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wook77Title: Memories as a Teacup: Chapter 1
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wook77
Pairing:: Dean/Seamus (other slash and het pairings contained within)
Rating: PG
100quills prompt: 003. Strangers
Warnings: Canon compliant through DH. Pre-Epilogue. I've included further warnings (including possible trigger issues) behind the first cut. These additional warnings are spoilers for the story.
Wordcount: Overall: ~70k This part: 4500
Summary: Four years ago, Dean Thomas died in the midst of a raid. Seamus saw it happen right in front of his eyes but seeing isn't believing and reality is in the eye of the beholder.
A/N: Here it is – the giant Deamus. Many many thanks tonefernat for stepping in and beta'ing this sucker. Also – way back when I started this, oconel and kaalee really helped me out with pointing me in a fantastic direction so they deserve kudos as well. All remaining mistakes are my own. This should be updated weekly. Wordcount for each chapter will vary.
Warnings: This story deals with PTSD and Survivor's Guilt. I've done my best to address both in as realistic a way as possible. However, that being said, I've never suffered from either and I can only go on what others have told me their own experiences have been. If I've strayed, please feel free to email me and let me know. I'd love to discuss it more.
I reference various aspects of Catholicism in this story, as well.
Their meetings were innocent for all their regularity. Every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday at seven o'clock sharp, they'd meet at the same pub and sit in the same booth. The routine of it comforted Seamus, gave him something to look forward to in the midst of the emptiness and loneliness in his life.
Seamus was always first, sliding into the booth and ordering the first round. By the time Dennis showed up, he'd be halfway through his first pint, though Dennis was always quick to catch up. The routine and predictability was an anchor in his life that he clung to more than was healthy.
If he could make it to the meetings, he wasn't completely round the twist. As time went past, the importance of this increased. With the things and people he'd been seeing for weeks, Seamus needed this reminder that he wasn't crazy.
Crazy people didn't meet with friends for drinks. Crazy people certainly didn't keep to a routine.
Crazy people saw Dean at the park at eight forty two every morning.
That was the problem Seamus had with the certainty of his sanity. Crazy people showed up at the park every morning to catch a glimpse of their friend who had been dead for four years. Crazy people were certain that it was Dean and Seamus refused to believe because seeing isn't believing, dammit.
Add to it that when he met with Dennis, they didn't converse. At all. For hours, they'd stare at the telly and watch footie or rugby or whatever shite the barkeep turned on. Sane people spoke to their friends, didn't they? They had actual conversations with actual meaning behind them. They didn't speak in gestures with their pints or with nods.
Seamus hadn't said more than four sentences to Dennis in the two years they'd been meeting. He'd learned, early on, that Dennis didn't need conversation. He needed companionship, predictability, shared grief and proof of sanity, just like Seamus did. In all those years, Seamus never asked what Dennis did on the days they didn't meet. He hadn't been brave enough.
The first time Dennis missed their meeting, Seamus sat in the corner booth and waited. When they'd closed the pub, he'd gone home and wondered if Dennis knew about his trips to the park. They were a sure sign of his instability and insanity, after all.
The second time Dennis missed their meeting, Seamus felt bereft. He'd waited all night again and, as the night wore on, he doubted his sanity more. Perhaps Dennis had found better company, someone who didn't know what they'd gone through in the war, hadn't lost as much as they both had.
The next morning, he'd tried not to visit the park. He wouldn't sit there and watch the front of the large glass building, he wouldn't count the window panes or people in navy-coloured suits while he waited for Dean to walk past. He wouldn't wonder if today would be the day that Dean smiled at him as he passed.
Except that he did. He sat there and watched Dean walk past and it was a good day because Dean smiled at him and he stared, following the path from park to office. The twinge in his chest was nothing in the face of the short grin and eye contact of the day. That night, he promised himself, he wouldn't go back again. This had to stop, Dean was dead, that wasn't him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
In the morning, he woke and, instead of going to the park to sit and watch for Dean, he went to Dennis's flat. He was breaking their routine but that didn't matter in the face of the collapse of his sanity. It took a few minutes but eventually Dennis opened the door and looked more worn than Seamus did.
Words wouldn't come as they stared at one another. Finally, Dennis stepped back and Seamus entered the flat. It was dismally bare, nothing on the walls and barely a sofa and chair in the main room. As Seamus made his way to the threadbare sofa, Dennis went to the kitchen and the sounds of rummaging emerged. He came into the room and sat on the floor. He sat two bottles of beer on the table before leaning his head back against the arm of the sofa. Seamus laid down, head near Dennis's, and slept.
When he woke, Dennis was staring at him. He could see the emotions flitting across that face – loss, need and grief – but he didn't know what to say or do. They'd been silent for years and he'd grown too used to it. Just as the silence had reached uncomfortable levels, a clock chimed four. Seamus wondered if he had enough time to make it to the park to watch Dean leave for the day.
He shook his head and tried to stick to his resolve. Instead of going, he sat up and Dennis slipped onto the sofa next to him. A rugby match came on and it distracted him for a few minutes at a time. Even more distracting was the way that Dennis's hand fidgeted, fingers curling and uncurling, between them. It only took another two times before Seamus reached out and placed his hand over those shifting fingers to try to stop the motion. Before he could react, their hands were entwined.
Seamus wanted to pull back, pull away from the physical contact, but it'd been years, four long lonely years, since anyone had touched him. Their palms fit together, Seamus's on top and Dennis's below, and it was comfortable if a bit odd. He'd expected longer, thinner fingers but Dennis's blunt hands were still enough if he didn't look down and wonder where the contrast of dark and light was.
