Author's note: So, here it is. It doesn't have much plot, but I couldn't be bothered to try and make a plot drive, multiple chaptered story. I wasn't even sure I was going to publish this...

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing at all.

Today was an overall shit day.

Seamus Finnegan trudged up the steps, huffing slightly, his hands hung loosely at his sides. His happy, drunken Irish demeanor was taken over by a dark cloud, his features tainted with annoyance. His clothes smelt of ash and a piece of his hair was singed. He hated everything. He hated this school. He hated class. He hated Snape. It wasn't his fault that it his caldron seemed hell bent on blowing up the room. And it wasn't like anyone got hurt, just minor burns, but they were Slytherins anyway, so it wasn't like it really mattered.

He sighed, muttering the password with an Irish lit. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, to crawl under the covers and just forget about the world. Maybe even perhaps with a fine bottle of firewhiskey in his hand—that always dulled his problems. A faint smile ghosted over his lips as he ignored the bustling common room and headed for the only bit of sanctuary he had.

But, when he opened the door, his eyes glowed with annoyance, with fear, with confusion. His stomach twisted violently, his face began to burn slightly. Oh god, he was turning into a girl. His eyes quickly darted away, a cough on his lips.

"You alright mate?" asked a voice—it was like pure chocolate, melting slowly against his skin, running down his pale body, sending a light tremor through his body.

"It's a shite day." He murmured quietly, wincing at the slight crack in his voice. And he thought puberty was over. Oh no, those hormones were still raging, and his voice still went into some sort of falsetto. And it was all over his best mate, a bloke, an honest to goodness bloke. He knew, he had checked.

It had been an accident. It was one of those awkward moments, but they were both blokes, so it didn't matter. Mates were allowed to get an eyeful of another bloke's cock and then ease the tension with some joke--some stupid "mine's bigger than yours" thing. Yeah, it was normal. But it wasn't normal that his cock seemed to fancy the other male.

So, now he was completely fucked. He started to avoid him, even throwing himself in his homework to ignore the stupid sensations he got from a simple touch, an innocent and friendly touch. God, if only Dean knew that he wanked to those touches, to his long fingers.

Oh, he had to stop. This was sick. This was wrong. This was his best mate. And he wasn't some pouf, some fairy. He liked birds, he liked tits. He liked the curves. He did. He really did. Oh, who was he fucking kidding? They might as well stick a name tag on him, a huge sign.

He sunk down into his bed, sticking his face in the pillow; half hoping he could suffocate himself. Sure, his mam might be a little upset, but he was saving her from the shame, he was saving himself. He could never tell anyone, they'd all disown him. And gossip spread like wildfire, the whole school would know in a day, and he'd have to go into hiding, change his name, and move to the states. Actually, that didn't sound like a bad idea…

"Mate?"

There was that voice again, but it was dangerously close, as was the hand rubbing circles in his back. He jumped slightly, his eyes turning to meet those haunting dark ones.

"Jesus. What do ye want?" He asked, knowing he was being a complete git, but he had to. He couldn't let this continue, he had to suppress all these feelings and then move on.

He could feel the heat of the hand, knowing there was only a thin layer of cotton between their skin, before dark met pale. Seamus bit his lip, dragging a hand through his hair, ripping at the chestnut strands.

"You've been acting weird."

"I'm fine." God, no he wasn't.

"I don't think you are." Slight accusation with a caring tone. Stop caring. Right now.

"I don't fuckin' care what ye think." Anger. Confusion. He can't help it. Go away Dean, save yourself.

This seemed to be the typical interaction. Dean would come all warm and caring, and Seamus would deflect and offend. It was their little dance, the perfect dynamic. But Dean didn't seem to get the hint.

"What is wrong with you?" there it was again, the caring mingled with confusion. He could practically see the pained expression on the other's face, the crinkling of the brow, the eyes taking on a different tone.

"Nothin' Dean. I'm just tired." He said, making that pitiful excuse, again.

There was that hand again, that warm hand. He could feel the fingers dancing on his back, looping into his script, words being traced. It was something Dean did when he was thinking, when he wanted to say something but Seamus was being his usual stubborn, Irish self. It was a comfort, it felt right. Instead of pushing him away again, he closed his eyes, concentrating on the letters that were being imprinted in his shirt.

Wait. No. He couldn't. This was letting him in--this was indulging in his own sick pleasure.

"Why don't ye just say it?" Seamus finally said, sitting up, letting the hand drop to the bed. He stared at his mate, slowly letting his eyes trace his face, his fingers itching to touch the skin. He twisted his fingers together, trying to keep the feelings at bay, trying to stop his entire body from craving the other bloke.

"Why don't you say it?" He said, throwing it back in his face.

"Now who's being defensive?" Seamus said with a light laugh, a small smile turning the corners of his lips. He didn't understand their relationship. It seemed too close for comfort, too deep, too raw and yet he couldn't walk away. He wouldn't, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Shay."

Green eyes flicked upwards, his nickname falling of the tongue almost sinfully. Something was changing. He didn't understand. Was he imagining things? Oh god, was he having another little of his fantasies? Was he about to wake up, hard and frustrated?

He just stared; his head tilted slightly, silently waiting for his friend to continue. His eyes followed the expression, dipping low to stare at those full lips, before looking at the dark eyes.

With another inhale, he could smell his best mate, that musky smell, the sweat. Seamus turned his head, noticing how the air seemed to be sucked from the room, how everything was suffocating. He felt as though he couldn't breathe—their breath mingling was far too much.

"Fuck." He murmured quietly, before reaching a shaky hand to Dean running his fingers over the tie, before pulling him close. "I'm sorry," were the last words on his lips before they became preoccupied. It wasn't pretty, it was messy, and it was awkward. The clack of teeth and the swapping of spit could sum it up. But, it was beautiful. And it was worth it.

He knew he was going to hell right now, that his whole life was ruined, but he couldn't find it in himself to care, especially when he heard the groan from the other boy and the tightening of hands into his short hair. What? He wanted to question, but his body was protesting. It definitely wasn't having that. It waited forever to taste this boy.

His lungs screamed and begged before he parted. After a moment, everything sunk in, and he turned a dark shade of crimson. "Uh…" he started, all coherence seemingly gone.

"You've always been oblivious mate." The darker boy said, skimming a hand down his neck to play with the collar of his shirt. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this." He said, his hands going to rest against his cheeks, the stark contrast between black and white. Dean leaned in once more, and with more finesse, their second kiss commenced.

And Seamus realized that maybe today wasn't a shit day after all. And that snogging boys was actually quite nice. And that Dean Thomas could do filthy things with his mouth.

Oh yes, days would be looking brighter.

So, eh, what did you think?