Not Ready Yet

Title: Not Ready Yet

Author: Xernes

Summary: After the war, Harry and Ron do not immediately get jobs. Instead, they decide to buy a flat together.

Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be – it's probably better that way.

Pairing: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley

Notes: This takes place a couple months after the war. I mention the Weasley twins ever so briefly in this, and we are just going to pretend as if Fred is not dead. D; Damn you Jo for killing him off!!

"What do you think?"

His eyes were scanning the room as if he were looking for an intruder to pop out at any moment. He noticed the paint on the walls had started to chip over time and the hardwood floor had several stains and burn marks. He did not want to settle for a place to live, but as it was, he was sure that they had seen every flat in London that wouldn't put them in the poor house, and all of the other ones just did not feel right.

"This place will do, I suppose," he said, exhaling heavily. He decided that settling was better than keeping on like this. His eyes found Ron. "What do you think?"

Ron spoke almost too quickly, too breathlessly. Perhaps he couldn't believe that Harry had finally made up his mind. He nodded in earnest. "I like this place a lot. More than the others."

When Harry didn't say anything else, Ron turned his freckled face to the smiling Realtor who must have been just as relieved as he was. "We'll take it."

"Excellent!" she said brightly, reaching into her briefcase for some paperwork and a pen. "Here, if you would just sign this, Mr. Weasley – Mr. Potter."

They finally had a place. A place that was their own.

His heavy trunk was weighing down his small bed. He only had a few more things to pack until he could leave the Burrow once and for all.

Only when he turned to his dresser to get his underpants did he realize that he was not alone. His sister was standing in his doorway with her arms across her chest, a look of utmost displeasure on her face. He grabbed handfuls of his underpants and stuffed them into the corner of his trunk. "Hiya, Gin."

She did not respond with any sort of greeting. "So, you're really going to live with Harry?"

He could hear the knot that had built up in the back of her throat. He knew that this must be absolutely killing her, but he didn't think much of it. She did not understand what Harry needed. He slammed his trunk shut and finally looked at his sister. "Gin, he just wants his space. He needs some time to think."

"Oh, right, because living with you is really going to give him all the space in the world."

"I'm his best friend, Gin. I understand him."

Her hands had unfolded from her chest and moved to her hips. "Oh, and I don't?"

Ron rolled his eyes as he moved his trunk from his bed to the floor. "No, Ginny. It's not that. It's just...I'm his best mate and he just asked me if I wanted to room in a flat with him. It's really no big deal."

She shook her head, finding a spot on the ceiling and stared at it as she nearly yelled at her brother. "Yeah, because it makes a lot of sense to room with your best mate instead of your girlfriend."

He pointed his wand at his trunk and watched it shrink in size before he pocketed it. "You know that you aren't quite his girlfriend, Ginny."

He didn't have to ask his sister to step out of the doorway so he could leave; she had already stomped out of sight.

The flat was definitely a fixer-upper and he was starting to wonder if the place was really worth what they paid for it. They still had so much more to do until the place could pass as being livable.

It was his job to paint a new coat over the walls of the flat. It was dull work, and with nothing to stare at but beige, beige, and more beige he felt like he needed a break. Besides, the paint needed to dry and he wasn't about to watch it do so.

He noticed that dried paint was all over his face and clothes as he walked past a hanging mirror on his way to the kitchen. He didn't bother stopping to wash it off, for he knew that in a short while he'd be sporting new paint anyway.

The kitchen was cooler than the other rooms, as it was the only one that came equipped with a ceiling fan. However, the difference was slight, as all it did was push hot air from one wall to the other and back again. Harry plopped down at the kitchen table with a sigh and wiped away the sheen of cool sweat that collected at the back of his neck with the collar of his t-shirt.

"I am already sick of this damned house," he said flatly to Ron, who was sitting in front of the open refrigerator with nothing on but jeans that were cut off at the knee. If only he had a bit of straw in his mouth, he could pass for a redheaded Huckleberry Finn.

Ron grunted into the refrigerator. His hand had a tight grip on a filthy pink sponge and his arm was moving back and forth and back and forth in hopes to get the thick layers of grime off of the shelves. His job, by far, was the best out of the two of them. While cleaning out the fridge was equally as boring as painting walls a dull shade of beige and ten times more disgusting, he got to stick most of his upper body into the cool abyss. He hadn't even broken a sweat.

"When is the guy coming to install the air conditioning again?" Harry had asked for probably the fifth time that day.

A red head poked out from the refrigerator and Harry could see the annoyed expression on his face. "I told you already. He's coming sometime next week, but I can't remember the exact date." He turned back to the refrigerator and tried to find the cleanest place on the sponge for him to hold. "I wrote it down somewhere..."

