Fic: A Walk in the World (Dean/Seamus) 2/2
Apr. 6th, 2009 11:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seedeeTitle: A Walk in the World
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Dean/Seamus (main pairing), Seamus/Lavender
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: In a perfect world, no one gets sick, you keep the girl, and wait for your best mate to come home. In Seamus's world, things work differently.
Word Count: ~18,000 for both parts (including postcards)
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wook77 and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_springsmut. The request was fantastic and I loved writing this story. It wouldn't have been half as good without the help and encouragement of thimble_kiss and la_george. All translations can be found at the end of the story.
Part one of the story
Seamus arrives in Mexico City on a Sunday morning. It's hot, but not as hot as he's expected. The sun is shining from a blue sky as he leaves the portkey station in t-shirt and denims, instantly falling for the city. The wizarding district - the Mexicans simply call it El Distrito - is even busier than Diagon Alley. He doesn't wear any sunglasses and squints as the sun is too bright. The hustle and bustle excites him and he's drawn to the various shops. There are displays with spices, fabrics and artfully crafted baskets. He can see an owl shop, and hear it; the racket the animals are making is impressive. There is a bookshop and a café, and he thinks that he can understand that Dean wants to stay here for a while. It all seems a bit friendlier, a bit brighter, and a bit more awake than at home. But maybe it's just that he's never been so far away from home before, and that he's stunned and awed by what he sees.
He has no idea where to start looking for the art gallery, only knows it's Muggle and that the name of the owner is Alfonso. It's not much in a city with more than eight million people. He sent an owl after he arrived, but the bird came back with the letter still tied to its foot. He wonders if Dean doesn't want to be found or if Mexican birds are just useless.
It comes in handy that he's a halfblood and grew up in an all Muggle town. He doesn't have any difficulties navigating the city after he acquires a map. He blends in disguised as a tourist - or not, as he essentially is a tourist - and juggling the money isn't hard either. He tries going to the tourist information first.
"Buenos días," he starts awkwardly. João, a colleague from work, taught him a few phrases in Spanish before Seamus left. "Busco una galería de arte." He doesn't know what he'll do when she answers him, because chances that he won't understand are high.
She smiles at him serenely. "You're looking for an art gallery? You are American, no?"
"No," he says and tries not to be insulted. "I'm Irish."
"Aaah," she says as if it explains everything. "What are you looking for? There is the Museo Nacional de Arte, with a classical collection of Mexican Art; or the Museo de Arte Moderno, with an equally exceptional but more modern collection. We also have the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo Internacional Rufino Tamayo, which is famous for its...," she seems to be searching for a word, "obras de Miró, Picasso, Dalí and Bacon."
Seamus shakes his head. "No, I'm not looking for a museum. I'm looking for a friend of mine."
She looks at him questioningly.
"He works in an art gallery," Seamus explains. "Not a museum, they're selling art." It occurs to him that that is just an assumption. "Or so I think. The owner's name is Alfonso and it opened not long ago."
"Oh-kay," she says, drawing out the syllables. "You are looking for a business." She looks confused and turns around to talk to another woman. Seamus doesn't understand what they're saying; they talk rapidly back and forth.
"I can give you a list of the art galleries. It is up to date, but if the gallery is very new, it might not be on there. Some of the owners are listed, others are not. Do you have a map?"
Seamus nods and after pushing buttons on what he knows is a computer but has no idea how it works, she gives him a sheet of paper with far too many names on it. "Muchas gracias," he says weakly. If he has to go to every gallery listed, he'll be busy for weeks.
*
Seamus can't count how often he has cursed Dean in the last few days.
It's the third gallery on this day and the temperature has risen since he arrived. The t-shirt he wears clings to his back and his feet feel like they are melting in his trainers. He curses and glares at the door he's just about to open. He's in front of a simple, unpretentious building and the sign says 'Galería.' "Bloody helpful," Seamus mutters and enters. It's cool inside, which pacifies him slightly. It smells like fresh paint and Seamus looks around. Everything is new and some of the paintings are still standing on the floor. It's clean, almost too clean; clinical is the term that fits.
There is an over-sized counter; the reception, Seamus assumes, but no one is there. The high table looks futuristic, is arched in an elegant bow and rests on a bowl-shaped... whatever. It's art, Seamus reminds himself. He wonders where they put their stuff, he can't see a single drawer, shelf or cupboard.
He snaps out of his musings when someone comes running around a corner but stops in his tracks as he spots Seamus.
"Hola," the man says and smiles brightly. "Bienvenido. Soy Alfonso, le puedo ayudar en algo?"
After 'Bienvenido,' the only thing Seamus understands is 'Alfonso'. He's tempted to punch the air.
"Lo siento," he apologises. "I don't speak Spanish."
"Aaah," says Alfonso as if it explains everything. "How can I help you? Forgive me, but you don't look as if you'd like to buy something. Are you American?"
Seamus figures it wouldn't be the most reasonable approach to punch the man in the face. He smiles at him instead, or at least shows his teeth in a gesture he hopes isn't aggressive. "Póg mo thóin," he says with his most charming grin. "I'm Irish."
"How interesting," Alfonso says. "How can I help you?" For some reason Seamus doesn't like the man at all. He's too tall, his smile is too genuine, his voice too friendly and he's too handsome.
"I'm looking for me friend. I know that he's working in an art gallery somewhere in the area. You wouldn't know anything about him, would you? His name's Dean, Dean Thomas, he's from London."
Seamus knows that he's found the right place when Alfonso's smile changes and he looks curious. He nods. "Dean is here. He's upstairs. Through that door over there." He points at a door that is as white as the walls.
"Thanks, Alfonso," Seamus says.
He's already halfway through the door when he hears a mocking "De nada." There are stairs behind the door and Seamus follows them up to the next floor. As far as he can see, there's only one big single room upstairs, half finished, with walls that are still bare and only half of them painted. It's empty except for a few chairs and a table.
Seamus's mind wants to pretend that he doesn't recognise the man who's standing with his back to Seamus at the far end of the room. But he'd recognise his best friend everywhere - the way he tilts his head to the left, his longs limbs, the way he stands perfectly still, always centred in the middle. It doesn't matter how different he looks. And Holy Fucking Mother of God, he does look different.
The card from Tahiti wasn't as mysterious as Dean probably thought it was. 'Gotta show you something', in combination with the picture on the postcard was a clear message. Seamus isn't an Auror, but he isn't dumb either. He's been imagining a small tattoo on Dean's shoulder blade or on his ankle, something tacky like a Gryffindor lion.
He should have known better.
Black ink is covering Dean's back from shoulder to the waistband of his jeans and Seamus wonders just how far it goes down. It's a pattern made of symbols arranged in one big phoenix, spreading its wings, head held high. It spans Dean's back gracefully, wings on his shoulder blades and the end of the tail-feathers out of sight. It's a Muggle tattoo, it doesn't move, and yet it looks like the bird is about to take off. When he comes closer, he can see that the symbols themselves consist of even smaller symbols. Dean was right, it's a work of art and Seamus can't stop staring at it. He'd bet a month's worth of Guinness that Dean drew it himself.
The muscles in Dean's back are working as he paints the wall with sure strokes, a few drops of paint on his shoulders and arms in stark contrast to his dark skin. Seamus shakes his head at his own thoughts, not sure where they come from. Something Luna explained to him years ago comes into his mind and he wonders if there are Wrackspurts in Mexico. Invisible things that float in through a victim's ears and make their brain go fuzzy would be an excellent explanation.
"So that's what you're doing on your big trip around the world?"
Dean stops, puts the brush down, straightens up and turns around very, very slowly.
Seamus can't help but grin at the gobsmacked expression on his face and takes advantage, not giving him any time to recover. "What's wrong with a Celtic knot?" he asks.
Dean is staring at him. "A Celtic knot?"
"Your back. Instead of tattooing some random creature on there, you could have gone for a solid Celtic knot."
A small smile spreads on Dean's face. "You came here to discuss Celtic knots, did you?"
"Actually, I came to drag your sorry arse back home. Parvati says she misses you."
"Does she?" Dean tilts his head and looks Seamus up and down. "Why isn't she here, then?"
Seamus grins at him. "Terry does a good job of comforting her. Thought I should tell you before someone else does. Best mate's duty and all that."
"I'm shattered. Do I get a comforting hug now?"
"Oh well, can't resist if ye ask that nicely." Seamus closes the distance between them and hugs him hard, not caring that there is paint all over him.
"Good to see you, mate," he says.
"You, too." Dean lets go and steps back. "There's loads of work around here, no wands allowed."
Seamus groans. "I knew I should have thought about this before taking a three-weeks holiday," he mutters, but he's grinning and already taking off his backpack.
*
Dean is living in a small flat that belongs to Alfonso's brother Juan who's currently in Chile with his girlfriend. The flat is Dean's until the brother comes back and Seamus trades his tiny hotel room for the tiny guestroom. In the afternoons they are off, walking through the city, looking at famous places, buildings and other stuff that Dean finds exciting. The evenings they mostly spend in pubs or in bars. There seem to be more bars than people in Mexico City, and Seamus loves that aspect of the city more than the rest.
But what really gets to him are the mornings. He's been helping Dean around the gallery in the mornings, so that Dean can take the afternoons off. It's not hard work per se, but it involves lifting, painting - walls, not canvas - and moving furniture on the second floor of the building. It's the floor that isn't yet open for customers.
They are alone, working together in comfortable silence - shirtless because it's hot without any working air conditioning. While Seamus isn't shy in general, not at all, he's starting to become self conscious around Dean. He doesn't know if it's from backpacking, from working different jobs, from the way Dean carries his body more upright, but Dean looks different. And Seamus can't take his eyes off him, no matter how hard he tries.
There's a faint sheen of sweat on Dean's upper body most of the time, making his chest and shoulders shine. There's coarse hair down the centerline of his torso, thickening around his navel and disappearing into his trousers. Seamus isn't sure why he's noticing those things.
The first time he feels himself harden when he looks at the ink on Dean's back, he's freaked out and locks himself up in the loo, deciding that it isn't the time and place to be mature about it. He beats the tile hard and the pain goes a long way to make the problem disappear. At least the one visible from the outside. He doesn't know what is happening here, or rather he does, but it's easier to deny, or ignore it. He stays in the loo until Dean knocks on the door.
"Hey, are you in there?" he asks. "You didn't fall in, did you?"
"Shut up, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." Seamus knows that his voice sounds off, but he does his best to get a grip.
"Yeah, right. Don't give me any details, just come out of there and help me hang this thing up."
The water in the sink is cool. Seamus washes his face and leaves the small room when Dean knocks again. "All right, I'm here. What do you want me to do?"
Dean points at a painting, a small one, but the frame looks heavy. "That has to go on the wall. Can you hold it up while I fix it?"
It sounds easy enough. Seamus lifts up the frame and holds it against the wall while Dean is fiddling with hooks and nails. The frame doesn't cooperate, though. It's getting heavier with every minute, and Seamus curses when the muscles in his arms start to tremble. "Don't fall asleep, I'm not sure how long I can hold it."
Dean grunts and leans over Seamus from the side. "Can't reach the one in the middle, hang on."
"Hurry up, I don't think Al will be happy if this drops to the ground." Not that the picture is all that pretty. It consists of a few splotches of paint in several colours. Lavender would say that they don't even match. The thought comes as a surprise. He hasn't thought of Lavender since he arrived.
When Dean steps behind him, presses him against the wall, and reaches over his head, Seamus is startled. He can feel Dean from head to foot now, but he's still holding the frame and can't do anything but bite his lip and try not to groan - much.
"Sorry, mate, just a second," Dean apologises, completely missing the problem.
"You've got to be kidding me," Seamus mutters resigned in the general direction of the universe. Dean wiggles and moves behind him and Seamus can feel his chest, hot and slick with sweat.
Seamus whimpers quietly and closes his eyes. It doesn't take much to imagine that Dean is rocking against him and he feels himself getting hard again. This is all going pear-shaped, and he doesn't know how to stop it.
