Notes: For the final round of the Hunger Games Competition (prompts used: emotion, dialogue, character, lesson and weapon.)

Red

"Painting Weasley again?"

The woman in the picture doesn't have freckles or parted lips or a glow in her eye. It's not the Ginny that Dean's hand draws on instinct. This woman is nothing but a black-clad figure walking away from the spectator, a flash of red hair and red stilettos. The city around her is made of shadows. Nighttime consumes the frame.

Dean just shakes his head, not bothering to look at you. Things haven't been exactly lively in the flat you two have shared since the war ended two months ago. But you're used to it.

"It just doesn't work if it's not red."

True, there's something mesmerizing about the figure Dean portrays. A woman, presumably beautiful. She's vulnerable to the preying stare of the viewer. She's dressed to kill, with her black cloak and high heels. Her hair sways in the wind that isn't there, but you can almost feel. It's all dark with a little red; red like blood and lust and you just don't know how Dean Thomas can make you understand a thing such as color and the layers of meaning beneath the trivial.

You stare at her a little too long, lost in a fascination you can't translate into words.

"I like it," you say.

"Good. I'm glad." This time he does look at you with a hint of a smile. Your heart skips a beat. "I was worried it was too dark."

"I'm sure Amycus Carrow would love to have that one hanging on his wall," You joke. "Dark indeed."

"I'll make sure he to give it to him. Must be feeling lonely in his Azkaban cell."

"Not if he has his sister."

Dean winced. "Enough with that mental image, please."

"I said nothing." You smirk. "It's just you and your dirty mind."

"Who has a dirty mind now? I doubt my use of color, and the first person you think of is the bloke who tortured you for a year-"

"He didn't torture us, he taught us the Dark Arts via... immersion. Learn the difference"

There was no hint of a smile in Dean's face. He should be more used to you having a sense of humor about the war. Or so you think. You don't need him to laugh with you, but you just... you need the laugh.

"So I heard. Luna said that you got in trouble a lot."

"Worth every curse."

"Did you really need to release firecrackers-"

"My specialty."

"Seamus, I'm serious here-"

"And I am too. Was I going to stand by while they ruined everyone's lives? Some of us just wanted to make sure their job was as difficult as possible. You would've done the same and-"

"Not the firecrackers."

"-and I was doing it for you, Dean."

"For me? How was that going to help anything out there? What would've helped me was to know that you were safe and sound."

"Yeah like you would ever forgive me for doing nothing about this all. I thought about you, and people doing those things to you that very second, and I was so angry that-" You feel it rush through you again, and overcome you in a way that makes you feel powerless. Just like you did back then. "I couldn't stand by Dean. I couldn't... I just... I couldn't. I needed to do something or I'd go insane."

"Like you were ever sane." He's the one joking now. But you don't want to talk about all this, so you look once again at the painting he'd been working on.

"It's dark alright, but not in a bad way. The red really works." You don't feel this has convinced him, so you go on. "It does get you to think murder, one way or another."

"It's the heels." He shrugs.

"So is she the victim or the murderer?"

"Since when are you so interested in the things I paint? Not that I complain-"

"I always was."

"Not like this."

"I just..." There's no harm in being honest. "I just missed you so much back in there, Dean."

"You really did think about me."

"The whole time. You're my best mate."

"Right. Of course."

"What, you forgot?"

"No, it's not that." He lets out a little laugh and you feel it just then, that something is off, and has been for a while, and you're a fool for not noticing before.

"Then what is it?"

He just shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"About wh-"

You don't have to hear an answer, because his lips are on yours. You don't even manage to open your lips, to place your hand on the back of his head to kiss him senseless, before it's over.

Neither of you say something for a while. You find it hard to believe that it happened, it finally happened, and you have this whole speech planned in case it ever did. But in those occasions, in your mind, it's you kissing him and not the other way around.

"Seamus," He's not looking at you. "More important than anything, you're my best mate. I hope you know that."

"Oh you're not going to say 'no homo' after that!"

"I... wasn't going to." Now he is looking at you, and you've never seen such a serious stare in your entire life.

"Okay..." Why are you so surprised? Isn't this what you've wanted for years now? "Okay. Good."

"Really?"

You're not going to answer that.

"You call that a kiss?" You raise an eyebrow. "Come on. You can do better."

"Are you sure?"

"That you can do better? Of course-"

"About this. I just... I just don't think it's a good idea right now."

"Well you started it." You're smiling like a complete fool, even as he's serious. You tone it down so he believes you when you say, "whatever you need, Dean."

Things can wait. Friendship is more important. In the meantime, you'll comfort yourself with the glorious feeling of the heat still lingering on your lips. You want to immortalize it. Remember it for as long as you can. You look away from Dean just to try to picture it again. The memory is already too blurred by your own bliss and confusion and everything that wasn't the actual kiss - but you're alright with that mess.

Something tells you that it should be painted red.