Warning: M/M sex. Bodily fluids, and all that. Also, cussing.
I know this is a strange pairing, but I really tried to keep them in-character. Let me know what you thought of it.
XO, Karo
Seamus saw the man first, and Seamus didn't believe in hesitation, so he roughly pushed passed the bodies pressing against his, alcohol and cocaine driving him forward. He saw him pressed up against the bar (pressed just a little too close, like he was trying to disappear into it), staring down at an amber liquid swirling in a dirty glass. Seamus kept on, and the music blared (just a little too loud, making it so easy to disappear into), his heart matching the insistent beat.
He was getting so close to the man, whose already-thin face had sunken in to new depths, and Seamus felt the malice pool in his stomach, sloshing around with his drink. It was a feeling like acid he thought he'd forgotten, but it had bubbled to the forefront of his mind upon seeing this man, this relic from his past, standing there, alone. In a goddamn gay bar in goddamn Muggle London on goddamn New Year's Eve, four years after the goddamn, god-forsaken war.
The man didn't see the first punch coming, and if he saw the second one, he let it happen. Fragile as he'd always been, his nose began to bleed immediately, though there was no time to wipe it away before strong hands grabbed his collar and dragged him outside. Another set of hands handled Seamus and threw him out roughly. The Irishman stumbled into the bitter cold, snowflakes hitting his skin like bullets. He was bitter too.
Draco Malfoy, fucking son of a Death Eater, stared at him from the sidewalk five feet away, scarlet blood smeared on his lips and dripping down his pointed face. Revelers stumbled passed, sequins flashing in the night, cries of celebration echoing in Seamus' mind after they'd gone.
Eternity. Then, "Finnigan."
Finnigan spat. Shivered. It was hard to be angry in the cold.
"Malfoy." The man in front of him was paler than he remembered, and there was something missing in his eyes. Pride, maybe. Dignity. So, softer: "You're not going to fix that?" Seamus pointed to his nose. Blood drip-drip-dripped on the dirty concrete.
"I don't… I left my wand at home." He seemed surprised Seamus was concerned. He wiped his face with his sleeve, a purple bruise beginning to blossom on his jaw.
Seamus rolled his eyes and pulled his wand out of the pocket of his leather trousers. They felt silly now, but they'd seemed like an excellent idea earlier in his flat.
"Episkey," he muttered, and the red dripping from the former-Slytherin's nose slowed. They stood in silence, the music from the bar (it seemed so far away now, but was only a few feet away) pulsing in their chests.
Seamus coughed, and Draco's eyes barely flickered up.
"I, um… Sorry, Malfoy. For hitting you, and stuff." Seamus was surprised to hear the apology tumble from his mouth without his permission. Was he even sorry? He didn't know. Draco's head lifted, finally meeting Seamus' bloodshot eyes.
"Oh. Thank you," he murmured. He looked around, seeming lost. His hands were tucked under his arms – it was so cold.
Silence weighed heavy on them once more. Seamus wondered why he hadn't left yet.
A laugh, unexpected, bubbled to the front of his mouth.
"Did you know this was a gay bar? Why are you here alone? Why are you here at all?"
"You don't have to be friendly, Finnigan."
For some reason, that stung Seamus.
"Fuck you, Malfoy. Why are you still here if you don't want me to be friendly?" His high was wearing off now, leaving only a world-tilting drunk and the absurdity of the situation. Seamus saw Draco lower his eyes once more, his breath swirling in front of his face.
"I'm getting married tomorrow." His voice quieted to a near-whisper on the last word. Seamus raised an eyebrow and smirked.
"That's a strange way of answering. Well, come on then." And suddenly Seamus strode forward purposefully, grabbed Draco's arm and disapparated. Draco didn't even have a chance to say anything until they reappeared, teetering, in Seamus' flat.
Draco bounded away from Seamus, his eyes wild and chest heaving.
"What the fuck, Finnigan? Whatever happened to 'Don't Drink and Disapparate'? Are you insane? Where the fuck are we?"
Finally, Seamus thought, some goddamn emotion. He laughed, still drunk and now dizzy from the journey.
"Oh, loosen up Malfoy. I didn't splinch you, did I? And aren't you warmer now? We're at my place."