"Are you okay?" Dean asks and Seamus has a hard time not to go into hysterics.
"I'm fine," he assures, "absolutely spiffing. Are you done yet?"
"I think I'm done. You can let go." Dean steps back and Seamus catches himself panting. His gaze darts up Dean's torso and down again.
He doesn't look at Dean when he pushes him away and leaves the room as quickly as he can without running. He should find a church; an exorcism or three can't do any harm.
*
The scene is something that should have been written in one of Lavender's mushy romance novels, but it should never ever take place on the other side of the door that is only half closed. It's late afternoon and Seamus just returned to the gallery from a walk around the city. He went in through the backdoor and passed the little kitchen on his way to the studio where Dean was supposed to be working. There were voices from inside and Seamus stopped for a moment to hear if it's Dean. He doesn't know why he didn't just go inside. He should have, but now it's too late.
"He's the one you're running away from?" Alfonso asks.
"I'm not running," says Dean. It sounds like he's lost in thoughts and Seamus knows the look that comes with that kind of voice. "What makes you think I do?"
There is a pause before Alfonso continues. "You're different since he's here."
Seamus wants to know how Dean is different, but Dean doesn't ask. There is some rustling and there are footsteps inside the room. It's Seamus's cue to leave, but he's too curious to just go.
"Tea?" And now Seamus has to stay, because Dean always makes tea before he's having a serious conversation. Seamus has teased him numerous times about it, telling him that he doesn't have to live by the English clichés, as his roots are a few thousand miles away. There's a smile on Seamus's face as he thinks of Dean's leaf obsession, because honestly, who drinks tea in the middle of the day?
"Gracias," he hears when they settle down again. "Dime, qué pasa?"
"I'm not really sure," Dean says and Seamus is relieved. He feared that Dean was going to answer in Spanish.
"Mentiroso."
"You're calling me a liar?" There's not a hint of anger in Dean's voice, instead he sounds amused. "You're right. Same old story, I reckon. We've been mates for more than a decade. Since we were eleven and went to Hog... boarding school together. Shared a dorm, classes, homework, free time. Visited each other during the holidays. We went through some bad times. Really bad times. For a time I thought I'd never see him again. After school we moved in together, been living there for years. I was sick last year. And after that, I just needed to get out."
"Te entiendo perfectamente." That's something Seamus can translate. Alfonso says that he understands Dean which is funny, because Seamus doesn't understand, not really. He wonders if all their conversations are like this, in two languages. It would explain why Dean speaks Spanish as well as he does.
"I don't think you understand."
"Believe me, I do." There's bitterness in Alfonso's voice and a story lingering behind the words. "It is an old story. Let me guess. You were best friends from the start. You grew up together. Somewhere along the line you noticed that things have changed. You look at him differently. You notice things. He's got a tight arse, hasn't he? He's not stupid either and the freckles are cute. And you probably wonder more often than not if he uses that big mouth of his for other things than talking."
Seamus feels light-headed. Where is oxygen when you need it?
"Don't you have a way with words," Dean mutters just loud enough to be heard on this side of the door. Seamus waits for denial, but it doesn't come.
"He's not the only one with a big mouth, you see," Alfonso says slyly. Seamus's head snaps up. The ugly fucker wouldn't use him as a come on, would he? "There are other options."
"Yeah, I know." He can hear Dean smiling and doesn't like it at all. "It's not really about options, though."
*
Dean has planned a trip to Tulúm for both of them over the weekend. They grab a portkey on Friday morning that dumps them in the middle of what Seamus is sure must be heaven with a postcard-worthy sun shining from a blue sky down on an azure sea. There's a white sandy beach and Seamus moans at the sight of it.
Dean grins. "That's almost like Tahiti, just with more ruins."
"Ruins?" Seamus asks. "I didn't come here for ruins, mate, I want to drink beer in the sun, piss in the sand and get turned down by at least two local birds."
"Quit whinging," Dean says without any sympathy, "the less you dawdle now, the earlier we are at the beach."
They don't have to look long for the Maya ruins. Dean drags Seamus through all the temples, they look at stonewalls and Dean sketches a few of the buildings.
Dean tells him about the town, which during the thirteenth century had been one of the biggest on Yukatan and an important port in the area. Dean tells him stories with war and priestesses and queens. Seamus is content to listen to the low rumble of his friend, knowing that he'll have forgotten the details in less than an hour. He can feel the magic behind the stones, though, and isn't surprised when Dean tells him that wizards and witches had been living here for centuries.
They go to the beach later and transfigure some stones into big, fluffy towels on which they have sandwiches and beer that's still cool from a charm Dean had cast before they left.
This is life, Seamus thinks. He can't remember ever feeling so relaxed, just lying in the hot sand, enjoying the beautiful day. The water lulls him to sleep, gentle waves rolling in a steady rhythm. There must be some kind of job where one can do this every day. He'd give up the goblins in a heartbeat.
He changes his mind when the sun descends and his skin starts to burn.
"I told you to use sun screen, or a charm, or lie in the shade," Dean says as he enters the room on the second floor of the small hotel, south of the ruins. It's simple but clean here, just two beds with the bathroom down the hall.
Seamus lies on his stomach on Dean's bed. His own bed is occupied by his empty backpack and its scattered contents. "This hurts. Can't you do anything?" he asks. He's suffering and annoyed by Dean's lack of compassion.
"Stop being a baby," Dean says. "It's just a sunburn, you're not about to die. "
"How do you know? I could overheat or something."
"And here I thought you've already got plenty of experience with overheating." Dean sits down next to him and pulls a small jar out of his backpack.
"You're not funny." Seamus eyes the jar. "What is this?"
"Potion. Mix of pain-relief, healing and relaxation. Can't believe I'm wasting it on you. It's meant for emergencies. Hold still."
The first contact is cold and Seamus flinches. But Dean's hands are big and warm and he feels himself relax as his skin stops burning. The smell is nice and he closes his eyes and hums. Dean rubs his back in gentle, slow circles and doesn't stop when the burn eases. The tension drains out of Seamus and he goes limp under Dean's hands. "Don't stop," he says, "'s brilliant." He doesn't know if it's himself or the potion speaking, but he doesn't care, it's really nice.
"You like that?" Dean asks. "You like potion rubbed into your sunburned skin? That's special."
The goo is tingling and Dean's hands are warm and confident. Seamus feels languid and relaxed, can't be arsed to care about Dean's mocking. "I don't like the potion or sunburn part," he says with closed eyes. "Your hands feel good, though, really good. Could get used to that." The potion is messing with his head, Seamus thinks, but he's too relaxed to be bothered.
Dean's hands falter. "Erm, okay. That's... Yeah." He sounds confused. Seamus wiggles until Dean starts again. His back feels amazing and the feeling spreads into other body parts. Seamus feels himself harden, just from Dean's hands on his back, his lower back now. Seamus can't think of a reason why Dean's hands should be there, as the sunburn is on his shoulders, but he's not about to complain. He falls asleep before Dean is finished.
On the next day, there's a slight awkwardness, but it only lasts until breakfast. The confusion doesn't survive a heated discussion over who deserves more coffee. They are back in the comfortable zone of their easy friendship in no time at all and if Dean is looking strangely at Seamus sometimes, Seamus is very good at not noticing it. And if Seamus is looking strangely at Dean sometimes, Dean is very good at not mentioning it.
*
Mexican beer isn't too bad, Seamus decides. He's tried Corona, Dos XX, which Dean taught him is pronounced 'Dosh Eh Keys', and Sol that seems to be the hit of the season. Right now he's drinking Casta Morena, a smooth, dark ale that tastes a bit like home after too many pale lagers. It must be his fifth, at least, but Seamus doesn't count, and it's probably for the better.
He looks up into the sky and tries to see some of the stars they saw above Tulúm. But they are back in Mexico City and here in the backyard of the gallery, there is only the typical big city sky with the occasional white spot above. It's nothing compared to what they saw on the second night on the beach, the night when they didn't have to stay inside because Seamus fell asleep with Dean's hands on him. He sits with his back against the brick wall and pulls his knees to his chest.
He knows that it's not normal that he missed Dean so much that he came half across the world looking for him. It's also not normal that he ditched his gorgeous girlfriend, that the only time when he doesn't feel like either loneliness, anger, or some other stray emotion is trying to choke him is when he's together with Dean, or that whenever he closes his eyes he sees dark symbols forming intricate patterns. He's going mad. Except that he isn't. He hasn't felt so sane in a long time.
It doesn't make any sense. Not after all these years. He bangs his head against the wall behind him, but that pain makes anything better is just a fairy tale. In reality it just hurts.
"Is that really necessary?" he asks no one in particular. "Lavender's a great girl. I like her. And Parvati likes Dean. So where's the problem? Just leave us alone and we'll sort it out." He doesn't know who he's talking to, but feels the need to find someone who's guilty. "You know, you're not doing me a favour here."
"Whom are you talking to?" Alfonso is standing in the doorframe, looking down at him. Seamus has never talked to the man alone, not since the first day when he asked him if Dean was there.
"No one."
"Good conversation?" It's the same mocking tone Alfonso always uses when he addresses Seamus.
"Terrific."
"You know, if you want me to go back inside you just have to tell me."
Seamus looks up at him and is very close to telling him to fuck off. "No, no, it's okay. Sit down, have a beer."
Alfonso sits down and opens one of the bottles. "How do you like it here?"
"'S nice. The weather is better than at home." Seamus is better at drinking than at small talk, he thinks.
"You came for the weather, eh?"
"Aye, why else would I've come?" Seamus runs his hand through his hair and takes a swig from his bottle. There's something about the conversation he doesn't like. Maybe it's the way Alfonso is looking at him, or the always present smirk on his face.
"You were very interested in our conversation."
"Which conversation?" Seamus asks, but he can guess which conversation Alfonso is talking about. "Spit it out, Al."
"The one in the kitchen last week. I saw you. It's rude, eavesdropping."
"I wasn't eavesdropping. Why didn't you say something if you knew I was there?" Seamus pushes his back against the wall to keep himself from moving, he's getting more and more irritated.
Alfonso shrugs, he seems unconcerned. "Maybe I wanted to see your reaction." He drinks and then stands up. That was a quick conversation, Seamus thinks, but would rather bite off his tongue than ask him to stay. "Why don't you just go back to Ireland and leave Dean in peace. There's a reason why he left his home and you behind. He wants something you don't want to give him, so stop making his life miserable."
"Why don't you fuck off, Alfonso, and suck someone's cock?" Seamus says casually. "It keeps you from talking bullshit."
Alfonso's smirk freezes on his face and Seamus takes an unhealthy amount of pleasure from it.
*
The beer tastes stale, the tacos like cardboard and the music is far too loud. They are in the little bar down the street, the light dim over their table in the corner. Seamus has no problem spotting Alfonso's hand on Dean's thigh, though. Ever since their little talk two days earlier, Alfonso seems to do nothing but trying to get his hands on Dean.
Seamus doesn't know what they're up to, but Dean is playing right along. He's laughing, flirting, he's making eyes at the Mexican git and Seamus seethes. He orders a second beer before the first one is even empty.
"Looking tense, amigo." Alfonso is grinning at him.
"Indigestion," Seamus answers. "It's the food."
"He has always been this funny?" Alfonso asks Dean. Seamus wonders when they decided to sit so close together that their shoulders are touching. It's ridiculous.
"Nope, he has improved considerably since school," Dean answers. He's grinning
The words sting. It hurts that Dean is making fun of him together with this stranger. That's not how Seamus envisioned his holiday. Everywhere he looks are strange conversations, confusion, black ink, hands, and fucking Alfonso touching Dean. Seamus finishes his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He has lost track of the conversation and when he looks up, Dean is laughing at something Alfonso said, a full, throaty laugh, the one that shakes his whole body. Seamus can't remember when Dean laughed like that at something he said the last time. He can't remember either why it should matter.
