(no subject)
er...this is it *blushes* wrote it back at the beginning of november. was going to show it to you, I feel. It's rather fluffy.
Six days till Christmas is rumbling grey skies and golden, glittering, waning sunlight. Ron stuffs his cold hands into the pockets of his coat, which is never quite warm enough. Frozen dirt makes a crunching noise underneath his feet as he makes his way back to school. He can almost taste snow in the air.
He passes a group of Ravenclaws brooding intellectually over their cigarettes. He passes two fifth years playing that game of holding hands and sneaking awkward kisses. He takes these walks almost daily. It's an easy way to feel numb, and an easy way to get away from Harry.
Inside the school he walks down the corridors, where the orange lights of sunset dance playfully over the cobbled stone walls. Thoughts rise unbidden in these halls, which is why he likes it better outside. They are not so much thoughts as images, unwelcome images like Harry's jaw working as he concentrates, Harry's tan fingers pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and Harry's sleeves pushed up over his lean forearms.
He gasps, suddenly unaware of where he is going.
*
Four days till Christmas means sitting in the common room for two hours, waiting for Harry to show up so they can go to Hogsmeade. It's already eight o'clock, and the skies are several shades past navy.
Ron hates himself for waiting. "Fuck this," he mutters angrily to the empty armchair across his.
On his way up to the dormitory, two laughing boys knock into him. There is a wet bursting noise just before something cold drips down Ron's arm. The glare he throws at the smaller boy makes him drop another water balloon, which pops and sloshes at Ron's feet. As a prefect, Ron should probably investigate this. Too bad, he thinks, leaving it for McGonagall to deal with.
He strides into their empty room. The windows are frosted and opaque, and reflect his form as he pulls his jumper over his head. He is long, and thin, and covered in so many freckles he looks tanned. The half clear image of him could almost be Bill. Or Charlie, or Fred, or George. He thinks that maybe this reflection of him is more accurate than the Ron he sees in every other mirror. He is not Ron, and has never been Ron. The boy in the window knows himself only as almost-Bill and not-quite-Charlie.
He is tucking his things into his trunk when the door slams behind him and Harry strides in, flushed and grinning stupidly. He doesn't seem to notice Ron there as he takes his scarf off and tosses it on the bed.
Ron isn't going to greet him. He isn't going to smile warmly and sit on Harry's bed while Harry undresses, and he most certainly isn't going to -- "Hi," he says stiffly, and Harry jumps.
"Ron," he says, shrugging off his coat. "What've you -- oh." His eyes go wide, and he smiles weakly. "Sorry." He toes off his shoes, and Ron does the same. "Fuck, I forgot about Hogsmeade."
"It's okay," Ron's mouth says. No it's not, he thinks. He sits down on his trunk, eyes dragging over Harry's shirtless form without his consent. His mouth twitches.
"I was out with Parvati, she was showing me --" Ron thinks, I miss you I miss you I miss you. " -- and she kissed me, god it was bloody --"
He swallows. "Kissed?" he says, blue eyes bright. Harry nods, pulling off his trousers. Ron's hands shake uncontrollably, but this cold comes from some other plane of existence. It transfers straight from Harry's words to his blood. For one second, his chest shakes from the effort of breathing. Then, it dissipates, spiked by anger.
"Yeah," says Harry, stretching lazily. He flashes Ron a roguish grin. "Need to shower now," and he waggles his eyebrows, and pads softly out of the room.
Ron thinks he might vomit. He decides to climb into bed and bury himself underneath his mother's thick woolly blankets. He pulls the string on the lamp next to his bed and shuts his eyes tightly. Harry will be gone awhile yet, so he lets his body relax, and lets his hand travel over his flat belly to the crotch of his pants, touching lightly. He exhales, pulling off his pants completely. He isn't surprised at how quickly he's hard, with the image of Harry undressing still fresh in his mind.
He knows Harry is doing this exact thing at this exact moment, and he thinks of water sliding over Harry as Harry slides his hand over his own cock. He squeezes himself and gasps, tossing his head to the side. His hips pump in rhythm with his hand, and he is all too soon arching off the bed with his mouth open in a silent cry, coming under the warmth of his blankets.
