Name: Fucking Boxers
Colour: Fuchsia
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnigan
Summary: Dean has an important interview for the job he wants.
A/N: I'm a huge Deamus shipper. I mean, how can people not ship it?
This time Dean is certain of it: the laundry day is the worst day of the week.
To be honest he's happy they own a washing machine in the first place. When they moved in they didn't have one, so they were forced to use the one downstairs. Mrs. Burnaby, their old and nosy neighbour from the first floor who practically lives in the laundry room and keeps her eye on everyone in the house, never really liked them. She keeps on telling everyone there is something wrong about him and Seamus, namely their relationship. Narrow-minded hag she is, Dean huffs.
But this time Mrs. Burnaby has nothing to do with anything. Dean opens the machine and without further thinking takes a piece of clothing out. His eyes widen in shock. No, no, no. This couldn't happen. Not now. He digs deeper in the washing machine, and Dean stares – glares – at the one particular piece of fabric. He takes a deep breath and yells:
"SEAMUS!"
The running steps can be heard across the corridor. "What is it?" Seamus asks, a little out of breath. "Did me mam call yer again? Tell me she didn't cos I've tried to tell 'er we're not movin' back–"
With a grim expression Dean shows him a pair of bright fuchsia boxer shorts.
"Are these yours?" he asks. A wicked grin appears on Seamus' face.
"Well they certainly ain't yours, are they?" he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows, but Dean's expression doesn't falter. "Yer don't like them?" Seamus asks quietly, dropping his flirtatious act.
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's not the case," he mutters. "Look at this." Dean shows a baby pink, collared shirt to Seamus. Seamus taps his chin thoughtfully, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Mm, I kinda fancy that colour," he says.
"I have a job interview tomorrow, and I was supposed to wear this shirt," Dean explains patiently. He takes a deep breath. "Does it look white to you?"
"Umm, no?" Seamus says, crossing his arms. "But in me defense, Dean, pink looks good on yer."
Dean groans in exasperation, dropping his now ruined shirt and Seamus' boxers back to washing machine. He is going to die, that's for sure. It's Sunday, all shops are closed, and his only fitting white shirt has turned pink. He's never going to get that job now and soon they won't have money to pay their bills and they will have to move back to Mrs. Finnigan's house and–
As if knowing Dean was starting to sound borderline hysterical inside his head, Seamus places his hands on Dean's shoulders and shakes him.
"Dean!" Seamus shouts, forcing Dean back to earth. "Calm down and listen to me! I know what yer are thinkin' and I don't like it so answer this: which one of us has the better fashion sense?"
Dean grimaces. "You, but–"
"So yer'll let me pick the clothes for the interview?" Seamus presses on, raising a single eyebrow.
"What? No!"
"Don't yer trust me?"
"Shay…"
"Don't yer trust me, Dean?" Seamus asks again.
"I... Fuck, Shay," Dean groans.
Seamus grins victoriously. "We'll do that later," he says, patting Dean's shoulder. "Now yer can go to kitchen, make yerself a nice cup of tea, and I'll put these clothes away. Okay?"
Dean smiles at him. "Okay. I trust you."
When Seamus finally hears the sounds of kitchen cabinets opening and closing, he finally dares to sigh. He loves Dean, he really does, but sometimes he just has to intervene.
"Sometimes a boyfriend gotta do what a boyfriend's gotta do," he says with a soft smile, picking up the now pink shirt. "He would never get that job dressin' up like an office worker."
And there is no way he wants to move back to his mother's place.
A/N: In my headcanon Dean becomes an illustrator for children's books. :)