They sat there, just like that, for hours while the telly changed shows but Seamus didn't see any of it. His mind was busy with the what-ifs and the what-might-have-beens. Temptation grew as he wondered what Dennis would do if he leaned in, just a bit, and rested his head on the waiting shoulder. Before the thought finished forming, his head was on Dennis's shoulder and the quickening breath was his only reaction.
The clock chimed eight and loss swept through Seamus. He'd done it. He'd successfully not gone to catch a glimpse of the bloke that looked like Dean. Somehow, that success didn't make him feel at all triumphant. He compulsively squeezed Dennis's hand, needing to anchor himself from begging for those hours back so that he could go to the park, sit on that bench and hope for a smile.
Dennis stood and tugged on his hand until he stood as well. Like a lost puppy, Seamus trailed along behind him as they walked to the back of the flat. A light touch to his face and then they were curled together, legs and arms entwined so that one couldn't tell at a glance who's was who's. Seamus concentrated on the weight of the arm around his waist and ignored the feeling of wrongness that toes were short instead of long and elegant. Breath evened out as he matched his to Dennis's and slept again.
His internal clock woke him up with plenty of time to shower and go to the park. It took him a long moment to realise where he was and even longer to realise who was behind him. He jumped out of bed and, panting, stared at the bed. His hands patted at his legs and his stomach and across his pants. They hadn't done anything and he hadn't betrayed Dean.
Grief was fucking with his mind and by the time he came back to himself, Dennis was staring at him. He burst out with, "Have to go," grabbed his clothing and ran from the flat. It wasn't until he reached the familiar park bench that he was able to calm. There wasn't anything to feel ashamed of but, when Dean came walking past, he couldn't look beyond the chocolate-coloured trousers. Once Dean had entered the building, Seamus stood and wandered to the church nearby.
Thumb pressed to forehead, heart and each breast as he muttered familiar words he'd ignored for years. Seamus just wanted his sanity back and the pain to end. He wanted to move on.
~~**~~
Seamus remembered the first time he saw the Dean look-alike a few weeks ago. He'd been so gobsmacked that he hadn't been able to do anything other than stare, rub his eyes and stare some more.
He'd paced outside that office building all day, spelling away his baser needs as he watched and waited. There was no appearance at lunch but his patience was rewarded at quitting time when Dean had walked past him once more.
Before he could demand an accounting – reach out and touch Dean for the first time in years – Dean had disappeared into the crowd. Seamus had collapsed onto a bench and stirred only when a bobby had stopped to inquire if he was all right.
"I see him every day," he hadn't meant to say it out loud and, especially, he hadn't meant to say it to Dennis. He'd meant to keep it private and hold it close to himself. How he'd landed back at Dennis's flat to watch Muggle shows once more, he wasn't sure. All he was sure about was that he needed the regularity of their meetings and if that meant here instead of the pub, then he'd take it.
They didn't talk about Before, before the losses and the death and the war. He braced himself for Dennis to evict him and he even stood, ready to leave. Dennis surprised him by touching his knee and whispering, "I still see him, too."
Seamus thought Dennis didn't understand that he'd meant literally but he wasn't going to confess right now. He had his sanity to protect.
"Why can't we move on?"
There wasn't an answer to that for either of them so Seamus just lay back down and curled around a worn pillow on that ratty sofa. Silence was easier than conversation. Conversation meant ripping plasters off of wounds, opening them up to the air and lancing the infection. No wonder they'd been silent for two years.
Seamus wasn't ready.
He knew that it couldn't be Dean. He'd seen Dean fall to the ground, had seen the unnatural angle of his head as he lay there and he'd even seen himself collapse beside Dean. All that didn't stop him from wishing it was him.
They stayed where they were for the rest of the night, the silence as much a companion as either person. In the morning, as they both stretched out the kinks and knots from a night spent on the floor or the sofa, the temptation grew to have Dennis come along to visit with Dean. But that would be advertising his insanity so he held his tongue as he left with a nod.
Besides, he decided as he walked towards his bench, today would be the day that he talked to Dean. Today, he'd prove to himself that he was hallucinating and he didn't want Dennis along for that. Eight forty-five came and went with no Dean appearing.
At nine, he stood and walked into the park. Cursing under his breath, he mentally railed that the one day he resolved to be brave like he'd been Before and Dean couldn't be pantsed to show up.
"Ungrateful sod," he muttered just before he collided with something. He fell to the ground and knocked his head. The person that he'd stumbled into continued walking and Seamus sat up and rubbed at his head.
"You all right?" A hand appeared in his vision as he shook his head to clear the pain.
"Yeah, am fine, wasn't watching where I was going and… Dean?" As he spoke, he reached out to take the hand and was helped to his feet only to see that familiar face in front of him. The grip of the hand was comfortably familiar and Seamus didn't want to let go.
"Do I know you?" Dean looked confused and then his face brightened. "You're the bloke from the bench, aren't you? From the past few weeks?"
"Stop playing, Dean," Seamus demanded as they stood there, uncomfortably close enough that he could smell the aftershave on Dean's skin.
"How do you know my name?" Dean took a step back and let go of Seamus's hand. Seamus, though, was too busy being pissed off and hurt to move.
"Not on, mate, four fucking years and you're going to play like this?" Seamus went to embrace Dean but he raised his hands as if to ward Seamus off while he took another step back.