He knows he should go before he says or does something he'll regret. All the buttons he didn't even know he possesses have been pushed. It's enough.
Unfortunately Dean chooses this moment to excuse himself for a minute and wanders off into the direction of the loo.
There are a couple of minutes of awkward silence before Alfonso smirks at Seamus and leans across the table towards him. "Why don't you just go back to the flat and have a nice, early night? We'll entertain ourselves. Oh, and don't wait up for him, he'll be home late."
Alfonso doesn't even have the time to blink before Seamus closes his hand around his throat in a tight grip, hauls him off his chair and slams him with his back against the wall. "Keep your hands off him, fecking arsehole." Alfonso chokes and Seamus grins at him, adrenalin making his blood boil. "He's mine. Comprende?" There's a strangled sound coming from Alfonso and Seamus lets go, looking at the angry red marks on his neck in satisfaction. He turns just in time to see Dean staring at him.
Other patrons are looking at him as well and a big man who has been standing behind the bar until then, is making his way over. Seamus throws a few pesos on the table, winks at Alfonso and leaves the pub. He can hear Dean calling after him, but he doesn't stop and pretends not to hear it. The night is dark and cool as he walks back to the flat. It clears his head. Some day he should work on getting his temper under control. Not today, though, today it felt really good.
Dean arrives only a few minutes later. "What the hell, Seamus?" Dean asks calmly. Seamus can't understand why he never gets angry. It's unnatural. "What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Are you joking? You tried to throttle him."
Seamus glares at Dean. "I didn't. He'll survive it." Dean is shaking his head. "Oh come on, he deserved it," Seamus says.
The couch isn't made for two grown men, it is small and shabby, but Dean squeezes in next to Seamus anyway. "You realise that we're staying in his brother's flat, that he's given me a job, that he's a nice person and that I like him as a friend?"
Seamus snorts.
Dean sighs and puts his hand on Seamus's thigh. "Seriously, what's up?"
Seamus looks at the hand and wants to say 'That'. Instead he lets his head fall on the backrest of the couch and looks sideways up at Dean.
"Why did you leave?" Seamus asks out of the blue.
"You kind of ruined the mood. Nothing worth staying for. The barkeep wasn't happy with us either."
Seamus shakes his head. "That's not what I meant. When you left home, why did you go?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Humour me." Seamus puts his hand over Dean's and squeezes.
Dean looks at him for long moments, then mirrors his pose and sinks back into the couch, his head on the backrest. "Told you about Ted, didn't I? Professor Lupin's wife's father. When we were together, out there in the woods, we talked about what would be after the war." Dean's voice is calm, he looks at the ceiling, but his eyes are unfocused. "The things we'd do, what we missed so far, what we should make better, stuff like that. He told me about his daughter and his wife, I told him about my family and friends, he told me how much he wanted to see his grandson grow up, I told him about everything I wanted to do and see and what I want to be. I always thought that if I could just make it out of those damn woods alive, I'd have an endless amount of time. Y'know? I thought if the war was over and you and me survived, then the rest would be just fucking sunshine."
Dean is silent and Seamus turns his head to look at Dean properly. "And there was no sunshine? I remember me shining a lot."
Dean chuckles. "There was quite a bit of sunshine, actually. But that list of things I wanted to do after the war, the things I told Ted about. When I got sick I had accomplished one bloody thing. Five years since the war was over and I had almost nothing. My job was boring, I had no girlfriend," Seamus snorts but Dean only gives him a dirty look, "I hadn't seen any of the places I wanted to see." He hesitates. "I hadn't drawn anything in years. I think I realised that even with no war and no running and hiding, it still can all be over tomorrow. And when I die, I don't want to be left with a list full of things I never did. In that hospital room, I figured there's no time like the present. So I went."
Seamus nods. It makes sense. "That's the only reason why you left?"
Dean only nods but doesn't move his hand.
"What was the one thing you'd done?"
"Shared a flat with you."
"Aw. That's so sweet. I'm getting shiny eyes," Seamus says. He's teasing.
"Sod off."
Dean is still looking up at the ceiling and Seamus is still looking at him, now leaning sideways against the couch's back. The situation feels tense, but not uncomfortable. Seamus has drunk just enough to slide one hand across Dean's belly, let it rest on his waist and tug him a bit closer.
Dean obviously has drunk just enough that he doesn't mention it, but Seamus can see his eyes widen.
"So. Alfonso, he wasn't worth staying for?" Seamus asks, picking up something Dean said earlier.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just checking." Seamus suspects that the Wrackspurts are flying again - or whatever they do. He feels light-headed and for some reason he feels bold. With the hand on Dean's waist he pushes up the shirt and finds bare skin. He runs his thumb back and forth, barely touching him.
"You don't like Alfonso, do you?" Dean asks. His voice sounds a bit off.
Seamus laughs quietly. "I like him plenty, considering that he's a self-centred, arrogant, advantage-taking arsehole."
"How did you figure that out?" Dean's throat keeps working even when he's not talking. Seamus is inching closer, moves his hand up Dean's torso until it's high on his side, just beneath the pit of his arm.
"He's all over you." He talks quietly now, his lips almost brushing Dean's ear.
Dean is shivering. "Is that the reason you attacked him?"
"Didn't attack him. It was self-defense." He's rubbing his nose against Dean's cheek.
"Seamus? What are you doing?"
"I have no feckin' clue what I'm doing," he says with his lips touching Dean's ear. "I hoped you were the expert here." He tugs at Dean's earlobe gently with his teeth, sucks it into his mouth and runs his tongue up the shell. He didn't lie, Seamus doesn't know what he's doing, but he doesn't stop to think about it either.
"You'll regret this," Dean tries to reason, and Seamus knows that he's probably right. It doesn't stop him from dipping his tongue into Dean's ear. He's needy and he can tell from the way Dean is almost shaking that he wants it, too. So why not? Maybe it's time to find out what exactly is happening. Maybe they can get it out of the system and move on.
"Show me that it's worth it, Dean." He kisses Dean's temple and drags his lips over one eyelid and his nose.
Dean groans and leans into Seamus's touch. "This is not how it works," he says, but belies his words as he turns his head and Seamus's lips slide to the corner of his mouth. Dean's lips are soft and lush and Seamus takes his time to kiss the spot where they meet and then slowly moves until his mouth is covering Dean's.
His free hand is on the back of Dean's neck now, pulling him closer, increasing the pressure between them. Seamus tilts his head a bit more and sweeps his tongue over Dean's bottom lip, uses his teeth to bite softly. Dean gasps and opens his mouth, which Seamus takes as an invitation to run his tongue along Dean's teeth and finally slip it inside. The first taste is intoxicating and becomes even more so when Dean starts to kiss back. They move together now, open mouths sliding wetly against each other. Seamus is caught somewhere between the soft strokes of Dean's tongue and the rough scratch of his stubble. What was left of his control slips sideways and falls out of the picture altogether.
When Dean tugs on his shirt, he lifts his arms, and when Dean pulls off his own shirt, Seamus ducks his head and licks one dark nipple. He kisses Dean's throat, sucks on his shoulders, traces the edges of black ink on his upper back with his fingertips. There's a sharp hiss when he closes his lips over a collarbone and bites, and a low moan when he soothes the red mark with his tongue.
Dean opens the flies of Seamus's trousers and runs his fingers from one side of his lower belly to the other. Seamus arches his back, the skin there is oddly sensitive and he likes to be touched, wants more of it. But he doesn't want to do it here on the too small couch, sitting next to each other.
He catches Dean's wrist and stops his hand. Dean freezes and stutters an apology, but Seamus hushes him and gets up. "Come on, let's do this properly." He pulls Dean up as well and drags him to the bedroom. They pause in the doorway to share a hungry kiss with Seamus cursing as his hands find Dean's arse and he pulls and grabs and holds.
Three more steps and Dean pushes him none too gently on the bed, tugs off his denims before Seamus has a chance to take a breath. By the time he can tear his eyes away from the play of muscles in Dean's shoulders, Seamus is already naked. It's too late to be embarrassed now, no matter how hard and flushed and dishevelled he looks. Dean doesn't seem to mind, though. His eyes are dark and he's watching Seamus hungrily, motionless, except for his hands that are undoing his own jeans.
Seamus swallows, watches as Dean strips slowly. He knows it's a test of some sorts, but if Dean thinks he's going to run, he'll be in for a surprise. Seamus pushes himself up into a sitting position, waits just long enough until Dean steps out of his pants and then puts both hands on the back of his thighs - Dean's very ungirly, muscled thighs, covered with dark hair. His hands move upwards, pause when he can feel the swell of Dean's buttocks and Seamus only realises that he closed his eyes when he has to make a real effort to open them again.
"Holy Mother of God," he mutters when he finally looks. He's sure that he'll go to hell for saying it while his face is only inches away from a hard cock. It might just be worth it.
"Seamus, I don't think this is a good idea," Dean protests one last time, but his voice is too low to mean it and he hasn't moved an inch.
"Shut up, Thomas, you've never been good at thinking."
Seamus tightens the grip of his hands and pulls him closer until his nose and lips are touching what should be familiar, but is strange and alien on someone else. Dean still doesn't move, but Seamus can feel the tension in his thighs and he's trembling. Seamus hesitates for a second. This is so very new territory, and maybe he should have tried touching him before putting his mouth on Dean's bits. But it's mainly his brain talking, the rest of his body is delighted by the idea. "It's okay, just let me try this." Dean jumps as Seamus mouths the words directly into the soft skin at the base of his cock.
There's no thought after that.
The smell keeps him captivated as he takes Dean into his mouth. He does it slowly. It's sloppy and wet, he's lacking technique, but he can see Dean losing his constant calm and Seamus is hit with the same fierce possessiveness he felt in the bar. It doesn't matter that he accidentally uses his teeth, or that he gags when Dean's hips jerk, or that it's more salty than he's used to, but it does matters that Dean is moaning, that he's clutching Seamus's shoulders so tight that it's almost painful and that Seamus can't remember when he's ever been that turned on.
He sucks, licks, kisses and he lets go with one hand to cradle Dean's balls, tug lightly and press against the sensitive spot behind them. Just because he's never been in this particular position, doesn't mean he has no experience. He knows what feels good.
Dean has his hands in his hair and when he starts pulling hard, Seamus knows why he's doing it. But he doesn't stop. He wants everything. And he gets it, warm and bitter on his tongue with Dean shaking and swearing and saying his name again and again.
He pulls back when he feels Dean relax, his own body still thrumming with lust and need. Without consciously moving his hands, he grabs his own cock and wanks, falling back down on the bed. But Dean tugs on his wrist and pulls his hand away. "Don't you dare. Just give me a sec."
Seamus whines, but waits for what feels like days and then moves in the middle of the bed when Dean tells him to. And then Dean is looming over him, his body more massive than it should be, there's a hand in his hair and one on his hip, there's a thigh between his legs and Dean kisses him as if Seamus wasn't already close to passing out.
Seamus has always been the stronger and bigger one in bed, has always liked to take control and was better at giving than receiving. It's different this time. Dean has pinned him down and his hands are big and strong. There's nothing tentative about him, the kiss is just this side of aggressive and Seamus can't do anything but clutch at Dean's back like a drowning man and rut against Dean's thigh.
It shouldn't be as intense as it is. Seamus breaks the kiss because his breath got lost somewhere and presses his face against Dean's neck, panting. His hands wander down and he finds Dean's arse again. Dean shifts and Seamus wants to protest, but then there's a hand on his cock, stroking him. Seamus is overwhelmed, feels Dean all around him, over him and he comes with a low cry, completely taken over.
*
The light in the room is still dim when Seamus wakes up. He remembers what happened and he wishes he could have been drunk the night before and blame it on the alcohol. They had... Mary and Jesus, they had. And it was his fault. He doesn't dare to move, he's too afraid that Dean might wake up and he needs more time to sort himself out before he faces him. It's not too late to fix this.
