The Seventh Sinner

Part II: Birds of a Feather

"Do you think I should call his flat?" Blaise sat on edge of the empty stage in The Seventh Sinner, letting a few rays of afternoon sunlight fall across his pale, freckled face through the heavy drapes pulled nearly shut over the windows.

"Whose?" Mycroft looked up from his sheet music.

"Seamus's."

Mycroft shrugged. "If you like. He's not technically late, though. He's just . . . Not hanging about like he usually does." He frowned. "Who was the fellow he was meeting last night?"

"Terry Boot. My ex-boyfriend, turned double agent, turned hotshot magazine columnist."

"Right, so you said . . ." Mycroft turned back to his music.

"What do you think they talked about? Me?"

"Didn't you tell Seamus to?"

"Was it stupid of me?"

"It's your funeral. Why do I have the piano accompaniment to 'Proud Mary?'"

"You ask me like I should know. You think I shouldn't have told him to see if Terry wants to see me?"

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty." Mycroft sighed and tossed aside his music. "Look, Blaise, all I can really do is spout clichés at you. I don't know what went on between Seamus and Terry last night; you've got a better idea of that than I do. I don't know whether or not Terry will want to see you, whether Seamus presented him with the option. But I will tell you one thing: Either he loves you or he doesn't, and either you love him or you don't. Now, since you've decided that you do, all that's left is to find out if he returns the feeling, right? So why don't you say something for once? I tell you, Blaise, you're sure one for keeping your feelings to yourself. Are you afraid of getting hurt?"

"Well, what if I do?"

"What if you don't?"

"I've gone so long without trying to tell him. Why should I now?"

"Because it's too late for then and later is too far away and uncertain. Look, do you know what would have happened if I hadn't gathered up what little courage I had, walked up to Dove and said, 'Look, Dove, don't marry that debutante just because your parents want you to; I love you and always will, so you'd better get used to it?'"

"What would have happened?"

"He would have married the debutante his parents wanted him to and moved with her to New York City and both of us would have been very miserable."

"And if he doesn't want me?"

"Then he's stupid. Because, in spite of his pretty little eyeliner boys, he's just as alone as you are. And you're so much more than any of them will ever be."

"Yeah, sure. Me, who works a little job where I get paid to do nothing, because there's nothing I can do. Me, who lost everything my family ever had, and doesn't even have the decency to talk to them anymore. Like a fucking fairy-tale prince, fallen from power and banished into exile."

"Just be like this to him."

"Bitter?"

"No, open and honest. Because, in all honesty, I wouldn't even be sure that he deserves you. You underestimate yourself, Blaise."

Sighing, he stood up and said to Mycroft, "I think I'll go call Seamus, then. See where he is. What happened to Terry. I wonder what he's like now . . ."

Seamus's eyelids slowly fluttered open and he was immediately blinded by the midday sun through the open window. Jesus Christ, why didn't my alarm go off hours ago? Slowly sitting up, he realized that he was still in his jeans and tee-shirt, and--Jesus Christ. Not my flat.

Beside him on the bed lay Terry Boot, still asleep, still fully clothed, his hair tousled and pushed back from his face.

"He looks so horribly innocent when he's sleeping," Seamus muttered. "Wonder if I ought to wake him."

The David Bowie album still turned lazily in the record player, the needle caught in the groove after the last song. Carefully slipping off the bed so as not to awake Terry, Seamus crossed the room and picked up the needle, letting it drop into the groove before the last song he remembered hearing before falling asleep.

"I'm an alligator!" the record declared. "I'm a mama-papa comin' for you . . ."

Terry stirred and rubbed a hand over his eyes, smearing his tasteful ash-brown eyeliner.

"Good morning, starshine," Seamus told him drily.

"Did I fall asleep?"

"No, of course not."

"Shut up, Finnigan. How many times am I going to fall asleep with you listening to Bowie records?"