"I don't know you and I'm not playing. I recommend that, whoever you are, you leave me alone." Dean turned on his heel and Seamus saw red.
"I fucking well do know you. You're Dean Xavier Thomas, you have two sisters, both younger than you, named Farrah and Kerry. You were born on May thirteenth and you snore worse than a longshoreman. You can draw like nobody else but you always downplayed it so we wouldn't think you a sissy. Know you better than myself, best fucking friends for almost ten fucking years but I've never known you to be cruel like this. Guess I never knew you at all, did I?" Dean froze in mid-step while Seamus yelled. "Mourned you for four fucking years and I can't believe I've wasted half me life on you."
Seamus tossed a rude gesture and then stalked off, back towards the street. His only thought was that he needed to get away from here. This wasn't at all what he'd wanted, not in the least. Hell, he hadn't even really believed it was Dean until the man had confirmed it. Rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, he tried to get himself under control.
"Wait!" Dean called out but Seamus continued walking. "How do you know all that?"
"Fuck. You." Seamus bit out, over enunciating each word. A hand on his shoulder stopped him though.
"Three and a half years ago, I was found walking in London with no memory of anything after my eleventh birthday. I don't remember." Seamus froze under the admission and the weight of the grip.
"Four years ago, we went on a mission. You didn't come back."
Seamus pushed Dean's hand off his shoulder and without another word, he Disapparated. Landing rough and banging himself against a wall, he steadied himself and was relieved that he hadn't Splinched himself. He didn't quite remember how he made it up the steps but once he reached the door of Dennis's flat, he banged on it. A few seconds later, he repeated the banging.
When that still went unanswered, he hit the door in a steady rhythm while he muttered, "Let me in, please let me in, C'mon Dennis, let me in, I need to be in and…"
The door came open and his raised hands cupped Dennis's cheeks before he shoved himself forward, lipping at Dennis's mouth. When that mouth opened – out of shock or need, it didn't matter – Seamus thrust his tongue in all while walking forward and forcing Dennis deeper into his own flat. Once he'd cleared the door, Seamus kicked the door shut before turning them around and pressing against the door. "Fucking kiss me back, goddamnit."
Dennis's hands lifted and mirrored Seamus's, the touch feeling odd after four years of nothing. He shuddered under the light grip and sucked in Dennis's lower lip before nipping against it. Then the kiss turned rougher, harder, all teeth and tongue and Seamus wanted it. He didn't want gentleness or happiness. He wanted proof that he was alive and that what he'd just seen didn't matter because he was with someone that understood and wouldn't think him insane for what had just happened.
The light touch drifted across his face and then Dennis's hands came to rest on his shoulders. The similarity to Dean's touch rocked him and he pulled back, gasping and not able to make eye contact.
"Don't touch me, don't fucking touch me!" Seamus reared back so quickly that he fell and crab-walked further from Dennis. "Can't do this, still can't fucking do this."
"Seamus?" Dennis didn't sound disgusted or pissed. Worse than either, he sounded compassionate. Seamus hit his shoulders on the table and curled into a ball, arms wrapped around knees as he rocked. "Can't do what?"
"He touched me, Dennis, touched me and I'm fucking barmy, tell me I am." He refused to look so he didn't see Dennis cross the room to sit next to him.
"Who touched you?" A light touch on his wrists sent Seamus's glance swinging wildly until he saw Dennis beside him.
"Dean." It was a whisper, curse and prayer in one word. Even if he wouldn't look at Dennis, he knew that Dennis was giving him a pitying stare and looking about the room, completely lost.
Hell, this little bit of conversation was the most they'd ever been able to have since Before. That Dean was one of the ones to have caused that closure – along with Colin – and now he was the one to open the floodgates was an irony that didn't escape Seamus.
"You're not any more barmy than the rest of us. We lost so much." There was a pause and then, Dennis whispered, so soft Seamus wasn't sure he was supposed to hear, "Sometimes, I think we lost ourselves, too."
"He's alive, alive and working in a fucking office and saying he doesn't know me. Fucking doesn't know his best fucking mate." Seamus curled back in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his face into the curve.
Dennis didn't answer but Seamus didn't really expect it. After all, proof of his insanity danced with the dust mites and cobwebs in the air. He'd violated their unspoken agreement about Before yet again.
"It's him, Dennis, it's him and he doesn't remember." There was still no response from Dennis and Seamus looked up and, before he could question himself, he rolled to his feet and grabbed Dennis. "I'll show you, come on."
Dennis shook his head but followed. It felt odd to sit on the bench with Dennis. He'd been here so many times by himself that now that he had someone else with him, Seamus vibrated with energy. He chanted under his breath, "ComeonDeancomeonDeancomeonDean".
But Dean didn't show though they stayed there through his normal time to walk through the park on his way home.
"It happened, here, right here," Seamus said as he led Dennis to the spot along the path, "He helped me off the ground and held my hand and…"
Dennis didn't believe him, that much was obvious from the shuttered look that cried out I pity you.
"It happened," He repeated as Dennis walked away. After he was out of sight, Seamus repeated it, "It happened."
~~**~~
Seamus hadn't been here since Before. He'd been quite content with not ever contemplating coming back. All that aside, not only was he here, he was alone.
It was a figment of his imagination but he could still see the depression in the grass where Dean had fallen. He collapsed onto his knees as he had that day. The pain hadn't weakened; he'd failed, allowed his partner, his best friend, his lover, to die.
