They won the war. They did it.
But why he couldn't sleep at night?
It's not like he didn't try resting, it's more like... He couldn't force himself to even lay his eyes on the bed he slept his entire childhood.
Ron sighs and goes to the bathroom. He sits on the cold floor tiles. His wand is somewhere in his room uselessly broken in half.
His fingers catch something sharp and made of metal. He knows what he's going to do with that. It's part of the ritual now.
Ron knows that Harry will be here any minute, that his best friend, someone he loved the most, will join him any minute so he with one confident motion cut deeply his wrist.
"You didn't wait for me? What a shame, what a shame..." said quietly Harry while sitting next to Ron. He did the same move and looked into Ron's eyes.
"Fuck off" he laughs. He doesn't want to look at Harry's pale face or his scars or tiny body. He doesn't want to see what war did to him. Ron also doesn't want to know what war did to his body. He knows he has scars, but he hasn't eaten in so many days that he's not sure how the hell he's still walking. Well, he knows. He's walking out of spite.
Fuck everyone who told him that he won't do it. He did that. He helped Harry won the war.
He's tired, he's hungry and he wants to cry but he just fucking can't. Ron isn't weak, he won't cry. Big boys don't cry.
Harry dips his fingers in Ron's blood and then he presses them to Ron's lips.
If Hermione was there she would yell how disgusting it was. And she would be right. But she wasn't there and Ron couldn't think straight.
Little gasp runs out of his mouth. That's not a part of their ritual, it's something dangerously new.
And suddenly Ron wants to kiss his best friend. But he won't. Not now, not in the near future.
They need time to heal. And after they heal then maybe... Maybe he will.
But for now, he will enjoy their little ritual with their mixed blood, whispered words and too many unspoken feelings.