New Harry/Ron, written for the bestmates_xmas exchange

[thrihyrne]

Now that there's been the grand reveal, here's my contribution to the exchange. For those on my flist not into my HP slash, please pass it on by.

Title: Of Love Such Is the Fervent Heete
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry and Ron meet up for their annual post-War sojourn, but this year is quite different from the prior few, and it's not just because they've gone to Iceland.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 9,819
Disclaimer: the usual
Author's Note: My never ending gratitude to my several betas, wolfiekins, risiepookie and matildabishop. Thank you for your insight and Britpicking and support as I wrote this. The title comes from a poem by John Lydgate, "Fabula duorum mercatorum."

The concept/plot device for this story came while driving in the car and hearing the song "Fever" by Peggy Lee.



Of Love Such Is the Fervent Heete

Harry re-read Ron's note for the dozenth time, proud of himself for having become such an adept translator of his friend's scrawl.

Hey Harry! Just making sure we're still on for our getaway. You really picked an isolated place, mate! Still, I've never been to Iceland, so good on you for finding someplace different. Sorry Hermione won't be there, but it'll be nice just to hang out with you for a week.

I'll see you at the International Portkey Terminal on Thursday. I'll be the tall ginger-haired bloke with a matching sunburn. Never could get my sunblock charms down too well.

-Ron

Harry, Ron and Hermione had been going on these annual sojourns for four years. They'd begun at the conclusion of the War when the three had simply needed to get away before dealing with the aftermath and relentless press that they knew would be associated with having defeated Voldemort. This year, however, Hermione was eight and a half months pregnant with her first child. While there were no medical reasons not to travel, Seamus was very protective and Hermione apparently found her husband's concern loving rather than smothering, and heeded his plea not to go.

Many aspects of this year's expedition seemed different to Harry; it'd be just the two of them, for starters, but they were also going to a country neither of them had visited, and a remote locale within the island nation. Perhaps most importantly, Harry saw this adventure as a potentially life-changing point in his life. Like a sluggish dawn in winter, Harry's preferences for his own gender, and one man in particular, had slowly suffused into his consciousness. He was very much at peace with both elements, even though he'd yet to say anything to the one individual about his extended attractions.

It was Ron, of course. Who else could know and tolerate him: Harry's flashing temper and 'boundary issues' as Hermione called them, his inability to let anyone else into the depths of his bruised soul beyond those two? But after the Ginny debacle, or coming to his senses, as Harry preferred to think of it, there was only one individual he wanted to know intimately. There was just one person he imagined while pleasuring himself, suppressing his desire to let Ron know that his large hands and scarred biceps and remembered glimpses of fiery hair between long legs during snatched baths on the run were what he envisioned in his mind's eye while tossing off or enjoying more languorous wanking. Ron, like Harry, hadn't dated anyone of the female variety since their sixth year. In fact, he'd not appeared to have dated anyone else at all, seeming to be content with Harry and Hermione's companionship. Harry could only hope that during their time together he'd be able to figure out what Ron's desires truly were, so deeply hidden away or nonexistent. Surely his best friend's passionate nature was still there; hopefully it was merely lying dormant until the right person came along to rouse Ron's affections.

Harry allowed himself a sliver of hope that he could be that one.

* * * * *

"Harry!" Ron's jubilant voice carried through the busy terminal, his wide smile blinding and encouraging Harry to grin like an idiot.

"Ron! Great to see you!"

Ron dropped his rucksack and gave Harry a nearly rib-cracking hug. Harry breathed in deeply of Ron's unique scent, musk and vanilla and the otherwise indefinable clean odour of his clothes that lingered on Ron's skin. Just the smell of Ron and his physical proximity stirred up sensations that threatened to settle embarrassingly in Harry's groin, so he stepped back. "You look—"

"Sunburnt," Ron said with a grimace. "Never seen so much bloody sun in my life, even if it was winter for most of my trip."

"No," Harry said with an appreciative glance to Ron's forearms. "You have a tan. Or nearly so. Suits you, actually."

Ron shrugged off the compliment, though Harry thought he saw a faint flush on Ron's ruddy cheeks. "So which part of the terminal do we go to for Reykjavík?"

"North end. Need a hand with anything?"

"Nah, I'm okay." Ron picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

As they walked through the crowded building, Harry prompted Ron to talk more in detail about his adventures. Ron had been in Australia for three months on an extended assignment to interview and write up a substantive story about an up and coming Quidditch team, the Brisbane Bandicoots. Harry listened, but found that much of his attentions focused on Ron's palpable 'there-ness.' It wasn't as though they hadn't been separated for far longer in the past, but now that Harry was keenly aware of how his feelings had metamorphed into a steady low pulse of desire, every little Ronnish detail imprinted itself on him. It made it hard to concentrate, even when Harry really wanted to.

"Shame about Hermione," Ron said once they sat on some barely-cushioned chairs, waiting for it to be 3:14, the activation time for their portkey. Their only companions were a platinum blonde-haired Witch with two young children, each wearing fuchsia harnesses and tethered to their mother with a substance that looked a lot like an Extendable Ear.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Not that I mind it just being the two of us. We haven't really done our own thing in ages."

"'S'true," Ron said, smiling broadly. "I may be piss-poor company tonight though; I'm pretty knackered. By the time we get to this cabin in… where are we going again, exactly?"

"Akureyri. We'll have one last portkey out of Reykjavík. Don't worry if you don't want to stay up late talking Quidditch or playing chess. We can get some groceries before heading to the guesthouse, I'll make some dinner, and even give you a backrub if you'd like." Harry hoped he wasn't being too brazen; it wasn't really anything he'd offered before, but it was still pretty innocuous. It could, however, also be a good starting point for something else.

"Oh, mate, that sounds like heaven," Ron said dramatically, moving his hand from the seat Harry was leaning against to squeeze Harry's shoulder. "Hopefully I won't sleep twelve hours straight, but I can't make any promises. Frankly my body doesn't know what time of day or season to expect right now."

"Well, it is a holiday," Harry acquiesced, patting Ron's knee. "Let's just play it by ear, like usual."

"Usual with Hermione meant having a schedule down to each five minutes," Ron said with a snort.

"Which we ignored," Harry said, chuckling.

"This'll be a great trip." Ron squeezed Harry's shoulder again before placing his hands in his lap. "I'm gonna go find a loo. Back in a bit."

