It has been roughly a decade since I've even looked at a piece of fanfiction, never mind actually set out to write one. About a year ago though, scenes from this story popped into my head from god knows where and would simply not leave. There are now so many scenes that I figured 'oh hell- might as well publish it.' It's worth clarifying: this is a slash fic... that's the whole focus. If that bothers you, proceed no further. If you find it slightly odd that a straight female is writing a story about two gay men figuring out their sexuality, I'm on your side, but like I said, this just appeared in my head one day and wouldn't leave so here we are.

If anyone feels the rating isn't strong enough, please let me know. There is nothing really explicit here, but my Ron and Harry tend to use more colourful language than Rowling allowed.

Any and all feedback is more than welcome.

Grimmauld Place had always been noisy at night. Removing all manner of dark objects and dark magic and dark… whatevers, hadn't changed that. At least now the creaks and scuffles were part of the normal course of an old house settling in on itself, rather than a threat on the inhabitants' lives.

Not that this knowledge helped anyone feel less creeped out in the old house at night. Anyone would feel restless by themselves. Uneasy; desperate to know someone else was there. Especially anyone that had spent the better part of their lives in near constant danger.

At least, this is what Harry told himself. He had no idea what Ron told himself.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. It had been all well and good to live at the Burrow when the war ended, but when even George had pulled himself together enough to go back to his flat, it seemed there were no more excuses for two adult wizards to be living… well in his case, in his best mate's parents' house.

Kreacher had been dropping hints with all his usual tact that number 12 was in tip top shape, should Harry wish to return, and they'd needed to push themselves to move forward if he was being honest. Kingsley had flatly refused to allow them to start the Auror Academy right away, which had been a bit of a shock. He'd explained that while they would have places when they were ready, regardless of their lack of NEWTs, he couldn't allow them to go straight into that environment. They needed to rest, to heal. He was right of course, but it had still stung and left Harry a bit adrift.

Harry and Ron had therefore taken their first normal step into adulthood and moved out of the Burrow and into Grimmauld Place; just the two of them with the still slightly barmy Kreacher. Very grown up of them, if he did say so himself. Ron even insisted on paying Harry a bit of rent with his wages from Wheezes (once George had been able to start paying him anyway; it had taken some time to get the business properly up and running again).

So again, it had seemed like a great idea at the time. Good progress in the business of 'moving on.'

Except Harry was fairly certain that two grown men didn't normally feel the need to share the same bed in a house with half a dozen perfectly decent bedrooms. He wasn't even entirely certain how it had happened.

Well, he knew how it had started.

Their first night they had both turned in to their separate rooms, only for Ron to show up mildly panicked at Harry's door at nearly 2 in the morning.

Spiders. The man could duel death eaters and giants but one spider sighting at the foot of his bed and it was either find and dispose of the creature then and there or burn the place down. For reasons he'd rather not think about now, Harry hadn't yet fallen asleep when Ron had shown up, flushed and embarrassed at his door, and he was too tired to do anything about the stupid spider right then. So, with a shrug, Harry had just swung his door open, walked back to the bed, and muttered that they'd sort it in the morning. Ron had hesitated, but only for a moment before climbing in the bed after him.

It was a King sized mattress, more bed than any one person needed and an ocean of duvet and extra pillows between them. He and Ron had slept in closer proximity countless times. If he was somehow able to fall asleep once Ron's steady breathing was within ear shot, who was he to complain?

What he didn't really understand was why they hadn't sorted the spider the next day. When it was time for bed, they'd both just climbed up the stairs and into the master suite without a word about it. It was about a week before Harry admitted to himself that he desperately didn't want to be alone in the giant house at night, and that Ron likely felt the same.

In some ways, it wasn't all that weird. Loathe though they were to admit it, both he and Ron still had a lot of work to do as far as dealing with everything they'd been through. In the days and weeks following the battle, they'd been quick to realize that putting silencing charms up at night was a good idea; no sense worrying Molly, who was having a hard enough time trudging through her grief. Harry had nearly lost his mind with panic the first time Ron had woken him up with his screams. It had taken Harry a full minute to realize Ron was only dreaming, and another full minute to get himself under control enough to clamor out of his camp bed to go wake his friend.

Those first few months had been hell. There was no other way to put it. They'd both been mortified at first. After everything they'd been through, it probably should have been easier to see one another in such vulnerable positions but this… this was new. And different. There was no war to soldier on to, no reasonable excuse to swallow the emotional trauma down and set it aside for another time. That other time was now.

