Chapter Text
First, there was Lavender, and the whole of Hogwarts knew how that went.
Then, there was Hermione. That lasted only a few months before she gave up. Ron was thankful for it because he had given up a month earlier, he just didn’t have the guts to tell her.
Then, Susan Bones, who reminded Ron of Lavender, just short of the weird pet names, thankfully. But she wanted to get married after three months of dating, so that was a no.
Then a hazy, drunken night with Pansy Parkinson. Ron went without an eyebrow for about two months after that one.
There was Demelza, which led to Ron getting hexed by Ginny for fucking her second best friend. Luna was her first, and while Ron was stupid, he wasn’t that stupid.
Then there was Katie. And Alicia. At the same time. Good, but oddly not great?
Then Lisa. Hannah.
Demelza again. Which was a mistake. Again. And resulted in Ginny hexing him so badly that he had to stay overnight at St. Mungo’s. Again.
And then, one night at the Muggle gym, there was Samuel.
It wasn’t something Ron had expected. He’d been going to the gym for a few months and had never been approached, even in a friendly way. But then Sam came over, sweat-drenched hair, a smile that took up his whole face, and a jawline that was as sharp as the abdominal muscles Ron could see through the bloke’s shirt.
They talked about weight machines and techniques. They laughed about Ron’s unfamiliarity with it all and discussed where they lived in London. Of course, Ron had lied, but it didn’t seem to matter to Sam. They just walked and talked on the way to the locker room. Ron wasn’t expecting Sam to join him in the shower. He wasn’t expecting the other man to kiss him, to clasp his cock and pump him to the point Ron was gasping for release.
He didn’t quite know what Sam had meant when he asked, “How do you like it?”
So he somewhat stupidly replied, “However you like it.”
This ended in Sam turning around, placing his palms on the tile, bending over, and presenting his plump, beautiful, tanned arse to the air.
Ron still wishes he could say things ended in a mind-blowing shag. He lies a lot about how that encounter ended. He likes to pride himself that he didn’t panic and run out of the shower, but he sure as hell wanted to. He hadn’t known what he knew now. He hadn’t known about stretching and lube. Well, he had known to an extent from spending time with himself, but he was awkward and fumbling, he was overwhelmed, and honestly, he was almost too horny.
The slick shower tile didn’t help. It was hard to get a good footing, really. And, even with Sam’s pleasant, friendly nature, he got slightly impatient and annoyed.
That was his first time, though– if one would even count it. Does it count if it’s only the tip? Sometimes, out of pure self-humiliation, especially if everyone’s talking about their amazing first times, Ron doesn’t count it. He skips to his third time because the second wasn’t much better than the first.
But after Sam, there was Jason.
There was a guy from the pub with dark hair.
There was a handjob in the club bathroom.
There was giving Kyle a blowjob as he drove Ron ‘home.’
At one point, Ron tried Demelza again. And it was a mistake. Again.
He snuck out of her flat that night and found Kyle again. That wasn’t a mistake. That was everything.
There have been other men after Kyle. Ones that lasted a night and ones that lasted a few weeks. None have really lasted that much longer. Mostly because Ron sticks to Muggles; it’s easier with them. He’s just another guy in another club looking for love. He’s not a hero. There are no expectations to be something he’s not. They see him as just another regular bloke.
There’s another reason Ron sticks to Muggles, but he’s a bit too chicken to admit it to himself. He knows he’s gay. It’s been about a year since Sam, and if there is one thing he’s sure of, it’s that he’s attracted to men. Men with arses like peaches just waiting to be eaten. Men with cocks that fit in his mouth and hit the back of his throat. Men with soft bodies ready to be worshipped and men with muscles ready to be cuddled.
Ron knows this is who he is and when he’s at the gym or pub or anywhere in the Muggle world, he doesn’t give a fuck who may know.
It’s the Wizarding World that he hasn’t told yet. Not his family, not his co-workers, not his mates. Not even Harry, which is stupid; Ron knows it's stupid. Harry is his best mate. They’d been best mates longer than they had not, and that was only because they hadn’t met yet.
He knows there is nothing he can do that would make Harry look at him differently. Fuck, he had done the one thing that would make Harry look at him differently, and Harry still welcomed him back with open arms as if their friendship had never even wavered. Ron abandoned Harry at the lowest point in their lives, and still, still, Harry remained his best mate.
What’s even dumber is that Harry's been out for the past few years. Sometime after Hogwarts he quietly came out to Ron and the rest of their friends and family. No one had reacted poorly to the news. Even Ginny was happy that Harry was finally getting to be the person he wanted to be and not the one everyone had forced upon him.
