Fic: About A Door (HP, Ron/Harry)
Title: About A Door
Author: Fabella
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry’s afraid of change.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s): Harry/Ron, past Ron/OMC implied.
Category: Romance, First Time, PWP
Spoilers: OotP
Author’s Notes: Thanks, very much, to Sabrina, who helped me during the editing process.
***
About A Door 1/1
by Fabella
Victory.
Shared, this time.
Soaring to the ground in a haze of bulleting rain, the pulse racing, crowd roaring from all sides. The Snitch’s wings struggling as he crushed it with a slippery hand, red and gold uniforms closed in on him when he landed, surrounding him and Ron, lifting the two players in the air, everyone laughing and cheering and covered in mud.
“Great play, mate.”
“You too, Ron. Brilliant.”
Harry was still laughing as he searched through his disordered trunk for a clean pair of clothes. An old sock-Harry sniffed it, winced-make that a really old sock, his invisibility cloak, a set of wrinkled robes. Why did he never fold his clothes when he put them away? The pair of blue jeans he wanted made itself visible, peering between dress trousers and one white running shoe. Harry tugged it free, and began searching for the Eat My Broom! shirt he wanted to wear.
Oh, that would burn Malfoy’s arse.
Harry chuckled, imagining Malfoy’s face when he saw Harry wearing it. Or Ron’s, when Harry told him how he planned to torture the dirty ferret by wearing it as often as possible the next few weeks.
Crack!
Harry was stripping out of his sodden uniform when the sound of the door hitting the wall reverberated through the dormitory. He jumped reflexively and spun, the neck of his shirt caught on his forehead, arms above his head, and saw Ron standing in the doorway. He was six feet of red and gold, tall in the rain-light, a puddle of water forming at his feet. His hair was plastered to his skull, face flushed a glowing red, freckled everywhere by mud and grass. He was frowning.
Harry finished removing the top as Ron shut the door and came in. He’d always looked good after a downpour. Too bad Harry wasn’t allowed to think so anymore. Ron had lost his virginity over the summer. Ron, apparently, was a man now. Playtime over, Harry, time to move on.
“I figured you’d be pissed with Seamus by now, tipping the furniture,” Harry said, chuckling. “That was some save, mate. Won us the game.”
Ron shrugged one damp shoulder, and walked the room at a meandering pace, picking up random items as he went. A quill, a framed photograph of Dean’s mother and father, a melted candle with symbols scratched on the wax. He left watery prints of his hands wherever he roamed, strong features set at a downward angle.
“You weren’t at the party,” Ron finally mumbled, replacing a book on Harry’s mattress. Downstairs the music was pumping, vibrating beneath Harry’s feet.
“Changing into something warm and dry,” Harry explained.
Ron didn’t often use good posture, but he was decidedly hunched now, slumping under his clothes, searching for absent pockets. Harry watched this go on, then huffed and lobbed the wet shirt at Ron’s head.
Ron caught it in one fist, shaking out his hair like a mangy dog. “Hey!”
“Something for your hands. What’s the matter with you, then? Hermione drag you down about being a reckless idiot again? Don’t worry, she means well, she just can’t feel the game like you and I do.”
“I was looking for you, actually.”
“Right.” Harry nodded, extending his palms expressively. “Well, you’ve found me. I promise I’ll be down in a minute. It’s just that I’ve started to resemble an eighty year old woman, and no one wants to see that.”
“No.” The shirt twisted in Ron’s grasp. “You look good.”
Harry tensed, abusing muscles already tortured by a hard match of Quidditch. Repercussions came with a statement like that, all of which Harry was unready and unwilling to face. Nervously he reached for the shirt on his bed, then faltered, wondering how that would seem, unnaturally censoring himself.
That was a new part of their friendship, thought before action. The only time they were ever in synch anymore was in the air. Threads of the most important relationship in his life were slipping from his hands, and the tighter he held, the faster they went.
Every conversation they shared somehow became about sex, and Harry had found himself peering around corners, hoping he wouldn’t meet Ron alone. Ron, who sometimes came too near him, and sometimes couldn’t be far enough away. It pissed Harry off, frankly. He wanted to be friends with Ron forever, exactly as they were.
Or had been. When they were safe in each other’s company.
“I. What I mean is.” Ron shook his head, mouth pinched. “You fly good. Today. You flew good today. The way you caught that Snitch was. Beautiful.”
“Sure, but I’m not the Gryffindor hero today, am I. Grabbing the Snitch isn’t everything. We wouldn’t have won if you hadn’t thrown yourself off your broom to stop Slytherin from scoring.”
Ron did the obligatory smile and thanks. Someone shrieked downstairs, chased by laughter, startling them both.
“Listen, I need to change.”
Ron nodded and stood there, dripping. Harry adjusted his spectacles, waiting, but Ron remained fixed at the head of Harry’s bed. Harry hovered at the middle, stomach slowly tightening in response to the way Ron kept handling Harry’s shirt. He held it to his abdomen, a gesture that was almost possessive , and blinked excessively, like he did whenever he was really scared of something. Spiders, for example.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you.” Ron cleared his throat when his voice rasped. “Uhm. I don’t know how to say it. It’s. You’ll think it’s stupid. I didn’t throw myself off my broom, Harry. I slipped.”
“It was pouring.”
Wet lashes fluttered down. “I was looking at you.”
Puzzle pieces came together. The way Ron would throw Harry’s arm off when they were walking, flinch if Harry drew too close, sit across from Harry instead of beside him.
Delaying. Like Harry, he’d been afraid of change.
“Oh.” Harry was alarmed by the sudden heat in his sex. “I need to change, I said.”
“And I heard you,” Ron snapped, white teeth showing, a red-black cavern beyond. Ron’s throat, an intimate place. “Only. Harry. Me being here never stopped you before. What’s different?”
I never had an erection any of those times, Harry thought.
Come to think of it, you sometimes did.
Ron’s head tilted, hair falling to cover one eye. The unveiled eye narrowed, a blue-green spotlight tracking Harry, making him wary. Harry put his hands up in a warding gesture that held meaning only in the conversation between their bodies: Ron leaning forward, Harry leaning back.
