So, the real problem is that they're friends. Dean knows that. They're friends and that poses a more than insignificant problem. He can't possibly risk fucking that up over something so unimportant.

The other side of that coin is that, the longer this continues, the more Dean is sure that this is, quite possibly, not an insignificant problem. It was, at one point, but it's getting worse.

He can't stop himself from staring at Seamus all of the time and, once in a while, he's almost sure he's been caught. Still, if Seamus has noticed, he hasn't said anything, so at least that's a comfort.

There ought to be a law against forcing someone to share living quarters, a bathroom, and a lunch table with the person that you're also spending all of your free time fantasizing about. Dean is pretty sure that the Geneva convention is against it, in any case.

It's Sunday afternoon and he's managed to convince himself to think about Charms for a bit while he works on the essay that's due on Tuesday. However, Seamus appears to have other plans and he pulls back Dean's bed curtains and drops onto the mattress.

Dean watches Semaus readjust himself on the bed and get comfortable once the drama of his initial entry has faded. By the time he's settled, his t-shirt has ridden up considerably and Dean realizes that he's failing to not stare at the skin that's been exposed. It's ridiculous, really. He's seen Seamus shirtless probably a billion and six times, but there's something about the skin being on display when Seamus didn't intend for it to happen that makes it really, incredibly provocative somehow. He wants to touch it so badly that his fingers actually itch.

He doesn't, though. He doesn't do it because they're friends, and Dean is sure that it's not worth ruining a carefully laid foundation over something like that.

That certainty is waning, though.