Stacked with: Shipping Wars, Starry Strums

Ship: Ron Weasley/Neville Longbottom

List (Prompt): Spring Medium 1- Shipper on Deck

Individual Challenge(s): Short Jog (Y); Gryffindor x3; Eating Cake; Old Shoes (Y); Artist MC; Zed Era (Y); Setting Sail; Booger Breath

Representation(s): Gardening; Pining Ron Weasley; Supportive Harry Potter & George Weasley

Primary & Secondary Bonus Challenge(s): Spinning Plates (Demo); Maschismo (Demo); Tomorrow's Shade (Demo); Hot Stuff (Demo); Misshapen Pods (Demo)

Tertiary & Generic Bonus Challenge(s): N/A

Word Count: 2613

Ron could hear the battering of water against the tiles, nearly covering up the sound of Neville's voice. He laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, focusing solely on the rumbling voice he could barely hear under the door.

Not that Ron was sitting on the floor outside the bathroom at five in the morning just to hear that voice, of course. He shook his head and turned his ear against the wooden door, mind wandering as he listened to Neville singing in the shower.

The redhead had fallen into a routine of sorts since Neville, Harry, and him moved into a flat in Diagon Alley together after the War. They had always been roommates, and it would've just been odd for them to go from rooming with four other people to being alone. Though Dean and Seamus had moved into their own flat when they (finally) got together, it seemed as though everything had fallen into place just right.

Their schedules fit well enough with one another that they could all live comfortably. Harry went into Quidditch and was usually out of the house by seven for practice. Ron was out by eight and only had to walk five minutes down Diagon Alley to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Neville worked with his plants in the garden and greenhouse, selling leaves or roots to apothecaries and potions masters.

It had been a perfect arrangement, up and until Ron heard Neville sing.

Neville was an early riser, which Ron had always known, but it was something he'd never really paid attention to until recently. He had an irregular sleeping schedule, because of the plants that needed to be tended to at odd hours of the night, but he always took a shower at four forty-five every morning. Not that Ron had been paying attention or anything.

Ron wasn't exactly sure when it had started, but he'd woken up at four forty-two one morning with the intent of heading to the store early and had discovered that Neville was already in the shower. And that he was singing. And that Ron really liked his voice.

It somehow led to him sitting on the floor outside the bathroom, ear pressed against the door, trying to recognize the song. It must've been something Muggle, because Ron had never heard it before, but he found that he liked it.

"Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for. You heard me saying a prayer for, someone I really could care for." And Ron had the weirdest thought then, that with a voice like that, Ron might just let himself be the one Neville could care for.

But then Harry had walked past him, eyebrow quirked and a smirk on his face, taking a sip of coffee, and Ron had never scrambled to stand up so fast. His ears were on fire, he could just feel it.

"Just—waiting," he said weakly. Harry hummed, his eyebrow climbing even higher.

"I'm sure," he said, then continued walking down the hall. "It's "Blue Moon" by Dean Martin, just so you know," he called over his shoulder, amusement evident in his voice. Ron flushed deeply, and he was sure that his face must've been the same color as his hair at that point.

If he went out to a Muggle music shop later and bought every song he could find by Dean Martin, well, Harry didn't need to know.

There was something about listening to Neville sing that Ron just couldn't resist. It pressed at the back of his mind, most often when he was at work, and he'd find himself humming "Blue Moon" without meaning to. The looks that George shot him were so infuriatingly knowing that eventually, he stopped resisting the urge to listen to Neville sing.

It sometimes made it significantly harder to look Neville in the eye, but Ron couldn't seem to help himself.

"Only you can make this change in me. For it's true, you are my destiny. When you hold my hand, I understand the magic that you do. You're my dream come true. My one and only you." Ron closed his eyes, sighing as he leaned his head against the bathroom door. He'd never really appreciated music, but the surprisingly low timber of Neville's voice was captivating. Who knew he could make his voice go so deep?

He shifted uncomfortably when his imagination wandered to other sounds that Neville must be able to make so deeply.

""Only you" by the Platters," Harry said, startling Ron's eyes open, his thoughts flying out the window. He didn't even bother pretending like he wasn't listening—it had almost become routine for Harry to walk by and inform Ron what song Neville was singing.

"How do you know?" he asked. Harry shrugged, expression unreadable, and something about it made Ron shift uneasily. As if—Merlin help him—Harry knew something he didn't.

