With all the Colours

FOR THE BINGO BOARD CHALLENGE: A1: OTP

PAIRING: Dean Thomas x Seamus Finnigan

Warnings: None, really. Except the fact I can't write Irish accent. I tried so don't kill me for that.

A/N: This is just a short slice-of-life fic because I felt like it. Not one of my best works but I'm still pretty proud of it. Anyway… Why do so little people have Deamus as their OTP? They are like… the most canon non-canon couple in the Harry Potter universe! I love these guys, okay? Enjoy!

There are two things Dean loves the most.

Every movement is carefully considered through before the pencil even touches the paper. Each line holds a feeling, each shade contains a memory. Dean lets the pencil dance on the paper. The twirls and turns create a picture, the clean white sheet leaving far behind the ably drawn lines.

One is art in its various forms and shapes.

Dean concentrates and bites his lip. It's barely enough to draw blood but the bitter taste finds its way to his tongue anyway. The clock ticks as he with a light touch makes the lines appear on the paper, focusing on drawing the curve of man's neck. He focuses on the hairline starts and where the soft tresses fall on his skin. A set of lips, not too full, slightly parted. A strong chin and a button nose, cheeks dusted with barely noticeable set of freckles. Dean holds his breath. He concentrates to capture the shine in the man's lively eyes. He smiles a little at result.

The other is Seamus Finnigan.

The creaky floorboard brings Dean back from his thoughts and the pencil he'd been holding loosely drops to the floor. He looks to the direction of the offending sound. Seamus stands there, leaning to the door frame, smiling a little. His hair is all messed up, a ridiculous cowlick dominating the right side. He doesn't try to smoothen it, he never does; instead he just runs his hand through the mess of sandy coloured hair and yawns.

Dean gives him a smile and closes the sketchbook, placing it on the small table. "You should be sleeping, Shay."

"What? Ain't ye happy ter see me?" Seamus teases lightly and he sits next to Dean on the old couch.

"It's not even six in the Saturday morning", Dean says. "Even a cannon fire can't wake up the Seamus I know this early."

Seamus sighs. "I couldn't sleep", he says simply and nudges Dean. "The bed's cold without ye there." Dean just smiles at that and softly kisses Seamus' temple before he reaches for the pencil he had dropped earlier and returns to their original position. "Why are ye awake?" Seamus asks, leaning on the taller man's shoulder.

"I got an inspiration", Dean says.

"At five thirty in the mornin'?" Seamus counters, raising a brow. Dean passes the sketchbook to him.

"Take a look."

Dean's sketchbook is something Seamus enjoys to leaf through every now and then. Page after page there's landscapes, buildings and street views, some still-life arrangements, rough drafts for the children's book, and several sketches of people. People moving; walking and talking, living their life, not even knowing they're being drawn. Seamus knows Dean enjoys drawing. He knows Dean has talent and passion for art.

On the last page is a pencil sketch. It's not finished but at the moment it doesn't matter. Seamus stares at it for a while. "Is that me?" he asks even if he knows the answer. Dean only nods; he doesn't say a word. Seamus' lips slowly curl downwards, his smile fading. He turns to Dean and gives back the now closed sketchbook. His voice is quiet and filled with embarrassment when he voices the question he has been thinking for a long time.

"Don't ye get tired of drawin' me? All the time at Hogwarts, an' even now…"

"Shay, no."

Dean cups Seamus' cheeks gently before pressing their lips together. He lets the sketchbook drop from his lap when he moves closer to the smaller man. The kiss is not tentative at all; they had gotten over that stage a long ago. It's deep and sure, able to wash away all the insecurities between them.

"Shay", Dean says seriously, pressing their foreheads together. "I love you. I love you. And I love drawing you. You know I won't get tired of you. That would be practically impossible."

Seamus blushes lightly, a grin adorning his face. "Sorry, it was dumb question", he laughs softly. Dean hums in agreement and wraps his arm around Seamus' shoulders. Seamus leans closer and plays with the hem of Dean's shirt for a while before he uncurls himself from his boyfriend's embrace. HIs lips curl mischievously upwards.

"I'll be back", he says and pecks a kiss on Dean's cheek. Dean rolls his eyes and watches Seamus practically prance away from the living room before he picks up the sketchbook from the floor. How could Seamus even think he would get tired of drawing him? Dean shakes his head. He loves Seamus more than anything. Nothing would ever change that.

The loud crashing noise comes from the kitchen and Dean almost jumps from the couch.

"Shay!?" he yells. "You okay?"

"I just tripped!" Seamus yells back.

"Did you break something?"