Carefully he turns his head, watches Dean lying on his stomach, the sheets pushed down just below his hips. He's naked like Seamus and his dark skin seems to absorb the faint morning light that filters in through the window. He's beautiful. Seamus doesn't even try to deny it. Dean's eyes are closed and his face is relaxed. His dark lashes are resting on his cheeks, there's a shadow on his jaw and his lips form a small pout. Seamus traces the lines on Dean's back with his eyes, the symbols so mysterious and unknown. Seamus's fingers itch, partly from the desire to touch him, partly from the memory of the night. He knows how Dean's skin feels and he wants to touch it again, the way it is now, sleep-warm and gorgeous.
Seamus grows hard as he imagines moving his hands and lips down Dean's back, tasting the black ink, running his tongue along lines and curves. He imagines kissing Dean's smooth lower back and pushing the sheet further down, he wants to cup Dean's arse and feel him. It's a small movement, he just has to reach out, just one touch and Dean will wake up and everything will be different. His hand is hovering over Dean's back before he knows it, but he snaps back to reality just in time and snatches his hand back. What the fuck is wrong with him?
Seamus nearly sobs with the strength of wanting and he knows that he needs to get up. He needs to get out of bed now.
Half an hour, three coffees and a very cold shower later, Seamus is standing in the kitchen and trying his best not to burn it down. There are toast and eggs and bacon in various stages of cooking.
Dean comes out of the bedroom, sleep-tousled, in only his boxers. Seamus throws another egg into the pan and thinks that it is fucking rude to flounce around nearly naked.
"Morning," Dean says, a small smile is playing around the corners of his mouth.
"Morning," Seamus answers.
Dean stays where he is in the doorframe and watches him. He's waiting for something. A frown appears on his face
"I'm sorry," Seamus says more harshly than he means to. "About yesterday. Y'know. My fault, I shouldn't have done that. Let's just forget about it." He gestures with his hands, mainly because he doesn't know what to do with them. "Didn't mean anything."
Seamus can see the moment when the words register. Dean's face turns to stone. "Wasn't worth it, then." The words are bitter, each of them stings. But it's Seamus's fault, he knows it.
Dean goes to the bathroom after a few moments of silence in which Seamus can't find a single word to answer him. He's in there for a long time and when he comes back, fully dressed, breakfast is cold.
"Listen, Dean, I didn't mean to-"
"You should go," Dean interrupts him, not looking at him when he says it.
Seamus is startled for a moment, but then nods. "Yeah, yeah, I know." The goblins scheduled a meeting with the Mexican branch of their bank when they heard he'd go to Mexico. The appointment is in less than an hour. "I'll come to the gallery later. We can go to the pub tonight."
Dean runs his hand over his head and laughs without any trace of happiness. "That's not what I meant." He looks at Seamus and something in Dean's eyes reminds him of Lavender. "Go home, Finnigan. Go back to London." Seamus can't remember a time when Dean called him by his last name. It's what hurts most.
*
When Seamus arrives in London, it's raining. He looks up into the clouds and feels the droplets of water running down his face and soaking his clothes. It figures, he thinks. He walks down Diagon Alley slowly. It's deserted, people don't run down the streets in rainy weather when they can apparate or floo. It's a shame, the rain is warm and feels nice.
There's only one time he remembers that he had a real fight with Dean. It was in his sixth year, when Dean made the Quidditch team. Seamus wanted to be a Chaser as well, but Dean was better. The decision was correct, but that didn't mean that Seamus acted mature about it.
"Seamus, don't be a prig."
"I'm not a prig," Seamus said through clenched teeth.
"Come on mate, it's not a big deal."
Seamus was thumbing through a Quidditch magazine and didn't look up. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself. Sure, Dean wasn't a bad flyer, but Seamus wasn't bad either. He'd flown since he'd been able to walk, first with his mam, then on his own broom. He'd known how to fly before Dean even knew that brooms could be used for more than sweeping.
He threw the magazine into the corner of the room and glared at Dean. "Don't think I don't know why Potter didn't choose me." He spat the words, even though he didn't believe them, not really. But the anger was burning and if he didn't get it out he might explode. "He's still pissed that I didn't believe him. I apologised for what I said last year, but he's still angry. That's why he chose you. A few years back you didn't even know that Quidditch existed." Seamus was yelling at the top of his voice and the fact that Dean didn't yell back just made it worse. "It's not fucking fair."
Dean shook his head and turned around. He opened the door and looked back over his shoulder. "You know that's not true. It's just you being a resentful prat. I'll come back when you've calmed down."
Seamus calmed down soon enough, it was typical for his temper. It rose easily, but just as easily settled down again. He doesn't think that it will be that easy this time.
He thinks about flooing Lavender, but he can't muster enough courage to do it, doesn't want to fall back into old patterns either. And just because he's obsessed with Dean's arse doesn't mean he forgot Lavender's tits.
He runs into her two weeks after he's back. After some awkward small talk, they say good-bye again, parting and going into different directions. It's ridiculously symbolic.
*
It's eating him up inside and driving him insane. He can't sleep, he makes mistakes at work and he's becoming a hermit.
It's been a month since Seamus came home. He hasn't heard a word from Dean, no postcard arrived. He knows that he's made a huge mistake, but he's starting to realise that the mistake wasn't kissing Dean. He thinks about kissing Dean almost as often as he's thinking about touching him. He wants to throw an arm around Dean's shoulder, nudge him, hug him, and God help him, he wants to hold his hand. And there are the other dreams; dreams about dark skin and darker lines, about symbols and ink and artwork he can lick and taste. He shakes his head. He has no idea how long it will take until he's going to snap.
The house is familiar and looks as if nothing has changed in the last years. Seamus hasn't lived here in a long time, and yet it is home. It will always be. Home is the blue front door and the patch where the paint is gone; it's the white windows with the frilly curtains he has always hated. Home is the neatly trimmed grass and the swing in the garden that no one has used since Seamus was ten years old and declared himself too old for it. And home is also apple pie, stew and the smell of his mother's hugs.
He grins as he knocks on the door.
The greeting is familiar. His mother is trying to suffocate him with a hug, tells him that he's looking too thin, ushers him inside, scolds him for coming home not often enough, sits him down at the kitchen table and makes some strong coffee. He tells her about work, about life in London, trivial things. She tells him news from the small town. It's good to be home.
"Do you want another coffee, or are you ready to tell me?" she asks after a while.
"Both," he decides, although until now he hasn't known that there is something he wants to tell her.
It takes a few minutes before she fills his cup with the steaming liquid and sits down again. He has time to gather his thoughts, but doesn't think that it does any good.
"It's Dean," he finally says.
"Is he back?"
"No, not yet." He runs his hand through his hair and she looks at him curiously.
"What about him? I know you were visiting him. You had a good time, I reckon?"
He raises an eyebrow. He told her about the trip earlier. "Aye, 'course I did."
"And?"
"A very good time, actually. Pretty damn good." He looks briefly up from his cup. "Until I bolted because it was getting a bit too good."
She only nods.
"Mam?"
"Why would you run away because something is too good?"
"Don't make me spell it out. You know what I mean."
"It doesn't matter if I know what you mean, Seamus." He doesn't like that she's being so vague. "But if something is good, you don't let it go easily."
That's the point, though, it's not easy at all. "I just don't know. I've never fit in. I'm a wizard in a town full of Muggles, a halfblood in the wizarding world, the only Irishman in my year. I piss off everyone I know, people get sick of me left and right. And then, when the war is over and I finally start settling in with a job, a girlfriend, friends, a place I live, everything goes upside down and inside out. I'm just sick and tired of all the fighting. I've had enough war. Give me a boring life and I'll be happy. I don't want any of this. I don't like confusion and things."
When he looks up he can see an amused smile around her mouth. "That girl of yours..."
"What girl?" Seamus interrupts irritated, thrown off guard by her changing the topic.
"The one with the scars."
Seamus glares at his mother. "We all have scars," he says hotly. "I'm sick of listening to people talking shit about her. She's not a Werewolf, and even if she were, she'd still be a great person and she's fucking beautiful." There. That made him feel better.
His mother smiles at him. "Are you sure that you don't want to fight anymore, Seamus?" He slumps back in his chair. "Stop lying to yourself."
"It runs in the family." He says it to provoke her. If she gets angry, he can leave in a huff.
She surprises him again, though. "It does. But it's never got us anywhere, so we might as well stop."
On a rainy November day, Dean finally comes back. One moment, Seamus sits on the couch and reads a Quidditch magazine, the next moment he opens the door and stares at Dean who seems to be not as angry as he should.
"Took your time, mate," Seamus says and steps away from the door to let him in.
"Good to see you, too," Dean answers and comes inside. "What's up?" he asks without preamble.
He looks good, Seamus thinks. His tan is even darker now, his shoulders are still broad, and even though Seamus knows that he's imagining it, Dean looks as if he has grown another inch or two. He wants to tell him that he missed him, that he's glad that he's back and that he hopes that he's going to stay. The words are somehow stuck in his throat. "Tea?" he asks instead, because it's what Dean would do.
"Yeah, sounds good." Dean sits down at the kitchen table and looks around. "Looks almost the same here."
Seamus remembers that Dean hasn't been here in more than twenty-one months. "Yeah. I didn't change much." He resists asking him when he's going to move back in.
Tea is made quickly and soon they both have a cup of steaming Earl Grey and are sitting on opposite sides of the small table. Dean painted it red with a complex black pattern after they'd moved in.
"So?" Dean prompts.
Seamus clings to his cup of tea and takes a deep breath. "Well. There's this thing, you see."
Dean doesn't seem to see, he just keeps looking. Seamus scratches the back of his neck and curses himself for not rehearsing this. "My thing. For you." He's stuttering and drinks some tea.
"And because of this thing," Seamus waves his hands and cringes at his clumsy words. But he fucked up good and proper and embarrassing himself is the least he can do. "Because of this thing, I thought we could maybe go somewhere. Out. Together. Like on a date." He exhales and mutters a thank you that he said the words. Then he raises his head and looks at Dean. He's waiting for an answer.
Dean's expression changes from amusement to shock in an instant. "You... What?" His voice is about an octave higher than usual.
"A date." Seamus doesn't know where to look at. He's been so sure of himself, wasted so much time finding out what it is that he wants, that maybe now it's too late. And Dean is still gaping at him. "Dunno. Quidditch and dinner and stuff. Whatever you want." Something occurs to him. "Except dancing."
"A date?" Dean asks. "You're taking the piss."
It isn't the reaction Seamus hoped for, or even one he thought was possible. "I'm not joking," he says. "Just spit it out if you don't want to." Seamus drinks from his tea again and wishes it would transfigure itself into Firewhisky.
"It's not that. It's just... A date?" Dean says yet again. Maybe Seamus should have drawn a picture to make it clearer. "In public?" His expression tells Seamus that it's the last thing he expected.
"I wrote you a card, didn't I? What did ye think that meant?"
Dean shrugs. "That you want to fuck me and either run away again or keep me as your dirty little secret." He says it casually.
It feels like a kick in the gut. Seamus knows he deserves it. He gets up and opens the fridge. Tea doesn't cut it, not by a long shot. He gets out two beers, pops them open with his wand and passes one to Dean. "So why did you come?"
Dean takes the bottle and looks at him. "I don't think you want to know."
Seamus averts his eyes and takes a swig. He clears his throat before he asks, "What's your answer, then?"
Dean shakes his head, drinks as well and laughs softly. "There better be flowers."
*
El Fin
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translations:
Póg mo thóin (Gaelic) - Kiss my arse
Bienvenido - Welcome
Buenos días, [] busco una galería de arte. - Good morning, I'm looking for an art gallery.
Comprende? - Do you understand?
Dime, qué pasa. - Tell me, what's up?
Gracias - Thank you
Lo siento - I'm sorry
obras de - works of
Soy Alfonso, le puedo ayudar en algo - I'm Alfonso, how can I help you?
