Fic: The Wall Between (Dean/Seamus, NC-17) for vanseedee Author: Anonymous Recipient:vanseedee Title: The Wall Between Rating: R Pairing(s): Dean/Seamus Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older. Summary: Seamus had wandered in from his bedroom wearing only a threadbare pair of red polka-dotted boxer shorts. And it's all downhill from there. Warnings: Wanking. Mentions of girly parts. Nothing big. Word Count: 3,800 Author's Notes:vanseedee, I hope I came even a tiny bit close to something you were looking for! These boys are stubborn, but I got them as close as I could. Thanks to the fest mods for being so patient and so accommodating. Many thanks to my betas for kicking me just the right amount. Also, for the purpose of this fic, Seamus and Dean have birthdays a week apart in October. Just because.
*
Dean had spent ten years living in the wizarding world. He had seen magic – he had performed magic. He had seen, up close and personal, the greatest threat to wizardkind defeated. With magic. And yet, he'd spent nearly ten years in the public school system, and he hadn't forgot those days, either.
Sometimes, they came back to him in the most peculiar ways.
Like this morning, for example. It was a morning like any other, just about. Dean was sitting at the chipped and dented kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the Daily Prophet. He was contemplating making toast, but also thinking seriously about just eating the left-over birthday cake that was in the fridge before Seamus woke up and found out.
Too late. Seamus walked in, heading for the fridge.
Looking for the cake, Dean thought sourly, then checked himself. It had been Seamus' birthday, after all. If he wanted to eat the leftovers for breakfast the next day, well, he was entitled, wasn't he?
And this is when Dean's public school past kicked in. Suddenly, blaring in his head was the voice of Miss Surrey, the Headmistress who used to do the morning announcements over the public address system:
Will Seamus Finnigan please put on some pants! I repeat, Missster Finnigan – pants. NOW!
It was true – Seamus had wandered in from his bedroom wearing only a threadbare pair of red polka-dotted boxer shorts.
Dean placed his head in his hands and sighed audibly. Seamus started, as if he was surprised to find Dean sitting where Dean always sat at quarter past ten on a Saturday morning.
'Dean! I didn't see you there.'
Seamus had the good sense to look embarrassed. Mildly embarrassed. Definitely not embarrassed enough to return to his bedroom for a dressing gown or a pair of pants or even his work robes. He turned back to the open fridge and fished out the left over chocolate cake. He grabbed a fork from the drawer and proceeded to eat the cake, quite ravenously. Right there, in front of the still-open fridge. Right there, still wearing those ridiculous boxers.
Dean forced himself to look down. Too much staring just might scare Seamus, though it seemed perfectly obvious that Seamus wasn't bothered. Wasn't bothered by the stare, and certainly didn't seem bothered by the possibility that, at any moment, any one of his bits might escape their minimum security prison.
Dean excused himself, heading for the shower.
*
Moving in with Seamus had seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do. They were both moving to London, they both needed a roommate, they'd lived together for six of the last seven years anyways. Easy, right?
Dean, however, had not considered the concept of proximity and how close he would be to Seamus all the fucking time. Three other blokes in a dormitory, not to mention a whole castle between them whenever they felt inclined? That was one thing. Living in an apartment so small that Dean could hear Seamus wank every morning through the thin wall that separated their bedrooms? That was quite another.
It's not that Seamus was terribly loud at it – Dean kind of marvelled at how quiet Seamus truly could be, if he wanted – it's just that Dean knew exactly what he was listening to. Quiet, half-breathed moans and nearly imperceptible hitches of breath could have been mistaken for the regular sounds of a bloke sleeping, and dreaming. If it weren't for the sound of a mattress squeaking and feet hitting the floor immediately after.
During this morning ritual, Dean had come up with one of his own: wake up before Seamus and hide in the kitchen until his roommate came out of his bedroom, smiling and clearly satisfied. Suddenly, the secret to Seamus' morning perkiness was explained.
When Dean was sure Seamus had satisfied himself, Dean headed straight for the shower, where he would desperately try to think of girls and not the way Seamus' pale hand would look wrapped around his own dark cock …
No, definitely not thinking about that.
