[dean's apt.] 'cause i'm a little unsteady [dean]

Thud.

A tall, unsteady form collided hard with the wall of the apartment hallway, causing a ruckus and following it up with a moan of pain. It was just past two in the morning and yet the boy who was righting himself didn’t seem to care. He didn’t seem to care about much these days. Riley rubbed his arm and stumbled forward, beyond intoxicated, thankful that his apparation hadn’t splinched him into pieces. Normally he would never attempt such a thing, but tonight? Tonight he was just flat out pissed off.

“Oi!” he shouted, too loudly for any time indoors, much less the dead of night. “I’m talking to you!” he slurred, dizzy legs carrying him forward as he braced his palm along the wall to keep from falling. He was in pain, all kinds of pain. Inside, outside, physical, mental. Nothing could stop it, either. Not alcohol, not sex, not the little potions his friends had been passing him. He was so miserable that the party crowd didn’t even want him. He’d sat in the club all night, plastered, until the bouncer threw him out at last call. He had nowhere to go, no one to be with. But he sure as hell had a bone to pick.

“Open up!” he shouted, pounding on the wooden door before him. His tone was messy and desperate in the literal sense, the nineteen year old falling to pieces right then and there. “Dean! I’m not leaving until you — ” he threatened as the door finally cracked. “You!” he said, pointing a finger at him. “Gotcha,” he said, nonsensically, with bloodshot eyes and a peaked face. Hands went out, clapping against Dean’s chest, somewhere between a push and a need for support. “You didn’t think I’d come, didja?” he slurred as a very out-of-place chuckle followed.

He pushed past him, forcing his way into the apartment and stumbling so badly he fell into the wall once more. “You didn’t — you wouldn’t find me,” he said, his train of thought as perplexing as his flailing movements. “Why wouldn’t you find me, huh?” he said, his tone accusing. “Five days,” he hiccuped, turning and leaning against the wall as he eyed him. “Five days and you were nowhere, poof!” he said, motioning in front of him. The anger in his voice was quickly fading, drifting into sadness. Pain. “Why did you poof? Did you think I'd fade away?” he pleaded, his blue eyes round and filled with aching. "Think you'd just kick me to the curb like the rest of the trash?!"

And then he was slinking, sliding his back down the wall until his seat hit the ground hard and he let out a yelp. He curled his hands around his knees, pulling them to his chest. “You don’t get to poof,” he said, unable to produce the angry, heated tone he wanted. Instead it was thin, his voice cracking. “Poofing is my thing,” he said with a heated flair, “mine.” Bleary eyes met his. “Find your own thing,” he said weakly.

@Dean Thomas

It was dark when Dean woke with a start. Someone was shouting somewhere. He rolled over and tried to ignore it, but the shouting persisted. And then there was banging on what sounded like his door.

Worried this was his problem, sure of it when he heard his name, he leapt up and through to the entry. His mind got there a second before he opened the door. Riley.

Sure enough, it was Riley there. The relief he felt was secondary to the panic. He looked dreadful, even worse than when he’d last left him. Dean moved to usher him in worry from there once he was quiet and indoors, but Riley threw his hands out against his chest, shoving him back, and he stopped dead. The anger with which Riley was speaking, was moving…was this his fault, something he could have prevented?

Riley finally came inside, slamming into the wall, and Dean closed the door softly behind him, still cold in his chest. You wouldn’t find me. He’d misinterpreted things so badly. Riley hadn’t needed space, he’d needed someone to run after him. The accusations just kept coming. Dazed, Dean stood there, guilt swallowing him until Riley fell silent.

“I…” he began, helplessly. “I… You were running away. I thought you didn’t want to be found.” He could tell himself all he wanted that he couldn’t have been expected to read Riley’s mind, that none of this was his fault, but it wouldn’t make him believe it. He would still feel like he’d failed Riley so vitally. The other man needed someone who would have understood.

But right now all he had was Dean. “Do you need anything?” he asked.

“Of course I didn’t want to be found,” he slurred, shooting him a pointed glance. Not at first. He’d wanted to get away from him, from the confused, hurt eyes that had been looking back at him. Dean knew, and once people knew, they never looked at you the same way again. He set his head back against the wall, hard, not minding the pain. It reminded him he was still here, still corporeal. This was not a dream.

“Anything I need?” he said with some degree of disbelief. “How about a drink? No, wait, had enough of those,” he joked bitterly before flashing him a weak smile. It was all wrong — his smile, but twisted and pained. He shot him another glance and felt the same painful, angry taste rising in his throat. “How about a time turner? You got one of those?” he wondered, “you are the great Dean Thomas after all, man of the hour, star of the show,” he lashed.