He opens his eyes, staring blindly into the darkness of the room. The door opens some minutes later, and the scent of soap enters with Harry.
"Night, Ron."
He listens to the rustling slide of Harry's blankets. He doesn't answer, and he doesn't fall asleep.
*
Three days till Christmas brings the first snow, and the first joy of the season. Standing at his window that morning, Ron had grazed his fingertips over the icy windows, watching thick and sugary flakes float by.
"S'snowing?" Harry had called sleepily from his bed. Ron had looked over his shoulder with a lopsided smile, raising his eyebrows as Harry threw his covers off and jumped out of bed.
And now they were out on the grounds, walking side by side and slipping occasionally on melted slush. Sometimes, Harry loses himself and squints at the mid-morning sun; Ron waits for him with his hands buried deep in his pockets, enjoying the flush of Harry's cheeks.
There is something so beautifully wondrous about walking through melting snow with Harry running up behind him, smiling and chattering like they're eleven years old again, just coming back from Harry's first Quidditch match. It glows warmly in Ron's chest, and he thinks, this is what I'm missing.
It is here now, though. So he slows his step a little and stoops down to cup wet, freezing snow in his hand. "Harry," he says softly, not disguising the laughter in his voice. Harry turns, lips already quirking up.
He says, "If you --"
Ron hurls the snowball at Harry's head, and breaks into a run.
*
One hour from Christmas is lying in front of the common room fire, still slightly damp from endless winter battles. Harry is drinking the alcoholic kind of butterbeer, and alternatively passing the bottle to Ron, who is leaning over Harry's shoulder to look at the new brooms in a Quidditch supplies catalogue. It is nearly midnight; their legs and shoulders touch.
"Ah," Harry mumbles to himself while reading. "Well m'broom's better 'an that." Ron isn't sure if Harry really is reading, especially when four empty bottles lie in front of them, reflecting the fire's lights like crystals. Ron can feel his head buzzing a little, and he's only had a few sips.
He rolls on his side, a little farther away from Harry, and props his head up on his hand. It's easier to look at Harry this way. After a few minutes, Harry isn't looking at the magazine anymore, so Ron reaches out and closes it, shakes Harry's shoulder.
Harry looks at him, eyes unfocused but sparkling. He swallows loudly. "Bed?"
"Yeah," Ron replies, with every intention of standing and walking Harry up the stairs. Instead, he impulsively raises his hand. "Just wanna." His fingers glide from Harry's chin to his temple, and he tries to keep his teeth from chattering. Harry tilts his head to the side - he doesn't, can't feel it. Somewhere, a clock chimes the melodies of midnight.
"Merry Christmas, Harry. I --" He licks his lips, twists the wool of his sweater between his fingers. It's okay to say this now, here where everything is warm and sleepy and comfortable, just shifted from cold winter to golden Christmas. "I do love you, you know."
Harry grins, shaking his head drunkenly. "I know what you mean," as if Ron couldn't possibly mean it. Ron doesn't bother to analyse, or over-analyse it. He just feels a burst of warmth, and leans in to Harry, opening his lips against Harry's mouth. Harry laughs, and Ron pushes his tongue against Harry's, letting his eyes fall shut. And it's probably the alcohol, but Harry leans back, surprised lips pushing back against Ron's, surprised hands pulling Ron in by the front of his sweater. Their legs tangle; the fire crackles merrily.
*
Fourteen minutes into Christmas is falling back onto Harry's bed, shrugging out of sweaters and shirts and trousers.
"Your shoes," Ron pants as Harry's trainers scrape by his ankle. Harry moves away long enough to kick them off, then falls back down on top of Ron, taking Ron's face in his hands and sucking along his jaw.
