FIC for simons_flower
For: simons_flower
From: brummell
Title: The Years Between (2/2)
Rating: R
Summary: For both Harry and Ron, a wake-up call is just the beginning.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: EWE and angst.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoy this, simons_flower! Happy holidays. Thanks to my beta, S. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Harry has a list of spells and potions that he is not allowed to use on himself until he has been completely weaned off of the medical spells. Most don't matter because Harry doesn't use them anyway - vision correction charms, cosmetic Glamours, slimming Glamours, Polyjuice Potion, any Animagus or Metamorphmagus transformations, anything that will magically alter his physical appearance. Unfortunately, the depilo charm is also one of them. Harry's hair, when it begins to grow again, will grow in little fits and spurts as the stasis spells wear off and the potency is decreased. Ron is going through the list with Harry when he discovers that this will be one of the spells that is off limits.
Ron remembers the summer before fourth year when Harry had cleared his throat unhappily and asked, sounding embarrassed, whether Ron had learned how to shave yet or not.
"I can't ask my Uncle Vernon," he'd said. "And Sirius can't show me, obviously."
"We'll ask Bill," Ron replied decisively.
Bill had laughed and told them they'd get a lesson on using the depilo charm at school, but he'd shown them anyway. "It works anywhere on your body," he said, and then when Ron was showering later that day he discovered, with great indignation, that he had no hair below his neckline. The chafing when it started to grow back was painful. Harry had escaped that fate. Because Harry didn't have brothers who were complete tits.
Depilo is quick and painless, as Ron has cause to know, since Bill had sneakily given him such a practical demonstration. Shaving the Muggle way, however, does not sound quick and painless. In fact, the likelihood for ghastly accidents seems far too great for Ron's liking. Imagine getting near your own neck with a sharp razorblade! But there is nothing for it, since Harry declares a staunch aversion to the idea of growing a patchy, unsightly beard at age 25. Ron has seen the advertisements on the telly for Muggle razors, mostly of the electric variety. But they have no idea where to get those, and anyway there's no magic-electricity adapter in the flat. It will have to be the kind of shaving where you basically drag a knife over your skin.
Harry wants to go to the drug store with Ron but Ron won't let him. "You know as much about any of this as I do," Ron says. "And if you collapse in the middle of the aisle it's going to look silly if I carry you out. We can't just Apparate out of a Muggle store."
Harry grinds his teeth a little but counts out the Muggle money and adjures Ron not to get carried away.
Ron comes home two hours later with four different kinds of razors and six tubes and cans of various shaving gels and creams and aftershaves.
"They all smell a bit dodgy," he informs Harry, dumping everything on the counter in his tiny bathroom.
"Wow," Harry says, picking each item up and studying it closely. "I've seen people do it before but-" He turns to Ron. "Will you help me?"
Ron blinks. "What, help you shave?"
"Yes."
"I don't know if I want to be responsible for accidentally slashing your throat, mate."
Harry just keeps staring at him, and it looks to Ron as if his eyes get bigger, more helpless, more beseeching. "Please. I trust you."
"Right," Ron says, unable to refuse. He picks up one of the bottles-Shave Gel, the label says-and reads the directions aloud. "'Leave skin wet. Put gel on fingertips. Gently rub over skin to lather and shave.' That doesn't sound too hard."
A few moments later Harry is sitting on the counter, face covered in foaming white froth, and Ron is ripping open the plastic packaging for one of the razors. "Anti-Friction Blades (tm)!" it shouts. "Removes more of each hair with less irritation!"
"What's a lubricating strip?" Ron asks Harry.
"I have no idea. But it sounds stupid."
Finally the razor is out and ready to be used.
"So I just-drag it over your face?"
"Yeah. But don't, like, dig in or anything. I think these blades are supposed to be really sharp."
Ron moves toward Harry and Harry automatically parts his knees so that Ron can step right up between his thighs. This suddenly feels far more intimate than Ron had envisioned it would be, and his breath catches a bit.
"Okay," he says, and he's automatically adjusted his voice so that it's softer, lower, space-appropriate. The kind of voice you use when there's no space between you and another person. Harry is staring at him.
Ron reaches out with one hand and gently takes Harry's jaw between his fingertips and turns Harry's head to the side. "I'll start on this side," he murmurs.
"Mm," Harry rumbles, and looks away.
It's easy, and Ron is impressed at the way the blade glides smoothly over the side of Harry's cheek. He dips the razor in water to rinse it after a few strokes, then taps it on the side of the basin to shake it off. The splashing water and clinking of the razor against the porcelain reverberates loudly against the tile and glass in the small bathroom. Otherwise, the only other sound is the sound of their breathing and the faint scrape of the razor as it pulls, close and sharp, across Harry's skin.
"Other side," he says, the mundane words feeling hot and important between them. Everything is cramped and close, a bit of steam rising from the warm water in the basin, Harry close enough that Ron can feel his body heat.
"Now above your lip."
Harry lengthens it a bit, stretching the skin out, and Ron completes that in a few short strokes. "Tilt your head up, I'm going to do your neck."
He is extra careful here, pulling slowly and deliberately upward, and he's watching very closely, following the contours of Harry's jaw line, adam's apple, chin. At one point, he realises that he's leaning forward quite far, and to keep his balance Harry has stretched one hand out behind him to rest on the counter and is clutching at Ron's shoulder with the other.
"I think I like it the Muggle way," Harry says, not looking at Ron. Ron feels himself flushing. What is going on?
All too soon, Ron is done. There are just a few thin streaks of white here and there, and not a single cut. Harry smells fresh and clean, just a faint essence of the scent of the shaving cream mingling in the air between them. Ron wants to follow the line of Harry's jaw with his nose, to nudge into the soft, smooth skin he's just achieved for Harry, to lick Harry's neck and feel Harry's arms around him.
Instead, he steps back. Harry's hand slides down the short sleeve of his faded t-shirt and onto his bicep, where it rests briefly before falling away.
Ron's heart is beating wildly. Did Harry want-?
"Ta," Harry says. "I can do the rest myself."
"Right," Ron says. He leaves the bathroom, trying not to feel frustrated.
::
In the next few weeks a lot of the same odd moments of charged intimacy occur, and Ron is going mad trying to decide whether he's imagining the strange tension between them and whether Harry even notices. Many times, Ron is about to say something, to take that irrevocable step and damn the consequences, but then Harry shies away or dismisses him abruptly. The easy camaraderie they had before the attack has somehow evaporated, and Ron feels as if he's having to figure out what they are to each other, and both are groping in the dark. Suddenly there are lines that can be crossed that did not exist before, a kind of new awareness that is both thrilling and terrifying. Sometimes Ron wishes he could go back to before, when he didn't realise, when he wasn't conscious. But now it's as if he's woken up from a good dream, cold and exposed and scared and alone, and his best friend is far away, on the other side of a chasm of unreachable possibilities.
Harry has begun to heal, however. He doesn't ask Ron for help shaving again, and though he still has to take lots of naps he seems to be adjusting quite well. At least, he never says anything, or evinces the kind of frustration that the healers had told Ron would be inevitable in this situation. He starts to take walks, to exercise, and soon he announces proudly that he can make it all the way up the stairs to Ron's flat in one go, with no breaks.