One morning in particular, almost a week after the incident of the barely-there boxer shorts, it became very difficult.
Dean was leaning into the spray of the water, one hand bracing himself against the shower wall, the other stroking the underside of his balls. He had just gotten hard, had just taken himself fully in his hand when a loud, banging knock came at the door, followed by a sharp yell.
'Oi! Dean!''
Dean started, and his hand clenched in automatic response. Well, fuck, that felt good. Dean leaned his head around the shower curtain and yelled back.
'What?'
'Hurry up in there! It's been nearly fifteen minutes!'
Dean tried to ignore him.
Girls. Think of girls. Think of breasts. Remember that time with Ginny …
'Dean, I'm fucking serious!'
'In a second!' Dean called.
More banging at the door. 'For fuck's sake, it didn't even take this long for Harry to find the fucking Horcruxes, now get out of the fucking shower!'
Girls. Don't think about Seamus. Don't think about those boxers. Don't think about what's under those boxers –
'Oi, fucking today please!'
'Fine!' Dean shouted back, increasing the rhythm of his hand.
'Get out!'
Dean pulled frantically at himself.
'Now!'
And as if he had just been waiting for that order, Dean came.
Shoulders shaking, Dean managed to turn off the water and wrap a towel around himself. Composing his face – trying to look like he had just done anything other than orgasm on demand – he opened the door.
'Final-fucking-ly!' Seamus exclaimed, and Dean noticed he was wearing those same boxers again, but as he stood, absolutely staring, Seamus managed to brush by him, begin removing the boxers and close the door behind him, nearly all in the same movement.
Nearly.
The moment before the door closed, Dean caught a glimpse of Seamus' back and arse as he braced himself on the countertop to step out of his shorts. Then the door closed and Seamus was alone on one side, and Dean was alone on the other.
For a brief, fleeting second, Dean wondered what would happen if he barged in – Seamus hadn't locked the door, of course – pushed him up against the tiled shower wall and –
No, Dean thought. Absolutely not. Don't even think –
It was too late. He had thought it. And catching a glimpse of himself in the floor-length mirror in his bedroom, Dean saw that his cock had been paying quite a bit of attention.
Well, fuck.
*
It was hard, living with a roommate you alternately wanted to shag and punch. One minute, Seamus was laughing, and his dimple had appeared, and Dean just wanted to lick it, and the next, Seamus was drinking milk right out of the cartoon, in front of the refrigerator, little to no clothes on, and Dean just wanted to shake him.
Not that that was all bad, mind. Sometimes his shorts would slip – and Dean would peak – no! no peaking!
And those were the times when absolutely nothing sexual was happening. There were times, though, when that was not the case.
Out at the pub, a couple of pints, a couple of cute girls, Seamus flirting with both of them. Seamus, smiling and winking and whispering in their ears. That dimple again. Those lips, brushing their jaw lines, and Dean shivered, imagining those lips on his own jaw, whispering in his ear, pressing them to his.
No! No fantasies! Dean chastised himself.
Easier said than done. Easier fucking said than easier fucking done when Dean found him – found Seamus kissing some bloke.
It was Dean's birthday. He was turning twenty-two. He wanted to get fucking pissed. Forget about Seamus, forget about those freckles right above his arse, forget about those damn lips. Find a girl – you remember girls, don't you? – do something fun and stupid and expected. You're only twenty-two once.
It was hot, in the pub. Crowded and loud, and everybody was drunk as hell. Fuck, anything could happen under those conditions, couldn't it? Wasn't that the whole point of being twenty-two – to get drunk out of your head and feel up a couple of girls without worrying about the consequences?
And Dean even might have been able to do that, if not for Seamus.
Seamus.
Pressing this guy up against the countertop in the men's bathroom. One hand in his hair, the other on – thankfully not in – his pants. And the other guy, the one being pressed, the one being touched. Well, the other bloke moaned, right bloody loud, just as Dean stumbled in, drunkenly, his own hand already on his own pants; his third trip to the loo in the last hour.
