FIC for plotbunniofdoom

[bestmates_mod]

For: plotbunniofdoom
From: goneoffthelump
Title: The Beard
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry knows he should probably be more bothered by the fact that people think they’re gay, but he’s just... not. Ron doesn’t seem to mind, either. Not that they’ve ever actually talked about it.
Word Count: 10,500
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine, and I’ve got the overdrawn chequing account to prove it.
Author's Note: Oh, plotbunniofdoom! I do hope this is up your alley - my obstinate muse reared her excessively obstinate head with this one. But she does love you, almost as much as I do. Happiest Christmas, darling! ♥ to my long-suffering betas, and to the forgiving mod of this lovely exchange.



Harry’s idly pushing the remains of his supper around his plate when a slice of red pepper slides into just the right spot, and suddenly he’s got the spitting image of two dragons, furiously copulating.

He suppresses a grin and wishes he could take a picture, because it’s an honest to god tragedy that Ron isn’t here to see it.

“What’s so funny?” the woman across from him asks.

Harry gives a small start and hopes it’s not completely obvious that he forgot he’s not alone. “Oh, nothing, sorry,” he says, blushing. “What were you saying?”

The woman, whose name Harry can’t remember, shit, leans back in her seat with a resigned sigh. “So much for that, then,” she says, frowning.

“Sorry?” he asks.

“After I failed completely at capturing your attention with conversation about travel and politics and music and theatre, I thought that maybe Quidditch talk was the way to go, but clearly even that’s not working. Is there anything you actually would like to talk about, or shall we just call this evening what it is, and go our separate ways?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, feeling every inch the arse. “I-I’m being very rude. It’s not you. I’m just-distracted. Sorry. I don’t mean to ruin your evening.”

She shakes her head and offers him a wry smile. “You haven’t. I honestly wasn’t expecting this to go very well. I told Ginny it wasn’t a good idea. After her, who could possibly capture Harry Potter’s attention?”

“No, no,” he says, “that’s not-honestly, you’re lovely. I should be so lucky. I just. I’m not really...” He sighs and wishes, not for the first time, that Ginny could just leave well enough alone.

“Not really over her yet?” Maggie - he suddenly remembers - says, too sympathetically.

It’s an easy out, would save face for his poor behaviour tonight, and he considers agreeing.

“Sorry,” she says, when he doesn’t answer right away. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s OK,” he says, and he doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea, she’s a friend of Ginny’s, after all. “I am over her. She and I are-we’re good. A little too good, perhaps, which is maybe why she keeps setting me up on these dates. I’m sorry to waste your time, I’m just not really, you know, looking, right now.”

Maggie nods her understanding and chews on her lower lip thoughtfully. “But you are... available, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Harry answers, shrugging, “but I’m no prize, believe me.”

She eyes him strangely for a long moment, and he fidgets until her gaze finally falls to the table. A moment later, she’s smiling with genuine amusement.

“Hey,” she says, “did you notice that your dinner looks like dragon porn?”

Harry grins and considers that, really, his life could be a lot worse.

\\

“So what was wrong with her?” Ron asks, toeing off his shoes and collapsing onto the sofa.

“Nothing,” Harry says. “She was great. Your sister has excellent taste in women.”

Ron snorts and says, “So? Are you inviting her to the Ministry Ball next week?”

Harry shoots Ron a look. “No. Even if I wanted to, she wouldn’t say yes, I was a complete bore all night. She’s probably writing to Witch Weekly right now, saying she can’t imagine where all these stories about Harry Potter the Lothario come from.”

Ron snorts again. “I should get my dress robes pressed, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes. I can’t be seen with you if you’re not looking your absolute best.”

Ron sighs dramatically. “I’m nothing but a trophy to you, am I?”

Harry smacks Ron with a sofa cushion.

\\

Harry and Ron go to all these things together, now. It’s a hell of a lot more fun that way.

Harry knows the impression they give off - he isn’t stupid. At almost every event - and, well, every non-event, too - they arrive together, they stand together, sit together, drink together. They leave together. Go home to their shared flat, alone, together.

He isn’t stupid and he knows what people think, and while he’d honestly rather they didn’t - for the simple and singular reason that it’s not actually true - he hasn’t yet worked out a way to discuss the fact of his own heterosexuality without coming across as a homophobe, a closet case, or both, so he just lets it lie.

And, truth be told, it’s easier this way. The love life of a single-and-looking Harry Potter is a matter of overwhelming public interest, apparently, which Harry continues to find boggling and exasperating in equal parts.

It wasn’t too terrible when he was with Ginny, mostly just in-depth photo journalism detailing their public appearances, and never-ending speculation about the purchasing of rings and the picking of dates - for what, exactly, Harry and Ginny had both always preferred to feign ignorance.

Since their (perfectly amicable) split, though, public appearances involving a woman have been nothing but a pain in Harry’s arse. The papers all seemed to take it as a personal insult when Harry showed up at the third-anniversary-of-the-end-of-the-war dinner with Luna on his arm without first publicly acknowledging his break-up with Ginny.

It wasn’t even a sodding date, with Luna, it was just the only way he’d been talked into attending the dinner at all: he needed a buffer from the tempest that was Ron-and-Hermione, who were, at the time, two weeks from reverting permanently back to being just Ron and Hermione.

Ginny’s public statements that she had not, in fact, been chucked by an increasingly fame-obsessed Harry Potter had only made matters worse, and neither of them were seen in public for weeks in the aftermath.

Some time later, Harry made the mistake of being spotted on two separate occasions dining with a mysterious dark-haired woman, and when he decided against a third date, she made a quick mint when the Prophet and Witch Weekly started a bidding war for the exclusive rights to her I-Had-My-Heart-Broken-By-Harry-Potter story.

Harry knows he should be used to this kind of attention by now, and that he shouldn’t let it bother him as much as it does, but knowing that doesn’t actually seem to help.

You’d think, of course, that the public attention surrounding his alleged relationship with Ron would be even worse. Even more salacious, even more invasive. And, initially, the papers had tried to make it just that. But Harry and Ron, even when they’re theoretically Harry-and-Ron, have the advantage of being spectacularly boring, all the time. They live together, yes, and they’re partners in the Auror Department, of course, but that’s about as newsworthy as a rainy day in London. They don’t do much in public besides go to the pub, where they drink too much, but never enough to do anything interesting. And it’s hard to convince your readership that Ron and Ginny Weasley are in some sort of family-destroying feud over the man when Ginny meets them at the pub as often as not, and all that ever happens is they all share a good laugh.

