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thrihyrneFor those of you on my flist not into my adult HP, skip by. This is actually primarily dialogue and plot, though. :) Written for the third wave at the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hprwfqf.
Title: A Trail of Persimmon
Rating: NC-17
Challenge: Post-War, 09. Ron's family reacts badly when he comes out and Harry tries to help patch things up, not realizing that Ron fancies him.
Summary: Harry is Ron's best friend, so of course he goes to talk sense into Ron's family when they react so poorly to Ron's announcement that he's gay— even though Ron specifically tells him not to. And who is the mystery bloke who's already caught Ron's eye? Sometimes things the most obvious are also the least apparent.
Warnings (if applicable): enthusiastic use of a sex toy
Notes: My boundless and heartfelt gratitude to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wolfiekins and llembas for their perceptive betas. You help me hone my wordcraft with each story!
Harry had nearly finished reading the Daily Prophet from cover to cover and had drunk two pots of post-lunch tea when Ron came crashing out of the fireplace. Looking up from the paper, Harry's wide smile quickly metamorphosed to an open 'oh' of shock.
"Ron! What's the matter? What on earth happened at the Burrow?" he exclaimed, getting up and following a silent, distressed Ron into their kitchen.
Ron remained mute as he poured himself a generous tumbler of firewhiskey and downed it, wincing and clenching his teeth after it went down. Harry watched with increasing alarm as Ron repeated his actions before wiping angrily at his red eyes.
"Ron," Harry insisted, placing his palm on top of the glass to prevent his flatmate from pouring any more. "Talk to me. Please."
Blinking rapidly, Ron snorted and rubbed at his nose, taking deep breaths. "I told them," he said at last, crossing his arms protectively over his chest.
"Told them what?" Harry asked. Ron went to the Burrow every Sunday and usually Harry went with him, but today Ron had indicated he'd wanted to go alone.
"What I am. I'm a shirtlifter. I fancy blokes," Ron said stridently. "Should've known they'd go fucking batshite on me."
"I thought I was going to go with you when you told them!" Harry was incredulous, his feelings bruised by Ron's actions.
"Changed my mind," Ron grumbled. "Didn't want them to, y'know, get ideas…" his voice trailed off and he coloured slightly.
"Ron, your family's known my preferences for well over a year. They've never been anything but accepting." In the spirit of camaraderie, Harry poured a splash of whiskey for himself.
"Right. But you're not a Weasley," Ron said, scowling. "And I probably shouldn't tell you this, but you've been my best mate since we were eleven, and, well, bollocks. Mum wishes you liked birds. She thinks it's a waste that you won't have children. You know how she is about kids." He hung his head. "Apparently it's not enough for her other six children to go off and pop out a litter of tykes, she's heartbroken that I've opted out of that. As though it were a choice. 'Ronald, you're unique and my last son, and I desperately hope you'll give this some more thought.'" Ron imitated his mother's voice with near-perfect inflection.
Harry felt awful for him. He'd never expected the Weasleys to be unaccepting about anything to do with their family, especially after Bill's traumatic run-in with Fenrir those years ago. And they'd seemed to be perfectly at peace with Harry's orientation. Perhaps he needed to be more observant in how they acted around him. Harry couldn't stand for Ron to be miserable; it didn't suit him and Harry only wanted Ron's happiness.
"I'll go have a chat with them," he announced.
"You bloody well will not!" Ron said. "This is my relationship with them. I know you mean well, mate, but I think it's best that you stay out of it."
"But it's not right!" Harry insisted, helping himself to another small serving of firewhiskey. "They're supposed to love and accept you for who you are, no matter what."
"Don't I know it," Ron said, walking over into their living room and slumping on the couch. "There's nothing you can say. They're disappointed, they don't understand, and Mum kept saying she believes it's a phase. I won't tell you all of Fred and George's tripe," he said, anger thundering across his features. "Fucking hypocritical homophobes. I asked them how the hell was it different with me fancying blokes than you?" Ron's finger jabbed into the air at Harry, who'd taken the seat directly across from him. "They've not rubbed your face in it, have they?"
"No," Harry acknowledged. "Then again, I did give them the money to start up Wheezes. And there's the whole killing Voldemort thing."
"They even had the nerve to say we should rename our flat, like you and I would suddenly be shagging all the time. They're such bloody wankers."
"Ron, you know full well I've not shagged anyone in over a year and a half," Harry said with an air of resignation. "I doubt your coming out would change my own sex life. And what atrocious name did they suggest for the flat?"
Ron's ears were twinging pink, and his skin flushed down at his throat. "They meant us together," he said, the colour advancing up his neck. "Oh, the Pillow-Biter's Palace. Merlin! The whole lot of them can all bloody well sod off."
Harry was mulling over what Fred and George had implied. "The twins were joking about us, right?" Certainly Harry appreciated getting to see Ron in various stages of undress — he was still quite fit — but the fact that his best friend now shared his sexual preferences didn't change anything. Ron was Ron; fiercely loyal, unassuming, fun to be around, and rather handsome. And his best friend. That was that.
"I reckon," Ron said noncommittally. "Look, let's drop it. The whole thing cheeses me off. Want to see if there's anything decent playing at the Regal?"
Harry and Ron had discovered a shared enthusiasm for Muggle movies, usually going at least once a fortnight. "Sure," Harry said. "The distraction would probably do you good. Just let me find my jacket and we can go."
They talked about the recent Cannons/Magpies match as they walked to the cinema, but in the back of his mind, Harry was troubled. He resolved to talk to Molly the next time they were at the Burrow, to try and find out why she would treat her own son so differently from himself. Harry also decided they should take advantage of Ron's upcoming three-day weekend to go out to a club Thursday night. Ron had gone with him a few times in the past to a gay club Harry frequented erratically; Ron's relative comfort among the lusty, sometimes pushy men who came up to them should have tipped Harry off a long time ago. Harry'd simply chalked it up to Ron being a good sport until five days ago when Ron, stumbling over his words, admitted to Harry that he preferred men to women and he hoped Harry would still want to be his friend and flatmate.
"Of course, you daft berk!" Harry had said, pulling a surprised Ron into a tight embrace. "Bloody hell, you've been fine around me since I told you. This does explain why you've not been dating recently."
"That's part of it, too right," Ron had replied, relief beaming on his face as he'd pulled back to look at Harry.
Brought back to the present by their arrival at the cinema, Harry decided that a night at the club would be just the thing to make Ron feel better about having told his family.
* * * * *
"Oh Harry, I'm not so sure about this," Ron hedged after Harry informed him that they were going out.
"Of course you are!" Harry enthused, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his emerald green shirt. Or he sure thought it was; as an after-effect of one of the curses he sustained during the War, he'd become colour-blind. Subsequently he'd turned to Ron, trusting his friend to make sure he wasn't sporting some hideously clashing colour combination. "This is my green one, right?" he asked, wondering why Ron seemed to be flushed in the face far more frequently than in the past. Maybe he needed a check up at St. Mungo's.
Ron nodded, a grin hesitantly settling on his lips. "Makes your eyes look amazing. Oh, fuck. I already sound like a—" he paused, looking uncomfortable.
"Like a bloody pouf? Congratulations, and welcome to the club," Harry said, shaking Ron's hand. "Now go get changed. What good is it to finally acknowledge who and what you are without celebrating it? There'll be blokes all over you. They were before, even when they thought you were unavailable. Just imagine how much fun you can have now."
"Well, okay," Ron grudgingly agreed.
"And wear those black denims of yours. This is just a friendly observation, please don't take it the wrong way, but they really suit you. Show off your legs and arse."
Ron was almost alarmingly scarlet. "Um. Well. Thanks. Be down in a few."
Harry hummed happily to himself as he waited, pleased that Ron at last would have the opportunity for some good snogging, at the very least. He imagined watching Ron draped over some similarly tall bloke, lips mashed together as they ground their hips against each other to the music. Something about that image put a sour taste in his mouth, and Harry irritably shook his head. Surely he wouldn't be jealous of Ron getting attention; just because Harry went solely for the ambiance and eye-popping carnal visuals didn't mean that Ron would do the same. Harry had become celibate by choice; just after accepting his own predilections, he'd had a dizzying month of shagging at least a dozen Muggles. He'd realised that while it was exciting and confirmed his love of cocks, the meaningless sex just left him feeling empty. Wanking suited him fine. He'd evolved it into a finely-honed art form. His relationship with friends and Ron was really all he needed at this point in life. Ron, however, was just on the cusp of discovering how easy and strings-free sex could be. If Harry was a true friend, he'd support Ron in whatever and however many male pursuits he chose. That prickly thought settled in his chest as Ron came clomping down the corridor.
Harry whistled. "You're going to be quite popular," he mused approvingly, noting that Ron was indeed in his tight denims and an equally tight short-sleeved shirt.
"You really think so?" Ron asked, shuffling his feet a bit.
"Oh yeah. I'd start shagging again if somebody looking like you came in and I found out you were looking for more than just a quick fuck."
"Really?" Ron's trademark flush had appeared with a vengeance, but his expression was thunderstruck. "Someone like me?"
"Trust me," Harry nodded sagely. "I doubt you'll be coming home alone. But do discreetly cast a silencing charm if you—"
"I'm coming back with you," Ron insisted, looking uncomfortable.
"You always do that," Harry chided. "Come on, surely some bloke's caught your eye. How else would you have known you're like me?"
"Maybe," Ron said, shrugging.
"I knew it!" Harry said triumphantly, wondering at the odd twinge in his stomach. "You can point him out if he's there. Or is he a wizard?"
"Let's just go," Ron said with a nervous grimace. "I need a drink."
They Apparated around the corner from Nine Inch Males, paid their cover fee, and went in. After a couple of hours, Harry found himself dancing with Ron, yet again, yelling to communicate over the bone-shaking music.
"Why are you acting so shy?" Harry shouted. "They're not going to bite. Unless you ask."
"Just not in the mood, I guess," Ron said loudly into Harry's ear. "Besides, I'm having fun being with you. Isn't that all right?"
"Sure, but people won't know you're available if you keep hanging around me."
"I don't mind," Ron yelled, grinning as he swung his hips like a narrow pendulum, his long arms thrown up over his head in a gesture of carefree exuberance. His dancing wasn't sophisticated, nor even overtly sensual as he bounced around. Despite that, Harry couldn't help noticing how the trail of bright hair at Ron's navel caught the light when his shirt rode up, and he saw that other men had also taken interest. Yeah, he thought almost wistfully, once Ron gets more comfortable with himself like this, he's going to make some bloke really, really lucky.
Coming back to himself, Harry threw himself into the music and danced along, grateful to see the wide smile on his best friend's face.
* * * * *
Harry found his first opportunity to confront Molly the following Sunday. Though Ron had given Harry a hard look that Harry knew to mean "Don't you dare talk to Mum about me" before going to the attic to retrieve some of his Cannons memorabilia, Harry chose to ignore it. He stood a few rows away from Molly in the Weasley's vast garden, picking vegetables.
"I know that Ron told you last week that he prefers men to women," Harry said quietly, gauging her reaction. "Why don't you accept him for who he is when you do seem to accept me?"
