Fic: "All These Words I Don't Just Say" | PG-13 | Harry/Ron | for midnightblue88
Word has is that today is midnightblue88's birthday. If that doesn't call for an angsty ficlet, I don't know what does.
Happy Birthday, darling!!
Title: All These Words I Don't Just Say
Author: goneoffthelump
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: PG-13 (sorry)
Word Count: 900
Summary: Ron stares at him and hopes, harder than he ever has before, that he isn't dreaming.
Notes: For midnightblue88, on the occasion of her 25th birthday. Many thanks to the super-secret lovelies who looked this over for me (♥), and to Metallica for the title. *dork*
All These Words I Don't Just Say
Ron wakes up, and it's still dark. Darker, actually, because he can't see the moon through his window anymore. He's lost count of how many times he's woken up tonight, but it doesn't matter. The real wonder is that he managed to fall asleep at all.
His chest is hollow and sore, so he takes a slow, deep breath, and realises that something's different from the last time he woke up. He turns his head towards the empty, cold side of the bed, and isn't as surprised as he should be to find that it isn't empty anymore.
There's a man sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness away from him, and it's too dark for Ron to make out much besides the line of his profile, really, but there isn't a profile in the world that Ron knows better than Harry's, so it doesn't matter. Ron stares at him and hopes, harder than he ever has before, that he isn't dreaming.
Harry turns towards him, a little bit. Not enough to look at him, but enough to let Ron know that Harry knows he's awake.
Ron stares at Harry in the low light, studies the too-hard curve of his jaw and the quick, shallow rise and fall of his chest, and he knows not to say anything - not yet, not with Harry strung out like a wild animal, skittish and challenging.
Ron watches Harry and tries to quiet his own breathing, gives Harry as much space as he can without moving. Silence stretches between them, taut and brittle, punctuated only by the alarm clock's precise tick-tock, relentless and ignorant.
Something like a minute passes before Harry's eyes dart at Ron and away, and Ron braces himself for what's coming. But Harry only sighs, and the fight seems to drain right out of him. Ron's arms twitch with how they want to reach out, but he doesn't dare move.
"I meant it," Harry says, and his voice isn't small, exactly, but it doesn't really sound like his own.
Ron breathes, and doesn't say anything. Harry's head falls forwards as he looks down at his lap. Ron stares at the short hairs that fall against his neck, thinks about how unexpectedly soft they always are, and his fingertips ache, a little bit.
"I really did," Harry says against Ron's silence, "I really meant it, you know, when I said it," and Ron does know. "I really wasn't going to come back."
Ron doesn't respond (can't respond), and he feels like an idiot, lying silent and flat on his back as the whole of his happiness (the whole of everything) hangs in the balance, but he just can't. Harry's face turns another fraction of an inch towards him, and Ron's heart begins to race.
He's desperate to say something (anything) to make this better, but he's terrified. His mouth is what got him here in the first place.
"I meant it all," Harry says, and he might be talking to the wall as much as to Ron. "But I-" his voice breaks, and Ron holds his breath.
The alarm clock counts to five.
"I can't," Harry says, his voice raw, and something inside Ron splits wide open.
"Harry," he says.
Harry peers at him over his shoulder, sheepish and desperate. "Ron," he whispers. "Can I-?"
And suddenly Ron's moving, nodding blindly, reaching out. "Yes," he says, "of course, yes," and he doesn't care that he doesn't know what he's agreeing to, because Harry's there, climbing up next to him, curling up against him, his face buried in Ron's neck, his fingers twisted into Ron's pyjamas.
Ron threads his fingers into soft hair as Harry's shuttering, uneven breaths come hot and fast against his throat. He presses his face to Harry's head, breathes in his scent, and he doesn't know (doesn't care) who was right or who was wrong, or how anything could ever seem more important than this, how anything could ever be reason enough to let Harry leave.
"I couldn't," Harry murmurs, into Ron's shoulder.
"Stay," Ron says, and the words come from somewhere deep inside, some place he can't control, "please, just-you can-I don't care, just. Just stay."
Harry nods, small but furious, and Ron feels lips against his throat, his jaw, his cheek, and then they're on his mouth, and he's meeting them desperately, entreating them to just stay, please, stay. He knows his breath is sour from sleep, but Harry doesn't seem to care, doesn't even seem to notice.
"I'm sorry," Ron says into Harry's mouth. "I'm so fucking sorry." Harry grunts and answers with words Ron can't understand, acceptance or apology or nonsense, it doesn't matter, because he's here (he's back) and he isn't leaving (ever), not if Ron can help it.
Harry crawls on top of Ron as he kisses him, presses a knee between Ron's legs and slides down, and there are layers and layers of fabric between them (pyjama, bed sheets, denim), but when Harry's pelvis settles over Ron's, presses down against him again and again and again (question, answer, promise), Ron burns like it's skin against skin, and it might as well be, because Harry's here, and nothing else matters.