Anxious knots binding Harry in place, he saw the corner being turned without his consent. Ron was waiting there for him, one hand in his pocket, hair barely brushed. Lips crooked in a roguish grin, he was completely aware of who he was.
I was looking at you.
The eye suddenly widened with understanding. The pupil dilated, swallowing the iris. Ron slicked the wet hair off his face, visibly stricken by lust. Sex, the shadow of beard on his cheeks said. Sex, a dart of his tongue implied.
Ron *wanted*.
“Nothing’s different,” Harry gasped, sweat prickling under his arms. “Don’t say anything about it. Just. Just, we’ll go down to the party, it’ll be like we never. We *haven’t* done anything, so it’s okay, as long as you stop looking at me so much. Maybe you’re worried I’m going to flip about Sirius. Is that it? Don’t. I mean, it hurts, but I’m. I’m only sad.” Harry gulped as the floor between them vanished. “Stop coming at me like that. Stay there.”
“You’re hard,” Ron whispered. “I can see it.”
“Shut up!” Harry’s right hand balled into a fist. “Why are you doing this?”
“I wasn’t going to,” Ron replied, almost to himself. “Mum treats you like a son... I was going to leave it be. For the best, right? But Harry, did you even realize that you looked at me today? It was, I don’t know. But it knocked me off my broom. I can’t just sit on that, I’m sorry.”
Ron stepped forward aggressively, wedging Harry between the bedpost and Ron’s long, compact body. Harry turned his head away, staring at the gray light wavering on the floor, the shadows of raindrops trickling down the window pane.
“Ron.” He sounded like he’d swallowed smoke. “Stop.”
“You want it, too.” His hips bumped Harry’s, canted, bumped again. Rough touching all up and down Harry’s back, big hands groping his arse. “I couldn’t be sure, you’re so bloody innocent all the time, acting like you’ve never heard of a hormone, and look at you now, all worked up. The game get to you, did it? Or was it me?”
Harry grabbed Ron’s shoulders, breaking their connection with a forceful shove.
Ron grunted and fell back several strides, in the shade of the bed curtains. His face was like the door Harry had kept shut all summer, the windows he’d locked. They begged to be opened, wood sweating, glass suffering condensation, the temperature within the tiny room rising ever higher, but no, Harry couldn’t open them. Too many things waited for him on the other side: a glimmer of snake eyes that would hurt his head, the suggestive brush of a man’s hand in a crowded market that could send blood to his face.
“Not good enough, am I?” Ron hissed. “Well, your cock thinks so. He right fancies me.”
Harry glanced in the direction of the deviant organ, and saw his whole body was shaking, goose pimples treading his stomach, his feet far away. Harry tried to make them move, but couldn’t. Ron said his name and Harry jerked straight, bludgeoned by the appeal on Ron’s face. Come on, Harry, stop being a push over, tell him why you can’t.
Ron’s chest expanded under his thin top, and an expression of determination came over his face. He shoved his chin forward, and without a word, bent to begin removing his boots. Ron’s bare feet-white, long, hairless-made no sound on the floor as he approached once again. Harry retreated blindly, going around the bed. His calves hit the trunk, and his nostrils flared. Ron kept coming.
A list of excuses to put Ron off swept his brain.
Stop! He didn’t like boys, Sirius would never have wanted him to, Dumbledore wouldn’t understand, Voldemort would use it, Draco would get a real kick out of it, imagine what the Daily Prophet would say! We don’t want to do this. This is bad for us. I’m... afraid?
Scratch that last one.
He was going to suffocate, he was going to-
“Don’t make fun of me,” Harry begged, words starchy. “Don’t use this. Not you. I can’t stand it when you’re not nice.”
“I’m not playing,” Ron rushed to assure, his words coming quickly. “I swear. I’m the same as you. Nah, I’m worse off. I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like, if you let me. Let me, Harry.”
“Let you what?”
Ron’s eyebrows climbed tellingly, tongue skating a barely there smile. Oh, Harry thought, blood speeding to his face. Of course. The sex thing. This was definitely a bad idea, yet Harry was rooted to the spot. The little figurine of a Quidditch player winked at him from Dean’s bedside as Ron drew his shirt above his abdomen, over the smooth chest, untangling the cotton from peach tinted arms, with their short, copper hairs.
Silence, thirty seconds worth. Ron’s navel was fascinating.
“Harry.” Ron’s stomach flexed as he spoke. “Look at me. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing to be afraid of here. ‘S just me, after all. You’ve known me forever, haven’t you? I wouldn’t hurt you, not if I could help it.”
“I’m not afraid,” Harry insisted, voice cracking.
“Sure.” Ron scratched behind his ear, charmingly sheepish. “Then, just. Well, give us a kiss.”
The Quidditch player looked at them with a sort of disgust. Dean’s pillow was in a convenient location to smother it with. Could figurines be smothered?
“I’m not gay,” Harry said, louder than he intended.
Only, maybe he was. Harry, at the weirdest times, was assaulted by the image of Ron changing, the clench of his arse muscles as he slipped maroon pajamas over his bottom. Harry had been on his own bed with a book, but he couldn’t remember what it was he was supposed to have been reading. Just Ron, spine curling, pajamas half on.
Push it away, don’t think about it. If he was gay, it wasn’t going to be with the first friend he’d ever claimed.
“I’m not,” Harry insisted.
“No? I guess I should make a confession, then. I am.” One cuspid glinted. “And you should kiss me, just to see how it is.”
“I don’t want to kiss you, understand?” Harry rose to his most intimidating height, neck stretched, and stepped forward. He was chest to chest with Ron now, chin to chin. “Quit it, already. I’m happy that you’re excited about your grand move in the air, but this isn’t funny anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.”
“I think you really do want to kiss me.” Ron’s eyes wandered to Harry’s mouth. “So just do it. See if you like it.”
“No.”
Ron pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Want to hear about the first time a boy kissed me? It was a good time all around, might teach you a few things.”
“No, Ron.”
