Disclaimer: Yes. I own iCarly. I'm also the pope. And the inventor of water.
A/N: Okay, guys. This is my dive into the iCarly fandom. I read iCarly fanfic like crazy, and I have a whole bunch of oneshots saved on my computer, but this is my first attempt at posting. I'm a little nervous. New fandoms are a little scary, aren't they? Well anyway, here goes. Hope you enjoy! Seddie, but it's mild. Even though...well, you'll see :D Okay, five…four…three…two…

We're at the Shays' apartment, as usual. I'm officially in the Danger Zone, because Carly raced to the bathroom the second we got home. So you and I are just standing here, looking at each other.

We've changed over the years; a blind person could tell. Besides physically (I know you hate that you have to look up at me; I love it), the past few years of iCarly and, through Carly, hanging out all the time has forced us into a friendship. Not that I'm complaining. True, you've caused me way more pain on multiple levels than any person should, but once we get past the bruises I really do consider us friends. Good friends, even.

"What are you staring at, Benson?" you ask me with the usual venom.

"I'll let you know when I figure it out," I shoot back, smirking.

You make a face and throw your backpack at me, flopping down on the couch. The force of your bag shoves me onto the couch as well, and I make a face back at you and drop the backpack at my feet.

"Food," you mutter, and hop back up to raid the fridge. You lean against the open door and peer inside, grabbing a pudding cup. "You want anything, Fredface?"

"Sure," I say, surprised that you're being kind of generous for once.

I realize what a nub I am when a cup of pudding whacks me in the face. While I massage my nose, I shoot you a glare and you grin cheekily. "C'mon, you shoulda seen that coming."

I shrug, and in the next second a spoon slams into my chest. "Ow, Sam!" I yell.

"Just be glad it wasn't your face, dork," you say as you rip off the lid of the pudding and lick the pudding off before pressing it to my forehead.

"Really?" I say, peeling your spitty pudding lid off my face and running my sleeve across my forehead. You just laugh and dig your spoon into the pudding.

Honestly, I don't know why I put up with you.

"Samm," Carly groans, coming out of the bathroom and seeing the telltale pudding residue on my face. She puts her hands on her hips. "How many times have I told you that we do not stick pudding lids on our friends' faces?"

You shrug. "I can't help it that he's such a nub."

I glare at you. "I was just sitting here!"

You whip around to face me. "Case in point."

I stick my tongue out at you and you stick yours at me back.

Carly rolls her eyes, and that's when her phone rings. "Hello? …What? …Spencer, how did you get your foot caught in a—? …yeah, I'll be there. How do you get yourself in that? …Oh. Sure, but…I don't even know we had a—where do we keep it? …Where's the key to the storage cubicle thingy?" As she's talking, she runs into Spencer's room and comes back with the key. "…yeah, just hold on. Are you sure that's legal? …okay, yeah, I'll hurry. Try to stay out of sight." She hangs up the phone and stuffs it into her pocket with one hand, grabbing a jacket with the other. "Spencer…" she trails off, shaking her head. "I'll be back in forty-five minutes or so. Don't kill each other, okay?" She points a threatening finger at us, and with that she's out the door.

"No promises!" you yell after her.

You look at me. "Ten bucks to whoever guesses what Spencer got himself stuck in."

I shake my head. "I don't wanna know."

You sneer. "Nyyyeah."

"Nyyyeah," I sneer back.

Carly doesn't understand the way you and I work together. She's too nice.

"Gimme the remote, Freddison," you say, sticking your open palm under my nose.

I roll my eyes at you, but I pick the remote off the side table and hand it to you. "We're not watching Girly Cow again."

"Fine," you say smugly, and I'm immediately afraid of what else you want to watch.

Fifteen seconds later, you're jumping up and down on the couch, yelling at the Great whatever to smash something over the Loco something else, I don't know; it's violent wrestling and the frighteningly muscled dudes are in Speedos.

"Ew, Sam, really?" I say, wincing as one dude slams the other with a chair. "If we're gonna watch wrestling, can we at least watch Shelby Marx or something with girls in it?"

You ignore me and let out another snarl of excitement. "Yeah! Yeah! Hit 'im, Grindmaster! Crack his skull open! Yeah!"

I should see it coming, but the next thing I know I'm eating carpet and you're sitting on my back, twisting my arm backwards as you practice your wrestling moves along with the dudes on television. "Sam," I mutter as best as I can with rug in my mouth.

"Fight back, nerdball!" you retort, twisting my arm more.

So I do.

Which surprises you.

I yank my arm out of your grip and by jerking my shoulders sideways, knocking you off my back. With reflexes I didn't know I had, I flip over and sit on your stomach, pinning your shoulders down.

You're looking at me with a mixture of shock and rage. "Jank, Fredcreep!" you yell.

I'm not sure which is more dangerous: getting off you and thereby freeing you to massacre me, or keeping you pinned down until you free yourself to massacre me.

Since I'm getting massacred either way, I decide to relish in my dominance over you for as long as I can. "You told me to fight back, Puckett," I grin, pushing against the wriggling of your shoulders. "I'm stronger than you thought, huh?"

You suck on your teeth and then without warning you stop struggling. "Wow," you deadpan. "You're a beast."

Some people might think you've given up, but I know you way better than that. So I don't move. "Puberty does that."

You roll your eyes. "Too bad it didn't give you a life. Or a personality."

I glare at you, and you glare right back.

It's a stare-down.

You aren't moving, but you're shooting daggers at me with your icy eyes, and your curls are spilled haphazardly around you on the carpet.

I've suddenly realized how pretty you are.

And I kind of want to kiss you.

Wait, ew. Ew.

"What up with your face, dorknugget?" you ask me, quirking an eyebrow.

"You smell like ham. I'm trying to breathe through my mouth."

You roll your eyes. "No way, dude, you look like you're daydreaming about Carly again." You wrinkle your nose. "Ew."

"While I'm sitting on you? Gross," I say, making a face, both at your statement and my previous thought.

"Yeah, get off me before I break your face. Again," you warn me in a dangerous tone.

You still don't move, though, so neither do I. "Make me," I challenge. Which is probably – scratch that, definitely – dangerous.

"Really?" you ask me, both your eyebrows raised now.

"Yeah," I say, getting all bravado-y even though I know it's a bad idea. "I don't think you can take me anymore, Puckett. I'm taller than you, and I bet I'm stronger than you. I'm not letting you throw me around anymore, because you—"

"Shut up, you dweeb," you say, and then without any warning you jerk your shoulders violently, push yourself up by your elbows, and before I can react your lips are on mine.

I'm taken one hundred percent by surprise, and before I can do anything else you've taken advantage of that and flipped me over, reacquainting my face with the Shays' carpet.

"What was that??" I yell as best as I can.

You yank my arms behind my back and lean forward. "Making you," you hiss, and I can hear you grin.

.

When Carly gets back home, some weird-looking wrench thing in her hand and Spencer limping behind her, you and I are in an all-out wrestling match in their living room.

Carly shakes her head at us. "I was gone for an hour." She turns to Spencer. "I was gone for an hour!"

He shrugs. "Make sure they put the pillows back." Spencer grabs the wrench and retreats to his room, stepping over us and muttering something about a heart-"wrenching" sculpture.

Carly puts her hands on her hips and watches you and me writhing around on the floor. "You guys never change," she says with a facial expression that's a mix between wry humor and annoyance.

It's not really true; you and I have changed a lot.

But I sure like where we are.

A/N #2: Love it? Hate it? Let me know and I can't thank you enough for reading! And…we're clear!