In my mind, this fits in a much longer work - but I'm lazy, and so the background story is only alluded to. Maybe one day I'll finish it

Reviews are the unicorn hairs in my wand. (also, I review back!)

Obviously, THE CHARACTERS ARE NOT MINE.

It's an unpleasant feeling, this – whatever this is, this general feeling of unpleasantness. That's the problem – it's so circular, so indefinite, so infinite – he feels unpleasant because he feels unpleasant.

But that makes no sense. For as long as he can remember, doing things that feel good makes him feel good, and doing things that feel bad makes him feel bad. So how come he's doing feel-good things – things that make his blood race and his skin tingle – and he feels like crap?

It's a topsy-turvy world and Seamus doesn't understand. But if he sits here long enough, on this rock looking out over the Forbidden Forrest, maybe he'll die of thirst, and the ants and birds will eat his flesh away until he is naught but bones, and the sun will dry out the scunge that flows in his marrow and bleach away the stains on his soul.

Or maybe he'll just burn and blister, like a tomato on the grill.

A cloud passes across the sun and then Dean is next to him in the shadow.

"Are you alright, mate?"

"Course. I'm fine."

"Well, that's a lie, isn't it?"

Seamus sneaks a sideways look at Dean as he sits down, but Dean wears an expression of innocence, of angelic ignorance; he doesn't know what's wrong with Seamus. He can't know. He must never never ever know.

What Dean does know, however, is how to wait. And Seamus knows Dean knows how to wait. He could wait for England, if it was a national sport, sitting in silence till the other person is forced to speak.

So they'll both die out here, then, 'cause Seamus sure isn't going to talk, and McGonagall will have to deliver their skeletal remains to their parents. She'd like that, Seamus feels; on some level she would find that satisfying. At least, regarding his remains, she would, though she'd probably rue the loss of –

– and they just sort of fall out of his mouth, the words, even as he reaches out his hands uselessly to try and grab them back.

"I like blokes, Dean."

"Oh." Dean stares off at the trees. He frowns. "So you're – "

"Yeah, something like that," Seamus cuts him off.

Dean is silent some more, as Seamus contemplates a double murder/suicide. No one must ever survive the horrendousness of this situation. "Well, you're my best mate. I mean, I wanted you to know – "

"People like who they like. They can't help that. No use beating yourself up over it, I guess" says Dean, quickly.

"I guess?"

Dean smiles. "Is that it?"

"What?" Seamus turns. "Isn't it enough?"

But of course it's not enough, not nearly enough to cause all this ugliness and squishy marrow.

"Wait," says Dean, clicking his fingers. "Wait just a minute. Does that mean – you and that Hufflepuff, Justin – "

"No! It wasn't like that – I mean, yes, but only to find out." Seamus grins, as Dean laughs.

"You did the underpants Charleston with a Hufflepuff!"

"Not exactly," says Seamus. "We didn't – "

"What are you trying to do, make – make Gryffinpuffs? Or – or Huffledors?"

"Shut up, will you!" Seamus splutters.

"Mister and Mister Finnigan-Finch-Fletchley?

Dean seems well pleased with his joke and Seamus pushes him in the shoulder. The sun peaks out from behind the cloud and Seamus thinks everything might be okay, in the end, if they can just stay like this.

But then Dean isn't really laughing anymore; his face has gone all quiet the way Dumbledore's sometimes does when he's not angry, just disappointed.

"What about me, then? When you kissed me. Did you mean it?"

Seamus blushes at the memory, his freckles illuminated from behind by the red glow. He was hoping Dean might have forgotten about that 'forget-about-Ginny-you-don't-need-her' peck.

"No," Seamus lies. "Oh no. No. Absolutely not. Are you serious?"

"We-ell," says Dean, shrugging his shoulders cheekily as if to say 'Why not?'

"You're my best mate," Seamus repeats, because that's the reason for everything. It's the reason he pays attention – well, tries to pay attention – in class, and it's the reason he knows anything about football; it's the reason he never said a mean word when Dean got together with Ginny even though it felt like a kick in the guts and it's the reason he made moves on a Hufflepuff boy, for goodness' sake; it's the reason he's just come out of the proverbial broomstick closet; it's the reason he feels so squidgy and stained inside because Dean is his best mate and best mates don't kiss best mates and mean it; and it's the reason he will never, ever tell Dean that he meant it. That he's always meant it.

Seamus coughs, and adds, "Not that I was using you or anything. That was – that was an overextension, an overzealous application of me natural Irish affection – "

"It's fine, Finnigan. I'm winding you up." And if Dean hesitates a bit, Seamus doesn't notice.