He stopped in his tracks, and his fuzzy, drunk-off-his-arse inner monologue went something like this:
Wha- fuck! I need to piss!
Oh, that's a – and that's a – oh.
Shitfuck, Seamus!
But – fuck! – I need to fucking piss!
The cool October breeze woke Dean up slightly as he slouched into the back alley, just looking for a little privacy. Somewhere between leaning his head against the cold stone of the pub's back wall and zipping his pants back up, Dean managed to put one that's a – and that's a – and one shitfuck Seamus! together and his mind came up with shitfuck, Seamus is a bloke!
No, wait. Dean took a deep breath, and everything stopped spinning for a moment. Seamus was kissing a bloke.
Seamus was kissing a bloke.
Yes, that's more like it.
… Fuck.
And because he was drunk, and his inner monologue was just supremely hysterical now, in his semi-sober state, Dean laughed out loud. It was such a fucking Seamus thing to do, to hook up with some random stranger in some random bathroom, no less. An absolute fucking cliché, but isn't cliché what Seamus was all about?
Dean hadn't yet decided if it was ironically intentional on Seamus' part, or just innocently horny.
Seamus is what it was. Fucking hilarious is what it was, and it wasn't until the next morning – afternoon, what have you – that Dean even considered that Seamus had been kissing another man.
He lay there, in bed, his hands over his face trying to keep the early afternoon sun out of his eyes and trying to ignore that pounding headache.
And then he heard Seamus wake up. And it was too late, he was trapped. He couldn't move. And so, Dean lay there in his own bed, listening to his best friend wank in the next room. And for the first time, Dean wondered who Seamus was thinking of, and what sex they were.
A tiny moan floated through the wall, and Dean buried his head in his pillow. Ignoring Seamus but more importantly, trying to ignore his own reaction to it. And the voice of Miss Surrey did nothing to console him.
Mister Thomas, please tuck away that raging boner, this is a school, not a porno!
It didn't matter if Miss Surrey had never used the words boner or porno in her life; if Dean was being chastised, especially by himself, it was in her voice. Every. Time.
*
Seamus had the good decency to not remember the night before and Dean thought this would be the end of it. Except Seamus was convinced that he'd had a roaring good time, and wanted to hear the details he couldn't quite grasp.
Details? Dean thought. He wants fucking details!?
'Well,' he began delicately, seated across from Seamus at the kitchen table, two mugs of black coffee steaming between them, 'I'm pretty sure you had fun.'
Seamus groaned and held his head over his cup of coffee, as if trying to absorb it through his face.
'Fuck, this headache tells me I had fun last night. I mean specifically.'
Dean blushed and looked into his own coffee.
'That good, eh?' Seamus grinned.
'Well, if you can't remember, he can't have been that good,' Dean snapped before he could stop himself.
Seamus began to laugh, then froze. 'What, what did you say?'
Dean cleared his throat. 'I said, if you can't remember, maybe it's not worth remembering.'
Shaking his head, Seamus pursed his lips. 'No, not that bit. The bit about the – thehe bit – Did I – '
'Yeah,' Dean said reluctantly. 'I think you did.'
'You think I did or you know I did?'
Fuck. More details.
'Look, I'm not your mother, it's not my job to baby-sit you.'
Seamus raised his voice, seemingly forgetting about the hangover-induced headache he had. 'Dean! Fuck! Ugh.' He put both hands to his head and took a couple of deep breaths. 'Just – just tell me what you know, alright?'
Dean had pushed his chair away from the table, recoiling automatically, almost instinctively, away from Seamus' tone. He now braced himself on his knees, looking only at his hands and how they gripped the fabric of his jeans as he spoke. 'I – I walked into the bathroom, and you were there, with some bloke, I don't know who, so please – don't ask.'
Seamus didn't speak immediately, but Dean kept his eyes fixed firmly down. 'What were – was I – '
To spare his friend the humiliation of asking outright, Dean cut him off. 'You were kind of … groping him.'