"The good thing is, this time, Ron won't run in and find us. The bad thing is, if I don't get going, they'll be wondering why I'm not down at the club, making a general nuisance of myself." Seamus yawned. "I suppose I'll go, then."

"You have to be there this early?"

"Not really. I just usually don't have anywhere better to be."

"Usually?"

"Well, once I was at a launderette, and once I was getting a haircut, but, really, I usually have nothing better to do."

"And they pay you for that?"

"Well, as long as I get through all my shows, I get four-hundred a week." Seamus shrugged. "Hanging around is just something to do."

"Not bad . . . I expect Blaise isn't paid as much . . ." Terry shrugged. "Not that it matters. Are you leaving?"

"Yeah. It's been interesting, Terry, but--"

"Wait, don't leave yet. I want to make you pancakes." Terry reached out as if to take Seamus by the arm, but hesitated at the last second and touched his cheek.

"You can make pancakes?"

"From a mix." Terry laughed. "Don't look so shocked. I'm perfectly capable of making anything that comes in a box."

"And when it comes to real food?"

"There, you're on your own." Leading Seamus to the bedroom door, he said, "Go out there, make yourself comfortable, wait for me. I'll be out in a minute."

"He's not home. He didn't answer the phone." Blaise sank into a chair at the table at the edge of the stage. "He could have done the decent thing and lived in Diagon Alley. Then it would be much easier to get in touch with him . . ."

"Maybe that's the point," Mycroft offered. "After all, you don't live in--"

"I know." Blaise paused. "I don't think I should Apparate, do you?"

"To his flat?"

Blaise nodded.

"You never got a license, did you?"

"No. And I wouldn't do it, anyway. We're not actually friends, if I'm remembering what I said to him last night. But it's not like him to be this late . . . Especially not after he was supposed to be meeting Terry last night."

"Maybe it is just like him, then." Mycroft's tone was distant, as if it took effort just to sound interested. "Look, Blaise, you're wavering."

"I'm not. I thought I made it perfectly clear last night." Blaise glared at him.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, "you did." He chuckled. "You made it perfectly clear that you, Blaise Zabini, have no course of action at all."

Blaise stood, shaking his head, and called over his shoulder as he walked out, "I swore off courses of action when I quit the Mafia."

Mycroft looked up from his music. "You were in the Mafia?"

"No," Blaise called from backstage. "Not really. You can ask Seamus about it sometime. That is, assuming that Terry's told him all about my dark and sordid past . . ."

"What about you?" Seamus said suddenly. "You have a dark and sordid past?"

He bit his tongue. Stupid question. It had occurred to him, however, that he knew very little about Terry Boot. That he'd always known very little about Terry Boot. Maybe that's what had attracted him, back at Hogwarts: The mystery of a pale, blue-haired siren who seemed to alternate between saying whatever came to his head without considering the consequences, and carefully choosing his words to give him an illusion of . . . Of what? Strength. Of being able to fend for himself. Of not needing anybody.

It was a stupid question.

Of course he had a dark and sordid past.

"Do I have a what?" Terry looked up from the box of pancake mix.

"Nothing." Seamus went back to his coffee. "I asked if you had a dark and sordid past." He tried not to look at Terry.

Terry sitting on the kitchen counter in his red plaid boxers and nothing else. Nothing else, except for a pair of silver-framed reading glasses. "Would you believe I've got astigmatism?" he had asked with a wry smile when he put them on, before he could give Seamus time to make a comment of his own.

"No," Seamus had said, for something to say. Hell, he didn't even know what astigmatism was.

"Oh, come on," Terry had laughed. "Look at my eyes! You don't think it looks like something's wrong with them?"

Seamus hadn't looked; he remembered Terry's eyes well enough. One green, one yellow.

"Dark and sordid past," Terry repeated, with that smile that Seamus didn't quite trust. "What, afraid you're in over your head, Finnigan?"

"I didn't know I was in anything," Seamus replied slowly.

"Of course you are. What do you think that was just now?" He nodded in the direction of his bedroom.

