Disclaimer: These characters are the exclusive property of Ms. J. K. Rowling. Any one else who claims to own them is very much mistaken. I am not J. K. Rowling. Neither is the author. This said, we don't own them. In fact, neither of us really own anything of value and we're making no money at all from this. So it really would be silly to sue us, don't you think?

For those of you who don't know, this is part of a series co-written with my friend Jana. It was her idea but as it is over ten stories long and consists of nine couples (four slash) I offered to help her with it. We split it 50/50 and this is the result. Well…part of it, anyway. Hope you like it.

Warning: One word. Slash. nods So if this offends you please save us all some trouble and refrain from reading it and flaming me. Thanks.

Written by Jana, who loves reviews. (Not only her first completed slash, her first completed fic. Woohoo!)

It's Either Your Best Friend… 

(part one: Seamus)

part of the "Just Another Cliché" series

         Mornings for Seamus were fuzzy. That was the perfect word for it, because when they came he would slowly kick off his dreams and get oriented to the real world again. To say his dreams were realistic was an understatement, he always lived in them as they occurred, they were real until he woke up. That was what always got him in trouble.
         This morning wasn't any different. He slowly slinked towards consciousness, visions of deep mocha skin and chocolate eyes dancing in his mind. He smiled a little, unsure of opening his eyes, because those all too real visions and the warm figure curled against him were, for that moment one and the same. The problem was he wasn't quite sure who would be there when he opened his eyes. This always happened the morning after, he simply forgot, Dean always took his partners' places. At least he was used to it. Finally curiosity and growing dread forced him to open his eyes, and instead of Dean shrouded in the deep red of his bedding, there lay Justin Finch-Fletchly, a sweet smile on his pale face as if he was lost in the best of dreams.
As always the disappointment was too much and he felt a bit sick to his stomach. Justin really was lovely, he had an almost feminine bone structure and spiked brown hair the color of chestnuts. He was also wonderful in bed: talented fingers, even more talented mouth. In fact he was one of the few who had the distinct pleasure of bedding Seamus on a semi-regular basis. The problem with Justin though was quite simple. He wasn't the color of good hot cocoa, his eyes weren't like dark chocolate, he didn't constantly smell of charcoal pencils and mint and he wasn't Dean. That was it, in black and white: he wasn't Dean. None of them were Dean. Not Justin, not Amanda Kersey, the lovely blonde Hufflepuff he'd recently started to sleep with, not Blaise Zabini or any of the others. They were fun. It felt good to be with them at night, but when he woke up it made him want to cry. In the mornings he questioned whether it was worth it.
         He slid out of bed and pulled a robe, walked over to the window between his and Neville's beds and sat down, curling his legs to his chest, contemplating the still dark sky. It had never been his intention to screw everything up. He'd never meant to fall in love with Dean, in fact he'd fought it. Seamus Finnigan didn't fall in love, he had affairs, had fun. He wasn't a serious sort of bloke. Even the people he woke up to knew as much. None of it was going to last. Seamus didn't do commitment or deep emotional attachments. It was only a great cosmic joke that he should fall for the one person he could never have, his best friend. Even in his dreams, Dean never said he loved him. Even his subconscious knew what must be the truth.
         He sat there for only a few minutes before going through his morning routine. First he gently shook Justin awake, sending him back to his house. Everyone knew what he did, he was the slut of Gryffindor, the slut of all Hogwarts in fact, but he didn't like his roommates catching him at it. Then, when Justin was on his way he gathered his clothes for the day and a thick black towel and marched towards the bathroom. When he'd been younger he'd always been the last up, but now he was always the first, had been since the end of sixth year when he'd really begun to cultivate his reputation. He liked being showered and dressed by the time his roommates were slowly struggling out of bed. He loved being able to sit and think in the common room as everyone else slept, especially on Saturdays like this when he had hours to himself.
         When he got in the shower and turned the water on it was always scalding hot, and turned his skin a delicate shade of pink. It was the color of the inside curve of a rose-tinted seashell he'd picked up as a child on vacation, a color he loved. Dean always bothered him about it, didn't it burn? Didn't it hurt? He could never explain how wonderful it felt. He felt safe, and he didn't have the ability to think with the oppressive heat, and it made it feel good to breathe. It washed the scent of his last conquest away. He hated smelling like them when morning came, it was only a reminder of who he didn't have who he wanted.

         He stepped out, dried off and pulled on his black jeans and white t-shirt. As per ritual, he stopped at the mirror and looked at himself, skin still that lovely pink, eyes glittering a soft but dark blue, hair almost brown with water, not its normal wild, sandy blonde. He smiled, winked at himself and then started down to the common room.
         When he arrived the site that greeted him brought back that sick feeling, only much, much, much more intense. Dean was curled on one of the softer chairs, sunk into the cushions and drawing furiously in his sketchbook. He looked like he had been crying. Seamus had never seen Dean cry. Never. He suddenly felt the violent urge to hurt whoever had done what was making him hurt so bad, and the urge to just hold him, whispering anything he could to comfort him. He wanted to see what he was drawing, to see all of the drawings he'd been for so long denied the right to see. He wanted to kiss away the pain that was flowing from Dean in palpable waves.
         He snuck over quietly, leaned against the back of the chair and looked at the page. It was the pure and perfect white all Muggle sketchbooks seemed to be, lines slashed violently across the page, quill this time, not his usual charcoal. This picture was violent compared to few he'd seen. The subject matter suddenly swam into focus: him, curled up asleep against Justin. Him. Despite the violence of the stroke Dean was still making he was lovingly sketched, each detail making him look all the more beautiful. Justin on the other hand was barely detailed at all. He gasped, couldn't tear his eyes away, even when Dean turned to look at him, tears still streaming. He couldn't move. Comprehension was so slow...fighting to win over self-hatred for hurting Dean somehow, and wonder over how perfect his artist could make him look.
         Dean slammed the sketchbook shut, and tried to fight it from his friend's hands as he pulled it out of his grasp, still lost in a shocked daze. He then gave up and just hid his face in his hands; let Seamus look at each page. Most of them were sketches of Seamus, that was the subject of this particular book. A few of him shamelessly flirting with this girl or that boy. One or two were of him playing Quidditch, as he was one of the new beaters on the Gryffindor team. A few were of him sleeping on the rare nights he slept alone. He turned through all of these slowly, eyes wide, warring between frightened and hopeful. Then he stopped cold. On the page before the newest picture was a scene so familiar to his subconscious. This page was the only in color, and it was enough to break his heart and paste it back together again, more perfect than before. It was entirely beautiful, the two bodies curled lovingly together were a lovely contrast of day and night, light and dark, and the faces were contorted in perfect happiness. It was him and Dean, it was his dream transcribed, translated to paper. Comprehension finally won the war and he looked up.
         "Dean. Oh, Dean, I'm so sorry. I…I love you!"
         The urge to touch Dean was desperate. He had to feel him, had to hold him. He set the book down gently and replaced its weight with the gentle warmth of Dean's chin in his hands, he began kissing each tear away. They tasted of salt and Dean and mornings and he suddenly had to have more of the taste, more of him, so he pulled back to consider Dean's full lips before pressing his own to them. After the shock wore off Dean returned this kiss, gently, sliding his arms around Seamus's back. Suddenly the world felt indescribably warm, and Seamus knew all would be well. When they pulled apart, all became right when Dean smiled brightly and whispered softly, "I love you too", breath warm against his ear.
         And with those four words he knew. This was no dream.

The End