"What?" Ron says, immediately upset. "You've been using the stairs? What if you hadn't been able to? What if you had collapsed on the stairs? Do I need to put a tracking spell on you while I'm at work?"
"I just sit down on the steps if I need a rest. It took me almost four hours to get up the stairs the first day. But now I can do it all at once."
Ron feels what must be some sort of primitive cave man urge to carry Harry over his shoulder wherever he needs to go.
"I can't be a burden on you for the rest of my life," Harry says faintly. "I need to be independent again."
Ron realises that he'd been scowling at Harry, and purposely neutralises his face. "You're not a burden," he says automatically. I want to take care of you. "I just wish I didn't have to leave you alone all day."
"I don't mind," Harry says, heading for the kitchen.
Maybe Harry doesn't like Ron hovering about. Maybe Harry has sensed Ron's admittedly probably quite obvious desire for more than just friendship and is unhappy about it. Maybe Harry is eager to get away from him and move back to his own place. Maybe he wants to be able to spend time alone with Alistair Duckworth, the wanker with the ridiculous name.
Ron considers telling Harry that he can have dates over if he wants, even though the very thought makes his blood boil. At least this way he could keep an eye on them and hopefully scare them off. But then he remembers that Harry doesn't remember that Ron knows he's gay and that they fought about it. It would probably be better, Ron thinks, not to bring it up. Harry seems determined not to confide in him, though. About anything.
Several times Ron has tried to get him to talk about it, about how he feels. But conversations about feelings have never been Ron's strong suit. They go something like this:
"You all right, Harry?"
"Er. Yeah."
"Anything you wanna...you know. Talk about?"
Harry looks at him strangely. "I don't think so."
"Ok. Good. I'm here if you, er, if you need to talk. Or, you know, Hermione is. Here, I mean. For you. Well, she's in Australia but she told me to tell you that you can Floo her any time and anyway she'll be here on Saturday again-"
"It's fine, Ron, I know," and Harry smiles briefly. "There's nothing I need to talk about. I'm just trying to get used to...the way things are. Now."
Once, Ron gets brave enough to ask Harry what he remembers of the day he was attacked.
"I don't remember anything about that day," Harry says briefly. And that's that.
::
Things are becoming too strange between them. At first, there had been several things Ron could fault for it. Perhaps the long silences and awkward, careful interaction they had were a result of the feelings he hadn't known he'd had for Harry before. Maybe being in love with Harry had made Ron a different person, and now they couldn't be friends like they had been. But that hadn't been the case with Hermione. Love didn't change a person, Ron thought. It shouldn't. He'd done everything he could to keep from changing while Harry was in his coma. Perhaps, then, it was the fact of having been essentially parted for more than three years. That was bound to produce awkwardness. But Ron watches Harry hug Hermione, even joke with her, and they have had several whispered conversations on the sofa that Ron always comes upon by accident when he walks in after doing the washing up after Sunday dinner.
They never laugh together anymore, and Harry seems determined not to ask for Ron's help with anything, after the shaving incident. Harry's taken to going running in the mornings before Ron goes to work, but he never wants to go flying with Ron in the evenings. The best Ron can hope for now is an evening when they can sit next to each other on the sofa in silence and watch telly. Harry doesn't ever want to watch the Wizarding Network, not even any of the televised Quidditch matches.
What changed? What's made Harry pull away from him this way? It can't be the fight they had, because Harry has told Ron repeatedly that he doesn't remember what happened that day.
Ron doesn't want to push Harry. He doesn't want to make Harry talk, or bring it out in the open, he doesn't want to actually say that anything is wrong, because if Harry agrees, then that will make it real. He convinces himself that he just has to give Harry time. More time. Harry has to catch up, that's all. He's three and a half years behind.
There was one night that was different from all the others, and Ron holds on to that when he's feeling most sad and frustrated by the growing distance between them. They had been watching television together very late one night, and Harry had fallen asleep on the sofa, slumped over. Ron had gotten up to get a blanket to put over Harry, but when Harry felt the weight of the blanket on him he had blinked sleepily up at Ron and reached out, mumbling, "Not yet. Don't go yet." Ron had sat down again next to him, and Harry had put his head in Ron's lap, one hand resting on Ron's thigh, and fallen asleep again. Ron hadn't moved for nearly four hours after that, the television on mute and one leg asleep, the other cramping from staying still for so long. Ron always thinks of that when he is most convinced that he and Harry have lost each other. He's afraid of overusing the memory, as if thinking of it too much will make it disintegrate and fade away. So he tries to think of it only when he really needs to. He remembers the weight of Harry's head, the way he had clutched at him even in sleep, the familiarity of it. It is really the only indication that Harry has made that he does need Ron.
One night, Ron comes home after work to find the flat dark and cold, meaning the warming charm that activates only when people are present in it had been off for some time.
He tells himself not to panic. Harry could be out with Ginny. Hadn't she mentioned wanting to take him shopping? Or maybe he's gone for a run. He's been doing more and more of that lately, saying that he needs to get back in shape now that he's almost completely off the stasis spells.
Ron paces around the flat and debates calling Hermione and demanding that she use her Unspeakable skills to track him down. If Harry isn't back by midnight, Ron promises himself, he'll call Hermione.
It's almost midnight when Ron hears laughter and voices outside the door, and then the jingling of keys, which is odd, since Harry doesn't need a key to get into the flat.
Ron gets up to open the door.
Harry looks up in surprise, holding a key to the lock. Behind him is a man. Ron takes one look at him and can tell he's a Muggle. No wonder Harry is doing the act with the keys.
"Ron! Hi. I-this is Lee," Harry says, gesturing at the man. Ron and Lee nod at each other. Lee is very tall, though not as tall as Ron, and a lot more gangly, Ron observes uncharitably.
"I thought you would be asleep," Harry is saying. Ron feels a wave of magic wash over him, and when he shuts the door and turns around, all the photographs and pictures on the wall are still. Harry has just de-magicked the entire flat without even drawing his wand.
"Was wondering where you were," Ron says shortly.
"Ron is my...roommate," Harry says to Lee.
"That right?" Lee says, smiling.
"Yeah. That's right," Ron grunts. It's too much of an effort to smile back, so Ron doesn't. He can't believe Harry has just introduced him as a roommate.
"Sit down," Harry is saying, looking flushed and nervous and excited all at once. "You want a drink or something? Ron, do we have anything?"
Lee sits down, eyeing Ron warily. Ron doesn't answer and doesn't move from where he's standing by the door with his arms crossed.
"Um, I'm fine, Harry. Your roomie's a big bloke, isn't he?" Lee says, laughing nervously.
Harry doesn't even look at Ron. "He hasn't always been so big," he says. "Late bloomer, I guess."
An awkward silence descends. Ron hopes he's making Lee uncomfortable. At this point, he hopes he's making Harry uncomfortable.
"Look, I should get going," Lee says, standing up hastily. "It's late, and I guess we all have work in the morning."
"Yeah," Ron says. "See you around."
"Wait, it's not even midnight," Harry says, sounding upset.
"I'll call you or something," Lee says.
Ron feels the air crackling weirdly. One look at Harry tells him why. He looks like he's trying to reign in a fit of temper that would likely shatter all the glass in the building.
"Right. I'll walk down with you," Harry says, his jaw clenching. They leave.