Ron hadn’t been too shocked at the time. The whole catching Harry moaning Draco Malfoy’s name in the shower Sixth Year kind of gave him away, not that Ron said anything.
The thing that did shock him, though, was how it caused a little questioning in himself too. It made him wonder if maybe his urge to hold Harry longer every time they hugged was something rooted a little deeper than a platonic friendship. Then, he caught himself watching the male Quidditch players and not just the plays. And that night, he realised he was looking at Krum’s poster as he touched himself in bed. He groaned Krum’s name as he came, quicker and faster than ever before.
So, yes, Ron knows it’s completely stupid that he hasn’t told Harry.
Yet here Ron is, out again on a Saturday night with his Muggle mates from the gym. Sam’s long gone but Julio, Dylan, and Matt are there. They’re just mates, he hasn’t slept with any of them, they’re just his circle.
They’re a bit louder than Ron tends to be, which means that when he went over to pregame, they insisted on giving him a makeover as they always did. Apparently, wearing a t-shirt over tight leather trousers is as good as committing a crime. Ron wasn’t not too sure about that, but he liked the trousers, so he changed his shirt with no objection. Now he wears a black fishnet top that makes him self conscious of the scars that wrap around his arms. Once Julio asked if they were tattoos and Ron just went with it, finding it easier than to explain he was attacked by brain tentacles.
Though, it’s not the first time they’d dressed him up like this, and it did help him pull. He avoided getting gel in his shaggy ginger hair tonight, so he considers it a win.
It’s late by the time they get to the club, which means they’re on time. The dancers are out on platforms, swaying with little to nothing on, allowing money to be stuffed into their g-strings. Ron and his friends lose Dylan immediately to the crowd as it beats away his favourite Britney song, which is a lie because all her songs are Dylan’s favourite.
“I’m getting a drink,” Ron says, shaking his head as they push through the crowd to the middle of the dance floor. While the guys are good fun, it always takes Ron a bit more alcohol to get going, if he goes at all. Sometimes he just stands on the side, laughing and talking with people that catch his attention. Sometimes to bring someone home and sometimes just to make friends.
The crowd has already settled into the dancing groove, making it only two people deep at the bar. Ron waits patiently; his height has the advantage of getting the bartender's attention despite not being right up at the counter.
Or, that’s usually how he gets their attention. But his own attention dwindles as his eyes snag on a distraction that’s impossible to ignore. The person in front of him is kneeling on the barstool to give them height as they bend over the bar trying to wave down the bartender. The position would give anyone a beautiful view of a gorgeous, plump, ripe arse, but the person isn’t just wearing jeans or flashy trousers.
They're wearing a pleated, plaid, schoolgirl skirt. It reminds Ron precisely of what girls used to wear at Hogwarts. Even the same maroon and gold tartan of Gryffindor. And, maybe for a normal-sized arse, the skirt would cover fine, but in this position, Ron can make out the stretch of white cotton underwear. Pure, innocent, and just asking for his hands to be put on it. For his mouth.
He would never, obviously. Even when he’s trying to bring someone home, he doesn’t touch them without consent. But, bloody hell, does he want to. He wants to do more than touch. He wants to tear that cotton with his teeth and leave bite marks that bruise. He wants to mark it, so everyone in the bar knows it’s his arse. He saw it first!
Merlin, you’d think he’d grown out of not wanting to share after getting his own place, but old habits die hard when you grow up with six siblings. And this arse is so fit that it’s like a birthday cake begging to be eaten up.
Ron’s eyes travel down the person’s thick thighs, tan and muscular. A soft layer of hair on them makes Ron’s dick get a little hard. They wear black trainers with white rubber toes. The same Muggle shoes Harry’s always wearing despite not being part of their Auror uniform dress code. Usually, Ron teases him for it, but with this look, he wants to dive in and forget how to breathe.
The person seems to give up flagging the bartender down and sits back on their feet. Ron can see dark, messy, cropped hair and the shine of glasses. It’s too dark to see much more than an outline of the person’s jawline, but it’s masculine. Not too sharp or square, but still enough for Ron’s gut to give a little flip. Enough for him to know he wants to put his mouth all over it and nibble all the way down to their collarbone with his hands squeezing the peach hiding under that skirt.
It’s when the person turns to look over their shoulder as if they're aware Ron’s eyes are on them and that Ron just about loses it.
And not lose it in a good way. Lose it in the way of running into your best mate in a Muggle club kind of way. Lose it in the not-out yet, and the one person you need to tell the most just happens to be here kind of way. Loses it like he just thought about taking a fucking bite out of his best mate’s arse right here in the middle of the club kind of way.
