Five Portraits Dean Thomas Drew of Seamus Finnigan
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Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
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Adult +
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1,413
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Currently Reading:
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Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,413
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I don't own Harry Potter or anything therein, and I definitely don't make any money playing in the sandbox.
Five Portraits Dean Thomas Drew of Seamus Finnigan
Five Portraits Dean Thomas Drew of Seamus Finnigan, and One that He Did Not
001.
This is Seamus: Ink on parchment, black and white, made of lines that are too thick and lines that are too thin, made of perspective just two degrees off. Even like this, in Dean’s eleven year-old hand, he is recognizable.
Seamus, his shirt untidy, his sleeves folded back to his angular elbows, a book propped open in front of him on the library table. The table dwarfs him. This is not an error in perspective; this is Seamus, small and determined, his forehead lined in concentration over Potions homework he would never finish. Behind him, the scene is just scribbles, a token sketch of something that Dean knew was there but, even then, hardly mattered.
This is Seamus as the Sorting Hat knows Seamus: messy and complicated; composed of lines that do not quite meet; difficult to untangle, parcel out, call by name. This is Seamus as the Sorting Hat knows Seamus: Gryffindor, finally, his bravery as clear as his little-boy skin if you let your eyes adjust.
002.
This is Seamus: Vivid colour, sunlight painting streaks of auburn and blond through his sandy hair, the shades of the leaves in autumn. It is autumn. He is standing under a tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His posture is awkward and uncomfortable – Seamus the Third-Year, not yet Seamus the Man – but he is giving this moment, this pose, this Sunday afternoon to Dean because he loves him but does not yet understand.
Everything is soft. The style is experimental. If you look closely, there are fallen leaves on the ground at Seamus’s feet. They are red. They are shaped like small mouths. There are a thousand kisses waiting for him, and he stares down but does not see. A blush in his cheeks recalls their shade.
This is Seamus as the Forest knows Seamus: waiting inside of his own head, gazing at gifts he is not sure how to accept and doubtful that he has earned. This is Seamus as the Forest knows Seamus: a firework waiting for ignition.
003.
This is Seamus: Alive and true and pulsing with energy. Dressed head to foot in Dean’s Quidditch gear, too large on his lanky frame, he is leaning against the mirror in the neglected bathroom on the second floor. A pair of goggles dangles casually from one graceful finger. His head is thrown back in a laugh that you can hear echo off the walls if you listen closely. His mouth is red and looks wet in a slant of light that comes in through the window.
The expression on his face is joyful and intimate. Gazing too hard feels intrusive. This is a game, but not the one for which he is dressed. Pressed to the glass on either side of his cocked head, there are handprints too wide to belong to him. The faucet runs unattended at his side.
This is Seamus as Myrtle knows Seamus: loud, awake, unabashed; swallowing everything whole and biting his lips to let the taste into his blood. This is Seamus as Myrtle knows Seamus: eager, ravished, bubbling like a fountain; aware, finally, that he is found beautiful; aware – excruciatingly aware – of the beauty that is everywhere.
004.
This is Seamus: Gritty and duotone, his slender body made of knife-sharp lines. The grin he wears glints as though he has a mouth full of stars. He has been conjured from rebellion, from mischief, from flame.
His wand is thrust through the twisted belt loop of his low-slung denims. He leans against a railing of rickety wood, a Muggle cigarette between two long fingers and a rosary across his narrow, naked chest. Behind him, Ireland is colourless and bleak, but he rises from the gloom like a tree rises from rock.
This is Seamus as Mam and Da know Seamus: the vessel for a triad of power – God and nicotine and magic – wound tightly through two parallel worlds like the mark for infinity. This is Seamus as Mam and Da know Seamus: posturing at the confidence to contain it all, to keep the blaze safe within a ring of stone.
005.
This is Seamus: a split panel, two sides of one story; dreamy, lazy paint glowing like a candle.
Left: his face tilted up like a supplicant, he is all hazel eyes and freckled nose and hair askew with pulled-through fingers. His lashes are long and lay low like humid air, but beneath them is a hunger so intense, so stark, so startling that it straddles the line separating the innocent and the obscene. His mouth is left out, but it is not a mystery.
Right: his body bare and sprawling across a bed that looks too large. His cock – uncut, half-hard, slick – lays against his saddle-horn hip. There is dirt on his knees and come on his concave stomach, a suggestion of white on white. The expression he wears is feline; he is a lion, his belly smugly bared in a world in which he knows, for this moment, that he is king. The affection in the brush-strokes is palpable and textured.
This is Seamus as Dean knows Seamus: open wide and running over, vulnerable and glorious, adoring and adored. This is Seamus as Dean knows Seamus: art, in all that it encompasses; messy, ambiguous, jarring, sensual, dangerous, majestic, home.
006.
This is Seamus: Colin Creevey’s last photograph, taken with the old Muggle camera he smuggled under his robes, contraband under the new regime. It is a record of the atrocities. It is the evidence he collected.
Full-colour and garishly lit, Seamus stands against a bare wall in the Room of Requirement. His face is battered beyond recognition: blackened eyes, a crooked nose, cheekbones out of place, a split chin. (His mouth could not be silenced, though; each time, he would lift the jaw-locking curses, the vocal-cord binds, the tongue-tying hexes. He would mend his own shattered jaw.)
