Sunset ever clear, ever crimson; sociable reds share secrets with timid yellows, their velvety whispers leaving tints of honey in the sky. All-inviting aroma of fresh-cut grasses; the natural perfume drifts as careless daffodils frolic, dancing a lively, sassy samba.
Seamus is again distracted from his studies, and who's to blame if not they–the heavens so flawless and the air so enticing?
Perhaps the culprits are the tender smiles and the delicate glances, and these emotions somewhat utopian, extravagant. Maybe the fault belongs to those memories of a certain yester-night, when he encountered fate safely under guise of unnamed feelings and moonlit silhouettes.
Perhaps, just maybe, he is to blame–the boy standing over yonder. His gestures are elegant, his body language of richest velour, and his robes are sutured with renegade paints as he labours before his canvas.
But to Seamus, not sky, nor wind, nor daffodil compare. Such Beauties bear only vain qualities, false qualities; naïvetés and materialisms. And the only beauty worth his while is...
Yet standing before his canvas, still of paints and elegance and velour. And Seamus is pleased simply with watching him, admiring his Dean from afar.
He is an assortment of pleasures to the senses. His odors of paints and parchment, of cinnamon and mahogany are bittersweet to the nose. His vibrant, rhythmic tenor is fluent and flavourful in the ear. His smooth, sepia skin is but intimate velvet to the touch. His kind eyes and cordial grin a delight to the eyes.
His full lips, Seamus reminisces, warm and zesty and satisfying in taste.
Dean's eyes catch him staring though despite his fears within, his eyes do not shy away. Dean beckons him over immodestly and he does not hesitate to oblige. Almost on air he waltzes, between a walk and a run, blushing from his very own zealous.
Dean turns the canvas to him, revealing neither portrait nor landscape, save a message written in calligraphy.
“What are these feelings between us? And what do you make of yesterday?”
Seamus is stricken with surprise, grinning, reddening, knowing not what to say. His fear that any dialogue may go awry overwhelms him.
Dean inspects him carefully, searching for all the porcelain answers cloaked deeply in his eyes, and every fragile truth concealed within his flustered grin.
In a bold, daring movement–a moment scarlet and gold–Dean's hand clasps itself to his, fingers thoughtlessly fastening, weaving, interlocking with profound perfection. In that second Seamus knows and understands; he is certain, he is doubtless.
He is in love.
He knows because as their palms touch and digits entwine, the butterflies in his stomach are interrupted, interrupted by fireworks.
To Seamus, the simplicity of the fireworks makes this the best time of the day–knowing nothing, just being by his side and having no need for silly words or idle banter–just holding hands under the sunset, ever clear, ever crimson, listening to the soft soliloquy of the eventide wind. Their friendship is one that flourishes, even without conventional meaning.
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