Mirrors - H/R - NC-17
Title: Mirrors
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Words : 9200
Rating: NC-17

Written for the brilliant kaalee for the hpvalensmut challenge.

Her requirements :-

Three to Five pairings you would like: Harry/Ron, Draco/Ron, Harry/Draco, Harry/Neville.
Kinks, genres, or special requests for the fic: mmm... wank!fic, up against walls, showers, dirty talk, food!sex, first times. Should I go on?

I think I squeezed everything in – and a few other things I know my angel would go for….

I couldn’t thank my betas when it was posted sikritly, ‘cos it would have been a bit of a giveaway that it was ME, so…

It was beta’ed for me by the amazing magicofisis, who never expects anyone to change anything, but I have. I even added something at one point because “there are all of these clauses with no subject and predicate”, which I don’t even understand, but she seemed upset. Also the unique rosina_alcona, whose beta technique is all about hand holding and validation, rather than grammar!


Mirrors
****
Harry knew he had to go to the Dursley’s for just a few weeks after sixth year. Then he would be of age; he would be leaving Privet Drive forever; 12 Grimmauld Place would be his, and he would be there with the Weasleys for the rest of the summer.

In one way this was a very good thing. To never have to see his Muggle family again was wonderful. To be of age and be able to do magic away from school was wonderful. To be with his true family was wonderful. To see Ron again was wonderful: everything about Ron was suddenly wonderful to Harry.

And torture.

Because, this year, seeing Ron was more wonderful than ever; more wonderful than it should be. Seeing his wicked smile lighting up his face; seeing his incredible hair crackling with life; seeing his eyes twinkle with laughter as he grinned and teased Harry or Hermione; seeing them snap with anger as he defended them.

Harry knew he would do anything for his friend. And Ron would do anything for him. Well, maybe not anything. Not the things that had been invading his dreams. Not the things that crawled through his mind after Quidditch practice, when Ron was hot and sweaty and slung his arm round Harry’s shoulders as they walked back to the changing rooms.

The things that he’d wanted when, after he caught the Snitch to beat Slytherin and win the Quidditch Cup just weeks ago, Ron had swooped towards him from his hoops and tackled him to the ground.

He’d quickly turned away and been hugged and kissed by Ginny and Katie, and Hermione had rushed onto the pitch and flung herself at him, but those weren’t the hugs he remembered that night. Theirs weren’t the bodies he imagined pressed up against his once more.

He’d been sure that no one had noticed; he hadn’t realised that someone still watched him closely. Ginny hadn’t said anything after the Quidditch; she hadn’t said anything at school for the rest of the term, and he hadn’t known she was keeping an eye on him.

But after the Death Eater attack in Hogsmeade - after Harry had been distracted by watching Ron fight off two Death Eaters and had nearly been killed by Bellatrix Lestrange - as soon as he regained consciousness in the hospital wing afterwards and she could get him alone, she had laid into him with astonishing ferocity.

“How could you be so stupid, Harry,” she’d said, “after everything you’ve taught us in the DA, how could you just stand there and give her a clear shot?”

“I didn’t meant to, Ginny, I was…”

“You were watching Ron,” she’d interrupted. “You were more concerned for his safety than your own. Which would be fine, it’s what anyone would expect of you, if it wasn’t for the Prophecy. How would it help Ron if you were killed in a stupid skirmish before you faced Voldemort again?”

“Ginny, I…”

“How would it help all of us?”

“Ginny, don’t…”

“I know I’m being a cow to say it to you, Harry, but I’m the only one who can. I’m the only one who knows how you feel about him.” She’d shaken her head, sadly.

“Feel? What?” Harry knew he was stuttering like an idiot.

“Oh, Harry,” she softened, “I wasn’t going to say anything. Merlin knows you deserve love, more than anyone, and I’m not saying you should say anything to Ron about it. I’m saying you have to be careful. You can’t let your feelings put you in danger.”

And now here he was at 12 Grimmauld Place. Sharing a room with Ron. Sitting next to him at dinner. Sitting with him in the evenings, playing chess, playing cards, not doing homework.

And they were as close as ever. As close as brothers. And it was torture.

Tonight it was late, and they’d dawdled up the stairs to their room, complaining bitterly about still being kept in the dark about the Order missions.

Ron had turned away from him and been rummaging in his draw for clean pyjamas, and Harry had reached across his chest to grasp his arm and turn him to face him, still so caught up in complaining about Dumbledore that he forgot he wasn’t supposed to touch him. Harry’s wrist must have brushed across Ron’s nipple and he’d jumped clear. Harry had been mortified at Ron’s reaction, when he hadn’t even been touching him, he’d just touched him, and had run out of the room.

****
Ron changed into his pyjamas after Harry so abruptly left the room, which was probably best. He didn’t want Harry to see how he’d, um, reacted when Harry touched him. He buttoned up his pyjamas, resigned to another stuffy night in the airless room, but unwilling to sleep topless this summer.

But fuck, he’d been so good lately. Last term he’d got so twitchy around Harry, almost desperate to touch him with the flimsiest of excuses. After the Quidditch Cup had been worst. He’d genuinely forgotten that he was trying not to touch Harry, he’d been so thrilled when he’d ploughed Malfoy into the ground and caught the Snitch.

He had swooped down and thrown his arms around the other boy, bringing them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. And Harry had untangled himself embarrassingly quickly and turned to hold Ginny in his arms. He still didn’t know how he’d made Harry feel that uncomfortable, so he’d tried to keep his distance. They were together twenty-four hours a day, and it took every ounce of Ron’s willpower to do it. He couldn’t touch him – could do no more than shove him in a friendly manner, occasionally.

And a year earlier it would have meant nothing more than that. But now it was too late. Now, no matter how much he tried staring at Hermione’s chest – and he’d be dead if she ever caught him doing it – it did nothing for him.

