Rating/warning(s): NC-17; angst, implied drug use + addiction, explicit M/M sex, brief implications of a kind of dirty talk.
Disclaimer: All characters, etc. belong to J.K. Rowling.
Summary: Dean watches Seamus' long, slender fingers manoeuvre; gracing the fret board with his steady touch, the strings bending to his will. Succumbing.
Author's Note: The title is taken from the Elliott Smith song of the same name. Big, heaping thanks to the Mods for their patience with this submission, and to C for looking this
over. gala_apples, I enjoyed writing for you, and I hope you like the fic.
Amid the haze of another morning after (or is it afternoon?) Dean wakes; he wakes to the gentle strum of guitar chords, of skin sliding over steel strings.
He yawns; he runs a hand over his hair and, through half-closed eyes, he sees Seamus. He sits bare-chested at the end of the bed, one leg crossed over the other; cradling his guitar – his father's guitar – in his arms.
Dean peels back the twisted, sweat-stained bed sheets and crawls to him on all-fours; he slinks, shoulders shifting and back arched; concave, until he is behind Seamus. He eases back on his haunches and, as Seamus strums, Dean rests his chin in the hollow of Seamus' collarbone; and he watches.
He watches Seamus' long, slender fingers manoeuvre; gracing the fret board with his steady touch, the strings bending to his will.
Seamus strums a final chord and pauses. He exhales deeply, and Dean can feel him soften against him; into him. With a muted groan, Dean brushes his lips against Seamus' cheek; reaching around him, he takes the guitar from Seamus and sets it down before pulling Seamus close.
Now, it is Seamus' turn to succumb: he leans into Dean and they tumble back to the bed. Dean lays soft, open-mouthed kisses along Seamus' jaw and neck. Seamus shifts, and turns so that Dean is holding him in his arms and they are facing one another. Dean lifts his hands to the back of Seamus' neck and, clasping them over the base of his skull, he brings Seamus' mouth to his. Their lips meet, gentle and exploratory to start but, soon, insistent tongues are searching out the hidden places of each other's mouths with an intensity correlative to the undulation of their slow, rutting movements.
They grind against each other; hands skim over shoulders and arms; stomachs and thighs. Dean breathes sharply, hissing into Seamus' mouth, as Seamus' stiffening cock presses against his own; hindered by the constraint of Seamus' briefs, but unmistakable nonetheless.
Dean allows his legs to fall open and Seamus, apprehending his partner's inclination, eases against Dean's bare, muscular thighs. Seamus allows a hand to wander, briefly, over Dean's abdomen; the coarse, black hairs marking out a patchy trail on his belly tickle Seamus' palm before Seamus begins to stroke Dean.
As Seamus teases Dean, Dean runs his hands over the small of Seamus' back. He tugs Seamus' briefs down over round, firm buttocks; Seamus assists by wriggling out of his pants as best he can while the two are entangled.
Nearly-naked and wholly hard, both Seamus positions himself so that he is straddling Dean's thigh. He aligns his cock to Dean's as well as he can. He spits into the palm of his hand; bringing Dean's cock to his he wraps his fingers around both and runs the palm of his hand firmly over their shafts.
Beneath him, Dean writhes; the movement increases the friction and Dean moans beatifically.
“Shay,” he grunts, as Seamus loops his fingers, slick with sweat, over the straining head of Dean's, and then his own, cock.
Seamus does not reply; at least, not verbally. He nods; sweat runs over the bridge of his nose and falls, lost in the forest of pubic hair as he leans over Dean. Seamus, still silent, releases his grip now and shifts so that he is crouching above Dean; Dean holds his cock firmly at the base as Seamus lowers himself onto it; he whimpers as the engorged head of Dean's cock presses into him, stretching him.
Slowly, slowly, Dean thrusts into Seamus. “Fuck, Shay,” he pants, “So good; so – fucking – good.”