Malfoy looked around the small flat. There was a threadbare couch in the corner of the room, the once-nice navy material now patched extensively. A small television stood in the corner. Draco didn't know much about televisions, but it looked old. There was no coffee table, only a few milk crates pushed together in between the couch and the television with empty beer bottles and dirty plates strewn across them. Draco himself was standing next to a small countertop, the beginning of what looked like a kitchen area, if you could call it that. There was a refrigerator, old and yellowing, and on the counter was a toaster, a coffee maker and what Draco assumed was a microwave. There was no oven, and dirty styrofoam containers sat in the sink. Seamus had flicked on the light – the walls were a hideous ochre that did nothing for the place. The window near the couch showed a view of a brick wall, and beside the frame, Draco noted with some surprise, hung a wooden cross.
The one spot of brightness, of beauty, in the place, was a large painting hung above the couch, almost too large for the room. It seemed to depict a man's back and arms, and had swirls of bright yellow and red surrounding him. Gryffindor colours. The back was arched; the fingers at the tips of the pale arm were delicate, small. Flecks of gold sprayed the man's skin like freckles. The painting stopped at his neck, so Draco couldn't confirm his suspicion, but he was almost certain it was a painting of Seamus. It was beautiful, and so out of place here, in this dank and dirty room. Draco's first instinct was to offer a snide comment on the state of the apartment, but when he turned back to Seamus after his appraisal, he saw, for once, shame in his demeanour.
Seamus winced. "Probably not what you're used to, but it's expensive living in London and—"
"That painting." Draco gestured to it, and curiously, Seamus dropped his eyes. "Thomas painted it, yeah? It's very well done. I remember you two, from Hogwarts I mean. He paints murals and things now, right? My in-laws — I mean, someone I know interviewed him to paint a family portrait."
"We're not here to talk about Dean or his art," Seamus said, harsher and louder than either man expected. A minute passed. He sighed. "Can I offer you something? I have beer and… whisky… and that's it." He pointed his want at the melting snow dripping down Draco's boots onto the black-and-grimy-white linoleum, and it disappeared.
"I'll… have whatever you're having." Draco still seemed unnerved at Seamus' odd kindness. Another flick of the wand: a cupboard opened and two whisky glasses floated out. As Seamus prepared the drinks, Draco took the opportunity to turn his studying gaze to the man himself.
Leather pants with a studded belt, a black mesh tank top, spiked hair with frosted tips (as was the style among Muggles), black military-style boots, black nail polish – Seamus looked like the anti-thesis of the Hogwarts student Draco had known him as. Granted, Draco hadn't known him well, had probably actively avoided him along with the others of his house, but it was still quite a change from the almost insistently masculine boy he'd observed in Potions Class or the Great Hall.
"So," Seamus said, dropping ice cubes in the glasses, "you're getting married. Tomorrow. To…?"
Draco sighed. "Yeah. Astoria Greengrass. She—"
"Oh. Astoria? I know her." Seamus turned, surprised. He looked Draco up and down, as if appraising him, before handing him a glass of whisky and taking a sip of his own.
"How?" Draco asked, furrowing his brows. He swirled his glass and sipped, keeping his pale eyes carefully trained on the man in front of him, wary.
"I don't know if I should say," Seamus said, suddenly uneasy.
"Finnigan. You can't just bring it up without explaining."
"She was one of our spies during the last year at Hogwarts. You're not… you're not still a Death Eater are you?" His glass was already almost empty.
"If I was, would I be here? I must say, I'm not surprised about her. Astoria and I haven't spoken much, but from the few moments we've had in private, she didn't strike me as the type to follow the… traditional lifestyle of families such as ours."
"You haven't spoken much? What the fuck kind of wedding is this, Malfoy?"
"The rich pureblood kind," Draco said, and though those words may have once carried arrogance and judgment, that was another lifetime ago, and now they just carried a sort of quiet resignation.
"And do you follow the… traditional lifestyle?"
"I was in a gay bar in Muggle London tonight without a wand, alone, the night before my wedding. What the fuck do you think, Finnigan? I'm not… I'm not like them." He looked down at the ice cubes slowly melting in his glass. He hadn't noticed the whisky disappearing down his throat.
"So you knew it was a gay bar then?" Seamus was smirking again. In a different situation, Draco might have hexed him, but instead just looked up at the stucco ceiling. What was the point of lying now? He'd probably never see Finnigan again.