“Ron?!” Harry yelps over the music.
“Harry?” Ron’s voice cracks like he’s fifteen all over again. He’s half hard, and he’s sure anyone could see that if the lights flashed the right way, so he tries his best to think about his Great Aunt Tessie in a skirt. It weirdly doesn’t help, and Ron will have to examine that later, but right now is not the time.
“What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“Something wrong?” Ron asks again, hoping that his voice would stop fucking cracking on each syllable. Yes, something is wrong. It’s wrong that he wants to pull his mate’s arse against his groin and grind his cock against it all night long. It’s wrong that he wants to bend Harry back over that counter and fuck him until the bartender damn well takes their order and then some.
But that’s not the sort of something wrong that Harry means. He means at home, with the family, and with work. He asks because he’s always panicked that someone out there is hurt or being attacked. Because Harry cares so much and always puts his friends and family first that it’s his first instinct to run into disaster and help even when there’s nothing to save.
Ron swallows and does his best to keep his voice level and calm. He even tries to smile a little, which is hard because Harry is still sitting with his arse as picture-perfect as a model’s in one of those magazines that Bill used to hide under his bed. Honestly, Ron wants to take a photograph of how demure yet completely fuckable Harry looks so he can jack off to it later.
“No. I’m here– I’m just here with some mates. From the gym.”
Ron nods his head in the direction of the dance floor. He can’t see his friends, but he knows they’re out there. Harry looks at him, frowning sceptically for a few seconds before his green eyes trace Ron’s figure. He blinks a few times as if he’s making sure this isn’t some weird sort of fever dream.
Ron steps closer, crowding Harry at the bar, but they’ve stood closer before underneath his Invisibility Cloak. It’s nothing different. Not at all. Except, Harry sort of smells like something sugary sweet that reminds Ron of his Amortentia potion Sixth Year. Ron wants to kiss it off his lips, but then he remembers this is Harry and not a pull.
“Lemme guess, vodka cran?”
Harry nods, and Ron leans over to the bar. He gets the bartender's attention easily and can tell out of the corner of his eye it annoys Harry just a touch. He doesn’t want to be noticed as Harry Potter, The Chosen One, but he does want to be noticed. Ron has the urge to say he noticed, but he holds his tongue because this is Harry and not someone he’s trying to bring home.
Ron shouts their orders before turning back to Harry.
“Are you here by yourself?” Ron says, then barks out a laugh. He’s done just the thing he was trying to avoid. “That sounds like I’m coming onto you.”
“It does,” Harry snorts and shakes his head. “All alone.”
Ron nods. He understands. He feels a little guilty too, because if he told Harry about this part of himself sooner, if he had found the courage that he is supposed to possess, stored deep in the same place that had allowed him to wield the Sword of Gryffindor, then maybe Harry wouldn’t have been alone. Merlin, he can’t even imagine the amount of courage one must gather to come to a club alone; he wonders how long Harry’s been doing that and if this is recent or started when he came out a couple of years ago.
Ron can barely get lunch by himself without feeling the spiders of anxiety wrap around him. And here Harry is, at a crowded club, in a skirt, completely alone and looking utterly at ease and comfortable. More and more, he’s in awe of Harry each day. It’s crazy how even after killing Voldemort, Harry’s courage still rocks Ron every time.
“You should have asked me.” Ron leans into Harry’s ear to speak because it feels more honest than shouting would allow it to sound.
“I didn’t think this was your sort of thing,” Harry points out, tilting his head to look a little too innocent. It makes Ron’s mouth water in a way he’s not used to—at least not for Harry.
“What’s not my sort of thing?” Ron stumbles over his words because he can’t deny what’s not being said. Not just because there’s nothing actually to refute, but Harry is his best mate and knows all his secrets. Or should know all his secrets.
Harry looks Ron up and down, then just smiles, pure, wide, and beautiful. “Dancing. Dancing’s not your thing.”
Ron flushes red. He’s more than thankful for the dark lighting. “Oh, yeah, totally, definitely not.”
The drinks are delivered, and Ron hands over cash. He can feel a blush on his cheeks; he’s usually more confident than this. He can flirt with the best of them and take home whomever he wants. But it's different because this is Harry, and Harry’s making him nervous and stuttering as he did back in Hogwarts when girls approached him. Or Krum. He was a mess whenever Krum was near. Why didn’t he figure that out at the time? It’s obvious now.
He turns back to Harry. “So, uh, do you want to meet the guys?”
Harry glances over to the tables before looking back at Ron. “Yeah, I need to find out who put you in that ridiculous shirt.”
