Fic: This Submerged Sense of Wonder, Ron/Harry
At the end of July, my dear friend Callum James wrote me this in an email as a fic prompt/idea:
Well, I instead wrote 4 vignettes rather than 5, and they're longer than 250 words. The other requirements are still there, which made for interesting development along the way. So without further ado, here 'tis.
Title: This Submerged Sense of Wonder
Pairing: Ron/Harry
Ratings: PG to NC-17, depending
Word count: 5300
Summary: Ron and Harry at four points in their lives. Who can ever, really, explain the simple profundity of lifelong companionship?
A/N: bottomless gratitude to wolfiekins, cim_halfling and auntee_mame for their betas. Suggested by and written for Callum, inspiration and friend. Title from G.K. Chesterton. DH-compliant; ignores the Epilogue.
.: 15 :.
It was the simplest words that gave Ron his grounding, solid and certain.
"I'm glad that I sat next to you on the train."
Harry's sentence, however, spoken contemplatively into the quiet of the room he was currently sharing with Ron, tripped him up.
"What?" Ron asked, baffled. He looked up from the chessboard on the floor between them. Harry's expression was earnest as he scratched at his neck, the look in his eyes becoming apologetic and then embarrassed as Ron scrambled to figure out what in Hades Harry was talking about. Thanks to Harry's bizarre but life-saving insight into his dad's attack, they'd not taken the train from Hogwarts for these Christmas hols.
"Just glad we're mates. That's all," Harry soldiered on before refocussing his attentions on the board. He was losing, his remaining pieces all glaring mutinously at him.
Ron chewed on his lower lip, wondering what was behind Harry's unexpected declaration of gratitude. Harry's moods had been all over the place this year. They'd surged crazily from angry to stand-offish to needy and back to furious, ricocheting from day to day - and sometimes hour to hour - like Cornish pixies let loose. Not that Ron blamed him; with Umbridge and then Harry being kicked off of the Quidditch team, not to mention the whole Cho Chang obsession, it was enough to make anyone absolutely crackers. Especially if you were Harry Potter and had He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named threatening to kill you on top of it all.
"I'm glad we're friends too, Harry," Ron said, lacking anything more original to say. A cautious smile edged onto Harry's lips, at last widening when Ron smiled in return. "You okay?" Ron went on, reaching over to a plate that an hour or so earlier had been towering with chocolate biscuits.
"Yeah."
Ron munched on the dessert, wishing he had a glass of milk to go with it, and glanced over at Harry again. He'd idly picked up one of his discarded pawns until it kicked him and he dropped it back on the floor. He rubbed at the back of his neck, massaging the top of his shoulder blade, still looking as though he were mulling over something he wanted to say.
"D'you want me to rub your back?" Ron found himself asking.
Harry appeared to be as shocked as Ron at the offer, but quickly recovered. "Um, all right. Yeah. Thanks," he said, the idea seeming less strange as the moments passed.
"Not that I think I'll be any good, mind," Ron began apologising as Harry shuffled on his knees away from the board.
"Doesn't matter. It's not as though I've had loads of massages in my life," Harry said ruefully, his gaze darting from Ron, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, and the bed.
"Um, I'll sit against the bed, and you sit in front of me."
Ron wasn't sure what the strange fluttering feeling in his stomach was all about, deciding to ignore it as he widened his legs into a vee. Harry situated himself, scooting in close to Ron's groin, an area he was suddenly all too aware of. He chalked up the subtle tightening against his flies to the fact that nobody had ever been that close to his privates in his life, and quickly determined that he shouldn't dwell on anything except making Harry feel better. That was what mates did; they helped each other out, no matter the cost. Awkwardly Ron spread out his hands, rubbing at Harry's bony shoulder blades, quirking a grin when Harry made a barely audible contented sigh.
Ron kept up his silent impromptu massage, making circles with his fingers, his thoughts drifting lazily about their Christmas. It had been pretty decent, though it'd started out bloody scary. He'd not pressed Harry about what exactly it was he'd seen in his mind when he saw his dad being attacked; sometimes it was easier just to ignore that part of Harry, to pretend as though Harry wasn't figuratively and literally marked.
"D'you sometimes wonder if I've gone a bit mad?" Harry asked, his voice threaded with self-derision and weariness.
"No, mate! Anybody else trying to cope with what you do would've cracked, I reckon." Ron pressed more deeply into the tight muscles, earning another hummed sigh of pleasure. "Especially at our age."
"Maybe."
A few more quiet moments went by until a muffled shout reached them from somewhere downstairs in the creepy house they and the Order were temporarily calling home. Harry and Ron both stiffened. There was no retaliatory noise and, most thankfully, no screaming from Mrs. Black's portrait, allowing them to relax again.
"'S good having Sirius around," Harry commented.
"Yeah."
Ron hesitated to say anything more as it might put him in a precarious position. He didn't idolise Harry's brooding, somewhat threatening godfather, not like Harry did. Sirius treated Harry differently than anybody else, though Ron had noticed that Sirius and Remus seemed to have the kind of unspoken understanding that he and Harry had. Ron was perceptive when he wanted to be, and he'd caught himself thinking he saw something between the two older friends that went beyond even best mates, something that caused a flicker of curiosity and fear to frisson across his skin, but he'd forced those thoughts away, too.
"You think he's a bit off, don't you?"
From Harry's tone, it was obvious what he expected Ron's answer to be. Ron decided to be honest, especially since Harry appeared to be reading his mind.
"Well, anyone would go a bit out of their gourd being stuck here all the time. And he was in Azkaban for several years."
"I'd die in Azkaban," Harry mused quietly, causing Ron to feel defensive for him all of a sudden. "I can't block my bloody thoughts. I can't even seem to keep Voldemort out."
Ron started at the name, his fingertips digging into Harry's shirt for a moment before he willed them to relax. He tried to lighten the mood a bit, uncertain what had brought on Harry's wave of negativity. "Well, you've blocked them from me in the past, so there's a start."
In the ensuing silence, Ron suddenly felt a hot maw of shame breathing on him. He'd only been making Harry take the piss, but what if he thought Ron was being serious? Harry slowly turned his head as though to look at Ron before he eased away from Ron's hands. He scooted around to sit across from him, a sardonic smile tugging up the corners of his lips.
"Too right, there. Sorry."
"No, Harry, it was a joke. A really bad one," Ron said, berating himself for putting his foot in it, yet again.
"Don't worry about it." Harry's expression bore no malice, only a contemplative weariness. "Given some of what's been going through my head, you should be glad you're not privy to it all. Sometimes I wish I could get all of the bloody stuff OUT, y'know?" he said, his exasperation revealed in the rising volume of his voice, and as he tugged on the unruly hair at his temples.