"Yes. I knew where I was."
Fireworks exploded in the distance, startling them both. Seamus began to pour himself another drink, for once, speechless. The fridge's rumbling hum echoed the boom.
Draco set his glass down. "I should go." He took a step toward the door – Seamus grabbed his arm to stop him.
"No. It's late and you haven't got a wand. And I know you don't live around here. You can stay here. Don't worry, I'll sleep on the couch."
Draco looked stunned.
"I… that's very kind of you, Seamus. Thank you."
"Well… Draco…" Seamus tested out the name on his tongue. It didn't taste as acidic as it had when they were in school. "You're welcome."
Silence again.
"Do you… want to talk about it?" The alcohol burned his throat.
"It's just… I'm getting married tomorrow."
"Yes." Seamus was trying not to press Draco – why he was so concerned, he still had not figured out. "And you… wanted to… Fuck, Malfoy, I don't know. Are you… Are you gay?"
Draco raised his shoulders in an uncertain shrug. A smile grew on Seamus' face, and before Draco could answer, Seamus had begun to laugh.
"Finnigan, it's not really anything to laugh about! I'm getting married tomorrow to a woman I barely know and I'm not sure I even – stop laughing! This isn't funny!" Draco snapped, petulant.
"Sorry Draco, it's just… Goddamn, Blaise owes me three galleons!"
"You were betting on my… Wait, Blaise? You know Blaise too? Merlin, are you sure you're a Gryffindor?"
Seamus wiped the tears from his reddened, freckled face before answering, still grinning. "Well, I only know the two. See, Lavender called me the Communications Liaison for Dumbledore's Army. I was second in command too, you know. I could beat you up right now."
"Might I remind you that you already have done that tonight?" Draco pointed to his nose and jaw, and Seamus winced. The bruise was now a lovely shade of violet, a stark contrast to the ashen paleness of Draco's sickly skin.
"Right, yeah. Sorry about that. Don't know what came over me. Anyway, Blaise was a spy too."
"While I knew him Blaise never did anything for anyone other than himself and his mother. I have a hard time believing he spied for a… ragtag bunch of kids with big egos and a few jinxes memorised."
"Excuse me! We were very well organized, and I wager the battle would have gone very differently if it wasn't for those jinxes. And you'd be surprised about Blaise – he and Astoria were very useful to us. He… well, he and I figured out payment in private," Seamus said, winking. It was Draco's turn to laugh now.
"It seems Pansy owes me a few galleons too, then." Draco's face darkened after his words, spoken so casually, almost as if he regretted them. Seamus knew neither of them would collect their winnings - the Parkinson family had been effectively placed under permanent house arrest by the ministry after the war, and Blaise had returned to Italy with his mother.
"Yeah, yeah. But back to you. You're gay, you're marrying a woman you barely know tomorrow, and you wanted to have one last good shag before tying the knot."
"Not… Not exactly."
"Okay then, you wanted to have one first good shag before tying the knot."
Draco stared at his boots.
"Not necessarily, I just wanted to… I don't know why I was there. Not be alone? Pretend it was okay, I guess?"
"It's 2002. It is okay, mostly."
"Not where I come from."
"Never pegged you for a coward, Draco." Here, Seamus was lying a bit; in school, or at least early on, he'd always pegged Draco for a coward. But during the war, and after, Seamus knew the Malfoys had defected and changed allegiances. That was, Seamus knew, very brave. But with those words, something shifted in Seamus. Maybe he was finally warm enough to feel the malice he'd thought he'd left on the sidewalk in front of the club. Maybe it was this talk of his past – so many things had changed after the war, and he'd tried to leave so many things behind.
A sharp intake of breath. A flash of anger. Maybe that was what Seamus was looking for all along.
"What the fuck do you know about me? About my family? Besides, you're one to talk. Spoken to Thomas lately?"
"That's different. Jesus. You don't – Dean isn't – he has nothing to do with anything."
"You sure about that? Didn't you just bring me here because you're lonely? Missing someone else to talk to in your life? This place doesn't look like it sees many visitors," Draco said, sneering. He gestured around.
"Watch it, Malfoy. I have a wand and all you have is a pretty face and a wedding tomorrow."
