were a million and one reasons why he shouldn't love Seamus.
The way I need much more.
And so into the drawing Dean poured his emotions, his hopeless anger, his terrible sadness. Unrequited love pushed his aching, graphite-blackened fingers on. And the picture before him developed, and became Seamus.
The times we touch.
As the darkness deepened, and the fire flickered and dimmed. Dean found himself moving further forward, until he was kneeling, the carpet chafing his knees, his face– his lips– aligned with Seamus'.
The way I shake.
He was close– so close!– to the face, that he loved. It was exhilarating, and frightening, and he felt like he was falling and couldn't catch himself.
How he asks me for help...
And without pausing to think– he kissed Seamus.
When he saves me.
It was anxious, and chaste, and breathy, and perfect. And Dean pulled away, looking back only once as he dashed up the stairs to the dorms, afraid that, at any moment, Seamus would open his eyes.
The secret that he couldn't hide
In the common room, a slow, beaming smile spread across Seamus' face.