Fic | Four Paints Dean Failed to Use and One He Succeeded With
Title: Four Paints Dean Failed to Use and One He Succeeded With
Author: attilatehbun
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas/Luna Lovegood, Luna/Dean/Seamus
Word Count: 1800
A/N: Once again, butterfly_kate asks for comment fic and it blows up into this nonsense.
::
finger
Frankie down the street is stupid. Dean used to think he was alright, maybe a bit off with the way he collected worms and stuff, but now he knows better. Frankie is stupid, because he says mums can’t lie. Frankie always said it’s against the Mum code to lie, and Dean always believed him, and now Dean feels just as stupid as Frankie.
Of course mums can lie. Dean’s mum has been lying to him for years. She’s been telling him and telling him and telling him that One Day He Will Love And Appreciate His Sisters and finally Dean sees that for the big, stinking lie that it is. He could never love his sisters, he hates them, with their horrid games and mean faces and their stupid sour lollies that they give him with matching grins. They’re rubbish rubbish rubbish.
And Dean had been trying to be nice. He had been trying to believe his mum. All he’d wanted to do was borrow one of their plastic ponies - they have so many, they could hardly mind him using one, just a bit- and he’d even offered to share the pretty new finger paints from his birthday if they’d just let him borrow one ponyso he could try and draw it.
But--
Dean isn’t a baby, he isn’t, no matter how much his sisters laugh and laugh and clutch their ponies to their chests. Dean isn’t a baby and- and fine, he won’t use baby paints anymore (even though he loves them, he does, the smell and the slick over the paper, the way he’s allowed to get them all over his face). He hates bright hot as he throws the paints to the back of his closet into the pile of dirty socks.
(He hopes the gremlin that steals his socks takes the paints too.)
(He hopes it doesn’t .)
Dean will never love his sisters. He rubs a fist across his cheeks. (Only babies cry.) His sisters are horrid and Frankie down the street is stupid and his mother. His mother.
His mother lies.
magic
The air at the foot of his bed is close and warm under the blankets, the press the kind that quiets their voices down to whispers. Dean squints at the page in the small light thrown from Seamus’s wand tip. Seamus, for his part, tilts his chin over Dean’s shoulder, one arm thrown casually across the curve of Dean’s back as he looks over the drawing, pointing out changes here and there. (Because it’s not a feeling he knows how to parse yet) Dean grumbles, but usually complies.
Suddenly, Seamus slides sideways, pulling the blankets askew as he slips out from under and off, taking the light with him. There’s some rustling from the direction of his bed, and Dean hisses at him, conscious of their sleeping dorm mates.
“Keep your krups,” comes Seamus’s voice, and after another brief bout of rustling, his head and shoulders appear back under the blankets. They’re followed by the rest of him, scooting towards the foot of the bed as Dean angles to allow him room. He gets there grinning and shoving a crumpled bit of parchment under Dean’s nose.
“What--” Deans starts as Seamus says, “Found this earlier, thought it might be something you could use.”
“What is it?” Dean says, smoothing it out and tracing his fingers over the words scribbled there.
“Spell,” Seamus says, and laughs when Dean ‘s response is to shove him in the shoulder. “Nah, it conjures paint, direct from your wand, so you can use it like a paint brush. I think.” He tugs at his ear. “Book wasn’t completely clear on that part.”
Dean doesn’t want to get too excited, he’s seen the results of Seamus’s schemes before, but still. It could be fantastic. “You tried it then?”
“Just waiting for you.” Seamus grins. “Go on then.”
Dean grabs his own wand from and says the words, and waits. And waits. When he waits some more and nothing happens, he says them again, a little louder and with a flick. Paint suddenly spurts from the tip, uncontrolled and going everywhere. Dean clamps his hand over it, which seems to stop the flow, but not before it splatters, shocked blue, across Seamus’s face. A spray to match his freckles. Seamus’s mouth hangs open, for once with no words coming out, and Dean can’t help it. He presses his face into the sheets and giggles as quietly as he can, the whole mattress shaking with it.
“That was wicked,” Seamus says, finally, and grabs for the wand. Dean can barely get out a hissed no wait before Seamus is flicking his wrist.
This time, the paint is electric yellow and shows little sign of stopping. Seamus’s eyes are wide and smiling, but the paint is rapidly coating the bed. Dean does the only thing he can think to, grabbing for Seamus and trying to wrest the wand away from him. He rolls,
(Seamus, I have to sleep here)
he tugs,
(shh, the others, we have to be quiet)
he pulls Seamus to the middle of the bed
(what are you do--)
so neither of them rolls out.
