QL, Round 5 | Wigtown Wanderers | Beater 1 | [trait] hypocrisy
Additional Prompts | 1. [word] casual, 5. [object] bottle of wine, 15. [quote] "Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness."

A/N: I'm going with the idea here that Seamus is a hypocrite for writing and singing love songs and becoming famous for it, but in his personal life, he doesn't believe in romance and has no interest in relationships. Hopefully that comes through and I haven't just spoiled the story for you! Enjoy!

WC: 3,000

o . o . o

ain't nothin' but a mistake (tell me why)

Some nights are made for torture,
or reflection,
or the savoring of loneliness.
- Poppy Z. Brite

"Gin, care to explain to me why I got a phone call from Capital Radio saying that I'd won a date with Seamus Finnigan? As in, Ireland's Sinatra, Seamus Finnigan? You know, the love ballad prodigy?"

Dean dipped his brush in a puddle of shimmering gold paint as he held his cell phone to his ear with his shoulder.

"Wait, you won?" Ginny answered, the surprise registering even through the phone.

"So you did enter me," he stated, carefully dabbing paint on his canvas. "Why the hell would you do that?"

"Because I know you've got a huge crush on him," she answered, not in the least bit fazed by the anger in his voice. "And I figured there was no harm in it."

"No harm? No harm!" Dean stammered incredulously, dropping his paintbrush accidentally and swearing at the mistake. He'd have to wash the brush before he could use it again to make sure there was no dirt on it. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, trying to stifle the headache that was pulsing. "Ginny -"

"C'mon Dean, it's time you moved on. It's been months since we broke up."

"What makes you think I haven't moved on?" He felt defensive, bristling at the suggestion that he was still pining for his ex-girlfriend. Things had been a little rocky between them right after they'd split, but then they'd built up a solid friendship again.

"Have you been on a single date since then?" she challenged, but Dean could practically hear the shrug that meant she knew she was right.

"Well, no, but…" Dean sighed heavily, "it's not because I'm still pining over you, I just haven't met anyone I want to date."

"Look, not everything has to be a serious relationship, Dean. It's okay to just be casual," she said. Dean scoffed a little bit. That was very typical Ginny - she was always much better at the casual thing than he was. Honestly, he wasn't sure his heart knew how to do casual. "And I know you're not pining over me. But still, it's about time you got some. It's not healthy to go that long without."

"You can't seriously think I'm going to sleep with him?" Dean laughed, the whole conversation now bordering on ridiculous.

"Why not? I know you think he's hot," Ginny replied.

"Yeah, but he's definitely not into guys," he answered, shaking his head and trying to turn his attention back to the painting. "This whole thing will be embarrassing and pointless, Gin."

"You don't know that," she said, and he knew there was fierce fire flashing in her eyes. "Trust me."

"Fine," Dean sighed after a long moment. Even if it didn't turn out to be a date, he'd still get to meet one of his favourite musicians, and that was something. "Fine, I'll go."

"You can thank me later," she trilled, more confident in her actions than Dean could ever hope to be.

"Bye, Gin."

o . o . o

Nervous, Dean fidgeted with the peach shirt he had chosen for the occasion. It was one of his favourites, flattering and whimsical, with an almost imperceptible paisley pattern to it. The bright peach color contrasted nicely against his deep, sepia-toned skin, and the lightness of the color always left him feeling happy. He needed that today - a little boost of confidence. He'd promised Ginny that he would go through with this, but the closer the date got, the more his stomach twisted anxiously. He had opened a bottle of his favourite white wine while he got ready, pouring himself a small glass to help with the nerves, though he wasn't sure it was helping at all.

With a last look in the mirror, Dean grabbed his keys and left his apartment, locking the door behind him. Outside, the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, staining London's cityscape a pretty fuschia, with a deep, glittering navy above it. It was a gorgeous summer evening, and Dean walked quickly through the streets to the outdoor cafe he'd been told to go to. Finnigan's manager, a woman by the name of Lavender Brown, had called Dean with a set of very specific directions. He made a beeline for the hostess, a middle-aged woman who looked like she could easily scare off any rowdy patrons if it came to it.

"Er, I'm here for a reservation under Jameson," Dean said awkwardly, feeling weird about using the codename.

"Sure thing, luv," the hostess replied, flashing him a smile. "Hannah here will show you to your table."

She indicated a quiet-looking blonde woman about his age, who also offered a smile and began walking. Dean followed as she began to climb a flight of stairs that led to an unceremonious metal door. But when they emerged on the other side, it was like stepping into a movie scene. They were on the building's rooftop, with a thick green hedge around it, creating an impenetrable screen of privacy. Above their heads, strings of fairy lights and globe lights zig-zagged back and forth, creating a romantic atmosphere.

Dean looked around and noted with surprise that the few occupied tables were taken by actors, musicians, and athletes of varying degrees of celebrity. This restaurant must be some kind of haven for public figures hoping for some privacy on a night out.

Hannah kept walking across the rooftop, leading to a table in the far corner of the space, where a sandy-haired man sat. As Dean followed, his heart began to pound painfully in his chest. His nerves were singing and his stomach was twisting, anxiety pulsing through him.