Dean grimaced, hating that he was being forced to tell this story, that he was being forced to relive it. It was made all the more awkward when he pictured himself in the place of the random bloke – pushed up against the wall, Seamus' hands on his trousers, his lips on his neck …
'And then?'
'And then I left. You didn’t see me, he didn't see me. I took a piss out back, and when I came back in, you were dancing.'
'With the – '
'With Lavender.'
'Oh.'
A long silence fell between them, and the longer it stretched, the less inclined Dean was to break it. He couldn't even move, couldn't even reach for his coffee or the newspaper, or anything to distract himself with. The two of them currently existed in a tiny, quiet bubble, and Dean didn't know what would happen when it burst. The static energy of not moving seemed infinitely better than the unknown consequences of shifting even an inch in his seat.
With every passing beat, Dean knew that it was becoming more and more obvious how deeply the whole thing affected him, how much he cared. The idea terrified and excited him at once, the idea of Seamus' reaction should Dean confess the thoughts he'd been having lately.
Seamus, being not completely thick, could probably sense the conflict within Dean, but still being Seamus, he naturally misinterpreted it. It was he who eventually broke the silence.
'So, it bothered you?'
Dean sighed, glad he could breathe again, but nervous about his answer. Was there any point in denying it now?
'Yeah, I guess it did.'
'I thought it might. That's why I didn't want to tell you – '
Dean's head snapped up and he looked into Seamus' face for the first time in what seemed like a very long time. 'This isn't the first time?'
Seamus furrowed his brow. 'No. There have been – ' he saw the look on Dean's face – 'well, there have been a few.'
Head spinning, Dean tried to keep his voice calm. 'When did this start?'
Seamus stared at the kitchen table. A draft from the window sent a shiver down both their spines simultaneously; Dean saw Seamus shiver at the exactly same moment he did.
'Hogwarts,' he said quietly. 'Sixth year.'
Dean gulped. That long ago?
'Oh.'
Seamus managed a weak smile. 'Are you completely revolted by me now?'
'Revolted?' Dean asked, his eyebrows shooting up. 'Why would I be revolted?'
Seamus shrugged. 'It bothers you.'
'Bothers me?' What exactly was Seamus on about now?
'Before.' Seamus stressed his voice. 'I asked if it bothered you and you said yes.'
Oh. That.
'Seamus,' Dean began very carefully. 'Your kissing other blokes doesn't bother me.'
A bit of a lie, in all honesty. It was true that the blokes part didn't bother him. He was, however, a little bothered by the other part. The part that was Seamus kissing blokes that were not Dean.
Seamus leaned away from the table, and Dean stared into his eyes, partly wanting to emphasise his point, to communicate to Seamus, without words, what really bothered him. Partly, though, he wanted to watch that moment when Seamus would see exactly what bothered him.
'You were bothered by – ' Seamus laughed – ' my doing it in a bathroom?'
Dean grimaced again. Stupid, thick Seamus. 'I guess that's a part of it …' he conceded slowly.
'A part of it.' Seamus drew a hand across his eyes. 'Fuck, Dean, what the fuck are you talking about?'
Dean couldn't take this anymore; he absolutely needed to say this, to get it out. He exploded a little more loudly than he should have, but he couldn't help it.
'Me!' he shouted, then took a deep, shaky breath. 'It should have been me.'
And there it was, the moment he'd waited for, the moment of realisation.
'Oh,' said Seamus dumbly.
'Yeah,' Dean replied, standing up from the table, 'oh.'
He headed for the door, pulling his jacket off the coat rack. 'I'm going for a walk.'
He wanted nothing more than to stay. He wanted nothing more than for Seamus to grab him by the arm, to throw him against the wall or the table. He wanted nothing more than for Seamus to tell him that, yeah, it should have been him.
It didn't happen. Humiliated, Dean slammed the door behind him and hurried down the hall, eager to put as much time and distance between himself and his friend as he could.
Safely out of Seamus' earshot, Dean checked all around him, then Apparated away, headed anywhere.