He'd checked, dammit. Fingers pressed into Dean's wrist and then his neck and he couldn't find a pulse. It was when he dropped his head to Dean's chest, mourning and lost, that the second wave of attacks began.
Death Eaters swarmed and, before he could raise his head, he'd been stunned and left powerless to move but cognisant. Harry and the rest appeared and grabbed Seamus but they'd left Dean behind. He'd screamed through lips that wouldn't move but they'd left Dean behind all the same.
The rest of the team didn't think he was aware but he could play back the conversations they'd all had around him about Obliviating him, take away the memories of those last few moments and he'd fought even more voraciously at the threat. A week later, another disappearance and death had taken their focus from Seamus and put the case back into the forefront.
A year after they'd left Dean behind, Seamus came back to this spot to apologise. Ripped apart, he sobbed into the grass that he hadn't given up. He'd come to terms with the gut-wrenching guilt and grief. It was time to do something productive and that guilt and grief had let the trail grow cold long enough.
Two years after they'd left Dean behind, he came back to once more apologise for his failure. He'd tracked every Death Eater he could remember from that attack or those mentioned in conjunction with it and all he had to show for it was far too much experience with Apparating and using Portkeys. Dean was lost.
Seamus headed to a pub near his flat and ran into Dennis. They'd drowned their failures, guilt and grief in the bottom of a pint glass. Some nights it worked and he slept. Some nights it didn't and he trembled and bit at his fist to keep the nightmares at bay.
Slowly, he began to heal and that ate at him too. He was losing the image of Dean's face, could barely recall the way a smile split his face or the way he'd wink before doing something outrageous. The worst was when he'd been laying in bed and he couldn't remember the bemused expression Dean would wear as he traced Seamus's chest. His own fingers traced his chest as Seamus tried to remember and then curled around a pillow at the loss.
One thing he never forgot was the sound of Dean's voice. That low timbre, the indulgent tone when Seamus pushed him just a smidge past his comfort zone, the husky need-filled voice as Seamus teased and tormented, none of them left him alone in his dreams.
That's why he hadn't quite believed that that bloke was Dean until he'd spoken. His vision could've lied to him, people sometimes superficially resembled other people and imagination filled in the blanks after all, but no one in the world sounded like Dean. No one in the world had ever had the ability to make him shudder just by reciting the alphabet.
The memory of Dean chanting the alphabet – first in English, then in French, followed by Spanish and German – as he traced the letters onto Seamus's skin had him smiling as he laid back in the grass and stared at the sky. He'd been feeling sappy and, in a moment of weakness, he'd confessed the addiction to Dean's voice. That cheeky bugger had taken advantage of it to get his way whenever Seamus had attempted to refuse him something.
Even now, the memory had him wanting to give in to Dean, let it lie and forget that he'd spoken to Dean. Give him what he'd yelled and shouted and get on with his life, that's what would make Dean happiest. This time, however, he was going to hold firm and deny Dean. He hadn't forgiven himself for his failures before and there simply wasn't room for more guilt on top of the burden he already bore.
When he went home that night, he dug out the box of memories from the back of his closet where he'd hidden it two years ago. After staring at the lid, he went into the kitchen for an ale and then went back to his room where he paced back and forth around the box. Once the ale was done, he took it back to the kitchen, carefully set it in the rubbish bin and then, once more, went back to pace around the box on the floor. With a sigh, he dropped to the ground.
"Fucking hell," he muttered as he reached out to pull the lid off. His hand shook and he cursed again as he steadied himself.
The first photo on the top was one of the remaining members of Dumbledore's Army – Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Seamus and Dean were front and centre – and Seamus grinned as they waved to the camera. They looked exuberantly happy and, if memory served him, had been so happy that Voldemort was finished. High on victory, they'd assembled for a group photo and someone had taken it for them.
The next photo was one of Harry and Ron playing chess and Harry was losing badly. Then again, he always lost to Ron in some sort of embarrassing manner. No one could beat Ron at chess, not even Dean, though he was trying in the next photo.
The next one was a still photo, just Seamus rubbing sleep from his eyes and he traced across the thumb in the upper right hand corner where Dean had misjudged his hand placement. They'd laughed about it and Seamus had teased that Dean wouldn't be allowed to take photos anymore but he'd indulged Dean just the same.
Companionable arms slung around one another, this photo was from before Dean had kissed Seamus. There were sly glances and nervous touching with Dean ruffling Seamus's hair and Seamus gripping at Dean's waist. He set this photo to the side before delving back into the box.
He wasn't prepared for the next photo, had thought he'd thrown it out in a fit. A younger Seamus winked to the camera before laying an overly dramatic kiss onto Dean's lips. Dean only smiled indulgently before slinging an arm around Seamus's shoulders. The absolute happiness on their faces haunted him as he remembered the first time they'd been like that in front of their friends. He could still remember the feel of Dean's lips the first time he'd kissed Seamus – pressed up against a wall with too much adrenaline and nerves and not enough thought – and his right hand came up to press against his lips as he stared at the repeating image on the photograph.
The worship in his eyes brought the guilt boiling to the surface and he gave a watery laugh as the Seamus in the photo winked and kissed Dean once more. After carefully setting the photo down, Seamus curled into a ball there on the carpet of his bedroom. His hand reached out and fingers traced across Dean's face. Dean shook himself and then grabbed Seamus's hand and tugged him along until they were out of the photo.
"Come back," he whispered but they didn't listen to him. He fell asleep waiting.
