writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia

yabamena

Blaise was a very private person and always had been. If fact, one of the things that drove Draco mad about him was how much he didn't know about him; the tall, dark, often cruel Zabini kept very much tightly under wraps. Over the years Draco had learned a few things about Blaise: his taste for wine, his disdain for anything he deemed beneath him, his quick mind, and his incredible patience.

( I believe in a cruel God )

yabamena

The press of the crowd was something Dean was not nearly as fond of as his many former Gryffindor friends. Out of them all, he was probably the most introverted; he valued his quiet time, his alone time. He didn't mind sharing it with Seamus, because despite how much energy Seamus exuded, he also knew when Dean needed to be alone to create or just to recharge.

( And days of Auld Lang Syne )

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jengeorge

Seamus is still in the laughing stage of his drinking when Dean joins him. Small as he is, Seamus's tolerance is incredible and Dean doesn't really drink much so it doesn't take him long at all to catch up, especially not when Seamus is plying him with wine.

Seamus gets giggly when he's drunk but Dean gets handsy when he's had wine, so it's a good thing they decided to leave when Dean can't keep his hands off Seamus's rear. It makes a difference how bold Dean gets, based on what he drinks. Seamus prefers whiskey, obviously, but wine goes right to Dean's head. Heads, maybe, and that thought makes Seamus giggle again.

It was an accident, the first time. Seamus had heard somewhere that a drink of alcohol was supposed to help boost creativity and Dean was in a bit of an artistic slump. Seamus didn't know much about wines and he picked at random. Dean received a rich, full-bodied cabernet and the only canvas he wound up painting on that night was Seamus's skin.

Tonight's even better though because Dean's had more than a few drinks and Seamus is right there with him. Neither of them attempts the smallest bit of magic to help them get home and once they're there, it's giggles, fumbling fingers, and sloppy kisses. After tonight, Seamus decides he's keeping wine in the house, just in case Dean needs some more inspiration.

Blaise watched Draco sleep and he knew it was only his years of cultivated silence and stealthiness that allowed him to go undetected. Even so, Draco had become such a light sleeper that Blaise didn't stand a chance watching him for long.

If he'd known everything, all that Draco faced in sixth year and beyond, things might have gone differently. Blaise considered it his greatest intellectual failure that he didn't know Draco's wasn't making his own decisions then, that he hadn't chosen his path. It was his own greatest failure, a bitterness on his lips, his tongue, his mind. He failed to know and Draco paid the price.

If he'd known, he wouldn't have stayed impassive, withdrawn, uninvested. As it was, it was difficult enough to watch Draco go down a path Blaise didn't want for him, not realizing Draco didn't want that path himself. Draco hadn't wanted to be a Death Eater, not once that he knew what it was like. But he was paying for his father's failure, and there was no way out.

A string of failures surrounded the mess, and as Blaise exhaled slowly, Draco stirred. He didn't wake, not yet, and Blaise frowned. Draco's skin was finally regaining its healthy pallor, the porcelain Malfoy skin he so longed to mark and claim. It wasn't the sickly, prison-induce paleness inflicted on him by Azkaban, but that was only on the surface. Remnants, scars, and memories of Azkaban ran deep and Draco would remember them for many years to come.

Blaise spent years of his own cultivating a plan, one that could not be traced back to him, one that freed Draco, and one that would get him his revenge. Soon, he thought. Not soon enough.

If he'd known, things would be different, he was certain. But he had no idea if they would be any better.

yabamena

Christmas in the Finnigan-Thomas household meant several things: Dean was cooking, his dark brown artistic hands creating a masterpiece on a plate instead of on a canvas. It also meant Seamus was singing loudly and off-key as he finished hanging ornaments, one too many whiskeys under his belt. "'S bollocks," he replied loudly, when Dean mildly mentioned that fact, and Dean laughed because Seamus wasn't arguing that he'd been drinking quite a bit; he was arguing the fact that there was any such thing as one too many.

Tomorrow they'd be at the Thomas's first, Dean wincing at the teasing his sisters dished out, and Seamus telling jokes that made Dean's stepfather laugh until he choked, slapping Seamus on the back as he did. Then later at Seamus's mum's place for another large meal, a lot of alcohol and Dean wondering which Finnigan could out drink the other.

But they say Christmas Eve is for lovers and that meant tonight was for them alone. Their first Christmas together had been nerves and awkwardness, trying to transition from best mates to lovers. Every one thereafter had been easy in comparison.

Dean set the pudding down on the table and watched as Seamus placed a bell as high as he could reach, singing in Gaelic and shaking his rear as he hit the chorus. Dean's heart swelled so big he thought it might just burst and his tone was loving and fond as he called Seamus over to eat.

Tomorrow they'd be surrounded by family, but tonight all they had and wanted was each other.