Now it was Harry’s body he looked for as the changed for Quidditch. It was Harry who he followed with his eyes everywhere he went. This was one treat he allowed himself. He had always watched Harry, watched out for Harry, and no one would realise that he had changed.

That he had feelings for his friend. Ron sighed. Merlin, it didn’t lead to all this self-analysis when you had feelings for a girl, did it? Well, to be honest, he’d been managing to be perfectly miserable without any self-analysis over Harry, too. Until Hermione had confronted him at the end of term.

He had completely gone to pieces after Bellatrix Lestrange had attacked Harry, knocking out the Death Eater who was attacking him with a single punch to the jaw and racing across to gather his unconscious friend in his arms while Hermione captured Lestrange and tied her up very tightly.

In the hospital wing afterwards, as Harry slept, Hermione had confronted him in whispers.

”Ron,” she’d said, “you frightened me today. Only I saw how you looked when you held him like that. Are you going to tell him how you feel?”

“Feel? What?” Ron knew he was stuttering like an idiot.

“Oh, Ron,” she softened, “I wasn’t going to say anything. Merlin knows he deserves love, more than anyone, and I’m not saying you should say anything to Harry about it. But it’d have to come from you – you’re the one who knows about love.”

And now they were here at 12 Grimmauld Place and Ron was having to play the Best Friend, day after day, night after night. Nights. Sleeping in the same room. Hearing Harry mutter in his sleep. Seeing the sheets slip off of his bare shoulder as he turned over in bed.

And tonight, when they’d both been so irritated by Dumbledore and the Order keeping things from them that they’d been talking like normal, and he’d only been half listening to Harry as he rummaged in his drawer. And then Harry’s arm had stretched across his chest and his hand had closed on his arm and tried to turn him round. And he hadn’t been able to help jumping out of his skin as Harry’s wrist brushed his nipple. And Harry had run out of the room.

****
Harry turned on the shower and drummed nervous fingers on the edge of the sink as the water warmed up. He toothpasted his brush and watched his reflection becoming obscured with steam as he brushed.

How many times had his arm brushed against Ron’s in the past six years? Hell, they wrestled each other to the floor in obscure arguments over chocolate bars or Quidditch teams. How many nights had they slept in the same room? At school, at the Burrow, across the hallway here at Grimmauld Place. How many times had they showered next to each other, in the Quidditch changing rooms, in the dorm in Gryffindor Tower? How many times had they grinned at each other in the mirror as they stood side by side, brushing their teeth?

Ron was the central, unchanging most important thing in his life. His first friend. The Thing He’d Miss Most, right? He would just have to struggle through these stupid feelings on his own, and… and find a girl when they got back to school. There was no way in hell he’d risk their friendship for something that was simply impossible.

He imagined the look on Ron’s face if he knew what he was thinking. He’d be horrified.

He spat twice into the sink and licked his lips. Turning away from the fogged up mirror he stripped off to step into the shower. Trainers first, then he dropped his trousers and sat to pull them and his socks off. God, Ron was undressing too, just feet away. He took his glasses off and put them on the counter, before dragging his t-shirt over his head and pulling his boxers down with both thumbs.

Standing directly under the spray, he threw back his head and allowed the water to hit him in the face, reaching for the soap with his eyes closed and running it down his body. How was he going to go back in there and sleep in the same room as Ron? In a dark, silent room, where all he could hear was Ron breathing, the slither of fabric against flesh as Ron moved in his bed, the tiny sound of Ron’s mouth opening as he licked his lips in his sleep. Those lips.

He imagined the look on Ron’s face if he knew what he was thinking now.

As his soap-slicked fingers slipped between his legs and ran under his balls he gave in to the images forming in his mind. It was a dreadful thing to do, but maybe if he, um, took care of things now, he’d be able to sleep.

He thought of Ron lying on his bed, wearing just his soft, worn cotton pyjama bottoms. Luckily Ron had been keeping his pyjama top on this summer, even though it was so stuffy in their room, because he didn’t think he could have stood the sight of all those freckles without whimpering and trying to join the dots with his tongue.

His cock stirred to life as he thought of how Ron lay, with one arm thrown above his head, and one leg dangling over the edge of the bed. Bracing his other hand against the slippery tiles, he imagined Ron’s hand slipping into his pyjamas. Harry’s fingers curled around his cock as he imagined how Ron’s hand would move. Harry liked to start with long, slow strokes, pulling the skin oh, so tight as his fingertips touched his balls, then running right back up to the head and tracing his thumb along the sensitive ridge.

He had, oh God, heard Ron’s hand jerking in the night sometimes, and he seemed to move faster, his long fingers caressing the soft skin. Harry sped up his strokes to match. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

He imagined the look on Ron’s face if he knew what he was thinking, now.

Fuck. Even though it wasn’t what usually got him off, matching his rhythm to the rhythm of the Ron wanking in his head was bringing him to the edge faster than ever before. With his eyes closed, he saw his best friend arch into his hand and his fantasy of Ron’s climax was dazzled by the white lights that burst inside his eyelids as he came across his hand and splashed onto the tiles.

Chest heaving he rested his forehead against his arms, crossed on the tiles. The water thundered onto his shoulders and ran down his back and wobbly legs and washed his spunk away as he came back down to earth.

He turned off the taps and wrapped a towel around his waist. Maybe he’d sleep tonight.

****
Ron sat on the edge of his bed and ran his hands through his hair. He should really have something to say to Harry when he came back. Harry must have noticed how he’d jumped when he’d touched him.

And then, oh God, he heard the shower clunk into life in the bathroom opposite.

He was trying so hard not to think about it, to keep the promises he’d made to himself, and now Harry was undressing, just feet away from him. He knew Harry liked to brush his teeth as the water heated up. Then he would rinse his mouth out, spit twice into the sink and run his tongue over his lips. Then he would toe off his trainers. He’d unzip his jeans and slide them down over his slim hips, before sitting on the toilet lid to pull his jeans and socks off in one go.