Ron has quite a while to calm down, since Harry doesn't come back for another half hour. He keeps reminding himself that he wasn't going to be the selfish, jealous best friend anymore, that he's going to support Harry in whatever Harry wants. If Harry wants Lee, Ron can't be unhappy about that. He repeats this to himself over and over, sitting on the sofa and waiting for Harry to come back.
Harry, it appears, hasn't calmed down. "What the fuck was that?" he shouts, slamming the door behind him, looking ready for a fight. He hasn't lost that nervous, excited look, and his cheeks are still flushed, almost blotchy, his hair sticking up in front.
"I'm sorry," Ron says humbly. "I-I don't know what got into me. I was so worried that you weren't here when I got home, and I just-"
Harry deflates quickly, looking like the wind has been taken out of his sails.
"Well-well, he was my friend," he persists. "The only friend I've made since-and you were horrid to him. Probably scared him off for good."
"Yeah, I mean. I shouldn't have. I was rude. I know. You-you can bring home anyone you want. I'll be better. In fact, I can leave, if you want me to. If you let me know in advance, I can stay at the office, or go visit George, or mum and dad."
"What? No, that's not what I want," Harry says, looking angry again. "I just-God, Ron."
"I’m sorry," Ron says again. "I know it's been a bit boring here, with just me."
Harry flops down on the other end of the sofa. "I'm so tired of this," he says. "I hate this. I'm not-it's too different. I've been doing-Muggle things, lately. I think it's good for me. Things are too strange, even with you, you're so different, you've changed, and-"
"What?" Ron croaks, a roaring sound in his ears. "Me?"
Harry looks over at him. "I-that's not what I mean." He looks uncomfortable. Maybe a little forlorn. His shoulders are hunched and he has pulled his knees up to his chest, picking at the toes of his shoes.
"Maybe it would be-better for both of us if I moved back to Grimmauld Place. I said I would once I could do the stairs."
Ron can't believe what he's hearing.
"Harry," he says, a little desperately. "I said I was sorry. I swear it won't happen again. I-I didn't mean for that to-don't move out because of that."
"I think it'd be for the best," Harry mumbles.
"You're not ready yet. You've only just come off the spells, I mean what if you-someone has to go with you to your medical appointments. I'm the only one who can get time off work at a moment's notice, I mean, that's the only reason I'm working this boring job-" He cuts off.
"Ron, we both need to...get on with things," Harry says.
Hermione had warned him, hadn't she? Ron feels empty. Hollow. "I don't even know what you mean by that," he says.
"Thanks for having me, Ron," Harry says. "I'll pack up tomorrow. Let's go for a drink or something on Friday, yeah?"
He gets up and goes to Ron's bedroom and shuts the door.
It would be stupid, Ron thinks, to call Hermione and tell her that he thinks his heart is broken. Who says that, anyway?
::
Three weeks later Ron finds himself at The Leaky Cauldron for a Christmas party hosted by Seamus Finnigan.
He hasn't gotten drunk since shortly after Harry first went into a coma. Back then, he got drunk almost every night out of guilt and remorse and sadness. He'd had many vivid dreams about Harry, always very strange and intense, and waking up after those was like having to hear the bad news all over again. Drinking had gotten rid of the dreams. After a few weeks of it, Hermione stopped speaking to him because he was drinking instead of "talking through his grief" as she had wanted him to do. When he woke up on the floor of his flat in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon in a pile of his own vomit, however, having missed work for the third day in a row, he'd realised that he was being pathetic and stupid. He saw a picture on the wall of himself with Harry on the day they completed Auror training, and he'd cried like a girl over it for almost four hours. Harry's life wasn't the only one that would be in limbo until he woke up. He and Harry had done everything together since they were eleven. Ron knew he couldn't be passed out in a drunken stupor when Harry woke up. He had to be there.
Things hadn't turned out as planned, though, and now there are proverbial oceans separating Ron from Harry. He hasn't seen Harry since Harry left his flat that horrible day three weeks ago, though Hermione has urged him repeatedly to visit Grimmauld Place.
"I can't, Hermione," he'd said. "I don't know how to fix whatever it is that's wrong. It was wrong almost from the moment after he woke up. I don't know how, but I made it worse and worse and he left."
Hermione brings Simon to the party, and once again Ron is vaguely surprised that they ended up together: Simon is very blond, one of those sun-kissed Australian surfing gods with a dazzling smile and not much in the way of brains. But he adores Hermione, lets her boss him around and treats her like a Queen, and she takes very good care of him.
Maybe he will visit Hermione, now. He'd always thought he and Harry could go together; Harry used to love travelling and seeing new places. They'd done it after Hogwarts, the three of them, backpacking all over Europe. It now seems unlikely that he and Harry will be doing much of anything together.
Harry is there, of course, and Ron watches him, watches his animated conversation with Dean and Ginny and Ernie MacMillan, sees the way he smiles easily and openly at everyone who approaches him. Ron feels himself getting more and more resentful and upset and utterly miserable. Why wasn't it so easy for him?
So he spends most of the evening letting himself drink as much as he wants and listening to Simon's inane pleasantries.
"I can't wait to get back. England is dismal in the winter. It's summer in Sydney right now, you know," he says, smiling at Ron. His teeth are blindingly white in the dim light.
"Er, yeah, I know," Ron says.
"But I just hate not being with Hermione every minute I can. We try to do everything together. Of course I can't come every weekend like she does but I didn't want to miss this party. She loves seeing her old friends. It's been great getting to know all of you. And coming here is sort of like using a time-turner. Everything is so old-fashioned. It's great, man."
After several hours of this kind of slightly nauseating conversation, Ron is ready to go home. He's feeling drunk enough that he shouldn't Apparate, but reckless enough that he half-hopes he will splinch himself and die. He already feels like his heart has been left behind somewhere in a hospital room at St Mungo's.
Hermione pulls Simon up out of his chair. "Come and meet Harry," she says.
"He hasn't met Harry yet?" Ron asks.
"No. I haven't even told him about Simon."
She drags Simon over to Harry, and Ron watches as Hermione puts her hand on Simon's arm and gestures at Harry. Harry, for some inexplicable reason, turns his head briefly to stare straight at Ron. Simon and Hermione likewise both turn their heads to see what Harry is looking at. They look puzzled when they see it's Ron. Harry quickly turns back to them and smiles, shaking Simon's hand. They start talking, and again, Ron is jealous of the way Harry is laughing at what whatever Simon is saying. Probably something about kangaroos.
He needs more firewhiskey.
Two hours later, Ron is well and truly shit-faced. Everything is loud and blurry and hot and crowded. He stumbles toward the loo to splash some cold water on his face, but when he turns the corner, he sees something that makes him stop in his tracks, swaying unsteadily.
Harry is there, standing right in the hallway in front the fucking loo, and some wanker - Alistair Fuckworth, was that his name? Duckworth, Fuckworth, no fucking difference, Ron thinks in a blind rage - is bent over him, leaning down, his intentions all too clear. And Harry, Harry is just-standing there, his hands on the man's chest. Letting it happen.
Suddenly, as if sensing Ron's presence, Harry turns his head to look straight at him.
Ron feels like he's been punched in the stomach. He can't control his own face, doesn't know how to make it look like he doesn't care, or to say "Excuse me," and politely walk past them. He just stares and stares.