Ron had broken the barriers down first, which wasn't a surprise to Harry, who still struggled to remember that he was allowed to feel anything, thank you very much Vernon Dursley. It had shocked Ron a fair bit though.

He'd been screaming in his sleep again, thrashing so wildly it was a miracle he was still on his bed when Harry came to wake him, trying to shake him awake without adding to the thrashing. He'd shot up, nearly knocking Harry out in the process, his eyes frantically scanning the room when they finally locked on Harry. Without thinking, he'd taken Harry's face in both of his hands and just stared at him for a few seconds before dissolving into sobs. He'd let go of Harry's face and pressed his own into Harry's chest and just… wept.

Harry had been slightly stunned. They would often sit together after one of them had a nightmare, hand on a shoulder and politely turning their head while the other snuffled quietly for a few minutes. The closest Harry had seen Ron to truly crying like this was the ordeal with the locket, but even that was nothing quite like this.

When Ron had started attempting to choke out apologies amidst his sobs, Harry's brain clicked back into gear and his only thought had been 'sod it' as he wrapped his friend up fully into a proper hug with a firm, "Don't apologize."

The shocks continued the next morning: They'd talked about it. It was possibly one of his more awkward conversations with Ron (which was saying something) but they'd done it. It wasn't how they usually approached things. There would be an acknowledgment, sure, but a proper conversation? Never.

But it helped. Neither one of them could deny it. So they kept doing it. Not all the time, of course. But whenever one of them had a particularly bad nightmare, or a particularly troubling panic attack (it had taken Harry a full month to admit to himself that's what they were), they would talk about it, at least a little. It was to the point now where Harry wasn't sure there was a single thing he could tell Ron that would be embarrassing, and vise versa.

So, all things considered, the pair of them sharing a bed when they didn't absolutely have to wasn't the strangest thing in the world. They could separate them into two single beds he supposed, but it's not like they were ever anywhere near each other while they slept.

Except that one time, when Ron had suffered a bit of a fit in his sleep but calmed down without waking, ending up half sprawled over Harry, who had been awake at the time. That had been weeks ago, and Harry was currently doing his level best not to think about it… again.

Why the bloody hell did he keep thinking about it in the first place? He'd admitted to himself ages ago that going through the things he and Ron had together made their friendship a bit… unorthodox sometimes. He didn't have much to go on, but he was fairly certain two blokes blubbering all over one another on more than one occasion wasn't exactly normal. It probably wasn't particularly typical for best mates to occasionally need to cling together after a nightmare either. Merlin, they were such a mess. But he could blame all that on the war. While never officially diagnosed, he knew they both had some legitimate PTSD.

But he was dead certain that the electric rush he'd gotten when Ron had wound up sprawled over him in bed was not normal, and he'd yet to come up with a way to blame the war for it.

He didn't want to think about it. Yet it was the only thing he could think about. At first, he thought maybe he missed Ginny more than he'd realized, but he'd been forced to give that thought up.

Things with Ginny had not fallen apart exactly, but they were over. They'd tried. Truly. The reality was that they were both a little bit too different after the war. She felt the same, which was more of a relief than Harry could properly express. He wasn't sure he could have broken her heart all over again- this girl he'd held through her brother's funeral- who had held him through Remus and Tonks' funerals. Ginny had endured a different sort of hell to Harry in the last year, and she had her own work to do as far as moving forward was concerned.

They'd both cried when they admitted it wasn't working, something neither one of them did all that frequently, even in the midst of the never ending funeral processions. Harry liked to think it was a testament to what they meant to each other. He'd focused on this part, rather than the parts about the whole thing that confused him. Like how he'd craved being near Ron and Hermione far more often than he wanted to be near Ginny, despite having ached for her over the entire horcrux hunt. Or how he never really seemed to seek her out on his own. Or how he didn't want to touch her, apart from the comforting embraces they shared in their sadness. It was more… sisterly. Like hugging Hermione.

He had particularly avoided thinking about that last one.

With an internal sigh, Harry rolled over to his other side, punching his pillow in his frustration. Things were pretty good really, relatively speaking. Grief came and went in waves, but as time went on there were more good days than bad. Actually admitting to the panic attacks and the anxiety that came with them had helped a lot as well, partly because he'd realized quickly that he wasn't alone and partly because he felt a bit as though admitting they were there gave him some ownership over the whole thing.