“I was outside, fetching something for Mum, and I saw someone walking down the road a ways ahead. He looked like you from behind. I called your name, he-”
“Fine, then!” Harry shouted, lunging forward. Ron buckled under the pressure at first, then locked his knees and returned the kiss with equal force and just as little finesse. They struggled with each other, as much fighting as they were kissing. Harry had no clue what he was about, mashing their lips together, but maybe he was okay at it. Ron wasn’t crying or anything.
When Harry dislodged himself, Ron’s lips were red and blurry.
Ron paused, took a breath. “That was good.”
Just good? Harry was about to protest when Ron reeled him in by his nape. Harry didn’t argue. I’m definitely gay right now, he admitted, and held Ron to him, electrified, surprised that something could feel so bright on such a dark day. Ron’s hands were all over him, never in one place for too long before they landed somewhere else. Familiar hands, wide-palmed, long-fingered, that should not have hurt so sweetly.
“I can’t do this,” Harry muttered in what space he was allotted to breathe, and ducked before Ron could kiss him again, licking the underside of Ron’s chin. Stubble pricked his cheeks. Ron muttered an apology, and put his hands down the rear of Harry’s pants at the same time he put his tongue in Harry’s mouth. Harry jolted, springing to his toes.
“Got you now, mate.” Ron’s pinky slid in the crease of Harry’s arse. “And no one’s ever touched you before. You don’t have a clue the things I want to do to you, do you?”
Harry grimaced. “Well, unlike you, I’m locked up in the summers.”
Ron’s mouth tilted sadly, and he planted a strange kiss on Harry’s nose, before angling Harry’s head to the side to cover his neck with kisses. Harry’s toes curled helplessly on the floor, and then he was groping Ron with as much care as he could manage, feeling Ron’s chest stutter under his palm, biting Ron’s ear. Maybe biting a little too hard, the way Ron’s nails dug in. Gentle, gentle, but most of Harry wanted only to hold Ron still so that he could have a solid, stationary surface to hump. Was that okay?
Harry hid his face. Just do it, Ron had said. Biting his bottom lip, he shifted his hips forward. And did it. Ron’s hand clutched convulsively, pulling Harry high against him, so they could feel their cocks nudging one another. Harry heard himself make a high, squeaky sound in his throat, and lost himself for a while.
“Hold on, mate,” Ron gasped, tugging his hand free. “Harry. Stop. I want-”
“What?” Harry griped, panting. “You were the one that wanted to do this in the first place! I’m sorry I’m not very good at making out with boys. It’s not like I have so much experience with girls, even, so-Ugh.”
Ron was cupping Harry’s prick through his pants.
“Shut. Up. I’m not Cho. You had me impressed the first time you told Malfoy where to put his wand.”
“Ron,” Harry wheezed. “Holy fuck.”
“Mmm.” Ron, in characteristic bawdiness, squeezed Harry’s cock harder. “That’s exactly what I want.”
Harry’s knees went weak. He collapsed on the trunk, and Ron followed him, rubbing Harry’s cock while he situated himself in Harry’s lap. He made as if to speak, but stopped abruptly, sweat glittering on his top lip. Harry cupped the strong thighs hugging his hips, worried briefly for tomorrow and then discarded the thought, answering the question on Ron’s face with a nod. Ron’s eyelids flickered, sleepy lashes touching his cheeks as he swallowed. With care, he undid Harry’s buttons, breaking the seal of heat.
“This, too,” Ron said, and reached inside.
Harry’s mouth fell open, head back, and he arched off the wood. Nothing had ever felt so much like magic; energy, light, clouds of pleasure breathed in his belly. Ron’s palm rubbed up and down the underside of Harry’s cock, getting it wet, then the fingers curled, taking him fully in hand. One quick pump, and Harry was raw seconds from coming.
“Feels good doesn’t it?” Ron detached the hot-sweet-hot despite Harry’s whimper, and scraped his eraser pink tongue over his palm. “The first time is so good. Mine was with the boy I told you about, from this summer. We fucked in the woods nearly every day. Mum thought I was swimming. I told him all about you. Could never shut up. I knew what I wanted to be to you the next time I saw you, when I couldn’t decide whether to shove food in your mouth or something else.”
“Ron.” Harry grabbed the waist of Ron’s trousers. “This is enough to handle already, without hearing your entire sexual history. Unbutton your trousers.”
“That’s a different tune,” Ron noted. “You’re sure, then?”
Harry hesitated, toes twitching. “Yeah. Sure as you.”
“I doubt that.” But Ron stood and undid his buttons, fumbling, red hair hiding an even redder face. Did he realize that this was the first time anyone had ever undressed for Harry, instead of next to him?
Harry didn’t have much time to look. He caught a brief glimpse of Ron’s cock: erect and flushed, moisture at the tip, before Ron was on him again, fully naked, acres of hot skin securing Harry to the trunk. Laughing giddily, pale shivers all over him, Ron lifted Harry’s chin for a kiss. Harry opened willingly, still full of curiosity, but recognizing in Ron the same fear that was in him.
Besides, Ron was naked. In his lap, mind.
No reason to complain.
It hurt, but in a special way, when Ron wrapped Harry’s hand around both their cocks, teaching him how fast, how hard, when to use his wrist. Before long, Harry was penetrating their threaded fingers as quickly as he could, the fine edge resolving from sand to rock, an object he could pick up and hold. He’d be embarrassed very shortly, he was sure, by how quickly he was going to come, but right then, he humped his palm with abandon, jaw sagging, sweat eating his skin.
Please. Oh, please!
Ron’s hand, over Harry’s, grew painfully tight, and he began thrusting jerkily, dragging his forehead fitfully across Harry’s chest. A tongue swept out and licked a bead of sweat below Harry’s nipple, following the trail it had taken. Harry shuddered. Ron was into this, so into it he was moving Harry’s hand on himself, forcing it faster and faster.
“Uh,” Ron grunted. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re a good mate, oh, the best.”
