Harry Potter One Shots

For Loving Me

"Draw me like one of your French girls," Seamus said in a high pitched voice, and lay down on the bed opposite Dean, resting his head on his hand and curving his legs behind him in a vaguely model-like position.

Dean laughed as he looked up from his sketch book.

"That has to be the most cliche thing somebody could possibly say to their artist boyfriend."

Seamus shrugged and ran a hand through his sandy blond hair.

"Oh well. Just draw me." He stuck his lips out in a pout and tousled his hair again before resuming his pose.

Smiling at how ridiculous his boyfriend looked, Dean shook his head.

"No," he said simply, and picked up his pencil again to continue drawing.

Surprised, Seamus sat up and stared at him. Dean always looked gorgeous when he was drawing; brow furrowed in concentration, dark eyes shining, the muscles in his left arm taut as his hand moved quickly across the page. The white shirt of his school uniform was crumpled after the day, but still bright against his dark skin, and his scarlet and gold striped tie was loose around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone.

Seamus got up from the bed and took a seat beside his boyfriend, careful not to upset his sketchbook.

"Why don't you ever draw me?" He asked, watching as Dean's fingers twitched into a different position around his quill to shade in the shadow cast by the castle he was drawing. Seamus had always found it astounding that Dean could write so beautifully with a feather quill, let alone draw, when his own messy scrawl was barely legible.

"No reason in particular, I've just never gotten around to it," Dean replied eventually, not meeting Seamus's gaze.

But the other boy was not convinced, and he plucked the quill from his boyfriend's fingers and slid the sketchbook off his lap, flicking through the pages.

"Seamus, that's private!" Dean protested, reaching to take it back, but Seamus held it out of his reach.

His eyes widened as he finally saw drawings of him. Dean had made him look almost beautiful, with cheekbones he knew he didn't have, more delicate features and tousled hair slightly longer than his was in real life. There were pages and pages of drawings - many in colour, with his cheeks rosy pink and his hair golden, some in black and white with shadows across his face that made him look dark and mysterious. And then there were the naked ones, where he lay looking up at an invisible object (or person), or in some sexual position he could never imagine himself in. Those made him blush. The drawings of him laughing, his mouth stretched wide with joy, his eyes seeming to sparkle despite being made out of pencil or ink, or just smiling and looking completely happy, made him feel like sunshine and rainbows - or maybe that was just his inner gayness coming out. Finally, there were the drawings of him and Dean together, naked, of course, but also merely cuddling, or just looking at each other. But those drawings were unfinished - only the bodies filled in, or the hair absent, or only the outline of one of them. The dozen or so drawings like this that Seamus saw filled him with an unexplainable sadness, and he reached across to lace his fingers through Dean's, the book still open on his lap.

"You have drawn me," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

Dean looked down at their entwined hands and then up again to Seamus's face, and nodded hesitantly.

"I didn't want to show you because I thought you'd be disappointed, or find it weird or something."

Seamus stared at him in disbelief.

"Dean, they're beautiful. You're so insanely talented, and every single one of these is amazing I- can I have one?"

A smile was spreading across Dean's face and he squeezed Seamus's hand briefly and leaned across to kiss him.

"Of course you can. You can have the whole book if you'd like."

"I don't need the whole book, but I'd love one of us together. Why aren't any of those finished?"

They both looked down at the page open on Seamus's lap, which held a drawing in which they were lying facing each other on a field, so close together their noses were touching.

"That's of when we went on that picnic, isn't it?" Seamus said, tapping the illustrated version of himself on his half finished head.

"Yeah. None of the ones of us are finished because I can never seem to put enough love into them. I know that sounds stupid but-" Dean flipped through the pages of the book and pointed out several drawings of Seamus. "Look at these. You look so real and just looking at them makes me feel so much love for you, but when I see these-" he flipped back through the drawings of the two of them. "Nothing."

Seamus found two pages beside each other where there was a drawing of just him leaping in the air in the middle of a crowd of people, a football field below on the left, and on the right page him and Dean kissing in the bathtub of his house. The drawing of just Seamus looked so alive, as though he was jumping out of the page. Seamus could almost hear the crowd cheering and the excited screams of Dean beside him. But the drawing of the two of them looked empty, and it wasn't just because Seamus didn't have an arm yet and the water in the bath hadn't been drawn, leaving the boys' legless torsos just floating there.

"Maybe it's because you're drawing yourself and you didn't really see yourself doing those things?" Seamus suggested.

"Maybe." Dean didn't sound convinced.

"It's okay, I'll just have one of the drawings of me," Seamus said, a little huffily because he actually really wanted one of both of them.

"I'll find my favourite," Dean said with a relieved smile, and took the book from Seamus, flicking through the pages quickly. "Here." He carefully tore out a page and handed it to Seamus upside down. The paper was thick in his hands - drawing paper, similar to parchment but with a different texture - and the edges were curling. Dean hadn't been lying when he'd said it was his favourite; this page had obviously been visited a lot. Slowly, Seamus turned it over, and he couldn't help gasping when he saw the other side. It was a drawing made out of words, a combination of Dean's extraordinary penmanship and amazing artistry.

Sand, slipping through my fingers, were the words that made up Seamus's blonde hair, tiny and intricate letters making up individual strands.

The words that wove around his pale fingers and hung around his wrist like bracelets were, Your touch makes me feel like art.

And on the left of his chest, right above where Seamus's heart was, Dean had written in flowing script, I hope it always beats for me.

Seamus's hands were numb on the paper he held, his body heavy with feeling. He was blinking constantly to hold back tears.

Wordlessly, he placed the drawing ever so carefully to the side, and wrapped his arms around Dean, whose hands pressed on his back warmly and cupped the back of his neck.

"I love you so much," Seamus said, his voice choked with tears.

Dean moved his head back ever so slightly to brush his lips across Seamus's, a kiss like sand falling swiftly through fingers, the touch of someone who loves you, as quick as a single beat of a heart.

"I know, I love you so much too," Dean whispered back, his breath tickling Seamus's lips.

"You don't have to draw us to make us real," Seamus said, kissing Dean again.

Dean pulled Seamus closer to him, so the pale skinned boy was almost in his lap, and kissed him more fiercely.

"Thank you."

"What for?" Seamus asked in confusion, the words spilling onto Dean's lips.

"For being so beautiful to draw and for loving me."