Moon is waning, brewed of creamiest milk, oily stars bedizen the sky, and everything reflects from a sleepy lake. Trees blossom nocturnally, gentle waves of grass shine sheen as satin, fireflies leave streams of golden in their wake...
But none of it is beautiful.
Beauty lays only in what stands before him, as Dean cowers embarrassedly. His nerves have gotten the best of him and he lets out a chuckle–almost a giggle–and kicks up some dirt. His palms are sweaty and his feet are numb and his legs are growing ever weaker, but he feels warm, he feels right. His skin nourishes itself, drinking in the moonlight, and he smiles.
He smiles because he has never felt this way before; has never had these feelings, these surreal feelings, these unnamed feelings. He can not put his emotions into words. He can only raise a hand to his face, fingers trembling, quivering in shock and excitement, at an attempt to disguise his self-consciousness.
He wants to react to what could have been–what may have or may have not just happened, he is still uncertain–but he does not, will not, can not move. He is suspended in the moment; the moment built of reverie, where what he wants in no longer contraband.
"Is this really happening?" he thinks. "Could this be real or am I dreaming?" The butterflies in his stomach offer no answer, they only strengthen his query.
A hand, a grasp, so strong, so familiar, breaks him from his thoughts. It lays itself on his shoulder, but he doesn’t budge. He only becomes more flustered; the butterflies in his stomach flapping and fluttering more enthusiastically, as if they were interrupted, interrupted by fireworks.
Dean looks up, grinning at his counterpart, his Beauty; eclipsed in shadows, in moonlit silhouettes, Beauty's rouge blush is still apparent. Gusts, flurries of eventide wind, tousle their hair, dishevel their scarlet and gold robes. He witnesses smiling eyes, compassionate and generous, more sincere at this moment than he recalls ever before.
The grasp drifts, though only a little, and begins to caress his chin and neck. The touch, uncharacteristic of these hands, is mild and tender. The hand tightens around the collar of his shirt, gripping tightly and pulling him closer, closing space between them.
Again it happens.
The kisses are quicker this time, without refrain; by themselves, they bring end to his query, giving definition to his unnamed feelings. This was it. It was beautiful. It was what he’d suspected all along, what he’d been afraid to admit; he was in love. The kisses were only an expression to prove it, without words and with such charisma almost sinful. Body against body, face to face, lips against lips, soul to soul.
And what his heart declares as they break apart is that he has accepted it; he is shameless yet: for moon is waning, brewed of creamiest milk, but Dean’s feelings for Seamus are waxing as they soak up the moonlight, no longer just friends.
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