The gray light made Ron’s hair appear darker, nearly brown, and Harry took his free hand, snagging a fistful of it. He moved to kiss Ron’s sweaty temple and ached a little at the sweet sound Ron made. A warm feeling moved inside him, slowing his plunge into orgasm. What was this feeling that felt like affection, but burned his heart? It happened that before he could decide he saw the room beyond, the door standing open. And Hermione.
White bald around her irises, she was visibly winded, holding her chest. The scarf dropped to the floor from her limp fingers, puddling where Ron’s mess had.
How would she see them?
Harry splayed on the trunk near the end of his bed, bare everywhere his parts weren’t covered by Ron. Ron rocking in Harry’s lap with lurching, twitching jabs. Naked. Harry’s eyes muddy green, staring at her above Ron’s freckled shoulder, one dirty hand in Ron’s hair, the other hidden between them, muscles of the attached arm flexing.
She is putting the pieces together.
Harry and Ron are best friends, they share everything, but they haven’t been behaving normally this year. There is something wrong with their reactions to each other, and she has wondered about it. Now, she sees that she is right. And also wrong. Not growing apart. Growing together, despite their best intentions.
It makes sense, she is thinking, I was blind not to see it.
Harry blinked and was back inside himself in just enough time to see Hermione’s eyes fill with tears, her face crumple. She turned, blindly, closing the door behind her. The scarf stayed behind, a bright spot of color on the floor.
“Ron.” Harry licked dry lips, forcing his hand still. “Maybe we should...”
Ron shook his head curtly. “No. Don’t stop.”
“Ron, we...” Harry trailed off. Ron lifted his head, showing the flushed, sweaty face, the glint of pain in his eyes. No going back, Harry realized, they’d already crossed the line. They could quit now and things would already be changed. Stopping might make Hermione feel better for a little while, it might even give her Ron in some ways, but she wasn’t the type to be made happy by lies. And Harry found he was selfish. He wanted to continue. He wanted to make Ron feel good.
“Please,” Ron said, in the softest voice.
Harry awkwardly stretched to press his cheek on Ron’s, letting go of his own cock to take Ron’s more firmly in hand. He had a feel for it better this way, the length, the thickness, the familiar otherness, and when he stroked the hard flesh, he relished the excitement Ron slapped back at him with his whole body, the way he just lost it. As Harry watched, hand moving faster, Ron’s face blanked of all thought but riding that edge, striving toward it.
Between one breathless moment-sweat hazing Harry’s vision, Ron biting his own upper lip-and the next, Ron was there, coming on Harry’s abdomen, wet stuff everywhere. He convulsed with Harry’s arm around his waist. Harry could barely comprehend what it meant, all the stuff spilling from Ron’s cock. The hottest thing *ever*, Ron seizing up like that because of something Harry had done. Ron stopped breathing, then fell forward, landing on Harry.
His own cock throbbing, Harry carefully touched Ron’s back. “You all right, mate?”
Ron nodded, shoulder blades shifting. A minute passed before Ron moved again, groaning, and their skin made a sucking sound as they parted. One hand on Harry’s hip, still panting, Ron stared down at Harry, his prick limp, pubic hair glistening. They smelled like sex. Hot sex, and why had Harry not wanted to do this? Then Ron was kneeling, pushing Harry’s thighs apart, roughly maneuvering him.
Harry’s eyes bulged. “Ron, you don’t have to do that!”
Except, well, he wasn’t actively making it difficult for Ron. In fact, he might have scooted down, spread his legs wider, and lifted his pelvis.
Ron pitched a carefree grin and gripped Harry’s thighs.
“Gonna fight me, are you?”
He licked the tip of Harry’s cock. Harry shouted and bucked off the trunk. Ron retreated for a second, considering, then he took Harry’s prick in hand, holding the hard flesh at a good angle to pull into his mouth. Saliva eased the way, warm and slick. His other hand forced Harry to be still as his lips formed a suction, tugging Harry deep inside, tongue cupping the shaft.
Harry burned, phoenix-hot, starting at his groin.
He thrashed, hands looking for something to grip that wasn’t Ron, because that was rude. Wasn’t that rude? Eventually they settled on the bedspread behind him, and he bowed his spine, elbows pointing in the air, chin angled so he could see down the length of his torso. Harry’s vision, when it wasn’t clouding over, showed Ron sitting on his heels, fringe falling forward to conceal his face, dim light banding his working mouth. And Harry’s prick, parting those lips, filling those cheeks.
Oh, he couldn’t take it. He wanted it to last forever.
Three thrusts and he was finished, done, ruined. He cried out, embarrassingly high, and climaxed in Ron's mouth. His right leg kicked, while the other bounced on Ron's spine. Everything in him stuttered brightly. Harry felt Ron swallow, swallow again, and flinched, foot landing hard enough on Ron's ribs to bruise.
Coming down the other side was nearly more difficult. A sharp feeling, sweet and dangerous, like he could return to the apex at any moment.
"Fucking Hell, Ron," Harry gasped, when he could breathe.
Ron sat on his heels and wiped his mouth, wide eyes staring at Harry from between Harry's legs. Ron's hair was damp with sweat, standing in tufts like a hedgehog's. He looked beautiful honestly-lips swollen, eyes graphic in his red face-better even than he did after a good day on the pitch. Yet, there was worry in him. The hand on Harry's thigh was gentle now, almost careful. It wasn't the same hand that had demanded Harry do it his way, come over to his side, come on, Harry.
Anxious now, after the fact.
Ron drew slowly from the floor, warily fixed on Harry the entire time, until he was towering over Harry. Shadows dripped on his naked body, magnified raindrops that might have forecast a set of bruises were they to brawl the rest of this out.
So how's it going to be?
Option A, lock the door for good, and Ron behind it. No Ron for Harry, none at all.
Option B, leave the door open, be honest, be *with* Ron.
Harry's face formed a new expression. He stood, kicking his trousers the rest of the way off, facing his best friend and this open door between them. Ron flinched when Harry offered his hand, but Harry pretended not to see, and smirked.
"C'mere, Ron. Come and kiss me."
Ron blinked, tilted his head, considering.
Come on, Ron. Just do it.