Chapter 2.
As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.
Author:
wook77Pairing:: Dean/Seamus (other slash and het pairings contained within)
Rating: PG
100quills prompt: 003. Strangers
Warnings: Canon compliant through DH. Pre-Epilogue. I've included further warnings (including possible trigger issues) behind the first cut. These additional warnings are spoilers for the story.
Wordcount: Overall: ~70k This part: 4500
Summary: Four years ago, Dean Thomas died in the midst of a raid. Seamus saw it happen right in front of his eyes but seeing isn't believing and reality is in the eye of the beholder.
A/N: Here it is – the giant Deamus. Many many thanks to
nefernat for stepping in and beta'ing this sucker. Also – way back when I started this, oconel and kaalee really helped me out with pointing me in a fantastic direction so they deserve kudos as well. All remaining mistakes are my own. This should be updated weekly. Wordcount for each chapter will vary. Warnings: This story deals with PTSD and Survivor's Guilt. I've done my best to address both in as realistic a way as possible. However, that being said, I've never suffered from either and I can only go on what others have told me their own experiences have been. If I've strayed, please feel free to email me and let me know. I'd love to discuss it more.
I reference various aspects of Catholicism in this story, as well.
Their meetings were innocent for all their regularity. Every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday at seven o'clock sharp, they'd meet at the same pub and sit in the same booth. The routine of it comforted Seamus, gave him something to look forward to in the midst of the emptiness and loneliness in his life.
Seamus was always first, sliding into the booth and ordering the first round. By the time Dennis showed up, he'd be halfway through his first pint, though Dennis was always quick to catch up. The routine and predictability was an anchor in his life that he clung to more than was healthy.
If he could make it to the meetings, he wasn't completely round the twist. As time went past, the importance of this increased. With the things and people he'd been seeing for weeks, Seamus needed this reminder that he wasn't crazy.
Crazy people didn't meet with friends for drinks. Crazy people certainly didn't keep to a routine.
Crazy people saw Dean at the park at eight forty two every morning.
That was the problem Seamus had with the certainty of his sanity. Crazy people showed up at the park every morning to catch a glimpse of their friend who had been dead for four years. Crazy people were certain that it was Dean and Seamus refused to believe because seeing isn't believing, dammit.
Add to it that when he met with Dennis, they didn't converse. At all. For hours, they'd stare at the telly and watch footie or rugby or whatever shite the barkeep turned on. Sane people spoke to their friends, didn't they? They had actual conversations with actual meaning behind them. They didn't speak in gestures with their pints or with nods.
Seamus hadn't said more than four sentences to Dennis in the two years they'd been meeting. He'd learned, early on, that Dennis didn't need conversation. He needed companionship, predictability, shared grief and proof of sanity, just like Seamus did. In all those years, Seamus never asked what Dennis did on the days they didn't meet. He hadn't been brave enough.
The first time Dennis missed their meeting, Seamus sat in the corner booth and waited. When they'd closed the pub, he'd gone home and wondered if Dennis knew about his trips to the park. They were a sure sign of his instability and insanity, after all.
The second time Dennis missed their meeting, Seamus felt bereft. He'd waited all night again and, as the night wore on, he doubted his sanity more. Perhaps Dennis had found better company, someone who didn't know what they'd gone through in the war, hadn't lost as much as they both had.
The next morning, he'd tried not to visit the park. He wouldn't sit there and watch the front of the large glass building, he wouldn't count the window panes or people in navy-coloured suits while he waited for Dean to walk past. He wouldn't wonder if today would be the day that Dean smiled at him as he passed.
Except that he did. He sat there and watched Dean walk past and it was a good day because Dean smiled at him and he stared, following the path from park to office. The twinge in his chest was nothing in the face of the short grin and eye contact of the day. That night, he promised himself, he wouldn't go back again. This had to stop, Dean was dead, that wasn't him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
In the morning, he woke and, instead of going to the park to sit and watch for Dean, he went to Dennis's flat. He was breaking their routine but that didn't matter in the face of the collapse of his sanity. It took a few minutes but eventually Dennis opened the door and looked more worn than Seamus did.
Words wouldn't come as they stared at one another. Finally, Dennis stepped back and Seamus entered the flat. It was dismally bare, nothing on the walls and barely a sofa and chair in the main room. As Seamus made his way to the threadbare sofa, Dennis went to the kitchen and the sounds of rummaging emerged. He came into the room and sat on the floor. He sat two bottles of beer on the table before leaning his head back against the arm of the sofa. Seamus laid down, head near Dennis's, and slept.
When he woke, Dennis was staring at him. He could see the emotions flitting across that face – loss, need and grief – but he didn't know what to say or do. They'd been silent for years and he'd grown too used to it. Just as the silence had reached uncomfortable levels, a clock chimed four. Seamus wondered if he had enough time to make it to the park to watch Dean leave for the day.
He shook his head and tried to stick to his resolve. Instead of going, he sat up and Dennis slipped onto the sofa next to him. A rugby match came on and it distracted him for a few minutes at a time. Even more distracting was the way that Dennis's hand fidgeted, fingers curling and uncurling, between them. It only took another two times before Seamus reached out and placed his hand over those shifting fingers to try to stop the motion. Before he could react, their hands were entwined.
Seamus wanted to pull back, pull away from the physical contact, but it'd been years, four long lonely years, since anyone had touched him. Their palms fit together, Seamus's on top and Dennis's below, and it was comfortable if a bit odd. He'd expected longer, thinner fingers but Dennis's blunt hands were still enough if he didn't look down and wonder where the contrast of dark and light was.
