AN: Written for my dear/deer friend Mittens' Dialogue Competition. The challenge was to write a story consisting entirely of dialogue. The characters given to me were The Marauders (all four, apologies in advance if it's confusing), the quote 'You're such a hypocrite" and the prompts 'roses' and 'hearth.' Enjoy.

"James, what are those?"

"Nothing!"

"Don't hide them, you twit!"

"I'm not, Moon- Oww! That was uncalled for, Black."

"Oooh, last names is it now, Potter? I know you're angry at me when the surname comes out."

"I'm always angry at you."

"No, you're not, because you don't always call me Black. It's usually Padfoot, or Sirius, or, when you're feeling extra cuddly, Siri..."

"I have never called you Siri. Oww!"

"Got it!"

"Peter, you traitor!"

"Oh My Merlin, they're roses!"

"For Lily?"

"Well, I didn't want to buy her lilies, I'm not that cliché..."

"That's not the issue here, James. I thought the two of you were trying to be friends. Just friends."

"Friends buy other friends ...roses."

"Not if they don't want their genitalia hexed off by said friend."

"As charming as always, Padfoot. I'll have you know, though, that if anyone were to have possession of my nether regions, I'd want it to be her."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Shut up, Moony."

"Prongs, my dear friend, you are not what they call 'romantic,' are you?"

"Excuse me; I bought roses, did I not? Roses are the definition of romantic."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Hey! Don't look at each other like that. My seduction techniques have grown to be quite subtle and refined in my old age."

"Of seventeen?"

"It's remarkable he lived past twelve, Wormtail, be reasonable. Besides, he's quite right, lads. I don't think he's set Lily's hair on fire since at least third year."

"That one did become quite redundant, didn't it Moony? Yes, Prongs, we get it. Her hair is red. Fire is red. Very nice. Can you please go play with a back-firing wand now?"

"You are such a hypocrite, Padfoot! You are not exactly the height of class yourself. At least my dates have never involved an abundance of cheap liquor, a literal 'spin' on a broomstick and then, on return, you throwing up on the hearth rug."

"Prongsie, my dear lad, the key difference between you and I is that I -unlike you- can get laid. ...Don't laugh, Moony. ...Stop glaring at me, James."

"It's not why you think, the reason I'm glaring. Your jealousy doesn't affect me anymore."

"I'm going to ignore that last bit. No, actually, I'm going to award it a 'pssh.' Pssh. But I'm guessing you picked up on the dear/deer pun, then?"

"I picked it up."

"How many is that now?"

"Today? Seventy."

"I'm not sure if 'you're going to be the deer-th of me' counts, to be honest."

"Always the spoil-sport, aren't you Moony? Sixty-nine, then you sly beast."

"Sirius, please don't wiggle your eyebrows at me like that."

"You love it."

"I'm sickened by it, there's a difference."

"Love-sickened."

"Try, plain, I will throw up all over your new robes, sickened."

"Delightful as always, Moony, you classy fellow, remind me again why you don't have a girl?"

"Hey Prongs, look who it is!"

"Brilliant observation, Wormtail, my dear chap. Li-"

"Deer."

"Yes, thank you, Padfoot. Lily, my love-"

"My dear Evans, you doe-eyed deer!"

"Subtle."

"Sirius, you dog!"

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