Disclaimer: The characters contained herein are not mine. No money is being made from this fiction, which is presented for entertainment purposes only.
A/N: Based on the amazingly lovely art with the same title by reallycorking.
One Winter's Night
The sight of it atop the hill isn't really a surprise, but it feels like one.
I didn't set out to come here, but let's be honest, stepping out for a walk and an hour's worth of fresh air on a night like this is a bit daft, even for me. Sometimes I wish my subconscious wasn't so bleeding transparent.
The snow crunches beneath my feet, melts and refreezes on my forehead and eyelashes, and as I reach the cottage, I hesitate.
I push a chunk of frozen hair from my face and wipe at my runny nose with the back of my mitten. I'm quite a sight, in this ratty old school scarf and pompom-ed cap I've been wearing for more years than I care to remember.
My hesitation grows stronger, and for a long moment I actually believe I will turn around and leave.
But then my mitten is thumping against the frozen wood.
The sound of the latch is startlingly loud, and the light of the fire nearly blinding as it spills out over the doorstep.
"Ron?" Harry asks, blinking at me, but I can't seem to answer.
Will you bloody well look at him?
My hand falls against the doorframe and, for a moment, I think he's naked, as firelight pours over his chest. It laps in and out of the hollow of his neck, and his nipple seems to wink at me as my gaze slips helplessly down the trail of dark hair past his bellybutton.
My tongue makes a strange movement in my mouth at the angle of his hipbone, and I realise that he is, in fact, dressed. Sort of.
The green dressing gown he's wearing hangs open in all sorts of inviting ways, and I drag my eyes upwards before I do something embarrassing.
Upwards isn't much better, though, as wayward strands of dark hair catch the light dizzyingly. His concerned eyes shine out at me and his mouth is moving in odd intervals that I can only assume are meant to be words, but I can't seem to hear anything.
His gaze is too much somehow, and I avert my eyes back to his chest, where I try not to notice his nipple becoming darker and stiffer before my eyes.
Harry shivers and reaches across himself, making to pull his dressing gown back over his chest.
"No, wait, I –" I've already taken a thoughtless step forwards when I realise that begging a half-naked man not to cover himself in the face of a freezing December wind is probably a bit irrational.
"Will you come in already, you daft sod? It's freezing!"
I stare at him and step inside.
"What's the matter, Ron?" he asks quickly, pushing the door shut. "What's happened?" He crosses his arms over his chest and rubs his palms up and down his biceps, shivering.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"You're out in a snowstorm, in the middle of the night, nearly frozen solid, because of nothing? And it was so important that you couldn't just Floo?"
"Yeah. Well, no. I mean, I ... I just went for walk. Didn't know where I was going, really, and then I was … I was here, so I thought I'd knock."
Harry's eyebrows contract. "You just went out for a walk? In this?" A green-clad arm gestures towards the door, and the fabric of his dressing gown falls back a little, revealing the tuft of dark hair I recognise as the one nestled in the centre of his chest.
I nod, and a small shower of snow falls from my hat, catching on my nose, scarf and shoulders.
Harry simply stares for a long moment, until something I don't like registers on his face and he averts his eyes.
"C'mon, mate," he says, taking a small step towards me, "let's get this wet stuff off, yeah?" I can tell by his tone that he thinks I've had too much Firewhiskey or maybe knocked my head.
He reaches for my soggy mitten and grips the tip of it with one hand, reaching the other to hold my forearm as he pulls it off. The movement sends more snow cascading to the ground, and the fabric of his dressing gown falls further open.
He's reaching for my other mitten when I hear words I don't expect come tumbling from my lips. "Please don't, Harry. You can't."
He looks at me abruptly. "Can't what?"
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He blinks and stares a moment, before turning his attention back down to our hands with a sigh.
The second mitten comes off, and his eyes are trained on the pair of them as he claps them together to knock off the remaining snow. "I have to, Ron," he says quietly.
Something inside my chest twists and turns. "But why?"
"It's like I said, I – I just need to go away. For a while."
"Where?"
Harry shrugs. "I dunno. All over. Wherever. Anywhere but –" He sighs.
"Anywhere but here?"
His eyes flicker up to mine and away again, far too quickly.
"Why?" I can hear myself growing desperate.
He closes his eyes for a long moment. "I just need to get myself sorted, Ron. My life is so … different now. I'm suddenly in control of it, sort of, and I don't ... I don't know what to do. I don't know what I want. Not really, anyway, and I don't think I can work that out here, in the midst of all this."
"All this what?"
"All this ... everything. History. Baggage."
"Baggage? You mean my sister?"
Harry flinches, a little. "No," he says, shaking his head. "Well, a bit, yeah, but it's not just her. It's ... it's all of it, Ron. It's everyone."
