xX... sorry for the silence, here's just a little ficlet to keep you going! I know it's rather tired old plot line, but I hope to have made it mine slightly! Enjoy!...xX
The stars have been telling it for months; only, no one bothered to look. They rarely do. For man, that great master of all things in this universe, a tiny blip in the stars is terribly inconsequential and rarely gets more than a glance from the scholars, wisemen, and even artists. If only someone had bothered to glance up into the silky heavens, they would have seen it... written clearly as if a note left on the kitchen table by his mum. "Get a pint of milk on your way home".
The air is thick and sweet with the last remnants of spring sliding smoothly into a balmy summer as a heavy thud indicates the popping of a champagne cork. The frothy liquid spills hurriedly out and a pair of lips presses itself to the source, trying clumsily to mop up the foam. The lips pull away, a freckled hand wipes his chin and, Lo! the lips are part of a larger being. A face: mopish sandy hair, bright eyes, the afromentioned lips are thin. He is tall and lanky, to the point of embarrassment. His clothes rarely fit, always one or two sizes too small, giving him the appearance being younger than he actually is. His eyes twinkle strangely as he, outpour of foam stopped, puts the bottle to his thin lips and drinks. Almost immediately he makes a small gagging sound and the bottle is pulled away by a slightly pudgy boy.
"Oy!"
"Fuck off, it's my turn!"
The boy with the thin lips concedes that the thought of the pudgy boy's plump, red lips touching the same bottle neck that his had, makes him a tad excited. As is his shorts weren't tight enough...
Things happen so fast here, on this last day of school. The deep reds of the oval room are offset only by the mountains of food and drink piled on every possibly surface. The thin-lipped boy turns to find another drink only to run straight into a few boys, and one crimson haired girl, passing around a joint.
"Christ, get us killed!"
He props a window open. The air! He breathes in deeply. Mmm. Sweet, almost. As if the whole world knows that for the entire summer, there is no school. The thin-lipped boy staggers off to find some beer.
-------
In another corner, in an arm chair, he sits not moving. His eyes sit in their sockets stiffly and don't dare to move. His mouth does not twitch in the slightest and his foot ceases to tap. The only movement is the slight spasm of the fingers, which move within a tiny radius, doing something. It is these moments that strike him as the worst. He is seeing art, something he does from time to time; a terribly crippling process. He becomes totally non responsive and distant when this happens. His mind is filled with colors and lines and images and the outside world melts away. He simply ceases to exist in the present.There is no way to stop this from happening and no way to predict when it will afflict him. At the very moment, a thin charcoal draws its way lazily across a piece of thick parchment; strong arches, gothic almost, like a cathedral. A bit of shading... like some sort of Catholic butterfly. Christ on the cross. Vivienne Westwood. Something. Nothing. Shit.
No one bothers him when he is like this. They simply wait for it to pass and, when it does, continue on as if nothing strange has happened.
He is trying to remember the female figure... curly hair, a plump face... but what about the breasts? How supple must they be? What is ideal, anyway? What is-
Gone. The thin film glazing his eyeballs dissipates. What is that? A smell. He turns his head slowly- an open window.
Mmm. He breathes in. Sweet, the air is. One can taste it. But what does it look like? What does a taste look like, he wonders?
-------
On the rolling lawn, the sounds of the various parties are muffled. One can barely hear a distant rumbling which is the Gryffindors drinking themselves silly, or the Ravenclaws gorging themselves and playing Scrabble. He prostrates himself on the lawn and tries to envision the taste of the sweet air. Down by the lake, it mixes with something salty- pungent. It must be a dark line, black, or gray, something. He closes his eyes, "Now!" he wishes, "Now let me become incapacitated with creativity! Not in the party!" But he cannot will himself to be artistic. It must sweep over him. He lays his head down, his hair mixing slightly with the soft grass, his body cushioned. Hands behind his head, he lets out a low whistle.
"Ah yes," a voice pipes up. The boy with thin lips leans against a pillar, his scarf billowing cinematically in the fragrant wind.
In the grass, he lifts himself up, balancing his body on his elbows.
"Seamus."
The thin-lipped boy, Seamus, lets out a slight yawn.
"Mind if I join you, Dean m'boy?"
Dean nods a "no" and Seamus sits next to him. Wiping hair from his face, he brings his knees close to his chest.
"Are you cold?" asks Dean.
"Hardly."
"You look cold"
"I think, perhaps, I am getting sick."
"The scarf-"
"-scarf. Yes."
There is a pleasant silence between the boys. Dean draws his knees close as well and soon the two boys are in the same position. The moon shimmers brilliantly over the lake, the stars twinkling ominously nearby.
"I saw you, your fingers..." begins Seamus, twirling his hair casually.
"I was trying to think of the female body."
"you dog!"
There is much ribbing, most of which Dean resists with the platonic air only a "serious artist" could bring to the idea of drawing the female form.
"I always knew you were a smut hound!"
"You'll never grow up." is the comment shot back by the "serious artist".
Seamus draws his wand and lets it fall between his fingers, back and forth- and twirl! Gently, without realizing. Dean stares at the wand, mouth open slightly, not daring to move. The chestnut thing begins at the forefinger and sways gently back and forth, collapse imminent, then it is swung in-between the inner fingers, the middle giving it a nice push and back it goes. Dean's eyes follow the wand intently. For a moment, there is nothing else but the wand and the fingers which manipulate it. Such a microcosm, Dean has never seen before and he is compelled to draw but, lacking a pad, he desists. Finally, after what seems like a small eternity, the wand falls with a gentle thud into other grass.
"Oh shit" Seamus says quietly, without real feeling.
Dean shoots his hand out quickly to pick up the wand, his knuckles slightly sweaty.
"Here," he says suddenly awkward.
As the wand changes hand, Dean's fingertip brushes Seamus'. Accidentally, of course, but still- Seamus feels it. Soft on his rather coarse fingers. He shuts his eyes tightly for a second, until the moment passes and his shorts have returned to normal.
"Nice term?" Seamus finally asks.
"all right"
"Good to get back home"
"Of course"
"We still meeting in London, come July?"
"Of course"
"Right. Say hello to your Mum, right?"
"Of course"
Seamus chews a piece of grass,
"What are you most looking forward to?"
Dean takes a moment to think about it.
"Being by myself."
It comes out harsher than intended, maybe.
"Oh"
As always, Dean is clueless to any and all subtext.
"I like talking to you like this, you know" Seamus says matter-of-factly, after a moment.
"What d'you mean?" Dean turns his head and draws his knees close.
"Like just this, you know? Like just me and you, like... on the grass. In the summer. Like, fuck, just smell," he breathes in heavily, "the air. Mmm..."
Dean opens his mouth and breathes in.
Seamus leans in and presses his thin lips quietly to Deans.
There is something of a silence, only, it's the loudest silence either of them has ever endured.
"Shit. I'm sorry."
"No no It's... It's... no It's..."
This time it is Dean, head tilted slightly, legs slowly outstretching. He wraps his arms hesitantly around Seamus.
The stars had predicted it, of course, but who listens to them anyway?
It is longer this time. Afterwards, Seamus falls back down dramatically into the grass.
"God...!"
"Is this... ok?"
Seamus nods. Dean smiles a relieved smile.
The two boys take a deep breath, as Seamus loosens his tie a bit.
xX... won't you review!? ...xX