It is cold outside, and Harry bitterly regrets not taking his coat as he makes his way across the garden to the shed. It’s Christmas Eve, and the snow falling from the sky is barely noticed. A few steps in front of the shed Harry stops and looks back at the house. The light from the kitchen windows paints golden shimmering islands in the dark snow. They move with the movement inside the kitchen, the bustling of people redrawing them anew every second. It’s probably the biggest Christmas they ever had, and for a Burrow that is quite the achievement. Not just all the Weasley siblings and their offsprings (George and Angelina’s newborn, Bill with Fleur and the two of their kids) but also Remus and Teddy with his grandparents as well. They are supposed to celebrate the new beginnings after the war. And nearly ten years from the final battle it doesn’t seem so inane to celebrate. Healthy even. But not for all of them.
Ron and Harry have it all pretty much not figured out and seeing everybody else move on is hard, to say the least.
Harry knows Ron’s been hurting since Hermione left for Australia and never came back. She didn’t believe that reforms could actually salvage what was left of Britain. And that’s a fair assumption as far as Harry’s concerned. But it’s obvious that Ron hoped to save whatever it was between them, Britain be damned. Harry was a bit more conflicted about that particular restoration of his friend's relationship. He missed Hermione as well of course, the longing for his frined is a dull ache settled in the pits of his stomach still, but he felt like he was losing Ron too.
There is always a sense of betrayal when we see the people we love try and be happy on their own terms, Harry thinks. Somewhere else, with somebody else. Not because we don’t want that for them, but because we wanted to be that for them. He understands that Ron was never upset out of selfishness, he knows that his best friend only wanted to be The Good Thing for somebody. He only wanted to be good enough to make somebody stay, to make her be her old self again (or a new, better self).
Harry knows all this because he feels just the same. He knows the unjust feeling of wanting to be enough to love all too well. So well in fact, that he is maybe projecting a little bit.
He takes a big breath and decides to open the door to the shed and step in, but his body betrays him, not moving as he commands. Instead, he rests his head on the cold wood of the door and shuts his eyes. ‘Get it together’ he thinks, but just like before his body refuses to listen. His heart is hammering in his throat.
There is a rhythmic sound coming from the inside. Ron’s chopping wood. The muggle way.
Ron and he used to do that right after the war, instead of talking, instead of listening and thinking. He thinks back to the silent moments of boyish rage with surprising fondness. He never would have thought that a time filled with so much grief and anger could ever make him feel so nostalgic. He yearns for that silent understanding, even if it came from a place of such hurt.
He opens the door and Ron freezes mid-swing; the axe raised above his head. Harry notices immediately that it’s warm inside (warming charm probably). Ron’s wearing only his t-shirt, his jumper thrown on an old wooden chair in the corner by the worktable. He regains his momentum and brings the axe down on the log. He doesn’t seem angry, but he also doesn't want to talk. And that’s fine. Harry just wants him to know that he is there for him. Ready to listen, ready to talk about it.
After a moment of hesitation, he moves to sit on the table in the corner. His feet dangle above the floor as he watches Ron go through a pile of wood.
Ron pays him no mind, pretends not to see him. Keeps on halving the pieces of wood in front of him.
Harry’s watching Ron’s long arms with taunt muscles (from all the Auror training that neither of them finished) repeat the same movement over and over like a machine, he pays attention to the way his neck and shoulders rise with his laboured breaths. He notices his cheeks crimson in a way blushing paints them, not the cold nor the physical strain. In the yellow light of Arthur’s cherished muggle lamp Ron shines, the sweat making him almost shimmer. He is basically glowing and (as Harry concludes in his head triumphantly) he is flustered, not angry (even if he’s entitled to both).
Back in the kitchen, Georg had made a joke about Harrys latest romantic endeavour caught by the Daily Prophet. Nothing out of the ordinary. Harry’s failing love life consisting of an endless line of muggle or foreign men was the butt of most of the jokes in the Burrow (granted, only when Mrs Weasley was not around to hear them). Only this time, with a vastly different reaction from Ron.
When Harry came out after the war and very openly began his career of a “glorified slag” as Ginny began to call him (lovingly, of course, she was his best wingwoman after all) Ron seemed to never take any issue with it. He accepted all of it in stride, either too consumed in his tragic crash-and-burn attempt with Hermione, or genuinely wanting Harry to do as he pleased after all these years. Probably both. The lack of reaction from him was frankly disappointing to Harry since he really hoped to awaken the jealous, possessive side of his friend.