Seamus is outright cackling and it takes a minute before Dean can get him to stop. He ends with Seamus asprawl on top of him, his hand clutched around Seamus’s on the wand, pointing it away, and Dean wriggles until he can get a hand clamped over Seamus’s mouth.
“Seamus, stop,” he says, paint smearing across Seamus’s face from his thumb. “Stop,” he says again. He waits, breathes, looks up at Seamus, searching for the moment when he can let go.
But he can’t. “Oh,” he says, soft, sliding his hand back, and Seamus leans down, and.
And.
Dean is lost.
none at all
(Later, Dean will wish.)
He wants to get it down. He wants to save it, this one perfect moment amidst the running, the fear, the shame. In the circle of firelight, they can’t forget exactly, they can never forget, but they can push the gnawing worry - the pursuer more relentless than the Death Eaters or the Snatchers or any of the rest - out into the dark and leave it there. Just for a little while.
It’s important that things like this be remembered, because they are just as true as the terror that surrounds them all. And Dean needs to record it, preserve it, keep it to tell people later, look, see? He needs to paint Ted’s face, fire casting shadows under his cheekbones as he laughs -
(this happened, it did, don’t forget, don’t lose it)
and yes, Griphook too, Griphook warming his long fingers without a word
(he was here, we were all here, together) -
Dean needs to paint it all , because if he doesn’t do it it, who will, and how long before he himself is forgotten. Erased.
But he has no paint here, obviously, no room out here in hiding, no time to grab his brushes when they came for him and he had to run, run, run. No way to get anything down.
Dean tries anyway; he nicks a bit of charcoal from their fire, tries to scribble it on anything, anything. But the charcoal is hard, brittle - it won’t stick to the precious scraps of parchment and it snaps and crumbles when he tries to sketch it onto a rock.
(He thinks it’s not too much to hope for, not one more chance, but then the Snatchers come and Ted.
Ted.
Ted is left only in his memory.)
oils
Discovering Luna is discovering one of his old jars of finger paints, a bright spot of color hidden away and forgotten.
(Shell Cottage is grey. The sky is grey and the stones are grey and the sea is grey and the people walk in grey circles and don’t speak. Not where Dean can hear. Luna is odd and confusing but she also shines and Dean can’t look away.)
Watching Luna is wanting Luna but it is never keeping Luna.
(Dean wants to paint her, he wants to paint her so badly. He can see it perfectly - the textures of the oils, the shades he’d need for her hair, how the bristles of his brush would rasp against the canvas - it’s all there just waiting for him to make it take shape, but he won’t let himself. Not even if he had the supplies here at the cottage. Even just the wanting feels like betrayal.)
Kissing Luna is fire in his belly and the taste of paint in the back of his throat.
(And.
And.
Dean is lost.)
spray
Dean lowers his hands and resists the urge to shake them, the tips of his fingers icy cold. Instead, he pulls up the bottom of his shirt, leaving multicolored fingerprints behind, and uses the hem to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead before it can drip into his eyes. The movement doesn’t help much, but it does bring some warmth back into his fingers. The empty cans rattle when he drops them to the ground.
“You nearly finished, then?”
(Seamus)
comes a voice from behind him, and Dean only just manages not to jump out of his skin.
“Merlin, Seamus, are you ever going to stop doing that?”
Seamus cackles and meets Dean as he backs away from the wall, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Nah, ‘s too fun,” he says.
Dean wipes the rest of the paint off his fingers on Seamus’s shirt. Seamus doesn’t notice. He lets out a low whistle as he gazes at Dean’s work.
“Have to say, those cans work a far sight better’n that old spell I found.” He scratches at his beard as if feeling years-old paint.
“Just a bit, yeah,” Dean says.
“It’s good, Dean,” Seamus says, serious, “Actually, it’s kind of--”
(Luna)
“Perfect,” Luna finishes, crossing the garden to join them. “I think the house was waiting for it.”
She snakes an arm around Dean’s waist from the other side and he reaches over to give her a dab of paint on her nose.
“Everyone really does look like they belong there, don’t they?” Dean says after a moment.
“Of course they do, sap,” Seamus says, nudging Dean in the side, but Luna just looks at him.
(Ted)
“I think you were waiting for it too, weren’t you?” Luna asks, tilting her head to his shoulder. Dean feels her hand between his and Seamus’s hips, tugging Seamus’s belt loop. He feels Seamus’s hand where it passes over his shoulders to curl into the hair at the back of Luna’s neck. And Dean.