Te entiendo perfectamente. - I understand you perfectly
Mentiroso - Liar
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Dean/Seamus (main pairing), Seamus/Lavender
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: In a perfect world, no one gets sick, you keep the girl, and wait for your best mate to come home. In Seamus's world, things work differently.
Word Count: ~18,000 for both parts (including postcards)
Author's Notes: Written for
wook77 and hp_springsmut. The request was fantastic and I loved writing this story. It wouldn't have been half as good without the help and encouragement of thimble_kiss and la_george. All translations can be found at the end of the story.Part one of the story
Seamus arrives in Mexico City on a Sunday morning. It's hot, but not as hot as he's expected. The sun is shining from a blue sky as he leaves the portkey station in t-shirt and denims, instantly falling for the city. The wizarding district - the Mexicans simply call it El Distrito - is even busier than Diagon Alley. He doesn't wear any sunglasses and squints as the sun is too bright. The hustle and bustle excites him and he's drawn to the various shops. There are displays with spices, fabrics and artfully crafted baskets. He can see an owl shop, and hear it; the racket the animals are making is impressive. There is a bookshop and a café, and he thinks that he can understand that Dean wants to stay here for a while. It all seems a bit friendlier, a bit brighter, and a bit more awake than at home. But maybe it's just that he's never been so far away from home before, and that he's stunned and awed by what he sees.
He has no idea where to start looking for the art gallery, only knows it's Muggle and that the name of the owner is Alfonso. It's not much in a city with more than eight million people. He sent an owl after he arrived, but the bird came back with the letter still tied to its foot. He wonders if Dean doesn't want to be found or if Mexican birds are just useless.
It comes in handy that he's a halfblood and grew up in an all Muggle town. He doesn't have any difficulties navigating the city after he acquires a map. He blends in disguised as a tourist - or not, as he essentially is a tourist - and juggling the money isn't hard either. He tries going to the tourist information first.
"Buenos días," he starts awkwardly. João, a colleague from work, taught him a few phrases in Spanish before Seamus left. "Busco una galería de arte." He doesn't know what he'll do when she answers him, because chances that he won't understand are high.
She smiles at him serenely. "You're looking for an art gallery? You are American, no?"
"No," he says and tries not to be insulted. "I'm Irish."
"Aaah," she says as if it explains everything. "What are you looking for? There is the Museo Nacional de Arte, with a classical collection of Mexican Art; or the Museo de Arte Moderno, with an equally exceptional but more modern collection. We also have the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo Internacional Rufino Tamayo, which is famous for its...," she seems to be searching for a word, "obras de Miró, Picasso, Dalí and Bacon."
Seamus shakes his head. "No, I'm not looking for a museum. I'm looking for a friend of mine."
She looks at him questioningly.
"He works in an art gallery," Seamus explains. "Not a museum, they're selling art." It occurs to him that that is just an assumption. "Or so I think. The owner's name is Alfonso and it opened not long ago."
"Oh-kay," she says, drawing out the syllables. "You are looking for a business." She looks confused and turns around to talk to another woman. Seamus doesn't understand what they're saying; they talk rapidly back and forth.
"I can give you a list of the art galleries. It is up to date, but if the gallery is very new, it might not be on there. Some of the owners are listed, others are not. Do you have a map?"
Seamus nods and after pushing buttons on what he knows is a computer but has no idea how it works, she gives him a sheet of paper with far too many names on it. "Muchas gracias," he says weakly. If he has to go to every gallery listed, he'll be busy for weeks.
*
Seamus can't count how often he has cursed Dean in the last few days.
It's the third gallery on this day and the temperature has risen since he arrived. The t-shirt he wears clings to his back and his feet feel like they are melting in his trainers. He curses and glares at the door he's just about to open. He's in front of a simple, unpretentious building and the sign says 'Galería.' "Bloody helpful," Seamus mutters and enters. It's cool inside, which pacifies him slightly. It smells like fresh paint and Seamus looks around. Everything is new and some of the paintings are still standing on the floor. It's clean, almost too clean; clinical is the term that fits.
There is an over-sized counter; the reception, Seamus assumes, but no one is there. The high table looks futuristic, is arched in an elegant bow and rests on a bowl-shaped... whatever. It's art, Seamus reminds himself. He wonders where they put their stuff, he can't see a single drawer, shelf or cupboard.
He snaps out of his musings when someone comes running around a corner but stops in his tracks as he spots Seamus.
"Hola," the man says and smiles brightly. "Bienvenido. Soy Alfonso, le puedo ayudar en algo?"
After 'Bienvenido,' the only thing Seamus understands is 'Alfonso'. He's tempted to punch the air.
"Lo siento," he apologises. "I don't speak Spanish."
"Aaah," says Alfonso as if it explains everything. "How can I help you? Forgive me, but you don't look as if you'd like to buy something. Are you American?"
Seamus figures it wouldn't be the most reasonable approach to punch the man in the face. He smiles at him instead, or at least shows his teeth in a gesture he hopes isn't aggressive. "Póg mo thóin," he says with his most charming grin. "I'm Irish."
"How interesting," Alfonso says. "How can I help you?" For some reason Seamus doesn't like the man at all. He's too tall, his smile is too genuine, his voice too friendly and he's too handsome.
"I'm looking for me friend. I know that he's working in an art gallery somewhere in the area. You wouldn't know anything about him, would you? His name's Dean, Dean Thomas, he's from London."
Seamus knows that he's found the right place when Alfonso's smile changes and he looks curious. He nods. "Dean is here. He's upstairs. Through that door over there." He points at a door that is as white as the walls.
"Thanks, Alfonso," Seamus says.
He's already halfway through the door when he hears a mocking "De nada." There are stairs behind the door and Seamus follows them up to the next floor. As far as he can see, there's only one big single room upstairs, half finished, with walls that are still bare and only half of them painted. It's empty except for a few chairs and a table.
Seamus's mind wants to pretend that he doesn't recognise the man who's standing with his back to Seamus at the far end of the room. But he'd recognise his best friend everywhere - the way he tilts his head to the left, his longs limbs, the way he stands perfectly still, always centred in the middle. It doesn't matter how different he looks. And Holy Fucking Mother of God, he does look different.
The card from Tahiti wasn't as mysterious as Dean probably thought it was. 'Gotta show you something', in combination with the picture on the postcard was a clear message. Seamus isn't an Auror, but he isn't dumb either. He's been imagining a small tattoo on Dean's shoulder blade or on his ankle, something tacky like a Gryffindor lion.
He should have known better.
Black ink is covering Dean's back from shoulder to the waistband of his jeans and Seamus wonders just how far it goes down. It's a pattern made of symbols arranged in one big phoenix, spreading its wings, head held high. It spans Dean's back gracefully, wings on his shoulder blades and the end of the tail-feathers out of sight. It's a Muggle tattoo, it doesn't move, and yet it looks like the bird is about to take off. When he comes closer, he can see that the symbols themselves consist of even smaller symbols. Dean was right, it's a work of art and Seamus can't stop staring at it. He'd bet a month's worth of Guinness that Dean drew it himself.
The muscles in Dean's back are working as he paints the wall with sure strokes, a few drops of paint on his shoulders and arms in stark contrast to his dark skin. Seamus shakes his head at his own thoughts, not sure where they come from. Something Luna explained to him years ago comes into his mind and he wonders if there are Wrackspurts in Mexico. Invisible things that float in through a victim's ears and make their brain go fuzzy would be an excellent explanation.
"So that's what you're doing on your big trip around the world?"
Dean stops, puts the brush down, straightens up and turns around very, very slowly.
Seamus can't help but grin at the gobsmacked expression on his face and takes advantage, not giving him any time to recover. "What's wrong with a Celtic knot?" he asks.
Dean is staring at him. "A Celtic knot?"
"Your back. Instead of tattooing some random creature on there, you could have gone for a solid Celtic knot."
A small smile spreads on Dean's face. "You came here to discuss Celtic knots, did you?"
"Actually, I came to drag your sorry arse back home. Parvati says she misses you."
"Does she?" Dean tilts his head and looks Seamus up and down. "Why isn't she here, then?"
Seamus grins at him. "Terry does a good job of comforting her. Thought I should tell you before someone else does. Best mate's duty and all that."
"I'm shattered. Do I get a comforting hug now?"
"Oh well, can't resist if ye ask that nicely." Seamus closes the distance between them and hugs him hard, not caring that there is paint all over him.
"Good to see you, mate," he says.
"You, too." Dean lets go and steps back. "There's loads of work around here, no wands allowed."
Seamus groans. "I knew I should have thought about this before taking a three-weeks holiday," he mutters, but he's grinning and already taking off his backpack.
*
Dean is living in a small flat that belongs to Alfonso's brother Juan who's currently in Chile with his girlfriend. The flat is Dean's until the brother comes back and Seamus trades his tiny hotel room for the tiny guestroom. In the afternoons they are off, walking through the city, looking at famous places, buildings and other stuff that Dean finds exciting. The evenings they mostly spend in pubs or in bars. There seem to be more bars than people in Mexico City, and Seamus loves that aspect of the city more than the rest.
But what really gets to him are the mornings. He's been helping Dean around the gallery in the mornings, so that Dean can take the afternoons off. It's not hard work per se, but it involves lifting, painting - walls, not canvas - and moving furniture on the second floor of the building. It's the floor that isn't yet open for customers.
They are alone, working together in comfortable silence - shirtless because it's hot without any working air conditioning. While Seamus isn't shy in general, not at all, he's starting to become self conscious around Dean. He doesn't know if it's from backpacking, from working different jobs, from the way Dean carries his body more upright, but Dean looks different. And Seamus can't take his eyes off him, no matter how hard he tries.
There's a faint sheen of sweat on Dean's upper body most of the time, making his chest and shoulders shine. There's coarse hair down the centerline of his torso, thickening around his navel and disappearing into his trousers. Seamus isn't sure why he's noticing those things.
The first time he feels himself harden when he looks at the ink on Dean's back, he's freaked out and locks himself up in the loo, deciding that it isn't the time and place to be mature about it. He beats the tile hard and the pain goes a long way to make the problem disappear. At least the one visible from the outside. He doesn't know what is happening here, or rather he does, but it's easier to deny, or ignore it. He stays in the loo until Dean knocks on the door.
"Hey, are you in there?" he asks. "You didn't fall in, did you?"
"Shut up, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." Seamus knows that his voice sounds off, but he does his best to get a grip.
"Yeah, right. Don't give me any details, just come out of there and help me hang this thing up."
The water in the sink is cool. Seamus washes his face and leaves the small room when Dean knocks again. "All right, I'm here. What do you want me to do?"
Dean points at a painting, a small one, but the frame looks heavy. "That has to go on the wall. Can you hold it up while I fix it?"
It sounds easy enough. Seamus lifts up the frame and holds it against the wall while Dean is fiddling with hooks and nails. The frame doesn't cooperate, though. It's getting heavier with every minute, and Seamus curses when the muscles in his arms start to tremble. "Don't fall asleep, I'm not sure how long I can hold it."
Dean grunts and leans over Seamus from the side. "Can't reach the one in the middle, hang on."
"Hurry up, I don't think Al will be happy if this drops to the ground." Not that the picture is all that pretty. It consists of a few splotches of paint in several colours. Lavender would say that they don't even match. The thought comes as a surprise. He hasn't thought of Lavender since he arrived.
When Dean steps behind him, presses him against the wall, and reaches over his head, Seamus is startled. He can feel Dean from head to foot now, but he's still holding the frame and can't do anything but bite his lip and try not to groan - much.
"Sorry, mate, just a second," Dean apologises, completely missing the problem.
"You've got to be kidding me," Seamus mutters resigned in the general direction of the universe. Dean wiggles and moves behind him and Seamus can feel his chest, hot and slick with sweat.
Seamus whimpers quietly and closes his eyes. It doesn't take much to imagine that Dean is rocking against him and he feels himself getting hard again. This is all going pear-shaped, and he doesn't know how to stop it.