Harry nodded. He watched Ron wander off, unable to tear his gaze away from the play of muscles under Ron's tracksuit pants. Shifting in his seat to discreetly adjust his denims, Harry took himself to task for not being more cautious about his feelings and increasingly obvious attractions. Ron had never said anything negative about their few friends who were shirt-lifters, and seemed just as comfortable around them as before. But how on Merlin's green earth would he react if he found out that Harry thought about Ron that way? Harry couldn't bear to think of things being awkward between them, but if he didn't say something in the next few days, it could be torture. He'd be reveling in their time together, but it all had such erotic overtones now. Harry would end up wanking himself raw by the time the week was out if he weren't able to find a much more pleasurable, mutual release. Even if he could just kiss Ron, feel how his full lips felt on his, send his tongue into Ron's hot mouth…

"This is the portkey to Iceland, yes?" a bossy Wizard asked Harry, jolting him out of his reverie and reminding him unpleasantly of Percy Weasley.

"Yes," Harry said, trying not to scowl. He looked up at the man's nametag: Huguenot Lorry, IWTA, Perambulant Division.

"Right. I have a message from the International Wizarding Transportation Authority that you all need to know," he said bombastically, turning to the Witch and her children. "Due to expected increased auora borealis activity, an anti-Apparition restriction notice has been issued on Iceland for the next four days. It's still possible to Apparate, of course, but your ambric energy could be irreparably damaged. Just don't do it," he said snidely, looking down his bulbous nose at Harry.

"What do the aurora borealis have to do with Apparating?" Harry asked, genuinely confused.

"Solar energy and ambric energy don't fuse well," Lorry said slowly, as though Harry were a bit thick. "More like oil and water. The elemental aspects of your magic, the kinetic ambric energy that makes you a Wizard and not a Muggle, or Squib, is adversely affected by solar flares. We don't really know why; that's just how it is."

"Oh."

The Transportation Wizard glanced over at the Witch, who nodded wearily at him and waved her hand in acknowledgment. "You can check the Wizarding Wireless in a few days for a status update." With a swirl of navy robes, the heavyset Wizard tromped off, nearly colliding with Ron.

"Watch it there, mate!" Ron exclaimed, giving Harry a look of 'what's his problem?' as the older Wizard went away, muttering to himself.

"He came by to make some anti-Apparition announcement. Those amazing lights in the sky I wrote you about?"

Ron nodded, stifling a yawn with his hand.

"Apparently it's really bad to Apparate while they're active. Don't reckon it'll be an issue. I've never liked traveling that way, to tell the truth."

"Not my favourite either," Ron said through another yawn. "D'you mind if I close my eyes for a bit?" he asked, resting his head on Harry's shoulder.

"No. We've only got another half-hour. I'll wake you up."

"Thanks."

Harry sat, half-heartedly thumbing through a travel guide and trying not to smile outwardly at the comforting sensation of Ron's heavy head nestled next to his own.

* * * * *

The sky was a luminous periwinkle with wide swaths of steely grey clouds looming above the valley. They looked like plateaued mountains as solid as the jagged snow-covered ones that genuinely existed beneath them. Irregularly-shaped clouds closer to the horizon glowed vivid orange as though a spectacular fire raged just behind them.

"That's what the sun is, you ridiculous git," Harry thought, sipping at a glass of wine as he continued to look out the window of their guest house, enjoying the sunset. It had been a busy couple of days, as he and Ron had walked and ridden horses across some of the most surreal geological landscapes Harry had ever seen. Ron was still dragging a bit and had opted to take a nap once they'd returned this afternoon. Their big event for the evening was to eat in and then go to the local pool, though it was bound to be nothing like Harry had experienced before. The Icelanders took their water, especially thermal water, quite seriously. This place had an outdoor geothermal pool, indoor pool, hot tub and steam bath. Harry was looking forward to relaxing in the hot water, and steam room, and not just because he'd be able to be near Ron nearly starkers. That was certainly an added bonus, however.

"Whatcha doin', Harry?" Ron yawned from behind Harry, his feet shuffling on the floor.

"Looking at the sunset. It's amazing," Harry said, turning to smile at Ron.

"Wow. It is, too." Ron took up a stance next to Harry, draping his arm over Harry's shoulder and leaning his head to rest against the side of Harry's. "Sorry I took such a long nap. Didn't realise just how thrashed I'd gotten from all that travel."

Harry 'Mm-hmmm'ed' in response, trying madly to process what all, if anything, Ron's new physical gestures might mean: maybe the Australians were more affectionate than they were and he'd gotten used to that; perhaps Ron missed him as a friend and companion and was more apt to show it by touching him. But could it, just possibly, mean he was interested in Harry? A flash of hot and cold torched through him, seared with hope. Harry promised himself once they were safely ensconced in the steamy heat of the pool, he'd ask Ron some of the questions he was so keen to know answers to. For now he'd simply keep on with the status quo: they were the best of friends.

"You want some wine?" Harry asked, holding up his glass.

"Sure. Think I had my fill of beer for a while with the blokes in Brisbane," Ron said, shaking his head and moving away from Harry toward the kitchen.

"You? Had your fill?" Harry asked incredulously, trailing closely behind him like a plant seeking light. "I didn't think that was possible."

"Sure. A lot of them are pretty heavy drinkers; a few might've had some problems, if you know what I mean." He poured himself a glass, sniffed it, and then took a sip. "Nice stuff."

"I'd hope so. Bloody expensive. Everything here is."

"You picked it," Ron reminded him, taking another swallow. "Iceland. Nearly wizardless, but interesting in its own way. Besides, you've got the money, and we're eating in tonight anyway, right?"

"Yeah. Oh, and we should try this Brennivín stuff, too."

Ron grinned askance at the distinctive green glass bottle before looking back at Harry. "We're such bloody tourists. Even the fellow at the shop said the natives don't usually drink it, y'know, except to show off to foreigners."

"Well, we are tourists," Harry said with a shrug. "And foreigners. We've got to try the local brew, liquor, whatever the hell this is. Here, d'you mind helping me chop some of these veggies?"

"No worries."

They made and ate dinner, a rather scrumptious seafood stir-fry, if Harry did say so himself. It was marvelous, spending such comfortable, playful time with Ron, just one on one. After Ron had set the dishes to washing up and they'd finished a second bottle of imported shiraz, they lit a fire and decided to have some of the Black Death.