(everyone)
Dean.
(here)
Dean smiles.
::end::
Author: attilatehbun
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas/Luna Lovegood, Luna/Dean/Seamus
Word Count: 1800
A/N: Once again, butterfly_kate asks for comment fic and it blows up into this nonsense.
::
finger
Frankie down the street is stupid. Dean used to think he was alright, maybe a bit off with the way he collected worms and stuff, but now he knows better. Frankie is stupid, because he says mums can’t lie. Frankie always said it’s against the Mum code to lie, and Dean always believed him, and now Dean feels just as stupid as Frankie.
Of course mums can lie. Dean’s mum has been lying to him for years. She’s been telling him and telling him and telling him that One Day He Will Love And Appreciate His Sisters and finally Dean sees that for the big, stinking lie that it is. He could never love his sisters, he hates them, with their horrid games and mean faces and their stupid sour lollies that they give him with matching grins. They’re rubbish rubbish rubbish.
And Dean had been trying to be nice. He had been trying to believe his mum. All he’d wanted to do was borrow one of their plastic ponies - they have so many, they could hardly mind him using one, just a bit- and he’d even offered to share the pretty new finger paints from his birthday if they’d just let him borrow one ponyso he could try and draw it.
But--
Dean isn’t a baby, he isn’t, no matter how much his sisters laugh and laugh and clutch their ponies to their chests. Dean isn’t a baby and- and fine, he won’t use baby paints anymore (even though he loves them, he does, the smell and the slick over the paper, the way he’s allowed to get them all over his face). He hates bright hot as he throws the paints to the back of his closet into the pile of dirty socks.
(He hopes the gremlin that steals his socks takes the paints too.)
(He hopes it doesn’t .)
Dean will never love his sisters. He rubs a fist across his cheeks. (Only babies cry.) His sisters are horrid and Frankie down the street is stupid and his mother. His mother.
His mother lies.
magic
The air at the foot of his bed is close and warm under the blankets, the press the kind that quiets their voices down to whispers. Dean squints at the page in the small light thrown from Seamus’s wand tip. Seamus, for his part, tilts his chin over Dean’s shoulder, one arm thrown casually across the curve of Dean’s back as he looks over the drawing, pointing out changes here and there. (Because it’s not a feeling he knows how to parse yet) Dean grumbles, but usually complies.
Suddenly, Seamus slides sideways, pulling the blankets askew as he slips out from under and off, taking the light with him. There’s some rustling from the direction of his bed, and Dean hisses at him, conscious of their sleeping dorm mates.
“Keep your krups,” comes Seamus’s voice, and after another brief bout of rustling, his head and shoulders appear back under the blankets. They’re followed by the rest of him, scooting towards the foot of the bed as Dean angles to allow him room. He gets there grinning and shoving a crumpled bit of parchment under Dean’s nose.
“What--” Deans starts as Seamus says, “Found this earlier, thought it might be something you could use.”
“What is it?” Dean says, smoothing it out and tracing his fingers over the words scribbled there.
“Spell,” Seamus says, and laughs when Dean ‘s response is to shove him in the shoulder. “Nah, it conjures paint, direct from your wand, so you can use it like a paint brush. I think.” He tugs at his ear. “Book wasn’t completely clear on that part.”
Dean doesn’t want to get too excited, he’s seen the results of Seamus’s schemes before, but still. It could be fantastic. “You tried it then?”
“Just waiting for you.” Seamus grins. “Go on then.”
Dean grabs his own wand from and says the words, and waits. And waits. When he waits some more and nothing happens, he says them again, a little louder and with a flick. Paint suddenly spurts from the tip, uncontrolled and going everywhere. Dean clamps his hand over it, which seems to stop the flow, but not before it splatters, shocked blue, across Seamus’s face. A spray to match his freckles. Seamus’s mouth hangs open, for once with no words coming out, and Dean can’t help it. He presses his face into the sheets and giggles as quietly as he can, the whole mattress shaking with it.
“That was wicked,” Seamus says, finally, and grabs for the wand. Dean can barely get out a hissed no wait before Seamus is flicking his wrist.
This time, the paint is electric yellow and shows little sign of stopping. Seamus’s eyes are wide and smiling, but the paint is rapidly coating the bed. Dean does the only thing he can think to, grabbing for Seamus and trying to wrest the wand away from him. He rolls,
(Seamus, I have to sleep here)
he tugs,
(shh, the others, we have to be quiet)
he pulls Seamus to the middle of the bed
(what are you do--)
so neither of them rolls out.
