Drabbles for my F-list
Real life has been a bitch for some of the lovely folks on my f-list. I offered drabbles to cheer a couple of them up, so here they are!
inspiredlife, I adore you and hope that the world turns itself right side up again very soon. I hope that whatever is meant to happen happens and that you are able to find peace and acceptance with whatever that outcome may be. And know that I'm always here thinking of you and praying that things get less sucky. *GLOMPS YOU SO HARD THAT WE BOTH FALL OVER*
It was a miscommunication. A really big, colossal, gigantically enormous miscommunication. And Dean blamed his obviously evilly inclined manager completely. He'd specifically told that awful cow (all right, so really she wasn't so bad except for this) which paintings were meant for the exhibition. They'd discussed them at length and he's rather sure that she even wrote everything down. Plus, this particular picture was in a dark corner of his studio far away from the selected exhibition paintings.
What was done was done, though, and there was not a single sodding thing that Dean could do at this juncture. He did, of course, briefly entertain a notion of dashing over to the other side of the room, wrenching the picture from the wall, shielding the canvas with his lanky frame, and doing a runner right out into the London drizzle. His legs were quite a lot longer than his friend's, after all, and he just might manage it. But there was no way Seamus would ever let something like that go, and Dean had learned from a decade of experience dealing with his mad Irish best friend that it was better not to draw attention to anything and to just act casual… not that that always worked either.
Seamus was buzzing with excitement, as he always seemed to be, and was chattering enthusiastically about Dean's paintings. It was clear that Seamus knew next to nothing about art, but Seamus got excited about everything and he was always over-the-top-crazy supportive of anything Dean did. His comments on the pieces so far had not mentioned any of the techniques or styles or subjects. Rather, they were more along the lines of, "Ooh, I like the red Waazaa in that one, mate!" (complete with dramatic, exploding arm gesturing that nearly took out a nearby art critic's champagne glass) and "Hey, when you squint it kinda looks like a fox, don't you think?" Seamus' genuine enthusiasm for Dean's art, even though he didn't know what the hell was going on in any of it, gave Dean a rather heady, glowy sort of feeling. It wasn't a feeling he could put into words, but he thought that he might try to paint it sometime. He rather thought there'd be a lot of yellow involved, for some reason. And a bit of a red explosion possibly, that looked just a tiny bit like a fox if you squinted a lot.
However, Seamus hadn't seen it yet, or, if he had, he hadn't looked all that closely. Dean stared determinedly at a cracked window frame as Seamus took in the painting that he'd never been meant to see.
"I like this one, Dean! It's all crazy and blurry and green and loud. It's just like me, mate!" Dean tried to keep his expression blank and felt his cheeks heat up.
"Oh, erm, yeah. I guess it does, kinda, a bit, you know…"
Seamus continued to blather on about the painting, which he seemed to like rather well, which made quite a lot of sense really, because it was Seamus. Dean had spent months getting it just right trying to capture the fire and fierceness and loudness and strength and excitement of his best friend. However, Seamus was always moving, always talking, always changing and everything ended up being a bit blurry. It was almost impossible to capture on canvas anything or anyone so vibrant and full of life as Seamus. And Dean wanted to groan, because why did Seamus have to become so damn observant about art and its meaning on this particular painting? He hadn't possessed a clue when it came to any of the other paintings in the gallery, but this was he was suddenly so intuitive about.
Dean's brain raced, trying to come up with a good explanation for the painting, because there was a good reason he hadn't wanted this one displayed. It was Seamus. It was love. It was adoration. It was Dean at his most vulnerable. It wasn't meant for the world to see. It wasn't meant for Seamus to even know about.
And then Seamus reached over and grabbed Dean's hand, lacing their fingers together. His incessant, chipper babbling never paused, but there was just a moment when he looked at Dean, really looked at him, and suddenly Dean thought that maybe Seamus was a bit vulnerable too and maybe Seamus really understood a hell of a lot more than he let on.
tree00faery, you are a dear and I absolutely adore you. *hugs you crazy hard* Figuring out real life can suck and people tend to suck too. I hope that you figure out the best way to deal with the catty, backstabby, lame-ass people that will (most unfortunately) be around for all your days. I hope it all gets squared away soon and that little-miss-bitchy gets her karmic reward somewhere down the line.
