"Vermilion Hunger, Cerulean Thirst", new fic, Dean/Ron

[thrihyrne]

I hope those of you who choose read this enjoy it; I totally fell for Dean while writing it, and suspect that I'll be featuring him in many future stories. And Ron, of course… I'm not sure why this pairing had never occurred to me before, but thanks to a nudge, it did. Posted in sections LJ deems short enough. :P

For people who've had troubles with my new layout, adding '?Style=mine' to the end of the html link will allow you to see the post in your own LJ style. I do like my layout, but I know it's caused several people some hair-pulling, and I'm really sorry about that.

Title: Vermilion Hunger, Cerulean Thirst
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Ron, past Ron/Harry
Alerts: rimming
Word Count: 21,200
Summary: Dean discovers that he can't resist the colour red, though being attracted to Ron isn't exactly the smoothest of roads.

My gratitude to risiepookie for this marvelous pairing and prompt, to wolfiekins for listening to me read sections of it aloud to him, and to koshweasley for the suggestion of a perfect ending. To my betas, wolfiekins, auntee_mame and kaalee, my bottomless, heartfelt gratitude.



And I recall I surrendered
I saw you dancing barefoot
In the garbage and the leaves…

Salome, Salome maybe…
Salome maybe between you and me
We'd have made some history…

Dean crooned along with the lead singer of Cousteau, his own untrained low baritone a good meld for most of their songs. He was in an upbeat groove, but in a decidedly mellow fashion. Daubing cautiously at his canvas, he cocked his head, evaluating the bit of shadow he was trying to evoke from the clouds that passed over the two figures in the portrait. Wandlessly he turned up the volume, allowing the sultry music to pulse more loudly around him as he rocked back and forward on his feet, swaying his hips in time in a small figure eight. Thankfully his picture wasn't quite finished and he'd not cast the Animus spell on it yet, as he had no doubt that once Seamus was enlivened, he'd have all kinds of foul-mouthed, joking commentary about Dean and the habits he engaged in while working. It wasn't all that long to Christmas, at any rate, and the gift wedding portrait would be out of his studio and hung somewhere in his sister Imogen's and Seamus' home.

"You're bloody beautiful, mate," he said to portrait-Seamus, "and I'm really glad you're happy."

He was grateful that he was finally able to say that without too much melancholy. He'd held onto the idea that he and his best mate could be far more than that for many years; it'd flared and burned brightly during the War, of all times, when Seamus had decided he might fancy blokes as well as birds. Dean had been scorched in the end, however. After Seamus' mum had been killed and he'd spent more and more time with the Thomases, he'd fallen hopelessly for Dean's younger sister. A part of Dean died slowly during their courtship, his never-spoken passionate yearnings kept ruthlessly smothered until he couldn't bear it. He'd travelled to Fortaleza, Brazil of all places, a good month's time away to walk the beaches and revive his abused libido; to drink and rage and mourn and heal. Things were nearly back to normal between them now. Dean suspected, however, that a part of him would be forever empty, his first and deepest affections given rashly and unreservedly, but not returned in kind.

A neon green clockface suddenly appeared and hovered near his easel. He'd set the chronos to show up on the half-hour, and an alarm would go off in thirty minutes at six o'clock. One of the new art galleries in wizarding Glasgow had decided to have an all-Hogwarts-artists exhibit, and Dean had several paintings that would be on display. Tonight was the opening; it would be a formal affair. Not being one for convention, he'd picked out a white leather jacket and trousers ensemble. His ex, Patric, had said he looked like an "angelic shag magnet" in it, and while Dean didn't care about that one way or another, he knew it did accentuate his lean lines. That tended to happen when you were six foot five.

The honeyed lyrics of the next song drifted into Dean's awareness. He forced himself to focus on being productive until he got ready for the evening's event, looking at the painting with a critical eye. He'd always drawn portraits— well, sketches of people, to be accurate. In a locked trunk under a back shelf he had his collection of drawings from his years in school. Most were of Seamus, though he'd sketched a few other people from time to time. He'd hoped to be able to show Seamus the pictures, but he'd also wanted it to be within the context of a relationship, pulling them out at an anniversary or something equally sappy and nauseating. Obviously that wasn't meant to be.

He let himself be carried along by the smoky music, tweaking the dimple in Seamus' right cheek until he had it just right. Portrait-Seamus now radiated happiness, though his smile was impish. Even while motionless, as Dean regarded him via his handiwork, the Seamus on canvas seemed about to get up to something slightly wicked. Dean had just turned his attentions to the delicate cornrows of his sister's hair when the alarm went off. He put away his paints, cleaned off his brushes by hand — he was superstitious that way — and cast a protection spell on the picture before turning off the music and lights and exiting his studio.

Forty-five minutes later he stood on the threshold of the gallery, wavering for a moment as he saw the milling crowd already gathered inside. He was nervous for no shortage of reasons: Patric was bound to show up, and while they got along, things had the potential to be awkward; Seamus would be there; his works had never been shown publicly like this, especially not the one landscape he'd submitted; and he'd quit drinking, so he didn't have that to calm his jangling nerves. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, unfastening his overrobe and handing it to the quite fetching, but rather young attendant.

"Good evening," the attendant said. The look in the young man's awestruck, lustful gaze was enough to boost Dean's confidence back up to a normal level.

"Yes, it is." He straightened his jacket and smiled to himself as he caught the attendant sneak a glance at his groin. The trousers left precious little to the imagination, but Dean had always been comfortable in his skin. A little ogling was fine. He knew he didn't exactly blend in, not wearing cream-coloured leathers, and then there was his height, matched by only a very few.

One of those men was waving at him, his own distinctive appearance making him impossible not to notice. Dean strode over to Ron, his former classmate's grin so infectious that he felt his own face nearly aching with the wideness of his smile.

"Hey, Dean! This is brilliant! Looks as though life's been treating you well!" Ron enthused, shaking Dean's hand and gesturing vaguely at the room.

"Thanks, Ron. I can say the same about you," Dean said truthfully. Ron was dressed far more traditionally in dark slacks and a slate coloured jumper, and the shade of his pullover really brought out his blue eyes. He was as fit as ever, too. "Didn't I see you in last month's Triple Q? Fucking excellent, you being Keeper for the new Green Knights team!"

