Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season 10, Finals - Holyhead Harpies, Beater 2

Prompt: The Acting Challenge - Write about suddenly taking on an unexpected role.

Optional Prompts: (word) sickening, (object) sketchbook/journal/notepad

Word Count: 3000

Warnings: Mild swearing, car accidents (mild to moderate violence), moderate to severe injuries, implied trauma/PTSD, mentions of bullying and temporary disability.

Notes: Muggle AU, Seamus is a musician, Dean is an artist, and you know there's gonna be angst. Multiple POVs and main prompt is meant to be metaphorical for both characters. For Dean, it's his artist's block, and for Seamus, it's the tinnitus, struggling to cope with the aftermath, and receiving a second chance.

He looks so still in the hospital bed. If this had been a fairytale, all Dean would have to do is kiss him awake — he'd be able to do something, instead of just…sitting here and nursing an all-consuming guilt.

And an artist's block.

Dean pulls out his sketchbook from his bag again and thumbs through the half-finished drawings. It had become a method of passing time but, more importantly, it had been a way of coping with any kind of stress. But for the last few days, since Seamus had gotten into his accident…nothing had been working. Every time Dean puts pen to paper, his hand freezes. His mind goes blank. All he can produce are shaky lines and simple sketches, laughable in the face of what he used to draw.

Dean sets down this sketchbook and rifles through his bag for a second one, which has all of his completed drawings. That sketchbook is a source of agonizing nostalgia for him.

Seamus stares up at him from the pages, his charcoal smile a sunbeam in the gloomy hospital, and Dean's heart hurts.

"What happened?" Dean's horrified gaze roves around the bathroom, his mouth agape. "What on Earth were you doing?"

Looking sheepish, Seamus holds up an empty two-liter Coca-Cola bottle. "Um…a science experiment that got out of hand?"

"Clearly." Dean makes an affronted noise, crossing his arms over his chest. "I was gone for an hour, Seamus. You want to explain the logic?"

"I was bored and saw something cool online. It was only going to be a small experiment in the shower," Seamus offers. "But I think I underestimated how much it would explode, and I panicked."

Dean touches one of the brown splatters, recoiling as he feels the stickiness. "Yeah, so you're cleaning this up," he says sternly, trying not to cave into Seamus' apologetic pout. "Don't look at me like that. You made the mess, so you're cleaning it up."

"But why can't you help me?" Seamus murmurs, drawing nearer, and Dean's body seizes up. "I'm sure I could make it worth your while."

A sailor would be proud of how much Dean is swearing right now in his head. Seamus' hands are on his chest, his head tilted back, a challenge in his eyes, daring Dean to deny him. And Dean, against his better judgment, is about to fall into his trap.

"No…" Dean says weakly as heat floods his body. "Seamus, you know you can't do that."

But Seamus pecks the corner of his mouth anyway and Dean is done for.

"Fuck you," he hisses before yanking Seamus' lips up to his.

Seamus hadn't been able to hear anything properly in weeks. All he can hear is the sound of tires squealing against asphalt as the other car had sped towards him. He can hear the sickening noise of the other car colliding with his head-on, his forehead smacking against the steering wheel so hard he could swear he'd heard his skull crack open shortly before he'd fallen unconscious. The airbag had slammed into him, cracking his ribs, and everything had been a haze of red and pain.

And now what? The driver had been drunk, but had died in the accident. There had been all of the legal processes to take care of, and that had been harrowing enough to navigate.

Worst of all, music doesn't sound the same anymore. It's like a curtain has fallen over his ears, blocking out most of the external noises, but he can hear the buzzing. The maddening buzzing.

Seamus is idly plucking at the strings of his guitar, trying to play anything, when Dean walks in, his gaze softening.

"Are you alright?" his boyfriend asks, his voice carrying far more pity than Seamus likes. "I heard you cursing, which isn't alarming, but then I heard you throw something."

"Oh. Did I throw something?" Seamus replies dully, staring at the crumpled up sheet music on his music stand.

Dean picks up a pair of headphones which had landed near the door. "Yeah, I reckon you did." He hesitates. "Um…want to talk about it?"

Suddenly, the buzz is more like a roar in his ears, and Seamus can't stand it. God, he's drowning. "I'm fine," he snaps. "Leave me alone."

Dean visibly recoils and it's the hurt on his face that causes Seamus to pause. Shame stabs him — Dean had only been trying to help. "Sorry," he mutters, setting down his guitar. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's okay," Dean assures him, rebounding far too quickly for Seamus' conscience. "I know things have been frustrating, to say the least, but I'm always here to talk or do whatever you need me to do. Even if that means giving you some space."

Seamus scrutinizes Dean's face, trying to read his expression. There's sympathy, of course, which is sickening, but Seamus can learn to stomach it. And there's an undercurrent of guilt, which had been there since the day Seamus had woken up.

"Thank you," he says to Dean cordially, while trying to tamp down his resentment.

(No matter what had happened prior to the accident, Dean does not deserve his bitterness right now.)

