Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
A/N: This isn't properly British.
Every summer the Burrow seems to get hotter, and Ron's room gets worse and worse at withstanding it.
Well, to be fair, the whole house is terrible at air conditioning. Ron can't count the number of spells his parents have put up and the number of times they haven't worked. Ginny's already loudly announced she'll be spending the day in the lake until she turns into a prune. Ron tried the lake—it wasn't much better. Fred and George have rigged up the Muggle fridge in the lawn, and they're taking turns draping over it. Ron doesn't know what everyone else is doing, because the bathroom window only shows outside, and everyone else is somewhere in the house.
Ron doesn't dare venture around—he's tried all the rooms, and he knows he's found the best. He's got the window wide open and the door slightly ajar, letting in a not-really-cool breeze. He's got his head against the rim of the bathtub, arms draped along the sides, trousers drenched in a few centimeters of ice cold water and a lot more sweat. It's too hot for a shirt or socks. Every once in awhile, he has to resort his bangs—they keep sticking to his forehead and poking into his eyes.
He doesn't have the energy to sit up when the bathroom door opens. But he does look over. Harry squints at him in confusion, mumbling, "What're you doing in here?"
"Cooling down," Ron mutters, eyeing his best friend. Harry hesitates in the doorway before stepping inside and closing it shut behind himself. Harry's got his trousers rolled up to his knees, but he hasn't thought to take his shirt off yet. The top few buttons are undone, showing an enticing peek at his slightly tanned chest. Ron looks away before he gets too caught up, hoping his blush is hidden by his freckles and the general glow of the heat wave.
Harry steps up to the tub, musing, "By taking a bath with your clothes on?"
"It works," Ron grunts, which is slightly better than the 'fuck you' he would've said to the twins at questioning his insanity. Harry tilts his head, peering at the tiny layer of water along the tub's bottom. His glasses are a little foggy—he takes them off and wipes them on his shirt before putting them back on—he looks just as handsome without glasses as he did with them. Harry frowns—it's probably been bugging him all day. Feeling merciful, Ron draws his legs up and offers, "Wanna join?"
Harry shrugs and says, "Okay." But he hesitates before moving—Ron sits up a bit straighter, so he won't be taking up all the room. Harry climbs into the other side, soaking the bottom of his jeans. They're already tightly clinging to him, just like his shirt. His Quidditch practice has paid off this summer—when he isn't wearing clothes ten sizes too big, he's got a pretty hot shape.
Run gulps and pretends he didn't think that, breathing deeply out and thunking his head against the tile wall.
After a minute of adjusting, Harry relaxes, legs bumping into Ron's awkwardly. He eventually sighs, "Yeah... yeah, this is a bit better..."
Ron nods numbly, and the action lets him look down when he shouldn't have. Harry's legs are open, spread right in front of Ron. Harry's also leaning back against the shower wall, chin tilted up, neck arched beautifully. His plush lips are slightly parted, his thick lashes against his cheeks, his jet-black hair plastered all over his forehead. His skin is glistening with small beads of sweat, and the musky scent of man is thick in the air. Harry's green eyes flicker open before Ron looks away. Afterwards, he still doesn't.
Harry's just too sexy too look away from, and Ron, even though he sometimes resents it, completely understands why Harry's such a heartthrob around the school. He looks like a model straight out of Playwitch, and he's lounging in Ron's tub with half-lidded eyes and a partially open shirt. Harry eyes Ron back and murmurs, "...You look hot."
Ron immediately turns bright red—he can feel his cheeks boiling all the way up to his ears. Harry's eyes go wide, and he shoots his head off the wall to quickly explain, "Er, I mean, like, it looks like the heat's getting to you, uh, you know what I—"
Because Ron's an idiot, he cuts Harry off and repeats, "You look hot, too."
Harry blushes furiously, but only relaxes halfway. He mumbles, "...Er, thanks?"
Ron nods, and for a minute there's an awkward silence. He's trying not to look down and trying to pretend his body isn't responding completely inappropriately to this. Ron glances conspicuously at the ceiling in the hope that Harry will follow suit.
When he looks back, Harry hasn't fallen for it. Cheeks still burning up, Ron drawls, "Er, you'd probably do better without a shirt." Then he mentally slaps himself. He's making it worse.
Numbly, Harry nods. He takes a minute to sit up, and then he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it haphazardly across the bathroom. It lands on the toilet seat, and he settles back into place, body now gorgeously exposed. Ron tries not to visually devour Harry's growing six-pack and firm pecks, dripping collarbone and broad shoulders. Ron wants to run an ice cube all over him and lick up the trail. Mouth dry, Ron stumbles, "...You still look hot." Ron's eyes are winding lower. He hits Harry's crotch and stops.
There's a very large bulge in the front of Harry's jeans, and he spreads his legs wider under Ron's gaze. Ron's lips part, and he subconsciously licks them. When he looks up, Harry's eyes are on fire.
Harry lunges across the bathtub before Ron can say anything, smashing their lips together. Ron's skull hits the tile painfully, but he doesn't care—he wraps his arms around Harry and tugs him closer. Harry opens his mouth immediately—Ron follows suit—their tongues shoot out and fight in the middle. Ron fists a hand in the back of Harry's head, and Harry's boiling body rubs against his, skin on skin slick with sweat. Harry devours Ron's mouth like a starving man—Ron arches into every touch.
The water's sloshing around beneath them, but it isn't working anymore. Ron might die of heatstroke, but it'd be worth it. Harry has one hand on the side of his face and one hand at his hip. Ron keeps one hand in Harry's hair and can't help himself—he trails the other down Harry's body, stopping to palm one nard nipple, slipping down to his jeans. Ron runs his hand over Harry's crotch and squeezes; Harry moans, wanton and wild.
It's too much. Ron's light headed and dizzy, and he whines pathetically when Harry pulls back. Harry scoops up a fistful of water and splashes it over Ron's chest, and Ron groans appreciatively. The cold rivers run down his, and Harry leans forward to rub against it. Their crotches are bumping together deliciously, and Ron pulls Harry down for another kiss.
As soon as the door opens, Harry wrenches back, and Ron shouts before whoever's on the other side can see, "Don't come in—I'm in the bath!"
The door instantly shuts again, and Ginny's voice angrily huffs, "Well, why didn't you lock it? Didn't you learn your lesson from when Charlie used to not lock doors and strut around naked?"
Ron shivers at the horrible mental image that reminds him off, and Harry clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle a snort. Ron barks, "Er, sorry. Can you go away?"
"Yeah, but my brush is in there..."
"Why would you keep your brush in a bathroom?"
"That's where it goes!"
"Not when you have eight other people sharing it!"
Ginny makes an unintelligible grunting sound that's probably a curse, and then she grumbles, "Look, Mum wanted me to get your for dinner. And have you seen Harry?"
Harry shakes his head, and Ron doesn't need the signal to know it's best to lie. "No."
There's a pause. Ginny's footsteps retract in the background, and both Harry and Ron visibly relax.
Then there's an awkward moment where they just look at one another, reeling in the reality of what they've just done. Years of friendship, right down the drain.
After a few minutes, Harry mumbles, blushing and looking nervous, "I... I'm not really hungry."
Ron's starving, but not for food.
He nods and pulls Harry back in.