But then he was spent, his voice cracking and his visage crumbling as his gaze fell to the floor. Why? Why was he doing this? “I’m sorry,” he squeaked, tiny and desperate. Dean was the last person he wanted to hurt and yet here he was, doing just that. “I don’t — I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said sadly, teary blue irises wandering up cautiously to meet Dean’s. “I’m… Dean, I’m not well,” he said, the words falling from his lips as tears spilled over his eyelids.

He curled up even tighter, hugging his knees, burying his face. He didn’t want Dean to see him crying and yet he couldn’t make it stop. He wept, rosy cheeks and bleary eyes hidden away from Dean’s sight. Even in his drunken stupor he knew how pathetic he was, coming here, crying on the doorstep of his ex. Or was Dean even an ex? They hadn’t even been dating, had they. His not-ex. His not-lover. His not-Dean.

“You,” he managed finally, peeking up at him. It took him a minute to gather his words, and even longer to let them out, but he couldn’t stop now. Not here. Not like this. Not when it was this important. “I need you, Dean.”

“What was I supposed to do?” asked Dean, unable to stop himself. “I tried to be there for you, you didn’t want it. So I left you alone. But clearly, that was the wrong thing.” He was growing angry in spite of himself, inflamed by the look on Riley’s face. He should have known. But how could he have? “Maybe you should go find a legilimens or something,” he muttered. “I sure as hell don’t know what you’re thinking.”

Then Riley was mocking him, his concern. Dean exhaled hard. “Since when have I been great?” he snapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve never been the great fucking Dean Thomas, I’ve never been a bloody star. Who do you think I am, what do you expect from me—“

But Riley had wilted, curled in on himself. Dean watched, guilt crashing over him again as Riley began to cry. “Hey,” he murmured, sitting down on the floor, knee to knee with Riley. “You’ve got me.”

You had me, he wanted to say. He wanted to keep being angry, feel like he was justified. But no frustration could withstand those eyes, that look.

Merlin above it was torturous, the seventh circle of hell, hearing Dean so angry like that. He was hurt too, probably worse than Riley all things considered. And here he was, a heap of limbs and tears and sobs on the floor. And Dean was being nice to him, so nice, trying to make this better. Even now, when Riley had lied and ran and come here to blame him, he was good. “You’ve always been good,” he managed, peeking up to meet his gaze.

And seeing him then, Riley just melted. He had been so steely for so long, so harsh and guarded and skeptical. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said, the words hard to manage but very important. He reached out for him, a hand finding his shoulder as he shifted. “I never want to hurt you, I’m just… I’m no good,” he breathed, confessing it all to him. “You’re a good man, a great man, and I’m me,” he says, his insecurities clear. The alcohol helped, for sure. He swallowed, still teary, still sorrowful.

“I don’t know how to handle this, how to be like this,” he said to him, “when I miss you so badly? I left, it was my fault, and I wanted to find you but I… I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, I’m such an idiot,” he murmured, falling back against the wall. “I haven’t been sober Dean, I’ve not had a clear day since you — since I left,” he offered. “This is me, messy and awful and pathetic,” he slurred, tapping his chest. “This isn’t what you deserve. I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t make you deal with this.”

He moved then, as though to stand and spare Dean, and fell onto all fours, trembling. “Just… need to…. get up,” he tried again, determined.

Riley did not fight back. He just kind of sat back and took it, eyes shimmering with tears. Dean couldn’t keep going against that. Couldn’t fight with someone who just admitted their fault. His instinct then was to take it back then. “I just meant—“ he said. “I meant—I don’t know what you need me to do.”

He wanted to help, desperately. But what if Riley really was no good? What if he was too much for Dean to deal with, too unhealthy to be in a relationship with, too stressful to love no matter how much he cared? He couldn’t do this every day. He couldn’t help someone who believed they were nothing, and he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t.

But when Riley was sitting there so helplessly he couldn’t imagine him being hurtful or hard. “Hey,” he said, “hey.” He didn’t know what else to say. So he just gathered Riley into his arms there on the floor of the entry, tucking his head into the crook of his neck and rubbing his back as he sobbed and shook. The man had never felt small until now. It was a curious feeling, unlike holding him before.

Riley didn't deserve any of this either. He didn’t deserve to live the way he did. Dean wanted to get him a job, let him move in, feed him and care for him. But he didn’t know whether Riley wanted to be cared for.