Neville pounds on the door of 12 Grimmauld Place with deliberate, heavy knocks. He knows that it'll take a while, after all, so it's best to make his presence loud and unmistakable, while not wasting too much energy right at the get go. Sure enough, it takes Harry fourteen minutes to answer the door, and he's clearly unhappy about doing so. No one's seen hide nor hair of Harry since Ron and Hermione got married a fortnight ago and portkeyed off for a long, uninterrupted honeymoon holiday somewhere warm and beachy.
"Hiya, Harry! Thought you might like a bit of a picnic, seeing as it's such a glorious day outside."
Harry scowls and runs a hand through his hair, which is more untidy than ever and doesn't look as if it's been recently washed. "No thanks, Neville. Not today-I'm a bit busy."
"I've got roast beef sandwiches, good ones too, and fresh strawberries from my garden. Plus, there's treacle tart, which I happen to know is your favorite. You look like shit, Harry. Nuh-uh!" Neville holds up a hand when Harry's scowl turns darker and his mouth opens to spout some self-important, self-pitying nonsense. "You aren't going to scare me away, Potter. I know you too well. So come on then. It's much too nice a day to be cooped up inside that depressing house of yours." With that, Neville yanks Harry out of foyer and down the front steps. He pauses just below the steps, just past the anti-apparition wards but still just inside the do-not-notice charm, and, before a very disgruntled Harry can say another word, Neville disapparates them both to a quiet bit of garden on the outskirts of the Longbottom's property.
Harry's expression is a mixture of shock, pout, and (of course) scowl, but he sits down on the picnic blanket that Neville has laid out for them and accepts a Butterbeer. He brightens a bit at the sight of the enormous roast beef sandwiches, stuffed full of perfectly cooked meat, a bit of tomato, and heavy on the mustard, just as Harry likes them. By the time they eat their way through the sandwiches, the tomato and mozzarella salad, the strawberries, the vinegar crisps, and the treacle tart, Harry appears almost, well still not cheery, but he doesn't look as if he wants to hex Neville anymore, which Neville considers solid headway.
"Why are you doing this, Neville?"
"Spending a beautiful summer day eating delicious food with a good friend of mine?"
"I'm fine," Harry mutters.
"I never said you weren't."
"I mean, you don't have to feel sorry for me or anything. I'm just fine. You needn't drag me off and feed me, just because I've lost my best friends to the wonders of love and romance and Caribbean beaches."
"I don't feel sorry for you, Harry, and, strange as it may seem, I enjoy spending time with you. And you know quite well that you haven't lost your best friends. Ron and Hermione love you, and once the honeymoon is over, they will be back in full force. You and Ron will still play Quidditch and hang out at the local getting pissed on Friday nights. Hermione will still pester you about finding the love of your life and making sure you've clean socks and that your house elves are properly compensated, and you will still complain about her meddling but you'll both know that you love having someone who cares that much. They're always going to be your best friends, Harry. They need you as much as you need them. And, by the way, Hermione's going to be properly pissed off when she hears you've been locked away in that house of yours brooding for two weeks."
Harry gives him a half-hearted glare but says nothing, so Neville continues,
"And I'd like to think that we're friends, as well. I mean, I know that I'll never be what Ron and Hermione are to you, but I do care, and I have always cared. I know what the stupid press is like and how leery you are of other people, but I'm not some stranger out to sell your story to the Prophet, Harry. You know that. So stop worrying and eat some more pudding."
Harry doesn't answer, but he manages a slight smile and looks a bit sheepish, which is enough for Neville, for now at least.
They have time.
