The Kiss - H/R - R
Title: The Kiss
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Words : 1000
Rating: R

For kaalee’s Harry Potter French Kiss Challenge.


The Kiss
****
We were all injured in the End.

The explosion as You-Know-Who disintegrated knocked us all over, burned us, bruised us, damaged us.

Harry was closest, of course, but he’d been so drained by his final spell, that he was already unconscious.

Hermione’s hair was half burnt off as she turned away from the explosion, and she wears it in short ringlets round her face.

Apparently.

So I have been told.

I was looking straight at Harry, at the End, so I saw the flash of fire.

And was blinded by it.

Typical.

It’s OK.

I’m not complaining.

Much.

Well, I don’t leave my room except to go to the bathroom; Mum brings my meals up to me.

I tried eating downstairs, but there are too many people.

I know where everything is, in here – no surprises, no panic attacks.

It’s OK.

I’m not ready for anything new.

Hermione has found a three bedroom flat in Hogsmeade, and wants us all to move in together.

Hermione thinks we’d be able to manage.

Harry hasn’t said anything about it.

Hermione brings him with her, when she visits, but he hasn’t said anything about it.

He hasn’t said anything about his offers of Quidditch trials, either.

Ginny told me.

I know he won’t take them, not when I can’t watch him play.

I hate it.

I’m not complaining about what happened; but I hate having bollocksed up our future.

Me and Harry.

Yeah.

We were supposed to be the future.

And now I can’t even see him.

The door opens and closes, almost silently, but I hear it – and I know who it is.

“Harry?” I whisper and he crosses over to sit beside me, stumbling in the dark.

Yeah, well, I keep the room dark, why shouldn’t I?

“Hello, Ron,” he says.

Silence.

Don’t we have anything to say to each other, anymore?

“I want to take this flat,” he whispers.

“Then take it,” I say, frowning.

Has he come to ask for my permission?

“The three of us,” he says, more firmly.

I shake my head uselessly, in the dark and try to back away, but he realises and catches my hand.

“I’ve been pathetic,” he whispers. “I should be here, helping you, and I have been too scared to face you, and I am pathetic, and I’m sorry.”

“Harry, I can’t,” I say, trying to pull my hand away, intensely aware of our skin touching, for the first time in weeks.

“You can,” he insists. “We can. We can still be…”

“I can’t see you,” I interrupt, my voice cracking.

“So?” he says. “That just means you’ll remember me young and gorgeous – I’ll have to see you grow old and wrinkled.”

“You bastard,” I choke. “What sort of thing is that to say to a blind man?”

“You’re not ‘a blind man’. You’re Ron, you’re my best friend, you mean everything in the world to me, and we are gonna manage,” he sounds very determined.

“But.”

“No,” he interrupts. “Kiss me.”

“Harry, no.”

“You don’t need to see me - kiss me, and tell me everything you feel,” he whispers, coming closer.

The first thing I feel is the heat from his body. “You’re close,” I say. “I can feel you.”

His face stops moving, an inch from mine. “I can feel your breath on my face,” I whisper.

“What did I drink before coming up here?” he says, his hot breath hitting my lips where I had nervously licked them, and making me shiver.

I breathe him in. “Tea,” I say.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Downstairs, with your mum. But before that?”

We breathe silently for a few moments. “Firewhiskey,” I say, finally.

He laughs. “Yeah, a bit of Dutch courage, before I flooed over.”

He leans into me, his hands closing on my forearms as his cheek brushes against mine.

I laugh at the sound our stubble makes. “I can hear your beard,” I snigger.

“When did you last shave?” he snorts as he rubs against my jaw.

“I like it,” I whisper, pressing back against him.

He presses a kiss on my cheek and I go utterly still, waiting.

A series of soft kisses, dotted across my face, and I am breathing through my mouth, waiting for his lips to reach mine.

But they don’t.

The tip of his tongue runs across my bottom lip and I gasp aloud.

“Tell me,” he whispers, lapping gently at my mouth like a cat, his tongue dipping between my lips.

“Your tongue is wet,” I whisper. “Hot, soft.”

Again and again he tastes me, delicately brushing against my teeth, slipping inside my top lip and licking in circles until I am hypnotised.

Suddenly it stiffens and thrusts into my mouth, breaking the spell and sweeping across my tongue, then disappearing before I can catch it.

“Hard,” I gasp. “Again.”

His hands come up to tangle in my hair and I wrap my arms around him, pulling him astride my lap.

Holding my face still, he thrusts into my mouth, filling it, his tongue rasping against mine.

I moan as I suck hungrily on every thrust.

Once more his tongue curls across mine and I try to keep him there, but he withdraws, tempting me to follow, and my tongue slips between his lips.

Running my tongue acoss his teeth, sucking his bottom lip between mine, I taste the tea and the whiskey and Harry and I whimper into his mouth.

“Yes,” he hisses, opening his mouth and I press inside.

My hands are in his hair and his mouth is hot and he tips his head back and lets me thrust into it.

And, on every stroke, every time I sweep between his lips, every time I stiffen my tongue and thrust against his, he sucks greedily, moaning.

I pull back and press my face against his hair.

“What do you taste?” he whispers.

“You.”

“What do you hear?”

“You.”

“What do you feel?”

“Love.”

“Sap,” he sniggers.

I laugh.

“We’re OK, Ron,” he says.

“I think we will be,” I whisper.