"Here you are," Hannah said in a soft and pleasant voice when they reached the table. "I'll be back in a few minutes to take your orders."

Seamus Finnigan had stood up as soon as he heard Hannah's voice, scrambling to his feet with a soft blush on his cheeks. He was even more beautiful than Dean had expected - bright, cornflower blue eyes shining with the fairy lights and soft pink lips the shape of a hunter's bow.

"Sorry, I was a bit lost in thought there, didn't hear ya," he said once Hannah had gone, his eyes sparkling as he smiled. His grin was infectious - wide and genuine, showing a neat row of white teeth. His Irish accent was thicker than any other Dean had heard, certainly thicker than it sounded in song, but it was also beautiful - lilting, joyous and melodic. "It's nice to meet ya, I'm Seamus."

"Yeah, I -" Dean's voice was unusually high, and he tried clearing his throat, a dark umber blush rising on his cheeks - "I know, that's sort of why… I mean, you're obviously… I wouldn't be…"

Dean's words were completely failing him, and he felt like he was having an out of body experience while watching himself in a car crash. It was completely mortifying. But Seamus' smile grew wider with every stammered word until he was grinning from ear to ear. He sat back down at the table, gesturing with one hand for Dean to sit across from him. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Dean complied.

"Sorry," he said, blushing again. "I guess I'm just a bit -"

"Nervous?" Seamus finished, and Dean nodded with a shy smile. "Don't be. I'm not that intimidating. Why don't you tell me about yourself?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Tell me about your family, your job, your hobbies, whatever you like," Seamus shrugged, though he looked anything but disinterested.

"Well, I've got a couple of sisters and a brother, all younger than me," Dean said, feeling a bit like he was reciting facts out of a book.

"You're an artist, right?" Seamus asked, interrupting him and taking him aback.

"Yeah, I… how did you know that?" Dean asked, looking at the musician with confusion.

"You've got paint -" Seamus licked his thumb quickly and then reached out across the table. "- on your ear."

"Oh," Dean whispered, a bright blush creeping over his cheeks to darken his skin. It was tempting to lean into the other man's touch, and he scolded himself for it. They'd barely been sitting down for five minutes, his attraction was based on nothing more than physical attributes, and that wasn't really his style. I don't do casual.

"So what kind of things do you paint?" Seamus asked, pulling Dean's attention back to him.

They talked about art for a while - Dean talked about his art and how he felt when he was painting people or restoring old masterpieces. Two very different sensations, but both wonderful. But Seamus was less forthcoming about his own process when it came to making music. He waved off most of Dean's questions about it or gave vague answers, and his closed-off attitude was a surprise.

"Why did you agree to this?" Dean asked suddenly, after their entrees had been placed in front of them.

"To what? The whole winning a date thing?" Seamus shrugged, seeming a bit disinterested. "Didn't have much of a choice in it, to be honest. But I'm always game for a good time."

"I meant with me, specifically," Dean clarified. "I know you're not… interested in guys -"

"Says who?" Seamus looked a bit defiant, but Dean got the sense that he was enjoying the surprise.

"Well, all your songs are written about women," he answered, more than a little confused.

"They're just songs, you shouldn't take them too seriously," Seamus replied with a sly grin. "And it's very easy to change pronouns."

Dean tried to ignore how much those two sentences bothered him. If Seamus' songs weren't a reflection of his thoughts and feelings, he wasn't really sure what they had in common. And he definitely didn't like the implication that Seamus was actively hiding his sexuality.

"But to answer your question," Seamus continued, "I picked you. They showed me some of the finalists and I thought you were absolutely beautiful, so I asked them to choose you as a winner."

"You… picked me?" Dean repeated. He felt like his brain was swirling, struggling to keep up. There was a bit of a thrill in him at the idea that the Seamus Finnigan found him attractive, but something bothered him about it as well. Dean felt connected to Seamus through his music and the sentiments he professed, not just because he was cute. But Seamus had based his choice solely on how Dean looked. Where was the deeper connection?

"C'mon, let's get out of here," Seamus whispered conspiratorially, his hand suddenly sweeping across Dean's thigh under the table.

Dean gawked at him, completely surprised by the proposal. They had only just gotten their dinners five minutes ago - they'd barely taken more than a few bites. This wasn't what he had expected from a musician renowned for writing beautiful and poetic love songs. He thought… well, he wasn't sure what he thought, to be honest. He didn't expect tonight to be a romantic evening, but he thought it would be because Seamus wasn't interested in him. It didn't occur to Dean that Seamus might be looking for a hookup. It didn't make sense. Seamus was a romantic - look at their surroundings and the gesture of it all. That was supposed to be Seamus, not cheap pick up lines and dirty looks.

Trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, Dean nodded. Maybe something was making Seamus uncomfortable and he wanted to go somewhere else. There just had to be something going on that he wasn't seeing.

Seamus stood up, turning away from the table, and Dean moved to follow him, but he paused.