If anyone else on my f-list is in dire need of some cheering up and wants one of my (admittedly super lame) drabbly bits, just let me know! I'm in the mood to write, so take advantage, my lovelies!
inspiredlife, I adore you and hope that the world turns itself right side up again very soon. I hope that whatever is meant to happen happens and that you are able to find peace and acceptance with whatever that outcome may be. And know that I'm always here thinking of you and praying that things get less sucky. *GLOMPS YOU SO HARD THAT WE BOTH FALL OVER*
It was a miscommunication. A really big, colossal, gigantically enormous miscommunication. And Dean blamed his obviously evilly inclined manager completely. He'd specifically told that awful cow (all right, so really she wasn't so bad except for this) which paintings were meant for the exhibition. They'd discussed them at length and he's rather sure that she even wrote everything down. Plus, this particular picture was in a dark corner of his studio far away from the selected exhibition paintings.
What was done was done, though, and there was not a single sodding thing that Dean could do at this juncture. He did, of course, briefly entertain a notion of dashing over to the other side of the room, wrenching the picture from the wall, shielding the canvas with his lanky frame, and doing a runner right out into the London drizzle. His legs were quite a lot longer than his friend's, after all, and he just might manage it. But there was no way Seamus would ever let something like that go, and Dean had learned from a decade of experience dealing with his mad Irish best friend that it was better not to draw attention to anything and to just act casual… not that that always worked either.
Seamus was buzzing with excitement, as he always seemed to be, and was chattering enthusiastically about Dean's paintings. It was clear that Seamus knew next to nothing about art, but Seamus got excited about everything and he was always over-the-top-crazy supportive of anything Dean did. His comments on the pieces so far had not mentioned any of the techniques or styles or subjects. Rather, they were more along the lines of, "Ooh, I like the red Waazaa in that one, mate!" (complete with dramatic, exploding arm gesturing that nearly took out a nearby art critic's champagne glass) and "Hey, when you squint it kinda looks like a fox, don't you think?" Seamus' genuine enthusiasm for Dean's art, even though he didn't know what the hell was going on in any of it, gave Dean a rather heady, glowy sort of feeling. It wasn't a feeling he could put into words, but he thought that he might try to paint it sometime. He rather thought there'd be a lot of yellow involved, for some reason. And a bit of a red explosion possibly, that looked just a tiny bit like a fox if you squinted a lot.
However, Seamus hadn't seen it yet, or, if he had, he hadn't looked all that closely. Dean stared determinedly at a cracked window frame as Seamus took in the painting that he'd never been meant to see.
"I like this one, Dean! It's all crazy and blurry and green and loud. It's just like me, mate!" Dean tried to keep his expression blank and felt his cheeks heat up.
"Oh, erm, yeah. I guess it does, kinda, a bit, you know…"
Seamus continued to blather on about the painting, which he seemed to like rather well, which made quite a lot of sense really, because it was Seamus. Dean had spent months getting it just right trying to capture the fire and fierceness and loudness and strength and excitement of his best friend. However, Seamus was always moving, always talking, always changing and everything ended up being a bit blurry. It was almost impossible to capture on canvas anything or anyone so vibrant and full of life as Seamus. And Dean wanted to groan, because why did Seamus have to become so damn observant about art and its meaning on this particular painting? He hadn't possessed a clue when it came to any of the other paintings in the gallery, but this was he was suddenly so intuitive about.
Dean's brain raced, trying to come up with a good explanation for the painting, because there was a good reason he hadn't wanted this one displayed. It was Seamus. It was love. It was adoration. It was Dean at his most vulnerable. It wasn't meant for the world to see. It wasn't meant for Seamus to even know about.
And then Seamus reached over and grabbed Dean's hand, lacing their fingers together. His incessant, chipper babbling never paused, but there was just a moment when he looked at Dean, really looked at him, and suddenly Dean thought that maybe Seamus was a bit vulnerable too and maybe Seamus really understood a hell of a lot more than he let on.
tree00faery, you are a dear and I absolutely adore you. *hugs you crazy hard* Figuring out real life can suck and people tend to suck too. I hope that you figure out the best way to deal with the catty, backstabby, lame-ass people that will (most unfortunately) be around for all your days. I hope it all gets squared away soon and that little-miss-bitchy gets her karmic reward somewhere down the line.
