Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit is being made through the writing of this, monetary or otherwise.
A/N: Written for the forum, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Fanfiction Writing Month: September (word count, 801); for the Writing Club Trope of the Month, Sharing is Caring, Trope: Sharing a Bed, Prompt #1. Setting: Hotel; and the Insane House Challenge, Pair: Harry/George (number 97)
Warning: Underage characters kissing
"There's only one bed," Harry said, glancing between George, the bed and the door to the hotel room they were supposed to share.
The Weasleys, who'd offered to escort Harry to Diagon Alley for school supplies, thought it best that Harry have one of the twins with him, while Ron had the other with him, keeping them safe from potential threats while they stayed at the Leaky Cauldron. Death Eaters were apparently swarming the place, and both Fred and George were able to use magic outside of school. Harry and Ron were not.
George laughed and ran a hand through his hair, his thin tee-shirt rose up as he did so, revealing his tanned abs. Harry swallowed and looked away.
"So? We'll just share the bed," George said, shrugging, oblivious to Harry's discomfit at the thought of sharing a bed with one of his crushes.
George tossed his overnight bag onto the bed and dropped down beside it. Harry tried not to gawk at George when the older boy started tugging off his tee-shirt, but it was nigh impossible. Harry had always been drawn to Ron's twin brothers, and he'd entertained a fantasy (or half a dozen) involving both twins, but of the two of them, he was drawn most to George.
Harry inched toward the door. "Maybe I should -"
"C'mere," George said, pulling Harry down onto the bed beside him. "No reason we can't both share the bed. Fred and I used to share a bed when we were younger."
Harry did not need to hear that. Images were popping into his head of their own accord. If it wasn't for George's hand on his chest, holding him in place, Harry would have bolted from the room just to escape his thoughts.
"I-I..." Harry stammered. Unable to formulate complete words, let alone sentences, for the naughty pictures that were playing out in his mind, Harry blushed. His gaze was focused on George's hand, which was still resting on Harry's chest.
George was talking, saying something about how he and Fred still shared a bed sometimes, but all Harry could think about was how warm and broad and strong George's hand was. And how much he wanted that hand on other parts of his body, the long, slim fingers touching parts of him that he'd only ever dared to touch himself, when he was alone in the dark. He shuddered at his wicked thoughts and tried to push them away.
"You alright, Harry?" George was leaning over him, a concerned look on his face, and all Harry could think about were the older boy's lips and how they might taste, what they'd feel like if Harry were to reach up and trace them with an index finger or steal a kiss.
Blinking, Harry nodded. He couldn't say a word if he wanted to, not with that look on George's face, and his naked chest within reach of Harry's outstretched fingers. All he could do was swallow, and bite his lip, will his twitching fingers to stay where they were, digging into the bedspread beneath him.
"You sure?" George asked, that wide mouth of his just inches from Harry's own. "You look a little flush."
George's hand moved to brush aside Harry's bangs before he settled a palm on Harry's forehead, checking for fever. He frowned and Harry gulped. George's lips were right there, his for the taking if he dared. Licking his lips, Harry closed his eyes, and squirming slightly when George leaned even closer, knees on either side of Harry's waist, pinning him in place, Harry lurched upward and bumped his nose into George's chin.
"Hold still," George said. "I think you've got a fever. I should probably call-"
Frustrated, Harry opened his eyes and surged upward, cutting George off mid-sentence with a kiss that was all clacking teeth and bruised lips. George's eyes widened in shock at first, and then he was kissing back, taking the lead, knees digging into Harry's sides, fingers into Harry's shoulders.
Harry tasted blood from where he'd awkwardly knocked his teeth against George's lips, and he relished the coppery taste of it, and how it commingled with the fruity flavor of the raspberry sorbet that George had eaten for dessert. He chased after George's mouth - the older boy's tongue - when George made to break away, and moaned when George placed a hand against his chest to push them apart.
George's eyes glittered in the dimly lit room as he searched Harry's face for something, mouth quirked slightly downward in a pout. And then he smiled, slow, seductive and settled in for a less awkward, less hasty kiss. This one was slow, lingering, and Harry didn't mind the weight of George on him, didn't mind sharing a bed with George after all.