Molly pulled at a zucchini with unnecessary force before turning to Harry, her expression uncharacteristically shuttered. "It's different because he's my son," she said stiffly, obviously uncomfortable and displeased at the choice of topic that Harry had raised.
"But you've always treated me like your son," Harry insisted, forcing the point despite Molly's change in demeanour.
"Yes, Harry. Yes, I have," Molly said, studying him with a slight frown on her face. "I can't explain it beyond the fact that Ron is my flesh and blood. And honestly, I simply don't understand." She shook her head. "I truly don't. It's nothing against you, but since you've become an adult you and I haven't minced words, so I won't now. As dearly as I love you, and Ron, I think it's unnatural. I'm heartbroken that neither you nor Ron will leave a legacy through children."
Harry thought of Ron, how he'd been shaking with rage a week ago, and how he was now violating Ron's trust, even if it was for his own good. Harry would defend him no matter what; he just needed somehow to explain to Molly that their love for their own gender wasn't an abomination— it simply was. With a flash of clarity, Harry had it: for Molly, the sacrilege came down to not having children; Ron had said as much the week before. He changed tactics.
"Even if I were straight, who knows— I might've been sterile anyway. You wouldn't feel betrayed by Ron if that were the case for him, would you?"
"That's not the same!" Molly said tersely, a culvert forming between her furrowed brows. "There's all sorts of near-miracles they can do at St. Mungo's these days."
"Then they could do them for men of our persuasion," Harry pointed out.
"Miracle or no, you'll never be getting yourself knocked up," Molly said, the faintest shadow of a smile creeping onto her face.
"I have no intention of that, trust me," Harry said with a wink. "Seriously, though, if Ron wants to have children — I don't know if he does or not, he's not said around me — he could. He could adopt, or find a surrogate, or Merlin only knows. You just don't know how upset he was when he came home last week." Harry paused, a bud of triumph blooming in his chest as he saw he'd found a chink in Molly's armour. "It's taken me until quite recently to really know this, but what brings me the greatest sense of peace is when I know Ron's happy and content with himself. Usually it's subconscious; we've been through so much and been friends so long I don't try to do anything in particular. And he's certainly his own person. But Molly, I can't bear to see him miserable."
Molly's gaze seemed to be evaluating Harry with intensity reminiscent of Snape. Harry was suddenly self-conscious, but soldiered on.
"I can't ask you to change how and what you think, I wouldn't dare. Ron's really taken a blow by how you and the rest of the family reacted to him, though. If there's any way you think you can come around and accept him for who he is, as you have me, please try. For Ron, not me," he concluded, glancing up at the Burrow to see Ron walking quickly toward them. "And let's keep this talk to ourselves, okay?" Harry said in a low voice, inclining his head and hoping Molly could translate his clues that Ron was approaching.
Molly nodded, her face assuming its more usual relaxed expression. "You two could stand to put in a garden of your own," she said conversationally as Ron headed up between a row of corn that made swishing sounds as he brushed past.
"And just what are you two going on about out here?" he demanded, eyes blazing accusatorily at Harry.
"Gardening," Harry lied, groaning inwardly at how stupid he sounded.
"Oh really," Ron fumed.
"Don't be so suspicious," Molly half-scolded. "You should have your own garden. You and Harry have plenty of room in your backyard."
"But you always give us heaps from here," Ron said, gesturing at the orderly phalanxes of vegetables and herbs spread around them.
"We could give it a go," Harry said with a shrug and his best 'let's humour your Mum' look.
"Harry, you have a black thumb!" Ron exclaimed with a snort. "Even Neville couldn't revive that one fern from Hermione. I can't imagine the horrors if you were let loose on a garden."
"Who got the better marks in Herbology?" Harry shot back.
"You did, but you were supervised."
"Well, you'd help me, if I gave it a go, right? We'd do it together. You're actually pretty decent with plants, aren't you?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "How long have we lived together, and you're just now noticing?"
"Fine, so sometimes I'm a bit thick. Go ahead, remind me of just how much of an idiot I am. All I was suggesting was a joint project. You're always going on about how we should have something to work on—"
"Boys!" Molly said, exasperated but with humour in her voice. "These squash won't pick themselves. Make yourselves useful while you have your row."
"Yes, Mum." "Yes, Molly," Ron and Harry said in tandem.
She shook her head, a smile twitching on her lips. "You may be twenty-five, but sometimes it seems as though you're still in year four."
Harry felt a flutter of satisfaction to see Molly look fondly at Ron, and he hoped that his clandestine conversation would bear further fruit.
* * * * *
Later that evening, after a savoury dinner of grilled pork chops and vegetables done as only Ron could make it, Ron drug out his old chess board and challenged Harry to a game. He agreed, and was thrashed, though he took it in good spirits. Ron had settled into the newest issue of Broom Enthusiast and a tumbler of scotch when Harry decided to go to bed.
"I'm calling it a night," he said, taking his own toddy off to his room.
Ron looked surprised. "It's a bit early, isn't it?"
"I'm pretty tired." Harry was, but he also wanted to treat himself to a proper wank before dropping off.
Ron shrugged. "Okay. Oh, Harry?" he asked, shook his head as though changing his mind, then barreled ahead regardless. "Remember how you said you'd shag again if somebody like me came along?"
Harry nodded, though the comment had been rather spontaneous, and he'd not thought about it since.
"What did you mean? Or, I mean, well, it seems like you know what you're looking for, but you don't seem to want it enough to go doing anything about it. I guess I'm saying," he paused to take a sip of his scotch. "You asked if I had a bloke in mind. I do, but it's a big deal, y'know, and I don't want to make an absolute bollocks of it. Is there a way to tell, do you think, if someone could be interested in you?"
Ron's entreaty was so heartfelt Harry felt a surge of pride and thankfulness that Ron continued to confide in him. He swirled the ice around in his firewhiskey, trying to figure out how to respond appropriately.
"Well, I'm not really an expert, am I?" he said with a short self-deprecating laugh. "I guess I'd start with something subtle. Go out for tea, maybe, or have a chat-up over lunch. See if there's any chemistry there. Or you can go the no-holds-barred route, and meet up at a club. That way if you do hit it off, you can snog or whatever else you want to do without having to wade through several dates first."
Ron sat in rapt attention, almost drawing in on himself as he listened to Harry's advice. "Look, Ron, you wouldn't make an arse of yourself, I promise. Not to go on and on about how attractive you are and how you're going to make some bloke feel like he's on top of the world, but that's the way it is. You should get used to it."
Ron appeared stunned, but there was happiness in his eyes similar to how he'd looked when he'd found out he was Employee of the Year at Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly.
"And I'm not just saying that because you're my best mate," Harry continued. "I meant what I said before; if someone like you decided he fancied me for just being me, and we got on like a house on fire like you and I do, and we could shag but also enjoy each other's company with our clothes on, well, I think I could get used to that." With a rueful smile, Harry shrugged. "I've just learned not to get my hopes up. And besides, I've got my friends, and I have you. If someone came along, I wouldn't turn him away, but I'm pretty content now. That doesn't mean you shouldn't pursue this mystery man, though."
Harry tilted his head, watching Ron's expressive face as it went from pleased to thoughtful. It was obvious that whoever it was, Ron was already quite smitten. He wondered who on earth had captured his attentions, and how long Ron had felt that way.
"Thanks Harry," Ron said finally, toasting Harry with his glass. "That really does help. More than you realise."
"You know me," Harry said, smiling. "Plenty of advice for everyone but myself. See you in the morning."
He made his way up the stairs toward the sanctity of his room, mulling over whom out of their friends or acquaintances Ron might fancy. He cast a silencing and locking spell, not that he thought Ron would barge in on him, but for his own privacy and peace of mind. For whatever reason, perhaps as a treat to himself for hopefully having begun the process of patching up Ron and his family, he'd decided a long, decadent self-buggering was in order, and he didn't want to be interrupted.
Harry lit a couple of candles so his room held a warm glow but wasn't bright. He padded over to his chest of drawers, pulling out the second drawer down. After shoving several pair of socks out of the way, he tapped the bottom with his wand. A panel slid across, revealing his stash of toys, most all which bore charming spells he'd cast to bring himself the greatest pleasure. Without predetermined thought, he grasped at a large, nearly translucent dildo, the biggest of his select collection. He fished about for his sandalwood-scented lube which he tossed on the bed before restoring his hidden items to their usual sequestered space.
He disrobed, letting his clothes puddle in a heap at his feet. He'd left his trainers downstairs, so after peeling off his socks, with a luxuriant sigh he was able to slide naked into his unmade bed. Just thinking about having the long, thick dildo inside of him had made his cock begin to stiffen. He teased his nipples into hard nubs, lying on his back with the silky sheets draped over his spread knees, his feet planted on the mattress. His cock demanded attention, but Harry felt like making this self-pleasure last a long time. Instead, he let his hands drift down to brush over his sensitive inner thighs before reaching behind him to put an additional pillow under his head. He looked down at his prick, nearly fully hard, and he bit back a moan as he thought of how good it would feel to hold it, eagerly twisting his fist around the shaft. His cock ached, unattended and straining up toward his belly, curving a bit to the left. As he got up on an elbow to pluck the lube off of the bedcovering, he was struck with inspiration and knew how he'd be putting the dildo to use… in good time. Harry poured the oil onto his fingers before slowly sliding one finger behind his balls, gently circling around his tight entrance. The image of Ron dancing at the club, his slender flame of hair licking down from his navel into his denims flashed abruptly into Harry's mind.
He was so shocked he paused for a moment before purposefully pressing his fingers into his grasping channel. Harry'd never thought to wank while thinking about Ron; he was quite content to imagine faceless bodies or a couple of the blokes on the Ballycastle Bats team who were strikingly fit fodder for Harry's prurient musings. Adding another finger, he pushed deeper until his third and fourth fingers were in as far as he could reach. With his other hand he fondled his sacs, seeing Ron again in his mind's eye. Harry picked up the pace of his finger-fucking, allowing somewhat recent memories of Ron in his swimming togs to fuel his smouldering desire. Hopefully Ron wouldn't think that Harry was a totally disgusting perv for wanking while thinking about him; Harry certainly would never tell. The recent memory of Ron in his tight denims, with what appeared to be a sizeable package nestled against his flies caused a shudder of intense pleasure to course through Harry and he clenched against his fingers. His cock was throbbing and currents of ecstasy pulsed in his groin as he repeatedly nudged against his prostate.