“You don’t like it?” Ron gasps.
“Fuck no. And I know you didn’t pick it.” Harry jokes, but he touches one of Ron's scars softly with just a finger. Gooseflesh travels up Ron's arm and even hardens his nipples.
“Nah, but do you like the trousers?” Ron coughs out, trying to hide how much Harry's soft touch has affected him.
Harry looks down and takes in the leather trousers. He doesn’t react one way or another. “Those can stay, but I dunno. I think I still like your dress robes more than that shirt.”
“Fuck off!”
Harry bursts into a bubbly fit of giggles.
“Com’on,” Ron says through his chuckles, bumping shoulders with Harry playfully as he grabs three glasses at once and heads to the tables.
However, it seems his friends haven’t returned from dancing yet, and there's only standing room now. So Ron and Harry find themselves sipping their drinks in a weird, awkward silence that Ron never really experienced with Harry. Thankfully, the music is so loud that it’s easy to pretend everything is perfectly normal as always.
Ron watches Harry look around the room, taking in the smiles and the laughter. It’s not just the anonymity that draws Ron there, he could get that from anywhere in the Muggle world, but the way everyone gets to be celebrated for every bit and piece of themselves, even the ones that usually bring shame. It’s not slipping into being unknown; it’s the freedom of feeling safe to be yourself without any label or pretence. He can tell Harry feels it too, as someone passing shouts appreciation for his skirt. Ron’s sure he’s never seen a bigger smile on Harry’s face.
So he takes a deep breath, downs the rest of his drink, and puts the empty cup on the table.
“Let’s dance.”
“I thought you didn’t.”
“Not usually, but you want to.” Ron shrugs. “Plus, I like this song.”
Harry gulps the last sip of his drink before letting Ron take his hand. They fit perfectly, Ron notices, and he wonders how or why he’s never held it before.
They find Ron’s mates in the crowd and dance as a group. Dylan’s found someone to grind against, but the rest just dance to their heart's desire. Ron knows he’s bad at it, but he doesn’t mind how he keeps making Harry laugh every time they make eye contact. He’s never heard Harry laugh so much, even on their good days hanging out watching movies or playing Quidditch. He’s only seen him smile like this a handful of times, and it had always been for special occasions.
And that’s how the night continues. With dancing and laughter. With shouts about favourite songs and cheering on amazing dancers when they break out of the crowd. They get more drinks from time to time and, at one point, chug down tequila shots which are always a bad idea because they make Ron’s ears turn pink, but he inhales them anyway.
Ron introduces Harry to Julio, Dylan, and Matt. Dylan doesn’t shut up about how much he loves Harry’s skirt and wants to steal it for Britney Night at the club. Julio convinces them to have more tequila shots just to shut Dylan up. Even Matt gets to talking about rugby with Harry, and they agree to watch a game together someday.
All three of them make sure to yell in Ron’s ear when Harry isn’t paying attention.
“Why haven’t you ever let him dress you; I’d love to see your arse in a skirt.”
“Bloody Hell, he’s gorgeous. I could die in those eyes.”
“Are you sure you’re just mates?”
Ron shoos them away. He ignores the bit about his arse in a skirt; that’s never going to happen. He especially ignores the bit about being just mates. Ron doesn’t want to think about the answer to that. Not right now at least, while his buzz is strong and he can pretend a little that maybe they aren’t mates and he’s planning to bring Harry home.
It’s the most fun Ron’s had at the club in a long time, and he knows it's because Harry is there. A small tick of guilt cuts through his gut, knowing that he could have had this sooner if he had just found the courage, but he pushes it away and keeps dancing until the lights go up.
They all tumble out of the club and say their goodbyes. Ron shoves his mates in a cab and watches them drive off before realising it's just him and Harry on the sidewalk. They aren’t alone; a handful of clubgoers are still milling about, sharing cigarettes and waiting for cabs. However, it’s still just them, alone again for the first time since they found each other in a club packed with Muggles.
“I usually walk over this way to Apparate,” Ron explains, pointing to a less crowded street down the block. Harry falls into step with him, and they head away from the people and the laughter. The night’s cold, but the liquor keeps Ron warm. He can’t stop the smile on his face. It’s one of the best nights he’s had in forever, and he’s going home alone, but it still feels so good.
He catches Harry looking down at his shoes as he walks. It makes Ron nervous for a moment until he can only kind of make out a smile plastered on Harry’s face, as if he’s trying to hide it. Ron thinks about asking for the normal stuff, like whether Harry had fun or wants to go out dancing together again sometime, but he can ask those later. Instead, he says what’s really on his mind.
