Work Text:
“Hey, love, how was your day at work?”
Seamus had just entered the studio, still dressed in his heavy Ministry-issue robes, the dull brown that represented the Department of Magical Games and Sports looking a bit rumpled. Dean, for his part, was cleaning his brushes – something he always did by hand, revelling in the easy intimacy of tending to his tools – and dressed in his oldest, softest jeans and ragged tank-top, both paint-splattered and lived-in. The late-afternoon sun was streaming into the window, catching in the stained glass and throwing bright patches of colour on the walls and floor, shining light onto the dust floating in the space. He disliked using any magic at all in his studio, and when it came time to put charms on his paintings, he almost always did it in their bedroom across the hall. He always told Seamus it was to avoid cross-contamination with other magicks, but really, he just felt like his studio had a magic of its own, and he didn’t want it tainted.
“Fucking awful, as usual,” Seamus said, setting down his briefcase with a thump and pulling his tie loose with a sharp tug. “Every single day I go into that damn office thinking it’ll be better, and it never fucking is.”
Dean carefully set his brushes down and walked over to where Seamus was leaning against the wall, looking dejected and tired.
“So, quit,” he said lightly, putting his remaining arm up next to Seamus’s head, boxing him in.
“What?” said Seamus, looking startled.
“Quit. Fuck it. To hell with Ministry cubicles. Seamus Finnigan was not made for sitting behind a desk.”
“Finnigan-Thomas,” Seamus muttered automatically, looking somewhere over Dean’s shoulder, seemingly lost in thought.
“I’ve got disability pay, and we both get veteran’s gold from the Ministry, and I’ve got a show coming up with a few promising buyers. The condo is nearly paid for, and you’re miserable. So why not?”
A laugh bubbled out of Seamus’s mouth, half-hysterical, and Dean grinned.
“Yeah! Why the fuck not?” Seamus said. “You’re right. You’re so right. Jesus, yeah. Life is too short, and all that rot Parvati keeps telling us about.”
“So put your two weeks in tomorrow. We’ll find something else for you to do.” Dean leaned in to press a chaste kiss to Seamus’ jaw. “You won’t have to wear these shite robes anymore.”
He thumbed at Seamus’ collar, enjoying the way Seamus’ skin got red and flushed whenever Dean lowered his voice like that. It always began at his neck, just below the collar on the soft freckled skin there, then rose to his cheeks – twelve years later, eleven since the war, and it always amazed Dean that he could get this reaction from Seamus.
“Yeah?” Seamus said, craning his neck to ghost his breath over Dean’s lips. “I feel like I need some practice to know what that’ll be like. Could you – mm – could you help?”
“Mm. Yeah.” Dean finally let himself give in, and kissed Seamus fully. “We’ll figure it out,” he said after a minute, warm and breathless. “We always do.”