"Yeah, I do," Ron answered quickly, though he knew he had nothing so scary or unspeakable as all that to will out of his head. "Well, okay, not really. But you do know you can tell me anything, right? Anything at all. 's what mates are for."
A warm smile eased onto Harry's lips. "True enough. Same goes for you, too, y'know."
"I'm not exactly full of loads of secrets," Ron said with a shrug, leaning over to the plate with the few remaining biscuits. He held one out to Harry, who shook his head, but finally took it when Ron kept waving it at him.
They ate in a companionable silence, and Ron found himself feeling a twinge of guilt at being so glad it was just the two of them. Nothing against Hermione, but she added a certain tension to the mix, and this - just he and Harry, chatting and playing chess - this was easy. It was comfortable. He hoped they'd always be this way, that they'd not have to go through anything like fourth year when he'd given Harry the cold shoulder and basically been a prick. For his unbelievably awful childhood and constant fear of being singled out and killed by You-Know-Who, Harry was a normal bloke. Ron prided himself on knowing Harry really well, though at times he could spout off the oddest things.
"Why d'you really think people think it's so terrible to be a Parseltongue?" Harry asked seriously, stretching out to get one of the last biscuits. "I mean, it doesn't really make you feel differently about me, does it?"
Ron just stared, his peaceful thoughts now racing to find some kind of answer that wouldn't sound stupid. He wanted to go back to having a normal conversation. All of a sudden, his best mate seemed more like a stranger to him, unpredictable and hard to reach. Though Ron didn't like it, he had to admit there were things about him that were really hard to understand. Pinning Harry was sometimes like trying to hold a wriggling fish in your hands.
.: 20 :.
Pinning Harry was sometimes like trying to hold a wriggling fish in your hands. He apologised to Ron constantly about it- the meetings, the extra Auror classes, the public appearances, even though Harry kept those to an absolute minimum. It wasn't as though Ron went to bed alone at night, nothing like that; they were just so busy that sitting around in the flat, watching some telly and enjoying the peace of simply coexisting, seemed a long-distant memory.
Inspiration struck while Ron was in one of his healing classes. Harry wasn't even taking the Healer track for Aurors, but Ron quite enjoyed it, feeling that it really suited him. This day they'd been given an overview of some more arcane and unusual healing practices, which had sparked Ron's imagination. Tremendous progress had been made on the Hogwarts rebuilding process; there were classes being held and the school was nearly back to normal, but Ron knew of one particular area that he decided could use an extra infusion of a particular magical energy. Grinning to himself, he owled a short note to Harry on his lunch break, figuring it would reach him after he got out of his curse-breaking class. Ron received his reply a short while later, while munching on a watercress sandwich:
The astronomy tower? Don't know what you've got in mind, but I'll see you there at nine.
Yours,
Harry
Ron, Harry and Hermione's ambric signatures had exclusively been woven into the anti-Apparition wards, as they weren't exactly a threat to Hogwarts' staff and students. Ron Apparated into the tower and set up a low, wide mattress, candles, and even lit some sage that would enhance the binding spell into the stone. Harry arrived shortly thereafter, taking a quick assessment of the room and Ron's sultry smile. He gave Ron a saucy one-sided grin in return.
"Sex magic, eh?" he said, humour in his voice.
"Well, sure. All for the benefit of the future millennia of Hogwarts students," Ron quipped.
"That's a cause I can support," Harry said in a low voice.
"Let's get to it, then."
Ron deftly stripped Harry of his clothes, and Harry then lay down on the soft pallet. A warm breeze caressed Ron's skin as he also undressed; it was a last heated sigh of summer. Harry took himself in hand, legs spread wide and inviting as Ron cast the binding spell around them. It was a low-level channeling of their buildup of energy to be infused into the solid stone floor as Ron said the final word at his climax. Ron began his seduction of his lover, a familiar, sensual choreography they both knew well, but which still caused lust and desire to spark along his skin at Harry's touch. Harry looked up at him, his dazzling green eyes hooded by heavy lids, before claiming Ron's mouth with hungry, possessive lips. Ron sensed the shimmer of wandless, wordless magic and knew Harry had prepared himself. Harry sucked and licked Ron's neck as though the skin were a succulent, ripe pear.
Ron placed the head of his slicked cock at the entrance of Harry's body, the muscles clenching and fluttering around him as he pressed inside, accompanied by their mutual groans at the contact. Ron wasn't rough, not now in this languid heat; not while joined into the mystery of grasping velvet and Harry's growls and profanity and Ron's name rising into the air like incense.
Harry grasped Ron's shoulders with one arm, his ankles jostling against the base of Ron's sweaty back, his other hand stroking himself to an orgasm Ron could tell wasn't that far off. Ron picked up his pace, thrusting relentlessly into Harry's depths as he felt his own sacs drawing up. The prickling tension spiraled up, coursing out of his shaft as he shouted in ancient Gaelic. Ron forced his eyes to stay open, seeing the fountaining luminescence pour from their bodies and cascade silently into the rock, rills of shimmering light that disappeared into the thirsty stone. With a broken, reedy cry, Harry came, gasping as his own milky fluid fell onto his stomach.
Overly tired due to the extra magic in their coupling, Ron collapsed gently on top of Harry before pulling them on to their sides. They lay quietly for a time, adjusting legs and arms to more comfortable positions after Ron slid out from Harry's body. He felt Harry's lips curl up as he smiled against Ron's neck.
"I'm starving," Harry said, and Ron nodded in agreement.
"Want to go to that pizza place near the flat?" Ron suggested before he Accio'ed his wand and cast a cleansing spell on both of them.
"Sounds brilliant."
Harry craned his neck, seeking a kiss, and Ron met his lips with his own. They got up and dressed, Ron noticing the thrumming warmth in the stone, though he knew it would fade. His and Harry's legacy would remain infused in the rock of the tower until it crumbled in some untold age. He stood at a window, his hands splayed on the sill.
"A part of us will always be here," Harry said thoughtfully, standing behind him, his arms wrapped around Ron's waist.
"I was just thinking that," Ron admitted with a chuckle.
Ron gazed above the horizon, and without consciously doing so, made a wish on the single bright star hovering in the lilac dusk.
.: 25 :.
Ron gazed above the horizon, and without consciously doing so, made a wish on the single bright star hovering in the lilac dusk. He wondered why he did that, wishing automatically, not that he felt it did any good. He'd been wishing for the same thing in recent months- I wish that Harry and I were like we were before. Before what, though? They'd not split up, it wasn't anything so traumatic and permanent as that, thank Merlin. But they were off. And it wasn't like when they were younger, in school, set off by a particular misunderstanding, or misguided loyalty. They knew each other far too well for that.