Then he’d take off his glasses and he’d reach up and back to grasp the neck of his t-shirt and pull it off over his head, shoulder muscles flexing. Ron could watch this bit, because Harry couldn’t see him, but he turned away when Harry hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, and he didn’t watch him step into the shower.

Shit, he was hard as iron now, and he’d have to do something about it before Harry returned, or he’d never sleep.

He flopped gracelessly back onto his pillow, with one arm thrown above his head, and one leg dangling over the edge of the bed. His cock twitched as he thought of how Harry was standing under the jets of water, working the soap into a lather and caressing his own body, his hands swooping downwards in circles, closer and closer to his erection.

His hand slipped into his pyjamas as he pictured how Harry’s hand would move. Ron liked to stroke himself quickly. His large hand covered the length of his cock, his thumb stroking the head as his fingers squeezed the shaft.

He had, oh God, heard Harry’s hand jerking in the night sometimes, and he seemed to move much slower, his slim fingers moving gently up and down his cock. Ron slowed down his strokes to match. One and two. One and two.

Fuck. Even though it wasn’t what usually got him off, matching his rhythm to the rhythm of the Harry wanking in his head was bringing him to the edge faster than ever before. With his eyes closed, he saw his best friend brace himself against the tiles as his muscles in his back and arse clenched and he thrust into his hand. And his fantasy of Harry’s climax was dazzled by the white lights that burst inside his eyelids as he came into his hand.

Chest heaving he collapsed on his pillows and reached shakily for his wand to cast a charm to clean himself up as he came back down to earth.

He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He hoped he would be by the time Harry came to bed.

****
When Harry slipped back into the room, it was dark and silent. Just a whisper of his sleeping breaths from Ron’s side of the room. Harry felt for his pyjama bottoms and slipped them on, then he turned back the sheets and slid into bed.

Well, it wasn’t too hot. His body felt pleasantly relaxed after his hard climax in the shower. Nothing to stop him having a peaceful night’s sleep.

Nothing but that sound. OK, it wouldn’t keep anyone else awake. But as Ron breathed in Harry could imagine his chest rising and the cotton of his pyjama top dragging just slightly over his nipples – and Harry remembered feeling the hardness through Ron’s old shirt, being pressed against his wrist earlier as he’d reached across Ron’s chest. He imagined pushing back the pyjama jacket and running his tongue in circles around the soft pink nipple until it hardened against his tongue. He imagined sucking it into his mouth and even biting it gently.

What was he doing? Was he insane? How was this going to help? He felt his cock stirring again and rolled his eyes in despair.

Then he heard Ron roll over in bed. With eyes accustomed to the darkness he turned his head on his pillow and looked over at Ron’s bed. Ron was sleeping with his pyjamas on – why? In this heat? – and had turned onto his side, facing away from Harry.

He imagined the look on Ron’s face if he knew what he was thinking. If he ever knew that Harry’s eyes were fixed on the gap between his too short pyjama jacket and bottoms. At the waistband of the bottoms, that sat way too low on his slim hips, showing a hint of his arse. At the shadowed band of skin that showed in the darkened room. The skin he was desperate to touch. He swallowed hard.

If he could get up and cross the room. If he could kneel by the side of Ron’s bed and bend and run his tongue down Ron’s spine. Run his tongue down into the shadow between the cheeks of his arse.

He bit back a whimper and realised that he was hard again. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Well, if he was very quiet, and Ron stayed asleep…

Obviously he’d done this at Hogwarts with the other boys in the room, but they had thick curtains with Muffling Charms around their beds. Here there were no curtains to charm, he’d just have to be very quiet, and watch Ron for signs he was stirring.

Keeping his eyes on Ron’s back, Harry slipped his hand silently into his pyjamas.

But that made a difference. He was keeping his eyes on Ron’s back. Keeping his eyes on Ron as he stroked himself. As he curled his fingers around his cock and stroked it slowly. He could admit to himself that he saw Ron when he closed his eyes and touched himself. Saw Ron smiling up at him through his long red fringe; saw Ron kneeling at his feet; saw Ron’s mouth closing over his cock. He tried hard to swallow a moan.

But to watch him sleep as he ran his thumb over the head of his cock was taking it a step further. A step he had no right to take. “Yes,” he hissed, breathing hard.

Ron was definitely asleep, right? Or he’d have said something when Harry came into the room. So Harry speeded up slightly. The sound of his hand moving against his skin, rubbing against the material of his pyjamas was noticeable now, but he was too far gone to care. He was imagining Ron coming over to him and kneeling at his bedside.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered, picturing Ron wrapping one hand around his cock, while the other pinched his nipples. His eyes fluttered closed as he jerked his cock hard and ran his other hand over his chest. He had just enough sense left not to gasp out Ron’s name, but he repeated it over and over in his head as his hips thrust up off of the bed and he came over his hand. ”Ron, Ron, Ron.”

****
Ron kept his eyes closed as Harry came back into the room. He heard him fumbling for something in a drawer and cursed to himself when he realised that Harry hadn’t taken any pyjamas with him to the bathroom, and must be standing there with just a towel wrapped around his waist.

Yes, there was the thwap of the damp towel dropping onto the bed and the swish of fabric as Harry stepped into his pyjamas. And there the thwack of elastic against his skin as they cleared his hips. And, yes, no jacket, just the sheets being pulled back and the bed creaking as Harry climbed in.

He breathed slowly, waiting for Harry to fall asleep. But he didn’t. Ron had years and years of listening to Harry in the dark – years when he just worried about him, years before he wanted him. And he could tell when Harry was awake.

He knew that if he’d opened his eyes he’d see Harry lying on his back. What light there was in the room would be drawn to his perfect white skin. To the dark hairs that ran from his navel, to disappear under his waistband.