They sat there, just like that, for hours while the telly changed shows but Seamus didn't see any of it. His mind was busy with the what-ifs and the what-might-have-beens. Temptation grew as he wondered what Dennis would do if he leaned in, just a bit, and rested his head on the waiting shoulder. Before the thought finished forming, his head was on Dennis's shoulder and the quickening breath was his only reaction.
The clock chimed eight and loss swept through Seamus. He'd done it. He'd successfully not gone to catch a glimpse of the bloke that looked like Dean. Somehow, that success didn't make him feel at all triumphant. He compulsively squeezed Dennis's hand, needing to anchor himself from begging for those hours back so that he could go to the park, sit on that bench and hope for a smile.
Dennis stood and tugged on his hand until he stood as well. Like a lost puppy, Seamus trailed along behind him as they walked to the back of the flat. A light touch to his face and then they were curled together, legs and arms entwined so that one couldn't tell at a glance who's was who's. Seamus concentrated on the weight of the arm around his waist and ignored the feeling of wrongness that toes were short instead of long and elegant. Breath evened out as he matched his to Dennis's and slept again.
His internal clock woke him up with plenty of time to shower and go to the park. It took him a long moment to realise where he was and even longer to realise who was behind him. He jumped out of bed and, panting, stared at the bed. His hands patted at his legs and his stomach and across his pants. They hadn't done anything and he hadn't betrayed Dean.
Grief was fucking with his mind and by the time he came back to himself, Dennis was staring at him. He burst out with, "Have to go," grabbed his clothing and ran from the flat. It wasn't until he reached the familiar park bench that he was able to calm. There wasn't anything to feel ashamed of but, when Dean came walking past, he couldn't look beyond the chocolate-coloured trousers. Once Dean had entered the building, Seamus stood and wandered to the church nearby.
Thumb pressed to forehead, heart and each breast as he muttered familiar words he'd ignored for years. Seamus just wanted his sanity back and the pain to end. He wanted to move on.
Seamus remembered the first time he saw the Dean look-alike a few weeks ago. He'd been so gobsmacked that he hadn't been able to do anything other than stare, rub his eyes and stare some more.
He'd paced outside that office building all day, spelling away his baser needs as he watched and waited. There was no appearance at lunch but his patience was rewarded at quitting time when Dean had walked past him once more.
Before he could demand an accounting – reach out and touch Dean for the first time in years – Dean had disappeared into the crowd. Seamus had collapsed onto a bench and stirred only when a bobby had stopped to inquire if he was all right.
"I see him every day," he hadn't meant to say it out loud and, especially, he hadn't meant to say it to Dennis. He'd meant to keep it private and hold it close to himself. How he'd landed back at Dennis's flat to watch Muggle shows once more, he wasn't sure. All he was sure about was that he needed the regularity of their meetings and if that meant here instead of the pub, then he'd take it.
They didn't talk about Before, before the losses and the death and the war. He braced himself for Dennis to evict him and he even stood, ready to leave. Dennis surprised him by touching his knee and whispering, "I still see him, too."
Seamus thought Dennis didn't understand that he'd meant literally but he wasn't going to confess right now. He had his sanity to protect.
"Why can't we move on?"
There wasn't an answer to that for either of them so Seamus just lay back down and curled around a worn pillow on that ratty sofa. Silence was easier than conversation. Conversation meant ripping plasters off of wounds, opening them up to the air and lancing the infection. No wonder they'd been silent for two years.
Seamus wasn't ready.
He knew that it couldn't be Dean. He'd seen Dean fall to the ground, had seen the unnatural angle of his head as he lay there and he'd even seen himself collapse beside Dean. All that didn't stop him from wishing it was him.
They stayed where they were for the rest of the night, the silence as much a companion as either person. In the morning, as they both stretched out the kinks and knots from a night spent on the floor or the sofa, the temptation grew to have Dennis come along to visit with Dean. But that would be advertising his insanity so he held his tongue as he left with a nod.
Besides, he decided as he walked towards his bench, today would be the day that he talked to Dean. Today, he'd prove to himself that he was hallucinating and he didn't want Dennis along for that. Eight forty-five came and went with no Dean appearing.
At nine, he stood and walked into the park. Cursing under his breath, he mentally railed that the one day he resolved to be brave like he'd been Before and Dean couldn't be pantsed to show up.
"Ungrateful sod," he muttered just before he collided with something. He fell to the ground and knocked his head. The person that he'd stumbled into continued walking and Seamus sat up and rubbed at his head.
"You all right?" A hand appeared in his vision as he shook his head to clear the pain.
"Yeah, am fine, wasn't watching where I was going and… Dean?" As he spoke, he reached out to take the hand and was helped to his feet only to see that familiar face in front of him. The grip of the hand was comfortably familiar and Seamus didn't want to let go.
"Do I know you?" Dean looked confused and then his face brightened. "You're the bloke from the bench, aren't you? From the past few weeks?"
"Stop playing, Dean," Seamus demanded as they stood there, uncomfortably close enough that he could smell the aftershave on Dean's skin.
"How do you know my name?" Dean took a step back and let go of Seamus's hand. Seamus, though, was too busy being pissed off and hurt to move.
"Not on, mate, four fucking years and you're going to play like this?" Seamus went to embrace Dean but he raised his hands as if to ward Seamus off while he took another step back.