Maybe that was the crux of things, that after fourteen years, they had the luxury to take each other for granted, not to ask what was wrong, since they each assumed they already knew. Ron was bruisingly aware that he didn't feel as close to Harry these days, but not for any reason he could put his finger on. He'd become better at talking - even about his feelings - but this sluggish onset of going through the motions, he didn't have the words to describe it, or explain why that was what they were going through. It was like getting out the bread for toast, and noticing that it was pretty stale, but making toast anyway. Because, well, why not? It's only toast. It was only Harry and him living together, enjoying life, a miracle, really, but seeming flat somehow.
Thoughts would come to Ron at odd moments: while setting the dishes to wash, or going for his evening jog, or feeling his gaze skate over the words of the Daily Prophet while he had his morning coffee. He could do something unexpected, spice things up; rub Harry's feet, go off on holiday together, even. Being Aurors, though, made the holiday idea less likely, but perhaps that was the most convincing thing he could do to show Harry that he wasn't bored. Because he wasn't, not really
Ron padded into their kitchen and opened a lower drawer, rummaging around until he found a pack of cigarettes. Harry didn't mind if he smoked occasionally, and besides- Harry was on a mission in India, of all places. Ron had the flat to himself, and could do just as he pleased. Standing outside on their small deck, Ron took a drag. As he exhaled, he realised that what would please him the most was Harry's company. His attentive company. For some time they'd acted mostly like roommates, just two blokes sharing a place like they had when they'd first moved in together. Back then, however, the air had nearly exploded with sexual tension; now they slept and ate and snogged and sometimes shagged, all done with a very comfortable, but completely unremarkable attitude. Was he being a bloody girl to want those more vivid, heart racing, can't-fucking-wait-to-tear-each-other's-clothes-off times again? They weren't old in any sense of the word, except that they'd both been through so much. Maybe this was exactly what Harry wanted, and why he seemed so utterly at peace: all Harry had ever wanted was a life without being marked for death, to be accepted and loved and secure. Ron provided those last elements; he knew that and took pride in it.
Deciding if he was going to be this much of a bloody sap he should do it full out, Ron took another hit on his cigarette before heading back to the kitchen to pour himself a healthy glass of scotch. Ginny played for the Harpies now and was more than happy to give them gifts of very nice single malts when they played in Scotland. He and Harry certainly didn't complain. Once back outside, Ron settled into a surprisingly comfortable plastic chair from some Muggle store that Harry loved called Ikea. He took a couple of deep swallows before lighting another cigarette, and found that his mood had lightened, for no discernable reason.
Harry would be back within a fortnight if everything went well, and Ron decided to make it his mission to remind Harry in relatively subtle ways just how much he meant to him. His gaze turned upward to the bright film of clouds, lit from below by the omnipresent lights of London. It didn't need to be anything flash, he mused, sipping on the amber beverage. In fact, anything showy or pretentious would probably come off poorly in Ron's hands; he wasn't the extravagant gift-giving type. Besides, he was pretty strapped in regards to money.
Maybe some surprise sex- stepping into Harry's shower now and again, providing they weren't running late for work, and getting Harry off under the spray. Or even inviting some people over; they'd been so caught up in their Auror duties that they almost never socialised any more. They could meet Seamus and Dean at a pub some night for darts and a chat, or even go to a Muggle film. He'd probably go along with that without much goading. Ron was quite fond of being able to slide his hand behind Harry's back, pulling him in close just for a moment, out in public.
After all, it really was a life of quiet acceptance that Harry aspired to; a place to live with the person he kept saying was the one he never wanted to be without. A life with his best mate and lover. Thinking of Harry and a much-anticipated welcome home shag prompted Ron to put out his cigarette and go inside for a wank. Maybe he'd owl Harry a quick note, as well, though he wasn't entirely sure how tight the security was on this mission of his. Pig wasn't up for international flights like that; he'd need to borrow a Ministry hawk or something
They'd get back to being totally at peace, and ordinary. He'd stop taking their partnership for granted, which was exactly what he'd been doing, to his own discredit. Of course they were going to be together for a lifetime, and a very long one at that, he hoped. Was there any doubt things would've turned out any differently?
.: 30 :.
"Was there any doubt things would've turned out any differently?" Hermione said, her voice bruised and flat.
Harry took her hand, cradling it between his palms, his thumbs drawing soothing patterns. She seemed not to notice at all.
"I mean, that many days, but still, you might've thought- no, I could tell, especially the suffering he went through, god, I would've been a lunatic "
Her fragmented commentary moved sluggishly from one unfinished through to the next, but Ron could intuit the unspoken gaps in-between. Eyes unfocussed, she reached for her empty glass, looking at it with detached curiosity. Ron poured her a bit more firewhiskey until Harry shook his head. They'd all had rather a lot, but Hermione didn't have their tolerance. Still, Ron didn't know how else to cope, not after a funeral. Not after this funeral, one for their classmate and friend, and their best friend's husband. Not so out of the blue, not when the memories of the War funerals had gratefully faded somewhat into memory.
"He was brave," Harry said, continuing to stroke her delicate fingers. "He always was, even though we didn't see it at first."
"They couldn't save him," Hermione said plaintively, looking at both Harry and Ron for answers Ron knew they could never provide.
Ron felt miserable; he didn't know what to do, or say, or how to console her. But she was hurting, utterly torn apart by Neville's unexpected, painful death. The one thought that kept running through his mind was how fucking glad he was that Harry was still alive. Hermione might have finally fallen apart in front of them after keeping such a brave front the last two days Neville fought unsuccessfully against the Impuratus curse; Ron suspected in his heart of hearts that if faced with a similar situation, he would've bolted, and Merlin knows what kind of self-harm he might have inflicted on himself.
"I can't go home," she stated vehemently and drained her glass. Her eyes were bloodshot from tears shed in the hours prior, but she'd been dry-eyed since Harry had brought her back to their house to spend some time alone, just the three of them.
"No, that's probably not a good idea," Ron agreed, imagining how desolate their home would feel without Neville's presence in it. All those plants everywhere- it would be a nightmare for her, at least at first, all of those living and thriving reminders of a man who stumbled literally into an undetonated curse. Ron wanted to kill the remaining Death Eaters still in Azkaban, to throttle them and make them tell where the other experimental self-contained curse traps would be found. The only thing that made him feel a tiny bit better was that Shacklebolt was going to Azkaban to do some interrogations. Hopefully Harry's Auror team would be able to sweep the area where Neville had been camping and find any other of the unthinkably evil traps, now over a decade old.
