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Dean loved the flat he shared with Seamus now.
He loved the creak the front door made when he turned the key in the lock and the cinnamon-lavender-coffee smell that embraced him when he left the cold cobbles of the alleyway behind. Dean loved the quiet crackling of the rubbish left outside after a few murmured words from Seamus burnt it away to ash. He loved the flaking red paint on the doorway and the Gryffindor scarf pinned up above the shoe rack that they rarely remembered to use.
Dean loved the dark wooden panels covering the floor of the hallway – smoother than they had been at first after months of use – and the bright white paint hidden beneath the thousands of decorations the pair had plastered throughout the flat. He loved the handful of candles scattered across the table where they kept their keys, with the flames dancing and shifting as they licked at their wicks, and the fairy lights Seamus had strung up and down the long, narrow hallway to keep the shadows at bay.
Dean loved their living room with its faded green lampshade and soft threadbare rug, and the slanted ceiling that he’d banged his head on almost every day when the pair of them had first moved in. Dean loved the almost-vanilla scent of old books lining the shelves and the creaking sofa where the pair of them collapsed after they’d gone shopping, both of them breathless from muffled swearing and laughing as they lugged their groceries up three flights of stairs in slowly-ripping paper bags.
Dean loved the clear grey light filtering in through the glass doors that led onto their tiny balcony. He loved the gentle melody of the wind chimes and the tiny washing line they used to dry their clothes on which dangled from the balcony overhead. Dean loved the flowers and herbs growing in their window boxes: the bay leaves for happiness and wishes, the lavender to help them sleep, the chamomile to keep Seamus calm when he was anxious, the rosemary for remembering the people they’d lost and for warding off evil spirits.
Dean loved the knitted blankets from Seamus’ mum stretched over their sofa and the little portable television he had bought from a charity shop that he used to watch his West Ham games on while Seamus observed his boyfriend with bemused fondness. Dean loved the curtains his grandmother had given them and the numerous house plants from Neville that crouched on their crate-turned-coffee-table that Seamus was still excited about even now.
Dean loved their tiny kitchen with its cracked linoleum and steam-clouded windows. He loved the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and the shiny copper pots and pans gleaming in the too-bright glow of the overhead lights. He loved the stupid frilly apron Seamus wore when he was cooking dinner – ironically at first and then just because he liked it – and the little kisses Dean scattered across his boyfriend’s shoulders when he reached past the blond man to fetch the cutlery and their hand painted plates. (Dean had opted to decorate his with moons and stars; Seamus had painted a questionable Dalmatian on his.)
Dean loved the serving hatch that separated the two rooms and the way it meant that Seamus could chat to him excitedly while he was cooking. He loved the soft hum of the fridge and the gentle dripping of the leaking faucet in the kitchen sink which Seamus swore was going to drive him mad someday. Dean loved the post cards of their first holidays to France and Ireland pinned up on the corkboard, and the magnets they were collecting on the fridge door from all of the places they visited together.
Dean loved their tiny cramped bathroom too; loved the big mirror hanging above the sink, edged by blue tiles decorated with enchanted swimming fish. He loved their soft stripy bathmat and the too-hot radiator that they left their towels on, and the shell-shaped taps that both of them playfully fought over when they were trying to clean their teeth first in the morning.
He loved the scowl Seamus always pulled when he saw his scruffy blond hair in the mirror and the freckles that danced across the younger man’s pale skin on those occasions where Dean slipped into the shower behind him with his palms warm on the smaller man’s waist. Dean loved the contented hums that escaped Seamus when Dean washed his hair for him and the giggles that escaped the younger man when Dean tickled his ribs, keeping one arm looped carefully around his boyfriend’s waist so that he didn’t slip. He loved the way Seamus wrinkled his nose when the water got into his eyes and the soft desperate sounds that escaped him on those lazy mornings when Dean’s hands slipped down to touch him, making Seamus fall apart against his boyfriend’s chest.
Dean loved bundling Seamus up in a towel afterwards and carrying him back into their room even though the younger man giggled and slapped at him weakly because he was: "perfectly capable of walking by himself, thank you very much, Dean." Dean loved the way Seamus never struggled though because maybe he loved it too.
Dean loved their bedroom most out of all the rooms in their flat. He loved their double bed and the way the wardrobe door was vaguely threatening to come loose every time Seamus accidentally managed to slam it shut. Dean loved the countless quilts and blankets on their bed to keep the chill out, and the way his boyfriend basically sank into them because he was so small which was just about the cutest thing ever.