Breathing heavily, Harry removed his fingers. He fumbled for his wand and situated the dildo's base on a pillow, casting a sticking charm on both items so they'd stay still. Reverently Harry coated the wide phallus with lubricant before getting up on his knees, poising himself above the domed head. He slowly sank down on it, his well-prepared body quickly accommodating its girth. He let out a blissful sigh as he sat, stretched and filled, the initial burn easing into warm fullness. At last, Harry slid his hand around his cock, moaning at the contact. Realising he needed something to hold on to, Harry conjured a thick silk cord to hang from the ceiling. Flashes of Ron's chest, his arse in skintight trousers, his wide hands curled around a broom — an erotic barrage of sex-tinted Ron assaulted Harry as he held onto the cord, humping the dildo with as much force as he could muster, ruthlessly buggering himself as deeply as his muscles would allow. Up and down he slammed against the unmoving cock, angling his descents so it hit his inner bundle of nerves.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groaned, a litany to the inexorable tightening in his sacs, the tension ratcheting in intensity as his hand pistoned on his cock. All at once he stopped. Panting, he sat on his heels, itching pinpricks of sweat at the base of his spine focusing his attentions away from the near-roiling release that beat heavily in the base of his shaft. Ever so subtly Harry loosened his anus then squeezed around the dildo, his left hand clutching at his ceilinged tether like a drowning man to a pier. The end was so close; he could nearly taste the vinegarsweet of his own come as saliva filled his mouth. Merlin, he wished he could draw this moment out, traipsing on the precipice before surrendering to the inevitable tug and gush of orgasm. Inexplicably, a memory of Ron from earlier in the evening, hunkered over his ancient chess board, tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth as he pondered his move, sparked Harry's vision. Harry pumped his cock with abandon, yelling obscenities and gibberish as his orgasm thundered through him. Milky fluid coursed over his fingers as his heart pounded in his chest and a vague soreness radiated feebly from his arse. He slowed all of his movements, newly aware of being in his disheveled bedroom, in the flat he shared with his best friend. He was exhausted, sated and boneless.
Harry wanted nothing more than to curl up into a foetal position, the substantial prick still buried intimately in him, and to fall soundly to sleep, a pillow clasped between his knees. He knew, however, that he'd suffer a hundred levels of regret if he did that. He cast perfunctory cleansing spells on himself, the carefully extracted dildo, and the bed. Harry dazedly wandered into his bathroom to brush his teeth, batting at his untamable hair much to the amusement of his mirror. The mirror thankfully had the wherewithal to remain mostly silent. Before sinking into his bed again, Harry went trolling for some healing salve. He squirted a generous dollop onto his fingers and rubbed it around his tender hole. With the soothing feel of soft sheets against his skin and residual visions of ginger hair, Harry sank gratefully into sleep.
* * * * *
It was a little more than a week later that Harry found himself in a position to speak privately with the other two Weasley family members who'd reacted spectacularly poorly to Ron's announcement. Ron had suggested he and Harry meet up for an afternoon tea, a little out of the ordinary from their not-infrequent meetings at the Belligerent Badger for a few pints, but Harry didn't mind. "Hermione says this place's got incredible scones," Ron had said, as though Harry might need convincing.
Now, however, he'd planned his Saturday errands so that he'd have a few minutes to speak with the infamous twins before tucking into this shop that served legendary tea and crumpets. Harry was greeted warmly as he entered Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, but it wasn't by either Fred or George.
"Hullo to you, Zap!" Harry said, smiling at the youngest son of the late joke-shop owner, Zonko. Zapateous had been an enthusiastic employee of Wheezes' for several years. "Where're the terrible two?"
"I'm sure you meant to say 'terrific,'" George said, rising up imperiously from behind a garish display of Tongue-Tying Toffees, Gibberish Jellies and an ebullient riot of other embarrassment-inducing sweets.
"Did I?" Harry said saucily, eyeing the shelves fit to bursting with no small amount of pride. He loved coming into Wheezes; despite everything that had happened in the War, this enclave held innocence he could practically taste once through the door.
"No." George quirked a smile. "Haven't seen you about in a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Fred's not here?" Harry frowned, taking off his tracksuit top.
"Nah. Off with Hyacinth."
"They seem rather serious."
"Reckon they are," George said with a shrug. "He'd be a nutter if he didn't hold on to her. Not just any girl's willing to put up with his antics. C'mon back, put your feet up."
Harry nodded his head at Zap. He tried to ignore the hand pointed at him by a young boy whose hushed voice carried despite the omnipresent cacophony of the shop.
"Harry Potter, Mum! It's him!"
They walked through the rounded doorway emblazoned with the words, "Here There Be Mayhem: Weasleys Only" into the organised chaos of Fred and George's vast lab and workspace.
"So! What's on your mind?" George asked, using his wand to levitate a stack of Fade-Away Frocks off a nearby chair so Harry could sit down.
"Ron."
"Hell's harpies. What's he gone and done now?"
"Nothing except tell you and your family who he really is, and you and Fred have really made him take the piss for it," Harry said defensively. "I don't understand. You've given me grief, but not about that, and never anything seriously."
"You're you," George offered with a large shrug. "And he's… Ron," he said, voice sinking heavily on the lone syllable. "Can't explain much more than that. You know I'd go after anybody if they really tried to hurt him, but we just don't have much in common, y'know."
"But you're brothers!" Harry insisted, leaning forward in his chair.
"So's Percy," George reminded him, his upper lip curling slightly in a sneer.
"Point taken."
They looked at each other for a few moments until George said, "What? You don't think I actually feel guilty, do you?"
"I… well, thought maybe…" Harry's voice trailed off at the incredulous look on George's face.
"Harry, Harry." George shook his head. "For all the time you've spent at the Burrow, you really don't get it. Ginny, yeah, she'll get used to Ron's— preferences," he said condescendingly, "faster than anyone else. Bill 'n Charlie too, I suppose. They're not around that much as it is. Percy, well, I couldn't give a bowtruckle's bollocks what he thinks. Fred and I," he paused. "Well, truth be told, Fred finds the whole bloke on bloke thing about as understandable as enjoying a daily bowl of cold sick. I'm not going to say I understand it, because I don't. But it also doesn't bother me the same way it does him."
Harry was gaping, his jaw literally open as he heard the sincerity in George's words. When he recovered, his words came all out in a rush, uncensored and suffused with anger. "So what the fuck do you really think about me?" His hands gripped the chair. "Come on, then. Be honest, you obviously haven't been so far," he growled, red-hot ire churning in his stomach.
"No, Harry, I don't think anything badly about you," George said hurriedly, looking quite alarmed, Harry observed with a perverse pleasure.
"Well, maybe you could rethink how you're acting toward Ron. Bloody hell!" Harry seethed. "I just don't see how he and I are so fucking different to you. Good thing that he has me and Hermione and our other friends given how he's being treated by his own family. I've got to go," he said, wrenching out of his chair.
"Harry!" George yelped in shock, moving quickly enough to grab Harry by the arm. "Wait just a bloody minute."
"Why should I?" Harry yelled. "I'm meeting Ron for tea, but I think I may need to down a couple of shots of firewhiskey first to make sure I can be civil." He shook off George's hand, fuming.
"Harry. Listen to me," George said, obviously trying to calm Harry down. "Please; I won't make you stay long. Promise."
Harry nodded curtly, crossing his arms over his chest. He was still so livid at the twins'— well, George's— outright homophobia in regards to Ron that he could barely focus. Had they just been acting around him for the past year? He couldn't imagine what George could say that would change anything, but George seemed determined to try.
"Look, Harry, I am honest. It's only been a couple of weeks, all right? Maybe it wasn't a shock to you, living with him and all, but it came pretty much like a Bludger to the back of the head to the rest of us."
"I'd had no idea," Harry said defiantly. "Couldn't have been more shocked. Or pleased."
"Right. Give us some time, okay? We just need some time to get used to it."
"Fine! But think about what you say, y'know? He's no different from me. Do you have problems with me being a bloody shirtlifter? You've done an awfully good job of lying about it if that's the case."
George shook his head, a look of regret settling on his features. "No. It's like I said; I don't understand, but I figured it's your business. We weren't really trying to pick on Ron."
Harry glared at him.
"Well, I mean, yeah, we were; you know how it is."
"That you're the bane of his existence? George, that was probably one of the hardest things he's ever done. I'd wanted to go with him, but no, he had to do it by himself. Now I've really got to go, but if you could, just think before you start calling him slurs, even if you're joking. It's not like it's an easy life, especially if you want to stick with wizards, not Muggles." Again Harry wondered who it was that Ron was so keen on. Maybe he'd have to ask point blank.
"Yeah, I hear you. Old habits and all that, but I guess you're right. Just don't let him get out of control, wind up arse-out on the front page of the Prophet, y'know, unless he wants something like that to happen…" George's voice trailed off, apparently only too afraid that that might be the case.
"He hasn't changed," Harry said meaningfully. "He's just the same. And I'm about to stand him up if I don't get going. I don't want him to be cheesed off at me, too." Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "I really didn't want to get involved, but family means so much to him, even if he doesn't come out and talk about it."
"Family's not everything, but I could've done worse," George said, stroking his goatee. "Glad I've got Fred."
"You two are a force of nature," Harry said, feeling more expansive toward him now that he had at least a sense that George might act more thoughtfully as time went on.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," George said. "Well, almost everywhere." He winked.
Harry snorted and made his way back out through the shop, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his jacket before he got outside into the crisp autumnal air. The thought of tea and scones actually made his mouth water as he took off across the busy cobbled street. It took him longer than he expected to arrive at Philomena's Puffed Pastries. Once through the door, the aroma of warm bread made him feel absolutely ravenous. "Probably should've made time for lunch after all," he thought regretfully. Ron was easy to spot, his distinctive looks further exacerbated by being the only male in the shop. He looked relieved to see Harry, who strode quickly over and sat across the table from him.
"Glad you came," Ron said, smiling. "Smells brilliant, doesn't it?"
"Yeah. I'm famished. Forgot lunch," Harry said, reaching for a menu.
"You don't need one. I've already ordered for us. Afternoon tea is their specialty. Hope that's all right," he said hesitantly.
"Sure! Oh, wow." Harry gaped at the steaming plate of high-piled scones, large pot of tea, and bevy of jams, honeys and pats of butter that just at that moment was placed in front of him. He looked up at the rosy-cheeked server, who glanced at Harry, over at Ron and back, raising her eyebrows.
"That looks amazing," Harry enthused, ignoring the server's silent innuendo. The world's narrow-minded people could go and get stuffed. He was going to live his life to the fullest in whatever way brought him the most inner happiness, and he hoped to be able to guide Ron along on a similar path if he could.
"So what all've you been up to?" Ron asked through a mouthful of buttered scone.
Harry rattled off his list of mundane activities and in a flight of honesty, told Ron he'd stopped by Wheezes.
"Wheezes? And you didn't buy anything?"
Harry was notorious for not getting out of the twins' shop without an assemblage of their newest products. "No, I just stopped by to see how they were doing."
Ron gave Harry a darkening, suspicious look over his cup of tea. "You never do that," he said accusingly. "You went by there to talk to the twins about me, didn't you?" Harry grimaced as Ron's voice raised in volume, but he had sense enough not to deny it. "Dammit, Harry, I told you to stay out of it!"
Ron's outburst was met by a loud, disapproving clucking by the shop owner. "Watch your language!" she scolded from behind the counter. Ron glared at her before turning his attentions back to Harry.
"I'm sorry," Harry began but Ron cut him off.
"No you're not! I thought we were true friends and that you'd actually respect my wishes. When I said I didn't want you to get involved, I meant it. But no—you had to go and chat up the twins and mum. I know you did, so just shut up," Ron growled as Harry opened his mouth to try and defend himself. "Just leave it alone."