The floor was cold and hard and unrelenting. He was a heap of limbs as Dean spoke softly, pulling him into his arms, gathering him as he fell to pieces. Riley really lost it then, all of it hitting him. What he’d done, what he’d said, how he’d fled. How he’d come here, plastered beyond his ability to walk, throwing his baggage at Dean’s doorstep. He sobbed right into Dean’s shoulder, clutching him for dear life as the man slid gentle hands up and down his back.

It had been ages since he’d been hugged like this, properly. Held by someone he genuinely cared about while he was in pain, while he felt himself falling to pieces. The last time he could remember was the funeral — when they laid his mother to rest and the kind people who remembered her were there to share their condolences. Poor Riley — no grandfather, no mother. No family left to speak of. Just a deadbeat dad somewhere in London, even now a mystery to him. But Dean wasn’t a mystery, he was flesh and bone and warmth. And Merlin above, if this could be salvaged, he’d do so in any way he could.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted for the third time. He couldn’t say it enough, the word itself was beginning to lose its meaning. What did one say when they were sorrier than sorry? Riley didn’t have the vocabulary to suit his penance. His hands dug into Dean’s shirt, bunching the fabric, clinging to him with all he had. If he couldn’t say it, he would show it. He pressed cheek to cheek with him, hands sliding up to curl around his head, to cradle him in turn. Dean looked stable and mended but Riley knew that he had hurt him, too. “I want to fix it,” he confessed as they were there, two intertwined forms on the floor.

“I want to make it all better, I want to be good for you,” he offered in a sweet, though tired voice. “I’ve done a lot of bad things…” he managed, the words hard to say but all the more important. “Losing you, Dean, that can’t be one of them. Please.”

Riley’s arms slid around him, holding onto him. Dean had been gentle but Riley returned the hug with a desperate strength, clinging, needing. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d held someone like this. His mother, maybe, before he went running. Or Seamus the first time he’d seen him again. Years.

“Then don’t run away again,” said Dean with a soft little laugh, leaning in to meet Riley’s eyes.

He slipped an arm under Riley’s, around his back. “You’ll fix it in the morning, okay?” he said. “It’s really late.” And you’re really drunk. “C’mon, up you get.” It had crossed his mind to carry him but Dean wasn’t sure Riley, even in this state, would agree. Helping him up instead, he led Riley into the bedroom, let him go, threw back the rumpled covers.

“You can sleep here,” said Dean as he climbed back into bed. It wasn’t as if he never had. But this was so different. A new level of intimacy, the sort they’d never explored. Learning each other’s lives, secrets. Failure and apology.

Riley matched Dean’s laugh with a hiccuped one of his own. He buried his face against the man’s shirt, wiping his tears, inhaling his scent. Losing all of his pain and letting its void be filled entirely by Dean Thomas. “Never again,” he promised, his words slurred but with some degree of certainty. Even in his inebriation, some things were crystal clear. “Late, yes, I’m so sorry,” he whined as Dean helped him up. It was a feat, but with the man’s help his limbs seemed to reconnect to his brain.

He walked alongside him, leaning on him in every sense of the word, until a glorious, perfect bed appeared in his gaze. “It’s so beautiful,” he whimpered, perhaps nonsensically, but to Riley a bed was a luxury. Especially now, when he was aching, when he was cold. The man kicked off his shoes haphazardly and half-sat, half-fell onto the mattress as Dean settled down once more. Riley turned towards him, pulling the cover back over them both as he nuzzled up to the man’s warmth. “Thank you,” he breathed, his words genuine and heartfelt. He kissed his cheek, his neck, lingering.

“In the morning,” he murmured, his eyes heavy and bleary as he rested on Dean’s chest. “All better, I promise, whatever I can,” he rambled sleepily. Despite his fatigue he was fighting sleep, trying to feign off the darkness for one more moment to tell Dean what this meant to him. There were no words, no sounds, no easy ways to profess it all. Instead he kissed his jaw lazily, one last time, his body giving in. “Promise,” he whispered. And all at once, the world was dark and the healing began.

His alarm went off at seven. Dead tired and magnetically attracted to the warmth around him, it took Dean a few moments to shut it off. Lazily, heavily, he heaved himself up to a sitting position, and then he remembered what had happened when he saw Riley’s head resting on the other pillow. He wouldn’t be going to class today. He couldn’t. Not that he could get excused for boy troubles, but he’d take the absence. Talking to Riley, taking care of him, felt more important.