Perfect. If Ron forgot where he placed the paper that had that Muggle's name and phone number and time of their appointment, then they were never going to find it, even with how bare the house was.

He got up, shuffled over to the cabinet and grabbed a small glass. He turned on the tap, putting his hand under the running faucet until the water was cool enough for his liking. He filled the glass half way before bringing it up to his chapped lips and he tilted his head back. The dampness of the liquid was cool on his tongue and the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat, quenching his dry mouth. When he drained the glass completely of its contents, he held it under the tap again and filled it to the brim.

He did not speak until he was seated at the wasted table again. "So, did we get any owls this morning?" It was sad to see how the two of them, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, had resorted to small talk.

Ron must have thought that the refrigerator was now safe to hold food, for he scooted back on his chair and let the door swing shut, the coolness on his chest immediately immediately when he was surrounded with warm, thick air. The dirty pink sponge was still held gingerly in his hand as he brought his arm back and chucked it into the sink. "Well, we got the Prophet. Nothing good in it, though. Just deaths; imprisonments and deaths. No one that we know of, however." It was about time that they got a rest. It seemed like every other day information was thrown into relief on deaths several months old. It was disgusting, bthere had been a war. It was expected.

"My Mum sent a letter, though," he said after a pause.

"Really?" His brows raised and his lips parted involuntarily. "What did she say?"

He took a deep breath as if the letter had revealed that his father had just dropped dead. "Well, it was all about how now that we're settled," which they weren't, "That we need to start getting jobs."

"Jobs?"

"Yeah, she even gave a list of openings at the Ministry."

"Like we'd work for the Ministry," he said with a hollow laugh. They sat in silence; Harry drumming his fingers on the wooden table and Ron shaking his right leg absentmindedly. "I don't quite feel like getting a job yet," he confessed, looking at his feet.

"Me neither. I just want to relax, you know?"

"Yeah."

"The Ministry should be paying us, anyway.We their asses."

They decided to ignore Mrs. Weasley's letter; she wanted what was best for them, of course. She had wanted them to finally take that plunge into adulthood and stop this nonsense of "needing a break." She wanted all of this for them, but they were not ready for it yet, not ready at all.

So far they only had one bed that was not quite big enough for the both of them to lay on comfortably.

"Budge up a bit, yeah?" Ron said, shifting to lay on his side and taking the blanket with him.

"Ron, I am on the edge of the bed." Harry snapped at him, yanking the blankets back a bit so that they completely fell from Ron's body.

"Ugh! Stop hogging all of the blankets!"

Yank.

"I'm not!"

Yank.

"You are. Look! I barely have any at all."

Yank.

"This is pointless," Harry groaned, reaching over to the bedside table for wand. He pointed it first at the bed as he watched it widen horizontally before his eyes, the space between them growing. The blanket came next, stretching as if made out of elastic as they pulled in opposite directions. "There, better," he said, rolling over.

"Erm, Harry?"

"Shove it, Ron. You've got plenty of room."

"No, I know. I mean, well..." He fell all over himself. "Could you perhaps elongate it? My feet are dangling off of the edge."

Harry sighed, reaching for his wand again and pointing it at the bed. He felt the bed stretching only slightly near his feet before he chucked his wand back over to the nightstand.

"Thanks," Ron mumbled into his pillow before his soft snoring filled the room.

Harry rolled over again, his nose oddly close to the back of Ron's head. He breathed in his scent, smelling of peppermint, Firewhisky, and pure boy. The scent was soothing and made his mind go slightly hazy as he felt himself drift off into a comfortable slumber.

They had decided to shower together in order to save money for when the water bill decided to come around. It wasn't a big deal; they had showered together before when they were at school. The only thing was, their shower stall was a lot smaller than the ones at Hogwarts. You had less room to move and precious little to focus your eyes on.

Turns had to be taken at the shower head, it was not quite wide enough for them to stand side by side. Ron stood with his back to Harry, his large hands tangled in his copper mop as water fell down on him like rain, and Harry tried his hardest not to watch. He could either look at Ron or the tiled wall, so he settled on Ron. It was odd how Ron moved under the water, how drops cascaded down his back, following the contours of his muscles. How the drops caught at the small of his back for a moment before they ran down the swell of his rear as if in slow motion, and then down his leg. His hands inched towards his friend involuntarily; his skin looked so soft, supple, and surreal.

He didn't even notice Ron turn around and start to maneuver around him so that he could rub shampoo into his hair until Ron spoke stupidly to him. "What?"

His green eyes snapped up to find Ron's blue ones. "Huh?" He tried not to blush, tried not to look at Ron or even think about anything to do with Ron as he shuffled round to the shower head; the warm droplets falling on his head and down his body. "It's nothing."

