Harry stopped. The rain on the curb fell sloppily, spilling over the sidewalk. The gutter at the corner gurgled with an urban sigh. London was dreary at the best of times and lately it had been miserable. The clouds swooped heavily in the sky as Harry walked down the street. He was in muggle clothing, a heavy jacket over jumper and jeans. He was noticed by no one and noticed the same. He was in a hurry.
The sidewalk was filthy and crowded. Trash clogged the sewers and water flashed rainbow with leaking petrol. At the corner of a sandwich shop Harry turned into a narrow alley. Rain fell heavily from the sides of buildings, a cold shower onto refuse. Harry stopped again. He was next to a trash can. A cat growled in the wet distance. Hitching his jacket's collar up higher, Harry leaned through a brick wall. The world twisted sideways, translucent, the brief pressure of the world ebbing while Harry slid through solid stone.
"About time -" a muffled voice behind newspaper called.
"Sorry," Harry said, angry "I almost drowned out there. It's unbelievable."
"I'd believe it," Ron Weasely said. He had put the newspaper down. Figures shifted and disappeared on its cover as Harry shook off his coat and sat down on the couch. The room was tiny, claustrophobic and stuffy. Small lights vined the ceiling, leveling faint illumination down below. Harry could no longer hear the sound of falling rain.
"Honestly, I thought I was going to have to use a repelling charm if it got any worse" Harry said ruefully, shaking water from his hair.
"Here," Ron said, taking out his wand to dry Harry off. "You'll catch cold"
"Thanks, mum" Harry shared a smile with Ron, warmth crawling through him. Beads of light dotted the coffee table beside them, sparking from the pale light above. Harry offered his hand to Ron. They wove their fingers together.
"You great git, where were you today?" Ron asked, nudging Harry with his leg.
"Out," Harry said. "I needed to see something." Ron shook his head. Harry was often mysterious, not out of necessity but out of habit. Ron said nothing, swirling the lip of a glass with one long finger. "I should've said before where-"
"I know, don't -"
"No, I want to. I'm buying us -"
"Oh no, you -"
"I bought it and that's that," Harry deflated. "Unless of course you want to stay here, knocking into each other all day."
"I wanted to buy it with you." Ron said. Harry's shoulders were uneven. When he shrugged one of them trailed after the other. Ron thought often of those shoulders.
"I know. But, look, it isn't much anyway. Just a bigger flat near the Ministry." Harry nudged Ron back. A smile stole across Ron's mouth.
"I don't mind a little knocking, you know." Ron said shyly. His eyelashes were very pale. Harry's heart wrenched. At moments like this, it was easy to love, easy to give everything.
"There's plenty of knocking to be done in a new place. More, really."
Their hands were very warm.
Laughter.
There was laughter everywhere. A hand crept past his shirt and lips pressed wetly on his neck.
"See," Harry said, "I told you"
"Yes." Ron said, wrapping his arms around Harry. "Yes" he said again and kissed him.
"We're in for it tonight" Ron said sideways, out of the corner of his mouth. Harry cleared his throat. His chair was worn and comfortable. A Weasley chair. Ron picked at his food and Harry looked Mrs. Weasley in the eye.
"Molly," Harry said. "We wanted to tell you something."
Late at night they explore each other. Harry counts freckles on Ron's back with his mouth. It's not awkward, or hard, or anything like Harry thought it would be.
"Ron," Harry mutters against Ron's mouth. Harry is noisy and eager, something unexpected. "Ron," he says after. Their noses touch.
Ron stays up at night watching Harry. Not every night, but often. The warm huff of Harry's breath keeps him awake. He's grateful for it. Owls swoop outside looking for prey. Ron hitches his leg a little higher over Harry's hip.
Ron can't tell for sure but he thinks his leg is broken. He heard a snap, like his old wand, and he can't move it. Harry's beside him, bloodied. He's smiling. It was a small cave and the curse easily broken. But who knew rock could be that slippery?
"It's okay," Harry says. And Ron believes him.
They were used to thunder. Used to the rumblings of high things. Gryffindor Tower had known its share of storms.
Their stubble rasps together. Ron's grows stiff, then itches. He never shaves regularly. Harry can still feel the burn on his thigh. A rough scrape cooled by a loving tongue.
The sound: electric, shiny, rough. Harry never complains.
Ron explored his chest slowly, methodical. Clutched at coarse hair, pulling, patting down. Harry stretched at the pull on his nipples. Stiff little peaks. Arms looped around Ron. A tongue now, cool and rough. Gratitude.
Their groins brush, automatic. A sigh.
Harry never got used to candles. The cupboard had one light-bulb. He misses it somehow. World lit now by guttering flames. Candles in the bedroom. He doesn't put them out when they make love. Secretly loves the sight of Ron's belly in yellow.
Ron squints in muggle shops, confused by fluorescence. Harry smiles and points upwards. Ron mutters and swears.
Their bedroom. Dark inside but warm. Chairs squashed against the wall. A desk in one corner, cool dark mahogany. Rolled up parchment and inkpots cover it. Quills laid haphazard. A wizard's home but muggle too. A telly cattycornered. A present to Ron.
A bed centers the room. Rumpled now. A thick mattress. On the headboard many pillows sustain. One of them is orange. The bed moans with their love. Sturdy but still wooden.
Ron palms the box of Harry's hips. Feels muscle and bone beneath. Harry rides him and Ron buries himself as deep as he can. His own hips rising and falling. He feels contracted, small somehow but big too. Harry's tightness. Ron licks sweat off his collarbone and thrusts. He thrusts, animal, biting into one pale shoulder. Harry comes, thighs shaking, still working Ron's hips. A quivering inside him. Spills out, spiraling, golden.
They hold each other and sweat.
Their mornings are quiet. Toothpaste bin and gentle water. Soaped up bums and playful banter. Fog slithering outside their windows. Their quiet mornings.
Harry lays his razor down quietly. The sink sustains it. Magical lather, he still smiles. Wizards are nervous, won't mix beard and magic. Much too important. Harry begins to hum.
Ron waddles in. Bleary-eyed, sleepy, magnificently hard. Pisses sloppily across the toilet seat. Harry loves him more and more. He wonders idly if there are wizarding therapists.