"You, er, snog-attacking me." Stupid answer. First stupid questions, now stupid answers. And, really, when he was honest with himself, he had to admit he hadn't put up much of a fight. Then again, he never did.

"Snog-attack? Christ, you sound like a stupid third year." He rolled his eyes. "What are you trying to protect, anyway, Seamus? Is it Blaise?" A laugh. "I wouldn't worry about him. He can't always get what he wants."

"That's a very harsh view," Seamus said.

"It's true. When was the last time you got what you wanted?" Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "And as for my dark and sordid past, you shouldn't even ask. Ask Blaise, if you have to. He knows all about it." Terry didn't bother to mask the bitterness in his voice. "And I know all about his. I know all about the---" He broke off, staring intently at Seamus. "What does Blaise wear?"

You mean other than woman's underwear? "A lot of black. Black jeans and shirts, usually."

"Tee-shirts?"

"Yeah." Seamus failed to see why Terry found this important, but he seemed satisfied with Seamus's answer.

"Good. Just checking."

Seamus shifted uneasily in his chair. "Look, Terry, about that, ah, impromptu Frenching session, if that's what you'd rather call it---"

"Don't mention it." Terry smirked. "Not to you-know-who, at least. And don't feel guilty about it. I don't."

"Well, that's because you don't have a conscience," Seamus snapped. He clapped a hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that.

"You're right. I don't." Terry shook his head. "One of those commodities Mummy and Daddy couldn't afford when I was a kid." He wriggled off the counter and crossed over to Seamus. Leaning over him, his lips brushing Seamus's ear, he whispered, "Jesus Christ, Seamus Finnigan, I think I want you."

Pulling away, Seamus said, "You can't always get what you want."

Terry straightened up and heaved a theatrical sigh. "Ain't it the truth."

"Yes."

"Pity."

"Maybe."

"Only maybe?"

"Certainly, then. But there's nothing to be done for it."

"Seamus, you're hopeless. Why bother? Blaise isn't getting me back, anyway. And you can't say my proposition doesn't hold certain appeal. You've got a couple hours to kill." His hand was on Seamus's cheek, turning his face to look into his eyes.

Seamus swallowed and tried to think of benign, non-sexual things: hot cocoa, knee socks, prunes . . . It didn't help. There was still a face less than a foot from his. A beautiful face, an almost delicate face . . . The face of an angel or a devil . . . With lips like rose petals, so soft, so pink, so damn tempting . . . With lips that were curved into a slight smile, as if to say, "I know exactly what you're thinking." He probably did know, too. The bastard.

An endless three seconds passed. Seamus was trying to think clearly and failing. God, he's beautiful, but . . . No, I couldn't. Could I? Why not? Because. What would I tell Blaise? Why do I have to tell him anything? Because he deserves to know. But why? Oh, God, he's so beautiful. So. Fucking. Beautiful. Why can't I just---?

All thought ended then. He was just aware of his lips touching Terry's, softly at first, but then more roughly. More violently. He was aware of the way he forced his tongue into Terry's mouth, the way he twisted his hand into Terry's hair, the way Terry's hand groped to do the same to him. Of the way they somehow, somehow, ended up in the next room, Terry's back against the bedroom door, his hand feeling for the doorknob, of Terry's other hand trying to undo Seamus's belt . . .

Seamus pulled away, like a swimmer resurfacing, coming up for air. "Terry, I . . . I couldn't."

"You know damn well you could."

"I won't, then." But I want to.

"Suit yourself. But bear in mind: You initiated this one."

"I know. I wish I hadn't." A lie.

"You don't." Terry smoothed his hair, straightened his reading glasses, and held Seamus in a rather pitying gaze.

"All right. I don't wish I hadn't. But I will later."

"Fair enough. You still want pancakes?"

"No."

"Good. I wouldn't have known how to make them, anyway. What are you going to do now? Go to your club?"

"Yes."

"What will you tell your precious Blaise?"