Draco ignored the veiled threat. "From what I remember from school, you two were very close. Close enough for him to paint a nude portrait of you, it seems. What happened there?"
Seamus stepped forward, hissed: "Why are you saying these things? You don't know anything about me or him."
"And vice versa. You just don't understand pureblood politics."
"I'm fucking glad I don't. Do Mummy and Daddy know about your little problem?"
Draco's arm moved fast and connected hard with the other man's jaw – they'd have matching bruises now. Seamus spit out a nasty ha! and because he didn't believe in hesitation, he suddenly crossed the space between them and crashed his lips into Draco's still-swollen ones, pushing him back into the counter violently, hands twisting into the other man's shirt. It was all whisky and metal and painted fingernails digging into pale skin – it wasn't right, it wasn't beautiful, it wasn't soft like it had been with Dean. It was, instead, fumbling and clumsy like it had been with the others, the Muggles who knew nothing of magic and war and dirty blood (though sometimes it had been fumbling and clumsy with Dean too). It was forbidden, like it had felt with Blaise, but moreso: it was something they'd never speak of again, something wrong beyond Slytherin and Gryffindor rivalries, beyond blood politics, beyond allegiances. Immoral, somehow, but honest.
It was release.
Draco's hands were rougher than Seamus had expected, and when they ripped the mesh off his body, the pink peaks the brushed hardened instantly. They grabbed flesh – there would be more bruises – as Draco's mouth worked on Seamus' neck. And Seamus laughed vehemently as he undid Draco's undoubtedly expensive leather belt.
"If only Lucius Malfoy could see his precious son now," he breathed, and Draco answered with a pull on bleached, sweaty hair and a malicious twist to a nipple. Seamus gasped – he didn't know whether this was pain or pleasure. Whatever it was, it was sharp and venomous. He wanted more.
"Draco likes it rough. I'll make sure to tell Astoria." Nails raked his back, and tongues fought. Seamus was pushed down to his knees with more force than necessary, but it was all part of the game.
"Let's see what else you've been hiding, shall we?" Seamus pulled down Draco's trousers, then his pants – the belt hit the dull linoleum with a soft thud.
"Shut the fuck up, Finnigan," Draco hissed as hands began to explore his cock. He thrust his fingers into Seamus' hair once more, grabbing on tightly. It was as much to suppress his moans as to control the man kneeling before him.
"Make me." So Draco did, and Seamus was ready, when his head was pushed forward unceremoniously, to engulf the hardening uncut length in front of him. As Seamus worked on it, sucking and licking and bobbing like he'd goddamn invented the blowjob, Draco's grunts quickened, his cheeks flushing from the adrenaline. One hand joined Seamus' mouth in ministering Draco's penis, while the other roamed more freely, touching, teasing. Fingers counted off jutting ribs and pulled at paper-thin skin, forcefully, brutally.
Draco's arm snaked up to grab Seamus' – so tightly – and when the man at his feet looked up from his pulsing, warm cock, he slit his eyes and hissed: "Get up." Seamus did as he was told, stood a foot away from his old rival, breathing hard. He reached up to wipe away the precum and saliva from the corners of his reddened mouth. His leather pants bulged, unforgiving. They stood half-naked, staring at each other, hearts pumping in rhythm, the fridge humming loudly in harmony.
"Never pegged you for a slut, Seamus," and the game was still being played, and the harsh fluorescent light made them look older than they were, or maybe it was the things they knew about each other, the knowledge of past experiences, the odd familiarity of each others' faces brought into stark relief by the dull yellow glow. The twisted echo of Seamus' earlier words rang out into the air, and Seamus couldn't wait any longer, was done hesitating, so he stepped forward, grabbed Draco's salient hipbones and twisted. He roughly bent Draco over the countertop – fuck, they were still in his kitchen – and quickly released his own erection, pants falling around his ankles.
"I'm not your type, am I?" Draco gasped as his stomach hit the hard dirty-white countertop. "First Dean, then Blaise…" At the mention of Dean's name, Seamus slapped one of Draco's arse-cheeks, which quickly turned an angry red in a way that Dean's wouldn't. Red spread across cream and Seamus liked the painful look of it so much – or did he hate it? – that he did it again, hit the other one, a matching hand-print blossoming on the ivory skin.