The End 1/1
Feedback and criticism welcome
Author: Fabella
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry’s afraid of change.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s): Harry/Ron, past Ron/OMC implied.
Category: Romance, First Time, PWP
Spoilers: OotP
Author’s Notes: Thanks, very much, to Sabrina, who helped me during the editing process.
***
About A Door 1/1
by Fabella
Victory.
Shared, this time.
Soaring to the ground in a haze of bulleting rain, the pulse racing, crowd roaring from all sides. The Snitch’s wings struggling as he crushed it with a slippery hand, red and gold uniforms closed in on him when he landed, surrounding him and Ron, lifting the two players in the air, everyone laughing and cheering and covered in mud.
“Great play, mate.”
“You too, Ron. Brilliant.”
Harry was still laughing as he searched through his disordered trunk for a clean pair of clothes. An old sock-Harry sniffed it, winced-make that a really old sock, his invisibility cloak, a set of wrinkled robes. Why did he never fold his clothes when he put them away? The pair of blue jeans he wanted made itself visible, peering between dress trousers and one white running shoe. Harry tugged it free, and began searching for the Eat My Broom! shirt he wanted to wear.
Oh, that would burn Malfoy’s arse.
Harry chuckled, imagining Malfoy’s face when he saw Harry wearing it. Or Ron’s, when Harry told him how he planned to torture the dirty ferret by wearing it as often as possible the next few weeks.
Crack!
Harry was stripping out of his sodden uniform when the sound of the door hitting the wall reverberated through the dormitory. He jumped reflexively and spun, the neck of his shirt caught on his forehead, arms above his head, and saw Ron standing in the doorway. He was six feet of red and gold, tall in the rain-light, a puddle of water forming at his feet. His hair was plastered to his skull, face flushed a glowing red, freckled everywhere by mud and grass. He was frowning.
Harry finished removing the top as Ron shut the door and came in. He’d always looked good after a downpour. Too bad Harry wasn’t allowed to think so anymore. Ron had lost his virginity over the summer. Ron, apparently, was a man now. Playtime over, Harry, time to move on.
“I figured you’d be pissed with Seamus by now, tipping the furniture,” Harry said, chuckling. “That was some save, mate. Won us the game.”
Ron shrugged one damp shoulder, and walked the room at a meandering pace, picking up random items as he went. A quill, a framed photograph of Dean’s mother and father, a melted candle with symbols scratched on the wax. He left watery prints of his hands wherever he roamed, strong features set at a downward angle.
“You weren’t at the party,” Ron finally mumbled, replacing a book on Harry’s mattress. Downstairs the music was pumping, vibrating beneath Harry’s feet.
“Changing into something warm and dry,” Harry explained.
Ron didn’t often use good posture, but he was decidedly hunched now, slumping under his clothes, searching for absent pockets. Harry watched this go on, then huffed and lobbed the wet shirt at Ron’s head.
Ron caught it in one fist, shaking out his hair like a mangy dog. “Hey!”
“Something for your hands. What’s the matter with you, then? Hermione drag you down about being a reckless idiot again? Don’t worry, she means well, she just can’t feel the game like you and I do.”
“I was looking for you, actually.”
“Right.” Harry nodded, extending his palms expressively. “Well, you’ve found me. I promise I’ll be down in a minute. It’s just that I’ve started to resemble an eighty year old woman, and no one wants to see that.”
“No.” The shirt twisted in Ron’s grasp. “You look good.”
Harry tensed, abusing muscles already tortured by a hard match of Quidditch. Repercussions came with a statement like that, all of which Harry was unready and unwilling to face. Nervously he reached for the shirt on his bed, then faltered, wondering how that would seem, unnaturally censoring himself.
That was a new part of their friendship, thought before action. The only time they were ever in synch anymore was in the air. Threads of the most important relationship in his life were slipping from his hands, and the tighter he held, the faster they went.
Every conversation they shared somehow became about sex, and Harry had found himself peering around corners, hoping he wouldn’t meet Ron alone. Ron, who sometimes came too near him, and sometimes couldn’t be far enough away. It pissed Harry off, frankly. He wanted to be friends with Ron forever, exactly as they were.
Or had been. When they were safe in each other’s company.
“I. What I mean is.” Ron shook his head, mouth pinched. “You fly good. Today. You flew good today. The way you caught that Snitch was. Beautiful.”
“Sure, but I’m not the Gryffindor hero today, am I. Grabbing the Snitch isn’t everything. We wouldn’t have won if you hadn’t thrown yourself off your broom to stop Slytherin from scoring.”
Ron did the obligatory smile and thanks. Someone shrieked downstairs, chased by laughter, startling them both.
“Listen, I need to change.”
Ron nodded and stood there, dripping. Harry adjusted his spectacles, waiting, but Ron remained fixed at the head of Harry’s bed. Harry hovered at the middle, stomach slowly tightening in response to the way Ron kept handling Harry’s shirt. He held it to his abdomen, a gesture that was almost possessive , and blinked excessively, like he did whenever he was really scared of something. Spiders, for example.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you.” Ron cleared his throat when his voice rasped. “Uhm. I don’t know how to say it. It’s. You’ll think it’s stupid. I didn’t throw myself off my broom, Harry. I slipped.”
“It was pouring.”
Wet lashes fluttered down. “I was looking at you.”
Puzzle pieces came together. The way Ron would throw Harry’s arm off when they were walking, flinch if Harry drew too close, sit across from Harry instead of beside him.
Delaying. Like Harry, he’d been afraid of change.
“Oh.” Harry was alarmed by the sudden heat in his sex. “I need to change, I said.”
“And I heard you,” Ron snapped, white teeth showing, a red-black cavern beyond. Ron’s throat, an intimate place. “Only. Harry. Me being here never stopped you before. What’s different?”
I never had an erection any of those times, Harry thought.
Come to think of it, you sometimes did.
Ron’s head tilted, hair falling to cover one eye. The unveiled eye narrowed, a blue-green spotlight tracking Harry, making him wary. Harry put his hands up in a warding gesture that held meaning only in the conversation between their bodies: Ron leaning forward, Harry leaning back.
