Warnings: EWE, canon and non-canon character deaths, masturbation, explicit description of m/m sexual activity, sexual assault (non-titillating description), mental illnesses, drug and alcohol abuse, semi-public sex, strong language, four funerals and a wedding.
Author's Notes: The title, chapter titles and quoted passages are taken from various versions of the Anglican funeral service. (Yes, that's how cheerful this story is).
This was written for the live journal 2011 ron big bang. I am intensely grateful to my betas feltonxmalfoy and masteroftrouble, to glockgal for doing artwork which can be seen here: http:SLASH SLASH picslivejournal DOT com SLASH wwmrsweasleydo SLASH pic SLASH 0005yh4s SLASH (replacing the DOT with a . and the SLASHes with /s) and also to the ronbigbang mods.
Disclaimer: The characters and settings herein are the intellectual property of JK Rowling.
CHAPTER THREE: Thou Knowest, Lord, the Secrets of our Hearts.
... shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, thou most worthy judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee.
Lee didn't know why he had woken up. George's sofa was pretty uncomfortable and it was airless in the little sitting room above the shop. The sun was half-heartedly beginning to push its way through the un-curtained window. Perhaps he just wasn't tired any more. Or maybe it was because of the aching erection rubbing against the inside of his pyjama bottoms.
He glanced over at the bedroom door. It was definitely closed. He should lock it probably, but he was too sleepy. He shuffled about on the lumpy cushions and slipped his hand under his waistband, between the warmth of his skin and the scratch of the over-washed cotton. He gasped out when the side of his hand touched his cock; he wished he could remember what he had been dreaming about.
He closed his eyes and something pale brushed against his memory, then was lost.
He spat onto his other hand and pushed it down, too. Wet fingertips made contact with his foreskin: his nerves sent jolts throughout his body. He looked down himself — a smooth plane of toned muscle from his head to his long, brown toes, with his erection jutting out from it. He bit his lip then eased his elasticated waistband down over his jutting hipbones. Belatedly he checked George's bedroom door again; it was still shut. He pulled the bedspread over his head anyway.
His dark, thick cock rose from a mass of black hair, shining with sweat in the sparse light. He let go of it for a moment, but his hips jerked upwards into the air, missing the contact. He wrapped his right hand tight round the base, while his other hand went searching under the bed. He'd kicked the incriminating tube under there the day before when Arthur had popped round for an unexpected visit.
It wasn't too far under. He glanced over at the bedroom door again, then at the door down to the shop — not that anyone would be coming in that way at this time of the morning.
He squeezed himself and released a deep sigh, which he had to bite back. Harry knew some kind of muffling spell; he must get that off him. He squirted the lube onto his fingertips and tickled his foreskin again.
"Mmm, sweet Merlin!"
He watched himself as he pulled down his foreskin, exposing the head of his prick to the air, and then to his moist fingers. The lube shone on the tip like pre-come in the light coming through the thin fabric. It wouldn't be long before it was joined by the real thing.
While one fist set up a gentle, firm rhythm of strokes, the other hand kneaded his balls. He watched himself as best he could for a while, listened to the slurping sound and his own heavy breathing. He pressed one finger back onto his perineum — and his eyelids fell shut. He could picture his hand moving, only after a few strokes it wasn't his own hand, it was another, paler hand: a remnant of his dream, but still just out of focus.
He was sweating and panting now. His mouth was open, rasping air over his throat. The repeated scratch of the rough cotton of his pyjama top over his inner arm suddenly became unbearable. He didn't want to let go of his cock, to stop stimulating it, but he wanted to enjoy this sensation wholeheartedly, without distraction. He fumbled about, trying to remove his top with one hand, without interrupting his rhythm, but it was useless.
He opened his eyes, freed his hand and yanked the shirt off over his head. One dreadlock bounced off his cheek. He lowered the bedspread and looked at both of the doors. Still safe. The day was breaking now. Orange light played over his dark, shining skin. His belly looked ok: the curves of muscles in all the right places. He looked a little like one of those posters of Quidditch stars advertising shaving potions. His chest, what he could see of its shape under all the hair, looked alright, too. The hair cleared round his two peaked black nipples.
He ran one palm over them, lightly glancing over their tips and making himself whimper. His eyes closed and he hid back under the bedspread and took himself in hand again. Behind his eyelids he saw another hand — a white-skinned, freckle-backed hand — on his chest. He followed its movements with his own fingers: pinching, rubbing, rolling.
