Work Text:
I Can See Us Dying...
Aren’t We?
Something always brings me back to you. It never takes too long.
For Ron, it isn’t just about the sex—though the sex is damned good.
He loves the sex. He loves the way Harry arches his back when he comes. He loves the way Hermione could sometimes take them both, the way she holds onto Ron’s neck tightly, as though drowning. He loves the fact that, if he wants, he can look straight into Harry's eyes when he comes inside the woman they both love. Knowing they’re both part of him, there for him always, settles the corners of his mind where the darkest dreams lay waiting for him to sleep.
During the war, it was a comfort.
After the war, it became a habit too hard to break.
It's an open secret --though mother never refers to it. If it ever came up, if Ron grabs a plate of extra food for Harry when he and Hermione stop over at the Burrow after work, or if Harry’s gaze lingers too long on Ron’s lips, Molly would frown and give them all a look of unmistakable disapproval.
It doesn’t matter though, becuase Ron isn’t interested in change.
So, if he sometimes takes Harry to his bed without Hermione, there’s no guilt — only need. There are times when he simply needs to touch Hermione to reassure himself and find calm. With Harry, it’s different.
Harry’s harder to touch. Sometimes, it takes hours to coax Harry out of his skin, to take him apart, and to put him back together. To softly touch the scar on his forehead with his lips, to hold his hand when he trembles…
It's all ending I gotta stop pretending who we are…
He finds them wrapped around each other in bed, tears coursing down Hermione’s face. Harry’s holding her close, awkwardly patting her back, a blank, shuttered look in his eyes. Ron doesn’t hesitate even for a moment. He drops his bag and slips into the space beside Hermione, and she turns her back to Harry and wraps her arms around Ron’s neck. Harry meets his eyes over the top of her head, and Ron reaches for him, too, but he rolls over and leaves. Ron’s left staring after him, and Hermione drops a piece of parchment in his hand.
It’s a note from her Healer. She’s pregnant.
Ron’s immediate elation is hampered by his heart-stopping fear. For Ron, it’ll make no difference whether the child is Harry’s or his, but he knows that, for Harry, it would… complicate things.
For the first time, he is torn. He wants to check on Harry, but Hermione is crying into his neck and holding tightly onto his shoulders, so he kisses her hair and strokes her back until she calms, settles, and falls asleep.
Hours later, he startles awake. His eyes fly open, and it takes a while for him to make out the shape of Harry in the doorway, standing with his arms folded, watching them both.
Ron shifts so that Hermione rolls off his arm, but Harry turns and walks away. Ron strides quickly after him, down the narrow hall. He catches up, stumbling and grabbing Harry’s bare arm and turning him around, wrapping him in a hug before Harry can voice any protest. Harry stiffens, then relaxes into him, and Ron threads his fingers into Harry's hair, rubbing his fingernails against his scalp in slow, soothing circles, the way Harry loves to be touched. He does so until Harry releases a shaky breath and grips his shoulders.
He doesn’t return to Hermione’s bed that night.
In your house I long to be; Room by room patiently, I'll wait for you there like a stone. I'll wait for you there alone.
The child is, undoubtedly, a Weasley.
Her bright red hair forms a defiant cowlick at the top of her head, and her blue eyes are the mirror of her father’s.
The room at the hospital is full of Weasleys, Hermione’s parents, and a few friends, but the one person he wants to see isn’t there.
His mother places his daughter in his arms, and he kisses her on the forehead. Molly smiles briefly at him, but she doesn’t make mention of Harry’s absence, even though he knows she’d like to.
Harry moved out of Grimmauld Place a month ago.
They fought about it. Hexes were exchanged, and when those didn’t work, they reduced to punches and blows. Hermione cried in her room alone.
Their love for Harry, their insistence that he was a part of their lives no matter what, wasn’t enough for him. Hermione stopped having sex with them both, but still, she crawled into Ron’s bed more often than not, and Harry would find them together in the mornings. Things had changed.
Once, Ron woke to find Harry standing in the doorway again, studying them with his arms folded across his chest, eyes red. The bedroom window was open, and a faint breeze lifted the curtain, illuminating Harry’s bloodshot eyes, his wet cheeks. Ron moved to stand, but Harry didn’t simply run away that time; he disappeared, only to return three days later and declare he was leaving.
Ron panicked. He knew Harry wouldn’t stay where he thought he wasn’t wanted. Ron just couldn’t figure out how Harry could ever think that he wasn’t wanted. How the idea could have even entered his mind. Ron’s never been good with emotions.
He takes his daughter to the corner of the hospital room and sits in the rocking chair with her to look again at her pink, wrinkled fingers and toes.
It’s there that Harry finds him hours later. His gentle arm on Ron’s shoulder wakes him, and Ron’s heart soars when he see that familiar face. Harry’s glasses are crooked, and he looks tired and worn, but it’s the same Harry. The same green eyes, pale skin. The same red lips.
Harry looks down at Rose, studying her carefully. He wore a similar expression when Hermione told him the results of the paternity test. His lips are tight, his eyes carefully blank.
