Vermilion Hunger, Cerulean Thirst, part 3
Apr. 24th, 2007 12:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thrihyrneContinued from here
Dean's eyes were burning from the sweat that had slid down his face, but he refused to let up against his opponent. The small blue ball slammed against the court walls, volleyed and smashed with near-maniacal precision, at least on Dean's part. Seamus was running more around the court, and not just due to his far shorter legs. He'd been on his guard ever since they'd met up in the locker room and caught the unintentional brunt end of Dean's lingering dark mood. He and Seamus played squash on at least a weekly basis. One of Imogen's mates was fond of it and Seamus had taken a shine to the aggressive sport while he'd been courting her, but of course he'd managed to get Dean hooked as well.
"Shite! Fuckin' bloody badgerarse!" Seamus swore, panting, as he lost yet another match. "Ye're playin' for blood, you animal! What skrewt shat in your cereal, anyway? Ye've been right nasty, you big git!"
Dean was breathing heavily as well, mulling over how to reply to Seamus' comment. "'M not," he huffed, leaning over and grasping at the bottom of his shorts. "You're just a sore loser."
Seamus paced around the small enclosure, moving his arms in windmill fashion and breathing loudly through his mouth. "What's goin' on? You've had nothing' but a blindin' smile on your face every time I've seen you since Christmas, and now it's like ye're ready to hex anything that moves."
"Bit of an overstatement, that," Dean insisted, standing and stretching before bouncing the small ball against the floor with his racquet. "Just had something on my mind. I'm really not in a bad mood, honest."
"Yeah, and I'm bloody Minister for Magic." Seamus looked him straight in the eye, swinging his racquet in looping arcs at the wrist. "Fine. Don't tell me. I'm only yer best mate. And brother-in-law." He scowled. "'Spose now that Ron's been hangin' around, you think ye don't need me anymore, eh? Some friend you are!"
"It's not like that," Dean growled. He was taken aback at his instinctual response and the venom with which he'd replied. Seamus appeared just as shocked, his mossy-coloured eyes widening with comprehension. It was one of the many things Dean adored about Seamus, especially in regards to their friendship; Seamus was astonishingly intuitive and astute— as long as the perception didn't involve his own self-awareness, of which he remained blithely incognizant.
"What's he done?" Seamus asked, a fire lighting in his eyes that Dean knew well. Seamus wanted to protect Dean, or go after whomever it was who'd insulted or hurt him. It was endearing, though totally unnecessary.
"Look. Ron's a good bloke, really. We'd been spending loads of time together while I was doing his portrait—"
"I bloody well know that, you ponce. 'S'not like you and I haven't talked, but apparently you've been keepin' stuff to yerself. Spill. What's he fucking done to hurt you? I swear I'll rip his—"
"We're all fucking adults," Dean interrupted, the hurt unfurling against the cage of his heart where he'd tried to sequester his feelings. "Thank you for looking out for me, but I can take care of myself."
"Nobody said you couldn't, ye giant berk," Seamus fumed, walking over so he was standing next to him, his gaze livid. "Ye've always let me know what's goin' on. You had some right nasty rows with Patric, but ye always told me about 'em. Even when I was being a prick and didn't really want to know," he added.
A faint bittersweet smile glanced on Dean's lips. Seamus' time of believing he was bisexual hadn't lasted all that long, and his tolerance for Dean's not-infrequent complaining about Patric hadn't run very high.
"You just seem really off. Like ye did before that batty trip to Brazil. Ye can be in a bad mood," Seamus continued, his voice more thoughtful and cajoling. "Just seems like it's more than having yer pants in a twist. And I'll fuckin' kill Ron Weasley if he's the cause. I don't care if I've known him since we were eleven."
"All right, Seamus, enough!" Dean's frustration at himself and how quickly he'd found himself falling for Ron clawed inside his ribs. He gripped the handle of his racquet until his knuckles ached. "Look— we went out to that club you and I went to a couple of times when you were dallying about with the idea of being with blokes."
"That place where all those dancers had such huge tackle?"
Dean snorted. "Yeah. Anyway, we had a good time, though in retrospect, it probably wasn't the most brilliant idea. He got pretty rat-arsed, we came back to my flat, had a memorable shag— well, I did. He didn't remember much the next morning."
Seamus' face, already red from exertion, was now glowing mutinously.
"Oh, don't give me that look," Dean said, wiping some sweat off of his temple in irritation. "When you and I drank I forgot half of what I did— nearly blinded myself, even. He didn't seem sorry or anything, but he didn't stick around, either. So what? I probably would've done the same thing. It's just that I guess I'd thought things would go back to normal. Or be different, but in a better way. I'm sure when I take over his portrait it'll be fine."
Seamus exhaled loudly, regarding Dean in a manner that indicated he didn't believe a word of his attempt to make light of things.
"You don't just fuck around," Seamus said sagely. "Ye've always been pretty particular about what blokes you shagged. Ron's done wrong by you if he's not even sent a bloody owl or something."
"He didn't owl before," Dean pointed out.
"Ye'd bloody well not had sex before."
Dean's frayed patience was becoming dangerously thin. "I know you care. Truly. Thanks for defending my honour, or whatever it is, my reputation maybe. My pride's had a bit of a blow, but I'll get over it. There. Can we drop it now?"
Seamus continued to hold Dean captive in his gaze until at last he backed down from their stand-off, glancing over at the waiting players on the bench out in the corridor and rubbing at his shoulder. "Yeah. But I'd best not see him anytime soon, or I can't be held responsible for what I do. Ye don't deserve that, especially be somebody who's known you that long. He's an arsehole."
"No, he's human. So'm I. I'll probably go out this weekend, dance and string some blokes along, and go home alone, safe and sound." Even as the words came out of his mouth, Dean knew he had no intention of doing that. He could tell that Seamus would invite him over otherwise, and he really didn't want to deal with a night or two of watching his domestic bliss with Imogen.
"Ye've an open invitation at our place, y'know," Seamus said soothingly, though his tone was still hard enough to tug gratefully at Dean's loyalties. Seamus really wouldn't hesitate to make anyone's life hellish if he felt they'd maligned Dean somehow.
"Thanks mate, really," he said, suffocating the encroaching emotional maelstrom that threatened his tenuous harmony.
A rapping on the glass made them turn around and Seamus gave the player a quick, rude hand gesture before shouting, "We'll be out in a minute!" He jerked his head toward the door. "S'pose we should go."
Dean nodded and they made their way back to the locker room, the tension between them having evaporated. Getting his thoughts out in the open and the physical exercise had put Dean in a better mood, but he was still cautious.
"Don't tell Imogen, promise me," he said as they stripped down and took quick showers, side by side. "I don't want her getting all involved in my personal life. I'll never hear the end of it."
"Not a word," Seamus promised, nicking off with some of Dean's sage-scented shampoo. "I'm serious about you comin' over. I'll be working Saturday, but Friday I can get Ian and some of his mates to come by. We'll play poker. Ye owe me twenty quid anyway!" he said, grinning.
"Some memory you've got. That's from last September!" Dean said with a smile, turning around to rinse off and turn off the taps. "But you're on. I'll be over around eight, all right?"
"Ye'd better. Or I'll come and drag your skinny arse over, whether you like it or not."
"I'd like to see you try," Dean taunted him, feeling far more at ease. As he took the Wizarding bus back to the stop nearest his flat, however, he knew he wouldn't be able to just shake off the profound disappointment he felt, especially if Ron continued his silence. Dean had no intention of bringing up their night together without Ron doing so first, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking how brilliant it had felt to dance with him, their hungry kisses and how at peace he'd been going to sleep with Ron's equally long body pressed up next to his. He did deserve better. But Seamus really would be Minister for Magic before Dean went grovelling to someone who couldn't be bothered even to firecall and say hello after they'd been getting on so well. Once back in his flat, his foul mood returned. He returned to his Brazil canvases, painting, smoking and crooning along with the jilted men in the songs he had put on rotation.