"I don't know you and I'm not playing. I recommend that, whoever you are, you leave me alone." Dean turned on his heel and Seamus saw red.
"I fucking well do know you. You're Dean Xavier Thomas, you have two sisters, both younger than you, named Farrah and Kerry. You were born on May thirteenth and you snore worse than a longshoreman. You can draw like nobody else but you always downplayed it so we wouldn't think you a sissy. Know you better than myself, best fucking friends for almost ten fucking years but I've never known you to be cruel like this. Guess I never knew you at all, did I?" Dean froze in mid-step while Seamus yelled. "Mourned you for four fucking years and I can't believe I've wasted half me life on you."
Seamus tossed a rude gesture and then stalked off, back towards the street. His only thought was that he needed to get away from here. This wasn't at all what he'd wanted, not in the least. Hell, he hadn't even really believed it was Dean until the man had confirmed it. Rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, he tried to get himself under control.
"Wait!" Dean called out but Seamus continued walking. "How do you know all that?"
"Fuck. You." Seamus bit out, over enunciating each word. A hand on his shoulder stopped him though.
"Three and a half years ago, I was found walking in London with no memory of anything after my eleventh birthday. I don't remember." Seamus froze under the admission and the weight of the grip.
"Four years ago, we went on a mission. You didn't come back."
Seamus pushed Dean's hand off his shoulder and without another word, he Disapparated. Landing rough and banging himself against a wall, he steadied himself and was relieved that he hadn't Splinched himself. He didn't quite remember how he made it up the steps but once he reached the door of Dennis's flat, he banged on it. A few seconds later, he repeated the banging.
When that still went unanswered, he hit the door in a steady rhythm while he muttered, "Let me in, please let me in, C'mon Dennis, let me in, I need to be in and…"
The door came open and his raised hands cupped Dennis's cheeks before he shoved himself forward, lipping at Dennis's mouth. When that mouth opened – out of shock or need, it didn't matter – Seamus thrust his tongue in all while walking forward and forcing Dennis deeper into his own flat. Once he'd cleared the door, Seamus kicked the door shut before turning them around and pressing against the door. "Fucking kiss me back, goddamnit."
Dennis's hands lifted and mirrored Seamus's, the touch feeling odd after four years of nothing. He shuddered under the light grip and sucked in Dennis's lower lip before nipping against it. Then the kiss turned rougher, harder, all teeth and tongue and Seamus wanted it. He didn't want gentleness or happiness. He wanted proof that he was alive and that what he'd just seen didn't matter because he was with someone that understood and wouldn't think him insane for what had just happened.
The light touch drifted across his face and then Dennis's hands came to rest on his shoulders. The similarity to Dean's touch rocked him and he pulled back, gasping and not able to make eye contact.
"Don't touch me, don't fucking touch me!" Seamus reared back so quickly that he fell and crab-walked further from Dennis. "Can't do this, still can't fucking do this."
"Seamus?" Dennis didn't sound disgusted or pissed. Worse than either, he sounded compassionate. Seamus hit his shoulders on the table and curled into a ball, arms wrapped around knees as he rocked. "Can't do what?"
"He touched me, Dennis, touched me and I'm fucking barmy, tell me I am." He refused to look so he didn't see Dennis cross the room to sit next to him.
"Who touched you?" A light touch on his wrists sent Seamus's glance swinging wildly until he saw Dennis beside him.
"Dean." It was a whisper, curse and prayer in one word. Even if he wouldn't look at Dennis, he knew that Dennis was giving him a pitying stare and looking about the room, completely lost.
Hell, this little bit of conversation was the most they'd ever been able to have since Before. That Dean was one of the ones to have caused that closure – along with Colin – and now he was the one to open the floodgates was an irony that didn't escape Seamus.
"You're not any more barmy than the rest of us. We lost so much." There was a pause and then, Dennis whispered, so soft Seamus wasn't sure he was supposed to hear, "Sometimes, I think we lost ourselves, too."
"He's alive, alive and working in a fucking office and saying he doesn't know me. Fucking doesn't know his best fucking mate." Seamus curled back in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his face into the curve.
Dennis didn't answer but Seamus didn't really expect it. After all, proof of his insanity danced with the dust mites and cobwebs in the air. He'd violated their unspoken agreement about Before yet again.
"It's him, Dennis, it's him and he doesn't remember." There was still no response from Dennis and Seamus looked up and, before he could question himself, he rolled to his feet and grabbed Dennis. "I'll show you, come on."
Dennis shook his head but followed. It felt odd to sit on the bench with Dennis. He'd been here so many times by himself that now that he had someone else with him, Seamus vibrated with energy. He chanted under his breath, "ComeonDeancomeonDeancomeonDean".
But Dean didn't show though they stayed there through his normal time to walk through the park on his way home.
"It happened, here, right here," Seamus said as he led Dennis to the spot along the path, "He helped me off the ground and held my hand and…"
Dennis didn't believe him, that much was obvious from the shuttered look that cried out I pity you.
"It happened," He repeated as Dennis walked away. After he was out of sight, Seamus repeated it, "It happened."
Seamus hadn't been here since Before. He'd been quite content with not ever contemplating coming back. All that aside, not only was he here, he was alone.
It was a figment of his imagination but he could still see the depression in the grass where Dean had fallen. He collapsed onto his knees as he had that day. The pain hadn't weakened; he'd failed, allowed his partner, his best friend, his lover, to die.
