Movement the First: Regret
an: Dean/Seamus. Post-war. Stand alone enough, but you'll better understand if you read the Blaise/Nott stories by Becki3, as it goes with them.
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Dean had trouble with words. It was a struggle to shape the right phrases, the correct manner of speech. Expression for him did not come through his lips and tongue, but instead dark ink and bright paper, warm paint and blank canvases.
It took Seamus a while to learn to gauge his moods correctly; he learned not to speak to him when the colors were dark and the angles were jagged. Content, happy people meant that he was approachable; darker ones with grim mouths and set eyebrows meant that he was contemplative. There were a plethora of worlds, attitudes, expressions, all defined and carefully explained by the curl of a limb or the hue of the ocean.
Things had been dark for a long time, now, all dark blues and black and deep greens and greys; Dean had shut him out and Seamus was struggling to be angry at him for it, struggling to place the blame on someone that wasn't himself.
Damnit, Seamus would think, sneaking peaks of the paintings, wincing inwardly when they took the form of people, a too-tall man and a shorter one with black hair, smiling and bound silent, motionless by time, damnit, don't I feel bad enough yet?