I've never been under the illusion that Dean and I are 100% transparent with each other. At least, I've definitely kept secrets. I assume he must have a few of his own. But lately, the idea of his secrecy has become the most prevalent thought in my mind.
Every Saturday, Dean will wake up early and leave the dorm. And I mean early. Like 4 am. I keep wondering where he's going, but two things prevent me from finding out. For one thing, I'm honestly too tired to get up that early on a Saturday morning and, two, I don't want him to think I'm clingy to the point of following him and disregarding his privacy... even though I most definitely am.
So it goes on for a few weeks, maybe 5, and by now I really am getting curious. As the cycle continues, I find it harder to fall asleep, and I'm even more distracted than usual in my classes. Why doesn't he tell me where he's going? Have I done something? These thoughts consume me at every waking moment, because even though I've known we've kept secrets, I didn't think they were big secrets that involved sneaking around at 4 am.
Is he seeing someone? Of course that's the first thing that comes to mind. If so, who?
Neville, Ron, and Harry never notice when he leaves. Those three are even lazier than I am. Dean has never noticed that I've witnessed him leave in my half-conscious state, so I haven't brought it up. But this many weeks into the early morning sneaking routine, my jealousy is really starting to take a hold of me.
I think about where he might be going every time we're in the same class together: where I can smell him clearly, and I can glimpse his smile, and his skin brushes against mine. I wish that I could just turn my pining off sometimes. It's just repetitive and time-consuming and, and pointless!
But also I love thinking about him. Because he's Dean. And Dean never gets old. I could think about him all my life and never grow tired of his messy, artistic perfection.
By now it's Friday night, and I'm seriously contemplating following him tomorrow morning. I'm his best mate—he won't be angry. Probably. I guess it depends on where he's headed. Right now, Dean and I are sitting in the common room, studying. Excuse me, trying to study. I'm not focused on the work in front of me at all. Dean notices.
"You alright, mate?" He asks. I snap my head up to meet his soft gaze, noticing how the darkness in the room and the crackling fireplace that reflects in his eyes make for a dazzling glossy effect, and his dark hair is a little ruffled, as if he's been running his hands through it, and…time to cut off that spiraling train of thought.
"Yeah. I'm fine. Just tired," I say. He gives a small smile, and as if it's muscle memory, I smile back at him. He laughs and looks back to his paper and starts to scratch away with his quill. God. I really am helpless, aren't I?
I continue to devise my plot to follow him as I stare at the top of Dean's head. I could just leave the room a few seconds after him so that I could follow at a distance. I could stake out outside of the dorm and wait for him to pass me, so that I could follow at a distance. But he might notice that I'm not in the dorm. It's probably better if I stay awake, because I won't be able to wake up fast enough when he's leaving and wakes me up by accident.
I'll stay awake. When he goes to bed, I'll tell him I feel sick and am going to get water. I'll tell him not to wait up. He'll fall asleep while he thinks I'm getting water, and then I'll wait for him to leave.
"You haven't done anything, Sea," Dean points out, looking at my blank piece of parchment. I nod.
"Hmmm. Seems that I didn't," I reply.
"You have that funny look on your face," he continues suspiciously. "Like you're thinking about something… Now I'm really starting to get worried."
"Ha. I just don't feel very good," I lie. His eyebrows immediately dip in concern.
"You don't feel well?"
"Yeah. Just a minor bug or something probably."
"Do you need anything? What can I get you? Do you want to go to sleep?" I'm caught off guard by the flurry of helpful inquiries.
"I'm fine, Dean. But we should go to bed—it's late. You can head up, and I'll be right behind you. I'm going to get some water."
"I can get it for you," Dean offers eagerly. He's leaning forward as if to see if I'm sick or not. I scoot my chair back and stand up, our close proximity causing me to heat up. Dean follows suit, hurriedly rolling up his parchment.
"I can get it myself, Dean. Stop worrying—I'll be fine," I add, seeing his unwavering look of concern.
"Fine," he agrees finally. Because he still looks worried, I give him a reassuring smile to send him off. He goes, slinging his bag over his shoulders and trekking up the stairs. With a satisfied sigh, I sink down on the sofa by the fire, letting it warm me up to the point of discomfort.