Harry found he was braced against the table, feeling the punctuated words like blows to the chest. Ron tore off a chunk of his scone and chewed angrily while Harry wished he could inconspicuously conjure a very deep hole to disappear into. They sat in strained silence, Harry continuing to work at his strawberry preserve-covered scone despite the fact he'd totally lost his appetite. Ron spoke the truth; Harry had betrayed Ron's wishes, even though he'd only done so because he thought he could set things to rights.
"Look, Ron," Harry said quietly, intertwining his fingers in an inverted steeple and tapping his thumb on them. "I'm sorry. I really am. I don't want to get any more on your bad side, I couldn't stand it." He forced himself to look up and saw Ron's countenance soften slightly. "I know I've really messed up and I apologise. I'm certain my word's worth shi—, um, less than nothing to you right now," he continued, self-censoring in case the shop owner was eavesdropping. "You've got no reason to believe me, but I promise not to try and mend things between you and anyone in your family. I was just so angry about their reaction." He leaned into the table to look directly across into Ron's eyes. "But I overstepped my bounds, and I apologise."
Ron appeared rather stunned, but also pleased. "Apology accepted," he said after a time, pouring them both more tea. "Thank you. For caring, y'know. I think they'll all come around, eventually," he said through a sigh. "At least you understand."
"Yeah, but I didn't have to worry about what my parents might say. I've no idea what they'd think of me." Harry picked up his half-eaten scone, his appetite having returned with a vengeance.
"Hard to know. Say, do you want to go to that club again tonight?"
"Uh, sure. I didn't have plans."
"Great!"
Ron's good humour was back full force, a welcome change from his earlier ire. He, too, had returned to his pastries with gusto. Harry was mulling over what he could wear to the club that would look flattering on him — he'd not been exercising and it showed — when Ron suddenly said, "You know what's brilliant? You and I can talk about anything," he enthused, not waiting for Harry to respond. "That's pretty rare, I reckon."
Harry gave that some thought as he rescued a glob of preserves from the side of his mouth with his tongue. "Probably."
"Back when you first were going out a lot, those blokes you hooked up with, did you chat first, or was it mostly just…" Ron's voice trailed off, as though newly reminded of their surroundings. The shop had cleared out some since Harry's arrival, but it was far quieter than their usual booth at the pub.
"It was pretty much just shagging," Harry admitted. "You knew about it; you didn't seem to mind."
"No, I didn't," Ron said. "I just don't know that I'd want that. Now, I mean, now that things are different."
"Well, you've already got sights set on someone. You just need to let the bloke know, and I doubt that all you'll want to do is talk."
"No. I really want to know what it feels like to kiss him," Ron said with an oddly feral grin that made Harry's toes curl. Whoever this person was, from the expression on Ron's face, he was going to have quite a wild time of it. His hands would be full of an inexperienced, but very eager Ron. Harry was inexplicably envious.
They finished their tea and scones, paid, and parted ways, agreeing to be ready to go out by 9:30.
* * * * *
When Harry finally appeared, Ron was waiting in the living room. Harry had spent an inordinate amount of time in the shower, having a half-hearted, unsatisfying wank. Ron's long legs were crossed at the ankles, perched on the coffee table. He nursed an Orkney Skullsplitter while idly fingering a braided leather band on his right wrist, something Harry knew he'd never seen before. In the split second that Ron looked up and he flashed a blazing smile, a wave of thoughts and recognition crashed brutally through Harry. They left him feeling wretched about himself by the time he made it down the few stairs.
Ron was excited.
He'd never looked so self-assured.
He was obviously going to see this person he fancied and planned to do something about it.
His eyes had never gleamed so blue, or as blue as Harry imagined them to be, his colour-blindness having robbed him of that kind of clarity anymore.
Harry would be coming home, alone, and he'd be warring at himself because he did want Ron's happiness, he truly did. But Harry knew he himself would return solo, though he'd be sulking without his best friend for company. Harry felt positively bland and forgettable next to this triumphant manifestation of Ron sitting in front of him on their couch.
"Wow. You look great," Harry said, pasting on a smile.
Ron's expression dimmed. "You don't mean it," he said, furrowing his eyebrows. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
Ron gave him a look that said, 'Oh, please.'
"Okay, okay. I'm going to sound like a terrible friend. Merlin, I'm a pathetic friend," he muttered under his breath. "May I?" he asked, gesturing at the beer. Ron nodded, handing it up to him. Harry took a long pull on it before speaking.
"You've never looked more amazing, and so pleased," Harry said truthfully, as the knife of self-damnation eased into his heart. "I can only guess this mystery bloke is going to be there, and that you're pretty sure you'll get together."
"I certainly hope so," Ron said, his gaze intensely focused on Harry.
"Looking like you do— and I don't mean just the clothes," Harry clarified, chewing on his bottom lip before continuing, "you seem confident. Like you're really at ease with yourself. I don't begrudge you, really. It's just…" Harry almost couldn't say the next words out loud. "I wish I felt that way, too. I mean, I'm more than fine with who and what I am, but I haven't got anyone but myself as an anchor. And you, of course," he said ruefully. "But once you're together with whoever the lucky chap is, well, I probably won't see you around nearly as much. But I want you to be happy. You've got to believe that."
"Oh, I do," Ron said, unfurling from the couch.
At six foot two, he was half a foot taller than Harry, but as the years passed, Harry became used to it. Ron walked around the table and unexpectedly pulled Harry into a warm embrace. Harry smelled the usual Ronscent of piney soap and an undercurrent of musk that Harry had always associated with cinnamon and warmth and hominess. Ron obviously loved and cared for him, as dearest of friends, and Harry was miserable. He would be alone, again, and Harry had no-one but himself to blame for setting his own, apparently unattainable standards in a companion.
Ron stepped back, eyes sparkling. "Buck up. You're awfully serious for a bloke who's about to go to a club teeming with fit men who ogle you. You know they do, you just turn them down," he chided when Harry opened his mouth to counter Ron's comment.
A flash of searing anger coursed through Harry; Ron was being totally insensitive to the acute crisis Harry found himself in, evidently too caught up in his own sex-anticipatory thoughts to focus on Harry. Fine. Maybe Harry would do something besides just look tonight. Maybe he'd get a pull and break his self-imposed dry spell and simply have sex because he could. His cock stiffened slightly at that idea, apparently giving its approval.
"Right. Let's go," Harry said, finding a shred of enthusiasm for their outing.
"You look quite smart yourself," Ron said warmly, sliding one hand down Harry's sleeve-clad arm and tapping his elbow twice.
Harry tried to put on a come-hither look and shook his head in futility. "Let's get you to your man and me to the bar."
"It'll be worth it," Ron promised, giving Harry's elbow a squeeze.
They both put on jackets and Apparated to a spot about a half block from Nine Inch Males. Once inside, they stayed together at the bar for a time, talking about Ron's work woes at the magazine where he wrote about trends in broommaking and eventually having stilted conversations with the Muggles standing next to them.
"I'm gonna go dance!" Ron said at last, tossing back the last of his gimlet. It was a drink he'd first had after seeing one made and being fascinated by its unique green colour. He'd shown it excitedly to Harry, going on about the similarity to Harry's eyes, but of course Harry wasn't sure what colour the drink really was.
"Have fun," Harry said, waving him on. He leaned against the cool metal of the bar, half-listening to the babble around him through the thick static of testosterone, music and cacophonous desire. Sometimes he really thrived in this environment, absorbing the heat and blatant suggestions, but tonight he felt like an outsider. It went beyond the Muggle/Wizard barrier, one which was ever-present in his mind. He let his gaze drift out across the glistening, twisting bodies, watching such masculine forms vie for gratification with each thrust and sensuous slide. As always, Ron was impossible to miss, his shock of red hair pulled back in a ponytail but capturing the light nonetheless. For three songs in a row Harry watched, spellbound, as Ron danced to his own inner rhythm, turning away several would-be suitors who were obviously disgruntled even from Harry's distanced vantage point. Harry'd kept an eye out for the man who was bound to come along and join Ron, wondering if he'd be able to watch. Harry doubted it; he really was a total fuckwit. Horrible friend, the utter worst. Couldn't stand to see his best mate happy with someone else…
Harry was jolted out of his self-pitying reverie by a jab to the ribs.
"Oi! Think that gorgeous ginger-haired bloke's waving at you," one of Harry's former conversationalists said, pointing to the dance floor.
Sure enough, Ron was giving Harry a look, maybe even yelling 'Come here!', but over the din of the thumping music it was hard to know. Harry looked side to side and back at Ron. He pointed to himself to be sure, and Ron nodded as he swayed his hips, arms in the air as they often were when he danced. Putting his empty drink on the bar, Harry turned and began to make his way through the musky throng. Ron's bloke must've shown up and he wanted to point him out to Harry. Harry's mind was a bit fuzzy; he'd simply stood at the bar and had two more drinks while Ron danced and Harry tried to figure out whether or not his cock was still interested in trying to have sex with anyone anywhere near him. As he got a little closer, Harry watched Ron's movements, drawn in by the enticing red line teasingly visible above Ron's waistband until he jerked his eyes upward. Wouldn't do to add fuel to that wanking scenario, especially if Ron was going to be otherwise involved.
Harry got shoved back by a brawny man and he faltered, but recovered his balance. As he refocused on his goal, noticing Ron's wide open arms, the look of fathomless happiness on Ron's face, Harry felt his reality irrevocably shatter and repair itself with dizzying speed. Since when did blatantly obvious and utterly incomprehensible share the faint tang of blood? Harry realised he'd bit his tongue in his near-fall, and that when they kissed — and they would kiss — he would forever remember this first one as particularly metallic.
Him.
Ron fancied… him. Harry.
Ron's arms were lowered, the hands stretching out as best he could given the close proximities of everyone else out dancing. Harry grasped them, intertwining their fingers to establish his equilibrium before trusting himself to look up. He was undone and rebound, the knowing of it encouraging his knees to buckle.
"Me?" Harry croaked, the antithesis of suave.
Ron nodded, the brilliant joy emanating from him like a halo.
* * * * *
Not much later Harry found himself shaking his head for at least the hundredth time. Ron kept running his fingers along Harry's hip and down his thigh as they nestled together on Harry's bed, Ron mapping Harry's body with the fervour of a cartographer in a new land.
"I'm so bloody thick," Harry said, chagrined, carding his fingers through Ron's hair.
"'S okay. Took me a while to realise my feelings had changed. It's not as though I was going to start walking around the flat starkers and see what happened. But yeah, you were pretty oblivious. Not anymore, I hope," he said tenderly, leaning over so their noses nearly touched.
"No, I think it's all pretty clear," Harry breathed, feeling as though he was truly, lastingly at home. "We're best mates, and lovers, too."
"Exactly," Ron replied serenely, claiming Harry's mouth with a welcoming kiss.
.:~ end ~:.
hprwfqf.Title: A Trail of Persimmon
Rating: NC-17
Challenge: Post-War, 09. Ron's family reacts badly when he comes out and Harry tries to help patch things up, not realizing that Ron fancies him.
