or five times Dean drew Seamus, and one time he couldn't


word count:1471


one.

Dean sits alone in his compartment on the train. He doesn't know anyone, so he does what he does best whenever the loneliness and anxiety set in and pulls out his sketchbook. It balances on his lap perfectly, and he's glad this train moves so smoothly. Maybe it's because of the magic, because he knows it's nothing like the trains he's ridden before.

He begins to move his pencil over the page, the lead leaving a careful, calculated streak. A million images flash through his brain, but Dean doesn't actually know what he wants to draw. These little blocks are the worst, and he still doesn't quite know how to overcome them.

"Oh! Are you drawing?"

He's so lost in his head that he hadn't even noticed the other boy enter his compartment. Dean looks up and is greeted by a smiling boy with sandy hair.

"Can you draw me?" The boy sits across from him, practically bouncing with excitement, like Dean is somehow the most exciting thing he's seen today. "I'm Seamus, by the way."

"Dean," Dean says with a polite nod. "I can draw you, yeah. I mean... If you'd like."

Seamus beams, seeming absolutely delighted by this turn of events. "Is this your first year at Hogwarts? It's mine. I'm hoping to be a Gryffindor, just like my mum!"

"Yeah…" Dean begins the outline, a light sketch defining the other boy's head. "What's, uh… What's Gryffindor?"

"Ah. Muggleborn, huh?"

And with that, Seamus explains things to him in as much detail as he can. Dean listens, happily absorbing every bit of knowledge he can as he adds the guidelines to the sketch's head and fills in the features slowly and carefully.

"Talking portraits?" Dean demands, shaking his head. "You're having me on!"

"Swear on my life! Just wait. You'll see."

Dean still doesn't quite believe it. He's spent years learning art, and nothing from his many lessons makes him believe art can actually move and talk. Still, not too long ago, he would have laughed at anyone who told him magic exists, and he's a wizard. Perhaps stranger things have happened.

As the green countryside blurs by, Dean adds the finishing touches, shading here and erasing there. He holds up his sketch, quite proud of himself.

"Blimey, that's one handsome fella," Seamus decides, adding a nod as if to emphasize his point. "You're really good at that."

Dean feels his cheeks heat, and he looks away shyly. "Thanks. I love to draw."

"Well, you'll just have to draw me more often then. I'll give you plenty of practice."

two.

Three years at Hogwarts, and Dean somehow is still surprised by just how boring History of Magic is. His eyes are heavy, but he knows he can't fall asleep. Seamus is right beside him, and his best friend is a little too keen on harassing him at the worst moments. He doesn't even want to imagine the sort of fuckery Seamus would have up his sleeve if Dean fell asleep beside him.

So he trades his quill and parchment for a pencil and sketchbook. Binns is always too busy droning on about… whatever the hell it is he drones on about… to even notice. If it was any other class, Dean wouldn't dare to do this, but he feels safe here.

His eyes shift to the side, studying Seamus, and his hand begins to move. Over the years, he's gotten better at drawing portraits. Thankfully, there's never a shortage of people who will volunteer to let him practice on. His sketchbook is filled with black and grey images of friends and strangers alike.

But there's something about Seamus that seems to call to him. Maybe it's because his features are so pleasant. Maybe it's just because they're best friends, and this is the sort of thing best friends do.

Whatever the reason, as Binns continues to ramble about something that happened centuries before Dean was born, Dean draws, taking special care to get the freckles over Seamus' nose just right.

He's nearly done when Seamus looks over and nudges him. "Why are you so obsessed with me?" he teases.

Dean snorts, eyes rolling. "You wish."

three.

It's a bit silly, really. Dean knows that as he sketches Seamus in his dress robes, handsome and smiling among a sea of faceless people at the Yule Ball.

He wonders what would happen if he drew himself dancing with Seamus. Truth be told, it's what he wanted to do that night, but fear had kept him frozen in place, too anxious to even dare to chance it.

And so he does. It feels wrong, and yet so right. Maybe this isn't what happened, but it's what should have happened. It's how the night should have unfolded, but Dean is too much of a coward to act.

"What's that?"

Dean swears softly when he hears Seamus' voice, but he's too slow to close the sketchbook. Seamus takes it before Dean can even turn the page and hope the sketch gets lost.

"Is this... Us?"

There's something about the way Seamus says it that makes Dean's heart flutter. Us. Like there's the faintest hint of hope behind the question. Dean can't hear even a shred of disgust in Seamus' voice. Er… Yeah," he admits, and he feels his face heat painfully. "I…"

Seamus looks at him, grinning from ear to ear. "You fancy me, don't you?" he asks, and there's no mistaking the hopefulness this time.

"Yeah," Dean says, nodding. "I have for a while now."

"Good. Because I fancy you too."

four.

The chilling wind blows, but Dean doesn't budge. There are charms in place that should keep the worst of the wind at bay, but the cold still slips past the defenses and leaves him shivering, even by the fire.

Really, Dean doesn't mind it. Ted had offered to take watch for the night, but Dean had refused. It isn't just that Ted had already been on guard duty that night; these moments when his companions sleep are the only ones he gets alone.

They're the only moments when he can draw.

His sketchbook is open, resting carefully in his lap as he slides the lead over the last page. At some point, he'll need to pick up a new one. Trips into town are a rare luxury, so he doesn't know when that will be. It breaks his heart to know he'll have to cope in this dark and miserable world without his art.

But for now, he won't think about it. For now, he outlines that familiar face for the millionth time. Seamus' face is the only thing that keeps him going some days. No matter how hopeless things feel, if he focuses on the boy he left behind, the boy who is waiting for him, it becomes just the tiniest bit easier.

five.

"Don't you have something better to draw?" Seamus teases.

Dean scowls at his husband, eyes narrowing playfully. "Well, excuse me. Maybe you shouldn't look at my sketchbook if you're going to complain."

It's become something of a joke between them, ever since they were reunited at the battle three years ago, and Seamus saw all the sketches Dean had done. He had playfully called Dean a stalker and told him to get a life. It's been a running joke ever since.

Now, Seamus peers back from the page, smiling a dopey smile and holding up a cup of coffee. Dean loves it. It's part of his collection to capture the small, seemingly insignificant domestic moments between them.

"If you don't want me drawing you so much, maybe you shouldn't be such an excellent muse," Dean suggests playfully.

"Shut it, you," Seamus murmurs, leaning down and capturing Dean's lips in a kiss. "I like it when you draw me like one of your French girls."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, no more Titanic for you, you weirdo."

and one.

The potions don't help much anymore. Dean wonders if they lose their effectiveness over time, or if maybe his arthritis has gotten worse over the last few years. Now, his aching, stiff fingers are gnarled and barely mobile. He can barely even hold a pencil these days.

And that's what's killing him now. Seamus is in bed, and Merlin only knows how much time he has left. The Healers have done everything they can, but Dean knows that after seventy years of marriage, it's almost time to say goodbye. All he wants is to draw his husband one last time, but his hands are useless.

All he can do is sit beside Seamus, decades of old sketchbooks painfully gripped as he flips through the pages.

In the end, Dean thinks that it's, perhaps, fitting that he cannot draw anymore. What use is his talent as his muse is dying?