* * * * *
The weekend came and went; Dean did go over to Seamus' Friday evening after all. He had a passably decent time with Seamus and a few of Imogen's friends with whom she'd attended university. They played poker and Dean ended up owing Seamus only four quid, but had promised a small sketch to one of the other guys to make up for a new debt. They also watched a Muggle movie about a bloke whose wife was killed and he kept waking up, having forgotten everything, so he'd write down clues on himself. He ended up being covered with messages he didn't understand, and it struck home a bit more closely than Dean cared to think about. Maybe if he'd written things down, or drawn a picture or something, it would've jogged Ron's memory…
Sunday and Monday Dean forced himself to paint the finishing touches on Ron's portrait. The background had needed a bit of tidying up as Dean was quite particular about sunlight and clouds. Ron had specified that he wanted the time of day to be on the cusp of sunset; not yet dusk, but not mid-day, either. Even though most people wouldn't focus on that element of the painting, Dean really enjoyed the challenge of capturing the particular warm essence of late afternoon, hinting at the upcoming change to the day with washes of terra cotta and rose to the predominantly blue sky.
Then there was Ron himself, his smile slightly crooked and blazingly genuine, one foot on a short bench, the bright viridian and gold of his Green Knights jersey shimmering as though the sun were shining on it. Dean was especially proud of the appearance of his leather vambraces and shin guards. He'd spent no small amount of time ensuring he'd captured every faint rough patch and lustrous sheen to the fine lines of stitching; once he'd carefully painted the near-imperceptible shine from the off-canvas sunlight, he swore he could almost smell the tang of alder tree oil Ron used to keep the leather supple. The likeness wasn't photographic in detail, on purpose. He'd been wary of being too identical like that, as part of the mystery of a portrait was that if the artist was exceptional, or at least exceptionally trained, a hint of the painted individual's aura, an essence of his or her uninhibited magical self, would be instilled in the painting. Such depth to the portraiture couldn't be infused or spell-cast; the energy had to come over time, flowing infinitessiminally from the painter through her or his materials and focus. Dean hadn't cast the Animus yet, but there was such vibrancy in the portrait-Ron that he almost didn't need to.
"You're a fucking amazing artist when you want to be," Dean said quietly to himself Tuesday afternoon, having deemed the painting complete early that morning and having a joint to celebrate, though he was feeling rather dispirited. His upper back ached a bit, so he took a long soak, ordered take-away and ate it, then decided some proper celebrations were in order. He'd sent an owl to Ron's, letting him know the portrait was finished and asking when he'd like to pick it up. Ron's reply had been brief but not cold, asking if Dean could bring it over the next day, around five. There was no mention of their prior weekend's activities, no request for Dean to linger and stay for dinner or tea, nothing.
Seamus' words from their talk on the squash court burbled up as he got dressed, digging out his lace-front black trousers and a lilac silk shirt that was quite striking against his dark skin.
"You don't just fuck around. Ye've always been pretty particular," Seamus' brogue repeated in his head as he cast a sweat-based Repello on the shirt. Maybe he'd been too particular. Perhaps it was time to live whatever mythic, unattached, queer lifestyle there was out there, with loads of sex and no long-term responsibilities. It had its appeal, certainly to his newly-awakened libido. Looking at himself in the mirror, he Accio'ed his hair gel and rubbed some into his still short dreadlocks. Growing out his hair was a pain in the arse, but he really liked how it looked. He gave himself a once-over, trying a trick one of his art professors had suggested when they'd worked on self-portraits. He imagined the man in the mirror was an absolute stranger, totally unfamiliar and, in this scenario, walking up to him at a club.
Dean nodded slowly in acceptance at the fit, tall gent standing before him with narrow hips and expressive brown eyes, full lips meant for kissing, and a decent-sized package tucked enticingly away behind leather laced flies.
"Definitely shaggable," he told himself, trying on a seductive smile before recoiling a bit at how that appeared. He changed his gaze to be intense and kept his posture more butch. In general, when he felt he was becoming somewhat queeny, he'd think, "How would Seamus pose?" and then take it down a notch. Yes, he was quite a catch, all right.
"I wonder what sort of bait will be out there?" he thought to himself as he pulled on a leather jacket. He cast a Nox on all of his lights and locked his doors before walking over to his fireplace, having decided to go by the Floo network to a hotel a few blocks down from a wizarding club called The Chimera. He'd not gone too many times and he'd always been with someone, usually Patric. Early on, when the War was newly over, however, he'd had several wild nights with Bernard Acacia, an older Ravenclaw who'd shown him the ropes.
It wasn't nearly as packed as the last time he'd been there; then again, it was a Tuesday night. He could feel a few blatant, lust-filled gazes on him as he entered and stood at the bar. He paused for only a moment before ordering an Irish Volcano, a three-layered, potent beverage with Bitter Banshee, Guinness and Absinthe. Even before he'd left his flat, he knew he'd be drinking, but he vowed not to get as sloppy as Ron had that recent fateful weekend.
The green and black cocktail went down smoothly, though it left him hiccoughing faint bursts of green flames for a few minutes afterwards. He ordered a second, and once he had it, turned to survey the room. It was after his fourth drink that he acquiesced and went to dance with a whipcord thin, 70s-attired tousled youth who was endearingly persistent and promised that Dean wouldn't regret it. They danced for a few songs, bumping and grinding and groping. Dean had felt the bloke's — Damon's — erection becoming more and more pronounced when they'd rejoin at the hip after short spaces of gyrating apart. After a few dances he begged off, insisting that Damon should be shared with some other men who'd been eyeing him. Damon reluctantly agreed, but only with the caveat that he had to give Dean a kiss first. Dean found himself clutched tightly, and a talented tongue making blistering, fervent paths in his mouth. In a back part of Dean's increasingly addled mind, he prided himself on not comparing the bone-melting snog to Ron, at least not much. Dazedly he prised himself loose, and it was only when he caught himself swaying a bit back at the bar, fumbling as he scavenged through his jacket pockets for one of his clove cigarettes, that he realised he'd been hit pretty hard by his imbibing.
He took his time as he smoked, watching the clusters of men, some of whom were doing all but shag though most of their clothes were still on. It turned him on to watch, seeing the hard angles of jaws and shoulders as the male bodies intertwined. He'd been half-hard the entire time he'd been dancing with the 70s bloke, but his bladder insisted that it be tended to before contemplating any erotic activity. After establishing that he could, indeed, stand up straight without assistance or wobbling, he headed back to the toilets. En route he navigated a narrow, dark corridor whose topography consisted of writhing, grunting pairs of men. The smacking, liquid sounds went straight to the throbbing in his groin and he hurried on into the equally dimly-lit loo. Cursing the laces at the front of his trousers, at last he managed to loosen them enough to open the flap. He aimed his freed cock at the urinal he'd picked, the one the furthest distance from the door. He'd nearly finished, relief flooding him as his piss streamed out, when the door opened. Dean turned to look, one hand planted on the stone wall, and gaped for several seconds until he chastised himself to at least attempt some suavity.
"I know you— you work at Nine Inch Males! But… you're a wizard?" he exclaimed, his inner censor having obviously been gagged and shoved into a closet, doubtless keeping company with that part of himself which was cool and collected.
A warm, sensuous smile settled on the young man's lips as he slowly walked over, his auburn hair gleaming sanguine as he passed a sconce with candles.
"Must be," he said smoothly, his gaze meandering over Dean's body before returning to look at him directly. "I know you, too. Well, noticed you. You're not easy to forget."
Dean felt his fleeing reserves buckle, though swooning outright seemed pathetic. Besides, he was in front of a urinal, his turgid cock still untucked and in his hand.
"Really?" He forced himself not to stare at the dancer's groin, managing to cast a silent, wandless Scourgify on his prick and begin arranging himself so he could redo his trousers.
"Yeah. Surely you've heard the phrase tall, dark and handsome." His granite eyes were warm, his tone amused but not mocking. "And you've a sinful arse."
When his narrow fingers caressed Dean's hip, he blurted out, "I've fantasised about you. Oh! Fuck. Sorry. Shit, that was—"
"Flattering." The young man insinuated his hand under Dean's so he could grasp at Dean's cock. "I wonder if you'd tell me what I did?" He'd pressed Dean against the side of the stall, his skilled hand pulling up and down on Dean's hot skin.