With a practiced hand, Seamus reached over to grab his wand, lying on the countertop a few feet away, and pointed it into his hand, muttering a charm Draco had never heard before. When a finger breached his perineum suddenly, it was slick with lube, so that it felt like silk when his hips bucked backward to meet the friction. Seamus wasted no time in adding a second finger, knowing from Draco's keen hiss that he was giving the other man a whole new kind of pain, the kind of pain you desperately needed, the kind of pain that eclipsed all other sensations and made you feel alive.
He continued to pull and stretch, going deeper; there was no one else that had ever gone deeper into Draco Malfoy, no one else that was so unafraid to. He'd made himself so vulnerable to Seamus, an imperfect stranger, and here he was, moaning and thrusting, the night before – no, now the morning of – his wedding. Seamus would never be afraid of him again.
"Are you going to fuck me or shall we say a prayer first?" Draco's voice was a distant, breathy growl, and Seamus responded by spreading his cheeks apart and guiding his erect penis toward the puckering. Slow. It had to be slow. When finally, finally, Seamus was fully ensconced, it was all wrong: Draco's body didn't fit his, it had too many angles, not enough hidden depths. But still, still, Seamus moved his hips, back and forth, in and out like the tide, and his hands traveled Draco's body like a rugged, eroding coastline, but there was an ocean between them and they were both drifting, lost at sea. Seamus missed the sea and the fog and the salt – he'd grown up by the water – but he would not miss this.
Draco's back arched when Seamus' blistering fingers touched his cock and pulled, and it was not long before the sensations surpassed him and he came, thick and and hot. Seamus followed not long after; it surprised him when it happened, blinded him with unbidden pleasure. Neither called out the other's name.
Seamus backed away, panting. He had fucked Draco Malfoy. The game was over and though the winner was unclear, they'd both lost something. Draco turned around, shirt half-torn, purple bruises tracing paths all along his neck and jaw and chest.
"I need to sleep," he said, with none of the ferocity of before. Seamus nodded and led him to the dark bedroom, wobbly on his feet. The bed was unmade, Draco saw in the moonlight, and the sheets were strewn all over, as if its occupant had tossed and turned restlessly before waking. He sat on it, and exhaustion engulfed them both.
"You can… you can stay, if you want," he murmured as Seamus was turning to leave the room. And this, this was dangerous, for those words held power: if you want. He did not want to stay. He wanted to run, tuck himself away into a dark crevice somewhere far away, but he didn't. Instead, he lay onto the bed, his bed, stared at the man beside him, holding in his sex-stale breath. Why was he holding his breath?
The moonlight cast unnatural shadows onto Draco's face, and where they melded into the bruises, it appeared almost skeletal. He wondered if the Dark Mark had vanished with its master, or if it was still tattooed onto Draco's skin, ugly and menacing. They stared at each other.
"Tell me about her," Draco whispered suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. Astoria. Seamus knew he meant Astoria. He tried to remember details he'd long since tried to push into dark corners of his mind, and his mind focussed on an image. It was, at first, disjointed and blurry, but it cleared, and with it came more.
"She runs. She's a runner," Seamus said, and in his mind he felt the hard, splintering wood under him as he watched her run laps around the Quidditch pitch from the stands. That was where they shared information, when it was warm enough. "And she's an early riser. We used to meet at dawn on Thursdays."
Draco nodded, bidding him to continue.
"Very organized, always kept a planner. And she… she was a very good liar," Seamus said, remembering the time they'd gotten caught talking in the library by Filch. She had responded so quickly, adapted so perfectly to the situation, it winded him.
"And you trusted her still?" Draco asked. Seamus smiled sadly.
"I had no choice. She never asked for any payment, and she did help us a lot. Knew tons of healing spells, too. She's a good person, Draco."
"I'm not," Draco said, so matter-of-fact, and those words were just shards piercing his own skin, tearing at his flesh, adding more blemishes. And worse still, Seamus knew he was right.
"You could be," Seamus said.
"Tell me about Thomas," Draco answered, and that was just proof that though maybe one day he could be a good person, at this moment in time, tangled in another man's cold sheets, he was not. He was cruel. And maybe the game wasn't quite over, because Seamus invited in that cruelty like some goddamn masochist, because the pain reminded him that things, real things, had happened. This, this night with Draco, wasn't real – he was watching himself from above, from afar, from a cinema somewhere else, from another life.
