Title: Boyfriend
Author: Drusilla Williams
Rating: PG13/T
Pairing: Implied Harry/Ron
Warnings: Angst
Summary: Harry reminisces on his time spent with Ron as a lover. Harry POV.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I don't make any profit from this. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: This is another angsty oneshot of Harry/Ron love. I have written anything in a while so I'm sorry if this is not up to par. Hopefully I'll get back into the writing habit and you'll get some new installments of other unfinished fics here. Anyways, enjoy the story and please no flames on how Harry and Ron aren't gay. Because obviously I don't care if J.K. Rowling wrote them as straight. Because guess what? The only reason she wrote them straight was because little kids read the books and she wrote the prologue when she was fourteen and didn't know about the wonders of gay fandom so (sticks out tongue).
Oh and props to Eve6 who inspired this work of fan fiction.
Boyfriend
I cant run to you no more
to catch me when I'm fallin
I know I have to let you go
But I will not be broken
For every tear a lesson learned
Every good time golden
But now its time to let you go
And I will not be broken
And I will not be broken
No I will not be broken
But keep the slowly fading memories
Eve6 - Girlfriend
The flat looks empty, almost bare as if waiting for someone to move in and make a home within it. I never had many mementoes. The few I do just makes it look as if the previous owners just left them there, forgotten. Almost like me.
Close the door behind me and move into the sitting room. The couch is still there; holding imprints of two people though I know one imprint will never be sat in again at least not by him. The coffee table sits a foot in front of the couch, void of any Qudditch books or magazines or Daily Prophets. The small black and white telly that we bought together sits in the corner, off, and silent. The walls are bare, missing the posters and pictures that were held there by faulty magic.
Move into the kitchen next and open the fridge to find nothing there except a bottle of ketchup and one lonely bottle of Firewhiskey. Reach in, grab, and untwist the top off before taking a swig and letting the liquid burn my throat and chest as it goes down. Comforting. The appliances are still there, plugged into the walls, the wires crossing, resting dangerously near the faucet that drips water, no doubt a fire hazard.
Next is the bathroom, clean and white, missing the dirty clothes and towels and the smell that was wholly his. There isn't much to look at and the mirror doesn't say anything, as if in mourning for it's second owner who is now gone.
Turn and look to the door that connects the bathroom to the bedroom and hesitate. I'm not sure if I can bring myself to venture in there and find it in the same disarray he left it in. But it's been a week and sleeping on the couch hasn't done much for my back. Look at the mirror and run my fingers over the fine stubble that has grown. Notice the bags under my eyes, the sunken look of my cheeks and the oil in my hair. Sigh and look at the door again. It's time now and I have to face my fears.
Open the door and stand there for a few moments looking in at a room that was once filled with thousands of happy memories now clouded with one horrible memory.
This is the only room in that flat that still holds his smell. The bed sheets are still in a messy heap on top of the bed, now stained from the sweat and anger of our last time together. The closet is opened, half empty, hangers and a few of my nice shirts on the floor. The dresser doors are pulled out, my clothes toppling out as if trying to get to his even though they're gone now, situated in a dresser somewhere else along with somebody else's clothes.
Take a step inside and then another until I'm stumbling to the bed and grappling at the pillows and sheets to hold to my face and inhale. To remember him, I almost had forgotten. The bottle of Firewhiskey now lies on the floor, spilling its almost empty contents onto the carpet but I don't care. My eyes sting and swell with still unshed tears. Collapse onto the bed and let it out, the tears and wails that have been begging to be released for the past week now finally free to venture out and bounce off the walls. Grab at the sheets for support since he's not here to keep me supported.
Inhale his scent and remember his touch, soft at first, hesitant and loving then hard and painful at the end. Remember the ache that came afterwards along with the feeling of being unsatisfied, still hard and begging for release while he pushes himself off, dresses, grabs his things and leaves.
The last time. I laid here, in this same position full and dirtied but not broken. Not broken. Push myself up and wipe at my eyes with my sleeves. Strip the bed of its sheets and move down the hall to the laundry room. Shove the sheets in the washer; add the detergent and turn to leave.
He left a sock. Pick it up and hold it my hand, knowing the other is probably with him, the pair broken. Give a soft smile and pocket it, I'll put it away later. Go back into the room and clean up the bottle of whiskey. Pull out my wand and clean the room, the clothes folding themselves back up and the drawers closing along with the hangers and shirts that arrange themselves in the closet. Find some clean sheets and make the bed.
The washer goes off and I move the sheets into the dryer. It whirls, shakes, and hums, filling the quiet of the room. The bedroom is clean; the next project is now me. Go into the bathroom and shower and shave. Look in the mirror and already I look a little bit better. Change into clean clothes and gather the dirty ones to do another load, to get back to normalcy, to get back to living.
Order take out from the Chinese place down the street and eat for the first time in three days. Tomorrow morning I'll go shopping and restock the fridge. I'll buy books to cover the coffee table and pictures to fill the void on the walls.
Finish the laundry and put the clothes and sheets away. Sit down on the bed and pull out the small shoebox from under the bed. The few items I managed to get to before him, to hold and keep and cherish until the day I die. Open the box and look at its contents, a few pictures, an old snitch, his Chudley Cannons t-shirt and the many ticket stubs from all the movies we went to together. Pull out the sock from my pocket and place it in the now full box, the last item, and replace the cover.
The phone rings twice before I move to answer it. The shoebox situated under my arm, I move to the kitchen, reaching to pick up the hand held when the ringing stops and the answering machine catches whoever just called. I was too late, just like I was with him, but I won't be next time.
Move to put the shoebox back in its proper place, on the top shelf of the closet when I hear his voice. Stop and turn as if he's standing there behind me but I know he's not. It's the voice machine, answering his call.
"Harry." Pause. "Harry I'm sorry. I didn't," another pause, longer than the last and my heart feels like it's stopped. "I didn't want it to end like that. You're my best mate and I lo-" Silence. Feel my eyes sting but I won't shed these. I cried for him already, I'm ready to let him go. "Merlin, I wish I didn't, but I was angry and frustrated. It's no excuse. Harry, are you okay? I've heard things and I'm worried. About you. Just, be safe. Take care of yourself. Please I don't know what I'd do if I los-" His voice cracks and part of me wants to rush to the phone, pick it up and beg him to come back. But I won't.
"Harry, Harry... Harry. Fuck it. I shouldn't have- I won't call- I love you Harry." The phone clicks and he's gone. He's really gone. It won't be the last time, I know that. I'll see him around eventually, in a few years, maybe a few months, maybe a few weeks, maybe tomorrow. But I won't run to him anymore. I won't call him anymore. It's time to let go.
Go to the answering machine and delete the message so I don't tempt myself because I know if I leave it, I'll listen to it over and over and hold onto the last four words he spoke though I know they'll be the last time he ever says them and means them in the context of lovers. Turn around and go to the bedroom, open the closet and push the shoebox onto the top shelf where it'll stay until I'm old and on my deathbed. I won't look at them anymore. I won't hold them and try to find his scent on the items found there.
Because now it's time to let him go and I won't be broken.
I will not be broken.
But I'll keep these memories.
Fin