My plan works for about 20 minutes. At that time, Dean comes creeping back down the stairs. He looks surprised to see me sitting on the chair.
"Why didn't you come up?" He asks immediately.
"I, uh—"
"I was worried," he says bluntly. "I thought you went and puked your guts up and were dead in the bathroom somewhere." He does sound panicked.
"That's pretty morbid, mate," I tell him. He shrugs, coming the rest of the way over to me. He's in his pajamas now, his dark blue and green plaid pants and matching button up shirt. Green is one of my favorite colors, and I love seeing it set against his dark skin. He takes a seat right next to me, our sides pressed together. The slight, through the fabric touch sets all my nerves on fire and they dance through my whole body.
"You're not sick, are you?" He asks, looking into the fire as if he already knows my answer. I clear my throat.
"I mean I don't—"
"You don't need to lie. If you wanted to be alone, you could have just asked." When I glance at him from the corner of my eye, I see that he looks sad. I mentally slap myself for being a bloody idiot.
"No," I amend quickly, "that's not why I—"
"Really, it's fine, Sea. I'm sorry if I did something." He stands up, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, looking guilty. Why? Then he closes his mouth, shakes his head, and walks back up the stairs. I want to call after him to apologize, but for some reason I stay glued to the seat with my mouth snapped shut.
At least he won't care if I come upstairs or not. I can continue with my plan. I'm bloody miffed. I made Dean think that I'm mad at him, and he thinks he's done something, and I just messed things up a little bit, haven't I?
I slump down in the seat, breathing in the faint scent of Dean that he left behind. I don't know what the scent is exactly; it smells fresh and clean and warm and a little bit like trees and sunny ink and paint and it's just lovely. It sort of fills you up nicely, making you calmer. It's funny how, at the same time, Dean can make me feel a smooth sense of calm and also work me into a tizzy. (I know it's a funny choice of words, but I think it describes me pretty well when I'm around him).
Staring into the fireplace, I slowly drift to sleep right there on the sofa.
I'm a light sleeper. I can wake up at the slightest of noises, and so when I hear footsteps on the staircase, I stir. I never wake up completely right away, because that's impossible. But I'm brought back to the real world just enough to hear. I can hear a voice (Dean?) mutter a small curse followed by faint, barely-there footsteps.
I have enough mind to keep still, and pretend that I'm sleeping. My plan might yet work. I can hear the footsteps creep behind the couch and I, and then the faint creak of the door opening. I crack my eyes open to see that the fire has died down to ashes, and I shake my head in an attempt to wake myself up. I stand up tiredly, still half-asleep.
I stumble over to the door, creaking it open just so. I can't believe how lucky I am—I just manage to catch the sight of Dean's robes whip around the corner. I scramble after him, stopping at the corner and peeking my head around. I manage to see him turn again. I follow him through the halls until he comes to a stop in front of a small pair of doors that grows bigger. I recognize it immediately from last year: the Room of Requirement. What's he doing here?
When he glances back, I fall back to hide myself against the wall. I hear the door open and shut. I come out from behind the wall and approach cautiously and curiously.
I think about how I want to continue. If I go in, surely he'll be able to see me. I can't guess the interior of the room until I'm inside. Should I take the risk and just try to clear everything up? I'm sure I could—the problem isn't even a big or bad one. I don't think.
I think I should just go in there and say I'm sorry, and everything will go back to how it was yesterday. We've had fights before, and this time won't be any different.
The door lets me in. I guess it can tell that I need the room. I need Dean. I slip through the door to see… not what I expected to see. Sure, I didn't really know what I was expecting, but I don't think it was this.
There's a piano in the middle of a small room, and big windows where I can see the grounds, the sun only just beginning to peek up. The piano is playing itself, a sweet and haunting melody. One corner of the room is cluttered with art supplies. Dean sits on a high stool in front of an easel, paint and pencils scattered about him on the ground, as well paper and other easels covered in cloth so I can't see them. There are other art utensils too, that I don't know the name of because I'm not an artist, obviously. Dean is brilliant at the whole art thing.
I love watching him when he sketches. His hand practically glides over the page, sketching an outline and then sketching another. He adds color and depth and feeling and emotion into every piece, and it's beautiful.