Seamus nods again, more enthusiastic than before; with each slow, excruciating (or is it exquisite?) thrust, small sounds escape his lips. They will be, Dean knows, the only thing that Seamus says - he is always quiet during sex, always so quiet. Where Dean is breathless exclamations of ecstasy and a plethora of words like cock, and hard, and tight, and fuck me, Shay; fuck me, Seamus is silent, save for his stilted breaths, and the occasional moan that sounds, Dean sometimes thinks, forced; as though he has tried to deny its imminent expulsion from his lips and reluctantly conceded defeat, releasing the testimony of Seamus' desire into actuality; existence.
In the days and months following the war, things had been hard. Even the easiest things, the basics of everyday, seemed enormous; tantamount to a series of Herculean trials. In time, people had begun to rebuild; to cope, as though coping was something they should be expected to do in the face of recent events.
As though the horrors of war were not so horrible after all; reduced to some niggling unpleasantness; a bad dream, or a persistent cold.
Where others had started to “cope” however, Seamus – well, Seamus had not. As others commenced the clean-up, collecting the still-warm bodies of friends and relatives; as they begun the process of grieving, Seamus had not been easy to find. In fact, Dean had not been able to find him at all, and it was not until a month after Voldemort's defeat that he and Seamus had reunited.
Seamus: pounding hard on Dean's front door, tears streaming down his face and his fingers trembling even as he wrapped them around his arms; clutching at himself.
Dean: opening the door to this sight and standing, in open-mouthed shock and stammered urgings that Seamus should come inside.
Seamus collapsing against Dean, the pieces of him shattering and dispersing even as Dean tried desperately to pick them up, to hold Seamus together; to hold what was left of them together.
That night, Dean and Seamus drank and smoked and held each other and said nothing at all and everything at once and they started to find their way back to the place where they once were. Where they were Seamus and Dean; where each was everything to the other.
Dean awoke the next morning to an empty bed. Scrambling to his feet, he searched the house for Seamus, but it was not until he ventured outside that he found him: sitting on the roof, knees held tightly to his chest, and a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. Dressed only in his briefs, Dean hoisted himself up by the architrave and sat beside Seamus. As the two young men sat looking out over the Thomas' front garden it was, to Dean's surprise, Seamus who spoke first.
“I can't do it, Dean,” he said. His voice was quiet; fragile. Little more than the whispers of smoke that passed over his lips and tongue into the air as he exhaled.
“Can't do what, mate?”
“This.” Seamus sucked on the filtered end of his cigarette; the tip glowed orange and, for a moment, Dean thought he might have been intending to swallow it whole.
“Magic,” Seamus added.
“Seamus, I'm not sure I -”
Seamus looked at Dean, for the first time since he had joined him on the roof. “Magic. I can't do it anymore.”
Dean furrowed his brow in confusion. “What do you – you mean you can't - ?”
Seamus shook his head. “No. I can still do magic but …”
He trailed off; turned his gaze away from Dean. Taking a final drag on his cigarette, Seamus butted it out on the roof. Reaching back over his head, Seamus began pulling up the back of his tee shirt. The cool dawn air whipped across Seamus' exposed back; he shivered, and twisted to better show Dean what it was that he had meant.
As Dean's eyes fell on Seamus' back, he gasped: his skin, pale and lightly freckled, was strewn with scars; some small, mere flecks; while others were etched deep into his flesh, like some sort of gruesome relief map of pain.
“Jesus, Shay,” Dean whispered. “I -”
He couldn't finish; he didn't know how.
Seamus allowed his shirt to fall; he cleared his throat. “If this is magic, Dean,” he began, “I don't want to be a part of it. Not anymore.”
“Seamus, you can't just – I mean, it's who you are.”
Seamus shook his head. “No,” he said. “It might've been a part of who I used to be. But now -”
He never finished what it was that he was now. Maybe he just didn't know. Instead, he made Dean an offer: “Come with me,” he said.
“Come with you?”
Seamus nodded. “Yeah. I'm done with this. Magic. I'm thinking … maybe there's something to this Muggle business.”
“You want to live as a Muggle?”
“I can't be part of this world anymore.” Seamus reached into his pocket for another cigarette. He lit it before speaking again.
“I need to get away from here, Dean. And I want you to come with me. I need you to.”
Dean was stunned. He didn't know what he should say, or if he should say anything at all.
And so he didn't.