Hoping the other man hadn’t been woken by the alarm, or at least could easily get back to sleep, Dean slipped out of bed. He was awake now, and there were things to take care of. Breakfast to make. An outfit to decide on. After some deliberation he took a set of clothes to the bathroom to dress, leaving Riley some peace and quiet.

He emerged fully cleaned and dressed save for shoes (too loud). Shuffling about the kitchen, he started some coffee for himself and Riley and poked about in the fridge to see what he had. There were a few eggs that he cracked open in a pan, and the end of a loaf of bread. He had forgotten the last time he’d eaten breakfast. Usually he only did whenever someone stayed over.

With Riley, he'd had several breakfasts. They’d gotten to know each other’s coffee preferences, done newspaper puzzles, had so many eggs. Dean had resolved to learn to cook other things as their relationship progressed. A bit of a wrench had been thrown into that.

He pushed the eggs around the pan, throwing glances back at the door every few moments. With luck, he’d have to start learning.

Riley heard a buzzing sound, but it was not enough to stir him. When the warmth beside him faded, he felt himself slowly drifting towards the waking world, shuffling movements and doors sounding off lightly around him. It wasn’t until he heard the sizzling of a pan and smelled the warm mocha of a cup of coffee that he opened his eyes. The room was familiar to him, almost like his room by now. Dean’s room, Dean’s apartment. Dean’s bed. Dean’s covers. Dean’s smell all around him.

He sat up slowly, woozy, rubbing palms into his eye sockets as he took it all in. He yawned, wincing as he remembered. Grimacing at the thought. He was stupid on a good day but when he was drunk? Downright foolish. He looked down, still dressed in last nights clothes. He hadn’t even managed to get his socks off before he crashed. He remembered the crying, the yelling, Dean’s warmth and kindness. Cautiously, he tiptoed towards the door and peeked out. He knew what he wanted to see, but he wasn’t going to get his hopes up. He’d been a pill last night, after all.

What he saw was picturesque — Dean, tall and strong, pushing some eggs around the frying pan. Two steamy cups of coffee sitting there waiting for them. If Riley’s memory didn’t betray it all, this would feel like any other morning. Any other wonderful morning. And so, Riley decided to take that as it was. He wandered out, seeing him for the first time in the day’s light. He opened his mouth, looking for the words, but none came. None that were right, anyway. He looked puzzled for a moment before moving instead, sneaking closer to him and wrapping arms around his waist from behind. He held him, letting him continue his cooking while he let his body do the talking. I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I want this so badly.

He nuzzled greeting kisses into his neck, onto his earlobe, squeezing him tighter and taking nothing for granted. “Smells incredible,” he finally said, relinquishing his grip, sliding back to grab his coffee. He eyed it, the light brown shade, and smiled. “You remembered,” he said, not surprised at all that Dean knew how he took his coffee but noting his care about such things on this morning to be particularly perfect. He brought the cup to his lips, sipping gently, letting the liquid heal all the parts that sleep had not. He took a breath, waiting, never wanting let go of the comfort of this moment but also knowing there was much that had transpired.

“So…. about last night….” he tried. Would Dean want to talk about it? Or would he want to just be for awhile?

He heard the door creak open, the padding of feet. “Oh,” he said as Riley emerged from the bedroom. “Hi—I hoped I’d be done by the time you got up—sorry.” Riley didn’t answer, not with words. He moved over to slide his hands around Dean’s chest, holding him tightly. Surprised by the affection, he craned his neck to look back at Riley. “’Morning,” he said, curving his neck back into the kisses. “I sort of hoped you’d sleep longer. You looked like you needed it.”

Finishing off the eggs, he tipped them onto a waiting plate. "Just take what you want," he said. "And oh—toast, you can make toast if you like too—or I can make it…” He was too flustered this morning, now that Riley was here, watching him. He’d wanted everything to be ready and waiting and perfect.

Riley began a question, and slowly, Dean drew in breath. He didn’t know what to say. “If—“ he said eventually, “you want me to forget it, it’s forgotten. It’s all forgotten.” He didn’t understand Riley, he couldn’t, but he knew nothing could have been easy. What kind of person would he be if he held anything against him?

Riley was happy to be here, with him, like this. But at his words he wondered if he should’ve laid in longer, pulled the covers back over himself and rested until all of this was settled and picturesque. But Riley wasn’t that guy, the one to wait around until it was pristine and untouched. He wanted to see it all, experience it all, share in every moment that he could. Especially today, when last night had been such a mess and nothing seemed to go right. He didn’t want a magazine snapshot of a life with Dean — he wanted the real thing.