Summary: Harry is Ron's best friend, so of course he goes to talk sense into Ron's family when they react so poorly to Ron's announcement that he's gay— even though Ron specifically tells him not to. And who is the mystery bloke who's already caught Ron's eye? Sometimes things the most obvious are also the least apparent.
Warnings (if applicable): enthusiastic use of a sex toy
Notes: My boundless and heartfelt gratitude to
wolfiekins and llembas for their perceptive betas. You help me hone my wordcraft with each story!Harry had nearly finished reading the Daily Prophet from cover to cover and had drunk two pots of post-lunch tea when Ron came crashing out of the fireplace. Looking up from the paper, Harry's wide smile quickly metamorphosed to an open 'oh' of shock.
"Ron! What's the matter? What on earth happened at the Burrow?" he exclaimed, getting up and following a silent, distressed Ron into their kitchen.
Ron remained mute as he poured himself a generous tumbler of firewhiskey and downed it, wincing and clenching his teeth after it went down. Harry watched with increasing alarm as Ron repeated his actions before wiping angrily at his red eyes.
"Ron," Harry insisted, placing his palm on top of the glass to prevent his flatmate from pouring any more. "Talk to me. Please."
Blinking rapidly, Ron snorted and rubbed at his nose, taking deep breaths. "I told them," he said at last, crossing his arms protectively over his chest.
"Told them what?" Harry asked. Ron went to the Burrow every Sunday and usually Harry went with him, but today Ron had indicated he'd wanted to go alone.
"What I am. I'm a shirtlifter. I fancy blokes," Ron said stridently. "Should've known they'd go fucking batshite on me."
"I thought I was going to go with you when you told them!" Harry was incredulous, his feelings bruised by Ron's actions.
"Changed my mind," Ron grumbled. "Didn't want them to, y'know, get ideas…" his voice trailed off and he coloured slightly.
"Ron, your family's known my preferences for well over a year. They've never been anything but accepting." In the spirit of camaraderie, Harry poured a splash of whiskey for himself.
"Right. But you're not a Weasley," Ron said, scowling. "And I probably shouldn't tell you this, but you've been my best mate since we were eleven, and, well, bollocks. Mum wishes you liked birds. She thinks it's a waste that you won't have children. You know how she is about kids." He hung his head. "Apparently it's not enough for her other six children to go off and pop out a litter of tykes, she's heartbroken that I've opted out of that. As though it were a choice. 'Ronald, you're unique and my last son, and I desperately hope you'll give this some more thought.'" Ron imitated his mother's voice with near-perfect inflection.
Harry felt awful for him. He'd never expected the Weasleys to be unaccepting about anything to do with their family, especially after Bill's traumatic run-in with Fenrir those years ago. And they'd seemed to be perfectly at peace with Harry's orientation. Perhaps he needed to be more observant in how they acted around him. Harry couldn't stand for Ron to be miserable; it didn't suit him and Harry only wanted Ron's happiness.
"I'll go have a chat with them," he announced.
"You bloody well will not!" Ron said. "This is my relationship with them. I know you mean well, mate, but I think it's best that you stay out of it."
"But it's not right!" Harry insisted, helping himself to another small serving of firewhiskey. "They're supposed to love and accept you for who you are, no matter what."
"Don't I know it," Ron said, walking over into their living room and slumping on the couch. "There's nothing you can say. They're disappointed, they don't understand, and Mum kept saying she believes it's a phase. I won't tell you all of Fred and George's tripe," he said, anger thundering across his features. "Fucking hypocritical homophobes. I asked them how the hell was it different with me fancying blokes than you?" Ron's finger jabbed into the air at Harry, who'd taken the seat directly across from him. "They've not rubbed your face in it, have they?"
"No," Harry acknowledged. "Then again, I did give them the money to start up Wheezes. And there's the whole killing Voldemort thing."
"They even had the nerve to say we should rename our flat, like you and I would suddenly be shagging all the time. They're such bloody wankers."
"Ron, you know full well I've not shagged anyone in over a year and a half," Harry said with an air of resignation. "I doubt your coming out would change my own sex life. And what atrocious name did they suggest for the flat?"
Ron's ears were twinging pink, and his skin flushed down at his throat. "They meant us together," he said, the colour advancing up his neck. "Oh, the Pillow-Biter's Palace. Merlin! The whole lot of them can all bloody well sod off."
Harry was mulling over what Fred and George had implied. "The twins were joking about us, right?" Certainly Harry appreciated getting to see Ron in various stages of undress — he was still quite fit — but the fact that his best friend now shared his sexual preferences didn't change anything. Ron was Ron; fiercely loyal, unassuming, fun to be around, and rather handsome. And his best friend. That was that.
"I reckon," Ron said noncommittally. "Look, let's drop it. The whole thing cheeses me off. Want to see if there's anything decent playing at the Regal?"
Harry and Ron had discovered a shared enthusiasm for Muggle movies, usually going at least once a fortnight. "Sure," Harry said. "The distraction would probably do you good. Just let me find my jacket and we can go."
They talked about the recent Cannons/Magpies match as they walked to the cinema, but in the back of his mind, Harry was troubled. He resolved to talk to Molly the next time they were at the Burrow, to try and find out why she would treat her own son so differently from himself. Harry also decided they should take advantage of Ron's upcoming three-day weekend to go out to a club Thursday night. Ron had gone with him a few times in the past to a gay club Harry frequented erratically; Ron's relative comfort among the lusty, sometimes pushy men who came up to them should have tipped Harry off a long time ago. Harry'd simply chalked it up to Ron being a good sport until five days ago when Ron, stumbling over his words, admitted to Harry that he preferred men to women and he hoped Harry would still want to be his friend and flatmate.
"Of course, you daft berk!" Harry had said, pulling a surprised Ron into a tight embrace. "Bloody hell, you've been fine around me since I told you. This does explain why you've not been dating recently."
"That's part of it, too right," Ron had replied, relief beaming on his face as he'd pulled back to look at Harry.
Brought back to the present by their arrival at the cinema, Harry decided that a night at the club would be just the thing to make Ron feel better about having told his family.
* * * * *
"Oh Harry, I'm not so sure about this," Ron hedged after Harry informed him that they were going out.
"Of course you are!" Harry enthused, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his emerald green shirt. Or he sure thought it was; as an after-effect of one of the curses he sustained during the War, he'd become colour-blind. Subsequently he'd turned to Ron, trusting his friend to make sure he wasn't sporting some hideously clashing colour combination. "This is my green one, right?" he asked, wondering why Ron seemed to be flushed in the face far more frequently than in the past. Maybe he needed a check up at St. Mungo's.
Ron nodded, a grin hesitantly settling on his lips. "Makes your eyes look amazing. Oh, fuck. I already sound like a—" he paused, looking uncomfortable.
"Like a bloody pouf? Congratulations, and welcome to the club," Harry said, shaking Ron's hand. "Now go get changed. What good is it to finally acknowledge who and what you are without celebrating it? There'll be blokes all over you. They were before, even when they thought you were unavailable. Just imagine how much fun you can have now."
"Well, okay," Ron grudgingly agreed.
"And wear those black denims of yours. This is just a friendly observation, please don't take it the wrong way, but they really suit you. Show off your legs and arse."
Ron was almost alarmingly scarlet. "Um. Well. Thanks. Be down in a few."
Harry hummed happily to himself as he waited, pleased that Ron at last would have the opportunity for some good snogging, at the very least. He imagined watching Ron draped over some similarly tall bloke, lips mashed together as they ground their hips against each other to the music. Something about that image put a sour taste in his mouth, and Harry irritably shook his head. Surely he wouldn't be jealous of Ron getting attention; just because Harry went solely for the ambiance and eye-popping carnal visuals didn't mean that Ron would do the same. Harry had become celibate by choice; just after accepting his own predilections, he'd had a dizzying month of shagging at least a dozen Muggles. He'd realised that while it was exciting and confirmed his love of cocks, the meaningless sex just left him feeling empty. Wanking suited him fine. He'd evolved it into a finely-honed art form. His relationship with friends and Ron was really all he needed at this point in life. Ron, however, was just on the cusp of discovering how easy and strings-free sex could be. If Harry was a true friend, he'd support Ron in whatever and however many male pursuits he chose. That prickly thought settled in his chest as Ron came clomping down the corridor.
Harry whistled. "You're going to be quite popular," he mused approvingly, noting that Ron was indeed in his tight denims and an equally tight short-sleeved shirt.
"You really think so?" Ron asked, shuffling his feet a bit.
"Oh yeah. I'd start shagging again if somebody looking like you came in and I found out you were looking for more than just a quick fuck."
"Really?" Ron's trademark flush had appeared with a vengeance, but his expression was thunderstruck. "Someone like me?"
"Trust me," Harry nodded sagely. "I doubt you'll be coming home alone. But do discreetly cast a silencing charm if you—"
"I'm coming back with you," Ron insisted, looking uncomfortable.
"You always do that," Harry chided. "Come on, surely some bloke's caught your eye. How else would you have known you're like me?"
"Maybe," Ron said, shrugging.
"I knew it!" Harry said triumphantly, wondering at the odd twinge in his stomach. "You can point him out if he's there. Or is he a wizard?"
"Let's just go," Ron said with a nervous grimace. "I need a drink."
They Apparated around the corner from Nine Inch Males, paid their cover fee, and went in. After a couple of hours, Harry found himself dancing with Ron, yet again, yelling to communicate over the bone-shaking music.
"Why are you acting so shy?" Harry shouted. "They're not going to bite. Unless you ask."
"Just not in the mood, I guess," Ron said loudly into Harry's ear. "Besides, I'm having fun being with you. Isn't that all right?"
"Sure, but people won't know you're available if you keep hanging around me."
"I don't mind," Ron yelled, grinning as he swung his hips like a narrow pendulum, his long arms thrown up over his head in a gesture of carefree exuberance. His dancing wasn't sophisticated, nor even overtly sensual as he bounced around. Despite that, Harry couldn't help noticing how the trail of bright hair at Ron's navel caught the light when his shirt rode up, and he saw that other men had also taken interest. Yeah, he thought almost wistfully, once Ron gets more comfortable with himself like this, he's going to make some bloke really, really lucky.
Coming back to himself, Harry threw himself into the music and danced along, grateful to see the wide smile on his best friend's face.
* * * * *
Harry found his first opportunity to confront Molly the following Sunday. Though Ron had given Harry a hard look that Harry knew to mean "Don't you dare talk to Mum about me" before going to the attic to retrieve some of his Cannons memorabilia, Harry chose to ignore it. He stood a few rows away from Molly in the Weasley's vast garden, picking vegetables.
"I know that Ron told you last week that he prefers men to women," Harry said quietly, gauging her reaction. "Why don't you accept him for who he is when you do seem to accept me?"
Molly pulled at a zucchini with unnecessary force before turning to Harry, her expression uncharacteristically shuttered. "It's different because he's my son," she said stiffly, obviously uncomfortable and displeased at the choice of topic that Harry had raised.
"But you've always treated me like your son," Harry insisted, forcing the point despite Molly's change in demeanour.