"Merlin," Dean breathed, shoving away traitorous thoughts of Ron bursting in and seeing him like this, being willingly seduced by this gorgeous man. "What's your name?" he asked, wrapping his arms behind the evidently Welsh dancer's waist and shoving his own hips forward with a muted groan.
"Rhys." His voice was fresh somehow, light but seductive in a way that caused Dean's nipples to harden as he frotted into Rhys' hand. "Yours?"
"Dean."
"Dean." Rhys caressed the word, making the lone syllable sound edible. "So. I hope I was good in your fantasy. I've been told my cock feels amazing."
Dean couldn't suppress the needy whimper that escaped his throat. He wished he'd not had that fourth Irish Volcano, but it wasn't keeping him from feeling exactly how turned on he was. This was what he'd come out for, wasn't it? Hot, no holds barred, strings free sex.
"Can I fuck you?" Rhys' tone was hoarse, the words purred onto Dean's lips. "I'm better in real life than any wank you might've had."
"Fuck, yes," Dean moaned, tugging Rhys' hips into him with a jerky motion, latching onto the dancer's lips and plundering the scorching cavern of his mouth.
The world shrank down to an erotic alembic of possessive hands, feasting lips and jutting flesh. Dean found his palms pressed for purchase against the metal slab of a toilet stall. His tight trousers were peeled down to his knees while Rhys uttered a wandless lubrication spell before he was slowly but irrevocably breached. The taut pleasurepain radiated from his clenching channel, an acute burning dissipating into his lower back and down his thighs. Rhys kept pushing until Dean let out a pained cry.
"Almost there, doe-eyes, almost there," Rhys soothed, pausing for Dean's body to adapt to the intrusion. It felt as though a steel rod had been forced into him, up into his very guts. Something far inside himself gave way and he was able to relax imperceptibly.
"Gods, you're so good, so tight," Rhys exhaled into the tense muscles of Dean's upper back. He slid back a couple of inches, which felt like yawning miles inside Dean's stretched muscles, then shoved back in, this time changing the angle just enough to slide past Dean's bundle of nerves.
All Dean could manage were panted breaths and murmured exaltations of profanity. The long shaft was buried in him, ploughing again and again. Dean's nerves vibrated with the soft slap of skin against his arse and the pulsing waves of heat that sparked along to his untouched cock with each punishing thrust. Unlike in his fantasy, Rhys wasn't chatty, though he'd occasionally huff out "Feels brilliant" or "Merlin, fuck, so good." Dean was close to coming, his body stimulated to an unbearable threshold, when he pulled a hand off of the wall to tend to his aching prick. He felt strangely distant, almost like a marionette being expertly manoeuvred. His heart wasn't at all involved in this; it was musky sweat and spiralling fire in his prick and Rhys' very real, very engorged cock hammering into his abused arse.
Dean was faintly attuned to the rising pitch of Rhys' sexy whines and he picked up speed on his shaft. Rhys let out a scudding moan, holding tightly on to Dean's hips as his release shuddered deep in Dean's body. Dean clenched his jaw, his hand flying on his prick until rocked by his orgasm. The pungent spunk silently hit the toilet stall, making pearly tracks as it slid down the metal. Dazed, his legs and hand trembling, Dean leaned forward until he could rest his forehead against the side of the stall. Eventually his racing heart slowed while Rhys stroked his arse, the gentle path of his fingers a warning of sorts before he eased out. Dean bit down on his lip, his sore inner muscles feeling a disconcerting ghostly impression of Rhys' cock for a few moments.
When Dean trusted himself to move, he eased up, murmuring a quiet word of thanks as Rhys cast cleansing spells on them both. He turned around and they exchanged some surprisingly tender words of gratitude and sundry niceties as Dean made sure he was properly dressed. When he left the toilets and headed toward the bar, Rhys opted not to follow. Back at the bar Dean stood, quite certain that sitting would be an appallingly bad idea, and ordered a double firewhiskey. The alcohol scorched his throat, but couldn't force himself to feel anything other than a perplexing mixture of sated ennui. He paid the bartender, made sure his cigarettes were in his coat, and walked unsteadily out of the club.
* * * * *
The morning was unforgiving in its brutality. Dean's head swam and throbbed, his mouth was as dry as the desert, and he winced at the twinging soreness in his arse even doing something as simple as moving his legs around so he could sit up. As he hobbled into his bathroom, a few splinters of clarity came to him about the night before, and he gave himself virtual kudos for having been so spontaneous. It really was unbelievable that the guy he'd wanked about had ended up being a wizard and at that particular club on that particular night… he'd even seemed like a decent fellow, from what he could remember. The muscles in his backside had a much keener memory than his head, that was certain.
He found some healing salve in a cabinet and even the dregs of a small bottle of Madam Ciara's Hangover Draught to which he added a bit of water and drank. It wasn't a full dose, but even the small portion helped him to feel more human. A backward glance through his doorway to his clock showed that he didn't have all that long before he needed to catch the bus to Diagon Alley. He was quite proficient at Apparition, but he'd learned that artwork, like some other intricate magical artefacts, simply travelled better by more conventional means. From Diagon Alley he'd take the Floo network to the primary fireplace in Glasgow where yet another marketing staffperson for the Green Knights would pick him up in a modified Muggle car to take him to Ron's flat.
Ron. Friend? Fuckbuddy? What?
While he showered, putting the water as hot as he could bear it, he ran his various relationships through his head. The truth was, aside from his year and some with Patric, friendships were what he knew best. It probably made the most sense for him to deliver Ron's portrait and test the waters with the understanding, at least to himself, that they were just friends and that one evening had been an anomaly. Lathering himself between his legs for a second time, the tactile memories of being with Ron came flooding back and he shut his eyes, which didn't help. It wasn't as though he'd gone looking for anything with him though, not really. At some point surely someone would come into his life who wanted him for who he was, and then he could worry about the finer aspects of being a decent boyfriend, or partner. He probably wasn't ready for that now anyway.
After his shower he got dressed, putting on a pair of well-worn denims and a comfortable jumper. It took him a while to wrap Ron's portrait securely, so he was almost flying out the door to make it to his stop on the Pegasus line. With his new imposed resolutions, he found he was looking forward to the visit, and showing off the portrait itself. He'd decided not to cast the animating spell until he was at Ron's flat, which was a bit nerve-wracking, but the decision felt instinctively right. The Green Knights chap who picked him up in Glasgow was amiable and chatty, and soon he was knocking at Ron's door.
The door opened, and Dean stood for a moment, a bit rattled at Ron's appearance. He was dressed as though he was going out for a nice dinner which, Dean considered, Ron might well be doing once he presented the painting and then took his leave.
"Come in," Ron said, gesturing into his decent-sized living room with the large telly he and Dean had watched on Boxing Day.
"Thanks."
"Guess everything went okay, Philip was there…"
"Yep, couldn't have been smoother." Dean became increasingly uncomfortable as he noticed details while he walked through: Ron's flat was tidy, a quite delicious smell emanated from his kitchen, and Ron kept glancing around himself, as though someone might pop out from behind one of his potted Emmalexis plants or something else equally unexpected.
"Look, I was going to cast the Animus after you'd had a little time to look at it flat-out, but it seems as though you're expecting company. I don't want to interfere—" Dean began before Ron stopped him.
"You're the only one who's supposed to be here. I know I'm a git, and I shouldn't have assumed that you wouldn't have plans, but would you stay for dinner?" Ron looked at him with abashed hopefulness, as though he really wasn't sure whether or not Dean would turn him down.
Dean's heart was in tumult. His new resolve of being just friends had caught a snag with Ron's offer, but he tried to rationalise that there didn't need to be anything profound in the invitation.
"Sure. Um, where do you want this to go?" Dean asked, adjusting the satchel over his shoulder to hoist up the painting.
"Not sure where I'll hang it in the long run, but let's start with it here. May I look at it now?"
Ron's irrepressible enthusiasm was catching, reminding Dean that while Ron was paying for the portrait, in many ways it was a gift. A sudden flashback to Ron tearing into the presents that littered his bed on his birthdays at Hogwarts came to mind, and he smiled. "Of course. I don't think you'll be disappointed."
