author: Hanna
email: hannalicious@jippii.fi
website: http://www30.brinkster.com/lokakuu/
pairing: Ron/Harry
rating: R
summary: As·phyx·i·a. A condition in which an extreme decrease in the concentration of oxygen in the body accompanied by an increase in the concentration of carbon dioxide leads to loss of consciousness or death.
disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm only borrowing her characters. No harm intended.
feedback: Yes.
notes: Thanks to Magenta for beta.





Asphyxia


The darkness around them made the world seem black and bruised. Harry's hands clutched tighter around Ron's neck, creeping up and tangling in his red curls. Ron moaned against his skin, his warm breath and the brush of his lips making Harry's heart flutter.

"Harry..."

Ron's voice was deep and purring and Harry closed his eyes wanting to feel all of it without the distraction of seeing anything. He had heard Ron say his name millions and millions of times. Often Harry heard him say it even if Ron wasn't really there.

Sometimes Ron screamed his name and sometimes he moaned it. It didn't matter -- it always felt the same. The breathy voice whispering his name into his ear, sweaty fingers clutching his hand under the table in the Great Hall. They looked at each other, smiling, and no one suspected anything. Ron would shout Harry's name in corridors just to make Harry turn his head and grin.

Harry's fingers ran down Ron's arms to his bony wrists, his lips finding Ron's throat. Flicking his tongue against the pale skin, he tasted Ron's flesh. It reminded him of tears.

"Harry..."

It was intimate. It was wonderful. It made him ache inside.

* * *

Harry didn't ever feel as safe as he did when he was visiting the Burrow. He and Ron were lying in the garden, the rest of the Weasley family having gone to Diagon Alley to buy books for the following year. Mrs Weasley had insisted that Harry shouldn't come along. Harry dearest darling, you can't come, it's too dangerous. Of course, Ron had stayed too.

Ginny had glanced at Harry over her shoulder when she had stepped into the fire. Her eyes had been full of worship and adoration. Harry had looked away and Ron had been grinning the whole time.

The day was hot, sweat making Harry's shirt get stuck on his skin. Melted ice cream ran down his fingers and Ron watched as Harry licked his fingertips clean one by one.

Harry wasn't sure whether Ron had meant to say it or not. The word 'Harry' escaped from his lips, breathy and sweet, his eyes fully focused on Harry's face, and his fingers pressing against the ground.

There was nothing Harry could say. They stared at each other for a few awkward moments, both sensing the crackling energy in the air and knowing for sure what would happen next. Ron crossed the distance, placing a chaste, uncomfortable kiss on Harry's lips. It tasted like sunshine, chocolate ice cream and love, and it made Harry shiver. He remembered how Ron had looked almost six months ago after he had been rescued from the lake, smiling brightly and dripping water. The kiss made him feel ill.

When Harry pulled back he saw the question in Ron's eyes and he couldn't say anything. What was there to say? Sweet nothings that ended with rejection. Harry could imagine how Ron's brown eyes would darken with anger. He couldn't picture Ron crying -- he had never seen Ron cry before -- but anger was easier. Ron would get up and walk back into the house, leaving Harry by himself in the garden of loneliness.

Sometimes you only have one option. Harry's lips twisted into a slight smile and he felt like a whore. Sun played in Ron's red hair and made his skin look golden as he leaned into Harry again, his hands clumsily pushing Harry on his back on the grass. Harry felt vaguely sick and he closed his eyes.

* * *

Harry had never expected to like it, and even less he had expected to grow addicted to it. Every time Ron touched him he felt love radiating from the other boy's skin. The warm feeling filled him and ran through his veins, making him giddy. The price he had to pay for that affection was irrelevant. It didn't matter that he didn't love Ron the same way -- he felt good every time Ron passed a note to him in Transfigurations, or touched his knee comfortingly in Potions.

Every night after the others had gone to sleep Ron pushed the velvet curtains of Harry's four-poster aside silently, and climbed in behind Harry. His warm hands pressed against Harry's ivory skin.

When Ron was there Harry never had nightmares. He never heard the screams of his dying mother, never saw Cedric's expressionless face and heard the high-pitched laughter of Voldemort, or felt the walls of the small closet under the stairs close in on him.

Once Ron had told him that he was magic. Ron had said that no one else even came close to him. All the others were fake. They had been sitting on a bench near the Quidditch pitch in the middle of the night and it had been too dark to see anything. Ron's fingers had been digging into Harry's flesh and Harry had felt happy.

"Harry..."

His name sounded fierce and wrong, and Ron was holding Harry hard enough to break his skin. Harry could picture his blood smearing the sheets. It amazed him that someone could love him with such passion. He only wished it weren't Ron.

Sometimes Harry closed his eyes and tried to pretend that it was someone else.