"Augh!" Ron said, grimacing after his initial shot. "This stuff's unbelievably awful!"

After Harry downed his sample, he had to concur. "Maybe after a few rounds it tastes better," he said, looking at the label before pouring them each another serving.

"Maybe," Ron replied, his expression skeptical. "We should have a toast!" he went on more enthusiastically.

"Okay. You first."

"To best mates. You've saved my arse again and again, and you're really the best bloke a person could ever have as a friend. You mean the world to me, Harry. So… to lifelong mates," Ron said, beaming as he looked at Harry and lifted his glass.

Harry could feel the blush creeping warmly up his neck. "Thanks, Ron. You're pretty brilliant yourself. To best mates."

They clinked the shot glasses together and quaffed the contents. Harry actually liked the almost burning sensation of the alcohol as he swallowed, enjoying the warm sensation in his chest as the minutes went by. Ron took over bartending duties as they sat and chatted, sitting on the floor and resting against the low couch. After a while, Harry really began to feel the effects of the liquor and figured that it was similarly affecting Ron.

"Don't suppose I could actually get that backrub you mentioned back at the portkey terminal," Ron said, his voice both apologetic and hopeful.

"Of course," Harry replied, a frisson of heat shooting to his groin at the thought of being able to have such close access to Ron's skin, even if it was an innocent activity. "D'you wanna just sit here in front of me or lie down?"

"Sitting's good," Ron said, pulling his jumper and undershirt over his head.

Harry had to bite back a whimper at the sight of Ron shirtless. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, especially if there was a growing fullness in his denims. It was one thing to ask Ron about his love life or lack thereof, and quite another for Ron to sit there between Harry's legs and discover that Harry was getting turned on by rubbing his muscled back.

"Here- pour me another shot, will you?" Harry asked, unsteadily holding out his glass and realising that the Brennivín was really quite potent.

"Sure."

Ron poured one for himself as well, swallowing it all down while Harry watched the play of the firelight on his throat. Harry was captivated, grateful that somehow he'd been immune to Ron's entrancing, masculine physicality when they'd been in school. Perhaps the more appropriate term was dormant; the feelings and very real arousal brought on by smelling and seeing Ron had always been there, it had simply taken Harry a goodly amount of time to recognise them for what they were.

"You okay there?" Ron asked and Harry realised he'd been caught staring.

"Yeah. You're an attractive guy, you know that?" he blurted out, shifting up to sit on the couch so he had a better angle to work on Ron's back.

"You think so?" Ron asked, grinning self-consciously and rubbing at the glinting copper stubble on his chin.

"Yeah. I'm sure I'm not the only one, either. Here, scoot back." Harry began rubbing the hard, wide planes of Ron's upper back and Ron moaned his appreciation.

"Feels wonderful," Ron rumbled, pulling his shoulder-length hair out of the way of Harry's hands. "Well, thank you for the compliment." He took a deep breath and sank further against the couch. "A couple of other blokes have said so."

Harry's heart tripped over itself as he absorbed the implications of that comment. One of the last walls to him coming out and telling Ron absolutely everything that he found gorgeous about him had been knocked down, but an instinct in Harry said to hold off saying anything. This was the first time Ron had said anything about his sexuality, much less that it was no longer heterosexual; maybe he felt he had waters of his own to test with Harry.

"Couple of blokes, eh?" Harry queried, leaning into his motions, trying earnestly to knead out the few knots he found lurking at the base of Ron's neck.

"Mmmmmm. That really feels great. Thank you," Ron said, turning his head to give Harry a warm smile before hanging his head back down.

"You're welcome."

There was a comfortable, but anticipatory silence aside from the faint cheery pops of the fire. Ron stretched over and retrieved the bottle of Brennivín, taking a swig directly from it. Twisting slightly, he offered the bottle over his shoulder.

"No thanks. Well, okay. Just one more," Harry acquiesced, sipping rather than tossing it back. Ron had another healthy swallow before twisting the cap and shaking what meager contents were left.

"Not quite a dead soldier, but dead enough," he quipped through an expansive belch. "Oops. Pardon."

Harry snickered and went back to his purposeful, slow massaging. It seemed obvious that Ron wanted to talk him about his own sexual preferences; Harry felt really put out, in fact, that Ron hadn't been more candid with him until now, especially since Harry had told Ron at least a year and a half ago that he was pretty sure he was a shirt-lifter. Ron had been fine with that, and that had been the end of it. But Harry hadn't actually done anything about it. Well, not with anyone else being involved; he certainly had plenty of experience in pleasuring himself. Harry was a private person, and while lots of sex with lots of people sounded great in theory, he was still the infamous Harry Potter. The truth was he didn't trust people for the most part; they had to earn his confidence. He didn't want to have sex while glamoured, but he didn't want to have sex as himself and then end up reading about it from some attention-grubbing arsehole in the Prophet.


"Yeah, Harry, sorry I didn't say anything before, but it was just one of those things I figured you'd figure out, y'know, since you're one too," Ron said at last.

"Just because I fancy blokes doesn't mean I can automatically tell who else does," Harry said defensively. "I mean, I reckon sometimes it's more obvious than others. But it's not like I've been out shagging a lot. Or at all, really," he said in a low voice.

"Not at all?" Ron said, his words beginning to slur, slow and treacle-like. "That's horrible. I mean, horrible for you, not knowing."

"What d'you mean?" Harry said, his feelings bruised and peripherally insulted. This wasn't how he'd expected the conversation to go and he was getting cheesed off. "I know I only get off thinking about men. Particular men. I know enough. Obviously not as much as you, though," he said, tasting his bitter tone on his tongue. "Not about actually fucking."

"Oy, Harry, I'm not some slag!" Ron exclaimed, scooting forward and away from Harry's hands. He turned around and glared, though underneath the anger it was obvious to Harry that he'd hurt Ron's feelings more than anything else. "I've only shagged a few people, nothing serious."

"Great!" Harry mocked, throwing up his hands. "So you think I'm pathetic for still being a virgin, while you're off being Ron-I'm-only-interested-in-meaningless-sex-Weasley."

"I didn't say that!" Ron said, his voice becoming lower and more intense as he grew increasingly frustrated. "I think it's great that you've not shagged. No, I mean, I wish you had, because it feels really fucking great—"

"You're not helping," Harry said caustically. "Just maybe I do want to know how fucking great it is but I want a relationship to go with it. But I'm Harry Fucking Potter and I have to work three times as fucking hard to get anything, much less anything I really want. Really, fucking, truly want."