And so they mostly get left alone. Women don’t throw themselves at Harry on the street with quite as much gusto, anymore, and they’ve got arrangements with both Tom and Rosmerta that give them access to private, warded booths whenever they need them. Harry only uses them for the occasional dates that Ginny sets him up on, and he’s not sure if Ron uses them at all. But it’s nice to know they’re there, for when the time comes.

Harry knows he should probably be more bothered by the fact that people think they’re gay, but he’s just... not.

Ron doesn’t seem to mind, either. Not that they’ve ever actually talked about it.

They tried to talk about it once, and it was Hermione’s fault, of course. She just asked them, in that delightfully Hermione way of hers, whether they minded.

They didn’t really talk so much as just blush and shrug a lot, but the take-home message seemed to be that they both got it, and neither was up for trying to do anything about it. Whether because they didn’t actually mind, or because they didn’t seem to have the ability to form coherent sentences regarding this particular subject, Harry wasn’t quite sure, but he figured that if Ron really minded, Harry would know. Ron’s never been very good at hiding, well, anything, after all.

\\

They’re at the Ministry Christmas Ball, and they’re actually having fun.

There’s twice as much alcohol as there was last year, were only half as many boring speeches at the beginning, and it’s turned into quite the party.

Harry’s not sure how long they’ve been here, but he’s warm and feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges when Ron disappears to get them more drinks, and Harry holds fast to their spot next to the dance floor, prime watch-and-ridicule territory.

He spots Seamus working his way across the room, and it’s only after he waves hello and motions him over that he recognises the woman hanging on his arm. It’s whatshername, shit, Ginny’s friend from the other night, and all Harry can think is Thank Merlin I’m not stuck making small talk with her all night, which isn’t fair, because she’s really quite great, but Harry doubts she’d find the same entertainment value as Ron does in the way Ernie Macmillan’s face turns three distinct shades of pink as he concentrates on keeping up with his dance partner.

Seamus and Maggie, right, skirt their way along the edge of the dance floor, and are nearly taken out by Ernie himself, as he very ambitiously works a rather complex bit of footwork, and it’s really, really too bad that Ron’s at the bar right now, because that was effing brilliant.

“Hey, Harry,” Seamus says, grinning lecherously as Maggie clings to him as though she might fall down, otherwise. Which, Harry realises as he stands to greet them, she probably would.

“Hi Seamus, Maggie,” Harry says, bemused.

“Harry!” Ron calls, coming up behind him. “Did you see Ernie just now? Shay, he nearly took you two down. Effing brilliant, he is!”

Harry grins at him and nods before accepting the drink he’s brought.

“Oh!” Maggie croons, in a strange sing-song voice. Harry, Ron and Seamus all look at her in surprise, a trio of raised eyebrows.

“You,” she says, releasing one hand from Seamus’s arm long enough to wave it wobbily at Harry and Ron. “You two are just so... oh.” She sighs dramatically. “I don’t know why you let Gin set you up on dates, Harry, when you’ve got this gorgeous thing to come home to every night.”

She giggles and makes a noise that Harry can only classify as a coo, and he glances over at Ron, who seems oddly tense and even taller than usual, all of a sudden.

Harry opens his mouth to say... something, when suddenly Ernie’s back and off-balance and ploughing through their little group, and Harry’s drink is suddenly all over his shirt, and there’s something solid at his back, stopping him from falling.

Ernie apologises and turns a fourth shade of red, which Harry thinks might be his record, for an official Ministry affair, anyway, and he turns to say as much to Ron, and that’s when he realises that the warm, strong thing he’s still leaning against is, in fact, Ron himself.

The bit about Ernie catches in Harry’s throat, in a strange sort of way, and he knows he’s supposed to pull away now, since he’s not actually in danger of falling, anymore. But. He just... doesn’t.

He just lets himself lean back against Ron, and Ron stiffens, and Harry expects him to pull away. But then Ron just... doesn’t, and they sort of relax into one another, right there next to the dance floor.

And Harry knows what this looks like, and he knows he should care, but he just... doesn’t.

Seamus gives them a funny look, but Harry just smirks at him as Maggie starts to grimace and turn a distinct shade of green.

“Good luck, Seamus,” he calls after them, as Seamus all but carries Maggie out of the room.

Harry pulls away from Ron, then, because he needs a new drink. But Ron’s right next to him for the rest of the night, as they ride the buzz of the liquor and ridicule all their old classmates and co-workers out on the dance floor, and it’s business as usual when they go home and laugh and mock some late-night programme on the telly and fall asleep next to each other on the sofa.

Harry wakes up in the middle of the night with a sore neck and a dry mouth and a lapful of Ron’s feet. He manages to extricate himself and nudge Ron into a more comfortable position without waking him, casts anti-hangover spells on both of them, and is still really, really glad he didn’t spend the evening with anyone but Ron.

\\

The next morning, Ron’s still asleep on the couch. Harry’s standing over a pan of sizzling bacon by the time he gets up and pads into the kitchen behind him.

Harry nods hello over his shoulder, points to the full coffee pot with his spatula, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Ron’s “Thanks, mate,” comes alarmingly close to his left ear. Ron is right there, for some reason, eyeing the bacon over Harry’s shoulder, and Harry just... can’t move, for a moment.

A large, tentative hand snakes its way around Harry’s waist, not quite touching him, and Harry stares down at it. The bacon pops and sizzles, and then Ron’s fingers deftly snatch a piece of it straight out of the pan, and he’s gone, moving down the counter towards the coffee pot, putting bacon in his mouth and looking smug, and Harry can’t do much but roll his eyes.

\\

It’s been a few days, and things have turned weird.

Nothing’s changed, really, but everything’s different. Ron’s different.

He’s just sort of... there, all the time, which feels like a stupid thing to think, because of course he is, Ron’s always been there, all the time. But now he’s just... right there, all the time, nudging Harry with his elbow, or clapping Harry on the back, or sitting even closer than usual. It occurs to Harry that maybe this isn’t actually different, maybe he’s just more aware of it, now, but he’s really not sure.

So he doesn’t do or say anything, just quietly catalogues it and forgets about it, and a few days pass easily by, as days tend to do when you spend them with people you enjoy.

And then it’s late one evening, and they’re in for the night after a particularly excruciating day of physical training at the hands of a certain sadomasochist masquerading as a Senior Auror, and they’re snickering over something on the telly and are sprawled out on the sofa, and Harry’s had a bit to drink, so it takes him a while to register the way in which Ron has moved a little bit closer and a little bit closer and a little bit closer over the past hour.

Beer and exhaustion go a long way to explain a lot of things, Harry knows, but they’re practically wrapped up in one another right now, and Harry decides he can’t just let it lie.

“Ron, what’re you doing?”

Ron grunts, seeking clarification.