Ron stands, sifting the baby to the cot beside Hermione's bed, and pulls Harry in for a deep, heartfelt hug. Harry grunts in surprise and then he hugs back, and Ron presses his nose to Harry’s hair, not caring that it’s longer and it prickles his nose. He closes his eyes and breathes Harry in.
There is so much he wants to say. So many apologies, regrets, promises.
He pulls away, and Harry avoids his eyes.
Harry walks over to Hermione’s sleeping form, brushes her hair off her face and kisses her softly on the forehead. Ron almost wants to cry. Harry is gentle with her, he always has been. Hermione slowly wakes, and when she sees Harry’s face, her eyes flick to Ron, and she lets out a laugh of surprise.
She roughly grabs his face, studying him intently, as if looking for new scars, and then kisses Harry right on the lips.
Ron comes round the other side of the bed, resting his hand on Hermione’s shoulder as they kiss, but Harry pulls away and gives Hermione a strained smile. When he straightens up and meets Ron’s gaze, there’s nothing but pain in his eyes. Ron opens his mouth to speak. He wants Harry to stay, if only for a night, but Rose turns in her cot and releases a loud wail, as though sensing all the unease in the room. Harry quickly steps out of the way as Ron comes round to lift his daughter out of the cot, gently placing her on the crook of his arm. When he looks up again, Harry is gone.
But you touch me for a little while and all my fragile strength is gone.
Rose is almost two when Ron sees Harry again.
He never stopped looking. Not once. Not even when Hermione suggested it was time to let go. He didn’t stop — although he let her believe he was happy. That, like her, he moved on. He loves her –he does- but, without Harry he feels... unfinished.
Each weekend, he’d Apparate somewhere new and absently wander about, looking while pretending not to be. After the first year with Harry gone, he looked less, but he never stopped.
He’s having tea in a Muggle cafe in Paris when he spots Harry across the room, ordering at the counter. Ron slowly lowers his cup, heart thundering in his chest. Harry looks so different, but still, partly, the same. His face is covered with stubble. He’s wearing a dark blue sports cap low on his forehead. His hair is longer; it covers his ear and sticks out from the bottom of his cap. His body is leaner, his muscles more toned, and his glasses… his glasses are gone. That this should tug on Ron’s heart more than anything else, he thinks, is a due to the sheer shock.
Harry gestures to the cashier at the counter and they both laugh. The cashier places Harry’s purchases in a bag and slides it across the counter.
Harry’s t-shirt clings to the muscles in his back; his jeans hug his arse. He’s knocking at the countertop with a set of keys in his hand and tapping his foot. He was always like that. Unable to stand still. The man behind the counter hands Harry his coffee, and Harry salutes him with his cup and turns to leave.
After the initial shock passes, Ron jolts up off his chair, out the door, looking to see which way Harry’s gone. Just ahead, he spots the back of Harry head, and Ron rushes forward, bumping shoulders with a few tourists, jogging to catch up. Harry turns a corner, and Ron swerves, takes a few long strides and then touches the back of Harry’s shoulder with the very tips of his fingers.
Harry whips around, his mouth open to speak, but when he sees who it is, his eyes grow wide, and his cup of coffee falls to the ground, smashing open and emptying brown slush onto the pavement.
Ron doesn’t wait much longer before lurching forward, holding Harry’s face in his palms, and kissing him hard on the mouth. Harry grips his shoulders, stiffening in shock for a split second before opening his mouth and deepening the kiss, pressing his chest into Ron’s.
Ron sneaks his fingers into Harry’s hair. It feels the same. Everything’s the same. The taste of him, the smell. The soft sighs he makes, the hitching sound in his chest. Ron couldn’t care less that they’re in the middle of a Muggle street, because Harry’s here in front of him, real-to-touch after so long.
Harry’s hands slip down to Ron’s waist, gripping Ron’s hips, trying to pull him even closer. Ron bites Harry’s lower lip hard. His fingers tug on Harrys hair, punishing him, putting his hurt, his resentment, his heartbreak, everything into this one kiss so that Harry will know. He’ll know that he was wrong. He’ll understand that Ron couldn’t — still can’t, never will — find a way to survive without him.
They pull away, resting their foreheads against each other, breathing heavily. Ron swallows the metallic taste of blood. He touches Harry’s slightly torn lips with his thumb, and Harry closes his eyes and cups holds Ron’s face lightly in his palms.
They remain that way, breathing each other's air, holding onto each other, like lifelines, until Harry pulls out his wand, pulls Ron close and Apparates to his flat.
~
Ron doesn’t need to look around the place to know that Harry doesn’t live alone. He can smell Someone Else everywhere. In the small living room, the kitchen, in the jacket hanging off the sofa.
Harry takes his hand and leads Ron to his room. In there, Ron notices the extra things. The shoes he knows could not ever belong to Harry. The too-long trousers hanging over the door to the wardrobe. He walks over to them, fingering the fabric, noticing the soft, woolen texture. They’re expensive, Ron can tell that much. They do not smell like Harry. They belong to Someone Else, and it hurts, though Ron knows it shouldn't. He’s been living with — is married to — Someone Else for almost a year now. For Hermione had become Someone Else the moment she conceived his child, and while he knows it’s not fair to any of them, he understands. He understands why Harry felt the way he did, why he left... hadn’t he lived his entire childhood on the outside of love? Why would he choose to endure that again?