A shadow of their barbed words settled on Harry, and his anger at Ron inexorably began to ebb. Harry hadn't realised just how raw and maltreated he felt that Ron hadn't entrusted this part of his life with him until now; that pain of being left out had encouraged Harry's defenses to come roaring out of him.

"I didn't know there was somebody in particular you fancied," Ron said in a more subdued manner before rubbing his head. "I really want to know. I'm sorry I was yelling, but I thought you were judging me. Actually, to be honest, I feel like I've been shat on by a blast-ended skrewt. Physically and by what you said."

"Why don't you go lie down— I'll come back to our room in a bit," Harry said. "We're too drunk to go to the baths tonight anyhow. Pool. Steam. Whatever."

"Damn straight," Ron agreed, surprising Harry when he grasped Harry's left hand and looked pleadingly at him. "Can we talk some more about this tomorrow? I've actually got loads to tell you, honest, but not just now. Probably couldn't even spell my own name."

Harry had to admit that Ron looked on the verdant side of peaky. "Sure. Need help getting to bed?"

"No." Ron waved him off, clambering rather unsteadily to his feet, alarming Harry when he clutched at the mantle above the fire and nearly missed.

Harry listened to Ron's colourfully-worded ablutions until all that was left was an unsettled calm. He was pretty pissed himself, but had enough sense to put out their fire and ensure that a very low-grade ward was set around their house. He got ready for bed, including taking a dose of Madame Ciara’s Patented Hangover Draught. Harry fell asleep wondering what in Merlin's beard Ron was anxious to tell him, a pillow cushioned between his knees.

* * * * *

Disconcerted and in a sluggish fog, Harry found himself awake. Someone was making moaning noises, and the piteous sound roused Harry into sharp consciousness.

"Ron? Ron! Are you okay?" he asked into the velvet black of the room, fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table. He snatched up his wand, muttering Lumos into the ensuing silence. Throwing back the comforter, he shuffled the few steps to Ron's bed. Ron's fringe was plastered to his brow and temple, his face scarlet under his barrage of freckles. A ripe, musky odour accosted Harry as he leaned down, placing the back of his hand across Ron's forehead.

"Pixie's piss!" Harry swore, snatching his hand away as though it had been scalded. Ron was blazingly feverish. Harry didn't know why, or what had caused it, but it was serious. He'd need to side-along Apparate them to the small hospital in Reykjavík.

"Oh fuck," he whimpered. They couldn't Apparate anywhere, it was far too risky. He rushed into the bathroom, tore a washcloth from the rack and ran it under the cold tap. After wringing it out he ran back to Ron's bed, carefully wiping Ron's sweaty face before folding the cloth and laying it gently across his forehead. Harry's mind was a maelstrom of panic and frustration. He'd never been good at healing. Despite Harry's continued murmured attempts to communicate, all Ron did was groan and lick at his lips in a way that Harry should not have found at all erotic, given the situation. They'd eaten the same food, drunk the same water and that wicked Black Death nonsense.

An inarticulate pained noise from Ron as he shifted onto his side threw Harry into action. He took the washcloth that had slid over Ron's eyes and waved it in the air to cool it off. "Fuck, Harry, put a cooling charm on it," he berated himself before doing just that and placing it back on Ron's scorching skin. He was stuck up in the middle of nowhere Iceland, with his best mate so feverish he couldn't even talk. If only Hermione—


"Be right back, Ron, I promise," Harry whispered, patting at Ron's sweat-slick hair. "Hermione will tell me what to do. Water. You should have water," he babbled, crawling up to Ron's bed and cradling Ron so he sat up somewhat. Ron's eyes fluttered open, unfocussed and the irises vivid blue against his inflamed skin.


"Ron!" Harry said, relieved as he conjured a glass of ice-cold water. "Here— drink this." He placed the glass carefully at Ron's mouth. Ron drank thirstily, but much of it dribbled down his chin and he didn't look at Harry. Whatever state Ron was in, he wasn't with Harry, and that frightened Harry beyond belief.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck me," Harry railed at himself as he gently laid Ron back into his steamy bower. "All I'd wanted was to tell you how I feel and now you're sick and I can't get you back to somebody who knows what to do."

"Bloody hell!" Harry growled at himself. He raced to the fireplace in the living room, casting a wandless Incendio, planning to firecall the one person he knew could help him. "Hermione!" he yelled, dropping to his knees. "Hermione! Sorry to bother you, but Ron's sick with a really high fever. Can't talk to him and I can't Apparate with the bloody borealis, fuck! Oh! Hi, Seamus," he said sheepishly as his rant petered out in front of his classmate's cranky scowl.

"Harry. Fecking hell," Seamus grumbled, rubbing at his riotous nest of hair. "Why're you howling like a banshee into me fireplace?"

"Ron's really sick. Fever," Harry said, tugging at his hair. "Hermione there? Sorry to bother you. Ron's sick and I can't fucking Apparate. Is Hermione okay?"

"Yeah, mate, fine. Shite. I'll get her. You put a cold cloth on 'im?"

"Yeah, did that. I'm pants at Healing, though, you know that. Get her, please," Harry begged, banging the palms of his hands against his temples as Seamus' face disappeared. "Get it together, Potter," he snarled, squinching his eyes together.

"Harry! Harry? What’s wrong?" Hermione's eyes had bags under them like Harry hadn't seen since they'd tracked down the Horcruxes, and his stomach churned at the thought that she, too, was ill.

"It's Ron. He's got a really high fever. I don't know why; we've eaten and drunk the same things. D'you think he picked this up in Australia? What am I supposed to do? Hermione, I love him, I really do. I was going to tell him, and now he's…" his voice trailed off once his brain caught up to his mouth and he realized what he'd said.

"Good on you, Harry," Hermione said after a pause, a tired smile threading her lips. "Draw a tepid bath. Put Ron in it to try to get his body temperature down. I'll do some research. Does he have any other symptoms? Spots? Bruising?" She drew in a deep breath. "You love him?"

Harry nodded vigorously, so beyond shame that telling her Ron was his heart's desire felt simply like simply stating the obvious: I'm Harry James Potter, and I'm in love with Ronald Bilius Weasley.