Harry looks down at their legs, which are definitely intertwined. “Personal space? You are familiar with the concept, yes?”

Ron blinks at Harry a moment before sitting up a bit straighter, and pulling his legs back towards himself.

The air in the room seems to shift, and Harry wishes he’d just let it lie.

“Sorry, I thought-” Ron says, his face flushing a bit as he runs a hand through his hair and gives a hollow laugh. “I thought you finally-”

“Finally what?” Harry prompts.

Ron reaches for his beer on the coffee table, and gives a small, frustrated sigh when he finds it’s empty. “It’s just-everything’s been so easy since-since the Ball, and I just thought. I-Harry, you know what people say, right? About us?”

Harry feels his cheeks flush, and nods. Ron’s not actually looking at him, though, so he offers a small, “Yeah.”

“And-do you mind?”

Ron glances up at him, and Harry shrugs. “Nah,” he says. “It makes things a lot easier.”

“Yeah,” Ron says, smiling a little as his gaze gets a bit steadier. “It really does.”

There’s something about the way Ron’s looking at him that makes Harry think that maybe he’s missing something, here, that maybe he and Ron aren’t talking about quite the same thing, or maybe they’ve got different ideas about what qualifies as easy, exactly, and Harry thinks he should probably say or ask something more, just to clarify, but he can’t, because suddenly Ron’s kissing him.

Sort of.

It hardly qualifies as a kiss, really. It’s just Ron’s lips, dry and large, touching Harry’s. For about a nanosecond, possibly two. Harry doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes until he opens them to find Ron staring at him, blue eyes wide and cheeks pink.

“I want it, Harry,” he says, his voice breathy. “What they think we have.”

Harry blinks and doesn’t know what to say, and when he hears himself say, “You’re gay for real, then?”, too late to stop himself, it sounds… awful.

Ron just looks at him, his expression hovering somewhere between confusion and hurt.

“I thought,” Harry says, wondering when he turned into such an arse, “it was just for the simplicity. You know, so the papers aren’t constantly blathering on about this woman or that woman. So we could have some peace.”

Ron swallows and averts his eyes. “Well, yeah, but. This week, I thought. You seemed... different, and I thought. Thought maybe you...”

“Oh,” Harry says, and he can’t think of anything else. “Ron,” he tries, against a deeply uncomfortable silence.

But Ron’s already standing, an awkward distance from the couch. “I’m going to bed. You still going to Holyhead in the morning?”

“Yeah, but, Ron-”

“OK. Have fun.” Ron takes several purposeful steps away from the couch before stopping, like he’s forgotten something. “Look, Harry,” he says, turning to stare at the empty spot on the sofa, “you know that I’m not-that I wouldn’t-I’d never-”

“What, kiss me?” Harry says, and it sounds playful and funny in his head, but it comes out sounding sort of, well, mean, and Ron looks completely stricken.

“I-oh. Um. Sorry.” He blinks rapidly, and Harry feels as shocked as Ron looks. “If you want, you-I can-I can leave, if you’re uncomfortable, if you’d-”

“No,” Harry says quickly. “That-it came out wrong. It’s fine. I don’t mind. I don’t want-I don’t want anything to change. You’re my best mate, Ron, and it’s-it’s fine.”

Ron gives a tight, audible breath. “Right,” he says, nodding to himself. “OK. Well. Goodnight.”

“Night,” Harry calls weakly after Ron’s retreating form.

He sits on the couch for a long time, studying the grain of the wood in their coffee table, and when the sky outside begins to brighten, he’s not sure if he’s slept at all.

\\

“You look like shit,” Ginny says to him, when she answers the door.

“Yeah. Hi,” Harry says.

He accepts her offer of tea, and the kettle hasn’t boiled yet when he says, “So, Ron wants to be gay with me for real.”

Ginny’s silent with surprise for a relatively short moment, then her raised eyebrows contract with concern. “How do you know?”

“He told me. And he kissed me. Maybe not in that order.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you say?”

Harry frowns. “I think I said, ‘Oh’.”

Ginny purses her lips and her eyes narrow a bit. “So, to summarise, Ron kissed you and asked you to be with him, and you said ‘Oh’ and ran off to see your ex-girlfriend.”

“We agreed to this ages ago!” Harry says, feeling wretched. “He knows it’s not a real date, or anything.”

She fixes him with exactly the sort of look that he knows he deserves. “You’re really are an arse, Harry, you know that?”

“You have no idea,” Harry says, letting his forehead fall heavily against the kitchen table.

\\

Harry’s in Holyhead to attend the Harpies’ Christmas party with Ginny, but they blow it off. Ginny’s got enough beer in the fridge to keep them covered, so she begs off with an invented stomach bug, and they hang around her flat all night, getting drunk and trading stories, gossip and reminiscences.

He knows she wants him to talk about it, to discuss Ron’s bombshell in greater depth, but she doesn’t ask. She’s not Hermione, after all.

And so it’s he who brings it up, hours later, as he sits sprawled across her sofa, with a lapful of her feet instead of Ron’s. “Is it weird for you?” he asks.

“Hmm?” she asks, lazily.

“The gay thing. With Ron. I mean… it’s, you know.”

Her raised eyebrows suggest she doesn’t know.

“I mean, he’s your brother. And you and me were-and now, people think, you know, him and-is that weird, for you?”

“Do you want him, Harry?”

Harry blinks at her, and tries to shrug, but can’t quite manage the movement. “M’not gay, Gin. You know that.”

Ginny smiles, slow and genuine. “At first, it was a bit weird, when everyone started talking about you two like that. A bit embarrassing, really, the thought that people would think you dumped me for my brother, of all people. If I’m perfectly honest,” she says, wincing a bit apologetically, “that was part of the reason I was so eager to set you up, help you find a new girlfriend.”

Harry feels his eyebrows lift at this.

“But,” Ginny continues, “if it were real, if it were what you wanted, then no, it wouldn’t be weird for me. My pride could take it.”

Harry chuckles softly. “So what do you think I should do?”

“For a start,” she says, “you could try not being such an arse all the time.”

\\

When Harry Portkeys home on Sunday night, Ron isn’t there. Harry unpacks and sits alone on the couch, drinking beer. He thinks about finding Ron, because it doesn’t feel like he’s home, yet, without Ron sitting next to him, babbling about the weekend’s Quidditch matches and how much he’s dreading getting up for work in the morning.

Harry doesn’t go looking for him, though, and he doesn’t get out of bed when he hears Ron come home, hours later, trying to be quiet.

He expects to have to pull Ron out of bed by his ears on the next morning, and so he’s confused and a bit disoriented when he wakes to the smell of coffee and bacon. Ron is in the kitchen, showered and dressed, standing over the stove.