Happy Birthday, darling!!
Title: All These Words I Don't Just Say
Author: goneoffthelump
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: PG-13 (sorry)
Word Count: 900
Summary: Ron stares at him and hopes, harder than he ever has before, that he isn't dreaming.
Notes: For midnightblue88, on the occasion of her 25th birthday. Many thanks to the super-secret lovelies who looked this over for me (♥), and to Metallica for the title. *dork*
All These Words I Don't Just Say
Ron wakes up, and it's still dark. Darker, actually, because he can't see the moon through his window anymore. He's lost count of how many times he's woken up tonight, but it doesn't matter. The real wonder is that he managed to fall asleep at all.
His chest is hollow and sore, so he takes a slow, deep breath, and realises that something's different from the last time he woke up. He turns his head towards the empty, cold side of the bed, and isn't as surprised as he should be to find that it isn't empty anymore.
There's a man sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness away from him, and it's too dark for Ron to make out much besides the line of his profile, really, but there isn't a profile in the world that Ron knows better than Harry's, so it doesn't matter. Ron stares at him and hopes, harder than he ever has before, that he isn't dreaming.
Harry turns towards him, a little bit. Not enough to look at him, but enough to let Ron know that Harry knows he's awake.
Ron stares at Harry in the low light, studies the too-hard curve of his jaw and the quick, shallow rise and fall of his chest, and he knows not to say anything - not yet, not with Harry strung out like a wild animal, skittish and challenging.
Ron watches Harry and tries to quiet his own breathing, gives Harry as much space as he can without moving. Silence stretches between them, taut and brittle, punctuated only by the alarm clock's precise tick-tock, relentless and ignorant.
Something like a minute passes before Harry's eyes dart at Ron and away, and Ron braces himself for what's coming. But Harry only sighs, and the fight seems to drain right out of him. Ron's arms twitch with how they want to reach out, but he doesn't dare move.
"I meant it," Harry says, and his voice isn't small, exactly, but it doesn't really sound like his own.
Ron breathes, and doesn't say anything. Harry's head falls forwards as he looks down at his lap. Ron stares at the short hairs that fall against his neck, thinks about how unexpectedly soft they always are, and his fingertips ache, a little bit.
"I really did," Harry says against Ron's silence, "I really meant it, you know, when I said it," and Ron does know. "I really wasn't going to come back."
Ron doesn't respond (can't respond), and he feels like an idiot, lying silent and flat on his back as the whole of his happiness (the whole of everything) hangs in the balance, but he just can't. Harry's face turns another fraction of an inch towards him, and Ron's heart begins to race.
He's desperate to say something (anything) to make this better, but he's terrified. His mouth is what got him here in the first place.
"I meant it all," Harry says, and he might be talking to the wall as much as to Ron. "But I-" his voice breaks, and Ron holds his breath.
The alarm clock counts to five.
"I can't," Harry says, his voice raw, and something inside Ron splits wide open.
"Harry," he says.
Harry peers at him over his shoulder, sheepish and desperate. "Ron," he whispers. "Can I-?"
And suddenly Ron's moving, nodding blindly, reaching out. "Yes," he says, "of course, yes," and he doesn't care that he doesn't know what he's agreeing to, because Harry's there, climbing up next to him, curling up against him, his face buried in Ron's neck, his fingers twisted into Ron's pyjamas.
Ron threads his fingers into soft hair as Harry's shuttering, uneven breaths come hot and fast against his throat. He presses his face to Harry's head, breathes in his scent, and he doesn't know (doesn't care) who was right or who was wrong, or how anything could ever seem more important than this, how anything could ever be reason enough to let Harry leave.
"I couldn't," Harry murmurs, into Ron's shoulder.
"Stay," Ron says, and the words come from somewhere deep inside, some place he can't control, "please, just-you can-I don't care, just. Just stay."
Harry nods, small but furious, and Ron feels lips against his throat, his jaw, his cheek, and then they're on his mouth, and he's meeting them desperately, entreating them to just stay, please, stay. He knows his breath is sour from sleep, but Harry doesn't seem to care, doesn't even seem to notice.
"I'm sorry," Ron says into Harry's mouth. "I'm so fucking sorry." Harry grunts and answers with words Ron can't understand, acceptance or apology or nonsense, it doesn't matter, because he's here (he's back) and he isn't leaving (ever), not if Ron can help it.
Harry crawls on top of Ron as he kisses him, presses a knee between Ron's legs and slides down, and there are layers and layers of fabric between them (pyjama, bed sheets, denim), but when Harry's pelvis settles over Ron's, presses down against him again and again and again (question, answer, promise), Ron burns like it's skin against skin, and it might as well be, because Harry's here, and nothing else matters.