A/N: So because I was asked to in half of my lovely reviews, I am writing a follow up to What Makes You Beautiful. Hope you all enjoy! This is for youdon'tknowme06. Thanks for the encouragement!

Part Two

Seamus nervously fiddled with the bedclothes. Dean had been there beside him, encouraging him and whispering sweet reassurances to him since the moment he'd realized what Seamus thought of himself. Dean had begun to show him the drawings he'd made of him, and whenever he'd looked in a mirror he remembered the things that Dean had told him. Slowly, it was helping. The soft moments had taken the edge off the hard looks he'd shot himself. He was learning to look for the things about himself that were good. The things that Dean had told him were good.

But in all that time, Seamus had begun to notice things about his best mate that he'd never seen before. When he looked over before bed and caught Dean's eyes roving over him, in a way he'd missed when he'd simply wanted to hide himself as soon as he could. When Dean's lips would part slightly and his breath would catch and his eyes would widen when Seamus made a suggestive joke, where before Seamus had only searched for the smiles. He'd noticed that Dean's drawings held a light that only followed Seamus, and more and more of him were showing up.

He'd noticed that Dean was in love with him.

He thought back to the moment when he'd confronted his friend about the sketchbook. Remembered the fear when he'd asked why, why, why on earth he'd been considered beautiful. The relief. The gentle adoration that had accompanied Dean's words and the look in his eyes that Seamus now believed was unmistakable.

He'd thought, for a long time, about what he should do. He hadn't ever thought much about girls, but he hadn't thought much about boys either. He knew he loved Dean, his best mate, the one who had rescued him from himself. But could that platonic, friendly love turn into something so much deeper?

After more than a month of careful consideration, something Seamus was not, in most areas of life, disposed to, he'd made up his mind. But that didn't make him any less nervous as he swallowed past a lump in his throat. He was sitting on Dean's bed, waiting with Dean's sketchbook in his lap. This could either go very badly, or very well. He didn't know which he was more frightened of.

Dean pushed open the door to the dorm, calling "Shay?" as he entered. He stopped as his eyes landed on the Irishman, his position and the book in his lap.

"What's going on, Shay?" he asked cautiously.

Seamus merely waved at him to come sit with him. Dean did so, slowly, eyes still taking everything they could out of the situation. Seamus took a deep breath.

"Dean. You've always been here for me, even before I found this sketchbook and saw how you see me. You've shown me what you think of me, every day since we've met and I hope you understand how grateful I am for that. But I've never been able to return the favor. I'm not eloquent, Dean, and I'm not artistic. I don't know how to make you understand what you mean to me. Still, I've tried. And I really hope you won't kill me, because I did it in pencil so you can still use the page after you've seen it." And he put the sketchbook, open to the most recent page, on Dean's lap.

All Dean could do was stare. It was a stick-figure drawing, presumably of him, with curly black hair and a massive smile, holding a globe in one hand and a paintbrush- that he secretly thought looked more like a switchblade- in the other. It was surrounded by a zig-zag line, and there were a few little hearts surrounding it. Next to him was another stick figure who he assumed was Seamus, with messy lines for hair, a broomstick in his hand, and an exaggeratedly large heart bursting from his chest. There were dotted lines from the eyes across to the Dean on the page. After a while, he looked up at Seamus, mouth agape, eyes wide in astonishment. Dean had no words. Seamus gulped audibly.

"You… you pulled me away from hating myself, the way I did, and you've shown me that it's possible for someone to love me. I just… I wanted you to know I love you too." Seamus pronounced awkwardly.

Dean looked back down at the sketch, then back up at Seamus again. He raised his hand to Seamus' cheek, running his thumb over the high cheekbone, eyes shy and slow, looking at Seamus through his pounding heartbeats and rapid nervous breath.

"You mean the world to me. You have my world in your hands. That's why I drew that globe…" Seamus flinched slightly at the horrendousness of his drawing.

He knows it's stupid, he knows that in this moment, with Dean so close and everything hanging in the balance he should just shut up but his nerves make him keep talking until Dean's thumb brushes over his bottom lip, and drags it down, and Seamus is speechless. The pad of his thumb is so soft and Seamus can't breathe, let alone speak. He watches Dean's eyes follow the movement of his thumb from Seamus' lips to his chin, down his jaw 'til Dean's hand is cupping the back of Seamus' neck and he can hardly believe this is happening. They move together, and their lips are soft and an elated burst in Seamus' chest means that some part of him realizes how much this moment means. It's wonderful, not because his lips feel so good or because he can feel Dean's other hand raise to rest on his shoulder, or because somehow he feels Dean's waist beneath his own fingers. It's because of what this kiss means; Dean loves him, and Dean wants him, and he is never going to be alone again.

When they part, Seamus smiles shyly, and Dean grins broadly and lets his fingers drop to the sketchbook page to trace the stick figure drawing.

When, the next day, Seamus finds the book open on his pillow, his drawing outlined in ink, the hearts red and the lines black and the world blue and green, he is surprised.

When, later that evening, breathless and happy, Dean says "I wanted it to last forever." Seamus is, for the second time in his life, speechless.