"He's shown me them before," Harry said lightly. Ron felt a flare of jealousy rise in him before he stamped it down, reprimanding himself. Jealousy bad!

"You should just ask him about what music he likes or about his plants. It's clear you're interested in him—" he shot Ron a quelling look when he opened his mouth to protest. "And you might find that he's very open about what interests him." Harry left it at that, walking away before Ron could quite register what he'd just said.

Ron practically tore his hair out trying to figure out what that meant—there were just too many possibilities, really… Was Harry talking about Neville's plants and music? Or about something that Ron didn't even want to start hoping for—that Neville was also interested in men?

Not that that stopped him from hoping, obviously.

After the shop closed later that day, when he'd caught himself humming "Only You" for the fourth time, George saddled up beside him with a shit-eating grin on his face. Dread settled in his stomach before he could reason with himself that this was George, and George was kind and understanding—

"So who is he?" George asked. Ron groaned, his ears on fire once again. He knew he'd been lying to himself; George was not to be trusted.

"How do you know it's a he?" he spluttered indignantly. George fixed him with a deadpan stare.

"Oh, Ronnykins, I really do admire your self-denial, but it's about time to accept it, isn't it? The rest of us have," he patronized, patting Ron on the head. He bristled, not even sure which part he should be mad about, but then George started laughing at him.

He rolled his eyes and went back to stacking Skiving Snackboxes on the shelves—it was still one of their best-selling products. It seemed that there would always be teenagers looking to get out of class.

"But really, little brother," George started, a sincere expression settling on his face that made Ron want to sink into the floor. "It really doesn't matter to any of us whether or not you like blokes or not. We just want you to be happy." His eyes saddened in that way that Ron knew meant he was thinking of Fred.

He wondered if Fred had known too—and what he would've said in this moment to bounce off of what George was saying.

"He'd want you to be happy too," Ron whispered, swallowing against the lump in his throat when his brother gave him a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He pulled Ron into a hug, which he told himself he only returned because he couldn't stand to see the look on George's face, and it certainly wasn't because he needed it too.

"I'm working on it, little brother," he murmured into Ron's hair. He sucked in a breath and patted Ron on the back before stepping back, smiling weakly and running a hand through his hair.

"Those Skiving Snackboxes aren't going to stack themselves," George said, looking pointedly at the shelves behind Ron. He rolled his eyes.

"You know, they could," he joked, but turned back to the shelves and continued stacking the boxes by hand anyways.

"But then you wouldn't have a job, would you?" George replied easily. Ron laughed—and just like that, they were back to their usual dynamic of joking while they worked.

When Ron got home at nine, Harry's Quidditch gear wasn't piled next to the door like it usually was.

"Huh, weird," he muttered, dropping his keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter. Harry was always home before Ron was, but he wasn't too worried. Harry would've sent an owl or his Patronus if he'd gotten hurt during practice.

Ron haphazardly threw together a sandwich, peering out the kitchen window and spotting Neville kneeled in front of a patch of flowers that Ron didn't know the name of. Harry's advice flashed into his mind, just ask him about his plants. With a nervous glance down at his work uniform to check that it didn't have any weird stains on it from the day, he set his sandwich down on the counter, slid open the back door, and stepped outside.

He never really went into the garden, fearing he'd just be intruding on Neville's space, but he was feeling especially brave after Harry's words earlier. The scent of the flowers and Earth hit him unexpectedly, and he had to stop and blink for a second before walking down the path to where Neville was tending to a flowerbed.

"Hello," Neville chirped, looking up at Ron with a smile and brushing his hair out of his face. His fingers left a streak of dirt across his forehead that Ron had an overwhelming urge to brush off, fingers twitching as he restrained himself. He never realized until this moment how beautiful Neville looked when he was this comfortable—the soft curve of his jaw, the way his dusty blond hair curled at the nape of his neck, his sweat beaded on his forehead, his smile that softened around the edges with contentment...

His breath caught in his throat, a voice that sounded a lot like Harry's telling him that there was no denying it: Ron was completely, utterly, head-over-heels for Neville, and he hadn't even realized it.

"Are you okay?" Neville asked worriedly, eyebrows furrowed, drawing Ron back to the present. He felt his skin heat up and he coughed, nodding at the flowers, choosing not to answer because he wasn't really sure if he was okay.