"You're never home anymore," Dean accuses, his eyes blazing. "You're always off drinking and partying — God, I don't even know how much 'work' you really do."

"I do a lot of work," Seamus retorts. "So what if I go to a few parties and drink? I need to blow off some steam. My record label is putting a lot of pressure on me for a new album —"

" — and this is what gets you good press, I suppose." Dean points to the telly where the local news is displaying a reel of Seamus' drunken antics. "Hammered out of your mind, behaving like a loon, people are going to think you're such a good role model."

Seamus draws a sharp breath. "Maybe that particular party got out of control — the bouncer was a dick, letting in the press, that was a private party — but that isn't the worst thing in the world. You're blowing this out of proportion. How many fights have we had about this?"

He snatches his coat from the coat rack, grabs his car keys from the coffee table, and glares at Dean for good measure, anger searing his blood. "I'm going out."

"Where the fuck are you going?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll streak through central London. Maybe I'll get drunk in front of the TV station. Since apparently that's what you think I do instead of working."

He doesn't give Dean a chance to respond before slamming the door, storming out into the night.

"Are you going to answer that?" Dean asks loudly as Seamus' phone buzzes again. "It might be important."

Seamus' eyes flash and Dean braces himself, but Seamus makes a massive effort to control himself. "No," he replies shortly, his eyes returning to his magazine.

Dean bites his lip, jumping when his own phone chimes.

Penny (Seamus' Manager): Tell him to pick up, please.

Trust me, I've tried, Dean thinks, glancing at Seamus' mulish expression. Lips locked, jaw tight, hands fisting the magazine, Seamus doesn't look like he wants to pick up.

With a heavy sigh, Dean writes back, Give him some time.

(But how much more?)

"Hello, is this Mr Thomas?"

He hadn't recognized the number, nor does he recognize this woman's voice. But she sounds grave, which sends an ominous chill through his blood, dousing his anger.

This can't be good.

"Yes, this is him."

"This is Abigail from St Thomas' Hospital. You're listed as an emergency contact in Mr Finnigan's file, and he's just been admitted. He was in a car accident and is in surgery at the moment —"

Dean doesn't hear the rest, because sickening pain lances through him like he's just been speared in the chest. Oh God. Car accident. Seamus had stormed out with the car keys about forty-five minutes ago and he'd — he had —

"No," Dean whispers numbly, panic gripping him like a vice. "No, I drove him to this, I — I —"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

With a jolt, Dean realizes that the nurse is still on the line. "Nothing," he murmurs, scrambling for some semblance of composure. "Nothing, I'll be right there. I'll call a cab, and I'll be right there."

He hangs up, his heart thundering in his chest. This can't be happening.

It's happening.

When he arrives at the hospital, he finds Seamus's family and friends still waiting anxiously in the waiting room. Penny is there too, her face etched with concern. Dean barely manages to register her presence as he rushes towards her.

"Where is he? How is he?" Dean's voice trembles, unable to hide the panic in his tone.

Penny grabs his hand, offering a reassuring squeeze. "The surgery is over, but they're still monitoring him in the ICU. He's stable, but it's going to be a long road to recovery. The doctors said they would have to wait and see how he responds to treatment."

Dean's heart sinks, but he's grateful that Seamus is at least stable. He knows that it's going to be a challenging journey ahead, but he's determined to be there for Seamus every step of the way.

After what feels like an eternity, they finally get permission to see Seamus in the ICU. Tubes and monitors surround him, but even in his unconscious state, he looks peaceful. Dean takes a shaky breath, trying to hold back tears as he takes Seamus's hand in his own.

"I'm so sorry," Dean whispers, his voice choked with emotion. "This is all my fault. I promise I'll do everything I can to make it right."

The weeks blend into each other, and soon, Seamus is emerging from the hospital with an official all-clear from his physician. Dean waits in the car, silent, as Seamus opens the back door and takes a seat.

They drive home in silence, during which Seamus has time to reflect. Recall everything that had happened in the past weeks and evaluate his life through a new lens. He had taken everything for granted — his musical talents, his hearing, his support system. He had been given a second chance and had had everything he'd needed. Not everyone is as lucky.

As they arrive home, Seamus sighs deeply, breaking the heavy silence that had enveloped them during the drive. He turns to Dean, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and remorse.

"Dean, I don't even know where to begin. I've been so blind to everything, and it took this accident to make me realize how much I've taken for granted," Seamus admits, his voice tinged with emotion.

Dean reaches out and takes Seamus's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "It's okay, Seamus. We all make mistakes, and sometimes it takes a wake-up call to see what truly matters in life," he replies, his voice soothing and understanding. Seamus senses an undercurrent of something — perhaps Dean's words are double-meaning, meant for both of them.

"I was so absorbed in my lifestyle before the accident that I lost sight of the joy in creating music. And I never fully appreciated the gift of hearing until it was taken from me," he says, his voice trembling with emotion.

Dean nods, cracking a weary smile. "And maybe I lost sight of what was important. I shouldn't have picked a fight like that, it's my fault that —" His chin wobbles and a knife twists in Seamus' heart.