"Ron," Harry says, sounding panicky, pushing Alistair away.
"You all right?" Alistair says, peering over at Ron.
Ron finally remembers how to work his mouth. "Fuckin'-fuckin' hell, Harry," he says, and storms away, hoping he doesn't trip and fall flat on his face.
"Ron, wait. Ron!" Harry calls after him, but Ron won't stop. He doesn't think he ever wants to see Harry again.
It's raining outside, of course, but Ron barely notices. He fumbles for his wand and Apparates back to his flat, stumbling when he lands. He's dripping all over the rug, too drunk and angry and upset to even notice if he's splinched himself. There's no blood, at least.
A loud crack makes him jump, and Harry is standing there, in his flat.
"You shouldn't have seen that," he says, sounding anguished.
"I can't b'lieve-" Ron breaks off, trying not to slur his words.
"I thought you knew, Ron," Harry blurts.
"Knew wha'?" Ron says angrily, his body shaking even though he doesn't feel cold.
"That day, before the attack, we fought about it. And then just now, you looked so surprised, like I'd lied to you all over again-"
Ron's head is pounding. He can't believe what he's hearing. "You remember," he says. "You-you said you didn', you made me think-why woul' you pr'tend-You remember! And all thish time-what the fuck." The anger and confusion and alcohol are swirling together in the pit of his stomach, making him feel sick.
Harry is just watching him, face unreadable and fists clenching at his sides. He's flushed again, that perfect mouth stained dark pink from another man's stubble, Ron thinks crazily.
"I fuckin'...I did everything for you," Ron slurs, and there's no stopping it now, it's all going to come pouring out of him. "I gave up m' life. You said everything ha' changed too much, but I didn' change. I purposely didn' change for three fuckin' years because I wanted us to be together, to be the same. I stopped ever'thing, I sat with you in tha' room, watchin' you breathe and waiting-for you to wake up when everyone else tol' me there was no poin', tha' you'd never wake up and I jus-" Ron's voice catches on something in his throat, a sob or a cough or something, god, he's going to cry, he's feeing so sorry for himself. "And then you wake up and it's all wrong, I tried to be better, I wanted you t'know tha' I wouldn't be a bad frien' anymore, I wouldn't ever leave you, I'd be good, but it wasn' right. Hermione was righ', I wasted my life, I should've never waited because I'm not the one you wanted. You wan'-Fuckworth, Suckworth, whashishname, but you should know he was never there, Harry. He never came to see you. I would know b'cause I was there every day. He doesn't deserve you-"
Harry has gone white as a sheet. "Ron," he says faintly. "What are you saying?"
"I was trying-I'm shorry, Harry, I shouldn'a left you tha' day, I know it was my fault. I was angry because I wanted-I wanted to be the one. I couldn' shtand-stand the thought of you with some other bloke. I'm shorry. I don't ever want you to leave. I would'a waited m' whole life in that hoshpital room if I had to. I would've."
Harry has taken a step closer. "Ron," he says quietly. "I don't want Alistair."
Ron growls, and before his brain catches up with his body, he lunges forward and shoves Harry against the wall. "Good," he breathes, looking down at Harry.
Harry is flushed again, blinking up at Ron. Ron is suddenly aware of Harry's breathing, harsh and panting, like he's run a long distance.
"Ron," he says again, and there's that voice that Ron remembers dimly, the Between Voice, the one that makes words come alive in the space between them, hot and flushed and intimate.
"Who do you want?" he asks, holding onto the front of Harry's shirt, unable to let go.
Harry makes a little noise, and in a flash his arms are around Ron's neck and he's clutching tightly, desperately, as if Ron is all that is keeping him from slipping back into oblivion. Ron slides his arms around Harry's middle and he pulls Harry right up against him, pressing him into the wall to get closer, as close as possible.
"I've been scared, Ron," Harry says, his voice muffled in Ron's neck. "I pretended I didn't remember because I was afraid, I thought that if you thought I didn't remember it wouldn't be weird, but you were different anyway. You were polite and careful and I didn't know how to get you back. I've been so confused and lonely and I didn't know how to tell you-I didn't tell you before because-because it is you, I want you. I want you."
Ron hopes he's hearing Harry right, because there's a warm feeling building up in him, like all the empty space where his heart was supposed to be filling up again, beating and warm and alive. He wants more than anything to see Harry's face, but Harry won't look up at him.
"H'rry," Ron mumbles happily, "your hair is ticklin' my neck."
Harry laughs, his body shivering slightly in Ron's arms, and he raises his head.
"Harry," Ron breathes, so close to something he thinks he may have wanted all his life, though he hadn't known it. "Please," is the only word he can think of to say to convey to Harry just how much he wants him.
Harry's eyes are sparkling, and the tip of his tongue moves out to moisten his lower lip.
Ron can't hold back any longer, and he stoops down quickly to catch Harry's lower lip in his own mouth. Harry opens his mouth immediately and Ron pushes in, wanting more, wanting everything, wanting to get impossibly closer. He can't stop moving his hands, smoothing them up Harry's chest, touching Harry's neck, stroking the side of his head, holding him close. Harry's hands are clutching at Ron's back and Ron feels like he might pass out from how good it feels.
There's something both slow and urgent, gentle and rough, about the way they move together, and it's the most intense feeling Ron has ever felt in his life. Ron can feel that Harry is hard, knows that he is too. He pushes his thigh between Harry's legs and Harry gasps into his mouth, breath stuttering and back arching. He squirms and bucks against Ron's leg, and Ron somehow finds it delightful, the way Harry is moving. He strokes Harry's stomach and undoes Harry's trousers with fumbling hands.
"Ron," Harry breathes, his eyes hazy and dark, lips swollen. "I-I'm almost-"
"It's okay," Ron murmurs. He reaches back with one hand to hold onto the curve of Harry's arse, pulling him in close and tight, and with the other, he cups Harry's cock through his shorts.
Harry hisses, eyes closing and head falling back against the wall, and Ron strokes him, leaning forward to kiss his neck and follow the line of his jaw. Harry smells so good, and Ron closes his eyes too, stroking and feeling Harry tighten like a bow. He comes soon after with a stuttering little cry, going limp and pliant in Ron's arms.
"Love you," Ron says reverently, kissing the spot below Harry's ear.
Harry laughs, and it's the most beautiful sound in the world. "You're still hard," he says.
"'m too drunk to come," Ron says, still obsessing over that spot and the way it makes Harry shiver with little aftershocks.
Harry stills. "Will you remember this in the morning?" he asks, his voice low.
Ron stops and pulls back. "Harry," he says quietly, stroking the side of his face and looking into his eyes. "This is the best night of my life. I'll remember it forever."
Just to be sure, Harry makes him take a double dose of hangover potion before they collapse in the bed together, Ron curled protectively around Harry.
::
When Ron wakes up the next morning with black hair tickling the underside of his chin, he smiles hugely for what feels like the first time in a long while, even though they're both still in last night's clothes and the hangover potion didn't quite eradicate his headache completely. He pulls back a little, and Harry makes a little noise in his sleep, scooting closer. Ron can't resist smoothing back Harry's fringe a little, stroking the side of his face.
It's amazing, Ron thinks, how different it is, watching Harry sleep now.