"Are you okay?" Dean asks and Seamus has a hard time not to go into hysterics.
"I'm fine," he assures, "absolutely spiffing. Are you done yet?"
"I think I'm done. You can let go." Dean steps back and Seamus catches himself panting. His gaze darts up Dean's torso and down again.
He doesn't look at Dean when he pushes him away and leaves the room as quickly as he can without running. He should find a church; an exorcism or three can't do any harm.
*
The scene is something that should have been written in one of Lavender's mushy romance novels, but it should never ever take place on the other side of the door that is only half closed. It's late afternoon and Seamus just returned to the gallery from a walk around the city. He went in through the backdoor and passed the little kitchen on his way to the studio where Dean was supposed to be working. There were voices from inside and Seamus stopped for a moment to hear if it's Dean. He doesn't know why he didn't just go inside. He should have, but now it's too late.
"He's the one you're running away from?" Alfonso asks.
"I'm not running," says Dean. It sounds like he's lost in thoughts and Seamus knows the look that comes with that kind of voice. "What makes you think I do?"
There is a pause before Alfonso continues. "You're different since he's here."
Seamus wants to know how Dean is different, but Dean doesn't ask. There is some rustling and there are footsteps inside the room. It's Seamus's cue to leave, but he's too curious to just go.
"Tea?" And now Seamus has to stay, because Dean always makes tea before he's having a serious conversation. Seamus has teased him numerous times about it, telling him that he doesn't have to live by the English clichés, as his roots are a few thousand miles away. There's a smile on Seamus's face as he thinks of Dean's leaf obsession, because honestly, who drinks tea in the middle of the day?
"Gracias," he hears when they settle down again. "Dime, qué pasa?"
"I'm not really sure," Dean says and Seamus is relieved. He feared that Dean was going to answer in Spanish.
"Mentiroso."
"You're calling me a liar?" There's not a hint of anger in Dean's voice, instead he sounds amused. "You're right. Same old story, I reckon. We've been mates for more than a decade. Since we were eleven and went to Hog... boarding school together. Shared a dorm, classes, homework, free time. Visited each other during the holidays. We went through some bad times. Really bad times. For a time I thought I'd never see him again. After school we moved in together, been living there for years. I was sick last year. And after that, I just needed to get out."
"Te entiendo perfectamente." That's something Seamus can translate. Alfonso says that he understands Dean which is funny, because Seamus doesn't understand, not really. He wonders if all their conversations are like this, in two languages. It would explain why Dean speaks Spanish as well as he does.
"I don't think you understand."
"Believe me, I do." There's bitterness in Alfonso's voice and a story lingering behind the words. "It is an old story. Let me guess. You were best friends from the start. You grew up together. Somewhere along the line you noticed that things have changed. You look at him differently. You notice things. He's got a tight arse, hasn't he? He's not stupid either and the freckles are cute. And you probably wonder more often than not if he uses that big mouth of his for other things than talking."
Seamus feels light-headed. Where is oxygen when you need it?
"Don't you have a way with words," Dean mutters just loud enough to be heard on this side of the door. Seamus waits for denial, but it doesn't come.
"He's not the only one with a big mouth, you see," Alfonso says slyly. Seamus's head snaps up. The ugly fucker wouldn't use him as a come on, would he? "There are other options."
"Yeah, I know." He can hear Dean smiling and doesn't like it at all. "It's not really about options, though."
*
Dean has planned a trip to Tulúm for both of them over the weekend. They grab a portkey on Friday morning that dumps them in the middle of what Seamus is sure must be heaven with a postcard-worthy sun shining from a blue sky down on an azure sea. There's a white sandy beach and Seamus moans at the sight of it.
Dean grins. "That's almost like Tahiti, just with more ruins."
"Ruins?" Seamus asks. "I didn't come here for ruins, mate, I want to drink beer in the sun, piss in the sand and get turned down by at least two local birds."
"Quit whinging," Dean says without any sympathy, "the less you dawdle now, the earlier we are at the beach."
They don't have to look long for the Maya ruins. Dean drags Seamus through all the temples, they look at stonewalls and Dean sketches a few of the buildings.
Dean tells him about the town, which during the thirteenth century had been one of the biggest on Yukatan and an important port in the area. Dean tells him stories with war and priestesses and queens. Seamus is content to listen to the low rumble of his friend, knowing that he'll have forgotten the details in less than an hour. He can feel the magic behind the stones, though, and isn't surprised when Dean tells him that wizards and witches had been living here for centuries.
They go to the beach later and transfigure some stones into big, fluffy towels on which they have sandwiches and beer that's still cool from a charm Dean had cast before they left.
This is life, Seamus thinks. He can't remember ever feeling so relaxed, just lying in the hot sand, enjoying the beautiful day. The water lulls him to sleep, gentle waves rolling in a steady rhythm. There must be some kind of job where one can do this every day. He'd give up the goblins in a heartbeat.
He changes his mind when the sun descends and his skin starts to burn.
"I told you to use sun screen, or a charm, or lie in the shade," Dean says as he enters the room on the second floor of the small hotel, south of the ruins. It's simple but clean here, just two beds with the bathroom down the hall.
Seamus lies on his stomach on Dean's bed. His own bed is occupied by his empty backpack and its scattered contents. "This hurts. Can't you do anything?" he asks. He's suffering and annoyed by Dean's lack of compassion.
"Stop being a baby," Dean says. "It's just a sunburn, you're not about to die. "
"How do you know? I could overheat or something."
"And here I thought you've already got plenty of experience with overheating." Dean sits down next to him and pulls a small jar out of his backpack.
"You're not funny." Seamus eyes the jar. "What is this?"
"Potion. Mix of pain-relief, healing and relaxation. Can't believe I'm wasting it on you. It's meant for emergencies. Hold still."
The first contact is cold and Seamus flinches. But Dean's hands are big and warm and he feels himself relax as his skin stops burning. The smell is nice and he closes his eyes and hums. Dean rubs his back in gentle, slow circles and doesn't stop when the burn eases. The tension drains out of Seamus and he goes limp under Dean's hands. "Don't stop," he says, "'s brilliant." He doesn't know if it's himself or the potion speaking, but he doesn't care, it's really nice.
"You like that?" Dean asks. "You like potion rubbed into your sunburned skin? That's special."
The goo is tingling and Dean's hands are warm and confident. Seamus feels languid and relaxed, can't be arsed to care about Dean's mocking. "I don't like the potion or sunburn part," he says with closed eyes. "Your hands feel good, though, really good. Could get used to that." The potion is messing with his head, Seamus thinks, but he's too relaxed to be bothered.
Dean's hands falter. "Erm, okay. That's... Yeah." He sounds confused. Seamus wiggles until Dean starts again. His back feels amazing and the feeling spreads into other body parts. Seamus feels himself harden, just from Dean's hands on his back, his lower back now. Seamus can't think of a reason why Dean's hands should be there, as the sunburn is on his shoulders, but he's not about to complain. He falls asleep before Dean is finished.
On the next day, there's a slight awkwardness, but it only lasts until breakfast. The confusion doesn't survive a heated discussion over who deserves more coffee. They are back in the comfortable zone of their easy friendship in no time at all and if Dean is looking strangely at Seamus sometimes, Seamus is very good at not noticing it. And if Seamus is looking strangely at Dean sometimes, Dean is very good at not mentioning it.
*
Mexican beer isn't too bad, Seamus decides. He's tried Corona, Dos XX, which Dean taught him is pronounced 'Dosh Eh Keys', and Sol that seems to be the hit of the season. Right now he's drinking Casta Morena, a smooth, dark ale that tastes a bit like home after too many pale lagers. It must be his fifth, at least, but Seamus doesn't count, and it's probably for the better.
He looks up into the sky and tries to see some of the stars they saw above Tulúm. But they are back in Mexico City and here in the backyard of the gallery, there is only the typical big city sky with the occasional white spot above. It's nothing compared to what they saw on the second night on the beach, the night when they didn't have to stay inside because Seamus fell asleep with Dean's hands on him. He sits with his back against the brick wall and pulls his knees to his chest.
He knows that it's not normal that he missed Dean so much that he came half across the world looking for him. It's also not normal that he ditched his gorgeous girlfriend, that the only time when he doesn't feel like either loneliness, anger, or some other stray emotion is trying to choke him is when he's together with Dean, or that whenever he closes his eyes he sees dark symbols forming intricate patterns. He's going mad. Except that he isn't. He hasn't felt so sane in a long time.
It doesn't make any sense. Not after all these years. He bangs his head against the wall behind him, but that pain makes anything better is just a fairy tale. In reality it just hurts.
"Is that really necessary?" he asks no one in particular. "Lavender's a great girl. I like her. And Parvati likes Dean. So where's the problem? Just leave us alone and we'll sort it out." He doesn't know who he's talking to, but feels the need to find someone who's guilty. "You know, you're not doing me a favour here."
"Whom are you talking to?" Alfonso is standing in the doorframe, looking down at him. Seamus has never talked to the man alone, not since the first day when he asked him if Dean was there.
"No one."
"Good conversation?" It's the same mocking tone Alfonso always uses when he addresses Seamus.
"Terrific."
"You know, if you want me to go back inside you just have to tell me."
Seamus looks up at him and is very close to telling him to fuck off. "No, no, it's okay. Sit down, have a beer."
Alfonso sits down and opens one of the bottles. "How do you like it here?"
"'S nice. The weather is better than at home." Seamus is better at drinking than at small talk, he thinks.
"You came for the weather, eh?"
"Aye, why else would I've come?" Seamus runs his hand through his hair and takes a swig from his bottle. There's something about the conversation he doesn't like. Maybe it's the way Alfonso is looking at him, or the always present smirk on his face.
"You were very interested in our conversation."
"Which conversation?" Seamus asks, but he can guess which conversation Alfonso is talking about. "Spit it out, Al."
"The one in the kitchen last week. I saw you. It's rude, eavesdropping."
"I wasn't eavesdropping. Why didn't you say something if you knew I was there?" Seamus pushes his back against the wall to keep himself from moving, he's getting more and more irritated.
Alfonso shrugs, he seems unconcerned. "Maybe I wanted to see your reaction." He drinks and then stands up. That was a quick conversation, Seamus thinks, but would rather bite off his tongue than ask him to stay. "Why don't you just go back to Ireland and leave Dean in peace. There's a reason why he left his home and you behind. He wants something you don't want to give him, so stop making his life miserable."
"Why don't you fuck off, Alfonso, and suck someone's cock?" Seamus says casually. "It keeps you from talking bullshit."
Alfonso's smirk freezes on his face and Seamus takes an unhealthy amount of pleasure from it.
*
The beer tastes stale, the tacos like cardboard and the music is far too loud. They are in the little bar down the street, the light dim over their table in the corner. Seamus has no problem spotting Alfonso's hand on Dean's thigh, though. Ever since their little talk two days earlier, Alfonso seems to do nothing but trying to get his hands on Dean.
Seamus doesn't know what they're up to, but Dean is playing right along. He's laughing, flirting, he's making eyes at the Mexican git and Seamus seethes. He orders a second beer before the first one is even empty.
"Looking tense, amigo." Alfonso is grinning at him.
"Indigestion," Seamus answers. "It's the food."
"He has always been this funny?" Alfonso asks Dean. Seamus wonders when they decided to sit so close together that their shoulders are touching. It's ridiculous.
"Nope, he has improved considerably since school," Dean answers. He's grinning
The words sting. It hurts that Dean is making fun of him together with this stranger. That's not how Seamus envisioned his holiday. Everywhere he looks are strange conversations, confusion, black ink, hands, and fucking Alfonso touching Dean. Seamus finishes his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He has lost track of the conversation and when he looks up, Dean is laughing at something Alfonso said, a full, throaty laugh, the one that shakes his whole body. Seamus can't remember when Dean laughed like that at something he said the last time. He can't remember either why it should matter.