Ron wants to ask about this Someone Else. He wonders, is he a wizard? A Muggle? Does he love Harry even a fraction as much as Ron does? Does he know that Ron is — was — the thing Harry would miss most?
Harry gently pulls him close and kisses him. Ron slips his fingers beneath Harry’s shirt and Harry helps him take it off, tossing his shirt and cap aside. Ron barely waits a second before he maps the plains of Harry’s firm chest with his fingers. He closes his eyes, briefly overwhelmed with the memories. Harry lifts Ron’s chin and kisses him again, making a soft noise and pushing Ron back towards his bed. They hastily pull off the remainder of their clothes and fall onto the bed, kissing heatedly as they land.
Ron rolls over Harry's body so that he’s on top. Their mouths never part. Harry keeps making soft, desperate noises. His nails scratch against Ron’s back; his nipples brush against Ron’s chest. Their tongues slide against each other with a deep familiarity and without hesitation. Harry wraps his legs around Ron’s waist, arching his hips so that his cock brushes up against Ron’s stomach.
Ron reaches between Harry's legs and slowly strokes his cock. Harry’s groans and shuts his eyes, his mouth slightly open. He wraps his hand around Ron’s and guides his hand to stroke harder. He opens his eyes and blinks, and Ron can’t look away from Harry’s gaze. It pulls him in and tears him apart all at once. Harry guides Ron’s fingers to his hole, and Ron circles it with his index, finding Harry already a little loose.
The thought of Someone Else sharply resurfaces in his mind, and Ron wetly sucks his finger into his mouth, and roughly pushes it inside Harry’s hole to try to drown him out. Ron sits back on his haunches, and Harry immediately turns over, going up on his hands and knees. Ron pries Harry’s arse cheeks apart and rubs the head of his cock on Harry’s hole before pushing his cock past the ring of muscle. Watching his cock slowly disappear into Harry’s hole, he thinks briefly of Hermione. She stopped looking. Moving on from Harry was like moving on from a brief phase she indulged in when she was young. But he never stopped.
He never stopped, and maybe that's the problem.
He rests his palm at the base of Harry's spine as he pulls out and pushes in again, this time fully until he’s balls deep inside Harry and Harry cries out pleasurably. Harry clenches the muscles in his arsehole and Ron grunts. He slides his palm up to the space between Harry's shoulder blades and presses down so that Harry drops to his elbows, and Ron slips in even deeper. Ron snaps his hips in a fast, brutal pace, and Harry’s head bobs as Ron fucks him hard, reclaiming every bit of Harry that was ever touched by Someone Else.
Harry snakes his hand between his thighs and starts stroking himself off in time with Ron’s thrusts, groaning loudly, rocking his hips back into Ron’s every stroke. With a shout, Ron comes hard inside Harry’s hole, and he rides out the last few seconds of his orgasm with his eyes clenched shut, his fingers digging into Harry’s hips, most certainly leaving marks for Someone Else to find.
He pulls out, taking a second to enjoy the sight of Harry’s abused hole, leaking with his come. Harry grunts as he comes with a low moan, and Ron spreads Harry’s arse cheeks, watching as the force of Harry’s orgasm pushes a few drops of Ron’s own come out of Harry’s used arsehole.
Ron bites one of Harry’s arse cheeks and Harry falls onto the bed in a heap. Ron drops beside him, and they just lie there breathing heavily, staring at the ceiling. Ron turns to Harry, who doesn’t seem to want to meet his gaze. Ron shifts closer, wrapping his arm around Harry’s chest, bringing his lips close to Harry’s ear, kissing his earlobe and working the flesh between his teeth. Harry closes his eyes, then, hesitantly, he turns to face Ron.
Their faces are inches apart, and Harry’s gaze turns nervous, skittish, and apologetic. He leans forward and presses his lips against Ron’s, kissing him with less urgency than before. Ron lifts his hand to touch Harry’s cheek, but Harry stops him, and gently guides Ron’s hand away.
He rolls over and sits up at the edge of the bed, reaching into his side table and pulling out a cigarette. Ron lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling again as Harry smokes.
He knows what this is. A clear dismissal. A goodbye.
If only it were that simple.
He wants Harry to come home. He wants things to be the way they were. But he knows Harry will refuse.
Ron considers, for a moment, if this thing, this need they have for each other, is like a slow acting poison for them both, meant only to eat them out from the inside.
He sits up, crawling over to Harry on his knees, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder and draping his arms across Harry’s chest. Harry lifts his hand to Ron’s finger, the one with his wedding band, and touches it lightly.
A reminder.
Harry brings Ron’s ring finger to his mouth and kisses it briefly. Only then does Ron feel the tears on Harry’s face.
And he tries to think of ways. He tries to find a solutions-- a way it could be the same between them once more.
But there are none.
And he cannot choose.
fin.