After the war, Percy drinks. The family pretends not to notice, like it's some big secret, because they all have their ways to cope with the pain of a lost brother or son. No one even bats an eye when they see Percy asleep on the couch, still in his glasses and robes, an empty bottle of wine in his hand. They just shake their heads, cover him with a blanket, and make whispered promises to talk to him about the downward spiral- promises so easily broken.
Ron notices, but he doesn't want to. He wants to hate Percy for abandoning them, for craving position over the love of family. For years, he's tried to hate him, but all he can manage is a dull resentment because Percy walked away from him.
Percy looks younger when he sleeps, vulnerable and almost childlike. His freckled hands dig into the couch cushions, his knuckles ghostly pale. "Fred!" he cries, thrashing about. "Fred!"
And Ron wishes he can take away the pain. They're all still grieving, all still haunted. Maybe Percy doesn't deserve peace and forgiveness after his betrayal, but it doesn't stop the protective longing.
"Perce," Ron says, nudging his brother.
"Hrm?" Percy's eyes crack open. He blinks in confusion, chest rising and falling rapidly, still caught somewhere between nightmare and reality.
It isn't for Ron to pull Percy to his feet, but he manages. The elder slumps against him, arms wrapping weakly against his brother. "Ronnie?"
"It's me."
"No... Ronnie... I never told you-"
"You can tell me when you're sober," Ron says, a little more sharply than intended.
Percy makes a sound of protest, but he doesn't struggle as Ron half drags, half guides him up the stairs and into his room.
"Ronnie..."
"Perce, shut up," Ron snaps, guiding his brother onto the bed.
Percy's hold on him doesn't loosen, and Ron finds himself tumbling awkwardly on top of him. The sickly sweet smell of wine is heavy on Percy's breath.
"I'm sorry," Percy whispers. "So bloody sorry. Shouldn't have...I shouldn't...have left you. Bloody prat." His voice is slurred, but the urgency and pain are all too clear.
Ron does the only thing he can think of, something he's wanted to do since Percy walked back into his life. His mouth slants over Percy's, fingers tangling in those soft, red curls. The kiss tastes of desperation and cheap wine, laced with subtle hints of promise and hope.
He shouldn't be kissing his brother. It's wrong, all kinds of wrong. Ron can't bring himself to care. Percy relaxes beneath him, falling still and quiet, as though the kiss has destroyed the demons that plague him, or, at least, silenced them.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Ron climbs shakily to his feet. Percy probably won't remember a thing in the morning.
"All forgiven, Perce."
OoOoO
Ron smokes. Unlike Percy, he's more careful with his vice, more subtle about his way to cope. Percy hadn't known until he tasted cool menthol and bitter tobacco on Ron's tongue.
He doesn't say anything. Everyone is dealing in their own ways. But the taste for slow self destruction is something the brothers share.
Percy doesn't mention the kiss, not even to Ron, but they share a look the following morning at breakfast, a look that brings heat to Percy's face. It was a one time thing, the look seems to say. It will never happen again.
So, Percy eats in silent, his eyes wandering occasionally to Ron. But Ron isn't looking at him. His eyes are upon Hermione. Though Percy can't quite remember, he's almost certain Ron had looked at him with that same lost but tender expression the night before.
Percy bows his head, trying to swallow down the pain. He hadn't deserved his brothers forgiveness. Now, he damn sure doesn't deserve his love.