"Would you like to stay here?" Harry asked gently, but she shook her head.
"No, but I really, really appreciate it. Several people had been kind enough to invite me to spend some time with them. For all of her eccentricity, Luna seems to understand people, and Dean is so down to earth. I think they'd be best, just for a couple of days."
Harry glanced over at Ron, raising his eyebrows slightly. The two of them had talked to a few of their mutual friends about where she might stay at least for a little while, since Neville's death had been such a shock. Dean and Luna weren't her absolute closest companions, but they also didn't have children, which Harry insightfully thought might make Hermione feel more at peace. She'd told the two of them recently that she and Neville had begun making those kinds of plans, so being at any Weasley home aside from Ron and Harry's would likely have been too much to cope with now that her plans had been shattered so abruptly.
"Here. We'll go with you," Ron offered, but Harry shook his head.
"How about just I go," he suggested.
Hermione didn't seem to care one way or another. She was in her own solitary landscape of disbelief and sorrow; only she could see the path she must endure. Ron didn't quite understand why he'd been uninvited to escort her to Dean and Luna's, but these serious emotional situations had never been his strength. Harry would know what to say and wouldn't be awkward, as Ron was bound to be.
They all stood up and Ron walked the few steps to hold Hermione in his arms.
"I'm so sorry," he said. He stood there for a time with his arms wrapped tightly around her, this strong, brave, loving friend now in a land of extraordinary grief. "You can't know how sorry I am," he said again, wishing he had any words of comfort, but they sounded so false in his head he couldn't bear to taste them in his mouth. "We're always here for you, Hermione. Always."
She pulled back from him, a mournful smile crossing her lips before quickly sliding away. She raised her hand to cup his unshaven jaw, simply looking at him in silence for a few moments.
"I know. Thank you."
Ron leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. A few minutes later, she and Harry had taken the Floo network over to Luna and Dean's, after first firecalling Ginny. They asked her to go to Hermione and Neville's house to put together a travel bag for Hermione, which Ginny immediately agreed to do. In the ensuing silence, Ron felt a bit abandoned. He had to fight to keep from pacing when the minutes stretched out into a half hour, and then forty minutes before Harry returned.
"She'll be okay," Harry said reassuringly, pouring himself a small glass from the now half-empty bottle.
"She's coping better than I would, that's for sure," Ron murmured, helping himself as well before sprawling on his back on the couch. "Come and join me?" he asked, and Harry nodded, an understanding, bittersweet smile on his face. Doubtless he'd let his imagination go where Ron's had traveled, thinking the inconceivable: a horrifying day when the world could turn topsy-turvy, and he could be faced with a lifetime without his one true companion. It would be horrendous.
He forced himself to push those thoughts away as Harry lay down on him. Ron breathed deeply of Harry's scent, noting the incense smell lingering on him from being at the Lovegood-Thomas household. He took a last sip of his drink and placed it on the floor, wanting to have his hands available to hold Harry tightly to him. Harry did the same with his drink and soon was burrowed against Ron. His head rested on Ron's chest, his arms eased under Ron's back and their pelvis' pressed neatly together like two matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. They were intertwined, the posture familiar and yet quietly miraculous as only truly everyday experiences can be. Harry began shifting just a bit, angling his hips to entice some friction, the very beginning steps in a two-person dance second nature to Ron's body. As the heat began a slow smouldering in his groin, Ron suddenly had the mental image of the stone stairs at Hogwarts, of smoothed, worn curves in the stone made by generation after generation of students walking on the same paths. He and Harry were like that, their couplings like an often-traveled trail, the earth solid and free of stones or troublesome roots, but each journey was slightly different.
They didn't need to speak aloud as Harry scooted back and began taking off his clothes. Ron did the same while Harry used his wand to light a fire in the hearth and cast a Nox on the lights so their only illumination was the cheery glow from the fire. Harry cast a widening spell on the couch for good measure, and Ron smiled his approval, lying back and opening his arms again.
"Want you in me," he said, his voice heavy with unspoken gratitude.
Harry nodded, quietly Accio'ing some lubricant from their bedroom or bathroom, it didn't much matter the origin. He draped himself on top of Ron, this time skin to skin, the shimmering strands of silver that now appeared in Harry's black hair glinting in the firelight. Ron kissed Harry deeply, feasting on the lingering heat of the alcohol and comforting, warm taste that was uniquely Harry. When their frotting started to drive him to distraction, Ron pulled back, breathing heavily. Harry raised his eyebrows in question, his usually messy hair now wildly disheveled from Ron's fingers raking through it.
"I'll stay on my back," Ron said raggedly, desire thrumming in his pulse and centreing in the damp heat of his clenching muscles.
He didn't ask for this all the time, but right now it was all he craved; to feel the blunt, slicked dome pressed against his body until with a hiss of pleasure, his muscles flared at the intrusion to let Harry slide in. Other nights and other days they'd showered each other with erotic, filthy words, getting off on its sense of the forbidden. Their joining now was one of sighs and moans, of grunts and squelching slickhotight that rose from them like morning mist on a lake. Legs wrapped around Harry's back, Ron took himself in hand after licking his palm. He used the pressure and sliding skin to take him to that taut wall of tension, only to break on it with ecstasy. Lights danced behind his closed eyes on a chiaroscuro tapestry as aftershocks pulsed out of him, the warmth spilling over his fingers.
Harry continued his relentless thrusts until he, too, let out a low groan, shoving his hips against the backs of Ron's thighs though he was already buried as deeply as possible. When he'd come back to himself enough to do so, Ron squeezed his inner muscles in a kind of thank you around Harry's cock. Harry smiled at him, mouth open and panting as he continued to recover.
After a time, Harry inevitably slid out from Ron. He cast a couple of cleansing spells while Ron retrieved a knitted blanket his mum had made years ago, draping it over them both once Harry was situated on top of him again. The softened flesh between their legs rested against Ron's thigh, and he held Harry loosely, resting with the lassitude only found after physical release. Doubtless they would continue to have their ups and downs, misunderstandings and tedium that was part of the paradoxical gift of being alive. He nuzzled into the sprucey aroma of Harry's scalp, mouthing silent endearments against the pale skin.
"It'll always be you," Harry murmured.
That truth beat in Ron's heart; he didn't need or want the flowery gestures, or extravagant promises. It was the simplest words that gave Ron his grounding, solid and certain.
