Surprisingly: A Dean/Seamus Fic

[katmarajade]

Title: Surprisingly
Author: katmarajade 
Rating: PG13 (for some language)
Wordcount:  about 1200
Pairing: Dean/Seamus
Disclaimer:  So not mine.  These are JKR's character.  I'm just playing.
This is my first Deamus fic.  It's rather short, unimpressive, unbeta-ed, but I still like it.  Beware-- slightly melodramatic Dean internal monologue and surprisingly terse Seamus.

 

Dean leans against the kitchen table, eyes wide with shock, horror creeping through his veins and chilling his blood.  He has just ruined the best relationship of his life.  Seamus has been his best friend for twelve years.  Other than that one horrible year on the run, they haven’t lived apart since before their voices changed.  And that friendship and closeness and perfection is the most important thing in Dean’s life.  It has been two years since Dean’s life altering epiphany that he is in love with his best mate.  His ridiculously short, dirty mouthed, Gaelic spewing, messy haired, utterly brilliant, and unquestionably straight best mate.  He has spent two years hiding his secret; now it’s out and the thought of the coming fall out makes Dean want to cry.  Dean doesn’t cry.  At all. 

“What the bleeding hell was that all about, mate?”  Seamus stares at him oddly, which is rather understandable as Dean has just grabbed him in the middle of breakfast and kissed him.  Dean thinks desperately that there was no way he could have stopped himself—something about the way Seamus licked the cream off the edge of his coffee cup broke something inside of Dean. The next thing he knew, he had Seamus’ rumpled and faded green tee shirt balled in his fist and his lips pressed urgently against Seamus’ still open mouth.  Dean is trying to come up with a super brilliant plan to play this off, possibly incorporating football into the excuse, because Seamus has always been baffled by the sport.  Curse his pathetic lack of self control and friendship destroying impulses! 

“I’m so sorry, mate.  Really.  Erm, I don’t even know what came over me—you were just there… and I was… and the cream on the coffee cup... Look, I know I’ve fucked this up good and proper, but in my defense I have been in love with you for over two years, so it is not like I up and went spontaneously mental on you.  Erm, on second thought that probably is not helping.  Oh, piss it—I am so sorry, Shay.  I promise it will not happen again.  Please can we stay mates and forget about this or… no, never mind.  Come on then, hit me, yell at me, you’ve got to give me something to work with here.”  Dean is well aware that he sounds like a total fool and that he has not stuttered out such a mutilated group of sentences since, well, pretty much ever.  His cheeks feel flushed, and he hopes Seamus won’t notice him blushing like an ickle firstie.   

Seamus says nothing, his eyes fixed on a point just past Dean’s right ear.  It looks like he is working sums in his head or perhaps a particularly difficult Runes translation. Dean squirms, his legs and arms feel heavy and cold and his ears feel unnaturally hot, his lungs seem not to be working properly, and he thinks he may be sick.  He briefly considers apparating away before Seamus can tell him just how badly he has bollixed this up, but he reckons he has spent a whole year of his life running away, and that is far more than any man ought. 

His mind is frantically debating between running and more begging for forgiveness when Seamus’ gaze suddenly focuses directly on him.  Seamus’ eyes are normally a fantastically complicated hazel, but right now they are greener than Dean has ever seen them and blazing into him so hard that Dean feels like he is being shoved backward and jerked forward all at the same time.  He opens his mouth to apologize again but cannot seem to form words.  

A smirk crosses Seamus’ face so quickly that Dean would have missed it had he not been staring directly at Seamus’ mouth.  Then it’s gone and Seamus shrugs lightly. 

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Thomas.”  He says and, for some reason, these words do not seem to make sense in Dean’s head.  They turn around over and over, and all Dean can do is stare at Seamus stupidly.  Suddenly Seamus is shoving Dean up against the wall and yanking on his collar, pulling him down to Seamus’ height.  Then Seamus is kissing him, and it is hard and the angle is funny and there is too much teeth and it is, without a doubt, the absolute most amazing kiss of Dean’s life. 

Dean slouches down a bit, and one hand grabs Seamus’ hip and tugs him forward, pressing them together just so.  His other hand is already weaving into Seamus’ messy hair and adjusting the angle slightly, and it is better than anything Dean ever imagined in even his most fantastic of fantasies.  Seamus’ lips are full and slightly chapped and the way they slide across Dean’s is perfection.  Seamus kisses just like he talks—fast and cheeky, pushy and full of passion.

Seamus’ hands trail down Dean’s arms, ghosting lightly over the sleeves of his shirt then traveling back up underneath the cotton.  The softly stroking fingers are setting Dean’s biceps on fire, and the combination of the gentle touches and aggressive kisses makes him dizzy.  Dean loses himself all over in the feel of Seamus’ tongue sliding across his teeth and teasing his tongue and intoxicating him with the taste of Seamus, of clean and dirty, of bitter coffee and slightly sweet cream.

Seamus finally pulls back, eyes still closed and breathing heavily.  Dean can feel Seamus’ pulse hammering through the fingertips still tightly clutching his upper arms.  Still unsure of what exactly just happened here, Dean tries desperately to control his breathing and refrain from full on panic.  He stares down at Seamus in equal parts awe and horror.  Kissing Seamus is better than he ever thought it could be, and Dean had thought on it quite a lot.  Too good to be true, as his mum always said.  His attempts at regulated breathing are failing, and Dean finds himself unable to suck in enough oxygen.  He is gasping and tears are pricking at his eyes, and he is fucking furious at his lack of control and at his sodding tear ducts for betraying him like this.  He is Dean Thomas—he has bunked with goblins, lived off next to nothing, and damn near killed a death eater with his bare hands (before stealing the evil bastard’s wand and finishing the deed with a spot of magic.)  He did not cry then and he certainly is not going to now. 

By the time Dean strong arms himself into breathing properly and wills his eyes into non-watery submission, Seamus opens his eyes.  Looking up at Dean with the most brilliant expression on his face, Seamus quirks one eyebrow. 

“I’m surprisingly comfortable with it.”   Seamus smiles up at him and Dean’s heart stops.  He finds himself unable to breathe for the second time in as many minutes, but this time he’s all together all right with it.