"Yes, Harry. Yes, I have," Molly said, studying him with a slight frown on her face. "I can't explain it beyond the fact that Ron is my flesh and blood. And honestly, I simply don't understand." She shook her head. "I truly don't. It's nothing against you, but since you've become an adult you and I haven't minced words, so I won't now. As dearly as I love you, and Ron, I think it's unnatural. I'm heartbroken that neither you nor Ron will leave a legacy through children."
Harry thought of Ron, how he'd been shaking with rage a week ago, and how he was now violating Ron's trust, even if it was for his own good. Harry would defend him no matter what; he just needed somehow to explain to Molly that their love for their own gender wasn't an abomination— it simply was. With a flash of clarity, Harry had it: for Molly, the sacrilege came down to not having children; Ron had said as much the week before. He changed tactics.
"Even if I were straight, who knows— I might've been sterile anyway. You wouldn't feel betrayed by Ron if that were the case for him, would you?"
"That's not the same!" Molly said tersely, a culvert forming between her furrowed brows. "There's all sorts of near-miracles they can do at St. Mungo's these days."
"Then they could do them for men of our persuasion," Harry pointed out.
"Miracle or no, you'll never be getting yourself knocked up," Molly said, the faintest shadow of a smile creeping onto her face.
"I have no intention of that, trust me," Harry said with a wink. "Seriously, though, if Ron wants to have children — I don't know if he does or not, he's not said around me — he could. He could adopt, or find a surrogate, or Merlin only knows. You just don't know how upset he was when he came home last week." Harry paused, a bud of triumph blooming in his chest as he saw he'd found a chink in Molly's armour. "It's taken me until quite recently to really know this, but what brings me the greatest sense of peace is when I know Ron's happy and content with himself. Usually it's subconscious; we've been through so much and been friends so long I don't try to do anything in particular. And he's certainly his own person. But Molly, I can't bear to see him miserable."
Molly's gaze seemed to be evaluating Harry with intensity reminiscent of Snape. Harry was suddenly self-conscious, but soldiered on.
"I can't ask you to change how and what you think, I wouldn't dare. Ron's really taken a blow by how you and the rest of the family reacted to him, though. If there's any way you think you can come around and accept him for who he is, as you have me, please try. For Ron, not me," he concluded, glancing up at the Burrow to see Ron walking quickly toward them. "And let's keep this talk to ourselves, okay?" Harry said in a low voice, inclining his head and hoping Molly could translate his clues that Ron was approaching.
Molly nodded, her face assuming its more usual relaxed expression. "You two could stand to put in a garden of your own," she said conversationally as Ron headed up between a row of corn that made swishing sounds as he brushed past.
"And just what are you two going on about out here?" he demanded, eyes blazing accusatorily at Harry.
"Gardening," Harry lied, groaning inwardly at how stupid he sounded.
"Oh really," Ron fumed.
"Don't be so suspicious," Molly half-scolded. "You should have your own garden. You and Harry have plenty of room in your backyard."
"But you always give us heaps from here," Ron said, gesturing at the orderly phalanxes of vegetables and herbs spread around them.
"We could give it a go," Harry said with a shrug and his best 'let's humour your Mum' look.
"Harry, you have a black thumb!" Ron exclaimed with a snort. "Even Neville couldn't revive that one fern from Hermione. I can't imagine the horrors if you were let loose on a garden."
"Who got the better marks in Herbology?" Harry shot back.
"You did, but you were supervised."
"Well, you'd help me, if I gave it a go, right? We'd do it together. You're actually pretty decent with plants, aren't you?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "How long have we lived together, and you're just now noticing?"
"Fine, so sometimes I'm a bit thick. Go ahead, remind me of just how much of an idiot I am. All I was suggesting was a joint project. You're always going on about how we should have something to work on—"
"Boys!" Molly said, exasperated but with humour in her voice. "These squash won't pick themselves. Make yourselves useful while you have your row."
"Yes, Mum." "Yes, Molly," Ron and Harry said in tandem.
She shook her head, a smile twitching on her lips. "You may be twenty-five, but sometimes it seems as though you're still in year four."
Harry felt a flutter of satisfaction to see Molly look fondly at Ron, and he hoped that his clandestine conversation would bear further fruit.
* * * * *
Later that evening, after a savoury dinner of grilled pork chops and vegetables done as only Ron could make it, Ron drug out his old chess board and challenged Harry to a game. He agreed, and was thrashed, though he took it in good spirits. Ron had settled into the newest issue of Broom Enthusiast and a tumbler of scotch when Harry decided to go to bed.
"I'm calling it a night," he said, taking his own toddy off to his room.
Ron looked surprised. "It's a bit early, isn't it?"
"I'm pretty tired." Harry was, but he also wanted to treat himself to a proper wank before dropping off.
Ron shrugged. "Okay. Oh, Harry?" he asked, shook his head as though changing his mind, then barreled ahead regardless. "Remember how you said you'd shag again if somebody like me came along?"
Harry nodded, though the comment had been rather spontaneous, and he'd not thought about it since.
"What did you mean? Or, I mean, well, it seems like you know what you're looking for, but you don't seem to want it enough to go doing anything about it. I guess I'm saying," he paused to take a sip of his scotch. "You asked if I had a bloke in mind. I do, but it's a big deal, y'know, and I don't want to make an absolute bollocks of it. Is there a way to tell, do you think, if someone could be interested in you?"
Ron's entreaty was so heartfelt Harry felt a surge of pride and thankfulness that Ron continued to confide in him. He swirled the ice around in his firewhiskey, trying to figure out how to respond appropriately.
"Well, I'm not really an expert, am I?" he said with a short self-deprecating laugh. "I guess I'd start with something subtle. Go out for tea, maybe, or have a chat-up over lunch. See if there's any chemistry there. Or you can go the no-holds-barred route, and meet up at a club. That way if you do hit it off, you can snog or whatever else you want to do without having to wade through several dates first."
Ron sat in rapt attention, almost drawing in on himself as he listened to Harry's advice. "Look, Ron, you wouldn't make an arse of yourself, I promise. Not to go on and on about how attractive you are and how you're going to make some bloke feel like he's on top of the world, but that's the way it is. You should get used to it."
Ron appeared stunned, but there was happiness in his eyes similar to how he'd looked when he'd found out he was Employee of the Year at Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly.
"And I'm not just saying that because you're my best mate," Harry continued. "I meant what I said before; if someone like you decided he fancied me for just being me, and we got on like a house on fire like you and I do, and we could shag but also enjoy each other's company with our clothes on, well, I think I could get used to that." With a rueful smile, Harry shrugged. "I've just learned not to get my hopes up. And besides, I've got my friends, and I have you. If someone came along, I wouldn't turn him away, but I'm pretty content now. That doesn't mean you shouldn't pursue this mystery man, though."
Harry tilted his head, watching Ron's expressive face as it went from pleased to thoughtful. It was obvious that whoever it was, Ron was already quite smitten. He wondered who on earth had captured his attentions, and how long Ron had felt that way.
"Thanks Harry," Ron said finally, toasting Harry with his glass. "That really does help. More than you realise."
"You know me," Harry said, smiling. "Plenty of advice for everyone but myself. See you in the morning."
He made his way up the stairs toward the sanctity of his room, mulling over whom out of their friends or acquaintances Ron might fancy. He cast a silencing and locking spell, not that he thought Ron would barge in on him, but for his own privacy and peace of mind. For whatever reason, perhaps as a treat to himself for hopefully having begun the process of patching up Ron and his family, he'd decided a long, decadent self-buggering was in order, and he didn't want to be interrupted.
Harry lit a couple of candles so his room held a warm glow but wasn't bright. He padded over to his chest of drawers, pulling out the second drawer down. After shoving several pair of socks out of the way, he tapped the bottom with his wand. A panel slid across, revealing his stash of toys, most all which bore charming spells he'd cast to bring himself the greatest pleasure. Without predetermined thought, he grasped at a large, nearly translucent dildo, the biggest of his select collection. He fished about for his sandalwood-scented lube which he tossed on the bed before restoring his hidden items to their usual sequestered space.
He disrobed, letting his clothes puddle in a heap at his feet. He'd left his trainers downstairs, so after peeling off his socks, with a luxuriant sigh he was able to slide naked into his unmade bed. Just thinking about having the long, thick dildo inside of him had made his cock begin to stiffen. He teased his nipples into hard nubs, lying on his back with the silky sheets draped over his spread knees, his feet planted on the mattress. His cock demanded attention, but Harry felt like making this self-pleasure last a long time. Instead, he let his hands drift down to brush over his sensitive inner thighs before reaching behind him to put an additional pillow under his head. He looked down at his prick, nearly fully hard, and he bit back a moan as he thought of how good it would feel to hold it, eagerly twisting his fist around the shaft. His cock ached, unattended and straining up toward his belly, curving a bit to the left. As he got up on an elbow to pluck the lube off of the bedcovering, he was struck with inspiration and knew how he'd be putting the dildo to use… in good time. Harry poured the oil onto his fingers before slowly sliding one finger behind his balls, gently circling around his tight entrance. The image of Ron dancing at the club, his slender flame of hair licking down from his navel into his denims flashed abruptly into Harry's mind.
He was so shocked he paused for a moment before purposefully pressing his fingers into his grasping channel. Harry'd never thought to wank while thinking about Ron; he was quite content to imagine faceless bodies or a couple of the blokes on the Ballycastle Bats team who were strikingly fit fodder for Harry's prurient musings. Adding another finger, he pushed deeper until his third and fourth fingers were in as far as he could reach. With his other hand he fondled his sacs, seeing Ron again in his mind's eye. Harry picked up the pace of his finger-fucking, allowing somewhat recent memories of Ron in his swimming togs to fuel his smouldering desire. Hopefully Ron wouldn't think that Harry was a totally disgusting perv for wanking while thinking about him; Harry certainly would never tell. The recent memory of Ron in his tight denims, with what appeared to be a sizeable package nestled against his flies caused a shudder of intense pleasure to course through Harry and he clenched against his fingers. His cock was throbbing and currents of ecstasy pulsed in his groin as he repeatedly nudged against his prostate.
Breathing heavily, Harry removed his fingers. He fumbled for his wand and situated the dildo's base on a pillow, casting a sticking charm on both items so they'd stay still. Reverently Harry coated the wide phallus with lubricant before getting up on his knees, poising himself above the domed head. He slowly sank down on it, his well-prepared body quickly accommodating its girth. He let out a blissful sigh as he sat, stretched and filled, the initial burn easing into warm fullness. At last, Harry slid his hand around his cock, moaning at the contact. Realising he needed something to hold on to, Harry conjured a thick silk cord to hang from the ceiling. Flashes of Ron's chest, his arse in skintight trousers, his wide hands curled around a broom — an erotic barrage of sex-tinted Ron assaulted Harry as he held onto the cord, humping the dildo with as much force as he could muster, ruthlessly buggering himself as deeply as his muscles would allow. Up and down he slammed against the unmoving cock, angling his descents so it hit his inner bundle of nerves.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he groaned, a litany to the inexorable tightening in his sacs, the tension ratcheting in intensity as his hand pistoned on his cock. All at once he stopped. Panting, he sat on his heels, itching pinpricks of sweat at the base of his spine focusing his attentions away from the near-roiling release that beat heavily in the base of his shaft. Ever so subtly Harry loosened his anus then squeezed around the dildo, his left hand clutching at his ceilinged tether like a drowning man to a pier. The end was so close; he could nearly taste the vinegarsweet of his own come as saliva filled his mouth. Merlin, he wished he could draw this moment out, traipsing on the precipice before surrendering to the inevitable tug and gush of orgasm. Inexplicably, a memory of Ron from earlier in the evening, hunkered over his ancient chess board, tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth as he pondered his move, sparked Harry's vision. Harry pumped his cock with abandon, yelling obscenities and gibberish as his orgasm thundered through him. Milky fluid coursed over his fingers as his heart pounded in his chest and a vague soreness radiated feebly from his arse. He slowed all of his movements, newly aware of being in his disheveled bedroom, in the flat he shared with his best friend. He was exhausted, sated and boneless.