Anxious knots binding Harry in place, he saw the corner being turned without his consent. Ron was waiting there for him, one hand in his pocket, hair barely brushed. Lips crooked in a roguish grin, he was completely aware of who he was.
I was looking at you.
The eye suddenly widened with understanding. The pupil dilated, swallowing the iris. Ron slicked the wet hair off his face, visibly stricken by lust. Sex, the shadow of beard on his cheeks said. Sex, a dart of his tongue implied.
Ron *wanted*.
“Nothing’s different,” Harry gasped, sweat prickling under his arms. “Don’t say anything about it. Just. Just, we’ll go down to the party, it’ll be like we never. We *haven’t* done anything, so it’s okay, as long as you stop looking at me so much. Maybe you’re worried I’m going to flip about Sirius. Is that it? Don’t. I mean, it hurts, but I’m. I’m only sad.” Harry gulped as the floor between them vanished. “Stop coming at me like that. Stay there.”
“You’re hard,” Ron whispered. “I can see it.”
“Shut up!” Harry’s right hand balled into a fist. “Why are you doing this?”
“I wasn’t going to,” Ron replied, almost to himself. “Mum treats you like a son... I was going to leave it be. For the best, right? But Harry, did you even realize that you looked at me today? It was, I don’t know. But it knocked me off my broom. I can’t just sit on that, I’m sorry.”
Ron stepped forward aggressively, wedging Harry between the bedpost and Ron’s long, compact body. Harry turned his head away, staring at the gray light wavering on the floor, the shadows of raindrops trickling down the window pane.
“Ron.” He sounded like he’d swallowed smoke. “Stop.”
“You want it, too.” His hips bumped Harry’s, canted, bumped again. Rough touching all up and down Harry’s back, big hands groping his arse. “I couldn’t be sure, you’re so bloody innocent all the time, acting like you’ve never heard of a hormone, and look at you now, all worked up. The game get to you, did it? Or was it me?”
Harry grabbed Ron’s shoulders, breaking their connection with a forceful shove.
Ron grunted and fell back several strides, in the shade of the bed curtains. His face was like the door Harry had kept shut all summer, the windows he’d locked. They begged to be opened, wood sweating, glass suffering condensation, the temperature within the tiny room rising ever higher, but no, Harry couldn’t open them. Too many things waited for him on the other side: a glimmer of snake eyes that would hurt his head, the suggestive brush of a man’s hand in a crowded market that could send blood to his face.
“Not good enough, am I?” Ron hissed. “Well, your cock thinks so. He right fancies me.”
Harry glanced in the direction of the deviant organ, and saw his whole body was shaking, goose pimples treading his stomach, his feet far away. Harry tried to make them move, but couldn’t. Ron said his name and Harry jerked straight, bludgeoned by the appeal on Ron’s face. Come on, Harry, stop being a push over, tell him why you can’t.
Ron’s chest expanded under his thin top, and an expression of determination came over his face. He shoved his chin forward, and without a word, bent to begin removing his boots. Ron’s bare feet-white, long, hairless-made no sound on the floor as he approached once again. Harry retreated blindly, going around the bed. His calves hit the trunk, and his nostrils flared. Ron kept coming.
A list of excuses to put Ron off swept his brain.
Stop! He didn’t like boys, Sirius would never have wanted him to, Dumbledore wouldn’t understand, Voldemort would use it, Draco would get a real kick out of it, imagine what the Daily Prophet would say! We don’t want to do this. This is bad for us. I’m... afraid?
Scratch that last one.
He was going to suffocate, he was going to-
“Don’t make fun of me,” Harry begged, words starchy. “Don’t use this. Not you. I can’t stand it when you’re not nice.”
“I’m not playing,” Ron rushed to assure, his words coming quickly. “I swear. I’m the same as you. Nah, I’m worse off. I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like, if you let me. Let me, Harry.”
“Let you what?”
Ron’s eyebrows climbed tellingly, tongue skating a barely there smile. Oh, Harry thought, blood speeding to his face. Of course. The sex thing. This was definitely a bad idea, yet Harry was rooted to the spot. The little figurine of a Quidditch player winked at him from Dean’s bedside as Ron drew his shirt above his abdomen, over the smooth chest, untangling the cotton from peach tinted arms, with their short, copper hairs.
Silence, thirty seconds worth. Ron’s navel was fascinating.
“Harry.” Ron’s stomach flexed as he spoke. “Look at me. Yeah, that’s it. Nothing to be afraid of here. ‘S just me, after all. You’ve known me forever, haven’t you? I wouldn’t hurt you, not if I could help it.”
“I’m not afraid,” Harry insisted, voice cracking.
“Sure.” Ron scratched behind his ear, charmingly sheepish. “Then, just. Well, give us a kiss.”
The Quidditch player looked at them with a sort of disgust. Dean’s pillow was in a convenient location to smother it with. Could figurines be smothered?
“I’m not gay,” Harry said, louder than he intended.
Only, maybe he was. Harry, at the weirdest times, was assaulted by the image of Ron changing, the clench of his arse muscles as he slipped maroon pajamas over his bottom. Harry had been on his own bed with a book, but he couldn’t remember what it was he was supposed to have been reading. Just Ron, spine curling, pajamas half on.
Push it away, don’t think about it. If he was gay, it wasn’t going to be with the first friend he’d ever claimed.
“I’m not,” Harry insisted.
“No? I guess I should make a confession, then. I am.” One cuspid glinted. “And you should kiss me, just to see how it is.”
“I don’t want to kiss you, understand?” Harry rose to his most intimidating height, neck stretched, and stepped forward. He was chest to chest with Ron now, chin to chin. “Quit it, already. I’m happy that you’re excited about your grand move in the air, but this isn’t funny anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.”
“I think you really do want to kiss me.” Ron’s eyes wandered to Harry’s mouth. “So just do it. See if you like it.”
“No.”
Ron pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Want to hear about the first time a boy kissed me? It was a good time all around, might teach you a few things.”
“No, Ron.”