As Ron felt his cock begin to stir, he realised he had better turn onto his side, in case Harry glanced over and saw the tent forming in his sheets. He breathed deeply and, as naturally as he could, he rolled away from Harry, opening his eyes and starring, unseeing, at the wall in front of him.

Great. Now he had a whole lungful of Harry’s shampoo. And he could hear, what? Harry had let out a tiny gasp and, no! Surely not. What had he done to upset the Gods? How could he lie here and listen to Harry wanking?

Harry thought he was asleep, and he didn’t realise what this would do to him anyway, but he could hear the slight rustle of fabric, hear Harry’s breath speeding up, imagine that it was him having this effect on Harry. Him kneeling at Harry’s feet; his mouth closing over Harry’s cock. He heard Harry moan, and hiss “Yes.”

Oh, God, what was he thinking as he touched himself. Ron was so hard now, but he didn’t dare move. He imagined going over to Harry and kneeling at his bedside, wrapping one hand around his cock, while the other pinched his nipples.

“Fuck yes,” Harry whispered, and Ron heard his bedsprings creak as he thrust into his hand, and then gasping breaths broke the silence.

Ron lay there, stunned and more aroused than he could ever remember being. He didn’t dare touch his own cock, it was one thing to have accidentally heard Harry wanking, but if he did it now, then Harry would know that he’d heard – and that it had turned him on. So he had to lie here, willing his erection away, having his blood pound through his veins with no hope of release. Having to lie awake for a long time before he could slip into sleep and dream ”Harry, Harry, Harry.”

****
When Ron awoke the next morning Harry had already gone down to breakfast. “Alright for some,” he grumbled, “some of us didn’t get to wank before we slept. Some of us had a totally crap night’s sleep.”

OK, so it had been one of the hottest things he’d ever heard, and would fuel his own wanking fantasies – if he ever got the chance again. And his dreams had been filled with vivid images of Harry gasping as he fucked him. But he hadn’t slept enough. And his balls ached. And it was going to be another long Harry-filled day. He sighed and swung his legs out of bed.

He moped to the bathroom, where he was disgusted to find himself caressing Harry’s toothbrush.

He looked at himself in the mirror. “This is getting out of control, mate,” he told his reflection.

“That’s not your toothbrush, you know,” said the mirror, sharply.

“Shut up,” said Ron, nastily. Shaking himself, he stripped and took a quick, cold shower.

Feeling a little better he wrapped a towel round his waist and slammed both the bathroom and bedroom doors as he went to get dressed.

Careful to keep his back to the door as he dressed, he quickly pulled on clean boxers, jeans and a baggy shirt and slumped down the stairs to the kitchen.

His mother was busy doing something at the stove and Harry, Hermione and Ginny were all sitting at the table, transferring eggs, bacon and sausages into their mouths. Ron grunted and took his – cursed, blessed – seat next to Harry.

“Morning sunshine,” said Ginny, reaching over to steal a piece of Harry’s toast. Harry smiled and slapped her hand and Ron frowned at her.

Oh God, it was going to be a long day, maybe he’d just go back to bed.

A plate of breakfast appeared in front of him and he grunted his thanks at his mother. He pushed the sausages to the side so he could make room for the ketchup and reached across Harry for the bottle. Harry leant far too far back to keep out of his way and Ron sighed.

Shaking the bottle he felt Harry’s eyes on him but didn’t look up. He unscrewed the lid and shook out a large puddle of ketchup, which spread quickly and engulfed his first sausage. He sighed again and glumly pushed the drowning sausage to safety.

****
Harry had left Ron sleeping, sprawled on his back with his pyjama top riding up and showing plenty of freckled skin.

He had come down to the kitchen to find the girls already there and he’d taken his usual seat opposite them. Hermione was reading the paper, a small frown on her face, so he focused on Ginny instead. She gave him a small smile, wrinkling her nose at him, and he smiled back.

He helped himself to cereal and let Hermione’s stream of comments about the day’s news wash over him. What had he been thinking about last night? What if Ron had woken up and heard him? Never again. But it had given him such a vivid dream, of Ron swearing colourfully as he fucked him. God.

And then Ron had wandered into the kitchen and slumped down next to him, smelling deliciously of soap, with his damp hair hanging into his eyes, and Harry’s fingers had itched to smooth it back out of his face.

Ron had glared at his breakfast and, as usual, moved his sausages out of the way to leave room for a lake of ketchup. Too late he realised that Ron would have to reach across him for the ketchup and he leapt backwards ridiculously. This had to stop.

But then, God. Ron held the bottle in his right fist and shook it. With fast, jerking strokes. Exactly the rhythm he used when wanking. He was wanking the fucking bottle. This was just unfair. He glanced at the girls, but they didn’t seem to have noticed. But then he supposed – and hoped – that they were unfamiliar with Ron’s wanking patterns. And, yes, now the lake of ketchup, spreading beyond the prescribed boundaries, and he was prodding his sausage glumly with one finger, nudging it to safety. And his fingertip was covered in ketchup, and he was bringing it up to his mouth.

And Harry’s hand was stretching out in front of him and he frowned at it, having no way to recall it as it grasped Ron’s wrist and stopped him from licking his finger clean. And Ron was left looking at him, mouth slightly open, as he pulled his arm towards him.

Harry knew at some level that Ron and the girls were watching him, but he couldn’t stop. He opened his mouth and took Ron’s finger in, up to the knuckle and swirled his tongue around it as he licked it clean. Ron’s eyes opened comically wide and he dropped the ketchup bottle with a crash.

A crash that woke Harry from the dreamlike bubble he’d been in and he looked at the three faces staring at him as the enormity of what he’d just done crashed down on him and he stood up so fast that his chair tipped over behind him and he turned and fled the room.

****
Harry slammed the bedroom door behind him and flung himself onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling, unseeing.