"Don't we need to pay…?" he asked hesitantly.

"I have a tab," Seamus chuckled, taking Dean's hand and pulling him forward. "This place is a favourite of mine, especially for dates." He winked at Dean, sending another jolt of confusion through him.

But Dean brushed his thoughts aside, allowing Seamus to pull him down the stairs and out onto the streets. It seemed darker without the glow of the globe lights above them, but it was comfortable with Seamus' hand holding his. They walked a few blocks, Seamus' baseball cap pulled low to hide his face from prying eyes. Then, with a gleam in his eyes and a mischievous smile playing at his lips, Seamus tugged Dean down a dark alleyway.

Before Dean could really process what was happening, Seamus had spun them around so Dean's back was to the wall. He was a fair bit taller than Seamus, so the musician had to stretch up onto his toes in order to press his lips to Dean's. His skin felt like it was on fire everywhere that Seamus touched him - his lips, his cheeks, his neck, his waist… It was electrifying. He felt like a lightning storm was raging between them, igniting every nerve where their bodies met.

When Seamus' lips trailed over Dean's neck and his fingers dipped beneath his peach shirt, Dean felt like he was losing his mind in a swirl of passion. He let his fingers drift across the nape of Seamus' neck, scratching lightly at the roots of his sandy hair. He could hardly believe he was making out with Seamus Finnigan. But then some part of his senses returned to him, because he remembered why this all seemed so strange. This was not how a date with Seamus Finnigan was supposed to go.

"What's going on?" Dean asked, breathing heavily as he lightly pushed Seamus back. "What's the rush?"

"Why wait?" Seamus countered, his eyes drifting over Dean's lips hungrily. "I want you, and I'm pretty sure you want me too."

Dean looked at him like he'd been betrayed. Everything felt upside down. Where was the romance and the sentiment? He had expected Seamus of all people to understand his need for some deeper affection. After all, he had always felt like Seamus' songs saw right into his soul.

"But.. but don't you want more than that?" he stammered. "Some connection or… affection?"

Seamus rolled his eyes and pulled away slightly, and Dean thought he detected a flicker of annoyance. He seemed impatient, lust clouding his gaze, but to Dean's disappointment, that was all he saw in the enchanting baby blues.

"You're a romantic," Dean said, eyebrows furrowed and a frown pulling at the corners of his lips.

"Why would you think that?" Seamus challenged, all fire and passion.

"All your songs, everything you write, it's all so…"

"Lovey-dovey?" Seamus finished. "They're just songs, it's not how I feel."

He leaned into Dean again, reaching for a kiss, but Dean ducked away, stepping out of Seamus' reach. He felt like he was looking at an alien standing in front of him - something foreign and disturbing.

"Do you not believe in love?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly. Dimly, he noted that rain was beginning to fall, a drizzle of soft droplets peppering his skin.

"Love makes us act like we're fools," Seamus answered, a hard edge in his voice.

"That's not… what happened to you?" Dean pressed, horrified by Seamus' true cynical attitude.

"Nothing happened to me," he hissed in reply, turning away from Dean and wiping the raindrops from his face. "Nobody hurt me, I've never even been in love. I just don't really believe that you need someone else to make your life complete. Why can't I just enjoy my career, bond with people in the moment when I feel a connection with them, and travel the world? What's wrong with that?"

"You're missing out! Love is…" Dean struggled to find the right words. "It's magical, it's so much better than any career achievement or travel adventure."

"How do you know?" Seamus fired back. "Do you know what it feels like to stand on a stage in a stadium full of people and hear them chanting your name or singing a song that you wrote? Why would I want to give that up for something like love?"

The rain was beginning to fall harder, coming down in sheets instead of soft drizzle. Dean felt his shirt sticking to his skin, plastered down in the summer storm.

"For real love, you wouldn't have to give anything up," Dean insisted. "I don't understand - how can you write such beautiful love songs when you don't even believe in it?"

Seamus shrugged. "They're just words."

Dean felt his mouth drop open, stunned by the apparent lack of feeling in Seamus' songs. How was it possible?

"You're a hypocrite," he choked out at last, his voice louder and harsher than he intended. But then again, he felt like his heart was breaking a bit. Thunder boomed through the sky, and Dean felt like it might as well be the sound of his heart cracking to pieces. "You talk about how love and heartbreak has changed you, made you stronger. You make people think that you identify with them, that you know how it feels! But you have no idea! You're a fake! You have no business telling anybody to open themselves up to love."

Seamus was silent, and a part of him almost looked cowed by Dean's words. But Dean couldn't even stand the sight of him anymore. The one person he'd imagined understood the depths of his feelings and the longing in his heart was faking it the entire time. He couldn't imagine being more disappointed.

"The horrible thing," Dean continued, his voice sharp and biting, "is that if you wrote your songs honestly, about things you actually feel, you'd probably be just as popular. You should have put your money where your mouth is, because I can't imagine how many people have been disappointed when they realized what you're really like."

Without another word or even a backward glance, Dean walked away. He was really going to need the rest of that bottle of wine in his fridge.