He knows he should go before he says or does something he'll regret. All the buttons he didn't even know he possesses have been pushed. It's enough.
Unfortunately Dean chooses this moment to excuse himself for a minute and wanders off into the direction of the loo.
There are a couple of minutes of awkward silence before Alfonso smirks at Seamus and leans across the table towards him. "Why don't you just go back to the flat and have a nice, early night? We'll entertain ourselves. Oh, and don't wait up for him, he'll be home late."
Alfonso doesn't even have the time to blink before Seamus closes his hand around his throat in a tight grip, hauls him off his chair and slams him with his back against the wall. "Keep your hands off him, fecking arsehole." Alfonso chokes and Seamus grins at him, adrenalin making his blood boil. "He's mine. Comprende?" There's a strangled sound coming from Alfonso and Seamus lets go, looking at the angry red marks on his neck in satisfaction. He turns just in time to see Dean staring at him.
Other patrons are looking at him as well and a big man who has been standing behind the bar until then, is making his way over. Seamus throws a few pesos on the table, winks at Alfonso and leaves the pub. He can hear Dean calling after him, but he doesn't stop and pretends not to hear it. The night is dark and cool as he walks back to the flat. It clears his head. Some day he should work on getting his temper under control. Not today, though, today it felt really good.
Dean arrives only a few minutes later. "What the hell, Seamus?" Dean asks calmly. Seamus can't understand why he never gets angry. It's unnatural. "What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing? Are you joking? You tried to throttle him."
Seamus glares at Dean. "I didn't. He'll survive it." Dean is shaking his head. "Oh come on, he deserved it," Seamus says.
The couch isn't made for two grown men, it is small and shabby, but Dean squeezes in next to Seamus anyway. "You realise that we're staying in his brother's flat, that he's given me a job, that he's a nice person and that I like him as a friend?"
Seamus snorts.
Dean sighs and puts his hand on Seamus's thigh. "Seriously, what's up?"
Seamus looks at the hand and wants to say 'That'. Instead he lets his head fall on the backrest of the couch and looks sideways up at Dean.
"Why did you leave?" Seamus asks out of the blue.
"You kind of ruined the mood. Nothing worth staying for. The barkeep wasn't happy with us either."
Seamus shakes his head. "That's not what I meant. When you left home, why did you go?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Humour me." Seamus puts his hand over Dean's and squeezes.
Dean looks at him for long moments, then mirrors his pose and sinks back into the couch, his head on the backrest. "Told you about Ted, didn't I? Professor Lupin's wife's father. When we were together, out there in the woods, we talked about what would be after the war." Dean's voice is calm, he looks at the ceiling, but his eyes are unfocused. "The things we'd do, what we missed so far, what we should make better, stuff like that. He told me about his daughter and his wife, I told him about my family and friends, he told me how much he wanted to see his grandson grow up, I told him about everything I wanted to do and see and what I want to be. I always thought that if I could just make it out of those damn woods alive, I'd have an endless amount of time. Y'know? I thought if the war was over and you and me survived, then the rest would be just fucking sunshine."
Dean is silent and Seamus turns his head to look at Dean properly. "And there was no sunshine? I remember me shining a lot."
Dean chuckles. "There was quite a bit of sunshine, actually. But that list of things I wanted to do after the war, the things I told Ted about. When I got sick I had accomplished one bloody thing. Five years since the war was over and I had almost nothing. My job was boring, I had no girlfriend," Seamus snorts but Dean only gives him a dirty look, "I hadn't seen any of the places I wanted to see." He hesitates. "I hadn't drawn anything in years. I think I realised that even with no war and no running and hiding, it still can all be over tomorrow. And when I die, I don't want to be left with a list full of things I never did. In that hospital room, I figured there's no time like the present. So I went."
Seamus nods. It makes sense. "That's the only reason why you left?"
Dean only nods but doesn't move his hand.
"What was the one thing you'd done?"
"Shared a flat with you."
"Aw. That's so sweet. I'm getting shiny eyes," Seamus says. He's teasing.
"Sod off."
Dean is still looking up at the ceiling and Seamus is still looking at him, now leaning sideways against the couch's back. The situation feels tense, but not uncomfortable. Seamus has drunk just enough to slide one hand across Dean's belly, let it rest on his waist and tug him a bit closer.
Dean obviously has drunk just enough that he doesn't mention it, but Seamus can see his eyes widen.
"So. Alfonso, he wasn't worth staying for?" Seamus asks, picking up something Dean said earlier.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just checking." Seamus suspects that the Wrackspurts are flying again - or whatever they do. He feels light-headed and for some reason he feels bold. With the hand on Dean's waist he pushes up the shirt and finds bare skin. He runs his thumb back and forth, barely touching him.
"You don't like Alfonso, do you?" Dean asks. His voice sounds a bit off.
Seamus laughs quietly. "I like him plenty, considering that he's a self-centred, arrogant, advantage-taking arsehole."
"How did you figure that out?" Dean's throat keeps working even when he's not talking. Seamus is inching closer, moves his hand up Dean's torso until it's high on his side, just beneath the pit of his arm.
"He's all over you." He talks quietly now, his lips almost brushing Dean's ear.
Dean is shivering. "Is that the reason you attacked him?"
"Didn't attack him. It was self-defense." He's rubbing his nose against Dean's cheek.
"Seamus? What are you doing?"
"I have no feckin' clue what I'm doing," he says with his lips touching Dean's ear. "I hoped you were the expert here." He tugs at Dean's earlobe gently with his teeth, sucks it into his mouth and runs his tongue up the shell. He didn't lie, Seamus doesn't know what he's doing, but he doesn't stop to think about it either.
"You'll regret this," Dean tries to reason, and Seamus knows that he's probably right. It doesn't stop him from dipping his tongue into Dean's ear. He's needy and he can tell from the way Dean is almost shaking that he wants it, too. So why not? Maybe it's time to find out what exactly is happening. Maybe they can get it out of the system and move on.
"Show me that it's worth it, Dean." He kisses Dean's temple and drags his lips over one eyelid and his nose.
Dean groans and leans into Seamus's touch. "This is not how it works," he says, but belies his words as he turns his head and Seamus's lips slide to the corner of his mouth. Dean's lips are soft and lush and Seamus takes his time to kiss the spot where they meet and then slowly moves until his mouth is covering Dean's.
His free hand is on the back of Dean's neck now, pulling him closer, increasing the pressure between them. Seamus tilts his head a bit more and sweeps his tongue over Dean's bottom lip, uses his teeth to bite softly. Dean gasps and opens his mouth, which Seamus takes as an invitation to run his tongue along Dean's teeth and finally slip it inside. The first taste is intoxicating and becomes even more so when Dean starts to kiss back. They move together now, open mouths sliding wetly against each other. Seamus is caught somewhere between the soft strokes of Dean's tongue and the rough scratch of his stubble. What was left of his control slips sideways and falls out of the picture altogether.
When Dean tugs on his shirt, he lifts his arms, and when Dean pulls off his own shirt, Seamus ducks his head and licks one dark nipple. He kisses Dean's throat, sucks on his shoulders, traces the edges of black ink on his upper back with his fingertips. There's a sharp hiss when he closes his lips over a collarbone and bites, and a low moan when he soothes the red mark with his tongue.
Dean opens the flies of Seamus's trousers and runs his fingers from one side of his lower belly to the other. Seamus arches his back, the skin there is oddly sensitive and he likes to be touched, wants more of it. But he doesn't want to do it here on the too small couch, sitting next to each other.
He catches Dean's wrist and stops his hand. Dean freezes and stutters an apology, but Seamus hushes him and gets up. "Come on, let's do this properly." He pulls Dean up as well and drags him to the bedroom. They pause in the doorway to share a hungry kiss with Seamus cursing as his hands find Dean's arse and he pulls and grabs and holds.
Three more steps and Dean pushes him none too gently on the bed, tugs off his denims before Seamus has a chance to take a breath. By the time he can tear his eyes away from the play of muscles in Dean's shoulders, Seamus is already naked. It's too late to be embarrassed now, no matter how hard and flushed and dishevelled he looks. Dean doesn't seem to mind, though. His eyes are dark and he's watching Seamus hungrily, motionless, except for his hands that are undoing his own jeans.
Seamus swallows, watches as Dean strips slowly. He knows it's a test of some sorts, but if Dean thinks he's going to run, he'll be in for a surprise. Seamus pushes himself up into a sitting position, waits just long enough until Dean steps out of his pants and then puts both hands on the back of his thighs - Dean's very ungirly, muscled thighs, covered with dark hair. His hands move upwards, pause when he can feel the swell of Dean's buttocks and Seamus only realises that he closed his eyes when he has to make a real effort to open them again.
"Holy Mother of God," he mutters when he finally looks. He's sure that he'll go to hell for saying it while his face is only inches away from a hard cock. It might just be worth it.
"Seamus, I don't think this is a good idea," Dean protests one last time, but his voice is too low to mean it and he hasn't moved an inch.
"Shut up, Thomas, you've never been good at thinking."
Seamus tightens the grip of his hands and pulls him closer until his nose and lips are touching what should be familiar, but is strange and alien on someone else. Dean still doesn't move, but Seamus can feel the tension in his thighs and he's trembling. Seamus hesitates for a second. This is so very new territory, and maybe he should have tried touching him before putting his mouth on Dean's bits. But it's mainly his brain talking, the rest of his body is delighted by the idea. "It's okay, just let me try this." Dean jumps as Seamus mouths the words directly into the soft skin at the base of his cock.
There's no thought after that.
The smell keeps him captivated as he takes Dean into his mouth. He does it slowly. It's sloppy and wet, he's lacking technique, but he can see Dean losing his constant calm and Seamus is hit with the same fierce possessiveness he felt in the bar. It doesn't matter that he accidentally uses his teeth, or that he gags when Dean's hips jerk, or that it's more salty than he's used to, but it does matters that Dean is moaning, that he's clutching Seamus's shoulders so tight that it's almost painful and that Seamus can't remember when he's ever been that turned on.
He sucks, licks, kisses and he lets go with one hand to cradle Dean's balls, tug lightly and press against the sensitive spot behind them. Just because he's never been in this particular position, doesn't mean he has no experience. He knows what feels good.
Dean has his hands in his hair and when he starts pulling hard, Seamus knows why he's doing it. But he doesn't stop. He wants everything. And he gets it, warm and bitter on his tongue with Dean shaking and swearing and saying his name again and again.
He pulls back when he feels Dean relax, his own body still thrumming with lust and need. Without consciously moving his hands, he grabs his own cock and wanks, falling back down on the bed. But Dean tugs on his wrist and pulls his hand away. "Don't you dare. Just give me a sec."
Seamus whines, but waits for what feels like days and then moves in the middle of the bed when Dean tells him to. And then Dean is looming over him, his body more massive than it should be, there's a hand in his hair and one on his hip, there's a thigh between his legs and Dean kisses him as if Seamus wasn't already close to passing out.
Seamus has always been the stronger and bigger one in bed, has always liked to take control and was better at giving than receiving. It's different this time. Dean has pinned him down and his hands are big and strong. There's nothing tentative about him, the kiss is just this side of aggressive and Seamus can't do anything but clutch at Dean's back like a drowning man and rut against Dean's thigh.
It shouldn't be as intense as it is. Seamus breaks the kiss because his breath got lost somewhere and presses his face against Dean's neck, panting. His hands wander down and he finds Dean's arse again. Dean shifts and Seamus wants to protest, but then there's a hand on his cock, stroking him. Seamus is overwhelmed, feels Dean all around him, over him and he comes with a low cry, completely taken over.
*
The light in the room is still dim when Seamus wakes up. He remembers what happened and he wishes he could have been drunk the night before and blame it on the alcohol. They had... Mary and Jesus, they had. And it was his fault. He doesn't dare to move, he's too afraid that Dean might wake up and he needs more time to sort himself out before he faces him. It's not too late to fix this.