Ron beamed, a rosy flush creeping up slightly from the base of his throat under his freckles. "Yeah. Thanks." He downed his glass of wine, which was seemingly instantly replaced by another, courtesy of the astute servers mingling through the assembly. "Wish Harry could've seen it, though," he said, his voice more solemn.

Dean nodded. Harry's death, while frankly not unexpected, had still been shocking in its utter finality. Those who'd been at Hogwarts with him had taken it especially hard, Ron and Hermione the most. They'd been inconsolable and grievous in ways that had made Dean's heart ache when he'd attended the various post-War memorial ceremonies. It'd been during a night of drunken reminiscing and unfettered openness that Dean had discovered just how close Ron and Harry had been, much to Dean's surprise and understanding. After discovering Ron was a fellow shirt-lifter, he'd gone on and on about his unrequited feelings for Seamus. As he'd picked through the fuzzy shards of conversation he could remember the next morning, Dean gratefully realized that Ron had been even more shit-faced and conveniently didn't have much beyond a vague recollection of what they'd discussed.

"Yeah," Dean now said somberly. He was brought out of his reverie when a server offered him some wine. "D'you have ginger beer?" he asked. A champagne flute filled with the golden fizzy beverage appeared and Dean appreciatively took it. Ron gave him an odd look.

"My stomach's a bit funny," he admitted, toasting Ron as he polished off his wine. "I'm not used to people standing around, staring at my stuff, y'know?"

"Not really, but I do get a bit queasy before the matches," Ron sympathised, soliciting a new glass. "Will you show me your prints? I reckon I'd recognise them unless you've gone all modern since those drawings you did in school. Hey, do you know any of the other artists?"

Dean smiled ruefully. "A few. And sure, I'll walk you over to my little corner." He turned, gently nudging Ron toward the stairs to the second floor where his few paintings hung. He'd supervised their installation a few days prior, and was quite pleased with their relative prominence in the exhibit. All at once the hairs bristled on the back of his neck and he paused.

"Ron," he asked quietly, "is there a tow-haired, rail thin chap at the door, probably wearing black trousers, black shirt and an aloof expression?"

Ron gazed quizzically toward the door. "Yeah. Thought you were talking about somebody else there for a minute," he said with a slight shudder. "Who is he?"

Dean tossed back his ginger beer and hurriedly accepted another. "Patric. My ex. We split a while ago, though, and he's really not a bad bloke."

Ron's lips downturned and he shook his head. "Reminds me too much of Malfoy."

"I didn't know him much at all, but I'm pretty sure Patric's nothing like him, except in looks, now that you mention it. Why don't you go on upstairs, I'll have a brief chat, and meet you there in a few," Dean suggested. He decided it would be better to go ahead and get his obligatory congratulations over with.

"All right. But don't be too long…" Ron's voice trailed off and his eyes grew wide. "Pixie's piss! I didn't know she'd be here," he said, glancing furtively at a group entering the main hall from a corridor across the room.

"Who?" Most of the other participants were far more renowned than he was, and a couple he was pretty sure had been invited solely for their notoriety outside of their artistic pursuits.

"Susan Overkill. Classmate of Bill's, I think. Married to Sebastian, coach for the Ballycastle Bats," he said excitedly.

"She's rather avant garde," Dean said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Go on. I'll go make nice and then lurk about my canvases."

"Right. Hey— it's really good to see you. Really," Ron repeated, his earnestness nearly palpable.

"Thanks mate. Really," Dean said, winking. A question flitted across his mind. "I'm glad you're here, but out of curiosity, why? I didn't think you'd be the art exhibit type of bloke, even with a Hogwarts focus."

"Oh. All of the team was invited. PR kind of thing. I seem to be the only one who's showed so far," he replied with a shrug, finishing off another glass and accepting another. "See you in a bit."

"Cheers."

Dean let out a quick huff of breath as Ron moved away, readying himself to go and chat with Patric.

An hour later, Dean was battling good-naturedly with Seamus about their respective holiday plans. He was in buoyant spirits; their banter was easygoing and familiar, comfortable and grounding as putting on his perfectly worn boots. Not only that, but he'd received two commissions, neither from friends or family. When Ron reappeared, Dean was frankly shocked, having assumed that he'd have ducked out.

"Seamus! Great to see you!" Ron said expansively.

"Ron! Didn't expect to see the likes of you here," Seamus said, waggling his eyebrows. "Sure ye're not lost?"

"No! I mean, yes," Ron chortled. "I live here, I mean, not in here, but here in Glasgow— you know what I mean." He shook his head, draping an arm across Dean's shoulders. "Our Dean here's bloody talented. I've seen all of the other paintings, mobiles, even a bloody rubbish bin turned on its side with stuffed skrewts around it. How is that art?" he asked Dean, his expression one of utter confoundment.

"Dunno. It's not my kind of art," Dean said wryly. A warm pang lodged in his breastbone at being touched, even if it was only in a friendly manner. He was a tactile person, physically gratuitous when dating or even just getting a pull. Dean sensed himself easing against Ron's body and decided he should arrange for a massage first thing in the morning.

"I've got to go," Seamus apologised. "But I'd better be seeing your famous arse at your mum's by six Christmas Eve. See you, Ron. Oh, and brilliant game against the Harpies!" He slapped Ron on the back and took of sprightly down the stairs.

Ron cocked his head and gazed levelly at Dean. "Is he okay?"

"Sure. Just lovesick." Dean ignored the faint rattling of bitterness that threatened him, focussing instead on Ron. He appeared to be in good spirits, but not sloppy drunk. His eyes seemed very clear and startlingly blue, but perhaps that was simply because it truly had been a while since they'd seen each other. That or the eyes that Dean knew best were mossy green, with golden flecks that danced around his irises.

Ron made an uncommitted, derogatory sound. "Say, d'you wanna go to the Belligerent Badger? Being around all of these paintings has given me an idea. C'mon," he pleaded, giving Dean a hopeful look.

Dean chuckled. He couldn't begin to guess what harebrained ideas were floating around Ron's brain. Ron had caught him in a weak moment; he was tired of hobnobbing but he wasn't ready to go back to his cozy but very companion-less flat. Not that he thought Ron was out for anything from him like that— they were just friends, and companionship was what Dean wanted now, anyway.