- ... is to write five linked drabbles of no more than 250 words each charting the developing relationship between Harry and Ron. The drabbles should be titled, 15, 20, 25, 30, and 35 refering to the ages of the characters in each drabble. At least two of the five should be rated NC-17. And here's the kicker... each drabble has to begin with the same line that the previous one ends with and the final line of the last drabble must be the same as the first line of the first. Also, there should be no need for a paragraph of explanation at the beginning... !
Well, I instead wrote 4 vignettes rather than 5, and they're longer than 250 words. The other requirements are still there, which made for interesting development along the way. So without further ado, here 'tis.
Title: This Submerged Sense of Wonder
Pairing: Ron/Harry
Ratings: PG to NC-17, depending
Word count: 5300
Summary: Ron and Harry at four points in their lives. Who can ever, really, explain the simple profundity of lifelong companionship?
A/N: bottomless gratitude to wolfiekins, cim_halfling and auntee_mame for their betas. Suggested by and written for Callum, inspiration and friend. Title from G.K. Chesterton. DH-compliant; ignores the Epilogue.
.: 15 :.
It was the simplest words that gave Ron his grounding, solid and certain.
"I'm glad that I sat next to you on the train."
Harry's sentence, however, spoken contemplatively into the quiet of the room he was currently sharing with Ron, tripped him up.
"What?" Ron asked, baffled. He looked up from the chessboard on the floor between them. Harry's expression was earnest as he scratched at his neck, the look in his eyes becoming apologetic and then embarrassed as Ron scrambled to figure out what in Hades Harry was talking about. Thanks to Harry's bizarre but life-saving insight into his dad's attack, they'd not taken the train from Hogwarts for these Christmas hols.
"Just glad we're mates. That's all," Harry soldiered on before refocussing his attentions on the board. He was losing, his remaining pieces all glaring mutinously at him.
Ron chewed on his lower lip, wondering what was behind Harry's unexpected declaration of gratitude. Harry's moods had been all over the place this year. They'd surged crazily from angry to stand-offish to needy and back to furious, ricocheting from day to day - and sometimes hour to hour - like Cornish pixies let loose. Not that Ron blamed him; with Umbridge and then Harry being kicked off of the Quidditch team, not to mention the whole Cho Chang obsession, it was enough to make anyone absolutely crackers. Especially if you were Harry Potter and had He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named threatening to kill you on top of it all.
"I'm glad we're friends too, Harry," Ron said, lacking anything more original to say. A cautious smile edged onto Harry's lips, at last widening when Ron smiled in return. "You okay?" Ron went on, reaching over to a plate that an hour or so earlier had been towering with chocolate biscuits.
"Yeah."
Ron munched on the dessert, wishing he had a glass of milk to go with it, and glanced over at Harry again. He'd idly picked up one of his discarded pawns until it kicked him and he dropped it back on the floor. He rubbed at the back of his neck, massaging the top of his shoulder blade, still looking as though he were mulling over something he wanted to say.
"D'you want me to rub your back?" Ron found himself asking.
Harry appeared to be as shocked as Ron at the offer, but quickly recovered. "Um, all right. Yeah. Thanks," he said, the idea seeming less strange as the moments passed.
"Not that I think I'll be any good, mind," Ron began apologising as Harry shuffled on his knees away from the board.
"Doesn't matter. It's not as though I've had loads of massages in my life," Harry said ruefully, his gaze darting from Ron, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, and the bed.
"Um, I'll sit against the bed, and you sit in front of me."
Ron wasn't sure what the strange fluttering feeling in his stomach was all about, deciding to ignore it as he widened his legs into a vee. Harry situated himself, scooting in close to Ron's groin, an area he was suddenly all too aware of. He chalked up the subtle tightening against his flies to the fact that nobody had ever been that close to his privates in his life, and quickly determined that he shouldn't dwell on anything except making Harry feel better. That was what mates did; they helped each other out, no matter the cost. Awkwardly Ron spread out his hands, rubbing at Harry's bony shoulder blades, quirking a grin when Harry made a barely audible contented sigh.
Ron kept up his silent impromptu massage, making circles with his fingers, his thoughts drifting lazily about their Christmas. It had been pretty decent, though it'd started out bloody scary. He'd not pressed Harry about what exactly it was he'd seen in his mind when he saw his dad being attacked; sometimes it was easier just to ignore that part of Harry, to pretend as though Harry wasn't figuratively and literally marked.
"D'you sometimes wonder if I've gone a bit mad?" Harry asked, his voice threaded with self-derision and weariness.
"No, mate! Anybody else trying to cope with what you do would've cracked, I reckon." Ron pressed more deeply into the tight muscles, earning another hummed sigh of pleasure. "Especially at our age."
"Maybe."
A few more quiet moments went by until a muffled shout reached them from somewhere downstairs in the creepy house they and the Order were temporarily calling home. Harry and Ron both stiffened. There was no retaliatory noise and, most thankfully, no screaming from Mrs. Black's portrait, allowing them to relax again.
"'S good having Sirius around," Harry commented.
"Yeah."
Ron hesitated to say anything more as it might put him in a precarious position. He didn't idolise Harry's brooding, somewhat threatening godfather, not like Harry did. Sirius treated Harry differently than anybody else, though Ron had noticed that Sirius and Remus seemed to have the kind of unspoken understanding that he and Harry had. Ron was perceptive when he wanted to be, and he'd caught himself thinking he saw something between the two older friends that went beyond even best mates, something that caused a flicker of curiosity and fear to frisson across his skin, but he'd forced those thoughts away, too.
"You think he's a bit off, don't you?"
From Harry's tone, it was obvious what he expected Ron's answer to be. Ron decided to be honest, especially since Harry appeared to be reading his mind.
"Well, anyone would go a bit out of their gourd being stuck here all the time. And he was in Azkaban for several years."
"I'd die in Azkaban," Harry mused quietly, causing Ron to feel defensive for him all of a sudden. "I can't block my bloody thoughts. I can't even seem to keep Voldemort out."
Ron started at the name, his fingertips digging into Harry's shirt for a moment before he willed them to relax. He tried to lighten the mood a bit, uncertain what had brought on Harry's wave of negativity. "Well, you've blocked them from me in the past, so there's a start."
In the ensuing silence, Ron suddenly felt a hot maw of shame breathing on him. He'd only been making Harry take the piss, but what if he thought Ron was being serious? Harry slowly turned his head as though to look at Ron before he eased away from Ron's hands. He scooted around to sit across from him, a sardonic smile tugging up the corners of his lips.
"Too right, there. Sorry."
"No, Harry, it was a joke. A really bad one," Ron said, berating himself for putting his foot in it, yet again.