"Mmph," he whispers, green eyes open and staring at Ron. He licks his lips and suddenly his fingers are wrapped tightly around Ron's wrists, raising them and pinning them against the bed. Ron lifts his chin to expose his throat; Harry arches down and pushes his hips into Ron's, rutting against him repeatedly. Stars explode behind Ron's eyes, and he wants to run his fingers in Harry's hair but --
Harry crawls back on the bed, looking much more focused than he had been. He keeps his hold on Ron's wrists, releasing them only to pull Ron's pants down over his erection. "Harry," Ron says, lifting his head from the bed. His eyes are wide, but his words are lost in his throat when he sees Harry's mouth lingering inches over the head of his cock. Both boys are flushed and panting, lips parted and red from kissing. With one tilt of his head, Harry's lips brush gently, agonizingly over Ron's cock, and Ron makes a desperate noise, pushing his hips up.
His own reaction breaks him from his daze, and suddenly Ron is angry. It doesn't take much effort to pull his wrists from Harry's grasp and sit up to move toward Harry. Harry has been stroking himself, and Ron pulls his hand away. They shift, and then Ron is on top of Harry, brushing his fingers over the smooth skin of Harry's hip.
"Just," he says, leaning down to kiss Harry. Just kiss me. He thinks that most likely, Harry won't remember any of this in the morning. So he softly presses his lips to Harry's neck, jaw, and chest, while curling his fingers around Harry's cock. The movements are awkward from this angle; Harry is warm, almost hot in his hand.
Harry reaches for him. Then, everything is lost to rocking arms and hips, heavy breathing and the sloppy movement of tongues. Ron comes first. His knees shake and he collapses a little on top of Harry, trying to keep his hand gliding steadily over Harry's erection. Then Harry opens his mouth and gasps, and the skin between them is a little sticky, a little too warm.
Ron rolls off Harry, curling into Harry's side. He watches, and waits, but Harry doesn't open his eyes again. Ron blames the combination of alcohol and an orgasm, but he smiles anyway, reaching over to smooth Harry's sweaty hair from his forehead.
He thinks maybe he should clean them up. He should leave this bed, put on his own clothes, and forget this because it won't ever happen again.
But he's got a little while, with Harry fast asleep beside him. Besides, he thinks, after all this, life won't ever quite measure up.
Six days till Christmas is rumbling grey skies and golden, glittering, waning sunlight. Ron stuffs his cold hands into the pockets of his coat, which is never quite warm enough. Frozen dirt makes a crunching noise underneath his feet as he makes his way back to school. He can almost taste snow in the air.
He passes a group of Ravenclaws brooding intellectually over their cigarettes. He passes two fifth years playing that game of holding hands and sneaking awkward kisses. He takes these walks almost daily. It's an easy way to feel numb, and an easy way to get away from Harry.
Inside the school he walks down the corridors, where the orange lights of sunset dance playfully over the cobbled stone walls. Thoughts rise unbidden in these halls, which is why he likes it better outside. They are not so much thoughts as images, unwelcome images like Harry's jaw working as he concentrates, Harry's tan fingers pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and Harry's sleeves pushed up over his lean forearms.
He gasps, suddenly unaware of where he is going.
*
Four days till Christmas means sitting in the common room for two hours, waiting for Harry to show up so they can go to Hogsmeade. It's already eight o'clock, and the skies are several shades past navy.
Ron hates himself for waiting. "Fuck this," he mutters angrily to the empty armchair across his.
On his way up to the dormitory, two laughing boys knock into him. There is a wet bursting noise just before something cold drips down Ron's arm. The glare he throws at the smaller boy makes him drop another water balloon, which pops and sloshes at Ron's feet. As a prefect, Ron should probably investigate this. Too bad, he thinks, leaving it for McGonagall to deal with.
He strides into their empty room. The windows are frosted and opaque, and reflect his form as he pulls his jumper over his head. He is long, and thin, and covered in so many freckles he looks tanned. The half clear image of him could almost be Bill. Or Charlie, or Fred, or George. He thinks that maybe this reflection of him is more accurate than the Ron he sees in every other mirror. He is not Ron, and has never been Ron. The boy in the window knows himself only as almost-Bill and not-quite-Charlie.