This is Seamus as he knows himself: he thinks that if he were an artist, he would sculpt the curve of Dean’s bowed back, arched before him like a cup into which he would pour and pour and pour. This is Seamus as he knows himself: he was not so much alive as waiting; he was not so much brave as desperate. The first breath he drew in nine months, he drew to weep in relief against the pulse in Dean’s neck.
001.
This is Seamus: Ink on parchment, black and white, made of lines that are too thick and lines that are too thin, made of perspective just two degrees off. Even like this, in Dean’s eleven year-old hand, he is recognizable.
Seamus, his shirt untidy, his sleeves folded back to his angular elbows, a book propped open in front of him on the library table. The table dwarfs him. This is not an error in perspective; this is Seamus, small and determined, his forehead lined in concentration over Potions homework he would never finish. Behind him, the scene is just scribbles, a token sketch of something that Dean knew was there but, even then, hardly mattered.
This is Seamus as the Sorting Hat knows Seamus: messy and complicated; composed of lines that do not quite meet; difficult to untangle, parcel out, call by name. This is Seamus as the Sorting Hat knows Seamus: Gryffindor, finally, his bravery as clear as his little-boy skin if you let your eyes adjust.
002.
This is Seamus: Vivid colour, sunlight painting streaks of auburn and blond through his sandy hair, the shades of the leaves in autumn. It is autumn. He is standing under a tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His posture is awkward and uncomfortable – Seamus the Third-Year, not yet Seamus the Man – but he is giving this moment, this pose, this Sunday afternoon to Dean because he loves him but does not yet understand.
Everything is soft. The style is experimental. If you look closely, there are fallen leaves on the ground at Seamus’s feet. They are red. They are shaped like small mouths. There are a thousand kisses waiting for him, and he stares down but does not see. A blush in his cheeks recalls their shade.
This is Seamus as the Forest knows Seamus: waiting inside of his own head, gazing at gifts he is not sure how to accept and doubtful that he has earned. This is Seamus as the Forest knows Seamus: a firework waiting for ignition.
003.
This is Seamus: Alive and true and pulsing with energy. Dressed head to foot in Dean’s Quidditch gear, too large on his lanky frame, he is leaning against the mirror in the neglected bathroom on the second floor. A pair of goggles dangles casually from one graceful finger. His head is thrown back in a laugh that you can hear echo off the walls if you listen closely. His mouth is red and looks wet in a slant of light that comes in through the window.
The expression on his face is joyful and intimate. Gazing too hard feels intrusive. This is a game, but not the one for which he is dressed. Pressed to the glass on either side of his cocked head, there are handprints too wide to belong to him. The faucet runs unattended at his side.
This is Seamus as Myrtle knows Seamus: loud, awake, unabashed; swallowing everything whole and biting his lips to let the taste into his blood. This is Seamus as Myrtle knows Seamus: eager, ravished, bubbling like a fountain; aware, finally, that he is found beautiful; aware – excruciatingly aware – of the beauty that is everywhere.
004.
This is Seamus: Gritty and duotone, his slender body made of knife-sharp lines. The grin he wears glints as though he has a mouth full of stars. He has been conjured from rebellion, from mischief, from flame.
His wand is thrust through the twisted belt loop of his low-slung denims. He leans against a railing of rickety wood, a Muggle cigarette between two long fingers and a rosary across his narrow, naked chest. Behind him, Ireland is colourless and bleak, but he rises from the gloom like a tree rises from rock.
This is Seamus as Mam and Da know Seamus: the vessel for a triad of power – God and nicotine and magic – wound tightly through two parallel worlds like the mark for infinity. This is Seamus as Mam and Da know Seamus: posturing at the confidence to contain it all, to keep the blaze safe within a ring of stone.
005.
This is Seamus: a split panel, two sides of one story; dreamy, lazy paint glowing like a candle.
Left: his face tilted up like a supplicant, he is all hazel eyes and freckled nose and hair askew with pulled-through fingers. His lashes are long and lay low like humid air, but beneath them is a hunger so intense, so stark, so startling that it straddles the line separating the innocent and the obscene. His mouth is left out, but it is not a mystery.
Right: his body bare and sprawling across a bed that looks too large. His cock – uncut, half-hard, slick – lays against his saddle-horn hip. There is dirt on his knees and come on his concave stomach, a suggestion of white on white. The expression he wears is feline; he is a lion, his belly smugly bared in a world in which he knows, for this moment, that he is king. The affection in the brush-strokes is palpable and textured.
This is Seamus as Dean knows Seamus: open wide and running over, vulnerable and glorious, adoring and adored. This is Seamus as Dean knows Seamus: art, in all that it encompasses; messy, ambiguous, jarring, sensual, dangerous, majestic, home.
006.
This is Seamus: Colin Creevey’s last photograph, taken with the old Muggle camera he smuggled under his robes, contraband under the new regime. It is a record of the atrocities. It is the evidence he collected.
Full-colour and garishly lit, Seamus stands against a bare wall in the Room of Requirement. His face is battered beyond recognition: blackened eyes, a crooked nose, cheekbones out of place, a split chin. (His mouth could not be silenced, though; each time, he would lift the jaw-locking curses, the vocal-cord binds, the tongue-tying hexes. He would mend his own shattered jaw.)
This is Seamus as he knows himself: he thinks that if he were an artist, he would sculpt the curve of Dean’s bowed back, arched before him like a cup into which he would pour and pour and pour. This is Seamus as he knows himself: he was not so much alive as waiting; he was not so much brave as desperate. The first breath he drew in nine months, he drew to weep in relief against the pulse in Dean’s neck.