“I was outside, fetching something for Mum, and I saw someone walking down the road a ways ahead. He looked like you from behind. I called your name, he-”
“Fine, then!” Harry shouted, lunging forward. Ron buckled under the pressure at first, then locked his knees and returned the kiss with equal force and just as little finesse. They struggled with each other, as much fighting as they were kissing. Harry had no clue what he was about, mashing their lips together, but maybe he was okay at it. Ron wasn’t crying or anything.
When Harry dislodged himself, Ron’s lips were red and blurry.
Ron paused, took a breath. “That was good.”
Just good? Harry was about to protest when Ron reeled him in by his nape. Harry didn’t argue. I’m definitely gay right now, he admitted, and held Ron to him, electrified, surprised that something could feel so bright on such a dark day. Ron’s hands were all over him, never in one place for too long before they landed somewhere else. Familiar hands, wide-palmed, long-fingered, that should not have hurt so sweetly.
“I can’t do this,” Harry muttered in what space he was allotted to breathe, and ducked before Ron could kiss him again, licking the underside of Ron’s chin. Stubble pricked his cheeks. Ron muttered an apology, and put his hands down the rear of Harry’s pants at the same time he put his tongue in Harry’s mouth. Harry jolted, springing to his toes.
“Got you now, mate.” Ron’s pinky slid in the crease of Harry’s arse. “And no one’s ever touched you before. You don’t have a clue the things I want to do to you, do you?”
Harry grimaced. “Well, unlike you, I’m locked up in the summers.”
Ron’s mouth tilted sadly, and he planted a strange kiss on Harry’s nose, before angling Harry’s head to the side to cover his neck with kisses. Harry’s toes curled helplessly on the floor, and then he was groping Ron with as much care as he could manage, feeling Ron’s chest stutter under his palm, biting Ron’s ear. Maybe biting a little too hard, the way Ron’s nails dug in. Gentle, gentle, but most of Harry wanted only to hold Ron still so that he could have a solid, stationary surface to hump. Was that okay?
Harry hid his face. Just do it, Ron had said. Biting his bottom lip, he shifted his hips forward. And did it. Ron’s hand clutched convulsively, pulling Harry high against him, so they could feel their cocks nudging one another. Harry heard himself make a high, squeaky sound in his throat, and lost himself for a while.
“Hold on, mate,” Ron gasped, tugging his hand free. “Harry. Stop. I want-”
“What?” Harry griped, panting. “You were the one that wanted to do this in the first place! I’m sorry I’m not very good at making out with boys. It’s not like I have so much experience with girls, even, so-Ugh.”
Ron was cupping Harry’s prick through his pants.
“Shut. Up. I’m not Cho. You had me impressed the first time you told Malfoy where to put his wand.”
“Ron,” Harry wheezed. “Holy fuck.”
“Mmm.” Ron, in characteristic bawdiness, squeezed Harry’s cock harder. “That’s exactly what I want.”
Harry’s knees went weak. He collapsed on the trunk, and Ron followed him, rubbing Harry’s cock while he situated himself in Harry’s lap. He made as if to speak, but stopped abruptly, sweat glittering on his top lip. Harry cupped the strong thighs hugging his hips, worried briefly for tomorrow and then discarded the thought, answering the question on Ron’s face with a nod. Ron’s eyelids flickered, sleepy lashes touching his cheeks as he swallowed. With care, he undid Harry’s buttons, breaking the seal of heat.
“This, too,” Ron said, and reached inside.
Harry’s mouth fell open, head back, and he arched off the wood. Nothing had ever felt so much like magic; energy, light, clouds of pleasure breathed in his belly. Ron’s palm rubbed up and down the underside of Harry’s cock, getting it wet, then the fingers curled, taking him fully in hand. One quick pump, and Harry was raw seconds from coming.
“Feels good doesn’t it?” Ron detached the hot-sweet-hot despite Harry’s whimper, and scraped his eraser pink tongue over his palm. “The first time is so good. Mine was with the boy I told you about, from this summer. We fucked in the woods nearly every day. Mum thought I was swimming. I told him all about you. Could never shut up. I knew what I wanted to be to you the next time I saw you, when I couldn’t decide whether to shove food in your mouth or something else.”
“Ron.” Harry grabbed the waist of Ron’s trousers. “This is enough to handle already, without hearing your entire sexual history. Unbutton your trousers.”
“That’s a different tune,” Ron noted. “You’re sure, then?”
Harry hesitated, toes twitching. “Yeah. Sure as you.”
“I doubt that.” But Ron stood and undid his buttons, fumbling, red hair hiding an even redder face. Did he realize that this was the first time anyone had ever undressed for Harry, instead of next to him?
Harry didn’t have much time to look. He caught a brief glimpse of Ron’s cock: erect and flushed, moisture at the tip, before Ron was on him again, fully naked, acres of hot skin securing Harry to the trunk. Laughing giddily, pale shivers all over him, Ron lifted Harry’s chin for a kiss. Harry opened willingly, still full of curiosity, but recognizing in Ron the same fear that was in him.
Besides, Ron was naked. In his lap, mind.
No reason to complain.
It hurt, but in a special way, when Ron wrapped Harry’s hand around both their cocks, teaching him how fast, how hard, when to use his wrist. Before long, Harry was penetrating their threaded fingers as quickly as he could, the fine edge resolving from sand to rock, an object he could pick up and hold. He’d be embarrassed very shortly, he was sure, by how quickly he was going to come, but right then, he humped his palm with abandon, jaw sagging, sweat eating his skin.
Please. Oh, please!
Ron’s hand, over Harry’s, grew painfully tight, and he began thrusting jerkily, dragging his forehead fitfully across Harry’s chest. A tongue swept out and licked a bead of sweat below Harry’s nipple, following the trail it had taken. Harry shuddered. Ron was into this, so into it he was moving Harry’s hand on himself, forcing it faster and faster.
“Uh,” Ron grunted. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re a good mate, oh, the best.”