“Good morning,” Harry says cautiously.

“Morning, Harry,” Ron says cheerfully, glancing briefly over his shoulder.

“You’re up early.”

“Yeah,” Ron says, shrugging.

Harry hovers in the door for a moment, feeling ridiculous, before he steps into the kitchen and pours himself a coffee.

Ron serves him breakfast, and they eat together, chatting about scores and pub antics and the short Christmas workweek, and Harry tries not to think about the fact that, despite his apparent ease and good cheer, Ron doesn’t meet Harry’s eye once.

\\

Work goes the same way. They coexist in the office all day without quite looking at one another, without ever touching. They don’t talk much, really, but they’re not not talking, and Harry’s grateful for that, even as he can’t manage to shake the odd, lonely feeling that follows him around all day.

A couple of days go by without incident, and Harry doesn’t really mind the things that have changed - that he always has to grab his own cloak from the hook on the door, or that the nightly pub visits are shorter than usual. It’s Christmas on Thursday, so they’re both distracted with last minute shopping and preparations, anyway.

It’s not a big deal. They’ll have time for things like regular eye-contact and proper conversation after things have calmed back down a bit.

\\

On Wednesday, Harry touches Ron.

So does everyone else in the office - the pair of them just managed to apprehend Boban Jovanovic, a wizard believed to have key information about the whereabouts and ambitions of an underground ring of dark wizards. The call from their Knockturn Alley informant came almost too late, and it’s only thanks to Harry’s quick wandwork and Ron’s well-timed rugby-tackle that there’s now a red-faced wizard in the Department holding cell, swearing in a thick accent.

Harry’s and Ron’s spirits are high when they get back to the office, accepting congratulatory handshakes and slaps on the back from their fellow Aurors, peers and superiors alike. Ron even catches and holds Harry’s eye for a moment, offering a smile, and it all just feels so normal that Harry isn’t really thinking about it when they’re finally alone at the end of the day, collecting their things, and he’s waiting for Ron by the door.

“Great way to start the holiday, eh?” he says to Ron as he approaches.

Ron smiles, but isn’t really looking at Harry, so he doesn’t see him raise his hand to clap Ron’s shoulder, and when he does, Ron flinches like he’s been electrocuted.

And any camaraderie there might have been is gone, just like that.

Harry can’t think of a damn thing to say when they’re back at the flat, while Ron refuses to look at him and gives him a ludicrously wide berth as they collect their things and Floo to the Burrow for Christmas Eve.

\\

The Christmas holidays pass in a miserable sort of fog. Ron’s everywhere and nowhere, avoiding Harry as best he can, not looking at him and leaving the room whenever possible. Harry tries not to worry about it too much, figures he’s better off just giving Ron some space, and trying to enjoy the visit with everyone else. It’s Christmas at the Burrow, after all - family and food and all things wonderful. And he doesn’t want to raise any questions, doesn’t want anyone to notice how strange things are. So he plasters on a smile and makes conversation with Charlie and plays with Bill’s kids and tries to ignore the fact that Molly’s feast is like cardboard against his tongue, while Ron smiles at everyone in the room but him.

They’re sharing a bedroom, of course. The first night, Harry doesn’t notice Ron disappear upstairs until too late, and is met only with steady snores when he opens the door, hoping for a moment’s private conversation. On Christmas morning, he tries again, but Ron excuses himself hastily to the bathroom and doesn’t come back.

That night, with another stomach full of food and wine and a fierce determination not to let Christmas end without making things better, Harry makes sure he goes to bed first, and sits on his camp bed, watching the door and waiting for Ron to come in.

He’s not sure exactly what he’s going to say, but something along the lines of ‘Look, I’m OK with you being gay for me, you idiot, so there’s no reason for you not to be. Stop being such a prat, already!’ seems like it should do nicely.

Harry sits in the dark and he waits. He loses count of how many people he hears on the stairs, but he’s fairly sure everyone’s gone to bed but Ron. He waits a bit longer, just in case, but there’s only so long a bloke can wait when he’s a bit drunk and anxious and beginning to feel genuinely irritated with his mate’s behaviour.

So he gets up, and goes downstairs, and finds Ron sitting on the sofa in the lounge, alone, watching the embers in the fireplace glow.

He knows he should sit down, say something cautious and friendly, let Ron know that it really is OK, and that he just wants them to start acting normal with one another again.

But instead, he says, “What is your fucking problem?” and Ron gives a start against the couch, clearly not having heard Harry enter the room.

“Thought you went to bed,” Ron says.

“And you’re sitting here waiting until you’re sure I’m asleep, so that you don’t have to talk to me.”

Ron’s nostrils flare, and his gaze shifts determinedly to the wall.

“Are you planning on ever talking to me again?”

“Been talking to you all day.”

“Talking to someone else when I happen to be in the same room doesn’t count, Ron.”

Harry stares at Ron’s ear as it turns a deeper shade of red, and feels his irritation rise when Ron doesn’t say anything.

“Fine,” Harry finally snaps. “When you’re ready to start being my mate again, let me know.” He turns and marches out of the room in fine style, and is three-quarters of the way up the stairs when he thinks that, really, that conversation might have gone better if he’d not had quite so much to drink, but he’s too embarrassed to go back down and apologise.

When he wakes up on Boxing Day, Ron’s not there. His covers are mussed, though only enough to suggest that someone lay there for a while, keeping too still to have been properly asleep. Harry goes downstairs and Molly immediately starts questioning him, wanting to know what sort of work Ron would have to do at the office on a holiday, that didn’t involve Harry, too.

Harry’s through the Floo without bothering to give her a proper response, and he’s not sure if the angry voice he hears is Molly’s, calling after him, or just the one in his own head.

He feels guilty for last night, but he really has had enough of Ron’s evasive behaviour. So things are a bit weird right now, so what? They’re still supposed to be best mates, for fuck’s sake.

Ron’s not at their flat or at the dark, empty office. Harry checks three different pubs, too, before Flooing back to the flat in anger. “Fine,” he says to the empty room, after debating sending Ron an owl, demanding he get his arse home. “You don’t want to be around me anymore, fine. Fuck you, too.”

Harry sulks alone on the couch all day, watching shitty Muggle telly and ignoring the nauseous churn of anger and guilt in his gut.

\\

He must have fallen asleep, at some point, because Harry wakes up on Saturday morning to the sound of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice booming at him from a shimmering silver lynx, standing next to the sofa.

“All Aurors involved in the Jovanovic case must report to Headquarters immediately.”

Harry groans and rubs at his face, and really wants to go back to sleep, but he’s not quite stupid enough for that.

Ron’s nowhere to be found, and Harry contemplates sending him a quick owl, in case Kingsley doesn’t know where he is, either. In the end, though, he just hopes for the best as he Floos to the Ministry.