"Sure. Is it far?"

"No, just a few blocks. Let's go."

They made their way downstairs, earning a few surreptitious stares that Dean chalked up to their pair of towering heights. The door attendant looked heartbroken as he returned their robes, but Ron seemed oblivious. They chatted about the few other Hogwarts people they knew who'd been at the opening, but all the while, Dean was reliving the few conversations he'd had with Ron the past couple of years. He concluded that he didn't think Ron had been involved with anyone, probably due to the pain of losing his lover and best mate. It made sense to Dean; he'd had only the one relationship, and shagged a few others, but on some level the experiences were shadowed with an illogical sense of betrayal.

Once at the pub, Ron ordered a shot of Bitter Banshee and a pint of dark ale. Dean asked for a glass of tonic water with lime. He followed Ron to a cramped and secluded corner booth where they sat down across from one another. Ron leaned back with a contented sigh.

"Can't really stretch your legs, but it's better than most of the tables." He tossed back his vivid green liquor before switching to his pint. Wiping the bit of foam off his top lip, he looked warily at Dean. "I don't get it," he said, gesturing at Dean's glass. "Don't you feel well now?"

Dean chewed a bit on the inside of his cheek. He'd anticipated this conversation, but he couldn't gauge how Ron would react. "I don't drink anymore," he shrugged, chasing the lime wedge around his fizzy water with a straw. "I kept doing stupid things."

"We all do stupid things, me most of all, Merlin!" Ron groaned, taking another deep swallow.

"The last time I got hammered, I was with Seamus and I got on my broom. Flew into a tree. Nearly lost an eye," Dean said heavily, leaning forward and tapping at the half-moon scar still visible at the corner of his right eye and curving down to his cheekbone. "Bit of a challenge to paint anything with depth perception with only one eye."

Ron seemed to take Dean more seriously, tapping two wide fingers against the base of his glass.

"Another time, not long before that, Seamus and I were on the roof of his flat — don't ask me why, probably looking at the stars or something that seemed profound at the time. Anyway, I fell off the roof. Broke my arm. It healed up, but I'd just hate to think of what might happen the next time."

"Sounds like you need to not drink with Seamus! He's bad for you!" Ron joked. "Now with me, you don't have to worry about bad karma like that."

Dean snorted before drinking some of his tonic. "Maybe. Look, I don't want to make a big deal out of it, all right? You go ahead and have what you want, and so will I. Deal?"

Ron ran a hand through his shambles of auburn hair, the wind having whipped through it during their walk. "Yeah, I reckon. Don't want you to feel weird around me. Maybe this was a bad idea," he mumbled into the rim of his glass as he drank another healthy swallow.

"Ron, it's fine," Dean insisted, quite ready to change the subject. "What's this idea you were going on about at the gallery?"

"Oh! Right!" Ron's face lit up as though he'd just been told he'd been named Quidditch Player of the Year and asked to pose for Un-Robed! all on the same day. "I want you to do a portrait of me! In my Green Knights gear. Since I left Hogwarts before year seven, mum didn't have one done like she did for everyone else. And I don't mean for you to do it for free or discounted or anything. I'll pay you whatever your going rate is."

Dean blinked in surprise. "You do?" he asked, flabbergasted. "And hold on— Fred and George left Hogwarts too, but their portrait is large as life in those hideous green jackets. Hard to miss, even in the Burrow."

Ron rolled his eyes and finished his pint, placing the glass on the table with a thud. "I know. Mum had it done that summer afterwards, when Wheezes was doing so well. So what do you say? Will you paint me? I'm pretty sure I can stand still. Oh, yeah— thanks, mate. One of each." The last comments were tossed off to a server who'd come around and noticed Ron's pair of empty glasses.

"Actually, I tend to work from photographs," Dean admitted.

"You mean I wouldn't get to pose in person?" Ron asked, his obvious disappointment deflating his enthusiasm.

"No. I mean, of course you could if you wanted to," Dean said hurriedly. "I've not done many of these for money, and most people don't have the time or want to hang around in my studio for days on end and be stared at."

"Oh. Well, I just thought that was part of the deal. I have the time, if we could work around my practise schedule. Ta." Another Bitter Banshee and pint sloshed across the table.

"I can do it, sure." A flutter of pride and gratitude went through Dean. Thankfully he wasn't envious of Ron and his success, so different than his own. He'd probably not charge him what he would if he were painting somebody else, though. "How large of a portrait were you thinking?"

"Um, dunno. Nothing that'll make me seem like I'm full of it. I just thought it'd be pretty brilliant to have a work of yours, and this Green Knights thing is pretty major for me." He tugged at his unbuttoned dress shirt, evidently embarrassed.

"No, I think it's a great idea. I'm flattered, Ron, really." Dean's mind was already racing, pondering what kind of poses he might suggest to Ron, and how much if any of his Quidditch equipment Ron might want to incorporate into the picture. "When do you want to come over?"

Ron took a long pull on his pint, lost in thought. "Well, Christmas is in only a few days. After that? I'm sure you have heaps going on."

"No, not so much," Dean admitted. "Seamus is honourary son. I like being around my family, don't get me wrong, but I'm pretty content at my flat or in my studio. You could swing by tomorrow, if that suits. Say two o'clock?"

Ron nodded enthusiastically. "Excellent. Guess you'll need to give me the address, though," he said, smiling. "You're in London, right?"

"Close enough. I'm right on the Pegasus line, Wizard transport. I'll write it down for you," he said meaningfully, glancing at Ron's second round that he was quickly making headway through.

"Smart man," Ron said amiably.

They stayed another half-hour or so until the adrenaline that had been keeping Dean going through the evening ebbed away. He begged off staying around, and told Ron he'd look forward to seeing him the next day.

"Till then!" he said, waving as Dean walked away from the cosy corner table.

Dean's ears were ringing a bit from the loud crowd at the Badger, and his head spun from the fog of cigarette smoke and the exhibition that had started off the evening. He paused for a moment in the alleyway before Apparating home, shaking his head as a determined grin settled on his lips.