He is tucking his things into his trunk when the door slams behind him and Harry strides in, flushed and grinning stupidly. He doesn't seem to notice Ron there as he takes his scarf off and tosses it on the bed.
Ron isn't going to greet him. He isn't going to smile warmly and sit on Harry's bed while Harry undresses, and he most certainly isn't going to -- "Hi," he says stiffly, and Harry jumps.
"Ron," he says, shrugging off his coat. "What've you -- oh." His eyes go wide, and he smiles weakly. "Sorry." He toes off his shoes, and Ron does the same. "Fuck, I forgot about Hogsmeade."
"It's okay," Ron's mouth says. No it's not, he thinks. He sits down on his trunk, eyes dragging over Harry's shirtless form without his consent. His mouth twitches.
"I was out with Parvati, she was showing me --" Ron thinks, I miss you I miss you I miss you. " -- and she kissed me, god it was bloody --"
He swallows. "Kissed?" he says, blue eyes bright. Harry nods, pulling off his trousers. Ron's hands shake uncontrollably, but this cold comes from some other plane of existence. It transfers straight from Harry's words to his blood. For one second, his chest shakes from the effort of breathing. Then, it dissipates, spiked by anger.
"Yeah," says Harry, stretching lazily. He flashes Ron a roguish grin. "Need to shower now," and he waggles his eyebrows, and pads softly out of the room.
Ron thinks he might vomit. He decides to climb into bed and bury himself underneath his mother's thick woolly blankets. He pulls the string on the lamp next to his bed and shuts his eyes tightly. Harry will be gone awhile yet, so he lets his body relax, and lets his hand travel over his flat belly to the crotch of his pants, touching lightly. He exhales, pulling off his pants completely. He isn't surprised at how quickly he's hard, with the image of Harry undressing still fresh in his mind.
He knows Harry is doing this exact thing at this exact moment, and he thinks of water sliding over Harry as Harry slides his hand over his own cock. He squeezes himself and gasps, tossing his head to the side. His hips pump in rhythm with his hand, and he is all too soon arching off the bed with his mouth open in a silent cry, coming under the warmth of his blankets.
He opens his eyes, staring blindly into the darkness of the room. The door opens some minutes later, and the scent of soap enters with Harry.
"Night, Ron."
He listens to the rustling slide of Harry's blankets. He doesn't answer, and he doesn't fall asleep.
*
Three days till Christmas brings the first snow, and the first joy of the season. Standing at his window that morning, Ron had grazed his fingertips over the icy windows, watching thick and sugary flakes float by.
"S'snowing?" Harry had called sleepily from his bed. Ron had looked over his shoulder with a lopsided smile, raising his eyebrows as Harry threw his covers off and jumped out of bed.
And now they were out on the grounds, walking side by side and slipping occasionally on melted slush. Sometimes, Harry loses himself and squints at the mid-morning sun; Ron waits for him with his hands buried deep in his pockets, enjoying the flush of Harry's cheeks.
There is something so beautifully wondrous about walking through melting snow with Harry running up behind him, smiling and chattering like they're eleven years old again, just coming back from Harry's first Quidditch match. It glows warmly in Ron's chest, and he thinks, this is what I'm missing.
It is here now, though. So he slows his step a little and stoops down to cup wet, freezing snow in his hand. "Harry," he says softly, not disguising the laughter in his voice. Harry turns, lips already quirking up.
He says, "If you --"
Ron hurls the snowball at Harry's head, and breaks into a run.
*
One hour from Christmas is lying in front of the common room fire, still slightly damp from endless winter battles. Harry is drinking the alcoholic kind of butterbeer, and alternatively passing the bottle to Ron, who is leaning over Harry's shoulder to look at the new brooms in a Quidditch supplies catalogue. It is nearly midnight; their legs and shoulders touch.
"Ah," Harry mumbles to himself while reading. "Well m'broom's better 'an that." Ron isn't sure if Harry really is reading, especially when four empty bottles lie in front of them, reflecting the fire's lights like crystals. Ron can feel his head buzzing a little, and he's only had a few sips.