Ron is already there, and Harry has to bite back an angry comment, settling instead for sending Ron a glare on the way into the meeting.

“This morning,” Kingsley says, “Jovanovic gave up the location and identity of the wizards he was on his way to meet when he was apprehended. We believe this is likely legitimate information. Our timeframe is extremely short, as they may be about to move.

“I’m sending three teams to the indicated location now. You’ll stake out the premises, see if you can confirm Jovanovic’s information. If you need to move in immediately, do so. I’ll send backup as more teams report in.” Kingsley pauses to look around the room. “OK, the teams leaving immediately are: Roberts and Dhesi, Lloyd and Wright, and Potter and Devereux. All usual protocol applies.”

In the brief moment of quiet as Kingsley nods and makes to leave, every eye in the room darts to Ron, to Harry, and then to Boyd Devereux.

“Sir?” Harry says, not daring to look at Ron and not bothering to look at anyone else. “Auror Weasley’s here, sir. We both are.”

“You’re teamed with Devereux, Potter.”

“But, sir-”

“Potter, which part of ‘immediately’ are you having trouble understanding? Go. Now.”

Harry balks and looks at Ron, whose eyes are downcast and ears bright red as he edges towards the door, clearly attempting a quick getaway.

Harry pushes through the pack of Aurors in a flash, and runs to catch Ron down the corridor.

“Ron, what’s going on?” he demands, stepping in front of him.

“Harry, your team is leaving.” Ron says, eyes tethered to the floor.

“Um, no, obviously it’s not!” Harry gestures at Ron with an open hand, as much a question as an accusation.

“I asked Kingsley to take me off the case.”

“What? Why?”

“Harry, you need to go.”

“And so do you, Ron! You are my team.”

“Not anymore,” Ron mutters.

Harry freezes. “What?” he manages. “Ron. I need you there with me. You are my partner.”

Ron falters at this, his eyes darting up from the floor to meet Harry’s.

“Potter!” Kingsley bellows from down the corridor. “If you plan to continue your career as an Auror, you will leave, now.”

“Just go, Harry,” Ron says, and Harry knows he hasn’t got a choice.

\\

It’s a disaster. Devereux is fucking useless. He runs too slowly, he can’t remember a damn thing or anticipate worth crap, and he doesn’t understand half of the signals Harry sends him. Plus, he’s short.

They’ve been here thirty minutes, stealthily circling a small run-down cottage in the middle of wherever the fuck they are, and Harry finds himself wondering what sort of punishment they dole out to Aurors who murder their partners while on a stakeout.

Devereux shifts against some tall grass and eyes Harry nervously. He clears his throat and Harry’s already rolling his eyes, before the question even comes. “Potter, could you please stick to the standard visual signals? The ones we learnt in training?”

“Yeah, fine,” Harry spits, even though he knows that it isn’t actually Devereux’s fault that Ron isn’t here, nor that Harry and Ron have been partnered so long that they have their own set of codes and signals.

Devereux shifts again and Harry hisses at him to stay still and quiet, for fuck’s sake, when the dim corner they’re hiding in goes suddenly dark, flooded with the hulking shadow of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“We’re done here,” he says, his voice dangerously low.

“Sir?” Harry asks, but Kingsley has already turned away. “Was it bad information, sir?”

“No, they were here,” he answers gruffly. “The other teams spotted them through the back window, and moved in after signalling the two of you for over a minute, while you were too busy bickering and blundering around in the grass to notice. You’re damned lucky that Roberts has got the best anti-Apparation skills on the Force, or I would have both of your badges, here and now.” Kingsley pauses empathically, and Devereux makes a small choking sound. “Potter,” he continues, “I will see you in my office immediately upon your return to Headquarters.”

Harry’s dumbstruck, and it’s several moments after Kingsley has left before he can collect himself enough to Apparate to the Ministry. He doesn’t say a word to Devereux.

\\

An hour later, Harry slams the door to the flat shut behind him, so forcefully it sends a nearby picture frame falling from the wall. He hears the glass crack, but doesn’t spare it more than a glance.

“Ron!” he bellows. “Are you here?”

There’s only silence.

Harry expels an angry breath at the wall. “I’m the one who’s got to learn to work with others, am I?” he shouts. “I’m the one with poor professionalism. Never mind that you’re the one who abandoned me without any warning, so I got paired with Boyd-fucking-Devereux without any time to prepare or adjust or train him up a bit. Of course it was a sodding disaster.” He stops and grinds his teeth together. “Caught the fuckers, though, didn’t they? Fuck!” He actually growls as he pulls off his robes, tossing them into a dusty pile on the floor. “Ron, why aren’t you here? I need someone who’ll yell back, for fuck’s sake.”

He stomps angrily into the shower, and a while later throws himself angrily down on the sofa, where he angrily drinks beer until the sun goes down, and waits for Ron to return.

\\

Ron’s still not back, the sun’s been down for hours, and Harry is drunk and restless.

He decides that the screaming match he’s been waiting for all day isn’t what he wants, after all.

So he gets up and ignores the voice at the back of his skull that’s earnestly protesting what a colossally bad idea this is as he digs through his bureau for the shirt and dark jeans Ginny bought him to wear on his ‘dates’.

And apparently Ginny knew what she was doing, because Harry’s only sitting alone in the Muggle pub for about ten minutes before a woman slides onto the stool next to his, all faux-shy smiles and sidelong glances. He buys her a drink and they chat, but he doesn’t know what about.

And he doesn’t do this sort of thing, so he doesn’t know how it works, and he’s surprised when their small talk hits a lull and she gives a small, frustrated growl before grabbing his shirt and leaning in, but he doesn’t pull away. Her lips are small against his, soft and supple and insistent, and Harry finds himself wondering, bizarrely, how similar or different Ron’s would feel, if he kissed them for real.

He blinks away that thought and focuses on the slim, gentle hands against his throat, and the way they slide up to cup his jaw. And it feels nice.

But he has to pee, so he pulls away and stands to go to the bathroom.

She apparently takes this as some sort of invitation, because she follows him towards the back, then pushes him up against the wall and attacks his neck with her mouth. And it’s pretty hot, Harry’s got to admit, so he forgets about having to pee for a while and relaxes under her onslaught.

But then he closes his eyes and suddenly she’s not the one doing this to him, it’s someone else pressing him against the wall, pinning his wrists easily above his head with large, strong hands, and Harry’s eyes fly open even as his cock jerks.

The woman he’s with presses up against him, soft and curvy in all the right places, and Harry just. Doesn’t want to be here, anymore. He extricates himself, offering fumbling apologies, and she frowns, but doesn’t seem terribly affronted, and he figures she still has time to find someone else, tonight.