Seamus is outright cackling and it takes a minute before Dean can get him to stop. He ends with Seamus asprawl on top of him, his hand clutched around Seamus’s on the wand, pointing it away, and Dean wriggles until he can get a hand clamped over Seamus’s mouth.
“Seamus, stop,” he says, paint smearing across Seamus’s face from his thumb. “Stop,” he says again. He waits, breathes, looks up at Seamus, searching for the moment when he can let go.
But he can’t. “Oh,” he says, soft, sliding his hand back, and Seamus leans down, and.
And.
Dean is lost.
none at all
(Later, Dean will wish.)
He wants to get it down. He wants to save it, this one perfect moment amidst the running, the fear, the shame. In the circle of firelight, they can’t forget exactly, they can never forget, but they can push the gnawing worry - the pursuer more relentless than the Death Eaters or the Snatchers or any of the rest - out into the dark and leave it there. Just for a little while.
It’s important that things like this be remembered, because they are just as true as the terror that surrounds them all. And Dean needs to record it, preserve it, keep it to tell people later, look, see? He needs to paint Ted’s face, fire casting shadows under his cheekbones as he laughs -
(this happened, it did, don’t forget, don’t lose it)
and yes, Griphook too, Griphook warming his long fingers without a word
(he was here, we were all here, together) -
Dean needs to paint it all , because if he doesn’t do it it, who will, and how long before he himself is forgotten. Erased.
But he has no paint here, obviously, no room out here in hiding, no time to grab his brushes when they came for him and he had to run, run, run. No way to get anything down.
Dean tries anyway; he nicks a bit of charcoal from their fire, tries to scribble it on anything, anything. But the charcoal is hard, brittle - it won’t stick to the precious scraps of parchment and it snaps and crumbles when he tries to sketch it onto a rock.
(He thinks it’s not too much to hope for, not one more chance, but then the Snatchers come and Ted.
Ted.
Ted is left only in his memory.)
oils
Discovering Luna is discovering one of his old jars of finger paints, a bright spot of color hidden away and forgotten.
(Shell Cottage is grey. The sky is grey and the stones are grey and the sea is grey and the people walk in grey circles and don’t speak. Not where Dean can hear. Luna is odd and confusing but she also shines and Dean can’t look away.)
Watching Luna is wanting Luna but it is never keeping Luna.
(Dean wants to paint her, he wants to paint her so badly. He can see it perfectly - the textures of the oils, the shades he’d need for her hair, how the bristles of his brush would rasp against the canvas - it’s all there just waiting for him to make it take shape, but he won’t let himself. Not even if he had the supplies here at the cottage. Even just the wanting feels like betrayal.)
Kissing Luna is fire in his belly and the taste of paint in the back of his throat.
(And.
And.
Dean is lost.)
spray
Dean lowers his hands and resists the urge to shake them, the tips of his fingers icy cold. Instead, he pulls up the bottom of his shirt, leaving multicolored fingerprints behind, and uses the hem to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead before it can drip into his eyes. The movement doesn’t help much, but it does bring some warmth back into his fingers. The empty cans rattle when he drops them to the ground.
“You nearly finished, then?”
(Seamus)
comes a voice from behind him, and Dean only just manages not to jump out of his skin.
“Merlin, Seamus, are you ever going to stop doing that?”
Seamus cackles and meets Dean as he backs away from the wall, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Nah, ‘s too fun,” he says.
Dean wipes the rest of the paint off his fingers on Seamus’s shirt. Seamus doesn’t notice. He lets out a low whistle as he gazes at Dean’s work.
“Have to say, those cans work a far sight better’n that old spell I found.” He scratches at his beard as if feeling years-old paint.
“Just a bit, yeah,” Dean says.
“It’s good, Dean,” Seamus says, serious, “Actually, it’s kind of--”
(Luna)
“Perfect,” Luna finishes, crossing the garden to join them. “I think the house was waiting for it.”
She snakes an arm around Dean’s waist from the other side and he reaches over to give her a dab of paint on her nose.
“Everyone really does look like they belong there, don’t they?” Dean says after a moment.
“Of course they do, sap,” Seamus says, nudging Dean in the side, but Luna just looks at him.
(Ted)
“I think you were waiting for it too, weren’t you?” Luna asks, tilting her head to his shoulder. Dean feels her hand between his and Seamus’s hips, tugging Seamus’s belt loop. He feels Seamus’s hand where it passes over his shoulders to curl into the hair at the back of Luna’s neck. And Dean.
(everyone)
Dean.
(here)
Dean smiles.
::end::