"My precious . . . ?" Seamus stared at him.

"More yours than mine. And for that I'm thankful. You're probably a better influence on him, you being a decent person and all." Terry's expression was hard to read.

"I don't think I'm any influence on him at all," Seamus said. "We don't spend much time together. Or even talk that much. Quite honestly, I have about as much insight into the mind of that ex-Slytherin ex-hero as I do into the mind of . . . A dementor."

"Good metaphor." Terry smiled.

Seamus attempted to smile back.

"Now, why don't you stay? The more you talk, the less important Blaise seems to be to you. You notice that? Now you're saying you're no influence on him. Which I don't believe. You set a good example, you know. And that will bloody well influence people. Whether or not you want it, and whether or not they want it."

"I don't set a good example," Seamus confessed. "Not anymore. What was it you were saying last night about my reputation?"

"Oh, that." Terry waved it away. "Not important. We're birds of a feather, you and I, aren't we? In that area, anyway. Other than that, you're still a good example and I still don't have a conscience. Now, can we continue what we were doing without any more moral breakdowns?"

"I don't know." Seamus laughed and shook his head. "I can't believe I just said that I don't know. As if I was considering saying yes. Being near you does that to me, I think. Makes me want to stop thinking about the consequences of my actions, makes me want to throw caution into the wind, makes me want to--"

Terry kissed him.

"Why me?" Seamus heard himself whisper, not really understanding the question.

Terry understood. "Maybe because there was never anyone else. Maybe because you went out of your way to be nice to me, without expecting anything in return. Maybe because Blaise was right: You are a decent person. And you were the first decent person to care about me. Which gives me a question for you: Why me?"

Seamus shrugged. "I thought you deserved it."

After a long pause, Terry asked carefully, "Seamus, if you didn't have to think about the consequences of your actions, would you let me . . . ?"

A deep breath. "Yes. We could."

"But can we?"

"I don't know, Terry. We've got nothing, the two of us. We're just operating on bits of memories that might not mean anything anyway. After all, the remnants of schoolboy hormones aren't really a basis for--I mean, I never knew much about you. And I know less about you now than I did then. Me, I'm an open book; anyone who wants to know anything about me doesn't have to wonder for long."

"I wouldn't say that."

"You wouldn't?"

"Nope. Seamus Finnigan, you still confuse the hell out of me. You probably always will. But it's what I love about you."

"You know what I love about you?"
"What?"

"Those moments when you let your guard down and stop acting like you've got something to prove. You know, those moments when you almost accidentally trust people." Seamus paused. "Wait, that's what you love about me?"

"Among other things."

"I never know when to believe what you say. Usually, the better it sounds, the less likely I am to buy it."

"What does that mean?"

"That I don't believe all the that's-what-I-love-about-you stuff."

"Do you have to? How often has it been true, anyway? They all say it. They all say almost anything, don't they?"

"What did your little boy last night have to say to you?"

"'Hello.'"

"God, you're easy. Usually I last at least until, 'How are you?'"

Terry grinned. "Whore!"

"Right back atcha."

"Birds of a feather, just like I said. Might as well flock together."

"Well, that's the first time I've heard it called that."

"Mycroft?"

"Seamus, there you are. I was beginning to think you were dead."

"I might as well be."

"How's that?"

Seamus sat on the edge of the stage beside Mycroft. "I've done something horrible. I've earned my go-to-Hell car. Go to Hell, go directly to Hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect--"

"Would this have anything to do with the gentleman you met last night?"

"Maybe . . . Yes."

"Yes, it did. I can tell. What did you do?"

"You want details?"

"Seamus. You're not telling me you did what I think you're telling me you did?"

"I--What? This is no time for mind games, Mycroft."

"All right: Did you or didn't you engage in sexual activities with a certain Mr. Terry Boot?"

"How did you know his name?"

"I've already talked to Blaise today. I had to; you weren't here, so I had nobody else to fill the silence. Answer the question."