That was back then, of course. These days Harry pursued his career with a very different but still purely selfish goal of self-satisfaction and the only consequences he had to face were regular STI checks, gossip in The Daily Prophet and the Weasley jokes.
“This one actually looks like you a bit Ron,” chuckled Ginny pointing at the ginger man captured in the tabloid photograph. “Give over,” grumbled Ron. Not in an angry manner, but obviously not enjoying the joke.
“Oh, are you sad it’s not you?” commented slily George, instantly picking up on Ron’s discomfort. Ron ignored him, which was a beginner’s mistake. Even Harry knew that.
“Oh Merlin, you are jealous,” George went on, no regard for Ron's face gaining colour and his hands tightening in fists, "I am sorry to inform you that if being ginger is your go-to quality, Harry still has about six people in this room to go through before he gets to you".
Ron had jumped up from the sofa then, making his way from the now-dead silent kitchen via the back door.
"Good going, George," said Harry. George had the decency to look a bit chastised and claimed that Ron will come back any minute. That was around eleven.
Now, an hour after midnight, Harry's watching Ron sweat and feels a bit voyeuristic.
It’s basically Christmas morning and Harry decides that there is no point in playing nice anymore, the cards had been dealt anyway. He decides that his Christmas gift for himself will be allowing the thought of Ron wanting him back in. He will treat himself to playing with the idea that Ron is actually jealous. He will be adult about it, serious even. This is going to be a real conversation between two grown men. They will just have to ignore the fact that he's been salivating over Ron for the past twenty minutes.
"I am sorry about that," he starts. He doesn't really know what he's apologizing for. Not like he's in charge of George, and not like he's not allowed fuck random ginger men in the back of a muggle club bathroom (even if they look a lot like his best mate).
Ron looks at him, puts the axe down by the pile of cut logs and then closes his eyes tightly. Harry can see his muscles twitching under his shirt. He’s probably exhausted, never knowing when to stop, Harry thinks.
"I don't know why I reacted like that," he admits. "Not like there is anything wrong with you shagging with people that look like me," he says a bit angrily now, his eyes still closed. And okay, that does sound a bit fucked up when said out loud.
"I am sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or make things awkward. To be honest, I didn't even get the chance to really compare you two and think things through," the last bit is a bold lie and even as a joke it doesn't land well. Ron opens his eyes and in two long steps, he is standing in front of Harry, his eyes shooting daggers.
Harry decides to turn the tide before Ron has a chance to get even angrier. He’s killed a basilisk, fought and defeated lord Voldemort and died himself. He can flirt with his best mate.
“Are you angry because I got shagged by someone who looks like you because it’s embarrassing and it makes you uncomfortable, or because you are jealous that it wasn't you?” he says, picking up Ron's jumper from the chair so he doesn't have to look in his eyes as he says it.
Okay, so maybe he can’t actually flirt with his best mate.
To his credit, Ron doesn’t get angrier immediately. He falters a bit, taking a minute to look caught off guard before he lets out a soft and angry ‘What?’.
Harry doesn't reply and doesn’t move one bit.
"You are so fucking insufferable! I have never met somebody so selfless and selfish at the same time," Ron grits through his teeth, borderline hysterical as Harry only watches him in silence, never breaking eye contact.
Harry has one shot, one chance. How selfish it is to pretend that being straightforward and telling the truth is the right thing to do. He could ruin this for them both. There is no going back from this. But he wants it so badly, he trusts his wishful thinking so blindly.
"I never wanted to embarrass you. How could I? You are right, I am selfish, I didn’t think about how it could affect you. I just saw the guy and he was my type, just as you are, and so I slept with him. There isn’t much more to the story," he admits. "I am sorry. I really am. I wish I could help it. I’ve wanted you for so long Ron, I’ve loved you for ages. I know it’s not right, selfish even. But it’s torturous as well, it’s a punishment in itself.”
Ron looks genuinely shocked. His mouth is open like he wants to say something, but no words are coming out.
Harry feels faint. He looks down in his lap and picks up Ron's jumper, he contemplates his actions for an embarrassingly brief moment, before he brings the fabric to his face and deeply inhales the scent of Ron, of Christmas, of this very moment. He has nothing left to lose. There is no going back. No making it out of this shed the same. He closes his eyes; he wants to cherish this second of bliss right after he confesses (and rids himself of the years-long burden of hidden feelings) and right before Ron finally puts together what it all means. When he opens them again and pulls his face from the jumper Ron's staring at him in a way one could only describe as concerned.
