Title: Wear It Like A Cloak
Author: Black Annis
Rating: R
Pair: Ron Weasley/Viktor Krum
Disclaimer: Do not own harry potter or the registered trademark, copyright, etc.
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He thinks about it all through dinner, through the evening in the Common Room. He thinks about it all night long, heart skipping in his chest and a nervous grin on his lips. He thinks that now there's a chance he'll meet him; he thinks about how *fast* he is, how *cool* he is, how *strong* his arms must be, and how he would hold him...tightly, with nothing between them but skin, tingling with every sensation, skin smelling like rain and sweat and mud - and how he might trace the line of his jaw with his thumb, kiss the hollow of his neck, slide his hand...
Someone in the dorm room coughs, startling Ron from his fantasies. Blushing, he rolls over onto his side, almost as though his thoughts could be heard. He's aware there's almost something unjust with his longing, because it feels hard and sweet to his own heart, like it's something he's been waiting too long for to ever get. He's aware the sight of him makes his cheeks burn and eyes flash with want, yet no one ever sees it. Sometimes it seems that no one must ever look at him, because how could they not see everything in his soul, everything he can't seem to hide.
Sometimes his heart feels so close to bursting with love, and then someone flips a switch and all he can do is hate. He wonders if he'll ever grow up with so much hate inside him. He thinks that somehow it won't be allowed, someone will mercifully even him out, make him capable of rational thought like everyone else. He hopes against hope it will happen. He hopes he can find someone who will even him out, someone good and kind, strong for the things Ron is afraid of, calm for the things that make Ron angry.
Sober now, he quietly parts the curtains surrounding the bed. Moonlight streams through the window; everything seems like a dream, misty and swimming in white light. Barely lit, his miniature figure of Krum stands on his night-stand, head drooping down on it's shoulder.
He stares at it long enough to make his eyes ache. He can barely see it. His thoughts have gone off into fantasies again, and he will never make anything real out of them, even that he knows. He thinks what it must be like to be with him, wear him like a glove, hollow him out. Feel his soul escaping his lips; brush damp hair from his forehead. It must feel like nothing would ever be the same, like nothing could ever touch him again. Like he would be protected against himself, and he would be evened out finally.
Ron reaches out and takes the figure in his hand, slipping it under the covers with him. It feels cold and small in his hand; but it fits perfectly, like that's where it belongs. He falls asleep clutching the figure, squeezing all the perfect out of it, wearing it like a ill-fitting cloak. Wearing borrowed perfection because he cannot attain his own.
the end.
Author: Black Annis
Rating: R
Pair: Ron Weasley/Viktor Krum
Disclaimer: Do not own harry potter or the registered trademark, copyright, etc.
-------
He thinks about it all through dinner, through the evening in the Common Room. He thinks about it all night long, heart skipping in his chest and a nervous grin on his lips. He thinks that now there's a chance he'll meet him; he thinks about how *fast* he is, how *cool* he is, how *strong* his arms must be, and how he would hold him...tightly, with nothing between them but skin, tingling with every sensation, skin smelling like rain and sweat and mud - and how he might trace the line of his jaw with his thumb, kiss the hollow of his neck, slide his hand...
Someone in the dorm room coughs, startling Ron from his fantasies. Blushing, he rolls over onto his side, almost as though his thoughts could be heard. He's aware there's almost something unjust with his longing, because it feels hard and sweet to his own heart, like it's something he's been waiting too long for to ever get. He's aware the sight of him makes his cheeks burn and eyes flash with want, yet no one ever sees it. Sometimes it seems that no one must ever look at him, because how could they not see everything in his soul, everything he can't seem to hide.
Sometimes his heart feels so close to bursting with love, and then someone flips a switch and all he can do is hate. He wonders if he'll ever grow up with so much hate inside him. He thinks that somehow it won't be allowed, someone will mercifully even him out, make him capable of rational thought like everyone else. He hopes against hope it will happen. He hopes he can find someone who will even him out, someone good and kind, strong for the things Ron is afraid of, calm for the things that make Ron angry.
Sober now, he quietly parts the curtains surrounding the bed. Moonlight streams through the window; everything seems like a dream, misty and swimming in white light. Barely lit, his miniature figure of Krum stands on his night-stand, head drooping down on it's shoulder.
He stares at it long enough to make his eyes ache. He can barely see it. His thoughts have gone off into fantasies again, and he will never make anything real out of them, even that he knows. He thinks what it must be like to be with him, wear him like a glove, hollow him out. Feel his soul escaping his lips; brush damp hair from his forehead. It must feel like nothing would ever be the same, like nothing could ever touch him again. Like he would be protected against himself, and he would be evened out finally.
Ron reaches out and takes the figure in his hand, slipping it under the covers with him. It feels cold and small in his hand; but it fits perfectly, like that's where it belongs. He falls asleep clutching the figure, squeezing all the perfect out of it, wearing it like a ill-fitting cloak. Wearing borrowed perfection because he cannot attain his own.
the end.