Chapter 2
Ron Weasley realised he was different by the time he reached his fourth year.
He’d never really gotten it before, but whenever his gaze settled on someone—particularly a boy—he'd often felt a sudden thrust that sent his stomach into a flurry of uncomfortable sensations. It was as if his insides were performing a rather undignified dance, and it felt wrong in every sense, and he was terrified of what it might signify.
He figured it was just one of those awkward phases that came with the territory of maturing, something that was bound to pass with time.
But no one had ever given him a heads-up that he’d find himself gaping at blokes for what felt like eternity.
The first time he had done anything remotely like this was when he’d received his very first Viktor Krum figurine—alright, it was a bit embarrassing to admit, but the man was a legend in Quidditch circles, and bloody hell, it’s not everyday you get to marvel at a hero up close!
There was a time when Viktor Krum, strolling down the corridor with his usual entourage of surly Durmstrang mates, commanded such attention that Ron couldn't help but stare. But it wasn’t just Krum who held his attention—though the sight of the famous Seeker was enough to make his heart race. No, his eyes flitted between Krum and his companions, observing the way they moved with an almost ruggedness, how their robes seemed to drape effortlessly over their well-built frames, accentuating their strong, athletic figures.
Ron reckoned he was merely admiring them, but when one of them caught him looking their way, he found himself in an absolute muddle of embarrassment. Never before had he been in such a flustered state, his cheeks burning as if he’d been caught red-handed doing something far more incriminating.
But that wasn’t really the issue at hand.
The true predicament lay in the fact that he hadn’t bought the figurine merely to complete his collection. No, the reason he’d gone to such lengths was because he couldn’t resist staring at those chiselled muscles and every finely detailed pose.
Well, that was that.
Ron had come to terms with the fact that he fancied blokes, but that didn’t mean he was instantly smitten by every guy he met. It was more a case of something he was still coming to grips with. He wasn’t exactly leaping into anything; he was simply taking his time to work it all out, and what he meant by ‘working it all out’ was that he needed someone to show him the ropes.
And when he said ‘someone’, he was referring to Dean Thomas.
Dean, who knew far better than he did, having navigated his own same-sex relationships from experience, agreed to guide him through it all.
Ron thought they would merely share a few advices with each other, but he never expected to be thrust against the wall (It fucking hurts) and subjected to an unexpected kiss that left him utterly flustered and breathless.
To be fair, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about being shoved against the wall—honestly, who in their right mind thinks it’s a good idea to slam someone into a wall just to steal a kiss? Well, Dean seemed to genuinely enjoy it—he claimed that it was to keep things lively for both of them, making the whole experience far more, eurgh, arousing.
"Oi," Ron breathed, when those lips brushed along the sensitive curve of his neck, “That's…that's enough,” Nope, absolutely not! Just because he had permitted Dean to kiss him didn’t mean he was ready to let him touch him in that way.
It wasn't as if he enjoyed doing this sort of thing, and it definitely wasn’t the first method he’d choose to understand himself better. But it had been Dean who put the idea in his head. He’d casually mentioned to Ron that it would be better if he gained a bit of experience, so that next time he found himself in a relationship, he wouldn’t be fumbling around like a clueless pillock.
Dean immediately complied, stepping back with a grin. “Well?”
“What?” Ron muttered, scrubbing his lips with the back of his hand.
“For someone who was so desperate to get their head around their own sexuality, you looked thoroughly fed up with the whole thing,”
"I asked for advice, not a full-on snogging session," Ron grumbled, his face flushing.
It felt rather odd to be on the receiving end of a kiss, especially for someone like him, who was all gangly limbs and towering height. Ron had to awkwardly stoop down to reach Dean's level, his long, lanky frame twisting and bending in a way that made him feel even more self-conscious. It was as if he was trying to fit into a space that was far too small for him.
"Well, better get on with it then," Dean smirked. "We’ll definitely have to do this again next time.”
Ron awkwardly shuffled his feet, "So, er, how did it turn out, then? The kiss, I mean…was it—well, alright, I suppose?"
“You’re doing perfectly well, Weasley. Didn’t seem like it was your first kiss, to be honest.”
“Oh,” Ron mumbled, he looked slightly relieved, as if he’d been expecting something much worse. “I thought I’d be terrible at it.”
“I would’ve stopped kissing you right here and there if you were,” Dean leaned forward, with a roguish smirk tugging at his lips. “But then again, practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?”
They'd gone and done it again, but this time it was less of a full-on snogging session and more just the odd peck here and there.
“You’re doing just fine,” Dean once whispered reassuringly, “Loosen up a bit.”
How on earth was he supposed to loosen up? Merlin, he could barely think straight, this was nothing like how he’d imagined kissing someone—in his head, it had always seemed effortless, smooth even. Perfect. But there wasn’t a hint of romance in it, not even a smidgen, the whole thing was more like an obligation, really. It was as if they were both just going through the motions, checking off a box rather than sharing anything meaningful.
Merlin, this was spiralling out of control faster than he had ever imagined.
Ron could’ve easily gone up to Hermione and asked her about queer folks or whether Muggles had any books on the subject. He had this strong hunch that she wouldn’t have minded in the slightest; after all, the girl was the most understanding person he knew.