Ron gave him a look as though he'd managed to speak Parseltongue. "Disappointed? You're a brilliant artist, and it'll only look more amazing now that the background is there."
With nearly childlike zeal, Ron set to unwrapping the portrait. When it was uncovered he stood up, moving back to stand as close as he could to Dean without actually stepping on his shoes. Dean waited silently, supposing that Ron's reaction was a positive one. The arm around his shoulder appeared to affirm that assumption, but Dean still found that he was on tenterhooks until Ron finally spoke.
"It's fucking brilliant. You're so bloody talented!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, his characteristic lopsided grin glued to his lips. "I don't know how you made me look that attractive, because I know bloody well I'm not really a looker like that!"
Dean nearly contradicted out loud but was spared that potential embarrassment when Ron turned and threw his arms around him, squeezing him and babbling about talent and finally having his own portrait and how fucking brilliant it was that Dean had painted it. Ron's gush of praise finally petered out and he stood back a bit, keeping his hands on Dean's shoulder blades. He seemed to be contemplating something painful or awkward. At Ron's change in demeanour, Dean began reeling back the miscreant thoughts that had already charged ahead into wishful thinking territory.
"Can we talk?" Ron asked.
Dean paused only for a second, enough to chant his just friends mantra a few times. "Of course."
"I'm going to get a Guinness. Can I get you anything?" Ron's fingertips rubbed a little against Dean's upper back.
"Guinness is fine." At Ron's confused look, Dean went on. "I don't plan to make a habit of it, but I went out last night and drank some and wouldn't mind having one with you." He opted not to tell him about his memorable tryst with Rhys in the toilets, at least not yet.
Ron shrugged his shoulders. "I really do respect your decision not to drink. I'll get one, but only if you want."
"I want."
Dean sat down on the couch, his pulse beating faster than normal and his palms getting sweaty. He was frustrated with himself, getting so worked up just being around Ron again. They'd been getting on really well before that night, and in many ways he wanted to go back to how things had been before. He'd liked having someone else besides Seamus to chat with comfortably, and this was decidedly awkward.
Ron took a seat next to him, handed him a bottle and clinked the necks together before taking a long swig. He appeared to be steeling himself for something unpleasant, and Dean very nearly started into his own somewhat-practised let's-be-friends speech himself when Ron opened his mouth.
"I've been rather a wanker, and I apologise. You're a good guy, and a great friend, and somebody I'd really like to hang out with a lot."
Dean nodded, taking a deep swallow of his own beer as he anticipated the monstrous 'but' that hung in the air.
"Last Sunday morning I woke up and you were still sound asleep. I lay there for a bit, fighting off the headache I had, but it felt good, y'know, you sprawled out next to me, snoring a bit."
"I don't snore!" Dean blurted out.
"It wasn't loud snoring, just a little noise," Ron said hastily. "The point is, it was pretty great. I've not spent the night with anyone in a few years. Since Harry."
"Of course." He tried unsuccessfully not to think of the two of them in bed together, but the image didn't leave a sour taste in his mouth as he'd thought it might.
"Look. I need to get this out, I've been meaning to owl, or Firecall, but the longer I waited, the more like an absolute shit I felt," Ron said, drawing one long leg up onto his knee. "Anyway, I couldn't go back to sleep, so I got up and made a cup of tea and wandered about your place for a bit. I spent some time looking around your studio, and found a bunch of sketches. Of me."
Dean flashed hot and cold, embarrassment churning into anger at his privacy having been violated while he was sleeping in his bed. "You weren't meant to see those!" he seethed before downing his beer. "I mean, I guess you should've expected I'd do other sketches, but…"
"The naked ones threw me off a bit, though they were really flattering," Ron said with a small laugh, though his expression remained thoughtful. "It was the others that shocked me. My hands, my face, me sitting on that stool… they were all amazing. I was just surprised. There was something so, well, tender about them. I'm atrocious at talking about shit like this, sorry," he apologised. "It was obvious that you were thinking about me even when I wasn't there, and not just in a friendly way. It took me seeing those to realise that I obviously thought about you like that too. You'd've thought that the fact that I'd spent the night and my fuzzy memories about some really great sex would've clued me in, but I can be pretty fucking thick sometimes."
Dean simply stared, forcing himself to stay quiet until Ron had had his say. The betrayal he'd felt transformed into something like pity while his just friends soapbox clattered into a small heap.
"So I guess what I'm trying to say in the most ridiculous, roundabout way possible, is that I hope I haven't fucked up too much. I don't want to lose you as a friend, but I think I could really get used to being with you as much more than that. Scares the piss out of me, don't get me wrong. If Harry were here, he'd tell you how crap a boyfriend I can be."
"If Harry were here, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation."
Ron nodded slowly, his expression rueful. "But we are, which means that if you don't think I'm a total twat, maybe I can do better this time."
Dean's feelings were thrown into pandemonium which he covered up by finishing his beer. Images zagged pell-mell through his inner vision: him congratulating Ron after a well-played match; lounging together on this couch of Ron's, watching telly; leisurely afternoons walking hand in hand through one of the London parks Dean frequented. He almost groaned aloud at the rosy romanticism of his imagination, and was taken aback by the metamorphosis on Ron's face from hopefulness to resignation.
"No— I mean, I don't think you're that much of a berk," Dean corrected himself, seeing the chagrin settle on Ron's features as he looked down, beginning to pick at the label on his beer. "It would've been nice if you'd owled, but, oh fuck it, that's done with. Yeah, I don't want to lose your friendship either, but I've got to admit, I'd really like much more than that. I'm not the best boyfriend either, I don't think; the truth is, I've only had the one, as Seamus doesn't count, but I'd like to try. With you, I'd really like to give things a go." Ron raised his head, and Dean found himself nodding, affirming that Ron's expressive eyes and slight laugh lines at the corner of his lips and copper-stubbled jaw was a view that he'd like to get to know very, very well.
Dean quirked his lips to the side, leaning down slightly to place his beer on the nearby table. "There are a few things you should know, in case you want to back out now. I loathe spring, I get insecure about my art, I've been told I sleepwalk on occasion, I tend to stay up really late at night, and no matter what, I play squash with Seamus on Tuesdays. He'll have my bollocks if that changes."
Ron settled back against the couch, twisting his head so that it nearly rested on the back, and placed his hand on Dean's leg above the knee. His thumb made a small path back and forth as a smile bloomed on his lips.
"My turn," Ron said. "I've got a bit of a temper, but you already knew that."
Dean huffed a dampened laugh.
"I hate keeping up with money, I really like cooking but can't stand to go to the shops for ingredients, I hate feeling ignored and I'll let you know it, I'm jealous, I can't be bothered to do laundry until I'm down to my last pair of boxers and sometimes not even then, and I'd really like to kiss you right now." Ron's pink tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip was more than enough invitation for Dean. He took Ron's Guinness and placed it on the table before leaning over and hungrily mashing his lips against Ron's. Ron opened his mouth with a moan, sliding backward and pulling Dean on top of him so that they lay together in a long heap of elbows and hips and knees. Their tongues slid and duelled; Dean could already feel a damp patch in his groin as his denims grew increasingly tight and his heart danced parabolas and he wanted to devour the needy whimpers coming from Ron's throat.
Dean pulled his lips away while Ron groaned his disappointment, but Dean wanted to say one more thing before words failed him.
"You're beautiful, Ron."
Ron looked at him, his pupils dilated and his slightly swollen lips curving upwards. "You're daft. But if you think so, I s'pose that's all that matters. Now c'mere."
Dean did, passionately.
* * * * *
Waking with a start, Dean churned through several disconcerting moments of confusion as he took in an unfamiliar room. With the quietness of falling leaves, the details settled back on him, Ron's gentle snoring to his left reminding him that he was exactly where he wanted to be. He lay under the covers for a bit until he realised he wouldn't fall right back to sleep, so he eased himself out of the bed and padded silently into the living room to find his satchel. He rummaged through it to get a sketch pad, pencil and his wand, and returned to Ron's bedroom. Easing down into a chair, he whispered Lumos so he had just enough light to see Ron's face, untroubled in sleep, and began to draw.
* * * * *
A/N
Síofra- Irish: sprite or precocious child
Anson Astrolabe's lyrics are the author's, who apologises for her attempt at rhyming anything.