Most days, things were all right. He had a laugh with Ron in the evenings, spent his days making Grimmauld Place inhabitable from more than a physical safety standpoint, and corresponding with the ministry over Death Eater prosecutions. He had Kingsley to thank for the ability to do this primarily by owl. He had to show up in person from time to time, but showing up at the courts and reliving his hell day in and day out was not something he could have coped with.

He was grateful to Kingsley for a lot of things really. He and Ron had both had a right rage about him when he'd all but said they were too fragile to join up with the Aurors right away, but now Harry didn't like to imagine the state they'd be in if they'd been allowed in. He imagined there'd be a lot more firewhiskey in his life.

With another sigh, Harry opened his eyes to find that Ron had rolled over in his sleep and was now facing him, still a safe, healthy distance away. They were all different after the war, but Ron was… different, different. Harry couldn't get his head around what it was exactly. With the whole PTSD and nightmare thing, Harry had talked- properly talked- to Ron more in the last 6 months than he probably had in the last 7 years. They were still very much the same mates as always- that part hadn't changed, thank Merlin. But this new talking they were doing was intimacy on a level that… well, that warranted the use of the word intimacy.

Harry couldn't help but think perhaps Ron's emotional range wasn't that of a teaspoon, but an ocean, only he'd been repressing the tide of it for so long that he struggled to know how feelings even worked sometimes. The dam seemed to have opened now though, and Ron was more rawly emotional since the war ended than Harry had ever seen him.

Despite all this, something was off. There was a new part of Ron that was guarded. Scared, maybe? Harry couldn't tell. He'd just ask him straight out but there was nothing concrete enough to ask about really. It wasn't like in fourth year when he'd acted like a jealous prat. Or on the horcrux hunt, when he'd been a different kind of jealous prat.

Ron also spent a lot of time with Bill, and his other brothers for that matter. At first, Harry didn't think anything of this. There was a grief that Harry couldn't share as far as losing a brother went. It was perfectly logical to Harry that the Weasley siblings would band together in the aftermath of Fred's death. George had sure as hell needed them.

There was just this… awkwardness about Ron after he'd spent an evening at Bill's. Harry always shook it off because there was never any real evidence apart from just a general feeling.

Then there was Hermione. For the life of him, Harry couldn't figure out what in Merlin's name was going on there. Admittedly, in the first month or two after everything had ended, when it wasn't the three of them together, he hadn't really been clued in to what was going on with Ron or Hermione individually. They'd never admitted it out loud, but they'd needed some space, almost as often as they'd needed to be together. They couldn't explain it, but thankfully they didn't need to.

In hindsight, the whole Australia thing had been a little odd. Hermione, being the barmy woman she was, had it in her head she would go collect her parents alone. As if he and Ron would ever let that happen. Once they'd cleared that up, Harry had at least had the sensitivity to speak with Ron privately and ask if perhaps he should stay behind- let Hermione and Ron do this together, just the two of them. Harry had thought Ron would be keen on the idea. Traveling alone with Hermione, with actual accommodations and regular meals instead of a tent and mushrooms. Harry would have thought Ron would be well up for it. When it came down to it though, Ron had seemed slightly alarmed by the whole idea. He'd shut down Harry's protests instantly, insisting that of course, it was the three of them together, always.

Once they'd returned to England, Hermione had understandably spent quite a bit of time with her parents, but had been around the burrow a lot after realizing that Harry and Ron would not be returning to complete their 7th year at Hogwarts. That had been a terrible conversation, but she'd come around. She always did.

Still, Harry had been waiting for the inevitable third wheel moments now that Hermione and Ron had sorted out where they stood with each other. But it never happened. He couldn't understand it. He'd tried to broach the subject with Ron more than once, but he never got much out of him. Ron would clam up whenever the topic was raised, by Harry or anyone else for that matter. He never denied anything, but he certainly wasn't volunteering anything either. Hermione had been equally quiet on the topic, but Harry could hardly blame her for not pushing things along. Ron's brother had just died and really, what could you say to that?

Part of Harry wished Ron and Hermione would be a bit more public about their relationship… or at least acknowledge they had one? He liked to think it would have made dismissing this strange new thing with Ron a lot easier. It had been 2 weeks, and still Harry spent the vast majority of his nights secretly hoping Ron would wind up sprawled about the bed again.