But Dean had warned him about how Muggles were staunchly against the very notion of queer identities. Not everyone was on board with the idea; some were downright hostile. There were instances where those who identified as queer faced harassment and bullying simply for being themselves.
That evening, Ron buried his face in his pillow, muffling his frustrated scream. Harry, his best mate and the one person he’d hoped to keep completely in the dark about this whole mess, had caught him snogging with bloody Dean Thomas.
And Harry—the git had shrugged it off, saying it was perfectly fine that Ron fancied blokes.
Ron craned his neck and peered through the heavy drapes of his four-poster bed. He glowered at Dean's bed, where the curtains were drawn tightly, shutting out any hint of life. It was all his fault! he thought bitterly.
He couldn’t help but fret over how he would face Harry the next day—or even in the days to come. The raven-head had insisted that they were still best mates, but the reassurance did little to quell his anxiousness.
Now Ron faced yet another crisis that only made his self-image worse. He had come to terms with being queer, but on top of that, he was also wrestling with the fact that he was now considered the most 'Pathetic Quidditch Player' Harry had chosen for the team.
Harry cast a sidelong look at Ron, who was slouched at the table with a disgruntled expression, as though he’d rather be off anywhere but here. "Eat your breakfast," Harry said, shoving a generous serving of scrambled eggs onto Ron's plate.
"I'm going to puke all over you, Harry," Ron threatened, his face pale and strained.
"No, you’re not," Harry replied firmly.
"I'm full," Ron grumbled, pushing his plate away with a look of defeat.
"I don’t want you running out of energy later in training," Harry said, "And you definitely don’t want Ginny dragging me into a chat with you because you’re being mental,"
"I'm not mental," Ron glared, his cheeks flushing slightly.
"Daft then,"
Ron huffed, grabbed a fork, and shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. Merlin, he thought, it should be illegal for food to taste this good.
Harry had been doing his best to encourage him before the Quidditch match, and normally, Ron might have felt a bit embarrassed by it. But at that moment, with everything else going on, he simply could not.
Ron barely even registered what Hermione was going on about with his drink and all, insisting that he shouldn’t drink rhe juice and accusing Harry of having tampered with it. But his attention was abruptly snatched away when a guy from Ravenclaw strolled by and gave him a cheeky smile.
His face turned crimson, nearly matching the vibrant Gryffindor scarf he’d wrapped snugly around his neck. Ron then shot an indignant glare at the glass he was gripping, as if it were somehow responsible for all of this.
In the end, it turned out they had won.
Ron was still looking a bit pale, but in all honesty, it had been worth every bit of it. The sleepless nights, the mounting anxieties, and the meals he’d skipped—which he would never put himself through again. He hurriedly joined the others in the celebration party in the common room, because he needed those drinks right now.
He was there, rather engrossed in his butterbeer, and at the same time, he was half-heartedly listening to Dean, who was jabbering endlessly about "Seamus this" and "Seamus that." Bloody hell. What was he, some sort of sounding board for their frustrations?
"I mean, I wouldn’t be bothered if he came up to me one day,” Dean said, fascinated. “But I’m not going to make the first move, the dimwit still got a whole stash of straight couple's porn magazines under his bed,”
"Why do I have to listen to this again?" Ron muttered, clearly embarrassed. "I don’t want to hear about Seamus’ po—his stupid obsession!” He couldn’t even get that word out of his mouth.
"Excuse me?" Dean said, looking affronted. “Seamus has also got, like, the best gay magazines around. I’ve no idea where he gets them all from,”
Ron choked on his drink, his face turning redder by the second, and he desperately wanted to get out of this conversation. His eyes darted around the common room, searching frantically for Harry—if he could just spot him, he’d have the perfect excuse to make a run for it. Instead, Lavender came walking by, fluttering her eyelashes at him which instantly made his mood nosedive.
“She’s clearly got a thing for you.” Dean snickered.
“Bugger off.” Ron grumbled, not looking up from his butterbeer.
Dean shrugged, “I mean, you’re quite fit, if you ask me,” he said. “If I were in her shoes, I’d probably be swooning over you.”
"I'm not fit,” Ron was all gangly and inelegant, with a face covered in a ridiculous amount of freckles. Honestly, no one would ever find that charming—and if someone actually thought, well, they'd definitely have to be having problems with their bloody eyesight.
“Well, I wouldn’t have bothered suggesting to teach you all this stuff if I didn’t think you were fit.” Dean leaned in close, his breath warm against Ron's neck. “I’m not exactly shy about saying what I think, and honestly, you’re looking pretty sexy riding that broomstick earlier.”
Ron, who was desperately trying to hide his awkwardness by sipping on his butterbeer, snorted it all out through his nose.
“Oh my god!” Dean exclaimed, before bursting into a fit of laughter.
"Sod off, you bloody—" Ron started to snap, but was cut off by a harsh, spluttering cough. “You've lost your mind, no—you’re completely bonkers, bloody mad—that’s what you are—”
Dean wiped away the tears from his eyes as he laughed uncontrollably. "If this is how you'd react to a compliment, I can only imagine what your partner would make of it.”
“You’re barking mad, who’d want to be complimented like that!?” he said, looking utterly mortified.
“Seamus did,” Dean replied with a wink. “Oh, when I had him in bed all like that—”
Ron’s face turned a deep shade of red. “I’ll never be right back,” he said, before hurrying off, leaving Dean tittering to himself.