He’d lost his mind. There was no other explanation. After months and months of fantasising about Ron, just one moment’s slip and he’d humiliated himself. How many times had he thought about staring Ron in the eye as he sucked on his fingers, making Ron moan with the promise of what was coming next. And last night’s fantasies and dreams had just taken over.

There was simply no way to explain, to justify what had happened. Maybe he could have laughed it off if he hadn’t fled. Well, too late for that. He’d left them to it – and, oh God, what was Ginny saying to them?

****
Ron stared at his finger. Wet his brain managed, Harry. Hot. But. Now. Cold. He blinked at it, then held it out to Hermione for confirmation, wild-eyed.

Ginny stared at the overturned chair. Was he insane? He had been so adamant that he wouldn’t talk to Ron about it. Sensible, mature conversation was out. But sucking him in public was suddenly OK? And then running away. What could she say to turn this into a joke? She looked at her brother, ready to see someone completely grossed out by it. But he was gazing at his finger like he’d never seen it before, and now he was showing it to Hermione, in mute appeal.

Hermione stared at Ron, her mind racing. Surely this meant that Harry felt the same way? That, if he trod carefully, Ron could make something of this? Ron. Tread carefully. She sighed. Then he held his finger out, to show her, with the most amazingly adorable, incredibly baffled look on his face. And she could have hugged him. And hit him.

“Hermione?” he asked. “What was that?”

She took a deep breath. “Well, I would say that that looked like he might have feelings for you, too.”

“Too?” squeaked Ginny and they both turned to glare at her.

“Ginny, not now,” hissed Hermione, and turned back to Ron. “I told you it’d be up to you to make the first move. He doesn’t know what people do when they love each other.”

“D’you really think he wants this?” asked Ron, looking desperate. “I can’t go up there and humiliate myself if this is a mistake.”

“It isn’t,” said Ginny, and this time they both looked interested. “Really. He says he can’t do anything about it. But it’s a bit late for that now, once he starts sucking you in front of us.”

Ron’s eyes closed as he took a deep breath. “Ginny,” he said, carefully, eyes still closed, “does Harry have feelings for me? Has he told you, in actual words, that he wants to be, um, more than friends?”

Ginny nodded, then realising that Ron still had his eyes closed, said “Yes, he’s crazy for you.”

Ron’s chair overturned even harder than Harry’s had, and his long legs took him from the room and up the stairs within seconds. The girls turned to look at each other, stunned.

****
Ron stopped outside his bedroom door to catch his breath. He tried to catch hold of one of the fragments of sentences swirling through his mind, sure that he should have something planned to say, but nothing came to him and he decided to just see what happened when he saw Harry.

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. Harry was lying on his bed, but as soon as the door moved he sat bolt upright and looked as nervous as Ron had ever seen him. He closed the door behind him and took a couple of steps towards Harry.

Harry looked wildly past him and leapt up from his bed, trying to make a break for the door. But he had reckoned without Ron’s longer reach and recently honed Quidditch skills, and he found himself being grabbed and slammed backwards against the door.

“Harry,” Ron started, but then looked down at his hands, which were wrapped around Harry’s arms, pinning him against the door. He let go and took half a step back. “Harry, you can’t keep running away, we’re stuck in this house together!” he laughed, nervously, but Harry stared resolutely down at his own feet and didn’t say anything.

“Harry,” Ron tried again, “what happened downstairs was…”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry broke in, finally looking up. “Ron, please…God, I… I shouldn’t have done it… I never meant… I can’t believe I did… you must think I’ve lost my mind… I’d never…”

Ron stared at Harry’s mouth, unable to get a word in as Harry babbled and apologised. He realised he’d never be able to get the words out to make Harry see that everything was OK. More than OK.

So he bent down and covered those tempting, babbling lips with his own.

****
Kissing Harry’s brain managed. Hot. Wet. Kissing. Ron.

Ron pulled back just a fraction of an inch and whispered. “It’s OK, Harry, it’s what I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And then his mouth was back and Harry’s brain caught up with what was happening. Ron wasn’t angry, or disgusted, or freaking out about what had happened. Ron was kissing him. Ron’s hands were back on his arms, pinning him to the door, and Ron’s mouth was moving gently on his, and Ron’s tongue was teasing his lips, and Ron’s eyes were closed, and Ron was making an amazing little moaning sound in the back of his throat.

And Harry groaned and leant into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Ron’s waist and pulling him closer. Could it really be this easy? Ron wanted him? Ron’s hands had slid up his arms to touch his face, the long fingers sliding into his hair and holding him as the kiss deepened.

Harry’s mouth opened, to gasp for breath and Ron’s tongue slipped in. Oh God, yes. Kissing Cho had been nothing like this! This was wet because Ron’s tongue was stroking his, thrusting with that same rhythm that had been haunting Harry for months. And if shaking a fucking ketchup bottle with that rhythm turned him on, then the feeling of Ron’s tongue thrusting into his mouth had made him as hard as he’d ever been, and God, but there was something pressing against his hip that was just as hard.

And Harry had to push back, because Ron was pushing him hard against the door.

****
Harry had hesitated for just a second before returning his kiss, and though Ron had absolutely no idea what he was doing, he was so deep into fantasy mode that he kissed Harry automatically. He just knew that if he stroked Harry’s lips gently with his tongue, then Harry’s lips would part and he would be inside. He would be able to explore Harry’s mouth. He would be able to cup Harry’s face and tangle his hands in the ridiculously messy hair and bend over him and press his body up against him and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him and, God, he was hard.

He was hard. And so was Harry. He groaned into Harry’s mouth as he pressed his erection hard against Harry’s hip.