Harry winced at the admittance, even if only in his head. This was mental. He'd had two girlfriends for Merlin's sake. One of which even seemed to enjoy it when he kissed her.

The thought made Harry's breath catch as he froze mid exhale. Ginny seemed to enjoy it, true.

Had he?

Harry jerked the duvet and rolled over, rather aggressively, putting his back to Ron. He would not go there. There was no 'there' to go to anyway. He was an emotional wreck, not… there wasn't anything else. He clenched his eyes shut.

It was usually at this point that Harry managed to put his brain back to rights. Remind himself that he was just being stupid and overly emotional.

For the first half of Harry's life, all he'd known was rejection. Painful rejection. Even now, though he kept it buried deep down, there was a part of him that still wished for the Dursley's to want him. He spent his childhood repressing every part of himself, hoping desperately that his aunt and uncle would love him.

Hagrid had showed up and changed everything overnight. There was a world in which he belonged, where he was wanted. That didn't mean Harry had suddenly known he could be himself though. It couldn't take away the poison in his head, slipped into his bloodstream steadily for 10 years, telling him he was a freak, freak, freak. To this day, the word still made him flinch.

It had taken him a long, long time to understand just how horrific his childhood had been. Even now he was peeling back new layers of it. There had been a day a couple months ago, holding Teddy, in which Harry had needed a full 10 minutes before he could speak. Harry loved that baby. Loved him in a way that he didn't have words for. Roughly 18 years ago Harry's own family had held him, an orphan, a baby, and decided he was not worth loving.

He'd needed the first 5 minutes to recover from the pain of this realization, and the second 5 minutes to beat the poison out of his head- remind himself that he wasn't unlovable, or useless, or a freak. The only words he'd managed to get out after those 10 minutes were a mumbled, "D'you mind 'Mione?" as he gently passed Teddy over to her before excusing himself to go choke down a few sobs.

He didn't want to think about where he'd be if it hadn't been the Weasley's he'd found on the platform that day. Probably dead somewhere, if he were honest. Not that he wanted to be particularly morbid about it or anything, but he didn't think he could have made it against Voldemort if he hadn't had the Weasley's in his life.

He was grateful. That word wasn't strong enough but if he tried to articulate it he was likely to just end up gesturing wildly for lack of any better words to use.

He was free now though. He knew how to love. Knew he was loved, even if he still had to grapple with his disbelief from time to time. Knew the people he cared about were safe. No maniacs using the people he cared about against him. No life and death riddles to solve. Just a normal life. All he'd ever wanted really.

Except…

Why wasn't he asleep yet? He didn't allow himself to tread this far into the waters. Especially not at night. Especially not sharing a bed with his best mate… his best male mate.

He couldn't allow this. Not now. Not after he'd come so far. He belonged. He was wanted. He was normal. He was not a… a freak?

That wasn't the word. He knew that wasn't the word. But it was the same thing wasn't it? Vernon and Petunia Dursely would certainly think so. Maybe the Weasleys would too?

Just as he began the exhausting process of removing the Dursely's poison from his head, reminding himself that the Weasleys were nothing like the Dursleys, Harry felt Ron twitch beside him, subtly, at first, but it quickly progressed to proper rustling, the duvet shifting from Harry's shoulders as Ron twisted about.

Harry was immediately sitting up, on high alert, ready to wake his friend from any nightmares, but relaxed when he saw Ron's face was not twisted up into a sharp grimace that bore the signs of terror.

He watched as his best mate settled down, curling up once again on his side, hugging an extra pillow to his chest. Ron's freckles stood out more starkly in the dimly moonlit room. He had 22 on his nose.

Why the bloody hell did he know that? That was a ridiculous thing for him to know. He couldn't tell you how many freckles Ginny had on her nose. He shouldn't be awake. He shouldn't be thinking about this.

It was this moment that Ron let out a soft little groan in his sleep. This was not the moan of desperation or horror that accompanied some of their nightmares. This was altogether different, and the sound zinged through Harry like fire. The electric current that had run through him all those nights ago ran through him again, giving him gooseflesh. And before he could stop himself, before he could refocus his mind somewhere else, the name for it came to him, uninvited and unwanted, the name for the electricity that shot up and down him again as Ron's deep sigh invaded his senses.

Desire.

Harry froze, scrunching his eyes closed and willing everything in his brain to stop, to go no further, to not allow this. But it was too late.