"I can't believe I'm going to be painting Ron. Good lord. What have I gotten myself into?" he said to himself, thinking of his flat and disappearing with a crack! . Once at home, he changed into boxers and a long sleeved t-shirt. He didn't drink anymore, it was true, but he did have other ways to relax. Making sure his flat was locked, he went to his fridge and took out a litre bottle of water before heading back to his bedroom. There he cracked open his back window and went rummaging through his sock drawer until he found his supply of enhanced cannabis. Dean indulged not infrequently, the pot provided thanks to George Weasley. It was Seamus, unsurprisingly, who'd introduced Dean to the pleasures of pot during their fifth year. Fred and George were evidently making a small fortune thanks to the lab set up in their dorm room, and not all from the products they'd been fabricating for their then-yet-unknown shop. When George had come to Dean after the War and asked him to do some illustrations and product art, he'd accepted willingly, refusing payment. George had found his own creative way to compensate him, regardless.

He sat back on his bed, lighting up a joint and pulling his side table and ashtray closer to him. Eventually the pot worked on him, leaving him mellow and his mind and hand wandering, as it often did when he smoked. It had been quite difficult when he'd gotten horny smoking around Seamus, but these days he didn't mind using his imagination while having a slow wank. Leaning over to the table, he retrieved his wand and turned on his modified Muggle CD player, changing the speaker settings to be in his bedroom. He chose Anson Astrolabe, an up-and-coming Wizard singer with a sexy voice and quite titillating song lyrics, skipping through the first two tracks before easing off his pants and settling back into his pillows.

Up against the wall, carve me out of stone
Pulse into me, I'm yours to atone…

Closing his eyes, Dean stroked the skin around his tumescent cock, images coming to him inspired by Anson's erotic poetry. Astrolabe was quite the looker; tall and thin, with auburn hair that he wore in a shaggy mop around his face, perpetually dressed in red or maroon or similar shades. Dean had a thing for men with fair skin, though he'd not spent loads of time analysing why that was. He and Seamus had gone to a club a few times after the end of the War, a Muggle place called, appropriately, Nine Inch Males. There'd been a ginger-haired stunner there, too, somebody he'd not thought about in ages. As he languorously slid the skin up and down his erect shaft, a fantasy came to mind. Before indulging fully in it, he finished his joint and pulled out a tube of lubricant from the small drawer in his nightstand, coating the long fingers of his right hand as he spread his legs and cast a silent cleansing spell. He tilted his pelvis, teasing himself with his slick fingers under the soft, loose skin of his sacs and smoothing circles around his clenching hole.

We're upended and tumbled,
Shattered with scornful looks and ecstasy
Breathe on me, breathe possessively…

"Oh yeah," Dean sighed as he eased three fingers in at once. In his mind's eye, he was back at that club, holding onto conveniently-placed handles as the well-hung dancer frotted behind him, whispering dirty, intoxicating things about how he was going to be so full, stretched as his huge cock pounded into him. A rumbling moan escaped him as Dean massaged his tight channel, his left hand speeding up as he smeared around the fluid from the head of his cock. The fantasy was so vivid: he was grasping the handles, the dancer having pulled down his trousers just far enough down Dean's thighs for him to spread his arse, purring obscenities about round and supple and made for fucking before he pushed in his heavy prick. They were alone, except as panting, fantasy-Dean rested his head against the jacquard-covered wall, arse jutting backwards to let the bloke have full access, he noticed Ron sitting at a table across the way. Back in his bed, Dean squeezed his muscles around his fingers, wondering why his friend had shown up in his very fulfilling wank. Didn't matter; he sank back into the dark, throbbing ambiance of the room as he was thrust into again and again. Fantasy-Ron sat with his denims pooled at his ankles, enjoying his own wank and looking heatedly at Dean and his nameless lover, evidently enjoying his role as voyeur.

"Fuck, Merlin, fuck," Dean chanted breathlessly as he pushed his fingers in and out of himself, eyes clenched shut to keep the fantasy as real as he could. He brushed against his prostate with a cry as he pistoned his aching prick with a vengeance, imagining the slap of bollcks against the tops of his thighs as the huge cock slid in and out, his gaze locked with Ron's. Prickling heat coiled in his sacs; blood pounded in his ears as his inner vision watched Ron's head loll back, his release spurting over his fist as in real life, Dean did the same. He gasped out in pleasure as the orgasm rocked through him, his muscles spasming around his deeply shoved fingers. The acrid, musky smell of his come wafted up to his nose while his whole body shuddered with the aftershocks of his climax. The thudding of his heartbeat eventually calmed and he eased out his fingers with a faint squelching sound. He'd been particularly vigorous in his self-ministrations, but not enough to warrant a healing salve. Thinking back to the lurid scene of his fantasy, he huffed a laugh at Ron's appearance.

"You're definitely not telling him about that tomorrow," he muttered to himself with a shake of his head, lazily sliding his legs over the edge of the bed and ambling into his bathroom. After washing up and brushing his teeth, he shut the window until it was open just a crack, and settled into bed with Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly for a few minutes until he nodded off.

* * * * *

Dean had set his tea to steep and was doodling on a sketchpad to limber up his hands when Ron showed up. He didn't look any the worse for wear given his imbibing from the night before. Then again, Dean was only too aware of the hangover draughts and restorative potions available as he'd taken them on a regular basis in the recent past. After offering Ron a cup of tea, Dean gave him a quick tour of the flat and studio. He hovered a bit, letting Ron spend a little time looking through his unfinished pieces, the dozen or so canvases grouped by genre.

"I really like these," Ron said, pointing to a triptych that Dean had been working on sporadically for several months. He was trying to capture the exuberance of Fortaleza but also the turmoil and melancholy he'd felt during his time there. "They're really vivid. Where's it supposed to be?"

To a degree, Dean filled him in about his trip there and some of the more memorable experiences in the distant tourist city. Obliquely he referenced what had taken him there in the first place. He trusted Ron not to go spouting off to their communal friends, but it also wasn't as though they'd really discussed things like that— well, at least not when they'd both been in a state to remember anything.

Ron looked pensive for a moment, as though refamiliarising himself with Dean and reconciling the years together in nearby but not proximate orbits. "You really had it bad for him, didn't you?" he asked, idly scratching at his chest.