Harry wanted nothing more than to curl up into a foetal position, the substantial prick still buried intimately in him, and to fall soundly to sleep, a pillow clasped between his knees. He knew, however, that he'd suffer a hundred levels of regret if he did that. He cast perfunctory cleansing spells on himself, the carefully extracted dildo, and the bed. Harry dazedly wandered into his bathroom to brush his teeth, batting at his untamable hair much to the amusement of his mirror. The mirror thankfully had the wherewithal to remain mostly silent. Before sinking into his bed again, Harry went trolling for some healing salve. He squirted a generous dollop onto his fingers and rubbed it around his tender hole. With the soothing feel of soft sheets against his skin and residual visions of ginger hair, Harry sank gratefully into sleep.
* * * * *
It was a little more than a week later that Harry found himself in a position to speak privately with the other two Weasley family members who'd reacted spectacularly poorly to Ron's announcement. Ron had suggested he and Harry meet up for an afternoon tea, a little out of the ordinary from their not-infrequent meetings at the Belligerent Badger for a few pints, but Harry didn't mind. "Hermione says this place's got incredible scones," Ron had said, as though Harry might need convincing.
Now, however, he'd planned his Saturday errands so that he'd have a few minutes to speak with the infamous twins before tucking into this shop that served legendary tea and crumpets. Harry was greeted warmly as he entered Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, but it wasn't by either Fred or George.
"Hullo to you, Zap!" Harry said, smiling at the youngest son of the late joke-shop owner, Zonko. Zapateous had been an enthusiastic employee of Wheezes' for several years. "Where're the terrible two?"
"I'm sure you meant to say 'terrific,'" George said, rising up imperiously from behind a garish display of Tongue-Tying Toffees, Gibberish Jellies and an ebullient riot of other embarrassment-inducing sweets.
"Did I?" Harry said saucily, eyeing the shelves fit to bursting with no small amount of pride. He loved coming into Wheezes; despite everything that had happened in the War, this enclave held innocence he could practically taste once through the door.
"No." George quirked a smile. "Haven't seen you about in a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Fred's not here?" Harry frowned, taking off his tracksuit top.
"Nah. Off with Hyacinth."
"They seem rather serious."
"Reckon they are," George said with a shrug. "He'd be a nutter if he didn't hold on to her. Not just any girl's willing to put up with his antics. C'mon back, put your feet up."
Harry nodded his head at Zap. He tried to ignore the hand pointed at him by a young boy whose hushed voice carried despite the omnipresent cacophony of the shop.
"Harry Potter, Mum! It's him!"
They walked through the rounded doorway emblazoned with the words, "Here There Be Mayhem: Weasleys Only" into the organised chaos of Fred and George's vast lab and workspace.
"So! What's on your mind?" George asked, using his wand to levitate a stack of Fade-Away Frocks off a nearby chair so Harry could sit down.
"Ron."
"Hell's harpies. What's he gone and done now?"
"Nothing except tell you and your family who he really is, and you and Fred have really made him take the piss for it," Harry said defensively. "I don't understand. You've given me grief, but not about that, and never anything seriously."
"You're you," George offered with a large shrug. "And he's… Ron," he said, voice sinking heavily on the lone syllable. "Can't explain much more than that. You know I'd go after anybody if they really tried to hurt him, but we just don't have much in common, y'know."
"But you're brothers!" Harry insisted, leaning forward in his chair.
"So's Percy," George reminded him, his upper lip curling slightly in a sneer.
"Point taken."
They looked at each other for a few moments until George said, "What? You don't think I actually feel guilty, do you?"
"I… well, thought maybe…" Harry's voice trailed off at the incredulous look on George's face.
"Harry, Harry." George shook his head. "For all the time you've spent at the Burrow, you really don't get it. Ginny, yeah, she'll get used to Ron's— preferences," he said condescendingly, "faster than anyone else. Bill 'n Charlie too, I suppose. They're not around that much as it is. Percy, well, I couldn't give a bowtruckle's bollocks what he thinks. Fred and I," he paused. "Well, truth be told, Fred finds the whole bloke on bloke thing about as understandable as enjoying a daily bowl of cold sick. I'm not going to say I understand it, because I don't. But it also doesn't bother me the same way it does him."
Harry was gaping, his jaw literally open as he heard the sincerity in George's words. When he recovered, his words came all out in a rush, uncensored and suffused with anger. "So what the fuck do you really think about me?" His hands gripped the chair. "Come on, then. Be honest, you obviously haven't been so far," he growled, red-hot ire churning in his stomach.
"No, Harry, I don't think anything badly about you," George said hurriedly, looking quite alarmed, Harry observed with a perverse pleasure.
"Well, maybe you could rethink how you're acting toward Ron. Bloody hell!" Harry seethed. "I just don't see how he and I are so fucking different to you. Good thing that he has me and Hermione and our other friends given how he's being treated by his own family. I've got to go," he said, wrenching out of his chair.
"Harry!" George yelped in shock, moving quickly enough to grab Harry by the arm. "Wait just a bloody minute."
"Why should I?" Harry yelled. "I'm meeting Ron for tea, but I think I may need to down a couple of shots of firewhiskey first to make sure I can be civil." He shook off George's hand, fuming.
"Harry. Listen to me," George said, obviously trying to calm Harry down. "Please; I won't make you stay long. Promise."
Harry nodded curtly, crossing his arms over his chest. He was still so livid at the twins'— well, George's— outright homophobia in regards to Ron that he could barely focus. Had they just been acting around him for the past year? He couldn't imagine what George could say that would change anything, but George seemed determined to try.
"Look, Harry, I am honest. It's only been a couple of weeks, all right? Maybe it wasn't a shock to you, living with him and all, but it came pretty much like a Bludger to the back of the head to the rest of us."
"I'd had no idea," Harry said defiantly. "Couldn't have been more shocked. Or pleased."
"Right. Give us some time, okay? We just need some time to get used to it."
"Fine! But think about what you say, y'know? He's no different from me. Do you have problems with me being a bloody shirtlifter? You've done an awfully good job of lying about it if that's the case."
George shook his head, a look of regret settling on his features. "No. It's like I said; I don't understand, but I figured it's your business. We weren't really trying to pick on Ron."
Harry glared at him.
"Well, I mean, yeah, we were; you know how it is."
"That you're the bane of his existence? George, that was probably one of the hardest things he's ever done. I'd wanted to go with him, but no, he had to do it by himself. Now I've really got to go, but if you could, just think before you start calling him slurs, even if you're joking. It's not like it's an easy life, especially if you want to stick with wizards, not Muggles." Again Harry wondered who it was that Ron was so keen on. Maybe he'd have to ask point blank.
"Yeah, I hear you. Old habits and all that, but I guess you're right. Just don't let him get out of control, wind up arse-out on the front page of the Prophet, y'know, unless he wants something like that to happen…" George's voice trailed off, apparently only too afraid that that might be the case.
"He hasn't changed," Harry said meaningfully. "He's just the same. And I'm about to stand him up if I don't get going. I don't want him to be cheesed off at me, too." Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "I really didn't want to get involved, but family means so much to him, even if he doesn't come out and talk about it."
"Family's not everything, but I could've done worse," George said, stroking his goatee. "Glad I've got Fred."
"You two are a force of nature," Harry said, feeling more expansive toward him now that he had at least a sense that George might act more thoughtfully as time went on.
"Flattery will get you everywhere," George said. "Well, almost everywhere." He winked.
Harry snorted and made his way back out through the shop, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his jacket before he got outside into the crisp autumnal air. The thought of tea and scones actually made his mouth water as he took off across the busy cobbled street. It took him longer than he expected to arrive at Philomena's Puffed Pastries. Once through the door, the aroma of warm bread made him feel absolutely ravenous. "Probably should've made time for lunch after all," he thought regretfully. Ron was easy to spot, his distinctive looks further exacerbated by being the only male in the shop. He looked relieved to see Harry, who strode quickly over and sat across the table from him.
"Glad you came," Ron said, smiling. "Smells brilliant, doesn't it?"
"Yeah. I'm famished. Forgot lunch," Harry said, reaching for a menu.
"You don't need one. I've already ordered for us. Afternoon tea is their specialty. Hope that's all right," he said hesitantly.
"Sure! Oh, wow." Harry gaped at the steaming plate of high-piled scones, large pot of tea, and bevy of jams, honeys and pats of butter that just at that moment was placed in front of him. He looked up at the rosy-cheeked server, who glanced at Harry, over at Ron and back, raising her eyebrows.
"That looks amazing," Harry enthused, ignoring the server's silent innuendo. The world's narrow-minded people could go and get stuffed. He was going to live his life to the fullest in whatever way brought him the most inner happiness, and he hoped to be able to guide Ron along on a similar path if he could.
"So what all've you been up to?" Ron asked through a mouthful of buttered scone.
Harry rattled off his list of mundane activities and in a flight of honesty, told Ron he'd stopped by Wheezes.
"Wheezes? And you didn't buy anything?"
Harry was notorious for not getting out of the twins' shop without an assemblage of their newest products. "No, I just stopped by to see how they were doing."
Ron gave Harry a darkening, suspicious look over his cup of tea. "You never do that," he said accusingly. "You went by there to talk to the twins about me, didn't you?" Harry grimaced as Ron's voice raised in volume, but he had sense enough not to deny it. "Dammit, Harry, I told you to stay out of it!"
Ron's outburst was met by a loud, disapproving clucking by the shop owner. "Watch your language!" she scolded from behind the counter. Ron glared at her before turning his attentions back to Harry.
"I'm sorry," Harry began but Ron cut him off.
"No you're not! I thought we were true friends and that you'd actually respect my wishes. When I said I didn't want you to get involved, I meant it. But no—you had to go and chat up the twins and mum. I know you did, so just shut up," Ron growled as Harry opened his mouth to try and defend himself. "Just leave it alone."
Harry found he was braced against the table, feeling the punctuated words like blows to the chest. Ron tore off a chunk of his scone and chewed angrily while Harry wished he could inconspicuously conjure a very deep hole to disappear into. They sat in strained silence, Harry continuing to work at his strawberry preserve-covered scone despite the fact he'd totally lost his appetite. Ron spoke the truth; Harry had betrayed Ron's wishes, even though he'd only done so because he thought he could set things to rights.
