Prompt: 1: The Wrong Gift
Notes: Written for lj "hp_unfaithful"'s Pseudo-Advent Calendar Festlet.
Seamus clutched his bags to his chest as he climbed the steps to their flat, but he needn't have worried: Dean was in the studio as usual. Diagon Alley had been hectic, so he put the kettle on and peeked into his bags. The cashmere sweater for his Ma took up most of the room in the first bag, but Seamus knew what was underneath it.
He checked the kitchen door, although Dean seldom stopped working between meals. Then he eased back the soft wool and looked at the wooden sticks. It had been an impulsive move, buying the drumsticks. Reckless. Just, when he saw them he had instantly imagined them gripped in dark, sweaty hands, flying about in front of a bare, muscular chest. It was ridiculous. Seamus was almost as old as the boy's father, George Weasley. He couldn't stop thinking about Freddie, though.
The youngsters had a band. It was cute. It was the sort of normal thing which Seamus and George and their contemporaries hadn't been able to do. Sure, the sound they made was rubbish. But when Freddie was on the drums and had his shirt off, then Seamus couldn't hear or smell or taste anything anyway.
He had noticed that the lad's drumsticks were starting to split with all the hard treatment they got. At the time, Seamus had only wondered whether Freddie was as rough on himself when he wanked. Then he'd been shopping, and he'd seen the sticks. He'd bought a few bits and bobs for Dean. There was a fob watch which Seamus thought was nice enough, but probably Dean wouldn't bother to wear it. There was the same old cologne as always, a new set of Dean's brand of paintbrushes as usual and some chocolates and some socks.
The kettle boiled and Seamus made himself a cup of tea to take into the bedroom to do the wrapping. Dean wouldn't be surprised if he locked the door, not at this time of year. Not that Dean ever went near their bedroom except to sleep in it at night these days. Seamus tipped out the purchases on the bed and summoned the giftwrap, spellotape and scissors. His guilt made him speed up the job. The drumsticks were an awkward shape. There was every chance that they'd slip forwards, tear through the paper, and reveal his secret lust. How would he explain them away if they did? There was a cardboard box in the room, Dean had had paints delivered in it and hadn't bothered to throw it out. He'd just kicked it under the bed with a load of other rubbish. Seamus was glad now. He spelled it to fit the sticks, then laid them into it.
With one trembling finger, he stroked down one drumstick, from tip to base. This was ridiculous. He sucked his finger and thought of Freddie. He ran his wet finger round the tip of the stick. There was a sound outside the door.
Hastily Seamus threw the roll of wrap over the box, nearly dropping everything as he jumped when Dean called through the door, "Fancy a cuppa? It's brass monkeys today!"
"I've got one, but thanks." Seamus hastily closed the box and wrapped the drumsticks before they tempted him further. Then he got on with the rest of his wrapping, letting his mind wander over the various ways in which he could give young Freddie Weasley his gift. He wrote the address labels on the presents for Ireland and stuffed the others into his wardrobe. Feeling very smug about getting the whole procedure finished in one day, he dashed off to the Owl Post before it closed.
It was a couple of days later that they got the invitation to drinks at The Burrow on Christmas Eve. Dean saw it as an opportunity to drum up some commissions; Seamus saw it as an opportunity to give Freddie his drumsticks. While Dean was busy, he slipped into the bedroom, furtive and panicking. He would shrink the gift now, and hide it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. That way he would be ready. He could pounce when he had a chance. It was reckless and stupid. It was the perfect plan.
The pile of gifts in the wardrobe sat and looked at him, all in the same wrap. The long, thin box, that was what he wanted. He shoved the soft package of socks and the flat cuboid of chocolates out of the way, and stared. He heard the kettle going on in the next room. Which box was it? Any minute now, Dean would look in and ask him if he wanted tea. Which were the paintbrushes, and which were the drumsticks? He didn't have time to start unpicking spellotape now. Which was which? Which was which?