Okay, use a little logic. Would I even be writing fanfiction if I owned Harry Potter?

As you were warned in the summary, this story is, indeed, SLASH. I'm not opposed to Harry/Hermione or anything, I just think Harry/Ron is really sweet. This starts in the boys' dormitory.

I feel for a moment like I've kicked a puppy, but shake it off. Ron will survive. I told him, and I don't think he minds that I'm gay, but if he knew I was in love with him? He'd never feel comfortable near me again. So I watch from a distance, and dream impossible dreams. Suddenly I snap back to the present, and glance at Ron. His worried blue eyes watching me make my heart beat faster, but I shake myself mentally and force myself to tell him I'm fine. I know he knows that's not true - I can't remember the last time I ate a meal with everyone else in the Great Hall, or the last time I slept the night through - but I say it anyway. Just as I expected, he doesn't look convinced, and I sigh, knowing he's about to say something. "Harry, come on. You don't really expect me to believe that?" I whisper, "No," shaken slightly by the determination I can see in his face. This time I won't be able to keep myself from telling him, and the thought that I might estrange him, make him hate me, is more than I can handle. So I rouse myself and shove past him, unable to keep tears from sliding down my cheeks, and push the dormitory door open. I stumble down the stairs, tears blurring my vision, and I just catch sight of Hermione whirling around before I leap through the portrait hole.

I finally corner Harry in the boys' dormitory. He lashes out quickly, shooting a snappy "What do you want?" in my direction. I hope he can't see the tears I know are welling up behind my eyelids, and blink to clear them away. Just before Harry turns his back to me, I catch a streaking look of horrible guilt and pain, but it is gone when he glances up at me again. "Ron, I'm fine," Harry sighs before I can ask, and I feel like giving him a disbelieving snort. Fine? I could swear he hasn't eaten in days, and sometimes, late at night, I hear him thrashing around. I used to think it was his nightmares that kept him awake, but it's getting worse now, like something's eating him from the inside out. It's been that way ever since the beginning of term, when he confessed to me and Hermione that he thinks he's gay. Hermione looked puzzled, and asked him why he had interrupted her studying for something so trivial. I interrupted her with "This is important, Herm." I think that frightened him, because he didn't say anything else. But he doesn't understand. It was important. It meant that I finally had a chance with him. He doesn't know that I love him, and he won't know if I have anything to do with it. I bring my mind back to him, standing in front of me. "Harry, come on. You don't really expect me to believe that?" He looks startled and almost frightened, whispering "No," with a defeated, despairing glance in my direction. Suddenly he breaks away and pushes past me. I feel his warm tears spatter my hands as he dashes for the door. Before I can move, the sounds of hurried feet on the stairs to the common room floats back to my ears, and Harry is gone. I let him go, his tears drying on my hands while I allow my own soft sobs free rein.

I run almost blindly, throwing out apologies whenever I run into something, and head, almost as a homing instinct, to the Quidditch field. It's raining outside, matching my despairing mood. I jog to the center of the field, cold, drenching rain soaking me as I slide to the grass, sobs wracking my body. Suddenly I hear the distinctive splat, splat of shoes on wet grass. Ron . . .? I turn my face toward the sound and tilt my head back, and it is Ron, I can see his hair even in the rain. He slips and slides across the field toward me, and I wish I could stay and listen to him, but I can't risk it; I might let something . . . important slip out. I try to get up, but I haven't been watching Ron closely enough, because before I can get to my feet, a warm, dark shape strikes me, and pins me to the grass. I close my eyes to avoid the rain that is hitting my face, when suddenly the sensation leaves me. I open my eyes again, and I'm confronted by bright blue eyes that hold my own. "Ron," I make my voice harsh, "get off! " He thrusts his bottom lip out stubbornly. "Not until you tell me what's wrong." I know I'm weakening, and I try to spit out another sharp insult, but instead I hear my voice whispering, "I . . . can't?"

"Oh, come off it, Harry, please. I'm your best friend. If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"

"No one. No one can know."

Ron stares. I guess he didn't expect that. "Harry, what . . .?" I close my eyes, knowing I've blown it. I decide to go the distance. "Ron," I say, taking a deep breath, "I . . ." I slide into a whisper. "I love you." I open my eyes slowly, to find Ron gazing down at me with disbelief and hope written all over his face.

I stand in the dormitory for another moment, and then, suddenly, I make up my mind. I dash through the door and down the stairs to the common room, catching a glimpse of Hermione with a questioning look on her face. I disregard it and rush on through the portrait hole. I race down various hallways, asking anyone, everyone if they know where Harry went. Several bewildered prefects point me in the right direction, and I continue to run, realizing at last where he went: the Quidditch field. I pick up my pace, and get there in minutes. I can't see his face clearly, but he's sitting rather forlornly in the middle of the pitch. He looks like he's crying. I charge forward, and he notices my movements, turning a tear-and-rain-streaked face towards me. Harry turns his face down again, and looks like he's trying to get up, but I'm close to him now; I put on a extra burst of speed and knock him from his kneeling position to a spot lying on his back on the field. Apparently, Harry notices the absence of rain on his face and opens his eyes, gazing up sorrowfully into my face. He seems to realize how quiet we both are, and bursts out with an angry-sounding, "Ron, get off! " Almost unaware of my actions, I push my bottom lip out, glaring down at him steadfastly. "Not until you tell me what's wrong." I insist. He almost sighs, and, voice suddenly wavering, whispers, "I . . . can't?" almost like it's a question, not a statement. "Oh, come off it, Harry, please." I nearly shout-I'm getting so sick of knowing he's hurting and not being able to help- "I'm your best friend. If you can't tell me, who can you tell?" His answer surprises me. "No one. No one can know." I just stare at him, thinking, No, this can't be right. I'm forcing waaaay too much meaning into this . . . right? I just look at him for a moment longer, then, "Harry, what . . . ?" He can't possibly mean . . . He closes his eyes resignedly. "Ron," he says in a normal voice, "I . . ." Harry's breath seems to catch in his throat, and he continues in a whisper. "I love you." There are no words I would rather have heard.

Okay, so this is really sappy and convoluted, but I had just read a bunch of Harry/Ron fics, and this one just hit me. REVIEWS ARE WELCOMED WITH OPEN ARMS!!!!!! :P