Harry was pressed up against the door, and had nowhere to go, but he didn’t seem to mind, because he was moaning and pushing back. Was this it? Was this all it needed? Harry forgetting himself enough to swirl that sinful tongue around his finger and they were together? That tongue that was now rubbing against Ron’s in that same slow rhythm that had been driving Ron insane for months. So Ron sucked hard on the tongue and pushed back hard with his hips, crushing Harry against the door.

****
Harry gasped and tore his mouth away from Ron’s, kissing and biting his way along the taller boy’s jaw line and down his neck. Ron threw his head back and moaned, grinding his erection into Harry’s hip again. Harry smiled against Ron’s neck.

“Ron,” he whispered, “we should have done this years ago.”

Ron made a noise that was half laugh and half groan as Harry bit his neck. “Harry, mate, years ago we were fourteen!”

Harry smiled again and licked the red mark where he’d bitten Ron’s pale skin. “Well, we should still make up for lost time, because this is fucking fantastic.”

Ron made another strangled noise. “Say that again,” he moaned.

“What?” asked Harry, smirking. “D’you like it when I say ‘fuck’? When I say your neck tastes fucking incredible? That I’d like to know what you taste like all over?” And he ran his hands up inside Ron’s shirt, feeling the muscles in his back moving under his fingers.

“Harry,” Ron groaned.

“That I dream about you fucking me?”

“Fuck!”

****
“Fuck!” OK, that’s it. Ron half pulled away and grabbed a hand-full of Harry’s shirt-front. Kissing and kissing and kissing him, he managed to manoeuvre their way across the room. Leaning against a bed-post, he pulled Harry against him and grabbed his face with both hands, desperate not to break the kiss. Sure that something terrible would happen if they stopped kissing.

Something dreadful. Well, they wouldn’t be kissing anymore, and that would be dreadful. Because Harry tasted fantastic. Harry’s mouth was so hot, and he opened it wider and their teeth were clashing together and it didn’t matter and they were both groaning into each other’s mouths.

Ron pulled him closer, stroking his cheekbones with both thumbs as he ran his tongue across Harry’s top lip and Harry shivered.

Harry pushed against him, one thigh nestled between his, pushing hard against his erection and making Ron gasp. Harry’s hands ran over Ron’s shoulders and down his sides, dipping under the hem of his t-shirt.

Ron’s eyes fluttered closed as he sucked on Harry’s lip.

Slim fingers bushed over his stomach and crawled up his body, climbing up his ribcage, zigzagging and hypnotising him until they approached his nipples.

****
Harry ran his fingers over the muscles in Ron’s chest, moving closer to his nipples, imagining how he would stroke them, pinch them, suck them, make them as hard as they had been last night when he’d felt them press against his wrist.

Oh.

Harry’s fingers stopped stroking. He stopped kissing. He leant back and looked up at Ron, wide-eyed. Well, something was already hard, but it wasn’t Ron’s nipple. He quickly removed his hands and frantically unbuttoned Ron’s shirt. Pulling it open he feasted his eyes on a silver nipple-ring.

“Ngggrgrg,” he said.

“Um,” said Ron.

Harry blinked, twice. “Ron?” he whispered.

“Hmmm?” said Ron, flushing.

“When?” managed Harry.

Ron sighed deeply and Harry’s eyes followed the rise and fall of the silver circle. “When I got back this summer. Charlie was home from Romania, and he took me out to celebrate my coming of age, and we got drunk and both got piercings.” Another sigh. “And I’ve had to wear baggy shirts all summer to hide it.”

“And pyjama tops,” murmured Harry, his eyes still fixed on the ring.

“Yeah,” snorted Ron, “it’s been so hot and airless and you’re sleeping topless, and driving me insane, and I’ve had to keep my pyjama top buttoned up to the neck.”

Harry reached out a hand and gently tugged on the ring with one finger. Ron gasped. Harry swallowed.

“What d’you think?” asked Ron, nervously.

“I think,” said Harry, and swallowed again. “I think,” and he leant forward and ran his tongue round the pale pink nipple, “that that is the hottest thing I have ever seen.” And he looked up at Ron and met his eyes with a look of such hunger that Ron swallowed hard.

Without breaking eye contact, Harry hooked his finger through the ring and stepped backwards. Ron groaned and followed him. Slowly they backed towards the bed and Harry sat on the edge of the mattress. Letting go of the ring, he ran both hands over Ron’s chest and then lowered his mouth over the nipple once more.

Ron’s hands settled on his shoulders as Harry sucked on his nipple. He heard Ron moan again and he slipped his tongue through the ring and pulled gently as he sucked. Ron hissed something unintelligible and Harry grinned up at him through his lashes, pulling the ring with his teeth.

“Oh, fuck, Harry,” Ron groaned and pushed him back onto the bed.

Harry rolled backwards, still mouthing the ring, pulling gently and moaning against Ron’s skin.

Ron braced his hands on either side of Harry’s head and looked down at him, as he reached up and lapped and tugged at the silver ring. “Harry,” he whispered, awestruck.

Harry flopped back on the bed and look up at Ron. His chest was heaving and his eyes were dark.

Ron slid down half on top of him and kissed him hungrily again. “I didn’t realise you liked piercings, Harry,” he grinned, propping himself up on one elbow and starting to unbutton Harry’s shirt.

Harry blushed slightly. “Neither did I,” he said, laughing and tugging gently on the ring again with one fingertip. “Not until I saw yours. I thought the kinkiest thing I did was lust after my best mate.”

Ron grinned again. “Yeah, me too. Mostly.” And he slid Harry’s shirt open and ran his hand slowly down his breastbone, stopping with his fingers on the button of his jeans.

“Mostly?” queried Harry, raising one eyebrow, and then gasped as Ron undid the button and slipped his hand inside. Ron’s fingers stroked him through his boxers and he whimpered.

Ron looked delighted. “Off,” he ordered and pushed at Harry’s jeans. They both wriggled out of their jeans and boxers and then paused, awkwardly, not quite knowing where to look.

