Movement the Second: Solitude
Seamus was learning how to deal with being alone. It was newness all over again– empty halls, empty rooms, a noticeable smoothness of the sheets on Dean's side of the bed some mornings. It sent him reeling time and time again, but Seamus just had to pace his feet on the floor and study the lines of his hands and promise himself that if Dean wanted to give up, wanted to break it off, he wouldn't beat around the bush like this.
He understood. It was a breather.
All Dean did was think these days. Even when he was at home, which was rarer and rarer these days, he stayed holed up in the studio, splashing colors across a canvas that ended up trashed more times than not. Dipping his fingers into his easel, he really didn't think Seamus got it– he didn't think he could get it, because he didn't even seem to understand that the difference between them that the red on Dean's hands washed away.
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Author Notes: Just another continuation of Becki3's drabbles and my earlier ones. D