Dean's eyes were burning from the sweat that had slid down his face, but he refused to let up against his opponent. The small blue ball slammed against the court walls, volleyed and smashed with near-maniacal precision, at least on Dean's part. Seamus was running more around the court, and not just due to his far shorter legs. He'd been on his guard ever since they'd met up in the locker room and caught the unintentional brunt end of Dean's lingering dark mood. He and Seamus played squash on at least a weekly basis. One of Imogen's mates was fond of it and Seamus had taken a shine to the aggressive sport while he'd been courting her, but of course he'd managed to get Dean hooked as well.
"Shite! Fuckin' bloody badgerarse!" Seamus swore, panting, as he lost yet another match. "Ye're playin' for blood, you animal! What skrewt shat in your cereal, anyway? Ye've been right nasty, you big git!"
Dean was breathing heavily as well, mulling over how to reply to Seamus' comment. "'M not," he huffed, leaning over and grasping at the bottom of his shorts. "You're just a sore loser."
Seamus paced around the small enclosure, moving his arms in windmill fashion and breathing loudly through his mouth. "What's goin' on? You've had nothing' but a blindin' smile on your face every time I've seen you since Christmas, and now it's like ye're ready to hex anything that moves."
"Bit of an overstatement, that," Dean insisted, standing and stretching before bouncing the small ball against the floor with his racquet. "Just had something on my mind. I'm really not in a bad mood, honest."
"Yeah, and I'm bloody Minister for Magic." Seamus looked him straight in the eye, swinging his racquet in looping arcs at the wrist. "Fine. Don't tell me. I'm only yer best mate. And brother-in-law." He scowled. "'Spose now that Ron's been hangin' around, you think ye don't need me anymore, eh? Some friend you are!"
"It's not like that," Dean growled. He was taken aback at his instinctual response and the venom with which he'd replied. Seamus appeared just as shocked, his mossy-coloured eyes widening with comprehension. It was one of the many things Dean adored about Seamus, especially in regards to their friendship; Seamus was astonishingly intuitive and astute— as long as the perception didn't involve his own self-awareness, of which he remained blithely incognizant.
"What's he done?" Seamus asked, a fire lighting in his eyes that Dean knew well. Seamus wanted to protect Dean, or go after whomever it was who'd insulted or hurt him. It was endearing, though totally unnecessary.
"Look. Ron's a good bloke, really. We'd been spending loads of time together while I was doing his portrait—"
"I bloody well know that, you ponce. 'S'not like you and I haven't talked, but apparently you've been keepin' stuff to yerself. Spill. What's he fucking done to hurt you? I swear I'll rip his—"
"We're all fucking adults," Dean interrupted, the hurt unfurling against the cage of his heart where he'd tried to sequester his feelings. "Thank you for looking out for me, but I can take care of myself."
"Nobody said you couldn't, ye giant berk," Seamus fumed, walking over so he was standing next to him, his gaze livid. "Ye've always let me know what's goin' on. You had some right nasty rows with Patric, but ye always told me about 'em. Even when I was being a prick and didn't really want to know," he added.
A faint bittersweet smile glanced on Dean's lips. Seamus' time of believing he was bisexual hadn't lasted all that long, and his tolerance for Dean's not-infrequent complaining about Patric hadn't run very high.
"You just seem really off. Like ye did before that batty trip to Brazil. Ye can be in a bad mood," Seamus continued, his voice more thoughtful and cajoling. "Just seems like it's more than having yer pants in a twist. And I'll fuckin' kill Ron Weasley if he's the cause. I don't care if I've known him since we were eleven."
"All right, Seamus, enough!" Dean's frustration at himself and how quickly he'd found himself falling for Ron clawed inside his ribs. He gripped the handle of his racquet until his knuckles ached. "Look— we went out to that club you and I went to a couple of times when you were dallying about with the idea of being with blokes."
"That place where all those dancers had such huge tackle?"
Dean snorted. "Yeah. Anyway, we had a good time, though in retrospect, it probably wasn't the most brilliant idea. He got pretty rat-arsed, we came back to my flat, had a memorable shag— well, I did. He didn't remember much the next morning."
Seamus' face, already red from exertion, was now glowing mutinously.
"Oh, don't give me that look," Dean said, wiping some sweat off of his temple in irritation. "When you and I drank I forgot half of what I did— nearly blinded myself, even. He didn't seem sorry or anything, but he didn't stick around, either. So what? I probably would've done the same thing. It's just that I guess I'd thought things would go back to normal. Or be different, but in a better way. I'm sure when I take over his portrait it'll be fine."
Seamus exhaled loudly, regarding Dean in a manner that indicated he didn't believe a word of his attempt to make light of things.
"You don't just fuck around," Seamus said sagely. "Ye've always been pretty particular about what blokes you shagged. Ron's done wrong by you if he's not even sent a bloody owl or something."
"He didn't owl before," Dean pointed out.
"Ye'd bloody well not had sex before."
Dean's frayed patience was becoming dangerously thin. "I know you care. Truly. Thanks for defending my honour, or whatever it is, my reputation maybe. My pride's had a bit of a blow, but I'll get over it. There. Can we drop it now?"
Seamus continued to hold Dean captive in his gaze until at last he backed down from their stand-off, glancing over at the waiting players on the bench out in the corridor and rubbing at his shoulder. "Yeah. But I'd best not see him anytime soon, or I can't be held responsible for what I do. Ye don't deserve that, especially be somebody who's known you that long. He's an arsehole."
"No, he's human. So'm I. I'll probably go out this weekend, dance and string some blokes along, and go home alone, safe and sound." Even as the words came out of his mouth, Dean knew he had no intention of doing that. He could tell that Seamus would invite him over otherwise, and he really didn't want to deal with a night or two of watching his domestic bliss with Imogen.
"Ye've an open invitation at our place, y'know," Seamus said soothingly, though his tone was still hard enough to tug gratefully at Dean's loyalties. Seamus really wouldn't hesitate to make anyone's life hellish if he felt they'd maligned Dean somehow.
"Thanks mate, really," he said, suffocating the encroaching emotional maelstrom that threatened his tenuous harmony.
A rapping on the glass made them turn around and Seamus gave the player a quick, rude hand gesture before shouting, "We'll be out in a minute!" He jerked his head toward the door. "S'pose we should go."
Dean nodded and they made their way back to the locker room, the tension between them having evaporated. Getting his thoughts out in the open and the physical exercise had put Dean in a better mood, but he was still cautious.
"Don't tell Imogen, promise me," he said as they stripped down and took quick showers, side by side. "I don't want her getting all involved in my personal life. I'll never hear the end of it."
"Not a word," Seamus promised, nicking off with some of Dean's sage-scented shampoo. "I'm serious about you comin' over. I'll be working Saturday, but Friday I can get Ian and some of his mates to come by. We'll play poker. Ye owe me twenty quid anyway!" he said, grinning.
"Some memory you've got. That's from last September!" Dean said with a smile, turning around to rinse off and turn off the taps. "But you're on. I'll be over around eight, all right?"
"Ye'd better. Or I'll come and drag your skinny arse over, whether you like it or not."
"I'd like to see you try," Dean taunted him, feeling far more at ease. As he took the Wizarding bus back to the stop nearest his flat, however, he knew he wouldn't be able to just shake off the profound disappointment he felt, especially if Ron continued his silence. Dean had no intention of bringing up their night together without Ron doing so first, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking how brilliant it had felt to dance with him, their hungry kisses and how at peace he'd been going to sleep with Ron's equally long body pressed up next to his. He did deserve better. But Seamus really would be Minister for Magic before Dean went grovelling to someone who couldn't be bothered even to firecall and say hello after they'd been getting on so well. Once back in his flat, his foul mood returned. He returned to his Brazil canvases, painting, smoking and crooning along with the jilted men in the songs he had put on rotation.