“I like your skirt.”
Harry looks up, shocked at first, then flushing and bashful. “Thanks.”
Ron nods and swallows. “Should I, um, would you like me to use different pronouns? Or a name?”
“No. Just Harry, still he and him,” he says with a smile. “I just found this skirt in Sirius’s wardrobe and thought, well, I liked it.”
“I like it, too.”
“You said that already.” Harry smiles wryly, making Ron blush up to the tips of his ears. Yes, he did say that, but, well, he’s figuring out he might have always been a little attracted to Harry, he supposes, and this skirt is just proving it's more than just a little.
It’s not even the skirt, it’s how Harry smiles softly. The way his hair curls just behind his ears as the sweat dries. It’s that he always brings Ron snacks from the coffee cart and hides in his office when trying to get out of paperwork. It’s even because he puts his cold feet under Ron’s thighs when they’re watching tv, even though Ron hates it.
It’s how he’s always been there, through all the ups and downs, and how they’ve always been there for each other, ever since that very first day on the Hogwarts Express.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ron says, almost like it's a question even though they both know they’ll be seeing each other.
“Maybe,” Harry replies. Before Ron can say anything to convince Harry he has to show up at Sunday dinner, Harry gives a small awkward wave and pops away.
The cold night consumes Ron; he didn’t bring a jacket to the club and hadn’t noticed how cold it had gotten. He’d been warm from the heat of the crowd of bodies squeezed in the dancefloor. Warm from Harry walking next to him. He should have hugged Harry goodbye.
He pops away, too, before it gets too cold.
Ron lives in the flat above his brother’s joke shop. He kind of hates it. It’s not that it always smells a little weird from dung bombs going off in the store below or that the guest room is full of product boxes that don't fit in the basement.
Or maybe it is that. Because if the boxes weren’t there, he’d probably get a roommate. And then this place wouldn’t feel so cold and alone. It would maybe start to feel like home if he had someone. If he didn’t feel so lonely there.
He pulls his wand from his pocket and lights a fire before heading to the kitchen. He knows he needs to eat something, he’s half drunk, and a hangover at Sunday family dinner is never fun, but nothing from the cupboards seems interesting. His mum’s leftover lasagna is in the fridge, but even that isn’t what he craves.
Ron swallows and closes the fridge door, bringing his body forward to rest his head against the cool metal. He bangs it against the door a few times because he knows what he wants, and it’s not in the fridge. It’s not even in the flat.
It’s Harry’s green eyes sparkling on the dance floor. It’s Harry laughing, free and beautiful, as the music changes to his favourite song. It’s the way he took Ron’s hand not to get lost as they wove through the crowd to the front of the bar.
And, to be honest, it’s the flash of cotton knickers under that skirt when Harry spun around too quickly. It’s Harry’s thick thighs that Ron’s hand got to brush against once or twice. It’s Harry’s beautiful, round, plump arse that Ron just wanted to pull against his crotch all night long.
Before Ron knows it, his hand is down his pants. He pumps himself once, then twice. He imagines it's Harry’s hand and then– and then he stops before he really gets started. He’s being dumb. He’s being stupid.
He can’t do this. He can’t jack off to his best mate in the middle of his kitchen. It’s wrong. It’s fucked.
He does it anyway.
He traces the tip of his cock with his thumb, running it along his foreskin, teasing, playing like he thinks Harry would. He whines when he stops imagining Harry’s fingers and starts imagining his best mate’s mouth. He can see Harry in front of him, on his knees, his green eyes looking up at him with Ron’s cock deep in between his pink lips.
He can hear Harry’s whines in his mind. He can feel Harry’s warm drool dripping down his thighs. He works his hand faster, running his thumb over the vein on the underside of his cock like it’s Harry’s tongue.
Ron comes so hard that the fridge dents underneath the hand holding him up. He screams Harry’s name, then whimpers and cries it again and again. He wishes nothing more than for it to be real. He pumps every last drop out and wonders if Harry would swallow or let Ron cover his face with his come. If he was younger, he’s positive he’d come again just from the image of Harry choking as he tries to swallow with Ron's come leaking from his lips, down his chin, onto his pretty skirt.
“FUCK,” Ron finally yells, not out of ecstasy but aggravation. It’s wrong. It’s fucked. It’s his whole heart pounding with want and need.
“Fuck,” he says again, this time almost a whimper as he bangs his forehead on the fridge. He can’t be thinking of his best mate like this. Because if he’s thinking about his best mate like this, about the one person he’s already so fully in love with, then that means…
“Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck.”