"Does he know?"

"Not yet," Harry said, slumping into himself. "We almost talked about it last night, but had a fight instead."

"Men." Hermione resignedly shook her head, pursing her lips. "He's not vomiting?"

Harry rapidly shook his head. "Nothing but fever. Bath, you said?"

"Yes. Give him a thorough looking over when you put him in the tub, and if you see anything odd, tell me. Most regular fevers pass within a day or two, but without being there, it's hard for me to know what might have caused it. Could be anything." Hermione tilted her head, looking balefully at him. "I wish I were there. Nothing against Seamus, or the bubling," she said, looking down presumably at her rotund belly, "but I miss you two."

Harry nodded. "I know. I'll put Ron in the bath and report back if anything looks out of the ordinary. Sorry about disturbing you. I don't even know what bollocky time it is."

Hermione sighed. "It's 3:09 in the morning. Probably good practise, though. I'm sure we won't get much sleep once the baby comes."

"Well, go back to bed. I'll keep you posted."

"Please do. And cast a Fervere Inlumino above him. That way you can see when his temperature goes back to normal, which I'm sure it will. Love you both."

Hermione's head vanished from the fireplace. Harry quickly rose from the floor and hurried into the bathroom, turning on the taps for the tub until he got what he hoped was the correct lukewarm temperature before going back to Ron's bed. Ron was too heavy for Harry to carry, so he knew he'd have to cast a Mobilicorpus, though he hated to do it. The last thing Harry wanted to do was have Ron think he was being abducted, especially since he'd been taken hostage once during the War and had continued to have nightmares about the experience for a couple of years after it was all over.

"Ron, mate, it's Harry," he said, gently caressing Ron's cheek. "I'm going to put you in a bath so we can get your fever down."

Ron's head lolled and he batted at the covers. "Harry," he moaned, and Harry's eyes grew wide.

"I'm here, Ron."

"Harry, Harry," Ron said, shaking his head, eyes still shut and obviously out of it. "Sexy Harry," he sighed as Harry gaped at him.

"What?" he exclaimed before coming to his senses. Ron was babbling, and Harry needed to get him in the tub now. He pulled the covers off of Ron, newly shocked at the heat rising from him. He cast the spell and as smoothly as he could despite his shaking fingers, took Ron's sleep pants and shirt off of him. He'd seen Ron naked before, of course, but never this close up. This certainly hadn't been the way he'd wanted his first time to experience such relative intimacy with Ron's body, and he tried to force himself to be clinical about it. As he waved Ron into the bathroom, however, he failed utterly. With infinite care, he lowered Ron into the tub, wincing as he saw Ron shiver at the contact with the water. Harry cast a cushioning charm on the porcelain so Ron could be as comfortable as possible.

Ron certainly had a nice physique; Harry'd quite enjoyed looking at it during their last years in Hogwarts while in their room or in the Quidditch showers, and as he'd filled out after the War. Not to mention having had the wide, freckled terrain of his back under his hands not long ago. Now, though, Ron looked terribly vulnerable, his skin splotchy and sweat beading on his forehead. Harry allowed his gaze to meander across Ron's body, greedily drinking in the scars and ginger hair that whorled around his brown nipples. An enticing trail of red began at his belly button, drawing Harry's eyes down to a nicely shaped, flaccid cock below a riot of auburn curls. Oh the things that Harry had imagined doing to that currently soft part of Ron's anatomy, fantasizing about what it would be like to have Ron in his mouth, how he'd taste…

Ron groaned and moved his hands in the water. Harry glanced up at him, seeing Ron's eyes slowly open and look at Harry. "Where am I?" he asked froggily.

"In the tub. You've got a wicked fever," Harry said, taking a hand to smooth Ron's long fringe behind his ear. "We can't Apparate, so I firecalled Hermione and she said you should be in tepid water until the fever breaks. How do you feel?"

"Batshite. Hot. Headache," he whimpered, raising a hand to meet Harry's and clasping it, his eyes fluttering closed.

"I brought a low-grade pain reliever potion. I don't want to risk anything else because I don't know what's caused this. And I'm pants at healing spells."

Ron nodded. "Thanks for taking care of me," he said, turning his head to rest against the side of the tub. "Especially after our row. Merlin, I'm thirsty."

"Right. I'll get you more water," Harry promised, squeezing Ron's hand. "Be right back."

Rather than keep conjuring it, Harry brought in the jug of water from the kitchen. He went into their room, lit a candle and retrieved the glass from Ron's bedside. Back in the bathroom, he poured half a glass and knelt down. "Here, Ron," he murmured and Ron opened his eyes, reaching up to hold the glass and draining the contents.

"Thanks. Sorry to be a bother," Ron said slowly, returning the glass and sinking down further into the cooling water.

"You're not! It's just a fever; you'll be well in no time," Harry said vehemently. "I'll just go get the potion." He stood up and suddenly remembered to cast the Fervere Inlumino charm. The numbers 104.5 hovered in blazing red above Ron's head. "You must feel awful," Harry said under his breath, going to get the potion.

He spent the next several hours with Ron, checking the temperature of the water every few minutes and breathing a sigh of relief when at last the glowing numbers began going down. He'd also glanced through the most recent issue of Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly, admiring the many buff blokes but recognising that none of them had the kind of effect on him that Ron did, even while ill and turning prune-like in the bathwater. His mind wandered back to Ron's early mutterings; did Ron really find him sexy? It seemed improbable- if he did, why hadn't he ever said anything to Harry, especially since he'd found other people attractive enough to sleep with them?

Ron began shivering once his temperature got closer to normal. Harry shook Ron lightly and he woke up, disoriented and eyes dilated. "Ron. Need to get you to the bed. Can you walk if I help you?"

Ron nodded. "So thirsty," he moaned, so Harry poured a large glass of water that Ron downed, holding it with tremulous hands and Harry's help. Harry put the empty glass down and got a thick towel, holding it around Ron's wide back as Ron grasped the side of the tub, his knuckles white with exertion.

"Hold on to me," Harry said and Ron complied, shakily stepping over the porcelain and onto the floor.

"Think I should lie down," Ron mumbled, adjusting his arms and legs as Harry thoroughly dried him off, all except his groin. Ron perfunctorily rubbed the towel between his legs, looking at the floor and clutching Harry for support.