He loved the way the poetry Seamus had started writing was scattered across the bedroom walls on peeling post-it notes and torn fragments of parchment, and the way the crystals they had dangling on cord from the curtain rail sent shards of sparkling light shining around the cosy room. Dean adored that Seamus had taken up knitting in the evenings and the fact that their wardrobe was now fit to bursting with interestingly-knitted garments that didn’t quite fit properly, especially the socks and the gloves, and the scarf that was twice as long as Seamus was high. Dean loved those more than he would have thought possible.
He loved the wall of moving pictures they’d made together too. He loved seeing a collage of their life there, dating right back to their first day together at Hogwarts. He loved seeing them growing up together and the way the fondness in their eyes became more intense until it was something else entirely; something soft and special and perfect.
Dean loved the tree that grew outside their window and the way the shadows dappled their faces in the largest picture in the centre: the picture of them taken at Ron and Hermione’s wedding where they were circling together, both wearing their best dress robes, Dean with his arms wrapped loosely around Seamus’ waist as the younger man held his shoulders, both of them swaying gently to the music. Seamus let his head fall to rest on Dean’s chest in the picture and it fit perfectly beneath the older man’s chin. Dean loved that picture more than he could put into words.
Most of all though, Dean loved times like this: loved the gentle turn of the stars in the night sky outside their window as Seamus curled up against his boyfriend’s chest, dressed in soft shorts and one of Dean’s old faded t-shirts as their legs tangled beneath the quilt. Dean loved the soft rise and fall of Seamus’ chest, the tickle of his breath against Dean’s throat as he held the younger man closer, where he knew without a doubt that he was safe.
Dean loved the chink of moonlight that filtered in through the gap in the curtains and the way his boyfriend looked beneath the soft pink glow of the fairy lights Seamus loved so much. He loved the way it made his boyfriend look like all of the harsher lines had been rubbed out – the stubborn square of his jaw gone; the occasional scowl that made him look like a grumpy puppy. Dean loved how Seamus became soft at times like this, without his angry streak and his excitement… when he was just calm and sleepy in his boyfriend’s muscular arms.
Dean loved these times more than anything.
“What would you say to us literally never getting out of bed again?” Seamus piped up and Dean snorted with amusement, his eyes fluttering open from where he’d slowly been falling asleep, tucked up safe against his boyfriend’s back.
“I’d say that that sounds like the best idea in the world,” Dean said honestly. Seamus was twisting to smile at him now, his face smoothed out after the stressful day he’d had at the Ministry in his search for work. Dean was already employed at a local muggle company which wasn’t something he wanted to do long-term but it paid the bills and kept them in relative comfort, and that was all that really mattered now.
“How are you feeling?” Dean asked gently and Seamus seemed to consider that for a long moment before he gave a little shrug, stretching out beneath the blankets like a kitten. His blond hair was floppy on his forehead as he rolled over to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist.
“I’m okay now,” Seamus said honestly. “You’ve been cheering me up all evening… and I know I’ll find a job in the end. There’s no point getting stressed about it.”
Dean smiled, kissing his boyfriend lightly on the nose as he stroked his blond hair back from his forehead. Seamus cuddled him tighter and Dean felt the last of the day’s tension leaving him as he relaxed in Seamus’ embrace.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said softly. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” Seamus breathed, and the moment felt so delicate and precious; more fragile than gossamer as the seconds seemed to slow and Seamus shifted close enough that Dean could have counted every eyelash if he wanted to… so close that he could see the slivers of silver in the younger man’s wide blue eyes.
Dean loved Seamus so much like this that his heart felt like it was going to burst in his chest; loved Seamus with his shy smiles and the slow sweep of his eyelashes, and the tiny scar on his chin from falling in the courtyard during their first year at Hogwarts. The nostalgia that that memory brought made a lump rise in Dean’s throat and he held Seamus closer, tucking his face away into the warmth of his boyfriend’s neck as he inhaled shakily.
Seamus stroked his fingers through Dean’s curls wordlessly, simply holding him close as the lights twinkled down on them and the freshly-washed sheets kept them warm. Seamus smelt faintly like lavender and the ring box was tucked away safely in Dean’s nightstand, and this wasn’t how Dean had planned to propose but suddenly it was the only thing he could think of anymore.
“What would you say if I asked you to marry me, Shay?” The question was out before Dean had a chance to stop it and the shocked sound that escaped his boyfriend was vaguely strangled as Seamus’ trembling hands found Dean’s under the blankets.
“Do you really mean that?” Seamus gasped, his breath catching audibly in his throat as his blue eyes welled with tears. When Dean nodded wordlessly and bit his lip as the nervousness threatened to overwhelm him, Seamus’ face lit up like the sun.
“I’d say yes, Dean.” The blond man smiled like he was falling in love all over again. “What kind of silly question is that?”