Authors Note: So, this is my first work on . Yay me! Actaully i posted this a few days ago, but it's now with minor changes... so, this is slash, which, yes, does mean boy on boy sexage. so, you know the drill, if it offends you, please don't read it. This chapter is rated T for mentions of wanking and wet dreams, and an over abundance of comedicly used cursing. so, please enjoy!
The first thing you needed to know, of course, was that Harry was not in love with Ron. Because, that would be just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. So very, very wrong. In so very many ways.
The obvious of course being that Ron was a boy. Something Harry knew. How could he miss it when Ron insisted on changing in the same room, and taking showers in the same locker room, and running around in all that tight fitting Quidditich gear (not that Harry minded, or noticed. Except that sometimes…) Harry knew there was no chance Ron was a girl. So Harry couldn't be in love with him.
Then there was the part where Ron was his best mate. Not mate, like animals mate, because they weren't animals, never mind the many thoughts Harry "didn't" have of throwing Ron on the floor and going at it like "on the discovery channel". No, they were best friends, buds, pals, compadres, amigos… nothing more. Nothing…. Sweatier. Steamier. Or all around sexier. Best bloody friends.
Oh, and let's not forget the part where Ron was in love with Hermione. Never mind that she'd told Harry secretly that her and Krum were getting very "close", Ron was still very much in love with her…. And that was all that mattered. Because that meant he, like Harry, was straight, and obviously had never thought of them in any other terms than best mates (of the non-sexual sort). Which Harry couldn't be depressed over. Since Harry irrevocably Didn't Love Ron. At all.
Which might make one wonder at the dreams Harry had been having lately. The extremely vivid, extremely wet, extremely… not buddy like… dreams of Ron. Of which Ron was going to find out about very soon if Harry didn't figure out a way to stop them.
It wouldn't have been a major problem if they weren't so loud. But Harry had woken himself up countless times (thankfully while still at the Dursley's), with the sound of his own moaning's, and the occasional gasp of "Ron". (which didn't mean that the dream had been about his best friend. Because Harry did not feel that way about Ron.)
But now, Harry was going to be staying at the Weasley's. In Ron's bedroom. Bare inches away from the sleeping Ron. And he had no idea how he was going to keep Ron from hearing (and misinterpreting) his dreams. Because there was no way Ron would ever believe they were as innocent as they obviously were.
The very thought of going to the Weasley's (dreams excluded) and spending hours upon hours in the presence of his best mate, playing Quidditich (sweaty) going swimming (wet) seeing Ron smile at him… was enough to make Harry weak in the knees and paste a slightly silly grin on his face. A totally mate-y grin. Because that's all they were. Harry Potter and his Wheezy.
Harry spent days torn between absolute terror and blissful happiness at the mere idea of seeing Ron again. So when the night before his departure for the Weasley's arrived, Harry found he could not sleep. Toss and turn and wank… but he could not get to sleep.
"Bloody hell" he muttered, then smiled, because that was Ron's favorite swear. Then frowned because that was Ron's favorite swear. Then rolled over and try to ignore the tightening in his groin because that was Ron's favorite swear. (and one he absolutely did not on a daily basis imagine Ron moaning as Harry licked a wide trail down his sweat damp abs). "Bloody Hell there's more to the world than Ron bloody Weasley!!"
"Thanks a lot mate," came the amused whisper from the window, and Harry almost through his pillow at the sound before it really occurred to him that his window rarely if ever talked to him, and certainly not in Ron "bloody Weasley's" voice.
"Ron!!" he screeched in a very manly way, flailing away from the window and off his bed. He thumped and moaned in pain when he hit the floor, still in a very manly way, and the sound was followed closely by the familiar laugh.
"Yeah, mate, it's me. Can ya open the window, maybe?"
Harry struggled to stand, not a small feat when you couldn't see an inch in front of your face and had very little idea which way was up, and groped for his glasses on the nightstand before blinking in a very manic way at the shape outside his window. The shape that actually did appear to be a very much alive Ron Weasley, and not just the delusions of his obviously deranged mind.
"Ron?!" he choked out again, and the potential delusion in question looked a bit impatient at this.
"Yes Harry, it's me. Ron "bloody Weasley", who very much wishes you would open you're "bloody" window so he could get out of the "bloody" middle of a "bloody" muggle street on his "bloody" uncomfortable broom." his voice was muffled, but understandable, and understandably annoyed, as he did appear to seated on a "bloody" uncomfortable broom, hovering in the air outside Harry's window.
"Oh" was all Harry said, before he leaped forward, knocking against the window in clumsy haste as he threw it open and stood there. "Um, mate would you mind nudging over a bit?" and leapt out of the way as Ron pulled himself through the window and sat with a tired oomph on Harry's bed. Which, Harry decided, surely deserved a second thought (Ron, on my bed. I wonder if he's sweaty? Not that it matters.) but which he filed away for later in favor of "Um, Ron, what the bloody fuck are you doing here?"
It should here be stated of course, that Ron wasn't in love with Harry. Nor did he have inappropriate thoughts about Harry. (Except sometimes late at night, or when Harry got that lost look on his face, and Ron wanted to hold him close and "sooth" away all his worries.) Ron, in all his single-mindedness had long ago fixed himself upon a single dream. Of the day Hermione would look up from her books, smile at him, and then they would have wild passionate kinky sex. With no Harry. Because that, of course, was a weird and uncomfortable thought.
Ron would take out his Hermione dream whenever strange and unnatural urges gripped him (what does that mean, his Wheezy?) and be pleasantly consumed with mild feelings of lust and luke warm passion. He didn't really need more.
Sometimes though, when he wasn't really thinking, or wondering, or worrying, he would find himself leaning closer to Harry, studying the curve of Harry's cheek, or contemplating the hair that fell in Harry's beautiful eyes. He had even thought (though he quickly replaced the thought with one of Hermione) of brushing that hair away.
But he rarely if ever thought about it. Really, deeply thought about it. Which is why it came as such a shock when the words "Couldn't wait to see you" came from his mouth. Not because they meant something. Or even because he didn't mean them. But because they were far, far too true. He thought, then, with Harry standing over him, his face blank except for the eyebrows that had rapidly disappeared into his hair, that if he didn't immediately, right that instant, see Harry, touch Harry, kiss Harry, he would go insane.
But the moment passed. And Harry smiled. And hugged him. And moved back, a faint blush on his cheeks and an uncomfortable look, but still smiling. And they embraced again, laughing this time. "Happy fifteenth Harry."
And it should be quite obvious by now. They were absolutely, Completely. Totally. Not in love.
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