"Do you have other sleep clothes?" Harry asked as they made their arduous, slow walk back to the bedroom.

"Yeah. Don't want 'em. Still hot," Ron said, collapsing onto Harry's bed.

"Um, that's—"

"Yours, I know," Ron said gruffly. "Mine's got the sick stuff innit. We can both sleep here," he insisted, eyes closed, tugging on Harry's wrist.

"Are you sure?" Harry had a fleeting worry about Ron being contagious before brutally squelching it.

"Yes. Still need you to take care of me." Ron opened his eyes and looked imploringly up at Harry. "Please. Lie down."

Harry's reserve finally gave way, the words rushing from him in a torrent. "Okay, but Ron, you should know I fancy you. More than best mates, even. You've got to know that before I'm next to you and you've got no clothes on, because even though I know you're sick, you're still naked and gorgeous and despite myself I can nearly guarantee my body will respond to yours. Even though you don't want me like that."

"Nothing like being blunt, you daft idiot," Harry thought to himself as Ron continued to look at him, his face still flushed with his slight fever.

"You fancy me?" Ron asked, pulling on Harry's hand until Harry acquiesced and lay prone next to Ron.

"Yes. Hope you aren't too horrified. It's been a long time coming," Harry said ruefully, battling his ingrained instinct to reach out and pull Ron to him. "But your friendship means the most to me. I never want to lose that, never. I couldn't bear it."

"Not horrified at all. That's brilliant," Ron said, a smile weakly blooming on his lips. "I think you're amazing, too, in a more-than-friends way. Just didn't know that you'd be at all interested. I mean, I knew you liked blokes and all that, but you've not really done much about it. Now I know just how little, but that suits you. I didn't want to push you or anything."

Harry stared as Ron shifted, putting an arm under his pillow and the other draping across Harry's waist. "You didn't want to push me?" Harry repeated.

"Oh, sorry, I'm sick," Ron apologised, withdrawing his arm.

"I don't care," Harry said fervently, clutching at it. "You mean you actually are attracted to me? In a…" he paused, reaching out to caress Ron's warm cheekbone.

"Yes, Harry," Ron said, his eyes tired and yet full of understanding. "In a 'I'd really like to shag you senseless' way. You're stunning and I'm always comfortable around you and I'd be lying if I said I haven't had all kinds of fantasies about you, but I didn't want to muck things up, y'know? Didn't want to lose my best mate, if you didn't have interests in me like that. Figured you would've said something, or done something by now."

"You'll never lose me," Harry promised. "I didn't do anything because I didn't even know you liked blokes. Wish you'd told me sooner." His pulse thumped so loudly he thought it could be heard all the way to Reykjavík. Ron wanted him, fancied him, needed him… He leaned in to press a chaste kiss against Ron's slightly open lips. "As desperately as I want to get to know every inch of your body right now, I'm afraid I need to make sure you get well. Once you are, we have a hell of a lot of missed opportunities to get caught up on."

Ron's exhausted, crooked grin branded itself into the cavern of Harry's heart. Harry was forever marked; somewhere deep within himself he'd known that, probably since their first meeting when Harry had defended his right to have friends of his own choosing, and he'd chosen Ron. Not until this moment, however, had he realised just how profound and fathomless that bond was.

"We sure do," Ron breathed, kissing Harry with more force than Harry had, but still cautiously. "And thanks for everything. You're it, y'know. Just… everything. All of it. Good, bad. Forever."

"Thank you," Harry said quietly. "Do you want some more water?"

"No thanks. Just lie against me, okay? I'm gonna turn on my side, but I'd like you behind me. Whatever your body does is fine," Ron said reassuringly. "I'm sure I'll love it, but I'm not in a state yet to do anything about it."

"I know. That'll be later."

"I sure hope so."

Ron pulled up the covers over them as Harry cast a Nox on the candle he'd lit earlier and put his glasses on the side table. Harry snuggled against him, reaching his arm over Ron's ribs. With a contented rumble, Ron clasped Harry's hand in his, holding it to his rather hairy chest. Harry was still worried about him; Ron continued to run a low-grade fever though the chills seemed to have passed. Being pressed up against Ron's warm, naked body certainly did affect Harry, especially since his mind insisted on racing through possibilities of what they would get up to once Ron had recovered. Thankfully, while he did get somewhat hard, he didn't have to contend with an all-out erection, and eventually he fell asleep.

* * * * *

Harry woke up to somewhat blurry, bright blue eyes looking at him.

"Hi," Ron said, a smile meandering onto his lips.

"Oh good. That conversation wasn't a dream," Harry thought to himself, smiling in response. "Hi, you," Harry replied. "How do you feel?"

"Ravenous. That I have awful morning breath, otherwise I'd have snogged you awake. And that I've got to go to the loo."

Harry chuckled. "Sounds as though you're nearly back to normal." He kissed Ron gently. "I could stand to brush my teeth, too. You go first." Harry suddenly found himself wrapped in Ron's arms, held tightly to Ron's chest.

"I don't know that I can get out of bed quite yet, though," Ron murmured, running his wide hands on Harry's back.

The feeling of being chest to chest with Ron, Ron's half-hard cock nudging against Harry's clothed one, was nearly enough to send Harry into sensory overload. Harry moaned at the delicious soft hair pressed against him, gasping aloud when Ron rolled them over so Ron was on his back, Harry still cocooned in Ron's embrace.

"Ron, I want you so much," Harry whimpered, unable to keep from rocking his groin against Ron's. He groaned at the warm heat and unbelievable erotic sensation of feeling Ron's shaft grow harder between Harry's legs, albeit through one frustrating layer of fabric.

"Gods, Harry," Ron growled before kissing a swath along Harry's sensitive neck. "I want all of you. Want to know every taste and scent, want to be so deep inside of you, see how amazing you look when you come…"

Harry let out an inarticulate, wounded sound at those words, grinding himself against all of Ron's body, as though trying to meld with it.

"Bathroom, now," Harry said desperately, sliding his palms along Ron's scarred forearms until his hands were welcomed into Ron's own. "Or I may come in my stupid pyjama bottoms without even really kissing you first, and I want to know how you taste," Harry begged, rubbing as much of himself into Ron's warm, strong frame as he could.

"Let's go," Ron said, his voice husky and so full of promise Harry felt dizzy.