Oliver and the twins in the quidditch changing rooms, un-embarrassed by their bare chests and low slung towels as Harry's 12 year old self had gone hot and cold at the same time while he watched the three of them horse around together.

Seamus in the dorms 4th year, declaring he preferred sleeping in the buff and strutting confidently to his four poster, completely starkers, while the other boys had laughed and wolf whistled… and while Harry had gone cherry red and laughed nervously along.

Cho. His first kiss, and their mutual discomfort the entire time it was happening.

Ginny. Oh Ginny. Ginny and her wonderful red hair. Ginny and her lifetime of practice being one of the guys. Ginny and her patience while he went away with no promise to come back. Ginny and her forwardness that had led the way in abandoned corridors his sixth year. Ginny and her blazing expression at the end of a quidditch match. Ginny: who Harry had desperately wanted to make happy… but had he ever really stopped to think about whether or not he was?

And Ron. His first friend. Ron, who had shared everything his whole life, and still shared his family with Harry. Ron, who puked slugs for the girl he'd once claimed was a nightmare.

...Who had followed the spiders; followed him into danger over, and over, and over.

...Who made sure Harry could laugh even when things were their darkest.

...Who defended him, always, even when Harry didn't want him to.

...Who showed up when it counted.

...Who in the last 6 months had all but bared his soul to Harry with nothing but open trust. Who had allowed Harry to do the same, without judgment.

Ron. Ron. Ron...

Harry bolted out of bed, needing to somehow stem the tide. He felt sick, panicked. How had he not seen? How the hell had this only just occurred to him at 18 years old? As if the whole thing wasn't absurd enough, he'd somehow managed to make it to adulthood without the idea ever really formulating properly? For Merlin's sake, Ron had been deemed the thing he'd miss most when half his competitors dove into the lake after the girls they'd fancied! If that hadn't been a giant fucking clue…

He stopped pacing and took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. The last thing he needed was a panic attack.

Ron was rustling again, only this time he was awake, his radar for Harry's anxiety acute even in sleep.

"H'ry?" he mumbled sleepily, "Alright mate?"

Harry looked at his friend. His best friend. His best friend with 22 freckles on his nose.

The word was in his head before he could stop it, poison tipped and spreading past his preliminary defenses.

Freak.

Freak.

Freak.

Harry bolted, rushing for the loo and barely shutting the door behind him before he was retching.

Ron was there barely a second later, knocking softly for permission.

"Harry? You ok mate? What… I mean…"

"M'okay Ron," Harry rasped out, the majority of his efforts going towards keeping the remaining contents of his stomach down. Even though Ron was the last person he wanted to interact with at the present moment, he knew the importance of letting him know he was ok. He knew what it was like to be on the other side of the door, desperately trying to keep his own anxiety at bay in case Ron was in trouble.

"Do you want… Can I just come in please?"

Harry nudged the door open from his seat on the floor by the toilet, not looking up as he heard Ron shuffle in.

"What is it Harry? Can I do anything?"

Hating himself for it, Harry retched again, losing the battle. Ron's hand was on his shoulder in a move that would have been absurd several months ago, but felt completely appropriate after months of far more emotional and intimate exchanges.

When at last Harry's abs relaxed long enough for him to breath properly, he pressed his forehead into the cool porcelain of the toilet, not wanting to look at Ron just yet.

"Not sure what happened," he wheezed out, pausing to collect his breath. "Must've been something I ate."

He wasn't in the habit of lying to Ron, but he couldn't fathom saying anything else at the minute.

"We had the same curry for dinner."

Harry shrugged, still keeping his head pressed to the porcelain. "Brace yourself then mate."

Ron snickered, and Harry felt himself relax slightly.

"Do you have any ministry hearings you have to turn up for tomorrow? Or today I suppose- as it's nearly 4 in the morning. I can probably sort out going for you instead?"

Harry shook his head, finally looking up at Ron, who had perched himself on the side of the bath. He felt a twinge of relief as the sight of his friend's face didn't cause some sort of insane reaction. It was still just Ron.

"I think I'm all right, now that it's out. I don't need to show up anyway, just have a few statements to owl in."

Ron nodded and stifled a yawn. "I'll get you a glass of water and see if we have any nausea potion."

Harry grunted his thanks as Ron shuffled out.

Why was nothing in his life ever simple?