He'd checked, dammit. Fingers pressed into Dean's wrist and then his neck and he couldn't find a pulse. It was when he dropped his head to Dean's chest, mourning and lost, that the second wave of attacks began.
Death Eaters swarmed and, before he could raise his head, he'd been stunned and left powerless to move but cognisant. Harry and the rest appeared and grabbed Seamus but they'd left Dean behind. He'd screamed through lips that wouldn't move but they'd left Dean behind all the same.
The rest of the team didn't think he was aware but he could play back the conversations they'd all had around him about Obliviating him, take away the memories of those last few moments and he'd fought even more voraciously at the threat. A week later, another disappearance and death had taken their focus from Seamus and put the case back into the forefront.
A year after they'd left Dean behind, Seamus came back to this spot to apologise. Ripped apart, he sobbed into the grass that he hadn't given up. He'd come to terms with the gut-wrenching guilt and grief. It was time to do something productive and that guilt and grief had let the trail grow cold long enough.
Two years after they'd left Dean behind, he came back to once more apologise for his failure. He'd tracked every Death Eater he could remember from that attack or those mentioned in conjunction with it and all he had to show for it was far too much experience with Apparating and using Portkeys. Dean was lost.
Seamus headed to a pub near his flat and ran into Dennis. They'd drowned their failures, guilt and grief in the bottom of a pint glass. Some nights it worked and he slept. Some nights it didn't and he trembled and bit at his fist to keep the nightmares at bay.
Slowly, he began to heal and that ate at him too. He was losing the image of Dean's face, could barely recall the way a smile split his face or the way he'd wink before doing something outrageous. The worst was when he'd been laying in bed and he couldn't remember the bemused expression Dean would wear as he traced Seamus's chest. His own fingers traced his chest as Seamus tried to remember and then curled around a pillow at the loss.
One thing he never forgot was the sound of Dean's voice. That low timbre, the indulgent tone when Seamus pushed him just a smidge past his comfort zone, the husky need-filled voice as Seamus teased and tormented, none of them left him alone in his dreams.
That's why he hadn't quite believed that that bloke was Dean until he'd spoken. His vision could've lied to him, people sometimes superficially resembled other people and imagination filled in the blanks after all, but no one in the world sounded like Dean. No one in the world had ever had the ability to make him shudder just by reciting the alphabet.
The memory of Dean chanting the alphabet – first in English, then in French, followed by Spanish and German – as he traced the letters onto Seamus's skin had him smiling as he laid back in the grass and stared at the sky. He'd been feeling sappy and, in a moment of weakness, he'd confessed the addiction to Dean's voice. That cheeky bugger had taken advantage of it to get his way whenever Seamus had attempted to refuse him something.
Even now, the memory had him wanting to give in to Dean, let it lie and forget that he'd spoken to Dean. Give him what he'd yelled and shouted and get on with his life, that's what would make Dean happiest. This time, however, he was going to hold firm and deny Dean. He hadn't forgiven himself for his failures before and there simply wasn't room for more guilt on top of the burden he already bore.
When he went home that night, he dug out the box of memories from the back of his closet where he'd hidden it two years ago. After staring at the lid, he went into the kitchen for an ale and then went back to his room where he paced back and forth around the box. Once the ale was done, he took it back to the kitchen, carefully set it in the rubbish bin and then, once more, went back to pace around the box on the floor. With a sigh, he dropped to the ground.
"Fucking hell," he muttered as he reached out to pull the lid off. His hand shook and he cursed again as he steadied himself.
The first photo on the top was one of the remaining members of Dumbledore's Army – Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Seamus and Dean were front and centre – and Seamus grinned as they waved to the camera. They looked exuberantly happy and, if memory served him, had been so happy that Voldemort was finished. High on victory, they'd assembled for a group photo and someone had taken it for them.
The next photo was one of Harry and Ron playing chess and Harry was losing badly. Then again, he always lost to Ron in some sort of embarrassing manner. No one could beat Ron at chess, not even Dean, though he was trying in the next photo.
The next one was a still photo, just Seamus rubbing sleep from his eyes and he traced across the thumb in the upper right hand corner where Dean had misjudged his hand placement. They'd laughed about it and Seamus had teased that Dean wouldn't be allowed to take photos anymore but he'd indulged Dean just the same.
Companionable arms slung around one another, this photo was from before Dean had kissed Seamus. There were sly glances and nervous touching with Dean ruffling Seamus's hair and Seamus gripping at Dean's waist. He set this photo to the side before delving back into the box.
He wasn't prepared for the next photo, had thought he'd thrown it out in a fit. A younger Seamus winked to the camera before laying an overly dramatic kiss onto Dean's lips. Dean only smiled indulgently before slinging an arm around Seamus's shoulders. The absolute happiness on their faces haunted him as he remembered the first time they'd been like that in front of their friends. He could still remember the feel of Dean's lips the first time he'd kissed Seamus – pressed up against a wall with too much adrenaline and nerves and not enough thought – and his right hand came up to press against his lips as he stared at the repeating image on the photograph.
The worship in his eyes brought the guilt boiling to the surface and he gave a watery laugh as the Seamus in the photo winked and kissed Dean once more. After carefully setting the photo down, Seamus curled into a ball there on the carpet of his bedroom. His hand reached out and fingers traced across Dean's face. Dean shook himself and then grabbed Seamus's hand and tugged him along until they were out of the photo.
"Come back," he whispered but they didn't listen to him. He fell asleep waiting.
Chapter 2.
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Date: 2008-04-13 05:24 am (UTC)