"Don't worry about it." Harry's expression bore no malice, only a contemplative weariness. "Given some of what's been going through my head, you should be glad you're not privy to it all. Sometimes I wish I could get all of the bloody stuff OUT, y'know?" he said, his exasperation revealed in the rising volume of his voice, and as he tugged on the unruly hair at his temples.
"Yeah, I do," Ron answered quickly, though he knew he had nothing so scary or unspeakable as all that to will out of his head. "Well, okay, not really. But you do know you can tell me anything, right? Anything at all. 's what mates are for."
A warm smile eased onto Harry's lips. "True enough. Same goes for you, too, y'know."
"I'm not exactly full of loads of secrets," Ron said with a shrug, leaning over to the plate with the few remaining biscuits. He held one out to Harry, who shook his head, but finally took it when Ron kept waving it at him.
They ate in a companionable silence, and Ron found himself feeling a twinge of guilt at being so glad it was just the two of them. Nothing against Hermione, but she added a certain tension to the mix, and this - just he and Harry, chatting and playing chess - this was easy. It was comfortable. He hoped they'd always be this way, that they'd not have to go through anything like fourth year when he'd given Harry the cold shoulder and basically been a prick. For his unbelievably awful childhood and constant fear of being singled out and killed by You-Know-Who, Harry was a normal bloke. Ron prided himself on knowing Harry really well, though at times he could spout off the oddest things.
"Why d'you really think people think it's so terrible to be a Parseltongue?" Harry asked seriously, stretching out to get one of the last biscuits. "I mean, it doesn't really make you feel differently about me, does it?"
Ron just stared, his peaceful thoughts now racing to find some kind of answer that wouldn't sound stupid. He wanted to go back to having a normal conversation. All of a sudden, his best mate seemed more like a stranger to him, unpredictable and hard to reach. Though Ron didn't like it, he had to admit there were things about him that were really hard to understand. Pinning Harry was sometimes like trying to hold a wriggling fish in your hands.
.: 20 :.
Pinning Harry was sometimes like trying to hold a wriggling fish in your hands. He apologised to Ron constantly about it- the meetings, the extra Auror classes, the public appearances, even though Harry kept those to an absolute minimum. It wasn't as though Ron went to bed alone at night, nothing like that; they were just so busy that sitting around in the flat, watching some telly and enjoying the peace of simply coexisting, seemed a long-distant memory.
Inspiration struck while Ron was in one of his healing classes. Harry wasn't even taking the Healer track for Aurors, but Ron quite enjoyed it, feeling that it really suited him. This day they'd been given an overview of some more arcane and unusual healing practices, which had sparked Ron's imagination. Tremendous progress had been made on the Hogwarts rebuilding process; there were classes being held and the school was nearly back to normal, but Ron knew of one particular area that he decided could use an extra infusion of a particular magical energy. Grinning to himself, he owled a short note to Harry on his lunch break, figuring it would reach him after he got out of his curse-breaking class. Ron received his reply a short while later, while munching on a watercress sandwich:
The astronomy tower? Don't know what you've got in mind, but I'll see you there at nine.
Yours,
Harry
Ron, Harry and Hermione's ambric signatures had exclusively been woven into the anti-Apparition wards, as they weren't exactly a threat to Hogwarts' staff and students. Ron Apparated into the tower and set up a low, wide mattress, candles, and even lit some sage that would enhance the binding spell into the stone. Harry arrived shortly thereafter, taking a quick assessment of the room and Ron's sultry smile. He gave Ron a saucy one-sided grin in return.
"Sex magic, eh?" he said, humour in his voice.
"Well, sure. All for the benefit of the future millennia of Hogwarts students," Ron quipped.
"That's a cause I can support," Harry said in a low voice.
"Let's get to it, then."
Ron deftly stripped Harry of his clothes, and Harry then lay down on the soft pallet. A warm breeze caressed Ron's skin as he also undressed; it was a last heated sigh of summer. Harry took himself in hand, legs spread wide and inviting as Ron cast the binding spell around them. It was a low-level channeling of their buildup of energy to be infused into the solid stone floor as Ron said the final word at his climax. Ron began his seduction of his lover, a familiar, sensual choreography they both knew well, but which still caused lust and desire to spark along his skin at Harry's touch. Harry looked up at him, his dazzling green eyes hooded by heavy lids, before claiming Ron's mouth with hungry, possessive lips. Ron sensed the shimmer of wandless, wordless magic and knew Harry had prepared himself. Harry sucked and licked Ron's neck as though the skin were a succulent, ripe pear.
Ron placed the head of his slicked cock at the entrance of Harry's body, the muscles clenching and fluttering around him as he pressed inside, accompanied by their mutual groans at the contact. Ron wasn't rough, not now in this languid heat; not while joined into the mystery of grasping velvet and Harry's growls and profanity and Ron's name rising into the air like incense.
Harry grasped Ron's shoulders with one arm, his ankles jostling against the base of Ron's sweaty back, his other hand stroking himself to an orgasm Ron could tell wasn't that far off. Ron picked up his pace, thrusting relentlessly into Harry's depths as he felt his own sacs drawing up. The prickling tension spiraled up, coursing out of his shaft as he shouted in ancient Gaelic. Ron forced his eyes to stay open, seeing the fountaining luminescence pour from their bodies and cascade silently into the rock, rills of shimmering light that disappeared into the thirsty stone. With a broken, reedy cry, Harry came, gasping as his own milky fluid fell onto his stomach.
Overly tired due to the extra magic in their coupling, Ron collapsed gently on top of Harry before pulling them on to their sides. They lay quietly for a time, adjusting legs and arms to more comfortable positions after Ron slid out from Harry's body. He felt Harry's lips curl up as he smiled against Ron's neck.
"I'm starving," Harry said, and Ron nodded in agreement.
"Want to go to that pizza place near the flat?" Ron suggested before he Accio'ed his wand and cast a cleansing spell on both of them.
"Sounds brilliant."
Harry craned his neck, seeking a kiss, and Ron met his lips with his own. They got up and dressed, Ron noticing the thrumming warmth in the stone, though he knew it would fade. His and Harry's legacy would remain infused in the rock of the tower until it crumbled in some untold age. He stood at a window, his hands splayed on the sill.
"A part of us will always be here," Harry said thoughtfully, standing behind him, his arms wrapped around Ron's waist.
"I was just thinking that," Ron admitted with a chuckle.
Ron gazed above the horizon, and without consciously doing so, made a wish on the single bright star hovering in the lilac dusk.
.: 25 :.