* * * * *
The weekend came and went; Dean did go over to Seamus' Friday evening after all. He had a passably decent time with Seamus and a few of Imogen's friends with whom she'd attended university. They played poker and Dean ended up owing Seamus only four quid, but had promised a small sketch to one of the other guys to make up for a new debt. They also watched a Muggle movie about a bloke whose wife was killed and he kept waking up, having forgotten everything, so he'd write down clues on himself. He ended up being covered with messages he didn't understand, and it struck home a bit more closely than Dean cared to think about. Maybe if he'd written things down, or drawn a picture or something, it would've jogged Ron's memory…
Sunday and Monday Dean forced himself to paint the finishing touches on Ron's portrait. The background had needed a bit of tidying up as Dean was quite particular about sunlight and clouds. Ron had specified that he wanted the time of day to be on the cusp of sunset; not yet dusk, but not mid-day, either. Even though most people wouldn't focus on that element of the painting, Dean really enjoyed the challenge of capturing the particular warm essence of late afternoon, hinting at the upcoming change to the day with washes of terra cotta and rose to the predominantly blue sky.
Then there was Ron himself, his smile slightly crooked and blazingly genuine, one foot on a short bench, the bright viridian and gold of his Green Knights jersey shimmering as though the sun were shining on it. Dean was especially proud of the appearance of his leather vambraces and shin guards. He'd spent no small amount of time ensuring he'd captured every faint rough patch and lustrous sheen to the fine lines of stitching; once he'd carefully painted the near-imperceptible shine from the off-canvas sunlight, he swore he could almost smell the tang of alder tree oil Ron used to keep the leather supple. The likeness wasn't photographic in detail, on purpose. He'd been wary of being too identical like that, as part of the mystery of a portrait was that if the artist was exceptional, or at least exceptionally trained, a hint of the painted individual's aura, an essence of his or her uninhibited magical self, would be instilled in the painting. Such depth to the portraiture couldn't be infused or spell-cast; the energy had to come over time, flowing infinitessiminally from the painter through her or his materials and focus. Dean hadn't cast the Animus yet, but there was such vibrancy in the portrait-Ron that he almost didn't need to.
"You're a fucking amazing artist when you want to be," Dean said quietly to himself Tuesday afternoon, having deemed the painting complete early that morning and having a joint to celebrate, though he was feeling rather dispirited. His upper back ached a bit, so he took a long soak, ordered take-away and ate it, then decided some proper celebrations were in order. He'd sent an owl to Ron's, letting him know the portrait was finished and asking when he'd like to pick it up. Ron's reply had been brief but not cold, asking if Dean could bring it over the next day, around five. There was no mention of their prior weekend's activities, no request for Dean to linger and stay for dinner or tea, nothing.
Seamus' words from their talk on the squash court burbled up as he got dressed, digging out his lace-front black trousers and a lilac silk shirt that was quite striking against his dark skin.
"You don't just fuck around. Ye've always been pretty particular," Seamus' brogue repeated in his head as he cast a sweat-based Repello on the shirt. Maybe he'd been too particular. Perhaps it was time to live whatever mythic, unattached, queer lifestyle there was out there, with loads of sex and no long-term responsibilities. It had its appeal, certainly to his newly-awakened libido. Looking at himself in the mirror, he Accio'ed his hair gel and rubbed some into his still short dreadlocks. Growing out his hair was a pain in the arse, but he really liked how it looked. He gave himself a once-over, trying a trick one of his art professors had suggested when they'd worked on self-portraits. He imagined the man in the mirror was an absolute stranger, totally unfamiliar and, in this scenario, walking up to him at a club.
Dean nodded slowly in acceptance at the fit, tall gent standing before him with narrow hips and expressive brown eyes, full lips meant for kissing, and a decent-sized package tucked enticingly away behind leather laced flies.
"Definitely shaggable," he told himself, trying on a seductive smile before recoiling a bit at how that appeared. He changed his gaze to be intense and kept his posture more butch. In general, when he felt he was becoming somewhat queeny, he'd think, "How would Seamus pose?" and then take it down a notch. Yes, he was quite a catch, all right.
"I wonder what sort of bait will be out there?" he thought to himself as he pulled on a leather jacket. He cast a Nox on all of his lights and locked his doors before walking over to his fireplace, having decided to go by the Floo network to a hotel a few blocks down from a wizarding club called The Chimera. He'd not gone too many times and he'd always been with someone, usually Patric. Early on, when the War was newly over, however, he'd had several wild nights with Bernard Acacia, an older Ravenclaw who'd shown him the ropes.
It wasn't nearly as packed as the last time he'd been there; then again, it was a Tuesday night. He could feel a few blatant, lust-filled gazes on him as he entered and stood at the bar. He paused for only a moment before ordering an Irish Volcano, a three-layered, potent beverage with Bitter Banshee, Guinness and Absinthe. Even before he'd left his flat, he knew he'd be drinking, but he vowed not to get as sloppy as Ron had that recent fateful weekend.
The green and black cocktail went down smoothly, though it left him hiccoughing faint bursts of green flames for a few minutes afterwards. He ordered a second, and once he had it, turned to survey the room. It was after his fourth drink that he acquiesced and went to dance with a whipcord thin, 70s-attired tousled youth who was endearingly persistent and promised that Dean wouldn't regret it. They danced for a few songs, bumping and grinding and groping. Dean had felt the bloke's — Damon's — erection becoming more and more pronounced when they'd rejoin at the hip after short spaces of gyrating apart. After a few dances he begged off, insisting that Damon should be shared with some other men who'd been eyeing him. Damon reluctantly agreed, but only with the caveat that he had to give Dean a kiss first. Dean found himself clutched tightly, and a talented tongue making blistering, fervent paths in his mouth. In a back part of Dean's increasingly addled mind, he prided himself on not comparing the bone-melting snog to Ron, at least not much. Dazedly he prised himself loose, and it was only when he caught himself swaying a bit back at the bar, fumbling as he scavenged through his jacket pockets for one of his clove cigarettes, that he realised he'd been hit pretty hard by his imbibing.
He took his time as he smoked, watching the clusters of men, some of whom were doing all but shag though most of their clothes were still on. It turned him on to watch, seeing the hard angles of jaws and shoulders as the male bodies intertwined. He'd been half-hard the entire time he'd been dancing with the 70s bloke, but his bladder insisted that it be tended to before contemplating any erotic activity. After establishing that he could, indeed, stand up straight without assistance or wobbling, he headed back to the toilets. En route he navigated a narrow, dark corridor whose topography consisted of writhing, grunting pairs of men. The smacking, liquid sounds went straight to the throbbing in his groin and he hurried on into the equally dimly-lit loo. Cursing the laces at the front of his trousers, at last he managed to loosen them enough to open the flap. He aimed his freed cock at the urinal he'd picked, the one the furthest distance from the door. He'd nearly finished, relief flooding him as his piss streamed out, when the door opened. Dean turned to look, one hand planted on the stone wall, and gaped for several seconds until he chastised himself to at least attempt some suavity.
"I know you— you work at Nine Inch Males! But… you're a wizard?" he exclaimed, his inner censor having obviously been gagged and shoved into a closet, doubtless keeping company with that part of himself which was cool and collected.
A warm, sensuous smile settled on the young man's lips as he slowly walked over, his auburn hair gleaming sanguine as he passed a sconce with candles.
"Must be," he said smoothly, his gaze meandering over Dean's body before returning to look at him directly. "I know you, too. Well, noticed you. You're not easy to forget."
Dean felt his fleeing reserves buckle, though swooning outright seemed pathetic. Besides, he was in front of a urinal, his turgid cock still untucked and in his hand.
"Really?" He forced himself not to stare at the dancer's groin, managing to cast a silent, wandless Scourgify on his prick and begin arranging himself so he could redo his trousers.
"Yeah. Surely you've heard the phrase tall, dark and handsome." His granite eyes were warm, his tone amused but not mocking. "And you've a sinful arse."
When his narrow fingers caressed Dean's hip, he blurted out, "I've fantasised about you. Oh! Fuck. Sorry. Shit, that was—"
"Flattering." The young man insinuated his hand under Dean's so he could grasp at Dean's cock. "I wonder if you'd tell me what I did?" He'd pressed Dean against the side of the stall, his skilled hand pulling up and down on Dean's hot skin.