He doesn’t trust himself to Apparate, so he walks home, but it’s not nearly a long enough walk, because he’s still drunk and the flat is still empty when he gets there.

He fumbles around in the kitchen for something like five or ten minutes before giving up and falling into bed.

And he’s not drunk enough that he’ll forget any of this, but he’s too drunk to stop himself imagining being pinned beneath a broad, hard chest, with large lips against his throat and red fringe grazing his jaw as he wraps hot, sweaty fingers around his cock.

\\

He doesn’t forget.

It doesn’t come back to him right away, though - not until he’s been up for a while and has made breakfast enough for two, only to discover that Ron didn’t come home last night. Then Harry remembers just how thoroughly ticked off he was after the incident at work, then he remembers going to the pub, and then he remembers coming home.

Harry sighs and rubs his hands over his face, and isn’t hungry, anymore.

He’s not an idiot. He’s got a pretty good idea what this means.

And he's pretty sure that it means he's an idiot.

\\

Harry shifts in his seat at the kitchen table and can’t decide what to do.

Ideally, Ron would just come home right now, and Harry would just... say it before he’s had time to over think it, and chances are it wouldn’t make any sense, but maybe it wouldn’t matter, and they could just snog and be done with it. But Harry learnt long ago not to hope for ‘ideally’, so he’s really not surprised when the door stays firmly shut and the Floo resolutely dark. He’s losing his patience with waiting, though, so he decides to be a bit more proactive, and gathers quill and parchment.

…and hasn’t got the foggiest idea what to write.

Ron -
Have thought things over, and realised I may be gay for real, too. Am at least for you. Gay, that is.

Ron -
Wanked to thoughts of you last night, have seen the error of my ways. Forgive me and come home?

Ron -
When you think about it, we sort of already do have what they think we have. Just without the sex. And not having that seems pretty stupid, under the circumstances. Come home for some, then?

Ron -
Don’t really know what to say, but if you ever come home, I might fancy a bit of a snog.
- Harry
He balls up the note with a disgusted sigh and decides he’s better off without any written evidence of his idiocy. Ron’s got to come home sooner or later.

He finishes the dregs of his coffee, forces down some breakfast, and settles himself on the sofa with the day’s Prophet, the telly remote, and the book Hermione gave him for Christmas.

Somehow, an entire day passes.

He stares at the latest match reports, flips through the first twenty-five pages of his book before switching to telly, and eventually it’s late enough to drink beer without feeling guilty about it. So he does, and he manages not to think about much as the minutes tick by and Ron doesn’t come home and idiotic programme after idiotic programme cycles by, the stories and characters blurring into an indistinguishable mass that he doesn’t give a shit about.

\\

And then Ron’s back.

He’s standing in front of the couch, and it’s really fucking bright, and Ron’s dressed in his Auror robes and holding a mug of coffee, and shaking Harry’s shoulder.

“Harry,” he’s saying, urgently. “Mate, c’mon. It’s late. Kingsley’s looking for you, you need to get up now.”

Harry blinks up at him blearily, and he can’t focus until Ron heaves an exasperated sigh and reaches for his wand. He points it at Harry and mumbles something, and suddenly Harry’s brain snaps to attention.

“Ron,” he says, reaching for the coffee gratefully. “Is it morning?”

“Ten o’clock in the morning, Harry. You were supposed to be at work an hour ago.”

“Shit,” Harry says, standing too quickly. He knocks into the coffee table and seven or eight empty beer bottles fall over heavily, knocking into one another noisily.

Ron looks at Harry with raised eyebrows, and Harry wants to say about a million completely stupid things, but, “Get dressed, Harry,” says Ron. “Kingsley’s mad enough as it is.”

And he’s right, so Harry does.

\\

It’s a long day, full of bullshit assignments and the type grunt work that Harry hasn’t had to do for years, not since his first few months with the Department, but it doesn’t anger him as much as it should. It keeps him from thinking too much, at least.

Ron’s on punishment detail, too, which makes Harry wonder if he wasn’t the only one who got reamed on Saturday. Kingsley’s got them performing separate tasks, for the most part, but they run into each other a few times in the corridor, and it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as Harry feared. He catches Ron’s gaze and rolls his eyes in commiseration a couple of times, and Ron smiles back, sheepishly, twice. They’re not true Ron grins, but Harry’ll take them, for now.

They end up back in their shared office at the end of the day, fetching their cloaks.

“Do you wanna... the pub?” Harry manages, and feels ridiculous for how nervous he is. This is Ron, for fuck’s sake.

Ron just quirks a small smile. “Yeah,” he says. “That’d be good.”

They’re halfway down the corridor, falling awkwardly into step with one another, when Kingsley steps out of his office and raises an eyebrow at them. “Potter, Weasley. Have you finished the files yet?”

“Sir?” Ron says.

“The files I left in your office this afternoon. They need updating.”

“Sorry, sir, there wasn’t time today,” Harry says. “Will first thing in the morning be OK?”

“No,” Kingsley says. “I need them first thing in the morning, so you’ll have to do them tonight.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and suddenly really hates this fucking job.

The stack of files is obscenely tall, and they’re stuck there into the wee hours. They manage some not-completely-uncomfortable conversation as the night wears on, but it’s mostly just about what they’re working on.

Harry’s nearly bursting with how badly he wants to tell Ron he’s changed his mind about the whole gay thing, but this hardly feels like the right time. He resolves to say something as soon as they get home, but he makes the mistake of using the loo first, and when he’s done, Ron’s asleep.

On Tuesday, Kingsley’s still not finished with them, and it’s the same song and dance all day, and they don’t have a free moment to talk until nearly nine o’clock that night, when they finally stumble through the Floo, but Harry’s determined to make a go of it.

Only this time, he’s the one asleep on the sofa before Ron gets back from the loo, and he has to give it up as a bad job when he wakes up at three in the morning with Ron curled up at the far end of the couch, snoring.

The foot and a half of space between them feels like a lot more than that, but the ache of it eases a bit as Harry nudges Ron into a more comfortable position, and goes to bed without waking him.

\\

On Wednesday, Harry’s had enough.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and while he feels stupid for thinking so, it feels a bit like a last chance.

“Ron,” he ventures, as he closes the file he’s just finished updating, “how set are you on going to Neville and Hannah’s party tonight?”

Ron doesn’t answer right away, but the quill in his hand goes still.

“’Cause I was thinking,” Harry continues, “unless you’re in the mood for a real party, that maybe we could do something a bit more laidback? Just you and me?”

Ron rubs at his lip before he says, “Actually, I, uh, I already told Nev I can’t be there.”