Then, with absolutely no warning, he grabs Harry's face with his hands and kisses him. Harry kisses right back, trying to get the most out of his friend’s brief bout of insanity.
But Ron doesn't stop, he doesn't even falter. Instead, he licks into Harry's mouth. He lets go of his face only to slide one hand in his hair and the other to rest on Harry's lower back creeping under Harry’s jumper and t-shirt, bringing them closer. Harry moans softly into the kiss, Ron's hands burning into his skin. He feels like he's being lit on fire at the base of his spine and at the back of his head where he’s being touched.
The only way to put the fire out (or to make it grow), is to kiss more. He grips Ron's t-shirt. He will never let go; he promises himself. Their teeth clash in the frenzy of the kiss and to guide him Ron tugs a bit at his hair.
Harry sees stars and keens a loud, high-pitched sound at the back of his throat. It’s completely involuntary, but with devastating consequences non the less. Ron lets go of his hair, withdraws the hand from his back, and takes a panicked step back.
In all of Harry's fantasies and fake scenarios, he never prepared himself for this. He just stares at the other man, trying to decipher the panicked, frantic look in his eyes.
"Ron," he starts after an agonizing few seconds (it feels like an eternity). He has no idea how to continue and he is so out of breath, so frustrated that it comes out more like a moan. But it wakes Ron up, it brings him back to life. It brings him back closer to Harry. He steps in front of him again, only this time keeping some distance, and asks; "Do you want this?"
Harry has no time to muster up a response, before he continues, "because I want this. But I want you to say it. I want to hear it from you."
Harry just stares at him, which is apparently not the right thing to do, because Ron's face falls a bit, betraying the self-doubt Harry hates so much.
"I want this," he hurries, "I want this like nothing else. I want you so bad it actually hurts. I've wanted this for too long, Ron. I.." He can't articulate any of it, he realises. His brain turned to mush. He’s paralyzed by the possibility of saying the wrong thing.
His body decides to act on its own, however. He reaches out, grabbing Ron by his shoulder and hiding his face in the crook of his neck. He inhales deeply again, and struggles with it, his breath shaky.
"Please," he whines into Ron's skin, feeling his pulse on his lips. "I am going to beg for it," he says, "I will do anything." He's clinging to Ron. The other man doesn't respond and doesn't move either, forcing Harry to look up and assess the damage. He feels desperate like never before. He feels humiliated even. He's going to cherish all of those feelings till the end of his life (which he feels like he's hovering on the edge of).
He withdraws, still holding on to the other man but parting just enough to look him in the eye.
"Right," Ron says the moment their eyes meet. He breathes the word out, barely loud enough to be heard. And then, in one short movement of his arm that changes Harry's life forever, he tilts Harry's face up, gently grabbing his chin and capturing his lips once more.
It's so gentle and yet so forceful. He kisses Harry slowly, tenderly, carefully and in a way that's so all-consuming that it feels like there is nothing else happening in the world. And Harry's pliant, he lets himself be led. As he promised, he would do anything. But deep inside him, the fierce fire is lit again and more alive than ever before. He is achingly hard in his jeans, so turned on he feels like he might actually pass out. He would let Ron do anything, but he also needs him to do more. He tries to pick up the pace of the kiss, but Ron has the upper hand and doesn't let it become hungry and unsatiable like the first one. Instead, he grips Harry's chin harder, his other hand resting on Harry's thigh torturously still with fingers digging in.
Harry wants Ron closer; he wants to feel him everywhere. He parts his legs and wraps them around Ron’s waist, bringing them closer. He can feel Ron’s erection through both of their trousers, and he is sure Ron can feel his because the kiss is finally turning hungry. He slips his hands under Ron’s t-shirt, sliding his palm over his ribcage and over his nipples. He can feel all the sweat, all the taunt muscles he admired before. He moans into the kiss and finally moves his right hand over Ron’s stomach and down to the front of his jeans. Ron’s breath catches and he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Harry’s, panting slowly. Harry slides once more over his happy trail and asks, in a whisper “Can I?”