“Thank you,” he said, spooning a portion of the eggs onto a plate of his own and making himself busy as Dean continued. He was nervous, too nervous, hesitant to bring the subject up at all but knowing full well it was the elephant in the room. Dean’s reply was smooth, thankfully, though Riley found himself stopping to give him a look. Could he really? Forget it all? It sounded appealing, the easiest solution, but it was also untrue. Riley knew that if this was going to work it needed to be real. He considered his words for a moment before replying.

“If you can forget the messy, blubbery bits, that’d be swell,” he offered, taking a sip of his coffee to allow the words to linger. It was anything but his proudest moments, those drunken slurs, the needy crying. Few people had seen him that badly but on some level he was glad that Dean had. If he’d gotten through that much, he stood a much better chance at getting through the rest of it. “But there’s two things I really do want you to remember,” he added, taking a step towards him. “The part where I said I needed you,” he began, his eyes meeting Dean’s, “and the part where I said I want to be good for you,” he finished.

The words were surprisingly easy rolling off his tongue, vulnerable and true and fearless. It was how he felt, deep down inside, knowing how much he wanted this. He’d wanted him since the first day he saw him in the halls of Hogwarts and to be here, now, in this kitchen with him? Madness. A magic that even the brightest of diviners could never foresee. He hooked a hand around his waist and pulled him into a soft and tender kiss — passionate, raw, but loving and affectionate. He pulled back slowly, smiling, trying to embrace the easiness and their mutual desire to move forward. He didn’t consider himself an optimist, really, but here and now he was sure as hell gonna try.

“Now sit down,” he said, brushing past him and grabbing the bread. “I’m making us toast.” It was his turn to take care of Dean, just a little bit, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Riley was looking at him like he didn’t believe him. Dean squared his shoulders in discomfort. Well, of course he would never forget. Not when last night could have been the first night of the rest of his life. But he would forget it for all intents and purposes, try not to judge Riley by what he’d said, what he’d done then. Do his best to let him move past things he wanted to leave behind.

“Well then,” he snapped his fingers, “forgotten.” But Riley continued, moving close to him again. “You don’t have to be good for me,” said Dean quickly, on instinct. “Be you, for you.” The last thing he wanted was to put pressure on Riley to change. He didn’t want artificial what-he-thought-he-wanted Riley. But did he want a Riley that wasn’t good, that needed too much of him? And he knew he didn’t want a Riley who slept with other people, financial obligation or no.

But that didn't sound like part of who Riley was, or at least, who Riley wanted to be. The way Dean saw it, who you were was who you felt good about being. And if he could help in the journey there, he would do what he could.

Their kiss was so sweet he could die, so much across such a small space meeting. He pulled his lips back, head curving in close, snaking around Riley and wanting to hold him with all he had. But the other man pulled away. With a soft laugh, Dean rounded the counter and sat, pulling his coffee toward him across the surface. “Knock yourself out.”

Riley couldn’t stop smiling as he dropped a few slices of bread into the toaster. It was an odd feeling, fluttery and light and yet so intense all the same. He felt like he was flying and falling and he didn’t know whether he was going to hit the ground. Stranger yet, he didn’t care. If this was it, all there was, he was good. He was satisfied. He was happy. He rested his palms on the counter and stood for a moment, thinking, pondering.

Be you, for you. That’s what Dean had said. The words were mulling over and over in his mind as he considered them. Did he even know himself anymore? He was so different than the boy he’d once been — baking with his mother, helping his grandfather. He used to be young and lovesick but now it all felt older and twisted. It had been so long since he felt something, something beyond physicality. Something beyond what happened between the sheets and under the influence of something chemical.

The toaster popped and it snapped him back to reality so quickly that he jumped, letting out a little laugh of surprise. “I… want to be good for me,” he said, slowly, turning back to look at Dean. “For both of us,” he added, meeting his gaze. It was partially a statement and partially a promise, and on some level it was a wish. He grabbed a plate and slipped the golden bread onto it, meandering towards the other man, setting it before him.

He reached out, resting his arms on Dean’s shoulders and smiling as he closed the distance between them. “I think I can be good again,” he said softly. He nodded towards the plate and leaned closer. “Jam?” he wondered, kissing his cheek. “Butter?” he added, kissing the other. “Something else?” he purred before kissing his lips, slowly parting them, savoring it. He’d been so petrified to lose him, for all of this to go away, that now he was hypersensitive to the man. Every sensation, every scent, every taste.

There was much to discuss, many problems to solve. They both knew it. Even so, Riley found himself having a hard time imagining doing anything besides praising Dean with mind, body, and soul.