Inexplicably, Dean wondered if Ron had joined the recent and pervasive trend and had had his nipples pierced before his mind shied away from intimate musings to the question posed to him. For a moment he frowned, but then his expression cleared. Ron knew what it was like to lose someone, but his situation had been far more traumatic and devastating, not to mention permanent. Dean decided that if Ron was keen enough to want to spend days in a row in his studio, and had shown up in his fantasy, for Merlin's sake, he could be on the level with him. Ron was a decent, loyal bloke, someone Dean believed he could trust and who wouldn't take the piss with him too much.

"Yeah, I really did. But it doesn't hurt so much now, y'know? It's dulled a bit. He's happy. I only ever wanted that for him, but I'd hoped that would've included being with me." He twisted one of his short dreadlocks in between his third and ring fingers. "Naked, that is. A lot," he said with an apologetic grin, which was returned by a joyless smile on Ron's face.

"Yeah, I know. A body needs things, misses things," he said, shrugging, his blue eyes harbouring a disconsolate weariness that was almost shocking given Ron's usual demeanour. "I've not been celibate or anything since Harry," he said matter-of-factly. "'S not the same, though. They're just fucks. It's okay, I suppose. I'm not looking for a replacement. What about you?"

"Me?" Dean quit his habitual hair twiddling and cocked his head toward the door. "Care to take this into the living room?"

"Sure."

They walked back to the small living room where Dean refilled their tea and sidestepped Ron's question. "I'll do some preliminary drawings of you in just a bit," he promised as he pushed over the jumble of sketchbooks and correspondence so they could sit on his sofa. It was decadently comfortable, the maroon material supple but meant to be longwearing.

"No worries. No rush today. Feels good to talk, actually," Ron admitted, brushing his fringe out of his eyes and tucking it behind the top of a freckled ear. "You're a bloke. You know what it's like. I just can't stand getting cornered by Mum or Hermione or Gin. Trapped by bloody harpies who won't leave well enough alone," he said, exasperated and looking to Dean for sympathy.

Dean nodded as Ron went on, "I'm not some bloody girl. Harry was everything, the first everything for me, but…" His voice trailed off as he cradled his tea in a surprisingly gentle manner given his large fingers. "He's gone. I'm not. I reckon he'd understand me going out to get a pull on occasion, y'know, even settle down again. I told him he should, if I didn't make it. Still, I can't imagine it, being with someone like that again. There's nobody else like him. And I'm not the easiest person to spend heaps of time with."

Dean appraised Ron and the resignation in his posture. Inside him there lingered an undercurrent of vitality, of course; Dean had seen it the night before, and heard it in his voice from the couple of interviews he'd been able to catch on the radio.

"I don't mind your company," he offered. "And I'm not just saying that because I'll be paid for the privilege."

A lopsided smile bloomed on Ron's lips. It made him appear vulnerably handsome in a way that caught Dean off-guard and he nearly choked on his tea.

"Thanks mate," Ron said warmly, accepting the closure to the topic and toasting him with his teacup. The gesture appeared to give him an idea. "You have anything to put in this?" he asked before wincing at his own question. "No, of course not. Sorry," he backpedaled.

"I don't, but you're welcome to get something if you'd like. There's a bottle shop down the road about a quarter mile; be my guest. When you get back you can tell me what kind of pose you've been considering, what background you'd like for your portrait, that sort of thing," Dean prattled, still discomfited at the attraction that had frissoned down his spine, leaving him hyper aware of Ron's physicality in a way he'd been oblivious to before.

"You sure you don't mind?" Ron clarified, though he'd already stood up from the couch and was making his way toward the coat rack placed next to the front door.

"No!" Dean laughed, shooing him on. "I'll amuse myself by drawing lewd pictures of you until you get back," he continued in his most officious voice, raising an eyebrow as he let his gaze travel slowly from Ron's head to this feet and back.

Ron gaped at him until he shook with laughter. "Yeah. Be certain you've an extra bottle of ink for all those freckles you'll have to put in!" he said, pulling on his tracksuit top before heading out the door.

Dean looked at himself in an asymmetrical mirror across the room. "What are you doing?" he queried, but his bemused reflection had no reply.

* * * * *

For the sake of the joke, Dean did end up making a hasty sketch of a statuesque Ron in a typical Un-Robed! pose, holding a strategically placed pair of vambraces at the vee of his groin. Ron had thought it was so funny — and so flattering — he asked to keep it, but Dean demurred. "Can't let work like that of mine get out," he insisted, which was a partial truth. Ron's comments to the effect that Dean must be a good artist if he could envision someone's physique that well without seeing it in person had only added fuel to the peculiar smouldering intrigue Dean now felt. Of course he'd drawn what he'd imagined from his brilliant wank of the night before, though the key body part had been camouflaged in his sketch. If nothing else, Ron had had a good laugh out of it, and Dean felt it put Ron at ease even more than the half-bottle of brandy he'd put in his tea through the afternoon.

Ron invited Dean over to his place for Boxing Day and Dean quickly agreed. "I can start work on your portrait the day after that if you'd like," Dean suggested, gathering up the plates that had held the biscuits and sweets they'd grazed on for the prior couple of hours.

"Brilliant."

After placing the dishes on the counter, Dean returned to the living room to see Ron lounging against the wall, hands crossed over his chest and a loopy smile on his face. "I've not felt this relaxed, or felt so comfortable just sitting around shooting the breeze in ages," he said. "Why didn't you and I spend time together before?"

"We did, some, but Seamus was my best mate and you were off doing your secretive stuff—"

"No, not at school, I mean since then."

Dean chewed on his bottom lip. "Dunno— we don't exactly run in the same circles. Different interests, all of that. Fancying blokes doesn't automatically put us in the same groups."

"Shame, that," Ron said contemplatively before he zipped up his jacket. "Still, I'm glad I was at the gallery last night, and here today. Don't get me wrong; my team-mates are great, and I like that I don't have to talk about my part in things from the past. But you're good company. You ought to be sainted for doing my portrait— I'm bound to run my mouth non-stop."

"I'm sure I can handle it," Dean said with a wary smile. "You can't be worse than Seamus. Are you okay to Apparate? You could take a nap or something if you need to."

"Nah, I'm fine. I'm not exactly a lightweight," Ron joked, patting his abdomen. To Dean's honed eye, no matter Ron's pretense, Dean suspected he had nothing but muscle there.