“Yes, Merlin, yes,” he gets in response. Rons goes for another kiss and Harry happily complies, only this time he feels like he has the upper hand. He lets his legs fall alongside Ron’s where he is standing, making just enough room for his ministrations between them. In an experienced fluid motion, he unbuckles Ron’s belt and opens his fly, tugging his trousers down just enough to free his cock. Harry breaks the kiss to look at it, mumbling a breathy ‘Yes. God.’ under his breath. For the first time, Ron moans. It’s a low sound and it fills the room instantly with hotness, the kind that slowly seeps into the skin.
Harry looks up from where he’s been admiring Ron’s uncut dick and asks, “do you like that, knowing how much I want you? How sexy I think you are?” Ron looks at him and swallows audibly before nodding.
“Good, because I don’t plan on hiding anything anymore,” Harry says and then without breaking eye contact he brings his hand to his mouth and spits in it. The string of saliva stretches from his mouth to his hand as he brings it to Ron’s cock and starts pumping.
Ron moans Harry's name again and again as the other man strokes his erection slowly. They are not kissing, Ron’s eyes are closed, his expression almost pained. He’s gripping Harry's biceps to steady himself, sure to leave marks tomorrow. Harry doesn’t mind, he likes the thought, and he likes the pain even. He slides his thumb over the slit of Ron’s cock before he places an open-mouthed kiss on Ron's lips when he shudders in response.
“I’ve dreamt of this so many times,” breaths Harry into the kiss, “can I suck you off?”
Ron opens his eyes and lets out a weak, barely audible ‘yes’.
Harry slides down off the table, turning Ron so he has his back against the workbench and drops to his knees in front of him.
He looks up through his eyelashes and fringe, having done this so many times before and knowing exactly what to do. But he’s not met with a hungry look like all those times before. Instead, Ron looks down at him with pure admiration and wanton. The look in itself is so much more intimate than anything Harry has ever felt or done. It screams trust, it shows the history they have.
“Merlin, you are so pretty like this,” says Ron breathily, cupping Harry's face with his right hand and it does something to Harry. Staring up at Ron and then looking at his dick in front of him, hearing those words spoken so clearly. He looks pretty. It makes his head spin.
“If you say stuff like that, I am going to come in my pants,” he says, looking up again.
“Yeah?” replies Ron and slides his hand in Harry’s hair, “Wouldn’t that be pretty?”.
Without missing a beat Harry leans in and licks a wet trail down Ron’s length. Ron gasps and tightens his grip on Harry’s hair. Harry in response brings as much saliva to his mouth as he can before he swallows Ron's cock down whole, resting his nose in the pubes at the base and inhaling deeply. Above him, Ron lets out a small shout. Harry inhales Ron’s musk a few times, wanting to remember it forever before he brings his hand up to stroke Ron while he goes back up for more air. The saliva successfully coated Ron’s full length and as Harry slowly pumps Ron's cock and looks at him, he knows it must be spilling out of the corners of his mouth and coating his lips.
“Fuck,” Ron sounds urgent now. “Why don’t you touch yourself?” he asks.
“I don’t need to,” Harry assures him and doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, go goes back down and starts bobbing his head at a slightly quicker pace.
He really wants to touch himself, he’s so desperate to do it. But he also wants this to last as long as possible, He doesn’t mind coming untouched in his jeans, if it means he will get to enjoy this for a bit longer.
He alternates between his mouth and his hand and tongue, doing his best to ensure that this is the best blowjob Ron’s ever gotten. In turn, Ron’s very responsive, moaning Harry's name, gripping his hair with one hand and the edge of the table with the other.
“Harry, I am about to come,” he warns. Harry just slides his mouth off Ron’s cock and closes his finger around the base of it, so Ron doesn’t come immediately. Ron protests confusedly, but Harry puts a stop to it when he slides Ron’s pants further down his legs with his free hand, revealing more of his pale freckled thighs. He rests the hand against Ron's bare ass, not resisting the urge to squeeze the firm muscle.
“I want you to fuck my face, can you do that for me?” he asks, looking up.
“What?” replies Ron. He really must be close, too lost in the pleasure to comprehend what is being said. His cheeks are red, and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looks absolutely ruined. Harry feels strangely proud of it.
“Fuck my throat, please?” he clarifies, squeezing Ron’s ass again to get the message across. “I will let you know if I need a break,” he assures him, knowing fully well that he will not need one.
Ron doesn’t respond verbally anymore; he doesn’t look away as he brings his other hand to Harry’s hair. Harry lets go of his cock, letting his hand fall alongside his body while Ron slowly brings his face down on it and starts to move him up and down shortly after. Harry gags a little at first before he relaxes around Ron’s length fully.
