Even on the night of the Battle, the Gryffindor dorm has the audacity to look just the same as it always has. Seamus resents the way the drapes are still hanging from the four-posters like nothing's changed – something about it isn't fair. It's as if he's just a blink away from being eleven again, except eleven-year-old Seamus was the type of kid who dreamt too much and thought he and his friends were going to live forever.

(Now, at eighteen, he doesn't sleep long enough to dream and already has enough dead friends for a lifetime.)

He and Dean are the only ones there tonight. They're supposed to be sleeping before they Floo home tomorrow, but in the dark Seamus can still feel the sameness of it all in the little dip in his mattress or the creak of his bedframe. And with the added familiarity of finally having Dean back, it would almost be easy to imagine that the War never happened. Only almost, though, because the Battle is a constant in the back of his mind, kept company by Fred and Colin and Lavender and this numb kind of grief he's feeling.

"Shay?"

It's Dean. Clearly Seamus isn't the only one who can't sleep tonight.

"Yeah?"

"Just… checking. That you're still there."

"I'm here. Can't sleep either?"

A candle lights up by Dean's bed in response, and Seamus props himself up on his elbows to watch it flicker. He catches flashes of Dean's face in its glow – strains his eyes to catch hold of them. As he watches, Dean swings his legs over the edge of the bed and looks back at him. "Come here?" the other boy says then, and Seamus doesn't hesitate.

Aching – from the Battle, from exhaustion, from the look on Dean's face – he shuffles across the dormitory, and when he sits down his feet only just graze the floor. Dean always used to tease him for that, but he swings his legs on purpose now. (Feels a small burst of pride when he sees Dean smile out the corner of his eye.)

"I've never heard this room so quiet," he eventually whispers – afraid, almost, to interrupt the silence sitting between them. Maybe Dean feels it too, because there's a long pause before he replies.

"Neville still snoring?"

"'Course. Every night."

He gives a soft chuckle. "Some things never change."

It just makes Seamus ache all the more to think of everything that has. The War, the Battle, the losses… Neville's snores and this stupid old dorm room feel like the only things left.

That and Dean, of course – Dean who probably should've died out there on the run but is here, somehow, instead; Dean who is sitting on his old four-poster like it's nothing, so close and quiet and alive that Seamus is sure he can hear his heart beating.

He wants to press his hand to it, feel the life thumping against the skin of his palm (just to be sure). But instead he says, "I missed you," and the simple truth of it is like a whole new ache inside his chest.

Dean lets out a breath – almost a laugh, but not quite – and Seamus suddenly wishes he'd said something a little more profound. Then again, everything else he's feeling is scrambled and complicated, and Dean has always been the eloquent one.

"I missed you too," Dean replies, with eyes so intensely kind that the ache spreads right across Seamus's chest until he almost can't bear it anymore. He looks down at his hands. There's dirt in the lines of his palms, mixed with something that looks uncomfortably close to blood.

"I need a shower," he jokes, only for the sake of saying something that doesn't make him feel so much. "Must stink."

"Give 'em here," Dean laughs, picking up his wand and taking Seamus's hand into his. "Finally got good at these, look… Scourgify."

The dirt disappears. He switches to the next hand, and Seamus (even knowing how much it will ache) looks back up at him as he does. In the dim light of the candle, Dean's face glows with softness and warmth – and Merlin, Seamus loves him so fucking much.

"There," he's saying, as he lets go of Seamus's hand.

"Impressive."

Dean shrugs absently. He's chewing his lip, and there's a crease between his eyebrows that only ever appears when he's thinking. "Can I say something?" he finally asks.

Seamus looks at him warily. "Sounds like you're going to."

"No- no, it's nothing bad. You don't even have to say anything back, I know you hate that kind of stuff," he promises. "I just… there are all these things I thought I'd never get to tell you, y'know? And now I can."

Seamus's mouth is so dry he can barely even speak. "What… things?"

"God, everything. Dumb stuff, like- like how you were the only thing I drew when I was in hiding because I was scared I would forget how it felt. Like the fact I didn't go a day without wondering how much trouble you were getting yourself into without me. Like how the smell of burning always reminds me of your stupid explosions-" he glances at the candle "-even now."

Seamus lets out a shaky breath. The flame falters a little, steadies itself. Dean looks back.

He continues, weightily, "Big things too, though. Stuff I should've said years ago. How I've always thought that you're the most important person in my life. How I never get homesick for Hogwarts or Stratford, but I always miss you like I've lost a limb. And how I can't keep pretending that any of that is just because we're best friends, because best friends don't sleep in the same bed or hold hands or draw sketches of each other, and they definitely don't think about each other as much as I think about you, Shay."

It's like Seamus has been Stupefied. He tries to order his thoughts into a reply, but the vague suggestion of Dean thinking about him is dizzying.

"And I know everything's fucked up right now," says Dean, "and my timing isn't great. But if I don't say something now I'll get caught in this lie for another seven years. And I can't do that, Seamus. Even if it makes you hate me for a while, I can't do that."

"Merlin, you're a fool," Seamus manages to murmur. It's less than a fraction of what he wants to say, but it seems like enough for Dean, because suddenly there's this look of unwavering hope in his eyes – the kind of hope a War could never kill.

"Am I?" he asks.

Seamus kisses him then (because he never was the eloquent one), and it doesn't matter that they're both bloody and sore or that their knees knock together with the way they're sat on the bed. He can hardly think about anything except Dean bloody Thomas and the feeling of disbelief buzzing under his skin.

With his fingers knotted in the other boy's jumper, he pulls himself as close as their tangle of limbs allows. Dean's hands are touching his face now, desperate and frantic – like each finger is saying finally, finally, finally! – and Seamus wants to laugh because it doesn't seem possible that someone could need him that much, but then Dean's pulling him onto his lap so their bodies are pressed together and Seamus – tired, broken, aching Seamus – has never felt more needed in his life.

Later, when he's lying face-up in the bed and Dean's lying next to him, he whispers, "You're right. Everything is fucked up."

Dean hums his agreement, but truthfully, neither of them can really comprehend it. The War's had a hold on them for so long that it's hard to know what's left now that it's ripped itself away.

Seamus rolls over so he's facing Dean, almost nose-to-nose. "What happens now, d'you think?"

"We sleep," Dean says, brushing his hand lazily along Seamus's hip. "After that, I don't know."

Seamus says nothing, because he doesn't know either. Maybe life will just be this, forever: him in Dean's bed, waiting for the world to regrow, aching from what the War ripped out of him and aching from that look in Dean's eyes.

When he lies this close, he can still hear Dean's heartbeat. So maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

:o:

thanks for reading! these boys are my world and this idea has been in my head for the longest time so it feels good to get it out there. i hope you liked it - i'll love you forever if you review :))

stay safe everyone xxx