They managed to disentangle to a degree, though Harry couldn't keep his hands off of Ron, caressing his back and arse as they took turns using the toilet and cleaned their teeth. Harry hastily shed his pyjamas, and as soon as Ron rinsed out his mouth, Harry pounced. He leaned his very aroused body against Ron's, pulling Ron's face to his so he could kiss him properly. It was a very long, wet, open and deep exploration, seeming to set Harry's groin aflame. His cock throbbed as their kiss grew more passionate and Ron's hands found his way to Harry's backside, kneading his arsecheeks so deeply Harry thought he might bruise.

"Touch me," Harry said breathlessly, pulling away slightly from their kiss and nuzzling against Ron's stubbled neck.

"Gladly," Ron rumbled, keeping one hand on Harry's arse and the other coming to the front to grasp both of their erections together.

"Gods, yes," Harry said, arching into Ron's hand. He kissed Ron again, moaning open-mouthed as Ron moved his hand up and down, expertly wanking them both. The feeling of Ron's steely shaft next to his and the appreciative, hungry sounds Ron was making brought Harry quickly to the edge. "Gonna come, Ron, feels too good," Harry howled, his orgasm thundering through him. His release was so powerful, nearly mystical in that it was with Ron, Harry felt tears prick behind his closed eyes. Ron let out a mirrored cry as his warm fluid fountained over his fingers, joining Harry's as Ron slowed his slick pistoning of their cocks.

"You're amazing," Harry sniffed, burying his face into the warm, comforting skin of Ron's neck, his arms held tightly around Ron's torso.

"Thank you. Your face— you looked so concentrated, so intense," Ron said, carefully releasing their sticky, softening cocks. Harry heard him wipe his hand on his leg before enfolding Harry in a possessive hug. "Thank you for sharing yourself with me."

Harry leaned back to be able to look at Ron's face. He practically glowed, but not in the sickly way he had before; now he had an expression of sated bliss. "That was only the beginning. I want to see this look," he paused to press a firm, closed kiss on Ron's lips, "on your face again and again. Before we go to sleep tonight, I want to know just how gorgeous you look when you come, making love to me."

"That's a promise I'm very happy to make," Ron said heatedly, leaning down to capture Harry's lips in a fierce, passionate kiss. After a few charged moments of adventurous tongues exploring the warm havens of each other's mouths, Ron pulled away, taking a deep breath. "In addition to everything else, you're a fantastic kisser, Harry. I can say without a doubt that I'm the luckiest man in the world. Thank Merlin you told me how you really feel."

Harry nosed along Ron's cheekbone. "I fell for you a long time ago. I love you," he whispered against the corner of Ron's mouth.

"Oh, Harry," Ron said, his voice rough with emotion. "You know I love you too."

Ron tightened his grip on Harry, who felt more secure than he ever had in his life. Ron was his bulwark, his anchor, and now, his beloved. "I hope you don't mind that I'm a romantic sap," Harry said, leaning his head back and smiling. "Not that I'm into roses and poetry, but, well, with you I have the feeling I might end up being embarrassing."

"I don't mind," Ron pronounced, giving Harry a quick squeeze at the small of his back. "But I do think we should clean up and I'll let you make us some breakfast. I really am famished."

"Me, too."

After they each got a quick shower, Harry busied himself making eggs, ladling out yogurt and putting on tea. He paused in his cooking to join Ron as he firecalled Hermione to let her know that he appeared not to be sick anymore.

"I'm so glad to hear that," Hermione said, her weary expression changing to relief. "I'd looked up a few possibilities for sudden onset of high fever in one of my Healer manuals; you didn't by chance sample any Tasmanian Devil Delight, did you?"

Ron snorted. "Not a chance, though a couple of the blokes tried to convince me to try some."

Harry looked quizzically at him.

"Tell you later," he said, winking.

"You both look really happy," Hermione said wistfully before giving Harry a pointed look. "What's on your agenda for today? Nothing too strenuous, I hope."

"No," Harry said, sneaking his hand across Ron's thigh, carefully out of Hermione's view. "We've yet to get to these brilliant baths they have. They're in the town centre. There's a botanical garden, too."

"And Icelandic telly," Ron said, grinning. "Most bizarre language I've ever heard. Not that I know a word they're saying."

"Well, get back to it, then," Hermione said crisply. "Don't forget to check the Wireless about Apparition."

"Actually, I was thinking we should take the Muggle bus back to Reykjavík," Harry said, looking over at Ron. "It's a day's trip according to my book. We might as well see as much of the country as we can before we go."

Ron's expression was one of surprise, but he shrugged, smiling and draping his arm over Harry's shoulders before turning back to the fireplace. "Harry. You just never know what he's going to suggest next!"

"Hmmmmm." Hermione arched an eyebrow as she gazed at them, but refrained from responding further.

"Oi! Hermione, we've got to get to that appointment, duchess," Seamus' brogue carried faintly from behind her.

"Duchess?" Ron asked incredulously. "You've not hexed him for that?"

"No, Ron," Hermione said, a sly smile settling onto her lips. "He's actually quite devoted, you know. His irreverence has gone a long way in me not taking myself quite so seriously. I've got to go. We're in the final countdown to this actual 'having a baby' experience."

"Better you than me," Harry said warmly.

"Too right, there," Ron echoed as Hermione waved goodbye and vanished from the fireplace.

"So," Harry said, turning and sliding his leg over Ron's to sit in his lap. "You hungry?"

"For all kinds of things," Ron said, reaching his arms around to cup Harry's arse. "Food, first. You, second and third and fourth."

Harry groaned at that thought, rocking against Ron's hips. "Sounds like the perfect day, but are you sure you're well enough for that?"

"Promise." Ron leaned in to kiss Harry, who opened his mouth with a small sigh. He'd kissed other people, but it was nothing like this, the slightly bristly skin a delicious masculine compliment to Ron's tender, but commanding kiss.

"Good."

* * * * *

The day evolved into a succession of delicious, sensual tableaus. A willing pupil, Harry learned everything he could from Ron about how to please him with fingers, tongue and lips. Harry's desire was kindled and then set afire as he first tasted Ron's cock and the pearly liquid that seeped so enticingly from the top. Almost too enthusiastic, Harry had to learn to be careful of his teeth. Nothing could have prepared him for the taste of the somewhat bitter fluid that filled his mouth; it wasn't unpleasant, but there was more of it than he'd imagined. Hearing Ron yell his name as he bucked into Harry's mouth made him feel like the most cherished man in the world, and Ron's reverent, slow smile as he eased up onto his elbows only reinforced the adoration Harry had for his chosen one. Shortly thereafter Harry was rendered inarticulate and writhing in hedonistic abandon when Ron took his time sucking and kissing Harry's rigid shaft. Harry shouted explosively when he came, though it wasn't long after that he lamented how little time he'd lasted. Ron reassured him that there would be much more of that.