"What? Me? What makes ye think so?" Seamus jokes. "Just stay where ye are!"

"Seamus."

"Everythin' is under control!"

Dean sighs. If Seamus says 'everything is under control' something most likely isn't under his control. Dean knows that better than anyone, thanks to all the years he spent as Seamus' potions partner. He places the sketchbook on the sofa and leaves the room. Their flat is rather small; there isn't much choice where Seamus could have broken anything – after all, the lamp in their bedroom was already broken for the reasons untold – so Dean walks straight to the kitchen and faces the imminent disaster.

"What're you doing?" Dean asks, leaning on the door frame and staring incredulously at his flour-covered boyfriend. A bowl from the set of kitchen equipment they had gotten from Seamus' mother lies on the floor, broken. The batter has splattered all over the place.

"Makin' us breakfast", Seamus answers sheepishly.

"It's not even six in the morning, Shay", Dean says, glancing at the clock on the wall. Seamus ignores his statement and instead pushes a cup of steaming hot coffee to Dean.

"Here's yer coffee–"

Dean frowns. "Shay–"

"–and cos I apparently can't make simple pancakes it'll 'av ter do", Seamus continues, waving the spatula around. Dean puts the coffee cup on the counter and huffs.

"Seamus, calm down." Dean orders and grabs Seamus' shoulders, forcing the blonde to stay rooted on his spot. "What's going on?" he asks.

Seamus groans, tilting his head backwards. "I saw the flier", he mumbles. "About the Art Exhibition."

Dean blinks. "Oh. That." He lets go of Seamus.

"Were ye gonna tell me about it?" Seamus asks.

"Of course I was", Dean huffs.

"But ye didn't", Seamus counters, a hint of hurt in his tone.

Dean takes the cup from counter and beckons Seamus to sit down the kitchen table with him. They had years ago made a promise to not keep secrets from each other, Dean remembers that day all so well. But this was different. Seamus frowns, pours coffee for himself and sits down across from Dean. He takes a sip, not looking away from his boyfriend.

"Well?" Seamus asks almost petulantly. He isn't mad, though. He doesn't even remember the last time he and Dean had a fight. Dean instead is silent. He closes his eyes and drinks the coffee Seamus had made. It doesn't taste too bad, he's gotten used to it. But it doesn't help him concentrate like it used to. Dean shakes his head and looks at Seamus.

"That exhibition", Dean starts. "It's a big opportunity for me. I don't want to keep drawing for children's books forever."

Seamus raises his eyebrow. "I thought ye liked yer job."

"Oh, Shay." Dean sighs. "I do like my job. I just... Sometimes I need more challenge…" Dean's afraid of Seamus' reaction. He lets his gaze drop and the kitchen falls into silence. The half-empty coffee cup stares back at Dean, silently judging him. "So I painted", Dean says finally. "For the exhibition."

"Ye painted?" Seamus asks. His tone gives away his confusion. "When?"

"When you were visiting your parents."

"Oh."

The silence returns. It's more oppressive, more suffocating. The coffee has gone cold but Dean drinks it any way. The taste is bitter, and Dean sighs. "Shay", Dean whispers. "Say something." He looks at Seamus; the blonde hasn't touched his coffee. Seamus finally smiles a little.

"I'd like to go to that exhibition with ye."

Dean isn't a much of a painter.

Dean has always preferred a pen over a brush because the painted line can't be controlled the same way as the line drawn with a pen. One single move can easily ruin the whole piece; if the colours don't work well together, or if they mix the wrong way and leave behind only a freshly painted disaster. It was a challenge and now he's not very confident.

"It's different."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I didn't think ye saw me like that."

"Shay…"

Dean just hopes his dark skin hides his blush. The painting isn't very big or detailed for a painting when compared to the grand pictures on the hall walls. The colours are more blurred than sharp, fire red and coal black mixing with bright gold and ashen grey rather oddly. Dean sighs, embarrassed for even bringing Seamus to the exhibition.

Seamus likes to sleep late on Saturdays but there are exceptions.

"I'm just teasin' ye, Dean", he says, smiling brightly. He intertwines his fingers with Dean's, knowing that no one would notice anyway. "I kinda like the painting."

Dean grins at that. "Do you, now? Not ashamed that I made a painting of you and now it's hanging were thousands of people can see it?"

"Who said anyone else was gonna look at it the way I do? It's not that good", Seamus jokes.

And Dean laughs. Because there are two things above the others that Dean Thomas loves the most. One is art in its various forms and shapes, even if he can't paint as well as he can draw.

"But you like it?" Dean asks.

Seamus grins. "With the colours and all."

The other is Seamus Finnigan.