Instead, he reached out to Seamus and, draping an arm across broad, pronounced shoulders, he pulled him close.
Over the course of the following week, Dean and Seamus made the necessary preparations for entry into the Muggle world. Dean didn't know if it would work out, but when he looked at Seamus he knew – he knew – that he had to try.
And when they moved into their cramped flat, and Seamus found a job tending bar at the pub around the corner, Dean thought that it just might.
It just might.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean hisses as he thrusts hard up and into Seamus. Quivering, he comes, and Seamus shudders, his muscles squeezing Dean's cock, semen spilling, fluid and warm, inside of him.
Panting, Dean relinquishes his grip on Seamus' hips and fumbles for his best friend's cock: a handful of quick strokes later and he can feel Seamus stiffen around him as he climaxes. He wrings Seamus' cock of come and, as Seamus collapses back against him, Dean brings sticky fingers to his mouth, licking them clean.
“Shay,” he breathes against the hollow of Seamus' neck; he trails saliva and semen-coated fingers over the inside of Seamus' thigh and, reaching between Seamus' legs, Dean collects the remnants of his own come on his fingers and lifts them to Seamus' dry, cracked lips, as he has so many times before but this time – this time, Seamus does not allow his lips to be parted. Instead, he bats Dean's hand away and rolls off of him, and off of the bed.
Hurt, Dean sinks back against the pillows. He watches Seamus step into his pants and leave the bedroom. He blinks back the tears. He sighs, a humiliated shudder running through him, tearing him apart.
Seamus' footsteps fade and Dean, hearing the click of the front door as Seamus disappears beyond his reach once more, remembers that it wasn't always like this: him reaching out to Seamus, and Seamus turning him away.
That it used to be alright.
That they used to be alright.
It was a night like any other old night that it started.
Or that it started to end.
Dean sat, waiting for Seamus to finish his shift at the pub. He watched as Seamus moved around the room: the way he leaned in close to take patrons' orders, the way his muscles moved when he pulled the tap and poured each pint, the way he ran his hands through his hair, and brushed it from his eyes. He watched as Seamus stood, huddled in a dark corner with a stranger, the words of their exchange lost in the heady rhythm of the thrumming rock music that filled the room, alongside cigarette smoke and failed pick-up lines.
As closing time approached, the crowd started to thin out. Seamus' shift ended and, excited in a way that Dean hadn't seen in longer than he cared to remember, he said his goodbyes and tugged Dean out the back of the building.
Standing, cold and shivering, in the alley, Seamus thrust Dean roughly up against the weathered brick wall and kissed him. He pressed a hand between Dean's thighs and palmed him through his jeans.
“Jesus, Seamus,” Dean hissed through chattering teeth. “What's gotten into you?”
“What?” Seamus asked, flashing Dean a brilliant smile in the dark, “Do I need a reason to want to fuck you up against a wall?”
“No,” Dean said, blushing, “I suppose not.”
Seamus groaned and as his hands resumed their work between Dean's legs, he fished for something in his jacket pocket. Withdrawing his hand, he pulled away from Dean and opened his palm, presenting Dean with a small, plastic bag filled with a white, powdery substance.
“What's that?” Dean asked breathlessly, though he had his suspicions.
“What's it look like?”
What's it look like?
Seamus' rhetoric echoes in Dean's mind; it surrounds him, like the voluminous reverberations of a doom-saying bell.
They have lost so much of themselves in the few months since that night. Anything, and everything that he and Seamus were has been lost in a haze of booze and coke and fighting and fucking and Dean trying trying trying to pull Seamus back; his fingers outstretched and Seamus always always always just out of his reach.
Dean rolls onto his side. He clutches the pillow with one hand, and pulls the crumpled, filthy bed sheets to his chin with the other. He can stifle his tears no longer. They fall, hot and wet over his cheeks and leave his pillow damp and cool against his face.
“What's it look like?” Dean mutters to himself.
The words are bitter, hateful on his tongue: they sear his insides; carving into the parts of himself that he can never quite name.
Flesh succumbing to pain; Seamus succumbing to the wounds of war and ecstasy of escape and Dean – Dean succumbing to the pursuit of the past.
Of things they once were, and can never be again.