Neville pounds on the door of 12 Grimmauld Place with deliberate, heavy knocks. He knows that it'll take a while, after all, so it's best to make his presence loud and unmistakable, while not wasting too much energy right at the get go. Sure enough, it takes Harry fourteen minutes to answer the door, and he's clearly unhappy about doing so. No one's seen hide nor hair of Harry since Ron and Hermione got married a fortnight ago and portkeyed off for a long, uninterrupted honeymoon holiday somewhere warm and beachy.
"Hiya, Harry! Thought you might like a bit of a picnic, seeing as it's such a glorious day outside."
Harry scowls and runs a hand through his hair, which is more untidy than ever and doesn't look as if it's been recently washed. "No thanks, Neville. Not today-I'm a bit busy."
"I've got roast beef sandwiches, good ones too, and fresh strawberries from my garden. Plus, there's treacle tart, which I happen to know is your favorite. You look like shit, Harry. Nuh-uh!" Neville holds up a hand when Harry's scowl turns darker and his mouth opens to spout some self-important, self-pitying nonsense. "You aren't going to scare me away, Potter. I know you too well. So come on then. It's much too nice a day to be cooped up inside that depressing house of yours." With that, Neville yanks Harry out of foyer and down the front steps. He pauses just below the steps, just past the anti-apparition wards but still just inside the do-not-notice charm, and, before a very disgruntled Harry can say another word, Neville disapparates them both to a quiet bit of garden on the outskirts of the Longbottom's property.
Harry's expression is a mixture of shock, pout, and (of course) scowl, but he sits down on the picnic blanket that Neville has laid out for them and accepts a Butterbeer. He brightens a bit at the sight of the enormous roast beef sandwiches, stuffed full of perfectly cooked meat, a bit of tomato, and heavy on the mustard, just as Harry likes them. By the time they eat their way through the sandwiches, the tomato and mozzarella salad, the strawberries, the vinegar crisps, and the treacle tart, Harry appears almost, well still not cheery, but he doesn't look as if he wants to hex Neville anymore, which Neville considers solid headway.
"Why are you doing this, Neville?"
"Spending a beautiful summer day eating delicious food with a good friend of mine?"
"I'm fine," Harry mutters.
"I never said you weren't."
"I mean, you don't have to feel sorry for me or anything. I'm just fine. You needn't drag me off and feed me, just because I've lost my best friends to the wonders of love and romance and Caribbean beaches."
"I don't feel sorry for you, Harry, and, strange as it may seem, I enjoy spending time with you. And you know quite well that you haven't lost your best friends. Ron and Hermione love you, and once the honeymoon is over, they will be back in full force. You and Ron will still play Quidditch and hang out at the local getting pissed on Friday nights. Hermione will still pester you about finding the love of your life and making sure you've clean socks and that your house elves are properly compensated, and you will still complain about her meddling but you'll both know that you love having someone who cares that much. They're always going to be your best friends, Harry. They need you as much as you need them. And, by the way, Hermione's going to be properly pissed off when she hears you've been locked away in that house of yours brooding for two weeks."
Harry gives him a half-hearted glare but says nothing, so Neville continues,
"And I'd like to think that we're friends, as well. I mean, I know that I'll never be what Ron and Hermione are to you, but I do care, and I have always cared. I know what the stupid press is like and how leery you are of other people, but I'm not some stranger out to sell your story to the Prophet, Harry. You know that. So stop worrying and eat some more pudding."
Harry doesn't answer, but he manages a slight smile and looks a bit sheepish, which is enough for Neville, for now at least.
They have time.
If anyone else on my f-list is in dire need of some cheering up and wants one of my (admittedly super lame) drabbly bits, just let me know! I'm in the mood to write, so take advantage, my lovelies!