"Thanks anyway," Ron continued.

"Happy Christmas, then, a bit early," Dean said, striding over and enfolding Ron in a hug. It felt… large. They were the same height, which was certainly novel, but Ron's frame was far wider and stocky than anyone else Dean had been close to. As Ron returned the hug, his wide palms resting solidly on his shoulder blades, Dean eased a bit into the embrace. Fucking hell, but it felt good to be held by someone with a bit of brawn. Dean felt embarrassed for himself and stepped back as Ron also wished him an early Happy Christmas, his breath smelling sweetly of tea and brandy.

"Don't forget, come over on Boxing Day," Ron said, poking Dean in the middle of his chest. "Don't know that it'll be at all raucous, but I've got a big telly if nothing else."

"The Melbourne Test match'll be on," Dean said excitedly. "Have you ever watched Muggle cricket?" he asked. The answer was easy enough to guess given Ron's blank look at the mention of the sport.

"Nope. You'll have to explain it to me."

"I will. And I'll bring takeout. You like curry?"

"More than I should," Ron said, his smile quirking to one side. "I really should go. Presents to wrap, shite like that." He gave Dean another passing hug, this time placing his hands closer to Dean's waist.

"See you!" Dean called once Ron was down the steps. Ron turned and waved before walking purposefully down the road to the Apparition point two blocks down, sheltered by a row of hedges. Dean convinced himself that he was only watching the movement of Ron's arse in his stride as material for making sure his portrait would be as lifelike and accurate as possible.

Dean spent the evening making himself some dinner, taking two aggravated telephone calls from his mum, the only person for whom he would have bothered with a telephone in the first place, and wrapping some gifts of his own. Once he was ready for bed and got under he covers, he lay on his side, growing frustrated when sleep refused to come. Fumbling around for his wand, he lit two bedside candles and Summoned one of his smaller sketchbooks. Turning a piece of charcoal in his fingers, he assured himself that this was just a silly phase he was going through. He'd not had a shag in ages and there really was something comforting about being around an old school friend— especially one as striking and unrefinedly good looking as Ron had become. He drew another larger, more detailed and provocative figure drawing of Ron, or at least how he envisioned Ron might look when sprawled naked and partially aroused on a couch. Dean pencilled in shadows and hard lines; he used feathered strokes for the whorls of hair between his legs and purposeful arcs for the ridges or biceps and thighs. The hooded eyelids took a bit of smudging to get the way he wanted, then there was the faint dimple and upturned lip to try and capture a faint 'come-hither' quirked smile he imagined Ron would use on whomever the fortunate bloke was he was offering his body to.

Almost guiltily, Dean cast a hushed Animus on the picture, figuring that his sketched-Ron wouldn't do much. He was right, but the hungry look in Ron's eyes and the way he glanced down at his half-hard cock before languidly taking himself in hand and daring the viewer not to watch was too compelling for Dean to resist. He scooted down the bed, shucking his boxers as he did, lying down and propping himself up on his elbow, his posture mirroring that of drawing-Ron. Dean didn't waste much time bringing himself to completion while the sketch watched from the page, sometimes rolling his sac in his meaty fingers, sometimes merely lying in repose. After his silent, molten release, Dean cleaned himself up, gently stroking the angle of the sketch-Ron's hipbone. He was a bit startled when Ron looked down where Dean's finger was, but the drawing soon returned his focus back outside of the picture, smiling more broadly so that the dimple in his cheek was more pronounced.

"Reckon your portrait won't be that much of a challenge," Dean said softly to the picture. "But I'd best keep this put away somewhere. He doesn't need to think I'm perving on him, not when we're friends and all that."

Despite his best intentions, however, Dean propped up the sketch and watched his drawing for a few more moments before blowing out his candle and dropping off to sleep.

* * * * *

"Oh Dean, it's stunning! What an extravagant gift!" Imogen said in her rich, low voice, the hint of tears gleaming in her eyes. She jumped up from her usual spot by Seamus to rush over to Dean and gave him a surprisingly strong hug, given her petite size. Dean smiled sheepishly over her shoulder at Seamus, who merely shook his head, marvelling at the sizeable wedding portrait in its ornate frame. Dean had called in a favour at one of the frame shops he frequented, choosing one of carved oak which complimented the tree in the portrait under which the newlyweds stood.

"Thanks so much, mate." Seamus couldn't seem to stop shaking his head at it, his fingers straying up above the canvas, watching the two of them as they looked out at the guests beyond the frame, holding hands, then Seamus pulling Imogen to him for a hasty kiss. "Bloody brilliant, this is."

"Thanks. I mean, you're welcome," Dean said with a laugh, patting his sister on the back before she went and sat next to Seamus again. "You'll never believe what I'm about to start on now, all thanks to that Hogwarts show."

"What's that?" his mum asked, entering the room with a tray filled with tea and saucers. Dean's youngest sister trailed behind her with a basket of Christmas crackers.

"New portrait. Commission, but I'm giving the gent a bit of a break, price-wise."

"Dean, you're always doing that," his mother admonished as Dean got up to move some of the piles of wrapping papers out of the way.

"Mum, it's not as though I've ever had many commissions, so I can't always be doing anything!" he challenged, clearing a space for the vast tray and steaming cups of cinnamon tea. "Besides, this'll be a fun one, hardly work at all. I'm painting Ron Weasley, classmate of ours from Hogwarts. He's Keeper for the new Green Knights team up in Glasgow."

"Ron? You're doing a portrait of Ron?!" Seamus blustered before bursting out into peals of laughter. "I'd not really thought of him as the portrait type. Must be more vain than I thought."

"He's not vain," Dean said, jumping to Ron's defence. "But his mum didn't have one done because he left Hogwarts without finishing properly. All of the rest of his siblings have them."

"And he wouldn't want to be different," Seamus said, rolling his eyes.

"Wasn't he at the wedding?" Imogen asked, giving Seamus a swat on the knee before linking her arm in his. "I think I remember his name, but that day was mostly a blur."

"Sweets, you'd remember. Only other bloke there as tall as Dean, but looks a fair sight different."

"Thanks for not saying he's more attractive," Dean quipped.