From: brummell
Title: The Years Between (2/2)
Rating: R
Summary: For both Harry and Ron, a wake-up call is just the beginning.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warnings: EWE and angst.
Author's Note: I hope you enjoy this, simons_flower! Happy holidays. Thanks to my beta, S. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Harry has a list of spells and potions that he is not allowed to use on himself until he has been completely weaned off of the medical spells. Most don't matter because Harry doesn't use them anyway - vision correction charms, cosmetic Glamours, slimming Glamours, Polyjuice Potion, any Animagus or Metamorphmagus transformations, anything that will magically alter his physical appearance. Unfortunately, the depilo charm is also one of them. Harry's hair, when it begins to grow again, will grow in little fits and spurts as the stasis spells wear off and the potency is decreased. Ron is going through the list with Harry when he discovers that this will be one of the spells that is off limits.
Ron remembers the summer before fourth year when Harry had cleared his throat unhappily and asked, sounding embarrassed, whether Ron had learned how to shave yet or not.
"I can't ask my Uncle Vernon," he'd said. "And Sirius can't show me, obviously."
"We'll ask Bill," Ron replied decisively.
Bill had laughed and told them they'd get a lesson on using the depilo charm at school, but he'd shown them anyway. "It works anywhere on your body," he said, and then when Ron was showering later that day he discovered, with great indignation, that he had no hair below his neckline. The chafing when it started to grow back was painful. Harry had escaped that fate. Because Harry didn't have brothers who were complete tits.
Depilo is quick and painless, as Ron has cause to know, since Bill had sneakily given him such a practical demonstration. Shaving the Muggle way, however, does not sound quick and painless. In fact, the likelihood for ghastly accidents seems far too great for Ron's liking. Imagine getting near your own neck with a sharp razorblade! But there is nothing for it, since Harry declares a staunch aversion to the idea of growing a patchy, unsightly beard at age 25. Ron has seen the advertisements on the telly for Muggle razors, mostly of the electric variety. But they have no idea where to get those, and anyway there's no magic-electricity adapter in the flat. It will have to be the kind of shaving where you basically drag a knife over your skin.
Harry wants to go to the drug store with Ron but Ron won't let him. "You know as much about any of this as I do," Ron says. "And if you collapse in the middle of the aisle it's going to look silly if I carry you out. We can't just Apparate out of a Muggle store."
Harry grinds his teeth a little but counts out the Muggle money and adjures Ron not to get carried away.
Ron comes home two hours later with four different kinds of razors and six tubes and cans of various shaving gels and creams and aftershaves.
"They all smell a bit dodgy," he informs Harry, dumping everything on the counter in his tiny bathroom.
"Wow," Harry says, picking each item up and studying it closely. "I've seen people do it before but-" He turns to Ron. "Will you help me?"
Ron blinks. "What, help you shave?"
"Yes."
"I don't know if I want to be responsible for accidentally slashing your throat, mate."
Harry just keeps staring at him, and it looks to Ron as if his eyes get bigger, more helpless, more beseeching. "Please. I trust you."
"Right," Ron says, unable to refuse. He picks up one of the bottles-Shave Gel, the label says-and reads the directions aloud. "'Leave skin wet. Put gel on fingertips. Gently rub over skin to lather and shave.' That doesn't sound too hard."
A few moments later Harry is sitting on the counter, face covered in foaming white froth, and Ron is ripping open the plastic packaging for one of the razors. "Anti-Friction Blades (tm)!" it shouts. "Removes more of each hair with less irritation!"
"What's a lubricating strip?" Ron asks Harry.
"I have no idea. But it sounds stupid."
Finally the razor is out and ready to be used.
"So I just-drag it over your face?"
"Yeah. But don't, like, dig in or anything. I think these blades are supposed to be really sharp."
Ron moves toward Harry and Harry automatically parts his knees so that Ron can step right up between his thighs. This suddenly feels far more intimate than Ron had envisioned it would be, and his breath catches a bit.
"Okay," he says, and he's automatically adjusted his voice so that it's softer, lower, space-appropriate. The kind of voice you use when there's no space between you and another person. Harry is staring at him.
Ron reaches out with one hand and gently takes Harry's jaw between his fingertips and turns Harry's head to the side. "I'll start on this side," he murmurs.
"Mm," Harry rumbles, and looks away.
It's easy, and Ron is impressed at the way the blade glides smoothly over the side of Harry's cheek. He dips the razor in water to rinse it after a few strokes, then taps it on the side of the basin to shake it off. The splashing water and clinking of the razor against the porcelain reverberates loudly against the tile and glass in the small bathroom. Otherwise, the only other sound is the sound of their breathing and the faint scrape of the razor as it pulls, close and sharp, across Harry's skin.
"Other side," he says, the mundane words feeling hot and important between them. Everything is cramped and close, a bit of steam rising from the warm water in the basin, Harry close enough that Ron can feel his body heat.
"Now above your lip."
Harry lengthens it a bit, stretching the skin out, and Ron completes that in a few short strokes. "Tilt your head up, I'm going to do your neck."
He is extra careful here, pulling slowly and deliberately upward, and he's watching very closely, following the contours of Harry's jaw line, adam's apple, chin. At one point, he realises that he's leaning forward quite far, and to keep his balance Harry has stretched one hand out behind him to rest on the counter and is clutching at Ron's shoulder with the other.
"I think I like it the Muggle way," Harry says, not looking at Ron. Ron feels himself flushing. What is going on?
All too soon, Ron is done. There are just a few thin streaks of white here and there, and not a single cut. Harry smells fresh and clean, just a faint essence of the scent of the shaving cream mingling in the air between them. Ron wants to follow the line of Harry's jaw with his nose, to nudge into the soft, smooth skin he's just achieved for Harry, to lick Harry's neck and feel Harry's arms around him.
Instead, he steps back. Harry's hand slides down the short sleeve of his faded t-shirt and onto his bicep, where it rests briefly before falling away.
Ron's heart is beating wildly. Did Harry want-?
"Ta," Harry says. "I can do the rest myself."
"Right," Ron says. He leaves the bathroom, trying not to feel frustrated.
::
In the next few weeks a lot of the same odd moments of charged intimacy occur, and Ron is going mad trying to decide whether he's imagining the strange tension between them and whether Harry even notices. Many times, Ron is about to say something, to take that irrevocable step and damn the consequences, but then Harry shies away or dismisses him abruptly. The easy camaraderie they had before the attack has somehow evaporated, and Ron feels as if he's having to figure out what they are to each other, and both are groping in the dark. Suddenly there are lines that can be crossed that did not exist before, a kind of new awareness that is both thrilling and terrifying. Sometimes Ron wishes he could go back to before, when he didn't realise, when he wasn't conscious. But now it's as if he's woken up from a good dream, cold and exposed and scared and alone, and his best friend is far away, on the other side of a chasm of unreachable possibilities.
Harry has begun to heal, however. He doesn't ask Ron for help shaving again, and though he still has to take lots of naps he seems to be adjusting quite well. At least, he never says anything, or evinces the kind of frustration that the healers had told Ron would be inevitable in this situation. He starts to take walks, to exercise, and soon he announces proudly that he can make it all the way up the stairs to Ron's flat in one go, with no breaks.