There was. More topography of Ron's freckled skin to lave and suckle and mark as Harry's own; more of Ron's tongue battling with his, or Ron investigating each scar and rib and secretive sexual enclave with worshipful torpidity.

They did go into town to the baths, though Harry found himself unable to keep from touching Ron, even in one of the nearly-scalding hot pots of water. They sat across from each other, their toes nudging gently in the tangy-scented water. Harry kept a modicum of distance given the public nature of the pools, but with the heat so obvious in Ron's expression, he knew that once they were back at their guesthouse they would be inseparable. Thankfully the water temperature kept Harry from getting too erect, though he'd noticed Ron filling out his swim trunks in an indecently alluring manner. They needed to get home; Harry needed to know at last how it would feel to be claimed by Ron, his body's and heart's desire.

Once back at the guesthouse, Harry lit the fire and went into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of wine and two glasses. He was nervous. Despite how innately right this was, Harry was diving into all manner of new sexual and emotional realms with the speed of a well-executed Wronski Feint. Weasley Feint, now that he thought about it; ultimately Harry's focus was on Ron. His lopsided, endearing smile; his legs which went on forever; his voice, which Harry had heard as it evolved from tenor to cracking at odd moments until it at last settled into a resonant baritone, carrying over nearly anyone in a crowd. A latent possessive streak in Harry was justifiably incensed that Ron had been with other men before him. Then again, two inexperienced people together would probably lead to all kinds of embarrassing moments best left unremembered. Harry wanted to cherish and relish every sound, and scent, and sore spot, and bruise, and the too short-lived ecstasy.

When Harry returned to the living room, he saw that Ron had made a nest of sorts. There were pillows and blankets, and Ron wearing nothing but his boxers, smiling at him and sitting cross-legged. Harry smiled in return. He sat down and uncorked the wine, pouring a glass for each of them.

"To best mates," Ron said in a low voice, touching his glass to Harry's.

"To us," Harry said, looking Ron in the eye before he drank the contents.

"Harry."

"Ron."

"C'mere."

Harry did. It was a cliché, but he really did feel as though he were on fire. He practically devoured Ron, kissing him fervidly and leaving a sloppy, wet trail in his wake as he mouthed his way down to Ron's tented boxers. Ron made all kinds of pleased sounds, his wide hands caressing Harry's back. Harry's nerves were zinging; his heart thumped; his erection was nearly painful. He felt like a wild creature, pouncing on his exquisite, delicious prey.

"Lube," Harry said somewhat frantically, pulling down on the elastic of Ron's boxers, tugging them off of Ron's legs. Harry took a moment to look at Ron, his freckled skin burnished by the fire's glow. Ron lay on his back, hands behind his head, obviously at ease in his nakedness. Harry made a wordless, needy noise, confronted with what he'd longed for on loving display in front of him yet again. He crouched over Ron's groin, licking around the domed top of Ron's erection. Ron sat up to put a tube of gel in Harry's hand. Harry paused from his ministrations to pour some on his fingers, shoving three fingers inside himself. Ron made an aching, predatory sound as Harry stretched his inner muscles, casting a silent cleansing spell.

"Want you, gods, now," Ron whimpered. Ron's gaze was focussed on Harry's, the familiar face contorted with longing.

Harry got up onto his hands and knees, leaning down to press a deep, intent-laden kiss on Ron's warm lips. Sitting back upright, he guided Ron's cock to his entrance, rocking slowly as his body got used to the invasion. He winced at the burning feeling as he sank down; he'd used dildos before, so this wasn't unfamiliar, but now it was Ron, Ron's broad shaft, not something ordered from Wolfgang's Wankable Wares.

"You feel amazing," Ron said raggedly.

"So do you," Harry gasped, raising up slightly before impaling himself on Ron's cock, causing both he and Ron to moan. Up and down Harry went, feeling so full, so stretched, Ron deep inside of him. With a lubricated hand he wanked himself, the telltale heat in his bollocks coiling more quickly than he'd wanted. With a cry, Harry's orgasm was wrenched out of him, warm fluid coating his fingers and falling down onto Ron's stomach.

"Harry," Ron groaned, and suddenly Harry felt a slickness far inside of himself. Ron's expression was rapturous, his eyes closed and mouth open wide, panting. "Harry, Harry, Harry," he chanted, slowly opening his eyes. "Are you okay?"

Harry clenched his inner muscles around Ron, his heart tripping over itself when Ron's eyes fluttered closed. He knew he'd be sore, but Harry didn't mind. He was joined to Ron in a way he'd only formerly dreamed of, and this was only the first time. There would be much more of this activity, Harry had no doubt. It was sex, yes; a physical manifestation of a shared fraternity. Closer than a brother, Ron was his soul's kindred.

Ron opened his eyes, worry in his gaze since Harry had taken his time in replying.

"Never better," Harry said, smiling.

* * * * *

"I love this next scene," Ron said, lying behind Harry, his fingers rubbing on top of Harry's tracksuit pants-trapped arousal.

"I know. You're such a Quidditch perv," Harry said, nestling back closer to his lover and flatmate. It was a lazy Sunday; they were watching Harry and Ron's only porn flick, Aurors in Love. Seamus, Hermione and even purportedly their baby, Ivy, had given it to them as a practical joke and housewarming gift when Harry and Ron moved in together mere days from their return from Iceland.

"Am not!" Ron insisted, though his own erection pressed solidly against Harry's backside. "But you've got to admit that these particular blokes in the showers are really fit, honestly."

"You just want them to be getting off while still wearing their vambraces and shin guards," Harry said provocatively, wriggling his bum and barely withholding a moan when he felt Ron's low rumble of agreement next to his ear. "I think you saw all sorts of things in Brisbane while doing that Triple-Q write-up that you're just not willing to tell me."

"Nothing I saw is as good as this," Ron said, nibbling gently on Harry's ear.

"Prove it."

With a possessive growl, Ron did just that.