*
Somewhere around one in the morning, Dean stumbled into the apartment, stone-drunk for the second night in a row. He knew there was a reason for it, knew there was a reason he spent nearly half his pay on shot after shot of Firewhiskey. He knew there was a reason that Madam Rosmerta kept serving him, almost right up until closing.
'Go home, darling,' she said sympathetically, patting him around the shoulders. 'There are taxis outside.' Nearly falling off his stool, Dean made his way out, struggling with his coat; he was trying to put it on backwards. Frustrated, he ripped it from his body and stood, arms crossed tightly against the wind, waiting for a taxi.
A distinct pop! came at his shoulder within the minute, and Dean found himself face to face with a short man around his own age, cheeks a ruddy red and a friendly smile on his face.
'Where to then?' he asked brightly.
Dean mumbled his address in London.
'Right then, that'll be two galleons, two sickles, up front if you don't – Thank you. Now, hold on tight. There you are. And one, two – three!'
*
Sunday morning, bright and early.
Too fucking early, Dean thought, and turned his head from the sun coming in through the window. Stupid fucking sun.
Dean couldn't quite remember why he was in such a bad mood, but he had definitely gone to bed angry. The sun had never managed to offend him so personally before; he had to be upset about something else.
Contrary to his usual habit, Dean decided to lie in bed for a few minutes before getting up. It was luxurious, and if he didn't move his head, the sun wouldn't bother him, just warm him up. He was on the verge of falling back to sleep – something he never did – when he heard it.
A very low, a very guttural moan. From the next room.
Dean froze, and the past week hit him all at once. Seamus' boxers. Seamus' naked arse; Dean's cock's reaction to it. Seamus' hand on someone else's cock … Dean fucking telling Seamus it should have been him.
Ah. That explained the bad mood.
But now he was trapped. Again. Seamus wanking on one side of the wall. Again. Dean's own cock aching to be touched on this side. Again. Dean bit his lip. Seamus wouldn't know, would he? If he just – just this one time. Would it be so terrible?
Too late; his hand was already in his pyjama pants. He gripped himself tightly and listened carefully. Seamus hadn't seemed to notice anything; why would he, after all?
Very carefully, Dean began to move his hand, up and down, up and down, finally finding a rhythm he liked, trying not to think about Seamus, only a few feet away. But he couldn't not think of Seamus, only a few feet away, with his own hand on his own cock and making those tiny, almost inaudible noises.
He could picture it, almost, Seamus licking his lips and breathing heavily. Almost more than he could hear it, Dean could just tell, and he picked up the pace when he felt Seamus do the same. He just felt completely in-tune with Seamus, as if he were wanking right next to him. He could hear him as clearly as though there was no wall at all …
Still stroking himself vigorously, Dean grit his teeth together, determined to not make a single noise more than he had to.
And then Seamus moaned. Loudly. Not trying to be secretive, not trying to be covert – but looking for attention. Wanting to be noticed.
Dean felt his cock twitch in response and his breath caught in his throat. He was listening. He was being listened to. And, as if Seamus had ordered him to, Dean came with an involuntary groan, just as he heard Seamus cry out himself. A muttered curse soon followed.
'Fuck.'
Dean looked at the mess he had on his own hand, and knew what Seamus was talking about. As he groped along the floor for a Kleenex or a sock, he tried to not think that Seamus was doing the exact same thing in his own bedroom.
Dean cleaned himself up. He took a deep breath and stood. He found he was completely capable of walking and opened his bedroom door. Seamus' door opened simultaneously.
Dean looked down at his feet, unable to meet his friend's eyes.
'Good morning, Dean,' Seamus said, taking a step towards him.
Those words had an immediate, relaxing effect on Dean and he smiled, looking up from the floor. Dean was smiling too, and he closed the gap between them by another step.
'Look – ' Dean began, 'about yesterday –'
'Don't,' Seamus interrupted quietly, and Dean felt his breath catch in his throat. He couldn't move, and didn't want to, and then Seamus was right there, inches from him, his face tilted up slightly. 'You were right. It should have been you.'
And Seamus kissed him, and Dean kissed him back and felt that he wouldn't need to worry about other blokes anymore.