"What?" Ron says, immediately upset. "You've been using the stairs? What if you hadn't been able to? What if you had collapsed on the stairs? Do I need to put a tracking spell on you while I'm at work?"
"I just sit down on the steps if I need a rest. It took me almost four hours to get up the stairs the first day. But now I can do it all at once."
Ron feels what must be some sort of primitive cave man urge to carry Harry over his shoulder wherever he needs to go.
"I can't be a burden on you for the rest of my life," Harry says faintly. "I need to be independent again."
Ron realises that he'd been scowling at Harry, and purposely neutralises his face. "You're not a burden," he says automatically. I want to take care of you. "I just wish I didn't have to leave you alone all day."
"I don't mind," Harry says, heading for the kitchen.
Maybe Harry doesn't like Ron hovering about. Maybe Harry has sensed Ron's admittedly probably quite obvious desire for more than just friendship and is unhappy about it. Maybe Harry is eager to get away from him and move back to his own place. Maybe he wants to be able to spend time alone with Alistair Duckworth, the wanker with the ridiculous name.
Ron considers telling Harry that he can have dates over if he wants, even though the very thought makes his blood boil. At least this way he could keep an eye on them and hopefully scare them off. But then he remembers that Harry doesn't remember that Ron knows he's gay and that they fought about it. It would probably be better, Ron thinks, not to bring it up. Harry seems determined not to confide in him, though. About anything.
Several times Ron has tried to get him to talk about it, about how he feels. But conversations about feelings have never been Ron's strong suit. They go something like this:
"You all right, Harry?"
"Er. Yeah."
"Anything you wanna...you know. Talk about?"
Harry looks at him strangely. "I don't think so."
"Ok. Good. I'm here if you, er, if you need to talk. Or, you know, Hermione is. Here, I mean. For you. Well, she's in Australia but she told me to tell you that you can Floo her any time and anyway she'll be here on Saturday again-"
"It's fine, Ron, I know," and Harry smiles briefly. "There's nothing I need to talk about. I'm just trying to get used to...the way things are. Now."
Once, Ron gets brave enough to ask Harry what he remembers of the day he was attacked.
"I don't remember anything about that day," Harry says briefly. And that's that.
::
Things are becoming too strange between them. At first, there had been several things Ron could fault for it. Perhaps the long silences and awkward, careful interaction they had were a result of the feelings he hadn't known he'd had for Harry before. Maybe being in love with Harry had made Ron a different person, and now they couldn't be friends like they had been. But that hadn't been the case with Hermione. Love didn't change a person, Ron thought. It shouldn't. He'd done everything he could to keep from changing while Harry was in his coma. Perhaps, then, it was the fact of having been essentially parted for more than three years. That was bound to produce awkwardness. But Ron watches Harry hug Hermione, even joke with her, and they have had several whispered conversations on the sofa that Ron always comes upon by accident when he walks in after doing the washing up after Sunday dinner.
They never laugh together anymore, and Harry seems determined not to ask for Ron's help with anything, after the shaving incident. Harry's taken to going running in the mornings before Ron goes to work, but he never wants to go flying with Ron in the evenings. The best Ron can hope for now is an evening when they can sit next to each other on the sofa in silence and watch telly. Harry doesn't ever want to watch the Wizarding Network, not even any of the televised Quidditch matches.
What changed? What's made Harry pull away from him this way? It can't be the fight they had, because Harry has told Ron repeatedly that he doesn't remember what happened that day.
Ron doesn't want to push Harry. He doesn't want to make Harry talk, or bring it out in the open, he doesn't want to actually say that anything is wrong, because if Harry agrees, then that will make it real. He convinces himself that he just has to give Harry time. More time. Harry has to catch up, that's all. He's three and a half years behind.
There was one night that was different from all the others, and Ron holds on to that when he's feeling most sad and frustrated by the growing distance between them. They had been watching television together very late one night, and Harry had fallen asleep on the sofa, slumped over. Ron had gotten up to get a blanket to put over Harry, but when Harry felt the weight of the blanket on him he had blinked sleepily up at Ron and reached out, mumbling, "Not yet. Don't go yet." Ron had sat down again next to him, and Harry had put his head in Ron's lap, one hand resting on Ron's thigh, and fallen asleep again. Ron hadn't moved for nearly four hours after that, the television on mute and one leg asleep, the other cramping from staying still for so long. Ron always thinks of that when he is most convinced that he and Harry have lost each other. He's afraid of overusing the memory, as if thinking of it too much will make it disintegrate and fade away. So he tries to think of it only when he really needs to. He remembers the weight of Harry's head, the way he had clutched at him even in sleep, the familiarity of it. It is really the only indication that Harry has made that he does need Ron.
One night, Ron comes home after work to find the flat dark and cold, meaning the warming charm that activates only when people are present in it had been off for some time.
He tells himself not to panic. Harry could be out with Ginny. Hadn't she mentioned wanting to take him shopping? Or maybe he's gone for a run. He's been doing more and more of that lately, saying that he needs to get back in shape now that he's almost completely off the stasis spells.
Ron paces around the flat and debates calling Hermione and demanding that she use her Unspeakable skills to track him down. If Harry isn't back by midnight, Ron promises himself, he'll call Hermione.
It's almost midnight when Ron hears laughter and voices outside the door, and then the jingling of keys, which is odd, since Harry doesn't need a key to get into the flat.
Ron gets up to open the door.
Harry looks up in surprise, holding a key to the lock. Behind him is a man. Ron takes one look at him and can tell he's a Muggle. No wonder Harry is doing the act with the keys.
"Ron! Hi. I-this is Lee," Harry says, gesturing at the man. Ron and Lee nod at each other. Lee is very tall, though not as tall as Ron, and a lot more gangly, Ron observes uncharitably.
"I thought you would be asleep," Harry is saying. Ron feels a wave of magic wash over him, and when he shuts the door and turns around, all the photographs and pictures on the wall are still. Harry has just de-magicked the entire flat without even drawing his wand.
"Was wondering where you were," Ron says shortly.
"Ron is my...roommate," Harry says to Lee.
"That right?" Lee says, smiling.
"Yeah. That's right," Ron grunts. It's too much of an effort to smile back, so Ron doesn't. He can't believe Harry has just introduced him as a roommate.
"Sit down," Harry is saying, looking flushed and nervous and excited all at once. "You want a drink or something? Ron, do we have anything?"
Lee sits down, eyeing Ron warily. Ron doesn't answer and doesn't move from where he's standing by the door with his arms crossed.
"Um, I'm fine, Harry. Your roomie's a big bloke, isn't he?" Lee says, laughing nervously.
Harry doesn't even look at Ron. "He hasn't always been so big," he says. "Late bloomer, I guess."
An awkward silence descends. Ron hopes he's making Lee uncomfortable. At this point, he hopes he's making Harry uncomfortable.
"Look, I should get going," Lee says, standing up hastily. "It's late, and I guess we all have work in the morning."
"Yeah," Ron says. "See you around."
"Wait, it's not even midnight," Harry says, sounding upset.
"I'll call you or something," Lee says.
Ron feels the air crackling weirdly. One look at Harry tells him why. He looks like he's trying to reign in a fit of temper that would likely shatter all the glass in the building.
"Right. I'll walk down with you," Harry says, his jaw clenching. They leave.
