He doesn’t say help me blaspheme –but that is implied. He still wears a cross, even though his knees haven’t touched a pew in years. Lately, the only time he’s stepped into a church is to light a candle late at night.

But this night he wants to spit in its face, catch the water no fire for every momentarily frill it forced him to wear as a child.

But a kiss will do. Maybe. Probably.

The boy laughs and kisses him. Seamus laughs because this man is older then Seamus by at least five years but in the glossy late night glow of London there’s something young about him. Muggle, his mind supplies and Seamus is drunk enough that he almost calls him that, right there on the sidewalk at three forty in the morning.

“Mugs, damn, you can do better than that.” He says instead and the muggle tries, he does. Seamus tries to remember that later when he’s crammed onto half-a-twin with the other man smothering him with his body. Seamus right foot twinges. He kicks the air and the muggle mutters against Seamus’ neck. Seamus stops moving.

It feels, for a moment, so much like the room of requirement–where comfort often came from the simple act of leaning into one another at night. His foot kicks out again and the arm that wraps around his middle is smothering. His head starts to pound, just behind his left eye.

Its almost six am when the need to see the others drives him from bed. He pulls away from free-bed, stumbles onto his knee with a whispered curse. It’s nothing, his foot was asleep from being sandwiched down so long. Thats it. Thats all.

There’s a coffee shop Lavender goes to. Or maybe its Parvati. Or maybe it’s both. It’s a good place to start, anyway, and far more subtle then pounding on a door going, you’re alright, aren’t you?