"What kind of flowers are those?" he asked. Neville still looked concerned, but seemed happy to answer.

"They're called stock flowers. I just moved them out of the greenhouse earlier today," he explained. Ron hummed, glad for the distraction from his earth-shattering revelation that he'd somehow fallen in love with Neville, and that he didn't even know when it'd started. When they moved in together, or all the way back to when Neville stood up to him, Harry, and Hermione in their first year?

"What do they do?" Ron asked curiously, forcing himself to focus. He'd have all the time in the world to analyze his feelings for Neville.

"They're just regular flowers," Neville said, lips twitching as he held back his amused smile. Ron blushed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

"Oh," he said dumbly. Neville covered his mouth with his hand, no doubt to hide the smile he'd been unable to contain, and that just wouldn't do. Without thinking, Ron knelt next to him and pulled his hand away, feeling as though his heart might just give up beating at the sight of Neville's unapologetic smile.

There must've been something in the way that Ron looked at him that gave everything away, because one moment Neville was smiling, and the next his eyes were wide and understanding as he whispered, "Oh."

And then they were leaning forward before Ron knew what was happening, closing the distance between them, their lips nearly touching now, and—

"R-Ron, I've never…" Neville stammered, putting his hands on Ron's shoulders and pushing him away slightly, flushing deeply. Something inside of him soared knowing that Neville hadn't done this with anyone except for him, but he reminded himself that now wasn't the moment for those feelings.

"Do you not want to?" Ron asked, knowing he'd be crushed if Neville actually didn't, but also knowing that he wanted to do everything at Neville's pace. Neville shook his head immediately.

"Just—show me what to do," he said nervously. So Ron leaned forward, gently taking Neville's face in his hands, and brought their lips together slowly. Neville's lips were hot, and dry, and tasted faintly like sweat and dirt, but Ron couldn't possibly have done anything besides love it—especially when his lips started moving too, quickly picking up on what he was supposed to do. It sent his heart racing, his skin tingling and electricity moving down his back, and oh—Neville seemed to be a natural at this.

Ron broke their kiss with a gasp, knowing that he was eventually going to want to deepen the kiss to a point where he didn't think Neville would be comfortable doing. But he was okay with waiting—he was okay with whatever Neville wanted, so long as he could call him his. He supposed they were going to have to discuss that later, but the fact that there even was a later made Ron giddy with excitement.

Ron couldn't stop himself from smiling at his thoughts, peppering kisses over Neville's jaw and cheeks, making Neville laugh and duck away from him.

"You know, I didn't believe Harry at first," Neville said once Ron was done trying to land kisses all over his face. He stilled, knowing where this was going, and not sure whether or not to feel betrayed or grateful for Harry's interference.

"About what?" Ron asked softly, taking Neville's hand, examining the dirt under his fingernails, loving the feeling of finally having Neville's hand in his.

"That you like listening to me sing in the shower," Neville said. Ron's gaze flicked up, heart skipping a beat when he spotted the light flush on Neville's neck and cheeks.

"I do," Ron admitted. "Your voice is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard, it takes my breath away."

His ears reddened—he didn't mean to say that much—but the smile Neville gave him in return made Ron more than glad he'd said it. He wanted to stay in this moment forever, embarrassment and all, just so he could be sure he'd always get to see Neville smile like that, as if Ron had been the one to leave him breathless this time.

And then, Neville pulled his hand away, hesitantly reaching over and picking one of his beloved, pale pink flowers from its stem. He hesitated again before leaning over and pushing the flower into Ron's hair, just above his ear, biting his bottom lip as he did so. Ron sat frozen to the spot, unable to breathe, his skin tingling pleasantly.

"I think this should go here," Neville whispered, hand lingering to brush Ron's hair out of his eyes with a bashful smile. Ron couldn't stop his eyes from fluttering closed, couldn't stop himself from leaning into the touch and pressing a kiss on the palm of Neville's hand.

And when he opened his eyes again, the look on Neville's face made his heart flutter in a way he'd never felt before. He knew that he would never forget this moment, even if there were hundreds of others like it in the future to rival it, because this was the moment when he realized that maybe, hopefully, Neville was in love with him too.

A/N: I dunno anything about plants except that I have a tendency to kill them, so sorry to the green-thumbs out there if this is all wrong. Just know that I tried.