Ron has quite a while to calm down, since Harry doesn't come back for another half hour. He keeps reminding himself that he wasn't going to be the selfish, jealous best friend anymore, that he's going to support Harry in whatever Harry wants. If Harry wants Lee, Ron can't be unhappy about that. He repeats this to himself over and over, sitting on the sofa and waiting for Harry to come back.
Harry, it appears, hasn't calmed down. "What the fuck was that?" he shouts, slamming the door behind him, looking ready for a fight. He hasn't lost that nervous, excited look, and his cheeks are still flushed, almost blotchy, his hair sticking up in front.
"I'm sorry," Ron says humbly. "I-I don't know what got into me. I was so worried that you weren't here when I got home, and I just-"
Harry deflates quickly, looking like the wind has been taken out of his sails.
"Well-well, he was my friend," he persists. "The only friend I've made since-and you were horrid to him. Probably scared him off for good."
"Yeah, I mean. I shouldn't have. I was rude. I know. You-you can bring home anyone you want. I'll be better. In fact, I can leave, if you want me to. If you let me know in advance, I can stay at the office, or go visit George, or mum and dad."
"What? No, that's not what I want," Harry says, looking angry again. "I just-God, Ron."
"I’m sorry," Ron says again. "I know it's been a bit boring here, with just me."
Harry flops down on the other end of the sofa. "I'm so tired of this," he says. "I hate this. I'm not-it's too different. I've been doing-Muggle things, lately. I think it's good for me. Things are too strange, even with you, you're so different, you've changed, and-"
"What?" Ron croaks, a roaring sound in his ears. "Me?"
Harry looks over at him. "I-that's not what I mean." He looks uncomfortable. Maybe a little forlorn. His shoulders are hunched and he has pulled his knees up to his chest, picking at the toes of his shoes.
"Maybe it would be-better for both of us if I moved back to Grimmauld Place. I said I would once I could do the stairs."
Ron can't believe what he's hearing.
"Harry," he says, a little desperately. "I said I was sorry. I swear it won't happen again. I-I didn't mean for that to-don't move out because of that."
"I think it'd be for the best," Harry mumbles.
"You're not ready yet. You've only just come off the spells, I mean what if you-someone has to go with you to your medical appointments. I'm the only one who can get time off work at a moment's notice, I mean, that's the only reason I'm working this boring job-" He cuts off.
"Ron, we both need to...get on with things," Harry says.
Hermione had warned him, hadn't she? Ron feels empty. Hollow. "I don't even know what you mean by that," he says.
"Thanks for having me, Ron," Harry says. "I'll pack up tomorrow. Let's go for a drink or something on Friday, yeah?"
He gets up and goes to Ron's bedroom and shuts the door.
It would be stupid, Ron thinks, to call Hermione and tell her that he thinks his heart is broken. Who says that, anyway?
::
Three weeks later Ron finds himself at The Leaky Cauldron for a Christmas party hosted by Seamus Finnigan.
He hasn't gotten drunk since shortly after Harry first went into a coma. Back then, he got drunk almost every night out of guilt and remorse and sadness. He'd had many vivid dreams about Harry, always very strange and intense, and waking up after those was like having to hear the bad news all over again. Drinking had gotten rid of the dreams. After a few weeks of it, Hermione stopped speaking to him because he was drinking instead of "talking through his grief" as she had wanted him to do. When he woke up on the floor of his flat in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon in a pile of his own vomit, however, having missed work for the third day in a row, he'd realised that he was being pathetic and stupid. He saw a picture on the wall of himself with Harry on the day they completed Auror training, and he'd cried like a girl over it for almost four hours. Harry's life wasn't the only one that would be in limbo until he woke up. He and Harry had done everything together since they were eleven. Ron knew he couldn't be passed out in a drunken stupor when Harry woke up. He had to be there.
Things hadn't turned out as planned, though, and now there are proverbial oceans separating Ron from Harry. He hasn't seen Harry since Harry left his flat that horrible day three weeks ago, though Hermione has urged him repeatedly to visit Grimmauld Place.
"I can't, Hermione," he'd said. "I don't know how to fix whatever it is that's wrong. It was wrong almost from the moment after he woke up. I don't know how, but I made it worse and worse and he left."
Hermione brings Simon to the party, and once again Ron is vaguely surprised that they ended up together: Simon is very blond, one of those sun-kissed Australian surfing gods with a dazzling smile and not much in the way of brains. But he adores Hermione, lets her boss him around and treats her like a Queen, and she takes very good care of him.
Maybe he will visit Hermione, now. He'd always thought he and Harry could go together; Harry used to love travelling and seeing new places. They'd done it after Hogwarts, the three of them, backpacking all over Europe. It now seems unlikely that he and Harry will be doing much of anything together.
Harry is there, of course, and Ron watches him, watches his animated conversation with Dean and Ginny and Ernie MacMillan, sees the way he smiles easily and openly at everyone who approaches him. Ron feels himself getting more and more resentful and upset and utterly miserable. Why wasn't it so easy for him?
So he spends most of the evening letting himself drink as much as he wants and listening to Simon's inane pleasantries.
"I can't wait to get back. England is dismal in the winter. It's summer in Sydney right now, you know," he says, smiling at Ron. His teeth are blindingly white in the dim light.
"Er, yeah, I know," Ron says.
"But I just hate not being with Hermione every minute I can. We try to do everything together. Of course I can't come every weekend like she does but I didn't want to miss this party. She loves seeing her old friends. It's been great getting to know all of you. And coming here is sort of like using a time-turner. Everything is so old-fashioned. It's great, man."
After several hours of this kind of slightly nauseating conversation, Ron is ready to go home. He's feeling drunk enough that he shouldn't Apparate, but reckless enough that he half-hopes he will splinch himself and die. He already feels like his heart has been left behind somewhere in a hospital room at St Mungo's.
Hermione pulls Simon up out of his chair. "Come and meet Harry," she says.
"He hasn't met Harry yet?" Ron asks.
"No. I haven't even told him about Simon."
She drags Simon over to Harry, and Ron watches as Hermione puts her hand on Simon's arm and gestures at Harry. Harry, for some inexplicable reason, turns his head briefly to stare straight at Ron. Simon and Hermione likewise both turn their heads to see what Harry is looking at. They look puzzled when they see it's Ron. Harry quickly turns back to them and smiles, shaking Simon's hand. They start talking, and again, Ron is jealous of the way Harry is laughing at what whatever Simon is saying. Probably something about kangaroos.
He needs more firewhiskey.
Two hours later, Ron is well and truly shit-faced. Everything is loud and blurry and hot and crowded. He stumbles toward the loo to splash some cold water on his face, but when he turns the corner, he sees something that makes him stop in his tracks, swaying unsteadily.
Harry is there, standing right in the hallway in front the fucking loo, and some wanker - Alistair Fuckworth, was that his name? Duckworth, Fuckworth, no fucking difference, Ron thinks in a blind rage - is bent over him, leaning down, his intentions all too clear. And Harry, Harry is just-standing there, his hands on the man's chest. Letting it happen.
Suddenly, as if sensing Ron's presence, Harry turns his head to look straight at him.
Ron feels like he's been punched in the stomach. He can't control his own face, doesn't know how to make it look like he doesn't care, or to say "Excuse me," and politely walk past them. He just stares and stares.
