In the Abstract

"Here, find some where to put this." The charcoal-covered paper was thrust into Seamus' line of vision while Dean stared around distractedly. "Don't damage it."

Seamus barely had time to get his fingers on the page before Dean had rushed back to his drawing table. Dropping his book with a sigh Seamus pulled himself out of the armchair, glancing down at what Dean had given him. He raised his eyebrows at the page, then turned it upside down, then sideways, staring at it quizzically.

"You know," he finally said, "I always assumed that whole not having kids thing would mean I'd never have childish scribblings to hang on the fridge. How wrong I was."

Dean looked up and glared at the blond. "You hang that on the fridge and I'll hang you," he promised.

Seamus held onto the paper carefully, moving towards the bookcase that held Dean's portfolios. "Seriously, I understood the blue period. The green time was a little odd, but we'd just come back from Ireland; I got it. The only bad thing about your pen period was that you kept staining your shirts, but, hey, washing the ink off your cheeks was fun. So why'd you have to try this one?"

"Quiet Seamus, I'm working." Dean had gone back to the page in front of him, rubbing at it harshly with what Seamus would swear were Crayola crayons with their wrappers removed.

Seamus bit his tongue and flipped open the folder on top, carefully laying the (for lack of a better word) art inside and avoiding looking at the pages under it. He thought longingly of their school days and Dean's insistence on sketching everything that came in sight. If he'd known what would come after the sketching he'd never have complained when Dean wanted to sketch him rather than kiss him.

No, that's not true. Of course he would have complained.

Dropping back into the chair he tried to return to his book, but the sound of a quiet curse pulled him out of it again. The source had, of course, been Dean, who was struggling with a small can of black paint.

"Need some help?" he asked.

"Nope. I've... uhn... got it!" The lid of the can popped off, thankfully without spilling, and Seamus was going to go back to his book, but something made him pause.

Idly watching Dean, he saw the black man pull out a brush and begin stirring the paint, eventually leaving it to start messing with his art table. It was a nice table - Seamus had gotten it for him two Christmases ago - and it was possible to change the angle of the flat surface. That was what Dean was doing, carefully lowering it so his paper lay on a perfectly horizontal surface.

Seamus was curious when he saw Dean pick up the paint can and pull out the thoroughly inundated brush. Dean held the brush above the page and, so quick Seamus couldn't stop him, flicked it so paint splattered down onto the page, and all around the table.

"What are you doing!" Seamus shot out of his chair, crossing the room in an instant and grabbing Dean's arm to prevent him doing that again.

"Working," Dean said, looking up startled at the interruption. "Let go."

"You are not doing that in here," Seamus said, gesturing around the spotlessly clean room.

Dean scowled. "This is my workstation Seamus. You're the one who insisted I set it up out here so you could watch me work. At the time I didn't think it would be so you could watch and make sure I wasn't doing something you didn't like."

"At the time you weren't doing Pollock style splatter painting," Seamus shot back. "It was three years ago, and you were doing still-lifes. A still life is not going to damage the upholstery."

Dean glanced over at the closest chair, which had developed a suspicious collection of black dots on the left arm and back. "Yeah, well, I've never liked the color scheme in here anyway, and the spots'll be easy enough to clean off with a spell."

Seamus scowled again and didn't say anything. He also didn't let go of Dean's arm.

"Look, Seamus, we haven't got a hut in the backyard, like the one Pollock worked in. We don't even have a back yard. We've agreed no work goes into the bedroom, which means you either let me work out here or I go set up in your precious study."

"No paint in the study," was Seamus' automatic reaction.

"Right, out here it is. Or would you rather I get a studio somewhere?"

Seamus winced, knowing the threat for what it was. With the way Dean worked when he was in the mood to create (always), he wouldn't see the other man for weeks at a time if he let him move his work outside their flat. That was really why he'd insisted Dean set up his workstation out here and not in the study. If Dean were allowed he'd shut the door on the study and work until he half starved to death. "You know I don't want you to do that," he said, letting go of Dean's arm. "You'd never make it home if you worked in a studio. It's just..." He trailed off, scowling down at the pattern of splotches on the carpet.

