Seamus’ aim was always impeccably off. Come to think of it, this could easily be why he never made the Quidditch team, but more importantly it’s what saved Dean from getting whacked upside the head. He should have known better, of course he should have, but that’s never stopped him in the past. “Haven’t you ever heard the phrase, ‘it’s bloody one in the afternoon and even Binns is awake and you’re still not out of bed’?” He quipped back, a grin spreading wide on his face.
He rolled his eyes. “Such dramatics,” he mumbled to himself before leaping across to his own bedside table where there was always a glass of water waiting. He picked it up and peered inside, unsure if the contents would contain actual water or paint water. It looked clean enough, and he uttered an Aguamenti and the cup filled to the brim with the clear liquid. “Need anything else? A pipe and a paper, perhaps?” He teased lightly, passing the water off to his best friend. That’s what he still was, right?
As Seamus was piecing together what he remembered from the previous night (or lack thereof), Dean was piecing together what it was that Seamus remembered. And with his comment and swat, Dean was realizing that it was next to nothing. He didn’t remember how Dean had said “I love you” first, or the kiss, or even Dean’s atrocious dance moves. (the latter he was secretly a bit relieved about) And Dean began questioning it himself. Did any of it even happen? Of course it was lovely enough to be a dream, and maybe there was a reason dreams were meant to stay just that. Lofty visions in your head.
He felt his stomach form into an uncomfortable knot. He could only relate this feeling to those occasions when Dean managed to get embarrassingly wasted (thanks to the Irishman, of course) and it wasn’t a feeling he welcomed a revisit. Especially when he was stone cold sober last night. “You really don’t remember?” He hesitated to say anything more because he himself wasn’t even sure. Seamus could have just been drunk. He always got overly emotional when he was drunk. “Nothing?” Dean twisted his fingers, finding any reason he could to avoid the inevitable. He gazed out at their feet, Dean’s almost hanging off the edge of Seamus’ bed. He wasn’t sure why, but he had convinced himself to feel a hint of embarrassment for thinking what had happened had meant something. Seamus was drunk, that’s it. That’s it.
“A paper and pipe? Who do you think I am, my dad?” Eagerly, Seamus took the cup, raising it to Dean before downing it all in one go. The water only helped sooth his throat, his pounding head? Not so much. He’s suffered many a nasty hangovers, but this one may take the cake for the absolute worst. At least he hand’t thrown up. Yet.
“No? Should I?” Dean was acting weird and with an uncomfortable jolt, Seamus realized that he must have fucked up. Again. Who did he get into a fight with? Oh god, had he hurt anyone? Made a complete asshole of himself? Putting the empty cup down, Seamus scooted over to sit beside Dean, his feet dangling next to his friend’s. Something was really off and his best mate’s silence only made it worse, until Seamus couldn’t bare it anymore.
“Come on, mate.” He leans over, nudging Dean with his whole left side-- like he had a million times before. It feels different now, though, and it’s more than the raging hangover that’s causing it. Seamus just doesn’t know what is. “Just tell me how bad it is. Whatever happened last night. Unless it’s murder, I think I can take it.”
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