He rolls on his side, a little farther away from Harry, and props his head up on his hand. It's easier to look at Harry this way. After a few minutes, Harry isn't looking at the magazine anymore, so Ron reaches out and closes it, shakes Harry's shoulder.
Harry looks at him, eyes unfocused but sparkling. He swallows loudly. "Bed?"
"Yeah," Ron replies, with every intention of standing and walking Harry up the stairs. Instead, he impulsively raises his hand. "Just wanna." His fingers glide from Harry's chin to his temple, and he tries to keep his teeth from chattering. Harry tilts his head to the side - he doesn't, can't feel it. Somewhere, a clock chimes the melodies of midnight.
"Merry Christmas, Harry. I --" He licks his lips, twists the wool of his sweater between his fingers. It's okay to say this now, here where everything is warm and sleepy and comfortable, just shifted from cold winter to golden Christmas. "I do love you, you know."
Harry grins, shaking his head drunkenly. "I know what you mean," as if Ron couldn't possibly mean it. Ron doesn't bother to analyse, or over-analyse it. He just feels a burst of warmth, and leans in to Harry, opening his lips against Harry's mouth. Harry laughs, and Ron pushes his tongue against Harry's, letting his eyes fall shut. And it's probably the alcohol, but Harry leans back, surprised lips pushing back against Ron's, surprised hands pulling Ron in by the front of his sweater. Their legs tangle; the fire crackles merrily.
*
Fourteen minutes into Christmas is falling back onto Harry's bed, shrugging out of sweaters and shirts and trousers.
"Your shoes," Ron pants as Harry's trainers scrape by his ankle. Harry moves away long enough to kick them off, then falls back down on top of Ron, taking Ron's face in his hands and sucking along his jaw.
"Mmph," he whispers, green eyes open and staring at Ron. He licks his lips and suddenly his fingers are wrapped tightly around Ron's wrists, raising them and pinning them against the bed. Ron lifts his chin to expose his throat; Harry arches down and pushes his hips into Ron's, rutting against him repeatedly. Stars explode behind Ron's eyes, and he wants to run his fingers in Harry's hair but --
Harry crawls back on the bed, looking much more focused than he had been. He keeps his hold on Ron's wrists, releasing them only to pull Ron's pants down over his erection. "Harry," Ron says, lifting his head from the bed. His eyes are wide, but his words are lost in his throat when he sees Harry's mouth lingering inches over the head of his cock. Both boys are flushed and panting, lips parted and red from kissing. With one tilt of his head, Harry's lips brush gently, agonizingly over Ron's cock, and Ron makes a desperate noise, pushing his hips up.
His own reaction breaks him from his daze, and suddenly Ron is angry. It doesn't take much effort to pull his wrists from Harry's grasp and sit up to move toward Harry. Harry has been stroking himself, and Ron pulls his hand away. They shift, and then Ron is on top of Harry, brushing his fingers over the smooth skin of Harry's hip.
"Just," he says, leaning down to kiss Harry. Just kiss me. He thinks that most likely, Harry won't remember any of this in the morning. So he softly presses his lips to Harry's neck, jaw, and chest, while curling his fingers around Harry's cock. The movements are awkward from this angle; Harry is warm, almost hot in his hand.
Harry reaches for him. Then, everything is lost to rocking arms and hips, heavy breathing and the sloppy movement of tongues. Ron comes first. His knees shake and he collapses a little on top of Harry, trying to keep his hand gliding steadily over Harry's erection. Then Harry opens his mouth and gasps, and the skin between them is a little sticky, a little too warm.
Ron rolls off Harry, curling into Harry's side. He watches, and waits, but Harry doesn't open his eyes again. Ron blames the combination of alcohol and an orgasm, but he smiles anyway, reaching over to smooth Harry's sweaty hair from his forehead.
He thinks maybe he should clean them up. He should leave this bed, put on his own clothes, and forget this because it won't ever happen again.
But he's got a little while, with Harry fast asleep beside him. Besides, he thinks, after all this, life won't ever quite measure up.