Ron gazed above the horizon, and without consciously doing so, made a wish on the single bright star hovering in the lilac dusk. He wondered why he did that, wishing automatically, not that he felt it did any good. He'd been wishing for the same thing in recent months- I wish that Harry and I were like we were before. Before what, though? They'd not split up, it wasn't anything so traumatic and permanent as that, thank Merlin. But they were off. And it wasn't like when they were younger, in school, set off by a particular misunderstanding, or misguided loyalty. They knew each other far too well for that.
Maybe that was the crux of things, that after fourteen years, they had the luxury to take each other for granted, not to ask what was wrong, since they each assumed they already knew. Ron was bruisingly aware that he didn't feel as close to Harry these days, but not for any reason he could put his finger on. He'd become better at talking - even about his feelings - but this sluggish onset of going through the motions, he didn't have the words to describe it, or explain why that was what they were going through. It was like getting out the bread for toast, and noticing that it was pretty stale, but making toast anyway. Because, well, why not? It's only toast. It was only Harry and him living together, enjoying life, a miracle, really, but seeming flat somehow.
Thoughts would come to Ron at odd moments: while setting the dishes to wash, or going for his evening jog, or feeling his gaze skate over the words of the Daily Prophet while he had his morning coffee. He could do something unexpected, spice things up; rub Harry's feet, go off on holiday together, even. Being Aurors, though, made the holiday idea less likely, but perhaps that was the most convincing thing he could do to show Harry that he wasn't bored. Because he wasn't, not really
Ron padded into their kitchen and opened a lower drawer, rummaging around until he found a pack of cigarettes. Harry didn't mind if he smoked occasionally, and besides- Harry was on a mission in India, of all places. Ron had the flat to himself, and could do just as he pleased. Standing outside on their small deck, Ron took a drag. As he exhaled, he realised that what would please him the most was Harry's company. His attentive company. For some time they'd acted mostly like roommates, just two blokes sharing a place like they had when they'd first moved in together. Back then, however, the air had nearly exploded with sexual tension; now they slept and ate and snogged and sometimes shagged, all done with a very comfortable, but completely unremarkable attitude. Was he being a bloody girl to want those more vivid, heart racing, can't-fucking-wait-to-tear-each-other's-clothes-off times again? They weren't old in any sense of the word, except that they'd both been through so much. Maybe this was exactly what Harry wanted, and why he seemed so utterly at peace: all Harry had ever wanted was a life without being marked for death, to be accepted and loved and secure. Ron provided those last elements; he knew that and took pride in it.
Deciding if he was going to be this much of a bloody sap he should do it full out, Ron took another hit on his cigarette before heading back to the kitchen to pour himself a healthy glass of scotch. Ginny played for the Harpies now and was more than happy to give them gifts of very nice single malts when they played in Scotland. He and Harry certainly didn't complain. Once back outside, Ron settled into a surprisingly comfortable plastic chair from some Muggle store that Harry loved called Ikea. He took a couple of deep swallows before lighting another cigarette, and found that his mood had lightened, for no discernable reason.
Harry would be back within a fortnight if everything went well, and Ron decided to make it his mission to remind Harry in relatively subtle ways just how much he meant to him. His gaze turned upward to the bright film of clouds, lit from below by the omnipresent lights of London. It didn't need to be anything flash, he mused, sipping on the amber beverage. In fact, anything showy or pretentious would probably come off poorly in Ron's hands; he wasn't the extravagant gift-giving type. Besides, he was pretty strapped in regards to money.
Maybe some surprise sex- stepping into Harry's shower now and again, providing they weren't running late for work, and getting Harry off under the spray. Or even inviting some people over; they'd been so caught up in their Auror duties that they almost never socialised any more. They could meet Seamus and Dean at a pub some night for darts and a chat, or even go to a Muggle film. He'd probably go along with that without much goading. Ron was quite fond of being able to slide his hand behind Harry's back, pulling him in close just for a moment, out in public.
After all, it really was a life of quiet acceptance that Harry aspired to; a place to live with the person he kept saying was the one he never wanted to be without. A life with his best mate and lover. Thinking of Harry and a much-anticipated welcome home shag prompted Ron to put out his cigarette and go inside for a wank. Maybe he'd owl Harry a quick note, as well, though he wasn't entirely sure how tight the security was on this mission of his. Pig wasn't up for international flights like that; he'd need to borrow a Ministry hawk or something
They'd get back to being totally at peace, and ordinary. He'd stop taking their partnership for granted, which was exactly what he'd been doing, to his own discredit. Of course they were going to be together for a lifetime, and a very long one at that, he hoped. Was there any doubt things would've turned out any differently?
.: 30 :.
"Was there any doubt things would've turned out any differently?" Hermione said, her voice bruised and flat.
Harry took her hand, cradling it between his palms, his thumbs drawing soothing patterns. She seemed not to notice at all.
"I mean, that many days, but still, you might've thought- no, I could tell, especially the suffering he went through, god, I would've been a lunatic "
Her fragmented commentary moved sluggishly from one unfinished through to the next, but Ron could intuit the unspoken gaps in-between. Eyes unfocussed, she reached for her empty glass, looking at it with detached curiosity. Ron poured her a bit more firewhiskey until Harry shook his head. They'd all had rather a lot, but Hermione didn't have their tolerance. Still, Ron didn't know how else to cope, not after a funeral. Not after this funeral, one for their classmate and friend, and their best friend's husband. Not so out of the blue, not when the memories of the War funerals had gratefully faded somewhat into memory.
"He was brave," Harry said, continuing to stroke her delicate fingers. "He always was, even though we didn't see it at first."
"They couldn't save him," Hermione said plaintively, looking at both Harry and Ron for answers Ron knew they could never provide.
Ron felt miserable; he didn't know what to do, or say, or how to console her. But she was hurting, utterly torn apart by Neville's unexpected, painful death. The one thought that kept running through his mind was how fucking glad he was that Harry was still alive. Hermione might have finally fallen apart in front of them after keeping such a brave front the last two days Neville fought unsuccessfully against the Impuratus curse; Ron suspected in his heart of hearts that if faced with a similar situation, he would've bolted, and Merlin knows what kind of self-harm he might have inflicted on himself.
"I can't go home," she stated vehemently and drained her glass. Her eyes were bloodshot from tears shed in the hours prior, but she'd been dry-eyed since Harry had brought her back to their house to spend some time alone, just the three of them.
"No, that's probably not a good idea," Ron agreed, imagining how desolate their home would feel without Neville's presence in it. All those plants everywhere- it would be a nightmare for her, at least at first, all of those living and thriving reminders of a man who stumbled literally into an undetonated curse. Ron wanted to kill the remaining Death Eaters still in Azkaban, to throttle them and make them tell where the other experimental self-contained curse traps would be found. The only thing that made him feel a tiny bit better was that Shacklebolt was going to Azkaban to do some interrogations. Hopefully Harry's Auror team would be able to sweep the area where Neville had been camping and find any other of the unthinkably evil traps, now over a decade old.