"Just what, Seamus?" Dean asked, sounding exasperated.

"Just..." Seamus sighed. "I don't get it," he finally finished, not looking up.

"Don't get what?"

"I don't get this!" Seamus gestured harshly to the crayon covered, paint splattered page on the table. "I don't understand your art anymore! I didn't care how much of a mess you made with the oils while you were going through your impressionistic phase but even your cubist period made more sense than this... this... scribbling!"

Dean glared at Seamus. "It's not scribbling! Look, it's about pain and pure expression, and manipulating the colors and textures and shapes, all without worrying about your audience's preconceived view of the world. It's a more pure art form because there's nothing standing between the viewer and your vision because there's nothing they can superimpose, no meaning to it but the one I put in it!"

Luckily, Seamus had far more sense than to reply with his first reaction, 'There's no meaning to it at all.' Of all the things he could say he knew that that was the one most likely to send Dean storming out of the flat, not to return for a week or more. Of course, he knew that because he'd done it when the other man first started his latest artistic phase. "Look," he said, trying to be reasonable and calm. "That's all well and good, and I'm happy that you're happy with this new mood, or style, or whatever. You like it, obviously the agents and galleries like it because your shows do fantastically. I just don't get it. That's fair, right? Art appreciation's all about personal taste and stuff, yes?"

"Yes, it is," Dean agreed, sounding less defensive already. "And I'm not trying to make you like it. I just want the opportunity to do it. And yes, this is our living space, but it's also my workspace. I completely understood and agreed when you said we should keep work out of the bedroom, but I have to have somewhere to work, and we both would rather I work at home."

"Right, no argument there."

"But that means you have to let me work. I'm tired of the damned 'scribbling' joke. Just because you don't like it..."

"It's not really that I don't like it," Seamus interrupted. "I've never said I didn't like your art - that one with all the shades of blue you did on the pale yellow silk with the green underlay, that was really pretty - I just don't get it. It's frustrating. At least when you were doing more traditional stuff I could see what it was supposed to be. I even kind of understood cubism when you were doing it. This all just seems so random, though."

"You liked that one, huh?" There was a slightly smile teasing at the edge of Dean's mouth, and Seamus cocked his head, looking at him curiously, but accepted the seeming change in topic.

"Yeah, I did. The colors were really pretty."

"Never caught on to the title, did you?"

"What, The Wake? No, I never understood why you called it that. Seemed a pretty depressing title for such a bright painting."

"James Joyce wrote a book, Finnigan's Wake, and all those blues reminded me of you." Dean shrugged, most definitely smiling now.

"The modern art version of me?" Seamus' eyebrows raised as he considered that. "Well, huh." Finally he started to smile too, grinning at Dean. "Gotta say, I preferred it when I could tell you were drawing me... but at least it was pretty."

Dean smiled, then finally lowered his paint brush back into the can. "Will you stop hassling me about doing modern art?"

"As long as you don't do any Pollock in the living room? Yeah, I'll stop."

"Ok, fine. It's a deal. No splatter art for no teasing."

Seamus nodded, extending a hand. "Deal. Shake on it?"

Dean took the smaller man's hand, then pulled, using it as leverage to pull Seamus into his arms. He kissed Seamus soundly before releasing it. "Sealed on a kiss," he said, winking.

Seamus snorted, fondly. "Artists and their bloody theatrics."

"You better believe it," Dean agreed, turning back to his board and picking up one of the crayons.

Shaking his head, Seamus went back to his book, sprawling sideways over the arms of his chair. He quickly became absorbed in the story, but after twenty minutes or so some almost subconscious noise caused him to look up. There, perching on the dining table was Dean, one of his old sketchbooks open on his lap and a plain artist's pencil moving quickly across the page.

Dean glanced up, quirking an eyebrow at Seamus. "Don't move," he said, then went back to his sketch.

With a smile, Seamus turned back to his book, being careful not to move his head to much and flipping the pages with just a finger so as not to disturb the drawing that was slowly forming under Dean's talented direction.