Ron can't sleep. If anyone asks him why not, he'll say that he's too keyed up about the Quidditch World Cup match, which is the next day, but that isn't the truth. The truth is that Ron can't sleep because Harry is asleep on the cot at the foot of Ron's bed. Harry, Ron's best friend. Harry, Ron's eternal distraction.
Even at fourteen, Ron knows enough about the world to know that falling in love with one's best friend just isn't done. He has spent months trying to explain away the funny feelings he gets around Harry, trying to pass them off to himself as worry about Harry's safety, or jealousy at the attention Harry always gets. But the epiphany came one night in the flash of Harry's eyes, and now Ron can't lie to himself anymore. He knows.
He's in love.
With his best friend.
Which just isn't done.
But it's there, and it's real, and it's become Ron's own wonderfully awful secret.
On nights like this one Ron is free to dream his dirty dreams. And, as he watches Harry sleep, he sees in his mind's eye what he wants to see:
Harry and himself, pajama-clad, clinging to each other under Harry's invisibility cloak, waiting for Filch to clear out of the way so they can get outside. The pair of them running across dewy grass at midnight, running until they're hidden again in the darkness under the quidditch stands. Harry turning to Ron, panting endearments, moaning desire, clutching Ron into a searing kiss. The soft slide of Harry's tongue against his, the aching desire throbbing throughout Ron's body. Ron's heart beating wildly, thumping almost out of his chest as Harry's hands slide under Ron's pajama shirt, clutching him still closer. Harry rubbing himself against Ron, Ron blushing at the intimacy of the gesture, the naughtiness of the locale, the desire in Harry's eyes.
Ron whispering "Want you" over and over, touching Harry everywhere his hands can reach. Harry panting, moaning, begging, confessing, his face in Ron's hair, his hands everywhere else. Those hands traveling to the waistband of Ron's pajama bottoms, tugging them down, caressing Ron's now-bare skin, stroking him, coaxing from Ron little grunts and groans and then a climax, a splintering, searing climax that feels like flying and falling and freedom and everything Ron's ever wanted. Ron panting, "Love you," into Harry's shoulder as Harry licks his own fingers clean. "Always have." Harry's only response is a smile and the desire still flickering in those green, green eyes.
Ron opens his eyes to find he's made quite a mess of himself. Fred and George are snoring lightly, echoing each other on their cots near Harry's, each completely oblivious to Ron's devious thoughts and actions. On his own cot, Harry has rolled onto his back, his dark hair as messy in sleep as it is during the day, his cheeks flushed from his own dreams. Ron wants nothing more than to crawl down to that tiny cot, to curl himself around his best friend, to snuggle close and confess his desire, but he knows he can't.
It just isn't done.
And it's bloody unfair.
Ron watches as Harry yawns a bit and rolls over again, turning his back towards Ron. The frustration of the situation tries to manifest itself in an onslaught of tears, but Ron stubbornly swallows them down. He's above crying about this. Even if Harry can never know -- and he can't -- Ron won't let this ruin him. He's a bloody Gryffindor. If he can follow Harry into a den of spiders, he can survive this because unfair or not, it just isn't done.
read the companion story