"Oh! Him!" Imogen gushed, tapping her fingers on Dean's arm as she accepted a Christmas cracker from his youngest sister Clara's outstretched hand. "Ginger hair, freckles, gorgeous blue eyes. I remember," she said, nodding and an appreciative smile blooming on her lips. "Nicely done, Dean."

"Hey, now." Seamus nudged at his new wife. "You're only supposed to have eyes for me, remember?" He nosed at her temple, nipping at her earlobe and causing a flush to rise on her ebony cheeks.

"Seamus, leave off, there're children about," Dean said, his voice mock chastising. "Ron's just a friend, Imogen. But he is a looker, in his own way."

"Does he have to be just a friend?" she asked provocatively. Seamus began tickling her mercilessly. "What?!" she squawked. "Leave off, you big brute!"

"Stop playing matchmaker, Síofra," he said as she shoved him over.

"Careful of the portrait," Dean said, wincing slightly as his sister's foot kicked out toward the canvas. "It's got the usual repelling charms on it, but they won't help against outright destruction." He cocked his head to the side. "What did you just call her?" he asked Seamus.

"Síofra. Only when she's acting slightly wicked," Seamus said with a wink. "Besides, Ron's not exactly your type, is he?"

"My type?" Dean said, irritated when his voice cracked. "Didn't know I had a type."

"Tall and blond, mate. Or sandy-haired, at least."

"That's not true," Dean countered until he went through the admittedly short list of blokes Seamus would have seen him with. "Well, okay, maybe it is, but that's pure chance."

"Right," Imogen drawled, nodding slowly. "Well, think what you will. Sounds as though you could use some variety, and this one's dropped into your lap."

Dean's pulse sped up for a moment as a remembered moment from his wank flashed through his mind. "No, don't think so," he said as Seamus nonverbally concurred with him, shaking his head. "Don't reckon I'm his type. We're friends. Mates from school. That's all."

"Seamus and I were friends first," Imogen said unhelpfully, leaning against him as he draped an arm around her waist. Seamus sat, beaming, the contentment radiating from him.

"Right. Well, I think I'll go see if mum needs any help in the kitchen." Dean levered up out of the chair, making his way through the chaos of his other siblings and their friends, romantic and otherwise. The gnawing resentment of seeing Seamus so happy, but not with him, had returned. He didn't wish to feed that slumbering creature any more in the faint hopes that it would eventually go away.

Dean had to duck under the doorframe to get into the kitchen — it was an older house, and not meant for someone his size.

"Oh, Dean! Would you mind reaching up into that cabinet? I'd like that serving plate on the top shelf," his mother said, whipping up a vat of mashed potatoes and leeks while one of Dean's sisters and sister-in-law huddled over a pan of cookies, icing them and speaking in low whispers.

Dean retrieved the plate and put it off to the side, surveying the organised frenetic activity. "Am I in the way?" he asked, uncertain of what was next to do on his mother's mental list.

"No— just keep me company," she said, looking up from her bowl and wiping a hand on her apron. "I'm glad your show went well and that your friend Ron will be around." She paused, and Dean braced himself for the question he knew was coming. "So are you seeing anyone? You know I'd be happy for you to bring any of your companions over."

The burbled commentary of the two young women came to a halt, evidently waiting for Dean's reply. It wasn't that Dean felt odd or unaccepted by his family about his orientation, but since presumably he would be the only one not to get married, and he was the only magical person in the family — aside from Seamus, now — he did feel put on the spot since he and Patric had called it quits.

"Thanks mum, but no, I'm not with anybody at the moment. Quite content doing the starving artist bit on my own."

She looked at him, her expression tempered with pity. "Well, I suppose I'm glad to hear that. I'm just so fond of Seamus, I wish that there was someone like him who's like you are—"

"Queer, mum, the word you're looking for is queer," Dean snapped, his relative peace having gnarled up into knots of resentment and inadequacy. "Sorry, I'm just a bit frustrated. Not at you," he clarified, as he could tell his mother had taken his brief outburst personally. "Think I'll go for a walk."

She nodded, rubbing a hand on his arm before resuming her task with the creamy mound of potatoes. "Don't be gone long; we'll be ready to eat in half an hour."

Out on the footpath, Dean swung his arms as he walked, releasing some of his tension. He loved his family, but the inquisitions were not at all enjoyable. He decided to duck out as soon as he could, vowing to treat himself to a soak in the bathtub, and to some more of George's tempered cannabis. With that to look forward to, he slowed his pace and savoured the soggy chill of winter until he returned to the beckoning warmth of his mother's house.

* * * *

It was a few weeks later when, frustrated with himself, Dean eased the speed of his footsteps as he tried to focus on what song was stuck in a loop in his head. The lyrics and sultry ambiance had ebbed in and out of his awareness through the day, but he'd not taken the time to listen to his inner 'radio' to place it. A nearby crack! startled him so much that he nearly dropped his bag of paints and he swore under his breath.

"Hi! Sorry," a familiar voice said before its owner stepped away from the hedgerow where he'd Apparated. Ron had a small leather pack strapped over his shoulders and wore a sheepish smile. "Didn't expect you to be walking by just then. Or anyone."

"It's fine." Dean shrugged. "I should apologise— I was almost late anyway. Got caught up at The Artist's Apothecary, a fabulous place for art supplies. I always end up browsing around for longer than I mean to," he said as they walked the few blocks to Dean's flat.

"What'd you get?" Ron asked, holding the sack as Dean pretended to unlock the front door to his building, though he simply muttered an Alohamora.

"Look and see," Dean suggested while they climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. "Not really all that exciting. Couple of replacement brushes and a few new tubes of paint."

"Vermilion? Cerulean? Saffron. That one at least I recognise!" Ron said with a small laugh as they went into the flat. "The others sound like nasty diseases, if you ask me."

"I quite like the exotic colour names," Dean admitted before he made his way to their familiar location in the studio.

Ron, as usual, had brought a few Orkney Skullsplitters with him and stopped by the kitchen to put them in Dean's fridge, but he quickly joined Dean in the large room. He enlarged his rucksack and began changing out of his denims and untucked button-down into his Quidditch uniform. Dean scanned his music selection, both Muggle CDs and wizarding discs, trying to find the INXS album that had the song "Not Enough Time." He'd finally figured out that was the tune which had been haunting him earlier.