"Merlin," Dean breathed, shoving away traitorous thoughts of Ron bursting in and seeing him like this, being willingly seduced by this gorgeous man. "What's your name?" he asked, wrapping his arms behind the evidently Welsh dancer's waist and shoving his own hips forward with a muted groan.
"Rhys." His voice was fresh somehow, light but seductive in a way that caused Dean's nipples to harden as he frotted into Rhys' hand. "Yours?"
"Dean."
"Dean." Rhys caressed the word, making the lone syllable sound edible. "So. I hope I was good in your fantasy. I've been told my cock feels amazing."
Dean couldn't suppress the needy whimper that escaped his throat. He wished he'd not had that fourth Irish Volcano, but it wasn't keeping him from feeling exactly how turned on he was. This was what he'd come out for, wasn't it? Hot, no holds barred, strings free sex.
"Can I fuck you?" Rhys' tone was hoarse, the words purred onto Dean's lips. "I'm better in real life than any wank you might've had."
"Fuck, yes," Dean moaned, tugging Rhys' hips into him with a jerky motion, latching onto the dancer's lips and plundering the scorching cavern of his mouth.
The world shrank down to an erotic alembic of possessive hands, feasting lips and jutting flesh. Dean found his palms pressed for purchase against the metal slab of a toilet stall. His tight trousers were peeled down to his knees while Rhys uttered a wandless lubrication spell before he was slowly but irrevocably breached. The taut pleasurepain radiated from his clenching channel, an acute burning dissipating into his lower back and down his thighs. Rhys kept pushing until Dean let out a pained cry.
"Almost there, doe-eyes, almost there," Rhys soothed, pausing for Dean's body to adapt to the intrusion. It felt as though a steel rod had been forced into him, up into his very guts. Something far inside himself gave way and he was able to relax imperceptibly.
"Gods, you're so good, so tight," Rhys exhaled into the tense muscles of Dean's upper back. He slid back a couple of inches, which felt like yawning miles inside Dean's stretched muscles, then shoved back in, this time changing the angle just enough to slide past Dean's bundle of nerves.
All Dean could manage were panted breaths and murmured exaltations of profanity. The long shaft was buried in him, ploughing again and again. Dean's nerves vibrated with the soft slap of skin against his arse and the pulsing waves of heat that sparked along to his untouched cock with each punishing thrust. Unlike in his fantasy, Rhys wasn't chatty, though he'd occasionally huff out "Feels brilliant" or "Merlin, fuck, so good." Dean was close to coming, his body stimulated to an unbearable threshold, when he pulled a hand off of the wall to tend to his aching prick. He felt strangely distant, almost like a marionette being expertly manoeuvred. His heart wasn't at all involved in this; it was musky sweat and spiralling fire in his prick and Rhys' very real, very engorged cock hammering into his abused arse.
Dean was faintly attuned to the rising pitch of Rhys' sexy whines and he picked up speed on his shaft. Rhys let out a scudding moan, holding tightly on to Dean's hips as his release shuddered deep in Dean's body. Dean clenched his jaw, his hand flying on his prick until rocked by his orgasm. The pungent spunk silently hit the toilet stall, making pearly tracks as it slid down the metal. Dazed, his legs and hand trembling, Dean leaned forward until he could rest his forehead against the side of the stall. Eventually his racing heart slowed while Rhys stroked his arse, the gentle path of his fingers a warning of sorts before he eased out. Dean bit down on his lip, his sore inner muscles feeling a disconcerting ghostly impression of Rhys' cock for a few moments.
When Dean trusted himself to move, he eased up, murmuring a quiet word of thanks as Rhys cast cleansing spells on them both. He turned around and they exchanged some surprisingly tender words of gratitude and sundry niceties as Dean made sure he was properly dressed. When he left the toilets and headed toward the bar, Rhys opted not to follow. Back at the bar Dean stood, quite certain that sitting would be an appallingly bad idea, and ordered a double firewhiskey. The alcohol scorched his throat, but couldn't force himself to feel anything other than a perplexing mixture of sated ennui. He paid the bartender, made sure his cigarettes were in his coat, and walked unsteadily out of the club.
* * * * *
The morning was unforgiving in its brutality. Dean's head swam and throbbed, his mouth was as dry as the desert, and he winced at the twinging soreness in his arse even doing something as simple as moving his legs around so he could sit up. As he hobbled into his bathroom, a few splinters of clarity came to him about the night before, and he gave himself virtual kudos for having been so spontaneous. It really was unbelievable that the guy he'd wanked about had ended up being a wizard and at that particular club on that particular night… he'd even seemed like a decent fellow, from what he could remember. The muscles in his backside had a much keener memory than his head, that was certain.
He found some healing salve in a cabinet and even the dregs of a small bottle of Madam Ciara's Hangover Draught to which he added a bit of water and drank. It wasn't a full dose, but even the small portion helped him to feel more human. A backward glance through his doorway to his clock showed that he didn't have all that long before he needed to catch the bus to Diagon Alley. He was quite proficient at Apparition, but he'd learned that artwork, like some other intricate magical artefacts, simply travelled better by more conventional means. From Diagon Alley he'd take the Floo network to the primary fireplace in Glasgow where yet another marketing staffperson for the Green Knights would pick him up in a modified Muggle car to take him to Ron's flat.
Ron. Friend? Fuckbuddy? What?
While he showered, putting the water as hot as he could bear it, he ran his various relationships through his head. The truth was, aside from his year and some with Patric, friendships were what he knew best. It probably made the most sense for him to deliver Ron's portrait and test the waters with the understanding, at least to himself, that they were just friends and that one evening had been an anomaly. Lathering himself between his legs for a second time, the tactile memories of being with Ron came flooding back and he shut his eyes, which didn't help. It wasn't as though he'd gone looking for anything with him though, not really. At some point surely someone would come into his life who wanted him for who he was, and then he could worry about the finer aspects of being a decent boyfriend, or partner. He probably wasn't ready for that now anyway.
After his shower he got dressed, putting on a pair of well-worn denims and a comfortable jumper. It took him a while to wrap Ron's portrait securely, so he was almost flying out the door to make it to his stop on the Pegasus line. With his new imposed resolutions, he found he was looking forward to the visit, and showing off the portrait itself. He'd decided not to cast the animating spell until he was at Ron's flat, which was a bit nerve-wracking, but the decision felt instinctively right. The Green Knights chap who picked him up in Glasgow was amiable and chatty, and soon he was knocking at Ron's door.
The door opened, and Dean stood for a moment, a bit rattled at Ron's appearance. He was dressed as though he was going out for a nice dinner which, Dean considered, Ron might well be doing once he presented the painting and then took his leave.
"Come in," Ron said, gesturing into his decent-sized living room with the large telly he and Dean had watched on Boxing Day.
"Thanks."
"Guess everything went okay, Philip was there…"
"Yep, couldn't have been smoother." Dean became increasingly uncomfortable as he noticed details while he walked through: Ron's flat was tidy, a quite delicious smell emanated from his kitchen, and Ron kept glancing around himself, as though someone might pop out from behind one of his potted Emmalexis plants or something else equally unexpected.
"Look, I was going to cast the Animus after you'd had a little time to look at it flat-out, but it seems as though you're expecting company. I don't want to interfere—" Dean began before Ron stopped him.
"You're the only one who's supposed to be here. I know I'm a git, and I shouldn't have assumed that you wouldn't have plans, but would you stay for dinner?" Ron looked at him with abashed hopefulness, as though he really wasn't sure whether or not Dean would turn him down.
Dean's heart was in tumult. His new resolve of being just friends had caught a snag with Ron's offer, but he tried to rationalise that there didn't need to be anything profound in the invitation.
"Sure. Um, where do you want this to go?" Dean asked, adjusting the satchel over his shoulder to hoist up the painting.
"Not sure where I'll hang it in the long run, but let's start with it here. May I look at it now?"
Ron's irrepressible enthusiasm was catching, reminding Dean that while Ron was paying for the portrait, in many ways it was a gift. A sudden flashback to Ron tearing into the presents that littered his bed on his birthdays at Hogwarts came to mind, and he smiled. "Of course. I don't think you'll be disappointed."
Ron gave him a look as though he'd managed to speak Parseltongue. "Disappointed? You're a brilliant artist, and it'll only look more amazing now that the background is there."