"So just tell everyone to sod off."
The corners of Harry's mouth twitch into a sad smile. "If only," he says, and he's right, of course.
"Well, maybe you could just … hide out. You know, stay inside all the time and," I flap my hands around as I speak, "and never bathe and look at porn all day until nobody but me's willing to come visit you."
Harry's small smile blossoms into a gentle laugh, and I smile back, savouring his fond gaze until he blinks and looks away.
A heavy silence wears me down as Harry licks his lips and sighs. "That's just it, Ron," he finally says. "I think I…" He sighs again, before continuing in a voice just above a whisper. "I think I need some time away from you as well."
If I weren't already freezing, my blood would run cold.
I can't move, for a moment, and then I'm blinking rapidly. Heat floods my ears and cheeks, and my mouth flaps up and down, producing only fractured syllables.
"Ron, please, don't," Harry begs, stepping towards me.
"Why, Harry? What – what have I done? I never meant to … I don't expect you … anything, I –"
"I know you don't," Harry says quickly, as he steps closer and grabs the shoulder of my coat. "It's nothing you've done, Ron. It's … it's not even really to do with you, it's me, I'm just a mess, and I need to … I just need to ..." He doesn't finish his thought, but grips at the wet fabric on my shoulder more tightly.
We stand in silence, both breathing quickly, and my mind is a mess, screaming at me and shushing itself, scrambling for ways to fix this.
Our attentions both seem to turn to his fingers, twisted in my jacket, at the same moment. He flushes and lets go, but before he can pull his arm away, my hand has flown up to his triceps.
My gaze is probably as startled as his is, as our eyes meet.
An uncertain moment passes before his hand finally falls back to my shoulder, his fingertips pressing into the cold material. I smooth over the green fabric beneath my fingertips, and I can feel the warmth of his arm.
Silence swells in the space between us, and I can't seem to think of anything to say or to do except to keep my hand pressed to him, if only to be sure he's still here.
We're still and silent for what feels like forever, when fingertips reach up and graze over Harry's covered collarbone.
And they must be my fingertips, despite the fact that I had no idea they were going to do that.
I'm not sure if he's breathing as my heart rattles about in my chest and the other half of his dressing gown is slowly drawn to the side.
He shivers as my fingers skim over his newly exposed chest and gently bump over a stiffening nipple, coming to rest over his abdomen.
I hold my breath as my palm presses forwards, slowly, and Harry jumps.
"Cold!" he gasps, and the mittens he's still holding fall to the floor in his surprise.
I pull my hand back with a jerk, as a furious blush floods my face. "Sorry, I –"
"No." Harry's hand flies forwards, grabbing at the waist of my jacket desperately. "It's OK," he whispers as he tugs slightly. "It'll warm up."
I blink and swallow.
Slowly my fingers and palm return to Harry's bare skin.
My vision seems to blur for a moment as the entire room slips into a strange sort of slow motion. Harry shivers again and I stare at my hand, trying to focus.
And it's like quicksand, Harry's skin, his taut chest and smooth stomach and beckoning trail of hair. I sink into it deeply and quickly, and am so far lost in it that the movement against my neck takes a moment to register.
Harry has let go of my shoulder, and his fingertips are just ghosting over my jaw. My eyes take forever to slide upwards as they fight the pull of his chest, and struggle to meet his gaze.
And if Harry's chest is quicksand, then this – this is a bath of warm, molten chocolate, and I sink into the green as quickly and as certainly and as willingly as you like.
And even though I think I might know, I ask.
"Is this why, Harry?"
He stares at me and swallows.
I don't actually decide to lean in and touch his lips with mine, and I'm beginning to wonder just how much of my body I've lost control over.
My lips are touching his and pressing against him, and he whimpers – just a little – and it's the most delicious thing I've ever heard. His lips are trembling and my jacket rubs against my back as his fingers tighten their grip and twist. When I pull back, he's looking at me thickly and desperately.
His breath is coming in quick bursts as he stares.
Another of those moments passes, one that might just as easily have been a few hours.
I see him brace himself as he licks his lips and finally speaks. "Are you … are you sure?"
A small chunk of snow falls from my hair into my scarf, and melts against my neck. I shiver and smile, amazed at how sure I suddenly am.
"Harry," I say, "I just walked three miles through a snowstorm in the middle of the night." He bites at his lower lip as the corners of his mouth twitch, and I want to laugh, he's so beautiful. "Yes, I'm bloody well sure."
He gives a small shudder and his fingers press against my jaw and slide back into my hair, slipping underneath the edge of my hat. "You're still so cold," he whispers, sympathetically.
"I'll warm up," I say, as I lean into his touch.
