Harry knew the color of the sky, knew the still blank spaces in-between clouds. Harry knew the color of the sky and hated it. Harry knew the motions, the playful banter, the mingling and complaining of his coworkers, knew the broken bird motions of his shoulders as they talked to him. Harry knew what today was; he always knew. It was his shoulders this time; his shoulders itched and throbbed with remembered pain and Harry knew it was today. He said goodbye to his friends, smiling dark brief smiles up at their questioning faces.
Harry apparated.
It was almost dark by then; he had worked long hours in the Ministry, in his department. But there was light enough to see, enough to see where he was headed. It would be dark soon enough.
The alleyway was old, half crumbled and so narrow that most people avoided it. They would glance at it furtively but never dare invade. It was made for this, for today.
Harry walked into the alley. He knew this place, knew it as he had never known anything else, the gutter bubbling with newly fallen rain, rubbish bins and wet newspapers, and Harry knew the cold, hard bricks. Harry knew them as imprints on flesh, on his back, on his chest, on his cheeks. Harry knew, and Harry walked towards the end.
Harry knew he was there, had always known. Ronald Weasley was at the end of the alleyway.
There were no greetings, no friendly asides, only ragged harsh breath and the falling of rain.
And Harry knew force as he was forced grim-mouthed into the bricks. His back ached, and his mouth opened, lips wet and snarling.
He knew the delicate pressure of fingers wrapped around wrists, the grinding sound of bones grating, but he did not look at Ron.
Harry knew the feeling of spells ripping his robe apart, ripping his undershirt, the cool air rushing over his nipples. He knew the pain of abrasion and cuts and jagged stone cutting jagged lines into his flesh.
Harry knew many healing spells.
By the time Ron took his trousers off, Harry was hard.
He knew the hard gasping sound that Ron made, knew what his breath felt like on his neck, knew cold hands spreading him, lifting him, readying. He knew fingers probing, pushing into him, knew keening noises he couldn't stop making.
Harry knew the hard line of Ron's chest as he pushed Harry further up, knew the heat of flesh breaking, hot blood pouring down his back, and he moaned.
There were no words between them, no questions. Harry knew the burning pain of penetration and spread his legs wider. Burning pressure, heat, deep, deep into him, into places he didn't know he had, until he couldn't focus on anything else.
Harry knew stillness, the kind only felt when someone was inside you, eyes shut and preparing to move. He knew if he thought about it long enough, his whole life could be reduced into these moments, when the aching dissonance reached a peak and all other sound was silenced.
Ron moved and Harry knew pleasure. A thudding, clanging sound rang in his ears while Ron drove into him. He knew there was a hand on his shoulder, nearing his throat; the other was on the wall balancing its owner. Harry knew where that hand would go and every breath was a seduction.
The hand closed around him suddenly, casually, with an air of familiarity that could only come with practice. Harry knew he was being choked, but he didn't care. His entire life narrowed to two things: the burn of being fucked and the burn of asphyxiation.
In those dark, piano-key moments Harry knew that he could die, that it would be easy, that his windpipe could be crushed and he would be dead, dead as his parents, dead as Dumbledore and Sirius and everyone else who had died for him.
But he didn't.
The hand unclenched and twisted up to the back of his head and suddenly Ron was kissing him, kissing him harshly, kissing him to say everything he couldn't. They were close now, so close, breathing ragged, Ron pounding into him. Harry knew he was going to come. And Ron bit him, bit his lips, bit down hard until the soft flesh broke and Harry felt a pain more exquisite than he ever could have imagined. Ron bit and Harry came.
It was in that moment, that perfect, jilted moment, that Harry knew a breathtaking symphony. It came unbidden, inside of him, inside him as deep was Ron was, something inside that was singing, playing to a tune unheard but one he had known his entire life. Harry heard it and cried.
Ron stilled and then stiffened. He grunted but that was the only sound he made as he came inside of Harry, his hands now grasping Harry's hips, bruising old bruises over and over again. Harry knew many healing spells, but those he left there.
Another kiss: this time slow, apologetic, delicately sucking on Harry's bottom lip, just hard enough to sting. Ron kissed him and wept too.
Harry knew the color of the sky. It was the exact shade of Ron's eyes, the shade they were now, when he cried and shuddered and pulled away, pulled out of Harry.
Harry knew the color of the sky, and he hated it.