"Yes. To some extent. To a relatively involved extent, I guess." Seamus looked helplessly to Mycroft. "What am I supposed to do now? I told Blaise I'd tell him whatever Terry said."

"So tell him what he said, and not what he did. I'm not usually a fan of lying, but in this case, I would like it if you did a bit."

"I'll feel horrible."

"You deserve to."

"You're heartless!"

"No. Honest."

"Well, so'm I," Seamus shot back.

"You and your tragic flaws. You do want to do the decent thing, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure I do, but . . ."

"Don't worry about it, Seamus," a voice said flatly from behind them. "I've heard the whole thing."

Leaning against the frame of the backstage door, Blaise gave Seamus his best unreadable, deadpan stare.

"Jesus, Blaise. I didn't know you were there."

"I know. It's called eavesdropping."

"Well, aren't you two a fine pair?" Mycroft asked, standing up. "Seamus with his go-directly-to-Hell card and Blaise with no course of action. I'm going out to get a cup of coffee now and leave you two."

When he had gone, Blaise advanced slowly: A cat stalking his prey. "Define 'to a relatively involved extent.'"

"Are you asking to make me feel uncomfortable or do you really want to know? Because I'm really pretty uncomfortable already, so . . ."

"Kissing?" Blaise asked.

"Er . . . Yes."

"Full-out snogging?"

"Yes."

"Hand jobs?"

"Well, no."

"Blow jobs?"

"Um. Well." Seamus could feel his face burning to the tips of his ears.

"Yes?"

Seamus nodded meekly. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die, I want to die, Iwanttodie . . .

"Giving or receiving?"

"Me?"

"Yes." Despite his stony expression, it seemed almost as if Blaise was enjoying this, somewhere deep down. Enjoying making Seamus squirm and blush and hate himself.

"Er. What were the choices again?" Seamus shrank back at Blaise's glare, and whispered, "Receiving."

"Figured as much. Pretty fucking brilliant, isn't he?"

Seamus couldn't read Blaise's tone of voice. "I . . . I guess."

"Well, he'd have to be," Blaise continued, "all things considering. He's had, what? Ten years of practice? Eleven, maybe?"

"Come on, Blaise," Seamus said. "He hasn't been doing that since the age of twelve."

"Shows how little you know about him. D'you know where he's from?"

"London, somewhere."

"He's never told you The Sad Little Fable of the Knockturn Alley Slut and the Mafioso-in-Training that Loved Him?"

"Knockturn Allet slut?" Seamus repeated.

"His words, not mine," Blaise replied. "Sometimes I think he was almost proud of it. Not that he told anyone at school. I, on the other hand, told everyone what I was and wasn't proud of it in the slightest." He took Mycroft's seat at the piano and regarded Seamus thoughtfully. "But, his bad habits aside, what's he like now?"

"Very beautiful. Very alone. And, if I'm reading him right, very unhappy. And not a little dangerous. He asked about you." It wasn't quite a lie.

"What did he ask?"

"Well, what kind of shirts you wore."

"He wanted to know if I was wearing only long-sleeved shirts," Blaise said. "Well, you told him I wasn't, so now he can be either relieved or disappointed, depending on whether or not he's still somewhat human or a complete bastard. I suppose I should fake humanity as well and ask whether he drinks like a fish."

"No, not like a fish." At least, Seamus didn't think he'd define Terry's alcohol habits as fish-like. Definitely present, maybe, but not extreme.

"Well, that's good. He didn't really before, though. I was just always convinced that he would someday."

"He smokes, too, though. Did he pick that up from you?"

"No. I didn't want him to. It's a nasty habit. How many times have I claimed I was quitting now?" As if to illustrate his point, Blaise pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one.

"Several times. When did you start?"

"When I was fifteen and stupid."

"And long-sleeved shirts are relevant to what?"

"My arms." Blaise took a deep breath. "Specifically, what I used to do to my arms. With razor blades." He held out his right arm. "Look closely."