"I'm not a good person either," Seamus said, and the bed in which they were laying became a confessional, and they themselves were sins that could not be absolved.
"Why did you leave him?"
Seamus ignored the question, and exhaled words that were not answers: "Did you know that during that last year, Dean didn't come back to Hogwarts? He went into hiding to protect his family. Didn't tell me, didn't even leave me a goddamn letter. I thought he died." The words tumbled out, rose into the air like heat, stifling. Draco stayed silent, just let Seamus' brogue wash over him, and remembered suddenly that Astoria too had one just like it.
"We used to sneak out at night and go sit by the lake with a bottle of rum. He really loves rum. I never got the hang of it myself, but he loved it so I drank it. And he was just so… so… thoughtful, I guess. Way more tactful than I ever was. And smart, Jesus, he was smart. He still is, I suppose." He hadn't spoken to anyone about Dean in so long. It felt like loss, like coming back to a childhood home that he no longer recognized – one that had been burned to the ground by war.
"So why did you leave him?" That goddamn question again, and fuck, what time was it? The sun couldn't be too far away now, this night had to end eventually, Seamus needed it to end.
"Why are you getting married?"
"You know the answer to that." He did know, now.
"I thought you needed to sleep."
"I'll have a pepper-up potion in the morning." They were so still, and the night was so quiet, the sudden sound of sirens in the distance startled Seamus. He hated them, he always had; when he was younger, growing up in his salt-sprayed Muggle fishing village, the ambulances were terrifying and almost always carried someone he knew. Now they were just stark reminders of his own damned mortality.
"You don't understand. Dean is sick," he said, and there it was, the truth about Seamus, because those words said more of him than they ever would of Dean. With that cruel, unforgiving honesty came the sharp collide of skin, but maybe it only stung to Seamus, because Draco's hands were softer now, and his lips more desperate than angry.
"We're all sick," the mouth said breathlessly. Then there was nothing else for Seamus to do but take Draco into his arms like he used to do with Dean, only without the warmth and safety. Their groins brushed, and his cock grew hard again without his permission. He couldn't bear to look into Draco's moonlit eyes (they were a stormy gray-blue, and for a second Seamus thought the ocean might have followed him here), so instead he looked down at their touching cocks, insistently grinding.
Draco's hand reached down to grasp Seamus' throbbing member – how could they be so hard so soon after the last time? When had Draco taken his shirt off? It didn't matter; all that mattered was that maybe this was real after all, but a twisted perversion of reality. He couldn't stop himself from bucking against Draco's stomach, sliding into his sweaty palm. Minutes later – or was it hours – he was coming again and it was good, or at least good enough. He swiped a finger in his own thick come pooled onto the other man's straining abdomen, thrust it into Draco's mouth, making him taste it. Draco's eyes fluttered closed and Seamus was grateful for it: they were the wrong colour, anyway.
Satisfied, he removed his finger from the pink-purple mouth (which whimpered) and pushed his hand down, ghosting over Draco's balls before giving them an experimental squeeze. A moan burst from Draco's lungs, and this was not at all what (or who) Seamus thought he'd be doing when he stood in this room earlier, alone, pulling on leather trousers before going out, but here they were. So he pumped his hand up and down, faster then slower then faster again, thinking he might as well make this goddamned night worth it for Draco. Soon, more come joined his, and they were both spent, falling away from each other.
Seamus turned his back to Draco, and finally let his tiredness take over his body, let the heavy weight of sleep press down his eyelids.
When Seamus awoke in a new year, many hours later, the sun was high in the sky and there was no one else in bed with him. He thought maybe he'd imagined the whole thing – or rather, he wished he'd imagined the whole thing. But he was naked and his wand was on the floor, a comb mysteriously missing (Draco must have made himself a Portkey), and it was proof, damning evidence, of what had occurred. His neck was painted violet, as was his chest and his knees, so that was that, it had happened. But still, it wasn't until later that evening that he really believed it, stumbling to his kitchen, hazy with headache and painfully parched. There, placed on the dingy and sticky countertop, was a note. And as much as Seamus wanted to crumple it up and throw it away, as much as he wanted to forget it all, he couldn't before reading it:
Maybe we could both be good people.