"Look, Ron," Harry said quietly, intertwining his fingers in an inverted steeple and tapping his thumb on them. "I'm sorry. I really am. I don't want to get any more on your bad side, I couldn't stand it." He forced himself to look up and saw Ron's countenance soften slightly. "I know I've really messed up and I apologise. I'm certain my word's worth shi—, um, less than nothing to you right now," he continued, self-censoring in case the shop owner was eavesdropping. "You've got no reason to believe me, but I promise not to try and mend things between you and anyone in your family. I was just so angry about their reaction." He leaned into the table to look directly across into Ron's eyes. "But I overstepped my bounds, and I apologise."
Ron appeared rather stunned, but also pleased. "Apology accepted," he said after a time, pouring them both more tea. "Thank you. For caring, y'know. I think they'll all come around, eventually," he said through a sigh. "At least you understand."
"Yeah, but I didn't have to worry about what my parents might say. I've no idea what they'd think of me." Harry picked up his half-eaten scone, his appetite having returned with a vengeance.
"Hard to know. Say, do you want to go to that club again tonight?"
"Uh, sure. I didn't have plans."
"Great!"
Ron's good humour was back full force, a welcome change from his earlier ire. He, too, had returned to his pastries with gusto. Harry was mulling over what he could wear to the club that would look flattering on him — he'd not been exercising and it showed — when Ron suddenly said, "You know what's brilliant? You and I can talk about anything," he enthused, not waiting for Harry to respond. "That's pretty rare, I reckon."
Harry gave that some thought as he rescued a glob of preserves from the side of his mouth with his tongue. "Probably."
"Back when you first were going out a lot, those blokes you hooked up with, did you chat first, or was it mostly just…" Ron's voice trailed off, as though newly reminded of their surroundings. The shop had cleared out some since Harry's arrival, but it was far quieter than their usual booth at the pub.
"It was pretty much just shagging," Harry admitted. "You knew about it; you didn't seem to mind."
"No, I didn't," Ron said. "I just don't know that I'd want that. Now, I mean, now that things are different."
"Well, you've already got sights set on someone. You just need to let the bloke know, and I doubt that all you'll want to do is talk."
"No. I really want to know what it feels like to kiss him," Ron said with an oddly feral grin that made Harry's toes curl. Whoever this person was, from the expression on Ron's face, he was going to have quite a wild time of it. His hands would be full of an inexperienced, but very eager Ron. Harry was inexplicably envious.
They finished their tea and scones, paid, and parted ways, agreeing to be ready to go out by 9:30.
* * * * *
When Harry finally appeared, Ron was waiting in the living room. Harry had spent an inordinate amount of time in the shower, having a half-hearted, unsatisfying wank. Ron's long legs were crossed at the ankles, perched on the coffee table. He nursed an Orkney Skullsplitter while idly fingering a braided leather band on his right wrist, something Harry knew he'd never seen before. In the split second that Ron looked up and he flashed a blazing smile, a wave of thoughts and recognition crashed brutally through Harry. They left him feeling wretched about himself by the time he made it down the few stairs.
Ron was excited.
He'd never looked so self-assured.
He was obviously going to see this person he fancied and planned to do something about it.
His eyes had never gleamed so blue, or as blue as Harry imagined them to be, his colour-blindness having robbed him of that kind of clarity anymore.
Harry would be coming home, alone, and he'd be warring at himself because he did want Ron's happiness, he truly did. But Harry knew he himself would return solo, though he'd be sulking without his best friend for company. Harry felt positively bland and forgettable next to this triumphant manifestation of Ron sitting in front of him on their couch.
"Wow. You look great," Harry said, pasting on a smile.
Ron's expression dimmed. "You don't mean it," he said, furrowing his eyebrows. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
Ron gave him a look that said, 'Oh, please.'
"Okay, okay. I'm going to sound like a terrible friend. Merlin, I'm a pathetic friend," he muttered under his breath. "May I?" he asked, gesturing at the beer. Ron nodded, handing it up to him. Harry took a long pull on it before speaking.
"You've never looked more amazing, and so pleased," Harry said truthfully, as the knife of self-damnation eased into his heart. "I can only guess this mystery bloke is going to be there, and that you're pretty sure you'll get together."
"I certainly hope so," Ron said, his gaze intensely focused on Harry.
"Looking like you do— and I don't mean just the clothes," Harry clarified, chewing on his bottom lip before continuing, "you seem confident. Like you're really at ease with yourself. I don't begrudge you, really. It's just…" Harry almost couldn't say the next words out loud. "I wish I felt that way, too. I mean, I'm more than fine with who and what I am, but I haven't got anyone but myself as an anchor. And you, of course," he said ruefully. "But once you're together with whoever the lucky chap is, well, I probably won't see you around nearly as much. But I want you to be happy. You've got to believe that."
"Oh, I do," Ron said, unfurling from the couch.
At six foot two, he was half a foot taller than Harry, but as the years passed, Harry became used to it. Ron walked around the table and unexpectedly pulled Harry into a warm embrace. Harry smelled the usual Ronscent of piney soap and an undercurrent of musk that Harry had always associated with cinnamon and warmth and hominess. Ron obviously loved and cared for him, as dearest of friends, and Harry was miserable. He would be alone, again, and Harry had no-one but himself to blame for setting his own, apparently unattainable standards in a companion.
Ron stepped back, eyes sparkling. "Buck up. You're awfully serious for a bloke who's about to go to a club teeming with fit men who ogle you. You know they do, you just turn them down," he chided when Harry opened his mouth to counter Ron's comment.
A flash of searing anger coursed through Harry; Ron was being totally insensitive to the acute crisis Harry found himself in, evidently too caught up in his own sex-anticipatory thoughts to focus on Harry. Fine. Maybe Harry would do something besides just look tonight. Maybe he'd get a pull and break his self-imposed dry spell and simply have sex because he could. His cock stiffened slightly at that idea, apparently giving its approval.
"Right. Let's go," Harry said, finding a shred of enthusiasm for their outing.
"You look quite smart yourself," Ron said warmly, sliding one hand down Harry's sleeve-clad arm and tapping his elbow twice.
Harry tried to put on a come-hither look and shook his head in futility. "Let's get you to your man and me to the bar."
"It'll be worth it," Ron promised, giving Harry's elbow a squeeze.
They both put on jackets and Apparated to a spot about a half block from Nine Inch Males. Once inside, they stayed together at the bar for a time, talking about Ron's work woes at the magazine where he wrote about trends in broommaking and eventually having stilted conversations with the Muggles standing next to them.
"I'm gonna go dance!" Ron said at last, tossing back the last of his gimlet. It was a drink he'd first had after seeing one made and being fascinated by its unique green colour. He'd shown it excitedly to Harry, going on about the similarity to Harry's eyes, but of course Harry wasn't sure what colour the drink really was.
"Have fun," Harry said, waving him on. He leaned against the cool metal of the bar, half-listening to the babble around him through the thick static of testosterone, music and cacophonous desire. Sometimes he really thrived in this environment, absorbing the heat and blatant suggestions, but tonight he felt like an outsider. It went beyond the Muggle/Wizard barrier, one which was ever-present in his mind. He let his gaze drift out across the glistening, twisting bodies, watching such masculine forms vie for gratification with each thrust and sensuous slide. As always, Ron was impossible to miss, his shock of red hair pulled back in a ponytail but capturing the light nonetheless. For three songs in a row Harry watched, spellbound, as Ron danced to his own inner rhythm, turning away several would-be suitors who were obviously disgruntled even from Harry's distanced vantage point. Harry'd kept an eye out for the man who was bound to come along and join Ron, wondering if he'd be able to watch. Harry doubted it; he really was a total fuckwit. Horrible friend, the utter worst. Couldn't stand to see his best mate happy with someone else…
Harry was jolted out of his self-pitying reverie by a jab to the ribs.
"Oi! Think that gorgeous ginger-haired bloke's waving at you," one of Harry's former conversationalists said, pointing to the dance floor.
Sure enough, Ron was giving Harry a look, maybe even yelling 'Come here!', but over the din of the thumping music it was hard to know. Harry looked side to side and back at Ron. He pointed to himself to be sure, and Ron nodded as he swayed his hips, arms in the air as they often were when he danced. Putting his empty drink on the bar, Harry turned and began to make his way through the musky throng. Ron's bloke must've shown up and he wanted to point him out to Harry. Harry's mind was a bit fuzzy; he'd simply stood at the bar and had two more drinks while Ron danced and Harry tried to figure out whether or not his cock was still interested in trying to have sex with anyone anywhere near him. As he got a little closer, Harry watched Ron's movements, drawn in by the enticing red line teasingly visible above Ron's waistband until he jerked his eyes upward. Wouldn't do to add fuel to that wanking scenario, especially if Ron was going to be otherwise involved.
Harry got shoved back by a brawny man and he faltered, but recovered his balance. As he refocused on his goal, noticing Ron's wide open arms, the look of fathomless happiness on Ron's face, Harry felt his reality irrevocably shatter and repair itself with dizzying speed. Since when did blatantly obvious and utterly incomprehensible share the faint tang of blood? Harry realised he'd bit his tongue in his near-fall, and that when they kissed — and they would kiss — he would forever remember this first one as particularly metallic.
Him.
Ron fancied… him. Harry.
Ron's arms were lowered, the hands stretching out as best he could given the close proximities of everyone else out dancing. Harry grasped them, intertwining their fingers to establish his equilibrium before trusting himself to look up. He was undone and rebound, the knowing of it encouraging his knees to buckle.
"Me?" Harry croaked, the antithesis of suave.
Ron nodded, the brilliant joy emanating from him like a halo.
* * * * *
Not much later Harry found himself shaking his head for at least the hundredth time. Ron kept running his fingers along Harry's hip and down his thigh as they nestled together on Harry's bed, Ron mapping Harry's body with the fervour of a cartographer in a new land.
"I'm so bloody thick," Harry said, chagrined, carding his fingers through Ron's hair.
"'S okay. Took me a while to realise my feelings had changed. It's not as though I was going to start walking around the flat starkers and see what happened. But yeah, you were pretty oblivious. Not anymore, I hope," he said tenderly, leaning over so their noses nearly touched.
"No, I think it's all pretty clear," Harry breathed, feeling as though he was truly, lastingly at home. "We're best mates, and lovers, too."
"Exactly," Ron replied serenely, claiming Harry's mouth with a welcoming kiss.
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-03 06:00 pm (UTC)You did wonderfully!! I like your concepts on Harry being gay, becoming celibate and Ron being 'harrysexual.'
I liked the Weasley's reactions and the conversation with George (made me giggle that Fred just happened to be out with a girl - do you like George?? *snort*)
Poor clueless Harry and his glorious self-buggering - thank you for that. I loved this being from Harry's POV!
It was all very poetic and pretty and clever and sexy. Thanks for putting so much care into H/R. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-03 07:02 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you thought Harry's 'voice' was believable! This was only the second time I've written from his POV; I'm in far more familiar territory if it's Ron. And I've really come to enjoy the dynamics of Ron/Harry, so you can expect more in the future! Thank you again for your effusive comments. Makes me happy! :D