Harry called on his Gryffindor courage and snagged the nipple-ring again and pulled Ron back down on top of him. Ron’s erection was pressed up against his hip and his own cock was pinned under the freckled thigh that Ron threw across him.

Ron kissed his neck and started trailing his fingers down Harry’s body again.

“Mostly?” asked Harry.

“Hmmm,” murmured Ron against his neck and then leant back and looked down at his friend, quizzically. “OK. Well, it’s just that I always thought… um, well, that is, when you, um… well, not at the time, obviously, but thinking about it now…”

“When I what?” asked Harry, baffled.

“When you speak Parseltongue,” Ron replied, in a small voice.

“You like that?” asked Harry.

“Mmm, very sexy,” said Ron, in an even smaller voice. “Can you just, you know, do it?”

“Well, I guess, but I need a snake,” Harry was trying not to grin at Ron’s flushed face.

“Never mind,” said Ron quickly. “We’ll manage without it.” And he took a deep breath and, burying his face in Harry’s neck once more, he moved his leg out of the way and finally wrapped his hand around Harry’s cock.

It felt like silk sliding over marble and Ron groaned as he stroked it. With the perfect slow rhythm that Harry loved.

The breath caught in Harry’s throat as he realised what Ron was doing, and everything that that implied. Ron listening to him touching himself. Oh, God.

He gasped at the exquisite feeling and rolled his head on the pillow to let Ron bite his neck. Opening his eyes he looked at the door, idly wondering if they had locked it, when his eyes fell on the doorknob. The doorknob in the shape of a snake’s head. He grinned, wickedly.

Trying hard to concentrate on the snake, while thinking of something to say that’d be OK if it came out in English, Harry whispered, “Yes, Ron, just like that, that’s perfect.”

Ron reared up and looked down at him. “Oh, God, Harry,” he whispered.

Harry smiled. Looking around the room he spotted the serpentine chains on the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “You’ve listened to me wanking, haven’t you?” he hissed, and Ron whimpered. His hand on Harry’s cock faltered, but then found its rhythm again. “When I do it I think of you, Ron, I think of your hands on me.” Ron was staring at him, completely hypnotised, his arse making lazy thrusting circles, rubbing his cock against Harry’s hip.

“I touch myself and I think of your hands, your mouth. I want to fuck your mouth.” He hoped that that had come out in Parseltongue – though he wondered how come he knew the snake word for ‘fuck’ and tried very hard not to think about Voldemort transferring that into him. “I love your mouth. Your top lip is just fuller than the bottom, and I picture my cock sliding between them.” He vaguely wondered if he’d used ‘cock’ as in ‘chicken’.

His voice wavered as Ron continued stroking him. Their eyes were locked together and their chests heaving as Ron ground his cock harder and harder against Harry body. He stroked Harry faster and faster until Harry almost screamed with pleasure as he thrust hard into Ron’s hand and his climax ripped through him.

He collapsed boneless on the bed, trembling with aftershocks as Ron squeezed him gently until his cock stropped throbbing and lay still in his hand. Then Ron grabbed a discarded shirt and wiped his hand and Harry’s belly clean.

“Oh, Harry,” Ron whispered, reverently. “That was the most incredible thing I have ever seen. You are beautiful.”

Harry laughed shakily, still not having caught his breath properly. He lifted one trembling hand to Ron’s face and Ron rubbed his cheek against it like a cat. “Ron,” he swallowed. “That was perfect. That was so hot.”

Ron snorted. “The Parseltongue? Merlin. I’m getting rid of the Cannons sheets and asking for some with snakes on, ok?”

Harry laughed, then shivered as a further aftershock ran through him. “Hmmmm,” he murmured, “your turn, Ron.”

Harry pushed him back onto his pillows and, leaning over him, kissed him hungrily. Harry trailed shaky fingertips across his collarbone, and Ron grabbed Harry’s hand and brought it up to his mouth. Looking Harry in the eye he put out his tongue and slowly licked Harry’s palm before releasing his wrist. Swallowing heavily, Harry ran his fingers down Ron’s body and finally touched his cock. It was scalding hot and heavy in his hand and Harry started stroking him. Perfectly. Using the four fast strokes that he preferred and Ron gasped and looked up at him. Fuck. Harry knew how he liked to touch himself. Harry had listed to him wanking.

Ron was writhing under his hand, but Harry looked round the room for further inspiration. On Ron’s bedside table was the usual pile of Chocolate Frogs. Harry stretched over and grabbed a handful, ripping the wrappers off of them and throwing them away. Barely glancing at the cards – Bowman Wright, excellent omen – he bit the first frog in half and quickly rubbed it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue, until his mouth was coated in chocolate. Then he bent down and took Ron’s cock deep in his mouth.

Ron moaned loudly as Harry slid back up, pressing his tongue against the underside of Ron’s cock and leaving a layer of molten chocolate as he passed.

Taking a quick glance at Ron’s face he chuckled to see the look of lust mixed with amazement. He took off his glasses and tossed them aside and, settling between Ron’s legs, he held his cock like an ice-cream cone and industriously sucked and licked the chocolate off. Ron was making a wonderful whimpering noise and Harry took another mouthful and repeated his chocolatey treat.

“Fuck, Harry, you’re a genius,” Ron whispered, stroking Harry’s hair.

Harry grinned round his cock and swallowed some of the chocolate and Ron gasped at the feeling of Harry’s throat closing around him.

The next frog was allowed to melt over Ron’s cock and balls, and not cleaned up nearly as thoroughly; molten chocolate slid down between Ron’s arse cheeks and he shivered.

Three frogs later, Ron was a chocolatey mess. His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow and he whimpered as Harry, growing in confidence, concentrated on swirling his tongue around the head of Ron’s cock at he sucked. He had one hand wrapped around the base of Ron’s cock, but the other, fingers slicked with molten chocolate, slipped lower and slid between Ron’s cheeks.