With nearly childlike zeal, Ron set to unwrapping the portrait. When it was uncovered he stood up, moving back to stand as close as he could to Dean without actually stepping on his shoes. Dean waited silently, supposing that Ron's reaction was a positive one. The arm around his shoulder appeared to affirm that assumption, but Dean still found that he was on tenterhooks until Ron finally spoke.
"It's fucking brilliant. You're so bloody talented!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, his characteristic lopsided grin glued to his lips. "I don't know how you made me look that attractive, because I know bloody well I'm not really a looker like that!"
Dean nearly contradicted out loud but was spared that potential embarrassment when Ron turned and threw his arms around him, squeezing him and babbling about talent and finally having his own portrait and how fucking brilliant it was that Dean had painted it. Ron's gush of praise finally petered out and he stood back a bit, keeping his hands on Dean's shoulder blades. He seemed to be contemplating something painful or awkward. At Ron's change in demeanour, Dean began reeling back the miscreant thoughts that had already charged ahead into wishful thinking territory.
"Can we talk?" Ron asked.
Dean paused only for a second, enough to chant his just friends mantra a few times. "Of course."
"I'm going to get a Guinness. Can I get you anything?" Ron's fingertips rubbed a little against Dean's upper back.
"Guinness is fine." At Ron's confused look, Dean went on. "I don't plan to make a habit of it, but I went out last night and drank some and wouldn't mind having one with you." He opted not to tell him about his memorable tryst with Rhys in the toilets, at least not yet.
Ron shrugged his shoulders. "I really do respect your decision not to drink. I'll get one, but only if you want."
"I want."
Dean sat down on the couch, his pulse beating faster than normal and his palms getting sweaty. He was frustrated with himself, getting so worked up just being around Ron again. They'd been getting on really well before that night, and in many ways he wanted to go back to how things had been before. He'd liked having someone else besides Seamus to chat with comfortably, and this was decidedly awkward.
Ron took a seat next to him, handed him a bottle and clinked the necks together before taking a long swig. He appeared to be steeling himself for something unpleasant, and Dean very nearly started into his own somewhat-practised let's-be-friends speech himself when Ron opened his mouth.
"I've been rather a wanker, and I apologise. You're a good guy, and a great friend, and somebody I'd really like to hang out with a lot."
Dean nodded, taking a deep swallow of his own beer as he anticipated the monstrous 'but' that hung in the air.
"Last Sunday morning I woke up and you were still sound asleep. I lay there for a bit, fighting off the headache I had, but it felt good, y'know, you sprawled out next to me, snoring a bit."
"I don't snore!" Dean blurted out.
"It wasn't loud snoring, just a little noise," Ron said hastily. "The point is, it was pretty great. I've not spent the night with anyone in a few years. Since Harry."
"Of course." He tried unsuccessfully not to think of the two of them in bed together, but the image didn't leave a sour taste in his mouth as he'd thought it might.
"Look. I need to get this out, I've been meaning to owl, or Firecall, but the longer I waited, the more like an absolute shit I felt," Ron said, drawing one long leg up onto his knee. "Anyway, I couldn't go back to sleep, so I got up and made a cup of tea and wandered about your place for a bit. I spent some time looking around your studio, and found a bunch of sketches. Of me."
Dean flashed hot and cold, embarrassment churning into anger at his privacy having been violated while he was sleeping in his bed. "You weren't meant to see those!" he seethed before downing his beer. "I mean, I guess you should've expected I'd do other sketches, but…"
"The naked ones threw me off a bit, though they were really flattering," Ron said with a small laugh, though his expression remained thoughtful. "It was the others that shocked me. My hands, my face, me sitting on that stool… they were all amazing. I was just surprised. There was something so, well, tender about them. I'm atrocious at talking about shit like this, sorry," he apologised. "It was obvious that you were thinking about me even when I wasn't there, and not just in a friendly way. It took me seeing those to realise that I obviously thought about you like that too. You'd've thought that the fact that I'd spent the night and my fuzzy memories about some really great sex would've clued me in, but I can be pretty fucking thick sometimes."
Dean simply stared, forcing himself to stay quiet until Ron had had his say. The betrayal he'd felt transformed into something like pity while his just friends soapbox clattered into a small heap.
"So I guess what I'm trying to say in the most ridiculous, roundabout way possible, is that I hope I haven't fucked up too much. I don't want to lose you as a friend, but I think I could really get used to being with you as much more than that. Scares the piss out of me, don't get me wrong. If Harry were here, he'd tell you how crap a boyfriend I can be."
"If Harry were here, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation."
Ron nodded slowly, his expression rueful. "But we are, which means that if you don't think I'm a total twat, maybe I can do better this time."
Dean's feelings were thrown into pandemonium which he covered up by finishing his beer. Images zagged pell-mell through his inner vision: him congratulating Ron after a well-played match; lounging together on this couch of Ron's, watching telly; leisurely afternoons walking hand in hand through one of the London parks Dean frequented. He almost groaned aloud at the rosy romanticism of his imagination, and was taken aback by the metamorphosis on Ron's face from hopefulness to resignation.
"No— I mean, I don't think you're that much of a berk," Dean corrected himself, seeing the chagrin settle on Ron's features as he looked down, beginning to pick at the label on his beer. "It would've been nice if you'd owled, but, oh fuck it, that's done with. Yeah, I don't want to lose your friendship either, but I've got to admit, I'd really like much more than that. I'm not the best boyfriend either, I don't think; the truth is, I've only had the one, as Seamus doesn't count, but I'd like to try. With you, I'd really like to give things a go." Ron raised his head, and Dean found himself nodding, affirming that Ron's expressive eyes and slight laugh lines at the corner of his lips and copper-stubbled jaw was a view that he'd like to get to know very, very well.
Dean quirked his lips to the side, leaning down slightly to place his beer on the nearby table. "There are a few things you should know, in case you want to back out now. I loathe spring, I get insecure about my art, I've been told I sleepwalk on occasion, I tend to stay up really late at night, and no matter what, I play squash with Seamus on Tuesdays. He'll have my bollocks if that changes."
Ron settled back against the couch, twisting his head so that it nearly rested on the back, and placed his hand on Dean's leg above the knee. His thumb made a small path back and forth as a smile bloomed on his lips.
"My turn," Ron said. "I've got a bit of a temper, but you already knew that."
Dean huffed a dampened laugh.
"I hate keeping up with money, I really like cooking but can't stand to go to the shops for ingredients, I hate feeling ignored and I'll let you know it, I'm jealous, I can't be bothered to do laundry until I'm down to my last pair of boxers and sometimes not even then, and I'd really like to kiss you right now." Ron's pink tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip was more than enough invitation for Dean. He took Ron's Guinness and placed it on the table before leaning over and hungrily mashing his lips against Ron's. Ron opened his mouth with a moan, sliding backward and pulling Dean on top of him so that they lay together in a long heap of elbows and hips and knees. Their tongues slid and duelled; Dean could already feel a damp patch in his groin as his denims grew increasingly tight and his heart danced parabolas and he wanted to devour the needy whimpers coming from Ron's throat.
Dean pulled his lips away while Ron groaned his disappointment, but Dean wanted to say one more thing before words failed him.
"You're beautiful, Ron."
Ron looked at him, his pupils dilated and his slightly swollen lips curving upwards. "You're daft. But if you think so, I s'pose that's all that matters. Now c'mere."
Dean did, passionately.
* * * * *
Waking with a start, Dean churned through several disconcerting moments of confusion as he took in an unfamiliar room. With the quietness of falling leaves, the details settled back on him, Ron's gentle snoring to his left reminding him that he was exactly where he wanted to be. He lay under the covers for a bit until he realised he wouldn't fall right back to sleep, so he eased himself out of the bed and padded silently into the living room to find his satchel. He rummaged through it to get a sketch pad, pencil and his wand, and returned to Ron's bedroom. Easing down into a chair, he whispered Lumos so he had just enough light to see Ron's face, untroubled in sleep, and began to draw.
* * * * *
A/N
Síofra- Irish: sprite or precocious child
Anson Astrolabe's lyrics are the author's, who apologises for her attempt at rhyming anything.