“You are so good Harry. You look so good like this,” moans Ron and Harry lets his eyes fall shut. He’s floating away with the praise, with the knowledge that it’s Ron's cock sliding in and out of his mouth, Ron’s hands tugging at his hair and guiding him. He feels a pleasant buzz spreading across his body as Ron picks up the pace. It doesn’t take long, and Ron is trying to pull out, his orgasm closing in.
Harry doesn’t let him. Instead, he swallows around his length and with the subsequent shout of Ron’s climax swallows the full load shot down his throat.
Ron lets go of his hair and Harry falls back on the heels of his feat. He feels boneless like it was him that just came. But the not-so-dull ache in his groin reminds him of how much it actually wasn’t.
Ron’s looking down at him with a look of astonishment, his mouth slightly agape.
Harry lets his eyes fall shut again, he sort of feels as if he was high.
“Are you alright?” Ron asks. And when Harry doesn’t reply, “Mate?”
Harry slowly wills his eyes to open. He feels cold all of a sudden, now with the space between them. He shudders and nods in reply to Ron’s question.
“Sort of wish I would’ve let you come on my face,” he says drowsily, “I could’ve been so pretty”.
Ron swears and before Harry can register him moving, he’s on the floor in front of him.
“Let me touch you?” he asks.
“Merlin yes please,” replies Harry. He really must be out of it because he doesn’t notice Ron pulling out his wand and transfiguring a thin mattress under them until he’s being pushed down on it. Ron leans down from where he’s nestled between Harry’s legs to kiss him, but before he has the chance Harry pulls away a bit and mutters apologetically, “you are going to taste yourself”. He doesn’t know how much experience Ron has in this department, but he deems it to be better safe than sorry.
Ron only responds with a soft ‘fuck yeah’ before he closes the distance between them. He kisses slowly, licking into Harry’s mouth, moaning softly. He really knows how to kiss, and Harry has to chase the thought of Levander teaching him all of it just as Ron pulls at his trousers.
His moans turn desperate, he needs this so much that he feels like he might explode. He tells Ron as much, getting only a chuckle against his lips in reply.
Ron stops the kiss, still leaning over Harry studying his face with every torturously slow movement he makes in order to get Harry’s jeans off.
“More, please,” rasps out Harry.
“More of what?”
“Anything”
Ron lets the word hang between them for a second before he leans down just inches from Harry’s face and spits on it. Harry gasps in shock and arousal. Ron looks shocked by his actions as well, drawing himself back. “I…” he starts to explain, but Harry doesn’t let him go on, interrupting him with a loud whimper and rutting his hips against Ron’s leg while he licks Ron’s saliva off of his lips.
Things move quickly from that. Ron all but tears off Harry's jeans, and with only a moment of brief hesitation takes a hold of Harry’s painfully hard cock slick with precome. They both know that Harry's not going to last long. Hell, he could come just from Ron looking at him if he wanted. But he doesn’t, and Ron probably doesn’t want that either, because he squeezes Harry’s length hard as he starts to move his fist up and down. It’s deliciously painful, it’s too much in the best way possible. Harry’s writhing under him, the air being punched out of him with every stroke of Ron’s hand. He’s so close he doesn’t even notice the tears falling down his face.
“I can’t wait to fuck you next time,” says Ron, his voice low, and Harry’s coming. He comes with Ron’s name on his lips and gasping for air, one arm flying to cover his face the other grasping for purchase, finally landing on Ron’s forearm.
Silence fills the shed and as Harry gathers himself, he notices his breath is coming out in small misty clouds. The warming spell must have worn off, he thinks. His eyes land on Ron, still sitting between his legs. The other man is looking at him like he’s trying to solve a puzzle and Harry’s self-consciousness creeps in. He sits up a bit propping himself on his elbows ready to apologize (for what he’s not sure).
Ron seems to sense his rising panic, because he puts his arm on Harry’s shoulder and slowly pulls him into his arms, so they are both sitting up. Ron caresses his face, peppering his cheeks with small kisses.
“Let’s sneak back into my room,” he mumbles against Harry’s collarbone his fingers drawing circles on the other man’s back.
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to move. I don’t want this to end,” protests Harry.
“It’s not going to end just because we move,” chuckles Ron.
And that’s exactly what Harry wanted to hear all along.