Ron moaned as Harry slipped a finger inside him. Tensing slightly as Harry pressed into the ring of muscle, he groaned and spread his legs further as Harry pushed deeper. The chocolate was warm and slippery and Harry’s finger fucked his arse and thrust his cock deeper into Harry’s mouth on each stroke and he could barely breathe. Harry was everywhere.

Harry raised his head and peered short-sightedly up at Ron’s face. He was flushed and trembling and his eyes were closed, lashes fluttering on his freckled cheeks. Still thrusting gently inside him, Harry kissed his way messily up Ron’s body until they were face to face again.

“Ron,” he whispered, “can I…”

“Anything,” croaked Ron, opening his eyes and gazing up at him, unsteadily.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Harry said, slipping his finger out and using his chocolate covered hand to slick his own cock.

“You won’t,” said Ron, reaching up to smooth Harry’s sweaty hair out of his face. He pulled his thighs towards him as Harry settled between them, and their eyes locked as Harry slowly pushed into him.

They exchanged identical looks of amazement.

Ron felt Harry filling him, owning him. Harry had always been the most important thing in his world, but now the world had contracted until he literally could not see anything beyond the dark-haired boy pinning him to the bed.

Harry felt Ron’s body welcome him and surround him and his heart swelled with joy at the thought that the first person he had ever cared about, the first person to show him what love was, would be the person he learnt about love with.

As Harry thrust slowly forward, he leant down and they kissed desperately. When he was fully sheathed he looked down at his friend, his lover. Ron’s breathing was fast and his face was flushed.

“Ron,” he whispered, “are you OK? Shall I stop, or…”

Ron moaned. “You stop and I’ll never forgive you,” he gasped. “Can you, um, touch me?”

Harry moaned, too. “Fuck, yes,” he said, and, taking his weight on one arm, he slipped his hand between their sweaty, chocolate-streaked bodies and grasped Ron’s cock.

Ron whimpered and his eyelids fluttered closed again. “Harry,” he breathed.

Harry swallowed nervously and, biting his lip, drew slowly out of Ron’s body and slid his hand up the shaft of Ron’s cock until his thumb ran slowly across the head, spreading the drop of pre-come over the chocolate-covered surface.

Then, thrusting his hips forward again, he paralleled the movement with his hand, so that Ron was fucking his fist. With each thrust he shook and Ron gasped, and soon his face was buried in Ron’s neck, biting hard on his collarbone, as he pounded into his friend’s body, aching for his release. Ron’s hands were reaching for him, and Ron was whispering a stream of loving incoherence and suddenly Ron called out and thrust up into his hand, and he felt streams of come hit him in the chest.

He reared up and looked at Ron in awe, marvelling at the joy on the open, flushed face beneath him, and at the feeling of Ron’s muscles clenching around his cock. He thrust twice more and, with a cry of his own, poured his very soul into his friend’s body and collapsed on top of him, gasping for breath.

Ron’s arms came up around him and, through the blood pounding in his ears, he could hear Ron murmuring as he kissed his temple, his eyelids, his forehead, his scar.

****
Eventually they untangled sufficiently to lie side-by-side, looking at each other. Harry felt rather nervous, but Ron was smiling beatifically at him and he couldn’t help smiling back.

“Well,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Ron, still grinning.

“Are you ever going to stop smiling?” asked Harry.

“Nope,” said Ron, running one hand down Harry’s side and stopping on his hip. Harry laughed. “I’ve missed your laugh, Harry,” said Ron, leaning in for a kiss.

Harry kissed back and sighed into his mouth. “God, Ron, I was so scared. I thought I’d lose you if you ever found out.”

Ron shook his head. “You’ll never lose me, Harry.”

“Is this one of those things about the Wizarding World that everyone knows but me? Is it OK for two guys to be together?” Harry looked hopeful.

“Well, it’s not that it’s OK, exactly. I mean, the Wizarding World isn’t big, and we’d die out if too many guys liked other guys.” Harry smiled. “I didn’t know how you’d react. Hermione was brilliant about it, but then she always supports minority groups, doesn’t she?” He shook his head. “But I don’t really know what Muggles think about it.”

Harry snorted. “Well, most Muggles are getting better, but Uncle Vernon hates it – which means it must be a good thing, right?” Ron laughed. “What will your family say? Ginny was OK with it.”

“I think my family will be fine, Harry. And poor Ginny has been through this before, last year.”

Harry frowned. “Last year? Who was gay last year?”

Ron shrugged. “I promised I wouldn’t tell, but…” he ran his thumb over Harry’s hipbone and down his groin, “we have no secrets, right?”

“Right,” Harry looked intrigued.

“Dean,” said Ron, with a grin.

“Dean?” squeaked Harry. “Dean Dean?”

“Yes,” laughed Ron. “That’s why nothing happened with Dean last year. She caught him going down on someone.”

“Who?” asked Harry.

Ron’s grin became positively wicked. “Seamus,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Harry choked. “Seamus?” he wheezed. “I miss everything. Why doesn’t anyone ever tell me anything?”

“Well, I only know because Ginny saw them. Seamus denies it meant anything – he says it was just a best friends with benefits thing.” Ron looked serious, suddenly. “Harry,” he said, frowning, “we’re not…”

“NO!” said Harry, firmly, winding his arms round Ron’s neck, and pulling him closer for a hard kiss.
“No, we are best friends and, um, well, boyfriends, I guess, if you want.”

Ron pulled a face. “It sounds a bit girly,” he complained.

Harry laughed. “How can ‘boyfriends’ sound girly, you git?” he asked. “OK, what are we then?”

Ron smiled. “Lovers?” he smirked.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Soulmates,” he sighed, dramatically.

“Sweethearts,” giggled Ron.

Harry shook his head. “Together,” he said, simply.

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Together.”
****