Dean must have heard the door close, because he turns around, looking alarmed. He holds a pencil in his hand, and when he sees that it's me, he flips the easel so that it's facing away. I wonder what was on it?
"Seamus? What are you doing here?" He asks.
"I was just wondering where you went… off to," I say, clearing my throat. I'm definitely still tired.
"You were asleep on the couch."
"I woke up. You know I sleep light," I say. Dean shrugs.
"I was hoping you were still asleep." His words leave a dull sting. I frown.
"I was just getting curious to where you were going every Saturday, and so I—"
"You've been asleep all the other times," he says. It sounds more like a question.
"I wasn't," I admit sheepishly. "What's with all the secrecy? It just looks like you're doing art."
"I am," he says. He takes a step back as if to protect his work.
"Well, can I see?"
"I don't think that's a good idea," he intones abruptly. I try to step around him, but he slides over to block my path with an apologetic smile.
"Why can't I see?" I insist.
"Because this art is personal."
"Aren't all your pieces?" I truly don't know what he means. I thought all of his works of art were personal to him.
"Well, yes," he starts thoughtfully, "but these are really personal, and I didn't want anyone to see them."
"But I'm your best mate," I argue. He sighs.
"You don't have to get so worked up," he scolds.
"I'm not getting worked up," I protest, starting to lose my temper and patience.
"I don't want you to see the paintings," Dean says in finality.
"I was just bloody asking if I could! What's the big deal?" Dean sucks in a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling.
"I don't want you to see."
It was here that something overtook me—I'm not sure what it was. Maybe I was just tired of all the secrets, on both his and my own side of the friendship, maybe I just thought that as his best mate I deserved to see his work—I don't know.
I try to just sort of jog right past him, but he catches me by the arms and we spin around. I end up slipping on a loose pencil, falling onto my back and dragging Dean down with me. I slide onto my stomach, trying to get to the art, but Dean grabs my ankle and drags me back under him. After a few moments of confused wrestling, my foot connects with something solid and Dean's sketch flutters to the floor .
It's me. I can tell that it's me in potions class, because the contents of the cauldron are in a flaming ball around my face, colors of orange and red and yellow gold.
Dean's grip has gone slack, and I slowly maneuver my way out of his grasp. He lets me.
I start to uncover the others. All of me. I step away once I've uncovered them all, a smile on my face. Dean bounds up behind me.
"Listen, Seamus, I—"
I grope for his hand, still observing the paintings, and stumble back beside him. I can feel him relax as our hands stay locked, and he tightens his grip. His hand is soft, but with a few calluses, courtesy of always holding a quill.
"I think I'm in love with you," he whispers. "But I didn't want to, I couldn't, take the risk." I turn my head away from the paintings of me to look at Dean's face. He's already looking at me. With those soft eyes. The piano is still playing in the background, and it's turned sweeter and brighter and happier but quieter.
I lean forward and press my lips against his, pushing up on my tip-toes. His lips are soft and the kiss is even better than I imagined it'd be. He pulls away with a smile.
"I guess this means that maybe you love me too?" I wrap my arms around his torso, tucking my head into his chest for a tight embrace. He hugs me closer, his own arms around my back. It's comfortable here, safe with Dean.
"Maybe? More like definitely. I didn't want to take the risk either." This makes Dean laugh, and he moves his chin on top of my head.
"Next time, maybe don't stalk me through the corridors at 4 am. Just ask," Dean says. I give an incredulous laugh.
"Even when I got here you weren't going to tell me."
"But I did." I can hear the smile in his voice, and that makes me smile.
"Could you shut up for one bloody moment?" I request playfully. "You can rub it in later."
"Yeah. Whatever you say."
We both tighten our grip, as if to prove that we're really in each other's arms. I'm having a hard time believing that this is real—that Dean admitted his love for me, and has been painting me in secret, and he kissed me, and he's holding me right now.
I pull away and plant one more kiss on his mouth, just to double check.
"What?" He asks at my expression.
"I was just double checking," I say.
"Double checking what?"
"That you love me."
"That's one thing that you'll never have to worry about. It'll always be true."