|
By Drew Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road Neville noticed it first, which was odd, since Neville mostly had his head in the clouds or the greenhouse. "You're not... checking me out, are you?" Seamus's head whipped around. "Who's checking who out?" he asked, a bit too loud. Dean, sitting on the other side of Neville, sniggered. "Neville, just because I like boys doesn't mean I want to shag every one I know. It's the same way with girls. You wouldn't try to make it with Lavender, would you?" Neville's eyes opened wide. "Lavender? Hell no!" He laughed. His rather round face retained its joviality, but was a bit less on the pudgy side; everyone agreed that puberty had been kind to Neville. He wasn't a looker, but he'd had a few girls in the past couple of years, and was no longer a stranger to social interaction. "She's nice and all, but just... not my type." "Well then. The same goes for me and you." Neville raised his eyebrow. Dean let out an exasperated sigh. "I mean you're not my type, stupid!" He could practically see the lightbulb turn on over Neville's head. "So who is your type, Dean?" Dean groaned. "Does everybody have to be boy-shopping for me?" He stood up, letting his robes fall off his lap. He was wearing a pair of jeans that fit him rather well, and Seamus' eyes stuck for just a second longer than usual. Dean continued, "I'm just glad you're okay with this. I mean, it must have been a hard mental adjustment to have one gay roommate, but to have two?" "What, like the quantity matters? Besides, you're still Dean. Well, not the chasing women part. But the rest of you, still. You still draw like nobody's business -- I'm amazed you just don't have the charcoal spelled against rubbing and sell your stuff to some gallery somewhere." Neville looked up at the wall, where a life-size pen-and-ink drawing of the four non-Dean roommates hung. Dean had sketched them during a snowbound afternoon last December, and inked the sketch over the Christmas holiday. He'd insisted on not having the figures move, much to Ron's annoyance. Dean just thought it was too eerie to have eight roommates instead of four. Dean bent over to rummage through his chest of drawers for a shirt. He'd taken to walking around shirtless recently, and Seamus had no idea why. He did know that Dean looked extremely nice in tight jeans, bending over his dresser. And while Seamus was sad to lose the view when he stood up, the shirt Dean had picked more than made up for it. It was a small, faded old t-shirt from the summer after third year, and while Dean had filled out a bit, the shirt still had some give left in it -- it slid over Dean's head and shoulders and down onto his torso, stretching ever so slightly. What Dean's shirt didn't do was meet up with his pants. Or, apparently, do anything to quash Seamus' thoughts of Dean in compromising positions. Seamus blinked a couple of times, got up, grabbed his books, and made for the door. "Going somewhere?" came from behind him. "Yeah, Neville. I've got to play catch-up in about fifteen subjects after being sick last week. Plus, I thought I'd let my esteemed colleague Mr. Thomas revel in his new status as the most recently outed roommate for a while. Until Mr. Potter wakes up and smells the gay, that is." He turned the doorknob and pulled the door toward himself. "See you at dinner." Dean and Neville exchanged a glance. "Wakes up and smells the gay?" they said together, after a moment. Then they burst out laughing. * * * Seamus ran his fingers through his light brown hair. He'd let it grow a bit longer than he'd worn it in the past, and he liked having it its current length -- short enough to be not much of a hassle, yet long enough to run his hand through when he was nervous. So he potentially had this thing for Dean. No, strike that. He definitely had this thing for Dean. When the t-shirt had left a quarter-inch strip of brown skin between the dark denim and the light cotton, Seamus had felt his brain functions sieze up. He'd had to leave from sheer mental overload. Dean was hot. How had this escaped him for the past five years? He turned the corner into the library and sat down with his parchment, quill, ink, and texts. He was zoning out when Hermione came up to him. "Seamus?" She got closer. "Seamus?" "What? Huh? Oh, sorry Hermione. Just catching up. Care to give me a hand?" He grinned at her, and she melted. "Well, I'd originally come over here to borrow your green ink, as mine's just run dry, but I suppose I can give you a hand for a little bit. What is it you're working on?" "History of Magic essay. Binns is the most boring teacher on the planet; I'm sure of it." "Well why don't you read me what you have, and we'll go from there?" A few minutes passed as Seamus read Hermione his first three-quarters of a roll of parchment. "...destitute kingdom. The