Journal Entry/Narrative
Seamus wasn't exactly sure what had possessed him to bring Terry Boot back to his flat. He didn't remember much about the man from Hogwarts years. Hell, he still didn't know much about him other than he was adventurous and flexible and, really, that's all he needed to know by the end of the evening.
He'd had too much to drink, Seamus realised that. He spent half his time pissing and moaning about how the Irish were stereotyped as drinkers and overly emotional sots and here he was, stereotypically drinking his way through the evening to hide his emotions.
After that rough dinner with Harry sending, by turns, hurt looks or glares towards him, Seamus hadn't been able to take much more of his friends. In point of fact, he'd made his excuses, headed to the loo and ran a damp towel from the dispenser over his face. Hands braced on the sink, Seamus leaned over it and took a deep breath. Christ, he was fucked in the head.
What had possessed him to ask about Zabini's pants? What had possessed him to lie to Harry about his boss? Fuck him but what had possessed him to ever come back here? He hadn't been ready, still wasn't, truth be told.
He loved his friends, he really did. He leaned on them more than he ever did his family. They understood because they'd been there with him but they also didn't understand that being with them brought back memories he'd worked hard to suppress and ignore.
Then there was Dean and it was easy when your best mate was in Paris and you were wherever your fancy took you. A few text messages, a few voicemails, an owl or two (all Dean's fault and didn't that go to show?) and the sound of his voice on the other side of that call. Dean wouldn't need to know that those moments went into a box in Seamus's head that he opened whenever the room closed in on him and he needed to escape. Dean didn't ever need to know that those moments on the phone caused Seamus to harden and, once the call was done, take care of himself, making him spill over his hands with Dean's name on his lips.
Resolving to ignore the memories, all of the memories by forcing them back into the box he'd shoved them into years ago, Seamus had pushed off the sink, washed his hands once more and left. The bar was well-stocked and the staff was fairly impressive. A Harps appeared in front of him before he could ask and it slid down far too quickly. Another one quickly followed and Seamus could feel the lid to the box finally closing.
On his third lager in quick succession, a hand on his shoulder had stopped him. "I knew you had an impressive tolerance but you'll want to remember most of the evening, so many people here that you haven't seen in so long."
Seamus hadn't recognised the voice or the face when he turned. The man was attractive but Seamus had merely cocked an eyebrow before turning back to the barkeep. "Another." When it appeared, he mumbled a quick, "Ta."
"You don't recognise me? Should I be insulted?" Seamus saluted with his bottle. "Boot, Terry Boot. You're Seamus Finnigan." Another salute and Seamus followed it with a healthy drink.
"Do you dance, Finnigan?" The man would not go away and Seamus smiled.
"When you say 'Finnigan', it reminds me of Malfoy. Call me Seamus and I'll call you Terry."
The rest of the night was a blur that Seamus couldn't quite remember now that he was laying awake at four in the morning. Nothing other than bits and bobs of touch and feel and biting back the wrong name at one instance surfaced.
Just a few minutes earlier, Seamus had awakened with a weight on his shoulder. In the muted lights from the businesses leaking in his window, he saw that Terry had curled himself around Seamus's shoulder and side.
This was bound to be awkward in the morning…whenever the morning after might occur. What was he going to say to Terry? He wasn't looking for anything longer than this night and he hadn't even been looking for this. He had someone, after all, and… the thought trailed off as Seamus literally slapped himself. The crack echoed and Seamus held his breath as Terry stirred slightly before burrowing into Seamus's skin again
What was he going to say to Mary? Was he even going to attempt to explain it? She was a good girl and she wouldn't understand, probably couldn't even conceive of it.
He'd buggered things up again. Wasn't this always the way it was with him though? In one fucking night, he'd pissed off his boss, embarrassed himself with tales of knickers and pants, ruined a friendship he'd had for longer than he hadn't had it and lost track of the friends he'd gone with.
The misplaced friends would forgive. He was, after all, leaving at random moments when he felt trapped and the air got tight. They were used to it. After Harry's biting comments last night, he wasn't quite sure where that friendship was. Probably strained but not broken, yet the thought didn't help him out much as he wondered. As for the job, well, he'd find another job if he needed it.
And Dean… Seamus wouldn't think on it that way. He'd not done a damn thing that he wouldn't do around his best mate. He'd bear down and sod the details. The light kiss hadn't been anything that he hadn't done to Dean a thousand times in the past. Besides, Dean had been talking to some girl the one time he'd allowed himself to seek him out. He'd not recognised her but then again, he hadn't recognised many of the people at the
Sleep called for Seamus again and with a muttered curse in Gaelic, Seamus slipped off to answer its call.