"Ron," Harry says, sounding panicky, pushing Alistair away.
"You all right?" Alistair says, peering over at Ron.
Ron finally remembers how to work his mouth. "Fuckin'-fuckin' hell, Harry," he says, and storms away, hoping he doesn't trip and fall flat on his face.
"Ron, wait. Ron!" Harry calls after him, but Ron won't stop. He doesn't think he ever wants to see Harry again.
It's raining outside, of course, but Ron barely notices. He fumbles for his wand and Apparates back to his flat, stumbling when he lands. He's dripping all over the rug, too drunk and angry and upset to even notice if he's splinched himself. There's no blood, at least.
A loud crack makes him jump, and Harry is standing there, in his flat.
"You shouldn't have seen that," he says, sounding anguished.
"I can't b'lieve-" Ron breaks off, trying not to slur his words.
"I thought you knew, Ron," Harry blurts.
"Knew wha'?" Ron says angrily, his body shaking even though he doesn't feel cold.
"That day, before the attack, we fought about it. And then just now, you looked so surprised, like I'd lied to you all over again-"
Ron's head is pounding. He can't believe what he's hearing. "You remember," he says. "You-you said you didn', you made me think-why woul' you pr'tend-You remember! And all thish time-what the fuck." The anger and confusion and alcohol are swirling together in the pit of his stomach, making him feel sick.
Harry is just watching him, face unreadable and fists clenching at his sides. He's flushed again, that perfect mouth stained dark pink from another man's stubble, Ron thinks crazily.
"I fuckin'...I did everything for you," Ron slurs, and there's no stopping it now, it's all going to come pouring out of him. "I gave up m' life. You said everything ha' changed too much, but I didn' change. I purposely didn' change for three fuckin' years because I wanted us to be together, to be the same. I stopped ever'thing, I sat with you in tha' room, watchin' you breathe and waiting-for you to wake up when everyone else tol' me there was no poin', tha' you'd never wake up and I jus-" Ron's voice catches on something in his throat, a sob or a cough or something, god, he's going to cry, he's feeing so sorry for himself. "And then you wake up and it's all wrong, I tried to be better, I wanted you t'know tha' I wouldn't be a bad frien' anymore, I wouldn't ever leave you, I'd be good, but it wasn' right. Hermione was righ', I wasted my life, I should've never waited because I'm not the one you wanted. You wan'-Fuckworth, Suckworth, whashishname, but you should know he was never there, Harry. He never came to see you. I would know b'cause I was there every day. He doesn't deserve you-"
Harry has gone white as a sheet. "Ron," he says faintly. "What are you saying?"
"I was trying-I'm shorry, Harry, I shouldn'a left you tha' day, I know it was my fault. I was angry because I wanted-I wanted to be the one. I couldn' shtand-stand the thought of you with some other bloke. I'm shorry. I don't ever want you to leave. I would'a waited m' whole life in that hoshpital room if I had to. I would've."
Harry has taken a step closer. "Ron," he says quietly. "I don't want Alistair."
Ron growls, and before his brain catches up with his body, he lunges forward and shoves Harry against the wall. "Good," he breathes, looking down at Harry.
Harry is flushed again, blinking up at Ron. Ron is suddenly aware of Harry's breathing, harsh and panting, like he's run a long distance.
"Ron," he says again, and there's that voice that Ron remembers dimly, the Between Voice, the one that makes words come alive in the space between them, hot and flushed and intimate.
"Who do you want?" he asks, holding onto the front of Harry's shirt, unable to let go.
Harry makes a little noise, and in a flash his arms are around Ron's neck and he's clutching tightly, desperately, as if Ron is all that is keeping him from slipping back into oblivion. Ron slides his arms around Harry's middle and he pulls Harry right up against him, pressing him into the wall to get closer, as close as possible.
"I've been scared, Ron," Harry says, his voice muffled in Ron's neck. "I pretended I didn't remember because I was afraid, I thought that if you thought I didn't remember it wouldn't be weird, but you were different anyway. You were polite and careful and I didn't know how to get you back. I've been so confused and lonely and I didn't know how to tell you-I didn't tell you before because-because it is you, I want you. I want you."
Ron hopes he's hearing Harry right, because there's a warm feeling building up in him, like all the empty space where his heart was supposed to be filling up again, beating and warm and alive. He wants more than anything to see Harry's face, but Harry won't look up at him.
"H'rry," Ron mumbles happily, "your hair is ticklin' my neck."
Harry laughs, his body shivering slightly in Ron's arms, and he raises his head.
"Harry," Ron breathes, so close to something he thinks he may have wanted all his life, though he hadn't known it. "Please," is the only word he can think of to say to convey to Harry just how much he wants him.
Harry's eyes are sparkling, and the tip of his tongue moves out to moisten his lower lip.
Ron can't hold back any longer, and he stoops down quickly to catch Harry's lower lip in his own mouth. Harry opens his mouth immediately and Ron pushes in, wanting more, wanting everything, wanting to get impossibly closer. He can't stop moving his hands, smoothing them up Harry's chest, touching Harry's neck, stroking the side of his head, holding him close. Harry's hands are clutching at Ron's back and Ron feels like he might pass out from how good it feels.
There's something both slow and urgent, gentle and rough, about the way they move together, and it's the most intense feeling Ron has ever felt in his life. Ron can feel that Harry is hard, knows that he is too. He pushes his thigh between Harry's legs and Harry gasps into his mouth, breath stuttering and back arching. He squirms and bucks against Ron's leg, and Ron somehow finds it delightful, the way Harry is moving. He strokes Harry's stomach and undoes Harry's trousers with fumbling hands.
"Ron," Harry breathes, his eyes hazy and dark, lips swollen. "I-I'm almost-"
"It's okay," Ron murmurs. He reaches back with one hand to hold onto the curve of Harry's arse, pulling him in close and tight, and with the other, he cups Harry's cock through his shorts.
Harry hisses, eyes closing and head falling back against the wall, and Ron strokes him, leaning forward to kiss his neck and follow the line of his jaw. Harry smells so good, and Ron closes his eyes too, stroking and feeling Harry tighten like a bow. He comes soon after with a stuttering little cry, going limp and pliant in Ron's arms.
"Love you," Ron says reverently, kissing the spot below Harry's ear.
Harry laughs, and it's the most beautiful sound in the world. "You're still hard," he says.
"'m too drunk to come," Ron says, still obsessing over that spot and the way it makes Harry shiver with little aftershocks.
Harry stills. "Will you remember this in the morning?" he asks, his voice low.
Ron stops and pulls back. "Harry," he says quietly, stroking the side of his face and looking into his eyes. "This is the best night of my life. I'll remember it forever."
Just to be sure, Harry makes him take a double dose of hangover potion before they collapse in the bed together, Ron curled protectively around Harry.
::
When Ron wakes up the next morning with black hair tickling the underside of his chin, he smiles hugely for what feels like the first time in a long while, even though they're both still in last night's clothes and the hangover potion didn't quite eradicate his headache completely. He pulls back a little, and Harry makes a little noise in his sleep, scooting closer. Ron can't resist smoothing back Harry's fringe a little, stroking the side of his face.
It's amazing, Ron thinks, how different it is, watching Harry sleep now.