The thumb of his other hand brushed over his tip, collecting the pre-come which was forming there, sliding it over his over-heated, over-sensitive skin. He pictured a mouth, made a mouth out of his hand. He pulled up in tight, small movements and in his head there was ginger hair over his waist — bobbing up and down in the morning light.
He left his nipples and pressed two fingers against his scalp, then grabbed hold of a wiry dreadlock and pulled hard.
He cried out, a grunting sound which might have been a name, grabbed hold of his nuts instead of his hair and squeezed. Then the lights and rainbows danced inside him and he came with five hard sprays of hot come into the hair on his belly.
He stroked gently a few times and then let go. After looking down at his own sticky mess, he checked the doors again. Still safe. He would need to get up in a moment, the others would be awake soon. He recovered his breath, lying back and listening to the in-and-out of the air, trying not to think.
Another image from his dream resurfaced. Who had he been trying to kid? Of course he knew who he'd been dreaming about. Again. It was pure pointless torture and he wished his subconscious would give it up. Not that he didn't deserve torture and worse.
If he'd ever had a chance with Ron — which he probably hadn't — he had lost that after Fred's funeral. He had thrown away any respect the boy might ever have had for him. He couldn't help wondering how far he would have taken things if Ron hadn't punched him. If Lee had still been stronger than the younger man, would he ever have stopped himself? He wasn't capable of rape, was he? He'd never thought so. But he didn't know at what point his body would have felt sated enough to halt. He felt sick again. What trigger other than Ron's fist would have brought him to his senses?
Yes, he had been drunk and stoned and high; yes, it had been a horrible and unnatural day; yes, he'd finally found himself alone with the subject of his obsessions. But there was no excuse.
He had waited for Ron to tell people. Specifically, he had spent two days on edge, braced for George to attack him. When George had owled him to say that he wanted to talk, he was sure that he was going to be shouted out, hexed and that his remaining best friend would be lost to him forever. Instead, George had wanted to take him up on his offer to help re-open the shop. When he had happily told him that Ron would be moving in here, too, Lee had realised that Ron was keeping their secret. It didn't mean he would be silent forever.
Neither of them wanted to let George down; they both cared for his happiness too much. So they had found themselves in this impossible position. It was dreadful for Lee, he could only think that it must be worse for Ron. The lad kept shooting him wary glances. Lee had apologised, of course. It had been the first thing he'd done, the first time George had left the room. This went way beyond an apology, though. There were no words to make it right. He had promised that nothing like that would happen again — but he could see Ron was reluctant to believe him. Why should he?
Ron was sleeping in Fred's old bed. It was natural enough that the brothers would be the ones sharing the bedroom. They all had to negotiate the one small bathroom, though, and the stockroom, the shop floor. There was only so much space Lee could put between himself and Ron.
He could see Ron getting worried when alcohol appeared. George wanted to drink, though. Neither of them had told George, so they had to both drink with him. Lee had started buying vodka. He didn't think either of them would ever be able to swallow rum or Firewhiskey again.
The guilt and the carefulness were bad enough, but the desire refused to go away. It mingled with his contrition and broke free in his dreams. It had been bad enough at school. He had shocked himself by noticing how handsome Ron was growing. He'd fancied boys before, it wasn't that. He'd never mentioned it to anyone — there'd been no point; he fancied girls too and he could talk about that for hours. He was glad he didn't play Quidditch — there was barely a member of the House team who didn't turn him on. Well, apart from the twins. Ok, sometimes even the twins did.
What had surprised him — that first time the candle light had shown up the hairs on Ron's arm and Lee had lost his breath — was that Ron was only a kid. More than that — worse than that — he was the baby brother of his best friends. Lee felt protective enough about him and Ginny; he couldn't imagine just how angry their own kin would be if they knew he was lusting after one of them. He was glad that Percy had left school before it had all started because Percy noticed everything.
Ron grew quickly, he developed muscle, his form filled out. Every tiny change captivated Lee. He had worked hard at not touching Ron then. He hated Lavender, tried not to watch them snogging, but at night his dreams would replay him every moment. Only with himself replacing the silly, curvaceous girl. When he turned his face from the couple, he had invariably seen Hermione, watching too and hating it all as much as he was.
Then Fred and George had flown away. He had been driven mad with loneliness and boredom for those last months of school. It could have been his opportunity. Only, Ron was still too young then, and even Lee could see that it was Hermione he really wanted.
It still was, as far as he could tell. She liked to describe their wedding plans to anyone in earshot. There was no way Lee would ever have had a chance to be with Ron; now he had no chance of his friendship either.
A door creaked open and Lee started guiltily. It was only George; he lay back down.