The gray light made Ron’s hair appear darker, nearly brown, and Harry took his free hand, snagging a fistful of it. He moved to kiss Ron’s sweaty temple and ached a little at the sweet sound Ron made. A warm feeling moved inside him, slowing his plunge into orgasm. What was this feeling that felt like affection, but burned his heart? It happened that before he could decide he saw the room beyond, the door standing open. And Hermione.
White bald around her irises, she was visibly winded, holding her chest. The scarf dropped to the floor from her limp fingers, puddling where Ron’s mess had.
How would she see them?
Harry splayed on the trunk near the end of his bed, bare everywhere his parts weren’t covered by Ron. Ron rocking in Harry’s lap with lurching, twitching jabs. Naked. Harry’s eyes muddy green, staring at her above Ron’s freckled shoulder, one dirty hand in Ron’s hair, the other hidden between them, muscles of the attached arm flexing.
She is putting the pieces together.
Harry and Ron are best friends, they share everything, but they haven’t been behaving normally this year. There is something wrong with their reactions to each other, and she has wondered about it. Now, she sees that she is right. And also wrong. Not growing apart. Growing together, despite their best intentions.
It makes sense, she is thinking, I was blind not to see it.
Harry blinked and was back inside himself in just enough time to see Hermione’s eyes fill with tears, her face crumple. She turned, blindly, closing the door behind her. The scarf stayed behind, a bright spot of color on the floor.
“Ron.” Harry licked dry lips, forcing his hand still. “Maybe we should...”
Ron shook his head curtly. “No. Don’t stop.”
“Ron, we...” Harry trailed off. Ron lifted his head, showing the flushed, sweaty face, the glint of pain in his eyes. No going back, Harry realized, they’d already crossed the line. They could quit now and things would already be changed. Stopping might make Hermione feel better for a little while, it might even give her Ron in some ways, but she wasn’t the type to be made happy by lies. And Harry found he was selfish. He wanted to continue. He wanted to make Ron feel good.
“Please,” Ron said, in the softest voice.
Harry awkwardly stretched to press his cheek on Ron’s, letting go of his own cock to take Ron’s more firmly in hand. He had a feel for it better this way, the length, the thickness, the familiar otherness, and when he stroked the hard flesh, he relished the excitement Ron slapped back at him with his whole body, the way he just lost it. As Harry watched, hand moving faster, Ron’s face blanked of all thought but riding that edge, striving toward it.
Between one breathless moment-sweat hazing Harry’s vision, Ron biting his own upper lip-and the next, Ron was there, coming on Harry’s abdomen, wet stuff everywhere. He convulsed with Harry’s arm around his waist. Harry could barely comprehend what it meant, all the stuff spilling from Ron’s cock. The hottest thing *ever*, Ron seizing up like that because of something Harry had done. Ron stopped breathing, then fell forward, landing on Harry.
His own cock throbbing, Harry carefully touched Ron’s back. “You all right, mate?”
Ron nodded, shoulder blades shifting. A minute passed before Ron moved again, groaning, and their skin made a sucking sound as they parted. One hand on Harry’s hip, still panting, Ron stared down at Harry, his prick limp, pubic hair glistening. They smelled like sex. Hot sex, and why had Harry not wanted to do this? Then Ron was kneeling, pushing Harry’s thighs apart, roughly maneuvering him.
Harry’s eyes bulged. “Ron, you don’t have to do that!”
Except, well, he wasn’t actively making it difficult for Ron. In fact, he might have scooted down, spread his legs wider, and lifted his pelvis.
Ron pitched a carefree grin and gripped Harry’s thighs.
“Gonna fight me, are you?”
He licked the tip of Harry’s cock. Harry shouted and bucked off the trunk. Ron retreated for a second, considering, then he took Harry’s prick in hand, holding the hard flesh at a good angle to pull into his mouth. Saliva eased the way, warm and slick. His other hand forced Harry to be still as his lips formed a suction, tugging Harry deep inside, tongue cupping the shaft.
Harry burned, phoenix-hot, starting at his groin.
He thrashed, hands looking for something to grip that wasn’t Ron, because that was rude. Wasn’t that rude? Eventually they settled on the bedspread behind him, and he bowed his spine, elbows pointing in the air, chin angled so he could see down the length of his torso. Harry’s vision, when it wasn’t clouding over, showed Ron sitting on his heels, fringe falling forward to conceal his face, dim light banding his working mouth. And Harry’s prick, parting those lips, filling those cheeks.
Oh, he couldn’t take it. He wanted it to last forever.
Three thrusts and he was finished, done, ruined. He cried out, embarrassingly high, and climaxed in Ron's mouth. His right leg kicked, while the other bounced on Ron's spine. Everything in him stuttered brightly. Harry felt Ron swallow, swallow again, and flinched, foot landing hard enough on Ron's ribs to bruise.
Coming down the other side was nearly more difficult. A sharp feeling, sweet and dangerous, like he could return to the apex at any moment.
"Fucking Hell, Ron," Harry gasped, when he could breathe.
Ron sat on his heels and wiped his mouth, wide eyes staring at Harry from between Harry's legs. Ron's hair was damp with sweat, standing in tufts like a hedgehog's. He looked beautiful honestly-lips swollen, eyes graphic in his red face-better even than he did after a good day on the pitch. Yet, there was worry in him. The hand on Harry's thigh was gentle now, almost careful. It wasn't the same hand that had demanded Harry do it his way, come over to his side, come on, Harry.
Anxious now, after the fact.
Ron drew slowly from the floor, warily fixed on Harry the entire time, until he was towering over Harry. Shadows dripped on his naked body, magnified raindrops that might have forecast a set of bruises were they to brawl the rest of this out.
So how's it going to be?
Option A, lock the door for good, and Ron behind it. No Ron for Harry, none at all.
Option B, leave the door open, be honest, be *with* Ron.
Harry's face formed a new expression. He stood, kicking his trousers the rest of the way off, facing his best friend and this open door between them. Ron flinched when Harry offered his hand, but Harry pretended not to see, and smirked.
"C'mere, Ron. Come and kiss me."
Ron blinked, tilted his head, considering.
Come on, Ron. Just do it.
The End 1/1
Feedback and criticism welcome