Seamus leaned over and studied the faded, nearly invisible web of scars that covered Blaise's pale skin.

"The scars you're looking at are just the really deep ones," Blaise informed him. "Most of them were shallow, but I heal well. Anyway, by the middle of seventh year, I had gotten pretty bad about it. Terry and I were on the rocks, then, of course, but I think that was more an effect than a cause. Sometimes he'd worry about me, I think. And, ah, that's when he decided he didn't want to have sex anymore. He didn't like sleeping with someone whose arms were always bandaged, you see? And so we stopped and realized that our relationship had really just become an excuse for the sex . . . So we ended it."

"That's tragic, you know. You two really had something when you started out." Seamus smiled. "Can I say something?"

"Go ahead. I've already said more than I should have."

"Back when you two were starting out, like I said, I used to look at the way you'd look at Terry and . . . Well, that was what being in love looked like. I was always kind of jealous."

"Oh, please."

"What?"

"'What being in love looked like?'" He rolled his eyes. "You're such a sap."

"I know. But weren't you?"
"I guess I thought so. But you're changing the subject."

"I was? I wasn't trying to . . . Not exactly. What subject?"

"Terry giving you amazing head," Blaise said.

"I never want to hear those words again. Especially not from you."

"Terry giving you amazing head. Terry giving you amaz--"

"Blaise, shut up."

"Sorry."

"Well, what am I supposed to say about it? Other than the fact that I'm very sorry and I feel like shit."

"That makes me feel better, bizarrely enough."

"Glad to hear it. So . . . You're not going to hold this against me?"

Blaise flashed a wicked grin. "No. I'll just bring it up at inopportune moments. But I think I might hold it against Terry, because at this point, what difference will one more thing make?" He laughed.

"Is that funny?"

"Yes. It shouldn't be, should it?"

"No, it can be. If it isn't, then it's painful."

"Exactly. And, in case you hadn't noticed, we Slytherins are like that: We find painful things funny. We have to. Did you ever spend much time around Malfoy before he died?"

"No. Why?"

"Well, he's a prime example. He was a phenomenal bastard, of course, but that's another unavoidable Slytherin attribute. At any rate, you know how Malfoy killed his mother . . . Actually, I'd be surprised if you did. He didn't want anyone to know. He didn't know himself until someone told him. Well, okay, he didn't know until I told him, but I thought he already knew. He was at the villa at the time recovering from some sort of curse, and one night he ended up with me, Nott, and about a dozen bottles of firewhiskey. And I've got to admit something . . . I lied last night."

"About what?"

"I said that I was a Zabini and we don't get drunk, remember? Well, I'm a Zabini and we don't usually get drunk. But I think I kind of did that night, because I remember saying a lot of crap like, 'The Zabinis had five generations of power and money, and all it took was one do-gooder fairy boy to bring it all down.' But I was nowhere near as drunk as Malfoy, who said, 'Did you hear? I killed my own mother and didn't even know it!' And he started laughing and laughing. It was kind of terrifying, but I would have dismissed it as drunken hysterics if he didn't do the same thing a few days later, while completely sober."

"Was he in his right mind?"

"Yes. That's the worst part." Blaise shrugged. "It's no secret that a lot of people would have liked him to be put out of commission. People on both sides. Me? I just figured that as long as he was willing to risk his neck, I wouldn't dream of stopping him."

"Okay, now you're the one changing the subject. To Draco Malfoy, of all things. Blaise?"

"Yes?"

"How do you feel about Terry?"

He shrugged. "It's not important. I'm not going to get him and I don't want what I can't get."

"I don't believe you. Everyone wants things they can't get."

"And gets things they can't want."

Seamus stood. "Maybe so. I'm going to go fool with my wardrobe for tonight. You know where to find me."

As Blaise watched Seamus walk away, he forced himself to admit it: Sometimes you want what you can't get. But sometimes you want things you weren't supposed to want in the first place . . .