"Dean, no," he says firmly. "God knows we've both made major mistakes. And I'm never going to forget them —" he runs his hand through his hair, remembering how excruciating the pain had been — "but I don't want us to repeat them. I don't want us to be thrust into these roles again so unexpectedly or to be put in a situation like this."

"...I suppose you're right," Dean murmurs, but Seamus isn't finished.

"I'm sorry, Dean." He takes Dean's hands in his and Dean looks up, surprised. "You've been so patient and understanding with me all this time, and I've been so rude and unappreciative."

"I can hardly blame you for that," Dean says, staring at their joined hands. "I would've been the same way if I'd lost the use of my hands. In fact…it was almost like I did."

Dean growls as the lead of his pencil snaps against the paper, scattering little fragments everywhere, but it's not that that has got him frustrated — it's that he still can't draw. The number of half-finished drawings has doubled and Seamus' face is missing from all of the new drawings. Moreover, it had been taking a toll on his spirits, causing him to miss important deadlines, and he'd been weighing doing something he hadn't ever considered — quitting altogether. With his motivation gone, he'd been doubting the point of drawing at all.

He can hear Seamus in the other room strumming his guitar and pausing every so often. His boyfriend had been so down in the dumps lately, struggling with tinnitus, desperately trying to recover the magic of his compositions and his revered flair, and it had affected the atmosphere. But it's not like Seamus is the only one with dark clouds orbiting his being.

There's a loud clatter and Dean drops his sketchbook, jumping to his feet and hurrying to Seamus' room, all while trying to shutter his own conflicted emotions.

"It's a good thing you're the breadwinner in the house," Dean jokes, trying to make his situation sound less intense. After all, he hadn't been in an accident. "I might have… struggled a bit."

"Fuck, Dean, I had no idea." Seamus looks so woebegone that Dean has the sudden urge to embrace him. "I didn't know I was putting you in that position. I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault," Dean tells him. "I was struggling with coping with the newness of the situation, but my way of coping was far different from yours. Doesn't mean that you cared about me less or I cared about you more."

"...You know, you're pretty amazing," says Seamus with awe. "How do you always know what to say?"

Dean laughs hollowly. "I'm glad I finally did."

The weeks after this conversation are much, much better. It's a time of healing and self-improvement for both of them. Seamus' music had been flashy and chaotic before, but as time goes on, it becomes softer, more introspective. He only hints at what had happened, even though his accident had been publicized, but his lyrics become more thoughtful. Reminding the world to hold their loved ones close and cherish every moment spent with them. Telling them that while love isn't smooth, the bumps can be overcome. He feels like he had a new role, a new niche to fill in the wide world of musicians… a new responsibility. This is a message that he's uniquely qualified to share, and he knows he could make people listen. If they could feel the upheaval he'd gone through after his accidents and the pain of it for the three minutes that they listened to his song, maybe he could help them learn the lesson he had.

And when he does his first formal interview after the accident, the interviewer asks him, "There has been marked change in your behavior as of late. What has caused this change?"

Obviously the interviewer is expecting a heartfelt story. A dramatic retelling, no doubt, something that will win over the audience's hearts. Seamus smiles — it's a little bit sad, a little bit bold — and chooses something else.

"It took me losing something that I took for granted," he says, "in order to realize what I should appreciate. I was lucky enough to have an amazing support system around me. The doctors and nurses were incredible, and my boyfriend has been so supportive and patient with me. My family and friends have been making sure that I'm never feeling alone. And it's made me realize how fortunate I am to receive this second chance, to reflect on my mistakes and become a better person. With that, I can urge everyone to cherish everything they have, whether it be their loved ones or something vital to your lifestyle, because you never know when you might lose it."

Dean, an onlooker in the audience, blinks back his tears and claps louder than the rest.

"I want to show you something," Dean announces, walking into the room with his sketchbook in hand. "I finally finished a drawing."

Seamus, who had been scratching away at his sheet music — thankfully not crumpled — sits up and beams. "Really? That's awesome! Which one did you finish?"

Dean smiles slyly. "None of them," he says, earning himself a confused look. "I drew something from scratch. I started it on the day of your interview and it's taken a few days, but…look." He thrusts the sketchbook in front of Seamus and Seamus draws a sharp breath.

It's him. Him and Dean. The first time they'd met, right after young Seamus had fought off young Dean's tormentors at school and had invited him out for ice cream. Seamus' legs are dangling off of the park bench, face and knuckles bruised and he's sporting a black eye, but he's grinning at Dean. And Dean is looking back at him with awe, ice cream dripping from his cone.

Dean's strokes are precise and he'd captured every emotion of that scene so viscerally that Seamus is propelled back to that moment, reliving it vividly.

"Fuck, Dean," Seamus says, and that's all he's able to say. His throat is closed. They look so innocent here, blissfully unaware of the future.

"I know," Dean replies quietly. "I miss them."

"Me too."

(But secretly, they both agree that the new versions aren't so bad either. Yes, their lives have been sent into an unprecedented tailspin and nothing will ever be the same, but they're figuring out how to right themselves one step at a time.)