His fingers twitch against my scalp as his whole body trembles, and my hand slides around his waist, into his dressing gown and over the small of his back, and I step closer. Just a little closer, close enough to wrap my arms around him and hold on for dear life.
He fits perfectly, and I press my cheek to his hair as his forehead comes to rest on my shoulder.
I don't know how long we stand there, as I hold him and soak up the heat radiating from him, but suddenly he's shivering against me, and I can't believe how stupid I am. I quickly reach a hand back to my wand pocket and banish my cold, wet clothing.
And now I'm the one who's warm, in nothing but my boxers, pulling his damp chest against mine and holding him as the chill dissipates.
His hands find their way to my back, and when I feel his fingers begin to trace tentative circles over my spine, I pull my head back and look down at him, but he leans up quickly and kisses me.
The heat of his tongue sets even my toes on fire.
His hands are everywhere, sliding over battle scars, pressing into my flesh, seeking the most delicious spots. I don't quite realise that my own hands are doing the same thing until my fingers dip below the belt of his dressing gown, skimming the spot where his spine disappears into his arse, and he gasps into my mouth.
He's not wearing anything underneath, and if I haven't been aware of my cock in all this before, I'm certainly aware of it now.
His belt comes undone easily, and a great heap of green pools at Harry's feet.
I try not to stare, honestly. But he's completely fucking gorgeous, and I can't help it, so it's a good thing he doesn't seem to mind.
He reaches a hand to the waist of my boxers and tugs gently on the elastic with a hooked finger. I'm naked a bit more quickly than I can process, and I wonder just how long Harry's been thinking about this.
I wonder, for a moment, just how long I've been thinking about this.
And then I'm not wondering anything at all, because Harry's kissing me again and pressing up onto his toes, and his cock is bloody well touching mine.
I instinctively press my pelvis towards him, and he or I or both of us groan loudly. Our cocks grind together, and time – already slow and jerking and confusing – begins to swirl and fall away.
I have no idea how long I've been here, how long I've wanted this, how long I've even known Harry as I find myself gasping for breath around his tongue.
His fingers slip between us and wrap around my cock, and I forget about trying to breathe because surely I'll never need oxygen again, so long as Harry keeps doing that.
His fingers are hot and deft and seem to know my body as well as my own do, and sensation is spiralling and coiling inside me, and I almost can't stand it.
And it's all going so fast, as he stills his hand and makes a shy, blushing request.
And I say yes, of course I say yes, because it's him and it's right and I can't imagine saying no, especially with him looking at me like that and promising that I'll like it, and he really does seem to know what he's doing – and that, that is something we'll have to talk about later, but not now, not here.
Part of me wants to scream at myself to slow down, to savour it, to stretch out the moment when I lie down before the fire and look up into the most delicious green eyes I've ever seen. Slow it down until it lasts forever, or at least a little bit longer.
But part of me wants to scream at him to hurry the fuck up, because I want this and – I'll be damned, but – I need this and it's the slowest too-fast moment of my life, as he guides my legs up to his shoulders and presses himself into me.
And it all comes to a complete stop with the gentle pressure of his pelvis flush against my arse and the feeling of being filled beyond comprehension.
I lie there, holding my thighs to my chest, and I'm still not breathing.
But that's OK, because time has stopped, and it takes time to die, doesn't it?
I'm frozen in the single most awkward, impossible, ridiculous situation I can imagine, and the firelight throws itself over him, over us, and I'd honestly be happy never to move again.
And then time and my heart and my breathing all suddenly spring to life, and he's moving.
Sliding within me and it's breathtaking and agonising and overwhelming, and I manage to keep my gaze focused just long enough to watch his fire-soaked throat tense and give an almighty swallow.
And then, yes.
This is where I lose it.
In all the times I've been here, watching and remembering and noticing the details I missed the first time, I've never been able to fight past this moment, when my eyes begin to roll back in my head and no amount of magic can keep my awareness from dissolving around me.
The entire scene is being pulled from me, and I'm suddenly on the wrong side of the window. I strain to see the final moments, when lust and heat and pleasure overtake us, but the glow of the fire shrinks and dissolves into blackness impossibly quickly, and I find myself standing in my living room.
And I have only the briefest moment to feel the loss of it, as my hand rests on the cool stone of the basin, where images of the cottage and snowstorm are still swirling.
Because Harry's there, and he's smirking at me.
"Again?" he asks.
I would blush and shrug sheepishly, as I tend to do when he finds me like this, but I don't make it that far because – will you bloody well look at him?
He's half-naked, in an old green dressing gown I haven't seen in years and didn't know he still had.
Lust creeps into his smirk and my tongue twitches in my mouth at the sight of his exposed hipbone.
"What do you say we make something new to keep in there?" he asks, and I give only a half-hearted nod, because I'm already busy doing just that.