"You were staring at me." Ron said flatly as he grabbed an opened bottle of cheap shampoo that they got from a corner store a couple of days ago and squirted a dollop out onto his wet palm. The whole time Ron was looking at Harry as if he were studying him.

"I wasn't looking at you. I was looking at the wall behind you." Harry said finally. It was a stupid reason. He turned his back to Ron so that he wouldn't question him again as his unruly hair lay wet and matted flat against his forehead, his shoulders and chest collecting drops of water.

They switched spots again, and as Ron closed his eyes, washing the shampoo from his hair, Harry's eyes drifted to him immediately. He could not help himself, and he could not help but notice his freckled skin. He had a strange sensation to count them, perhaps because that would give him a reason to stare at Ron's chest for a long period of time, his stomach, a small trail of fine, light copper hair. He felt as though Ron's hair was teasing him, egging him on, lower...lower...

"You're staring again," Ron said, inching past Harry so that they could switch, wet skin brushing against his, Ron's freckled skin flushed.

Harry's eyes shot up to Ron's face once he felt him bump into his side. It was the slightest of touches, the softest and briefest of touches, but he could not remember a touch ever feeling that good. No, he had to stop thinking like this. This was Ron, his friend. "I think I see a crack in one of the tiles."

Ron jerked his head, but not his body, and said, "I don't see anything."

Harry brought his hands up to his head, trying his best to hide his face as he rinsed his hair. "Maybe it was just a drop of water, then."

Ron snorted.

Mrs. Weasley's head was in their fireplace. Ron wondered if maybe her expression or her heated words caused the fire to spit and spark the way it did.

"Ronald, you are nearly nineteen!" She shrieked, and even though he could not see her hands, he guessed that one was firmly on her pudgy hip as the other pointed accusingly at him. "Everyone else your age have already gotten jobs. Your twin brothers even got jobs quicker than you did!"

"But you weren't happy when they told you that they were going to be running their own joke shop!" Ron spat back, trying very hard not to raise his tone to his mother who could still very easily do him in.

Mrs. Weasley's expression grew ugly. "I'd rather you be working in the Muggle circus than not working at all, Ronald! Hermione started working three weeks after the war and she was just as involved as you were, I'll have you know!"

Harry, who was sitting next to Ron, fought to not say a thing. In all actuality, Hermione was involved far more than Ron, but bringing that up would probably look like he was taking Mrs. Weasley's side.

"Well, that's Hermione for you!" How could his mother possibly compare Hermione's determination to his own?

Mrs. Weasley sighed, and as she did the flames sparked horribly. "Ron, it's been three months and you have not done a single thing."

Harry didn't think that this was quite fair; most of those months were vacation. "Mrs. Weasley," he started hesitantly. He did not wand to step on her toes, but Ron was an adult. "We just spent a year in danger trying to bring Voldemort down," she flinched at the name; it still affected people even though he was gone. "We'd just like to take some time to ourselves."

"Harry, I can understand when it comes to you. You've had a lifetime of danger. However, Ron has not. He does not need this time, Ron, and you know that you are being completely ridic-"

Harry grabbed his glass of water and tossed it on the fire, extinguishing it.

Ron looked over at Harry. "Thanks, mate."

"Don't mention it." Harry said flatly, putting his glass down on the table before falling back on the couch, his leg hot and pressing against Ron's. He felt his skin tingle as an electric shock seemed to run up his spine. Ron was impossibly close; closer than he's ever been to him.

He felt inclined to inch away, but Ron's touch was so warm and so inviting, even through fabric. His mind went hazy, this was wrong, they were friends. Just friends, and yet, this was not friendly.

Out of instinct, Harry snakes his hand out of his pocket to squeeze slightly at Ron's thigh. While they were just friends, they needed this companionship this, and yet, he could not even look Ron in the face.

The touch was awkward, but not unwanted, and all he could think to do was to place his hand upon Harry's.

They came together suddenly without any hesitation or uncertainty. Ron snakes his hand up to cup the back of Harry's neck as he faintly kisses him and Harry feels weak because he knows that this is the kind of contact that he has always wanted and needed. Ron is tangled up in him, copper red hair is mixed with unruly black, pale freckled skin meets his tanned; it is all too perfect. He is pushing and needy against Ron. If only he could just get closer, just a little closer; his skin is so hot that he might just melt onto Ron so that they become one.

He almost wants to cry because it is so surreal, so impossibly magnificent.