royal family was also declining: in defiance of her familial mandate to marry, Lady Cauchmont vowed to remain ever inviolate, confounding her father whose wish for a Dean's ass is really hot in the jeans he was... Um. Whoops." Seamus blushed. "I didn't mean to read that out loud." He was rounding the corner at rose and headed for crimson. Hermione smiled and nodded. "I bet you don't want Binns reading that, either," she said. "Might want to blot it out, at least. But it is cute." "What is?" "You and Dean. You're a cute couple." "What do you mean? We're not a couple. At least, not that I'm aware of. Not that I'd complain. But does he know about this?" "Oh! I'm sorry. I thought. Nevermind. Anyway, the essay." She cleared her throat and was back to business. It was hard to faze Hermione when she was thinking academically. "I think you need to focus more on the active parts of the history. You've got a great ear for the active voice, but when you lapse into passive the writing gets sloppy. Here are some things we can do..." * * * A dazed Seamus wandered into the Great Hall in the middle of dinner. Dean and Neville waved him over. Harry and Ron were sitting with them, enjoying dinnertime conversation for the first time in weeks -- Dean was finally out and all the clever verbal dancing that had been going on had stopped. As Seamus sank down into his seat, Dean looked at him skeptically. "What kept you? And why do you look like hell?" "Thanks. So kind of you to ask that way, Dean," Seamus snapped. Dean recoiled. "Sorry, Dean. I'm just a bit uptight right now. Try spending two hours with Hermione revising your History of Magic essay." All the boys but Ron winced. Ron looked up from his plate where he was cleaning up the last remains of a spotted dick pudding. "Look, don't go insulting my girlfriend. Just because she really cares about her studies..." "Ron, come off it. We know she's trying to help. She's just really... intense, that's all," Neville said. Seamus picked at his food. What Hermione had said really got to him. He was attracted to Dean, that much was clear. But was Dean attracted to him? Yesterday Seamus would have said "no". But today? Dean came out. Which was a big deal in and of itself. But it's usually triggered by something. And what was with Dean teasing him by dressing so well? Not that Dean dressed poorly, but the whole thing with bending over the dresser was a bit excessive. Unless... Unless Dean was interested and sending signals. Seamus knew Dean was available, but discovering the interest level could be difficult. Still, there's only really one way to know for sure. * * * "Dean, can we talk?" "Sure, Seamus, what's up? You look awfully fidgety today, even for you." Dean smiled. Seamus lost five percent of his active vocabulary. "I need to ask you, before I go insane. It's been driving me crazy since this morning and I can't figure it out and I just have to know because I really think it would be okay and," Seamus paused for breath. "Seamus. Spit it out." "I just. Do you. Um." Seamus tried to look at anything but Dean's eyes. The floor, Dean's jeans, Dean's shirt, that thin strip of skin above the waistband... This might be harder than he thought. "Can't you just ask me?" Dean was perplexed, and even looked a bit hurt. "I don't know how to..." There was a pause. Seamus sighed. "It's now or never," he told himself. "Kiss me." "What?" Dean looked a bit surprised. More than a bit, actually. "I said kiss me, you big lug." There was affection in Seamus's voice. Dean leaned forward and met Seamus halfway. It would be nice to report that there were sparks. There weren't. It was just a kiss. A nice kiss, but also a juvenile kiss of discovery. It was awkward and they bumped noses. But somewhere, maybe under the tongue, Seamus could taste the sweetness that was Dean. And he knew that this was no mistake. "Mmmm," Dean hummed. "I don't think I. Yeah, that was good. Very good. That was exactly what I needed. You know, Seamus Finnegan, it took you bloody long enough to ask." When Seamus started sputtering about it only having been one day, Dean continued. "One day out. Four years in. The closet isn't a happy place to be, Seamus. You know that as much as I do. But while you're in the closet, you wait for someone to come and take you away, who cares deeply about you because you're you, not because you've got a nine-inch prick and a package of condoms." Seamus looked down and saw the outline of Dean's dick against his jeans. It was pretty darn big, Seamus decided. Maybe nine inches. Dean kept talking, but Seamus was looking at him with unfocused eyes. When Dean had finished, he looked at Seamus and said "what are you thinking about?" "I'm thinking you would like to thank the Academy. But right now I think we should settle for a little making out. We have four years to catch up on, right?"
|
