We Are Each Other
Harry kissed Ron the first time the day they buried Hermione. It wasn't meant to be anything more than comfort, really, or at least that was what Harry told himself. He was as surprised as Ron when Ron kissed him back.
Ron and Hermione hadn't had a chance to become RonandHermione, and now they never would. Harry told himself he wasn't glad. In the midst of mourning yet again, he managed to believe it.
Harry still had a dark lord to destroy, and he had just lost one of his best friends; it was only natural that he and Ron would become even closer. Ron finally understood what it was like to lose something important, something bigger than a chess game or a Quidditch match.
None of the other boys said anything when he and Ron began sleeping in the same bed at the start of seventh year. It wasn't like that, and even if it were, Neville, Seamus and Dean wouldn't have cared. There were bigger things to worry about than whether your roommates were a couple of poofters, even if one of them was Harry Potter.
The only time Harry felt safe anymore was when Ron's body wrapped around his in bed, large, freckled hands resting on his stomach and the soft, warm whisper of his breath on Harry's ear. Ron smelled of chocolate and grass and boy-sweat, even just after a shower, and something else that Harry thought was either desperation or determination, or both. He smelled it often on his own skin, as well, yet another thing he and Ron shared.
There were other kisses, glancing, half-aimed brushes of lips and tongues, Harry always so tentative and slow, as if gentling a wild animal. Over time, Ron slowly relaxed into him, the two of them a jostle of awkward limbs, seeking hands and gasping breaths.
Harry thought he would die the first time Ron pushed his big, soft keeper's hand beneath the elastic of Harry's pajamas to curl around his prick, thought he would die if Ron kept touching him, and die if he stopped. It was strange and exhilarating and yet almost familiar, because Ron was Ron and Harry had imagined it forever. And it was almost like touching himself, except better, oh god, so much better when Ron's hips pushed against Harry's arse as his hand pulled at Harry's cock.
As he came, Ron kissed Harry roughly, warm wetness soaking the back of Harry's pajamas, and the feel of his tongue, the stroke of his hand, pulled Harry over the edge into his own orgasm, those few moments where the world stopped and nothing existed but the surge of pleasure rushing through him.
When Harry tried to sneak out to face Voldemort alone, Ron was up and waiting.
"I have to go," Harry said, trying to be strong, brave, wanting to keep Ron safe and alive.
"Sure," Ron answered, freckles standing out in his pale, fearful face. "But nobody said you have to go alone."
Harry gave him a quick, hard kiss, and then they were both crouched under the Invisibility Cloak, two boys off on what might be their final adventure, only enough space between them for Hermione's ghost, if she'd been one.
After, when Voldemort was nothing but grey ash and a lingering chill on Harry's life, Harry was sick, and Ron held him, brushed the hair off his clammy, scarred forehead and whispered nonsense.
Ron was there, the way Ron was always there, and Harry didn't know if he could forgive him for it.
They took a flat together upon leaving Hogwarts, and Harry lazed about, trying to decide between a career as an Auror or a Seeker. Ron had already decided, and Harry didn't understand how Ron had become the mature one, didn't believe it could be true when Ron tumbled him into bed, hands and lips eager for skin. And Harry was too hungry for the feel of Ron's hands and mouth on his cock, his cock inside Ron's arse, to think about it any more than he had to.
But there were certain things Ron never said, and Harry pretended he never wished for, never thought.
Harry couldn't help but notice, though, the way Ron sometimes started to say something and stopped, or how he'd taken to reading at night, and not just the sport pages in the Prophet. Harry found himself stumbling over the textbooks they'd need when Auror training began, and he knew -- he knew -- that this was Hermione's non-existent ghost come to haunt him.
He was at her grave when Ron found him, three days later. It hadn't been his intent to go there, because he hated graves, had had a surfeit of them in his life, but he'd wandered around drunk the first night, accepting drinks from strangers thrilled to meet the famous Harry Potter, and curled up on Professor Lupin's couch the second night, listening to the rain and Remus's voice spinning out tales of his schooldays with Harry's father and godfather.
Remus had looked at him with caring, knowing eyes, but Harry couldn't say it, couldn't ask, Is this how it is, how it feels, to have what you want and know you're always going to be second best? Because he had Ron, and Remus didn't even have being second anymore, he just had being alone.
After a mug of tea and a fry up, and an hour fending off Remus's understated concern, Harry took himself off to the graveyard. He stood at Hermione's grave, and though for once he'd have welcomed the rain spitting down, running in the grooves that said, "Beloved Daughter" and "Hermione Jane," there wasn't any yet, just warm August air pregnant with moisture and a bright overcast that made his eyes sting.
He wanted to tell her so many things, but figured she already knew, because Hermione always knew everything anyway, or thought she did, so he didn't mind that the words stayed stuck in his throat, unspeakable.
He started when Ron's hand curled over his shoulder.
"Just me," Ron said, fingers smoothing over Harry's shirt, warm and strong and his, Harry thought fiercely.
"Do you ever wonder," he said before he could stop himself, because these were the things they didn't talk about, ever.
"Of course," Ron answered. Harry looked up at him, but Ron was staring at the sky, one hand shielding his eyes against the brightness. "Hermione was the first girl I ever kissed." He frowned. "Only girl, actually."
"I'm moving out," Harry said, enjoying the way Ron's hand tightened on his shoulder, knuckles whitening. He wanted it to hurt Ron as much as it was hurting him.
But Ron's voice was calm when he said, "Don't be daft," though he still wouldn't look at Harry.
"I don't think this is working," Harry continued, mouthing lines he'd heard on Aunt Petunia's programmes.
"Don't you miss her?"
Harry drew a choked breath. "What kind of stupid question is that?"
Ron shrugged one shoulder. "I dunno. The kind I ask and you never answer."
"Ron--"
Ron finally looked at him, and Harry found he couldn't look away.
"Pillock. You're not a substitute."
"I--"
"She was my arms, Harry. And you're my legs. Don't you get it? She was-- we were. We," he waved his free hand between them, "we are. The same, but -- not exactly. But not..." He grunted, obviously frustrated. "You are not a substitute. You couldn't be. I wouldn't do that to her, or you. Or me. I wouldn't want to."
"Oh." Harry felt the tightness in his chest, and thought it'd be good if it started raining now, because then they'd both be wet and there'd be no evidence he might be crying.
"Yeah."
"We are," he said, tasting the words, trying them out.
"Yeah." Ron nodded decisively. "We are."
He fisted his hands in Ron's shirt, pulling him close, running his mouth over Ron's lips and jaw, tasting wet salt heat Ron. Ron clutched at him, long fingers sliding through his hair as they kissed. Ron sucked on Harry's tongue as Harry moved against him, slipped his hands up under Ron's shirt to touch warm, soft skin.
The first fat drop of rain spattered on the back of Harry's neck, and they broke apart, breathing heavily.
"Well," Ron said with a small huff of laughter.
Harry smiled and wiped his rain-spotted glasses on his rapidly dampening shirt. "Let's go home."
Ron smiled back. "Yeah."