“Oh?” Harry says, feeling hope rise in his chest.

“Yeah, I’ve, um, I’ve got a date, actually.”

Harry stares at him.

“And we’ve got other plans.” He glances up at Harry, who can’t even seem to blink, and his ears pink as he looks away again. “But, uh, tell everyone hi for me, will you?”

Harry’s got about a million things he really needs to say right now, but, “Oh,” is all he manages.

He’s completely useless for the rest of the day, so it’s a good thing the office is relatively quiet.

\\

Harry doesn’t go to Neville’s party. He intends to, he honestly does, but one minute it’s six-thirty, and he’s very nobly thinking about whether he should bring wine or beer as a hosts’ gift, and not thinking about Ron getting ready to go out on a date with some person Harry’s afraid to ask about, because Harry and Ron know all the same people, and Harry really can’t afford to hate any of his friends right now, since it’s looking more and more like he’s losing the most important one of all, so he just grabs a beer and doesn’t think about it, and suddenly it’s eleven-fifteen, and he’s drunk, again, and alone, again, and he’s forgotten that there’s a party he’s supposed to go to at all.

The telly’s tuned to some New Year’s countdown programme, and everything they’re showing is ridiculous, and all he wants is for Ron to be there, drunk and mocking it all with him. And he’s not quite drunk enough to shut out the voice in his head that says interrupting Ron’s date at near midnight on New Year’s Eve is a rude, shitty thing to do, but he’s just drunk enough to ignore its sage advice.

And so Pig flies off, carrying a note in Harry’s scrawling hand: “Come home”. And Harry waits, and tries not to think about what a giant, inexcusable, unforgivable arsehole he is.

Every gust of wind against the window sets his heart hammering, and his eyes flying to the Floo. There’s someone in the corridor outside, and Harry holds his breath until he’s sure they’ve gone into one of the neighbouring flats.

Ten minutes tick by like a slow lifetime, and Harry’s just about sure that Ron’s decided to cut him out of his life completely when the Floo finally, finally flares to life, and there’s Ron, tall and red and gorgeous, and Harry’s heart is in his throat.

“Hi,” Ron says, uneasily.

“Hi,” Harry says.

Ron raises his eyebrows.

“Sorry, I-I know you were you on a date. Sorry.”

“What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“Um, yeah. Sort of.” Harry watches Ron’s eyes dart around the room, take in the not-completely-embarrassing number of empty beer bottles on the table, and look back at Harry.

“I, um,” Harry says. “I missed you. I miss you.”

“What?”

Harry doesn’t know what else to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Which turns out to maybe not be the best choice, because Ron’s jaw clenches. “Fuck, Harry. Don’t I deserve even a chance to get over this?”

Harry blinks. “I-what?”

“You don’t want me, and that’s fine, I understand, and I want things to go back to the way they were, of course, but I just. You can’t jerk me around like this.”

“I wasn’t. I’m not. I just, I-”

“Was too lazy to go out, and didn’t want to be alone?”

“No. I mean, yes-no. It’s not-alone isn't the problem, Ron, it’s you. Specifically. Not being here.”

“Fuck, Harry! Look, I’m sorry, OK? I’m sorry I’m struggling with this, but I need some time. I need-I’m not going to get over this unless you give me some fucking space.”

“I can’t.”

“Harry-”

“I don’t want you to get over it.”

Ron’s startled into silence.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’m an arse and an idiot and a coward. And I’m sorry.”

Ron stares at him for a long moment. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been days, Ron. Days since I realised what I want, but I just, I’ve just sat here. Just. Drinking beer and saying nothing and just-fuck, I’m rubbish at this.”

Ron’s still just watching him, looking unsure, and Harry thinks maybe he should say something more, he doesn’t fucking know what.

“What is it?” Ron finally says.

“What’s what?”

“What you realised. That you want.”

Harry blinks. “You, Ron. For real.”

Ron stares at him.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles. “Thought that bit was obvious.”

Ron continues to just stare, and Harry begins to wonder just how badly he’s fucked up this time when Ron finally says, “Are you serious?”

“I-what? Yes. Ron, I-look, I’m sorry. I really have been an arse, I know. And maybe it’s too late. I ruined Christmas and nearly cost us our jobs and now I’m doing quite the number on New Year’s, too, and, I-if you don’t want me, anymore, if you’ve moved on, just. Just say so, and I’ll-I’ll-”

Suddenly Ron’s smiling. It’s a confused, exasperated sort of smile, but it’s a smile and it’s gorgeous. “Moved on? Are you serious?” he says. “Harry. Did you miss the part where I walked out on a perfectly lovely date twenty minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve, simply because you asked me to?”

“Sorry,” Harry mutters.

“You’re forgiven,” Ron groans, “you daft fucking sod, just. Get over here, already,” and he lifts an unsteady hand.

And Harry takes it. He clings to Ron’s sweaty fingers as he steps in close, and draws shallow, shaky breath. He watches Ron’s chest rise and fall for a moment, and then looks up at him, into blue eyes that are screaming as plain as day, Please don’t change your mind, please don’t change your mind.

And Harry’s had quite enough of that, so he tilts his head back and leans in and kisses him. And for a moment, it’s the same as it was before. Just warm, dry lips, pressed together.

But then there’s hot breath on Harry’s face, and Ron is sighing and kissing him back. Ron kisses him once, twice, before pausing to wet his lips and kiss him again, for real.

Giant, warm hands slide against Harry’s jaw, up into his hair as Ron slips his tongue between Harry’s lips, and Harry opens up for him. It’s hot and it tastes like beer and it’s-it’s ridiculous, that Harry ever thought he didn’t want this.

Ron’s fingers slip under Harry’s shirt, strong and hot, and slide around to his back and stroke at the low curve of his spine. Harry makes an embarrassing noise and his fingers are itching for Ron’s skin, too, so he puts a hand to his chest and slips three fingers between the buttons of his shirt.

The skin his fingertips find is hot and smooth, and it’s not nearly enough, so he’s got both hands working the buttons open in a flash, and when he pushes the shirt back and over Ron’s shoulders, Harry feels his mouth go dry. He splays his hands over Ron’s chest, acres of freckles and sparse hair and perfectly pink nipples.

Ron’s hands are trapped in his sleeves because Harry has abandoned them, in favour all that hot skin, touching it first with his fingers, and then with his mouth, and Ron makes a string of strangled noises like he can’t decide if he finds it frustrating or deeply satisfying.

Harry explores Ron’s chest and neck in a haze, smelling skin and soap and aftershave, as Ron wriggles his arms and tugs at his shirt, fruitlessly.