Carefully he turns his head, watches Dean lying on his stomach, the sheets pushed down just below his hips. He's naked like Seamus and his dark skin seems to absorb the faint morning light that filters in through the window. He's beautiful. Seamus doesn't even try to deny it. Dean's eyes are closed and his face is relaxed. His dark lashes are resting on his cheeks, there's a shadow on his jaw and his lips form a small pout. Seamus traces the lines on Dean's back with his eyes, the symbols so mysterious and unknown. Seamus's fingers itch, partly from the desire to touch him, partly from the memory of the night. He knows how Dean's skin feels and he wants to touch it again, the way it is now, sleep-warm and gorgeous.
Seamus grows hard as he imagines moving his hands and lips down Dean's back, tasting the black ink, running his tongue along lines and curves. He imagines kissing Dean's smooth lower back and pushing the sheet further down, he wants to cup Dean's arse and feel him. It's a small movement, he just has to reach out, just one touch and Dean will wake up and everything will be different. His hand is hovering over Dean's back before he knows it, but he snaps back to reality just in time and snatches his hand back. What the fuck is wrong with him?
Seamus nearly sobs with the strength of wanting and he knows that he needs to get up. He needs to get out of bed now.
Half an hour, three coffees and a very cold shower later, Seamus is standing in the kitchen and trying his best not to burn it down. There are toast and eggs and bacon in various stages of cooking.
Dean comes out of the bedroom, sleep-tousled, in only his boxers. Seamus throws another egg into the pan and thinks that it is fucking rude to flounce around nearly naked.
"Morning," Dean says, a small smile is playing around the corners of his mouth.
"Morning," Seamus answers.
Dean stays where he is in the doorframe and watches him. He's waiting for something. A frown appears on his face
"I'm sorry," Seamus says more harshly than he means to. "About yesterday. Y'know. My fault, I shouldn't have done that. Let's just forget about it." He gestures with his hands, mainly because he doesn't know what to do with them. "Didn't mean anything."
Seamus can see the moment when the words register. Dean's face turns to stone. "Wasn't worth it, then." The words are bitter, each of them stings. But it's Seamus's fault, he knows it.
Dean goes to the bathroom after a few moments of silence in which Seamus can't find a single word to answer him. He's in there for a long time and when he comes back, fully dressed, breakfast is cold.
"Listen, Dean, I didn't mean to-"
"You should go," Dean interrupts him, not looking at him when he says it.
Seamus is startled for a moment, but then nods. "Yeah, yeah, I know." The goblins scheduled a meeting with the Mexican branch of their bank when they heard he'd go to Mexico. The appointment is in less than an hour. "I'll come to the gallery later. We can go to the pub tonight."
Dean runs his hand over his head and laughs without any trace of happiness. "That's not what I meant." He looks at Seamus and something in Dean's eyes reminds him of Lavender. "Go home, Finnigan. Go back to London." Seamus can't remember a time when Dean called him by his last name. It's what hurts most.
*
When Seamus arrives in London, it's raining. He looks up into the clouds and feels the droplets of water running down his face and soaking his clothes. It figures, he thinks. He walks down Diagon Alley slowly. It's deserted, people don't run down the streets in rainy weather when they can apparate or floo. It's a shame, the rain is warm and feels nice.
There's only one time he remembers that he had a real fight with Dean. It was in his sixth year, when Dean made the Quidditch team. Seamus wanted to be a Chaser as well, but Dean was better. The decision was correct, but that didn't mean that Seamus acted mature about it.
"Seamus, don't be a prig."
"I'm not a prig," Seamus said through clenched teeth.
"Come on mate, it's not a big deal."
Seamus was thumbing through a Quidditch magazine and didn't look up. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself. Sure, Dean wasn't a bad flyer, but Seamus wasn't bad either. He'd flown since he'd been able to walk, first with his mam, then on his own broom. He'd known how to fly before Dean even knew that brooms could be used for more than sweeping.
He threw the magazine into the corner of the room and glared at Dean. "Don't think I don't know why Potter didn't choose me." He spat the words, even though he didn't believe them, not really. But the anger was burning and if he didn't get it out he might explode. "He's still pissed that I didn't believe him. I apologised for what I said last year, but he's still angry. That's why he chose you. A few years back you didn't even know that Quidditch existed." Seamus was yelling at the top of his voice and the fact that Dean didn't yell back just made it worse. "It's not fucking fair."
Dean shook his head and turned around. He opened the door and looked back over his shoulder. "You know that's not true. It's just you being a resentful prat. I'll come back when you've calmed down."
Seamus calmed down soon enough, it was typical for his temper. It rose easily, but just as easily settled down again. He doesn't think that it will be that easy this time.
He thinks about flooing Lavender, but he can't muster enough courage to do it, doesn't want to fall back into old patterns either. And just because he's obsessed with Dean's arse doesn't mean he forgot Lavender's tits.
He runs into her two weeks after he's back. After some awkward small talk, they say good-bye again, parting and going into different directions. It's ridiculously symbolic.
*
It's eating him up inside and driving him insane. He can't sleep, he makes mistakes at work and he's becoming a hermit.
It's been a month since Seamus came home. He hasn't heard a word from Dean, no postcard arrived. He knows that he's made a huge mistake, but he's starting to realise that the mistake wasn't kissing Dean. He thinks about kissing Dean almost as often as he's thinking about touching him. He wants to throw an arm around Dean's shoulder, nudge him, hug him, and God help him, he wants to hold his hand. And there are the other dreams; dreams about dark skin and darker lines, about symbols and ink and artwork he can lick and taste. He shakes his head. He has no idea how long it will take until he's going to snap.
The house is familiar and looks as if nothing has changed in the last years. Seamus hasn't lived here in a long time, and yet it is home. It will always be. Home is the blue front door and the patch where the paint is gone; it's the white windows with the frilly curtains he has always hated. Home is the neatly trimmed grass and the swing in the garden that no one has used since Seamus was ten years old and declared himself too old for it. And home is also apple pie, stew and the smell of his mother's hugs.
He grins as he knocks on the door.
The greeting is familiar. His mother is trying to suffocate him with a hug, tells him that he's looking too thin, ushers him inside, scolds him for coming home not often enough, sits him down at the kitchen table and makes some strong coffee. He tells her about work, about life in London, trivial things. She tells him news from the small town. It's good to be home.
"Do you want another coffee, or are you ready to tell me?" she asks after a while.
"Both," he decides, although until now he hasn't known that there is something he wants to tell her.
It takes a few minutes before she fills his cup with the steaming liquid and sits down again. He has time to gather his thoughts, but doesn't think that it does any good.
"It's Dean," he finally says.
"Is he back?"
"No, not yet." He runs his hand through his hair and she looks at him curiously.
"What about him? I know you were visiting him. You had a good time, I reckon?"
He raises an eyebrow. He told her about the trip earlier. "Aye, 'course I did."
"And?"
"A very good time, actually. Pretty damn good." He looks briefly up from his cup. "Until I bolted because it was getting a bit too good."
She only nods.
"Mam?"
"Why would you run away because something is too good?"
"Don't make me spell it out. You know what I mean."
"It doesn't matter if I know what you mean, Seamus." He doesn't like that she's being so vague. "But if something is good, you don't let it go easily."
That's the point, though, it's not easy at all. "I just don't know. I've never fit in. I'm a wizard in a town full of Muggles, a halfblood in the wizarding world, the only Irishman in my year. I piss off everyone I know, people get sick of me left and right. And then, when the war is over and I finally start settling in with a job, a girlfriend, friends, a place I live, everything goes upside down and inside out. I'm just sick and tired of all the fighting. I've had enough war. Give me a boring life and I'll be happy. I don't want any of this. I don't like confusion and things."
When he looks up he can see an amused smile around her mouth. "That girl of yours..."
"What girl?" Seamus interrupts irritated, thrown off guard by her changing the topic.
"The one with the scars."
Seamus glares at his mother. "We all have scars," he says hotly. "I'm sick of listening to people talking shit about her. She's not a Werewolf, and even if she were, she'd still be a great person and she's fucking beautiful." There. That made him feel better.
His mother smiles at him. "Are you sure that you don't want to fight anymore, Seamus?" He slumps back in his chair. "Stop lying to yourself."
"It runs in the family." He says it to provoke her. If she gets angry, he can leave in a huff.
She surprises him again, though. "It does. But it's never got us anywhere, so we might as well stop."
On a rainy November day, Dean finally comes back. One moment, Seamus sits on the couch and reads a Quidditch magazine, the next moment he opens the door and stares at Dean who seems to be not as angry as he should.
"Took your time, mate," Seamus says and steps away from the door to let him in.
"Good to see you, too," Dean answers and comes inside. "What's up?" he asks without preamble.
He looks good, Seamus thinks. His tan is even darker now, his shoulders are still broad, and even though Seamus knows that he's imagining it, Dean looks as if he has grown another inch or two. He wants to tell him that he missed him, that he's glad that he's back and that he hopes that he's going to stay. The words are somehow stuck in his throat. "Tea?" he asks instead, because it's what Dean would do.
"Yeah, sounds good." Dean sits down at the kitchen table and looks around. "Looks almost the same here."
Seamus remembers that Dean hasn't been here in more than twenty-one months. "Yeah. I didn't change much." He resists asking him when he's going to move back in.
Tea is made quickly and soon they both have a cup of steaming Earl Grey and are sitting on opposite sides of the small table. Dean painted it red with a complex black pattern after they'd moved in.
"So?" Dean prompts.
Seamus clings to his cup of tea and takes a deep breath. "Well. There's this thing, you see."
Dean doesn't seem to see, he just keeps looking. Seamus scratches the back of his neck and curses himself for not rehearsing this. "My thing. For you." He's stuttering and drinks some tea.
"And because of this thing," Seamus waves his hands and cringes at his clumsy words. But he fucked up good and proper and embarrassing himself is the least he can do. "Because of this thing, I thought we could maybe go somewhere. Out. Together. Like on a date." He exhales and mutters a thank you that he said the words. Then he raises his head and looks at Dean. He's waiting for an answer.
Dean's expression changes from amusement to shock in an instant. "You... What?" His voice is about an octave higher than usual.
"A date." Seamus doesn't know where to look at. He's been so sure of himself, wasted so much time finding out what it is that he wants, that maybe now it's too late. And Dean is still gaping at him. "Dunno. Quidditch and dinner and stuff. Whatever you want." Something occurs to him. "Except dancing."
"A date?" Dean asks. "You're taking the piss."
It isn't the reaction Seamus hoped for, or even one he thought was possible. "I'm not joking," he says. "Just spit it out if you don't want to." Seamus drinks from his tea again and wishes it would transfigure itself into Firewhisky.
"It's not that. It's just... A date?" Dean says yet again. Maybe Seamus should have drawn a picture to make it clearer. "In public?" His expression tells Seamus that it's the last thing he expected.
"I wrote you a card, didn't I? What did ye think that meant?"
Dean shrugs. "That you want to fuck me and either run away again or keep me as your dirty little secret." He says it casually.
It feels like a kick in the gut. Seamus knows he deserves it. He gets up and opens the fridge. Tea doesn't cut it, not by a long shot. He gets out two beers, pops them open with his wand and passes one to Dean. "So why did you come?"
Dean takes the bottle and looks at him. "I don't think you want to know."
Seamus averts his eyes and takes a swig. He clears his throat before he asks, "What's your answer, then?"
Dean shakes his head, drinks as well and laughs softly. "There better be flowers."
*
El Fin
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translations:
Póg mo thóin (Gaelic) - Kiss my arse
Bienvenido - Welcome
Buenos días, [] busco una galería de arte. - Good morning, I'm looking for an art gallery.
Comprende? - Do you understand?
Dime, qué pasa. - Tell me, what's up?
Gracias - Thank you
Lo siento - I'm sorry
obras de - works of
Soy Alfonso, le puedo ayudar en algo - I'm Alfonso, how can I help you?
Te entiendo perfectamente. - I understand you perfectly
Mentiroso - Liar