"You know, we should go out. To a club or something," Ron said enthusiastically, pulling on his tight leggings over equally tight briefs without a shred of embarrassment.

Dean had seen his nearly naked form enough times to commit it to memory; Ron certainly had no reason to be anything but proud of his fit physique. As Ron put on the rest of his gear, Dean mulled over the offer — offer? — or suggestion. He didn't think Ron was interested in him that way, or if he was, he was so subtle that Dean hadn't picked up on any clues despite their vastly increased time together. Dean's affection and appreciation of his former Housemate and fellow War veteran had grown exponentially over the past several weeks. As fond as he was of Ron, Dean knew that subtlety was not one of Ron's strengths.

"You want us to go out?" he clarified, putting on the CD and crossing over to the window to open it a few inches to let in a bit of crisp fresh air.

"Yeah! Reckon it'd be good! I've not had a pull in ages, but also it'd be pretty fun to be out with you, somewhere besides your flat or mine. Or are you busy? Bloody hell, that was pretty presumptuous. Nice one, Ron," he mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes.

"No, I think it's a great idea," Dean said, but his heart wasn't in it. The idea of going out with Ron was very appealing, in a way that made him second-guess his own motivations. By his own admission, however, Ron wanted to go out to get some arse, and wanted some companionship while he did so. The more he thought about it, the less appealing it seemed: watching Ron pick someone up for a casual shag or whatever else didn't seem like an uplifting evening, especially when Dean wasn't drinking and would be surrounded by people getting absolutely pissed. He supposed he could always get stoned and go…

"That wasn't especially convincing," Ron said, tilting his head and rubbing at a spot on his jaw. "I probably shouldn't have suggested it, but I just thought, us both liking the same thing, and both reasonably good-looking, well, you are, anyway, and we don't have to go with the plan to have a wild shag or something like that, but you're just a really good bloke and good company, and—"

"Ron," Dean interrupted. "I think it's a fine idea. I have the perfect place, at least to go and enjoy the eye candy. I've not picked anyone up there; that's not really my scene. But we should go," he repeated, setting up his easel. "You can get as snockered as you'd like, and if you need help getting home, I'll be there. There's a place here in London I've gone to on occasion, Nine Inch Males. Heard of it?"

Ron's expression was beatific, and lascivious. "No, but it sounds wicked!" he gushed as Dean situated himself to paint. "Are the blokes there really…" he gestured with a cradled hand held out a distance from his groin.

"Oh yes," Dean assured him. "But that's not a necessary requirement to get in," he said, winking.

"Brilliant."

Dean squeezed out the last of his nearly empty vermilion tube and the other colours he thought he'd need to finish out Ron's hair and face. He wouldn't require Ron to be there in person after today; the background Quidditch pitch and scenery he would fill in from photographs. Ron assumed his pose and Dean began painting. The afternoon passed as it so often had with them talking sometimes and lapsing into a comfortable silence at others, listening to the music that Dean usually had on a kind of rotation. He liked to have certain styles of music going on when he was working on particular paintings, and Cousteau and other singers he considered vocally erotic but not outright stimulating had figured prominently in his mixes for Ron's portrait. He and Ron took several breaks, Ron for his beer and Dean for the occasional clove cigarette.

Around six o'clock, Ron changed back into his usual garb and got ready to go, saying he'd meet Dean at the club the upcoming Saturday night at ten.

"Looking forward to it!" Ron said, enfolding Dean in his customary friendly embrace at the door.

Dean gave him a squeeze at the small of his back, relishing the habitual physical affection he'd been getting while Ron had been visiting so regularly. A pang of loss nudged uncomfortably on Dean's well-being as he fathomed just how effortlessly Ron's presence had become an anticipated part of his life, and how much he would miss it once that routine was gone.

"You okay?" Ron asked, though he didn't let go.

With a start, Dean realised he'd been nosing slightly against Ron's head, taking deep inhales of the apple-leafy scent of his hair. He stood back, clapping Ron on the shoulder, still grateful that they literally saw eye to eye.

"Yeah. Just feeling a bit clingy. If you hang around me for too much longer, you'll get to see all of my bad sides. I've been on my best behaviour," he said, keeping things light-hearted.

"Well, I'd hope by now you'd just want to be yourself around me." Ron let his hand rest on Dean's hip, tapping the waistband of his denims with his thumb. "Reckon we go back too far and have been through enough to be honest and nothing else. Right?"

"Too right," Dean agreed, overcome with desires and wants that seemed inappropriate and that he simply didn't want to deal with right then and there, in his narrow entryway. "So I'll see you Saturday, ten-ish?"

"Yeah." Ron kept looking thoughtfully at him. "You sure you're okay? Merlin knows I've gone on and on to you about my tripe…" Ron's invitation to talk further hung in the air until Dean shook his head.

"No, not now, but thanks. And have a good game tomorrow; I'll be listening to the match."

"Mate, as soon as I do the bloody paperwork the team manager insists I fill out, you're going to have box seats for the next decade!"

Ron's demeanour had switched to his more usual lively self, and Dean was thankful for it. "You're the best. Cheers."

Once Ron was safely out of the flat, Dean went back into the studio to look at the portrait. He took out his slim silver case and got a clove cigarette, savouring the herbal scent as he regarded his work. It was an amazing likeness, if he did say so himself. Ron's rugged but approachable personality radiated from the canvas, even without the spell that would animate him as well as the scene behind him. He was especially proud of Ron's hands and lips; he'd spent perhaps an inordinate amount of time focussing on the way Ron held things, or drummed his fingers, or the way he tended to loosely intertwine his fingers and hold them, inverted, with his palms up, when he sat. Ron didn't gesture much with his hands— he wasn't at all flamboyant, but they were expressive nonetheless. Ron's mouth had given Dean all kinds of fits in that his lips were fairly thin, but with a pronounced bow on the top that made them appear more lush. Dean hadn't skimped on attention to his eyes, either, with their robin's egg blue colour that reflected other shades, especially when Ron wore green or navy. All in all, he was quite pleased with how the portrait was turning out, and Ron seemed to share the sentiment.

If only Dean felt the same about his own feelings for Ron as a person, and friend, and an attractive man, to further complicate matters.




on to part two