Title: Maybe Tomorrow
Summary: Harry knows he can count on his friend, even during his darkest, most shameful moments.
Pairing/Characters:Harry and Ron friendship
Rating:T
Warnings: Self harm
Notes: N/A
The crimsons blood dripped over his fingers. He looked at it, watched it sliding down his hand slowly only to drip to the ground.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Harry focused on the sound, on the colour, on the movement. He didn't look at the person that caught him in his shame. He didn't want to look at the disappointment, the sadness, the pity. He didn't want to see it all there.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"Harry."
No, ignore him.
"Harry, look at me."
Harry didn't move his eyes away from the ground, that small pool.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Harry didn't hear footsteps, not until feet came into view. Hands were cupping his cheeks, pulling his head up. Harry closed his eyes, not allowing himself to glance at the other person.
"Harry, please."
He didn't like hearing the broken voice, knowing he was the cause. He didn't want to hurt anyone, not anymore. Harry still didn't open his eyes.
"Open your eyes and look at me."
The firm voice seemed to reach something inside him. Without conscious thought his eyes open, immediately connecting with the concerned blue eyes of his best friend. He saw the disappointment, the sadness, the dreaded pity but he also saw compassion. He saw a strong understanding, something he didn't expect to see.
"Let's get you cleaned up," Ron said, gently pulling him to the nearby sink.
Harry didn't move, didn't speak. He let Ron lead him; he let him clean his arms and his hands, turning the water dark red. He didn't resist but he didn't help. Ron worked in silence, focused on his task without trying to talk, knowing Harry wouldn't respond.
The cuts were deeper than Harry first thought and some were still bleeding. It only took Ron a wave of his wand and a few mumbled words to heal them in moments. The scars remained; Ron was no expert, after all. Harry didn't care, he liked seeing them and tracing his fingers over the rough marks.
They moved into the bedroom and Ron guided him to the bed, sitting down next to him.
"Do you want to-"
"No," Harry interrupted.
They fell silent, both lost in thought. Harry locked his eyes on a bowl of fruit, particularly the fresh pineapple pieces, bright yellow flesh standing out.
"It's breakfast, I brought it up for you," Ron said when he noticed where Harry was looking. "You weren't there," again was left unsaid.
Harry looked to the ground; the beautiful fruit now turning his stomach with guilt. "Thanks," Harry said anyway, grateful that his friend cared although wishing he didn't need to worry.
Harry felt his shoulders slump; the guilt, shame, pain and depression becoming too much. He wanted to go away, to hide and disappear. To never be found again.
"You don't have to do this alone," Ron said eventually.
Harry didn't respond, letting silence consume the room again. Harry was tense, his muscles tight and coiled, ready to escape. He didn't want to talk about this, he didn't. If Ron forced him to talk, he would leave.
The silence stretched on and on. Slowly, Harry started to relax again until he was leaning against his friend.
"Just rest Harry," Ron whispered.
Harry relaxed completely at Ron's words, feeling safe and warm. Maybe tomorrow they could talk.
(w.c 586)
WolfWinks –xx-