Harry does not care that they are in the kitchen and that Ron is leaning into him so much that the small of his back is digging into the side of the counter. He does not care that Ron being so close is heating his skin and is only making him sweat more. He does not care that he does not know where to put his hands as Ron roughly pulls off his shirt and fumbles with the button of his jeans. Those all don't mean a thing; all he cares about is that Ron is persistent with his touch and not running away; that Ron remains his one constant.

When Ron finally manages to push Harry's straining jeans down to fall around his ankles, he curls his long fingers knowingly around Harry's hard cock as if they had done this a million times before and Harry cannot hold back the weak whimper that is on his lips as his forehead presses against Ron's bare shoulder. All he can do is hold on with his clawing fingers, gripping and groping tender skin; if he doesn't then he will surely fall.

Ron's kiss is wet and ardent against his lips, their tongues twisting in ways that he does not know if his tongue is more in Ron's mouth or his own. The hand on his cock is endless ecstasy and he feels a finger poke into his mouth as the kiss is broken. "Suck," Ron tells him in a voice that husky and feral, so unlike his normal tone. Harry hollows out his cheeks and sucks hard as if Ron's finger is the most delicious taste he has ever had in his mouth; he cannot get enough. His eyes flutter shut as his reddened, kiss-swollen lips make a wondrous velvety ring around Ron's finger.

When saliva drips from the corner of Harry's mouth, Ron pulls his finger free with a sloppy wet pop. He is holding his finger up, pointing to the ceiling as he latches onto Harry's neck; sucking, nibbling, and licking as he snakes his arm around Harry's lithe waist. Harry is moaning wantonly in his arms when Ron's slick finger finds his puckered entrance, rubbing his own spit over his sensitive skin until Ron pushes his finger in, past the clenching, tight ring and Harry bites his lip so that he does not cry out; his face contorted in a way that Ron is not sure if it is from pain or pleasure.

"Fuck," Harry spats out when he feels another finger joining the first, burying to the knuckles deep inside of him. He detaches his hands from Ron's shoulders to grasp at his backside, pushing him still closer as their hipbones dig into one another, their cocks crush together; it is still not enough, not nearly enough. He pushes himself back on Ron's fingers that are working in and out of him so fast that it is making his mind go hazy and his breath to come in short, quickened pants. "Fuck, just fuck me," he manages as his back bends into an odd arc, part of him cannot believe the words that just came out of his mouth and much less that he had just said them to Ron.

Ron removes his fingers, turns Harry around, and bends him over the counter, his stomach and palms flat on the cool tile. He hears Ron spit into his hands and he is praying that it is enough. A moment later, one of Ron's hands is on his waist to hold him still as the other is guiding his cock to Harry's wanton entrance. He pushes in and Harry is still impossibly tight, whimpering and withering below him, but he does not think to stop; he just pushes in further until he is balls deep inside of Harry.

Harry's flat hands ball up into fists, his knuckles turn white and his fingernails are digging into his sweaty palms. His brow is furrowed and his glasses are askew; what a sight he is to behold. When Ron starts moving, his sweat-dampened bangs catch in his eyes as his lower abdomen digs into the wooden counter. As the pain subsides, he is left with the sensation of utter bliss and it is not long until he is rocking his hips back, impaling himself even more on Ron's throbbing cock rocketing in and out of him.

He is sure that somewhere Ron has broken him in two or tore his skin; his body is rough and almost maniacal against and inside of him, but he does not care. He is groaning, gasping, and muttering sweet nothings that he prays Ron does not hear. When a frantic hand reaches around, grabs his achingly hard cock, and tugs, it is all he can do not to cry out. Ron's sweaty skin and balls are slapping against him as his wrist jerks forwards and back about his prick and he screams and spasms around Ron's cock, spurting hot and heavy into a strong hand.

Ron pounds violently into Harry's limp body like a beast until he comes shortly after, grunting and snarling as he empties his seed deep inside of Harry, marking him as his own. He stands motionless for a while, and Harry can feel Ron's sweaty chest heaving against his back until it relaxes. He brushes aside Harry's unruly black hair that is matted to his forehead and covering his scar as he wraps his arms loosely around Harry's waist, holding him close, but not tight.

Hermione visits Harry in a week while Ron is out getting the groceries. He puts on his best smile and hugs her tightly for several moments; he is genuinely happy to see her.

"Where's Ron?" She asks, and Harry is not surprised. Her feelings are so blatantly obvious that it is almost painful to be around Hermione when she is around Ron.

"He's out getting the groceries," he tells her easily as he imagines Ron in an aisle, deciding which type of cereal to get, and it almost makes him laugh.

They sit in silence until Hermione brings up the question that seems to be rather popular lately. "Have you two gotten jobs?"

"No, not yet," he says flatly – he is surprised that he doesn't look at the floor as he confesses.

"How come?"

"Not ready yet."

-fin