"Would you like to stay here?" Harry asked gently, but she shook her head.
"No, but I really, really appreciate it. Several people had been kind enough to invite me to spend some time with them. For all of her eccentricity, Luna seems to understand people, and Dean is so down to earth. I think they'd be best, just for a couple of days."
Harry glanced over at Ron, raising his eyebrows slightly. The two of them had talked to a few of their mutual friends about where she might stay at least for a little while, since Neville's death had been such a shock. Dean and Luna weren't her absolute closest companions, but they also didn't have children, which Harry insightfully thought might make Hermione feel more at peace. She'd told the two of them recently that she and Neville had begun making those kinds of plans, so being at any Weasley home aside from Ron and Harry's would likely have been too much to cope with now that her plans had been shattered so abruptly.
"Here. We'll go with you," Ron offered, but Harry shook his head.
"How about just I go," he suggested.
Hermione didn't seem to care one way or another. She was in her own solitary landscape of disbelief and sorrow; only she could see the path she must endure. Ron didn't quite understand why he'd been uninvited to escort her to Dean and Luna's, but these serious emotional situations had never been his strength. Harry would know what to say and wouldn't be awkward, as Ron was bound to be.
They all stood up and Ron walked the few steps to hold Hermione in his arms.
"I'm so sorry," he said. He stood there for a time with his arms wrapped tightly around her, this strong, brave, loving friend now in a land of extraordinary grief. "You can't know how sorry I am," he said again, wishing he had any words of comfort, but they sounded so false in his head he couldn't bear to taste them in his mouth. "We're always here for you, Hermione. Always."
She pulled back from him, a mournful smile crossing her lips before quickly sliding away. She raised her hand to cup his unshaven jaw, simply looking at him in silence for a few moments.
"I know. Thank you."
Ron leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. A few minutes later, she and Harry had taken the Floo network over to Luna and Dean's, after first firecalling Ginny. They asked her to go to Hermione and Neville's house to put together a travel bag for Hermione, which Ginny immediately agreed to do. In the ensuing silence, Ron felt a bit abandoned. He had to fight to keep from pacing when the minutes stretched out into a half hour, and then forty minutes before Harry returned.
"She'll be okay," Harry said reassuringly, pouring himself a small glass from the now half-empty bottle.
"She's coping better than I would, that's for sure," Ron murmured, helping himself as well before sprawling on his back on the couch. "Come and join me?" he asked, and Harry nodded, an understanding, bittersweet smile on his face. Doubtless he'd let his imagination go where Ron's had traveled, thinking the inconceivable: a horrifying day when the world could turn topsy-turvy, and he could be faced with a lifetime without his one true companion. It would be horrendous.
He forced himself to push those thoughts away as Harry lay down on him. Ron breathed deeply of Harry's scent, noting the incense smell lingering on him from being at the Lovegood-Thomas household. He took a last sip of his drink and placed it on the floor, wanting to have his hands available to hold Harry tightly to him. Harry did the same with his drink and soon was burrowed against Ron. His head rested on Ron's chest, his arms eased under Ron's back and their pelvis' pressed neatly together like two matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. They were intertwined, the posture familiar and yet quietly miraculous as only truly everyday experiences can be. Harry began shifting just a bit, angling his hips to entice some friction, the very beginning steps in a two-person dance second nature to Ron's body. As the heat began a slow smouldering in his groin, Ron suddenly had the mental image of the stone stairs at Hogwarts, of smoothed, worn curves in the stone made by generation after generation of students walking on the same paths. He and Harry were like that, their couplings like an often-traveled trail, the earth solid and free of stones or troublesome roots, but each journey was slightly different.
They didn't need to speak aloud as Harry scooted back and began taking off his clothes. Ron did the same while Harry used his wand to light a fire in the hearth and cast a Nox on the lights so their only illumination was the cheery glow from the fire. Harry cast a widening spell on the couch for good measure, and Ron smiled his approval, lying back and opening his arms again.
"Want you in me," he said, his voice heavy with unspoken gratitude.
Harry nodded, quietly Accio'ing some lubricant from their bedroom or bathroom, it didn't much matter the origin. He draped himself on top of Ron, this time skin to skin, the shimmering strands of silver that now appeared in Harry's black hair glinting in the firelight. Ron kissed Harry deeply, feasting on the lingering heat of the alcohol and comforting, warm taste that was uniquely Harry. When their frotting started to drive him to distraction, Ron pulled back, breathing heavily. Harry raised his eyebrows in question, his usually messy hair now wildly disheveled from Ron's fingers raking through it.
"I'll stay on my back," Ron said raggedly, desire thrumming in his pulse and centreing in the damp heat of his clenching muscles.
He didn't ask for this all the time, but right now it was all he craved; to feel the blunt, slicked dome pressed against his body until with a hiss of pleasure, his muscles flared at the intrusion to let Harry slide in. Other nights and other days they'd showered each other with erotic, filthy words, getting off on its sense of the forbidden. Their joining now was one of sighs and moans, of grunts and squelching slickhotight that rose from them like morning mist on a lake. Legs wrapped around Harry's back, Ron took himself in hand after licking his palm. He used the pressure and sliding skin to take him to that taut wall of tension, only to break on it with ecstasy. Lights danced behind his closed eyes on a chiaroscuro tapestry as aftershocks pulsed out of him, the warmth spilling over his fingers.
Harry continued his relentless thrusts until he, too, let out a low groan, shoving his hips against the backs of Ron's thighs though he was already buried as deeply as possible. When he'd come back to himself enough to do so, Ron squeezed his inner muscles in a kind of thank you around Harry's cock. Harry smiled at him, mouth open and panting as he continued to recover.
After a time, Harry inevitably slid out from Ron. He cast a couple of cleansing spells while Ron retrieved a knitted blanket his mum had made years ago, draping it over them both once Harry was situated on top of him again. The softened flesh between their legs rested against Ron's thigh, and he held Harry loosely, resting with the lassitude only found after physical release. Doubtless they would continue to have their ups and downs, misunderstandings and tedium that was part of the paradoxical gift of being alive. He nuzzled into the sprucey aroma of Harry's scalp, mouthing silent endearments against the pale skin.
"It'll always be you," Harry murmured.
That truth beat in Ron's heart; he didn't need or want the flowery gestures, or extravagant promises. It was the simplest words that gave Ron his grounding, solid and certain.