When Harry finally reaches his hands around and tugs Ron’s shirt down and off his arms, it doesn’t even hit the floor before Ron’s hands are at Harry’s waist, scrambling for the hem of his shirt, and ripping it up and over his head. Then his hands are at Harry’s shoulders, guiding him back towards the couch even as Ron leans down and for another kiss.

The backs of Harry’s legs hit the sofa, and Ron presses him to sit, and then pushes him down onto his back. Harry has the fleeting thought that couch isn’t quite big enough, and that there are two perfectly good beds somewhere nearby, but he can’t quite remember where either of them are, at the moment, not with Ron stretching out overtop of him, rubbing their chests together, and people cheering, somewhere, and who the fuck is he to put a stop to any of this?

Ron kisses Harry’s mouth deliberately for a long moment, and his eyes are open, like he needs to be sure this is really happening. So Harry looks at him, too, and kisses him back until Ron pulls away with a smile and descends on Harry’s neck and chest with his mouth.

And Ron’s mouth is - well. There aren’t words for what Ron’s mouth is. None that Harry knows right now, anyway.

It’s hot and it’s wet and it’s everywhere, and it’s Harry’s favourite thing in the whole world. And he can’t believe what an idiot he’s been, when the entire rest of the world knew better. And people are cheering again, and Harry hates them, and wishes that the rest of the world would just fuck off for fifteen fucking minutes, before he realises that hearing cheering right now doesn’t actually make much sense, and so he opens his eyes.

And it’s just the telly, of course, because apparently it’s not New Year’s Eve, anymore, and fuck if Harry doesn’t feel a lump in his throat at the thought that he knows exactly how and where and with whom he wants to spend every night this year, and the next, and then one after that, too.

And while nearly everything about this situation is pretty sodding soppy, that thought takes the cake, and so Harry’s relieved to be distracted from it by the feeling of Ron nuzzling his groin through his jeans. His jaw goes slack as long, long fingers undo his button and zipper, and he can’t lift his hips fast enough.

Ron slides Harry’s jeans down and off, and blinks as Harry’s cock springs free. He stares at it a moment, his mouth falling open with want even as his ears go a bit pink, and Harry watches him swallow.

“Ron,” Harry starts to say, but Ron silences him with a smile and the tip of his tongue against his cock, and Harry can’t breathe. Ron looks up at him, holding his gaze as he presses his tongue forwards more firmly.

It’s hot and wet, and Harry whimpers when Ron leans closer, rubs his lips against the same spot. Harry closes his eyes and tries to breathe as Ron closes his lips in an almost-kiss, then runs his tongue slowly down the length of his shaft. He pauses at the base, his tongue darting back into his mouth, and then it’s back, with more heat and more… wet, and it’s flat against Harry’s cock, dragging its way up, and Harry can’t stand it.

“Ron,” he pants, “come back here.”

Ron looks at him in surprise, his tongue resting against Harry’s cock another moment before disappearing into his mouth. “What? Am I-”

“You’re amazing,” Harry interrupts. “Completely. Fucking. Just come here.” He reaches for Ron’s head, grabbing at his shoulders and trying to pull his long body back over top of him.

“Harry, what is it?” Ron says, confused and concerned as he crawls back over Harry’s naked body.

“Just,” Harry says, pausing to grab Ron’s neck and pull him down for a sloppy kiss. “Too far away. Need you, here. Wanna feel you. Just your skin, all over.”

Ron is confused, and awkwardly resisting Harry’s kiss for a moment, until the request registers, and he scrambles to get rid of his trousers as quickly as possible, dropping them to the floor, and then he’s back, stretched out over Harry, and there’s nothing but skin - flat chests and long legs and hot, hard, heavy cocks pressing against each other.

Harry’s mind is a whirlwind of things he wants to say and do, but he can’t sort through any of it. It’s almost overwhelming, and he worries that he might ruin it, if he doesn’t figure something out, but his body doesn’t need him to - it knows what it wants, and his hips are thrusting up against Ron’s of their own accord.

And Ron’s thrusting, too, and it’s brilliant, and their bodies are already starting to sweat as they writhe together on the sofa, falling into sloppy rhythm.

Harry slips a hand between them, presses their cocks together as they thrust, and the noise Ron makes sends red-hot currents of electricity shooting up and down the column of Harry’s spine, and suddenly he’s there, already, coming with a cry and a whimper and the feel of Ron’s tongue against his throat.

When he opens his eyes, Ron’s lips are lazily trailing along his collar bone. He sighs and brings a hand to the base of Ron’s skull, threading his fingers into sweaty red hair. Ron pulls back with a contented hum, and there’s a look in his eye that sets Harry’s heavily beating heart fluttering.

“Hi,” Harry whispers, bizarrely, but Ron smiles like it means something.

Harry tilts his chin up for a slow, shallow kiss, and it’s a long, delicious moment before Harry feels Ron’s cock against him, still hot and hard. He pulls back with a questioning look.

Ron shrugs and his ears go red. “Wanted to wait. Until you… got back.”

Harry blinks before his face splits into a ridiculous grin, because, honestly. He shoves at Ron’s shoulder, pushing him towards the back of the couch, and shimmies himself over, until they’re both lying on their sides, facing each other. It’s a remarkably agile manoeuvre, all things considered, and Ron has only a moment to meet Harry’s eye in surprise before Harry’s hand is wrapped around his cock, and he’s groaning in relief, and a large, freckled hand shoots out to claw at Harry’s hip.

Harry bites his lip and studies Ron’s face as he strokes him, watches him gasp and grimace and sigh and squeeze his eyes shut, and it’s not long before he’s choking out Harry’s name and coming on Harry’s fingers, and Harry can’t do anything but stare and wonder how the hell he ever said no to this.

Harry waits as Ron recovers, trailing his fingers all along his body, over his arse and his back and the scars on his arm, until Ron’s eyes blink open. And there’s something else there, now. Something so real and so honest, it sends a shiver of pleasure down Harry’s spine. He swallows, rubbing his thumb idly over Ron’s cheekbone, and doesn’t know what to say, but lets a smile play on his lips.

“Can we stay here?” he asks, reaching to the floor for Ron’s trousers, and retrieving a long wand from the pocket. He enlarges the couch when Ron nods.

“Harry,” Ron says, after they’ve settled against one another underneath a summoned blanket, “you’ve thought this through, right? All the way? Because… if you change your mind, I-” He can’t finish, because Harry kisses him.

“All the way,” Harry says, right up against his lips.

Ron blinks, his blue eyes huge at so close a range, and he smiles as Harry kisses him again.

“Now get some sleep,” Harry says, brushing a fingertip over Ron's spent cock. “We’ve wasted a lot of time, not doing this, and I want to make up for most of it tomorrow.”

\\\