Title: Fever
Author: HFS
Rating: R
A/N: after the long silence since friday, my dumbest plan yet, i realize im no longer in the recent stories. I must maintain a page 1 presence. Thus begins operation compromise art and be egotistical. Also, its 2:20, so give the spelling a break. I love you guys.
Fever
When you're well, you want to get sick, because sick means missed classes. Of course, when you actually are sick, you wish you were well because being sick is startlingly like having foreign invaders rip open your body's cell's and foul up your entire metabolism. Due to nature's stupid little pain mechanism, you feel remarkably like a load of shit. Sick, sweaty, feverish shit that coughs and exists in a purgatory between life and death, a hot place where you shiver from internal flames of malaise.
So, it's agreed upon that being sick is bad, despite it's anti-Snape principles. It's simply not worth it, since going to Potions is like being sick anyway, so is it really any different? No, it's not.
Anyway, being sick sucks and causes pain, misery, suicidal thoughts, and blurred lines of judgement. As such, Harry Potter became uncharacteristically tense and frustrated when he suspected that Ron had come down with a cold. Oh, hell, it could even be flu! Like a million people die of flu! It's kicking car crashes in the nads in the killing people department. Of course, Wizards had no cure better than the Muggles did, because they decided inventing spells to make clams dance and grow bright pink mushrooms faster was a far better use of any leisure time. They're a mad lot, but are God's Chosen people, as Lucius enjoys reminding anyone with revolting Muggle blood in their veins.
So Harry is worried and frantic, and tends to snap at Hermione when she interrupts one of his Ron observation missions. Harry has said Bless you, Salut, or Gottzeiunteit every time Ron has had a nasal spasm. It's embarrassing for the poor redhead, really, Harry's getting a bit too worried. Of course, Harry staring at him and helping him at every turn is far from a bad thing, but Ron wishes it didn't have to come under the circumstances of his body decaying from within.
When Ron first began to pale, the fire in his cheeks fading to the whitened ash of dead pyres, Harry noticed straight away. He already spent plenty of time Ron gazing you see, he had perfected the art by looking through the crystal balls in Divination, they never showed anything else, really. Harry was an artist at watching Ron, he would pretend to need to polish his glasses, and blink exaggeratedly in the manner that all normal sighted people expect from those bespectacled. He also feigned a need to focus, and would squint his eyes at Ron, and inch closer to him, as if regarding an alien blob. Of course, Harry could see Ron quite well, but people with poor vision and subsequent glasses always get a silent period of grace and unspoken sympathy while they have eye issues, the normal sighted ones just stare sadly, as if looking at a paraplegic. Harry was also the absolute fucking overlord of looking at Ron through his black bangs, he would use them as a wall to hide his peeping green eyes from being discovered by the blue twin orbs that Harry so deeply wishes to drown in.
Harry had promptly sent Ron to Poppy at first sight of possible illness, but she dismissed it as allergies, Ron had professed to Harry that his long nose made him a target for pollen and dander, and the various familiars kept inside Hogwarts did no help to prevent ickle Ronnie from sneezing constantly at high allergy season. Harry was unsatisfied, but let Ron continue classes with the wariness of a mother who knows the dark truth, but does not divulge it, for fear of amplifying its wrath, lest the name give he thing more power. He kept his concerns to himself, with this logic for a good 7 minutes before he exploded to Hermione, who gave him an incredulous look of the skeptical nature that doctors and omniscients usually have. She said he was being over-protective and advised rest and liquids, like every cliché person ever to be consulted about sickness. She decided to keep other, delicate, possibly Harry-wrath-calling theories to herself. She smiled to herself as Harry insisted on helping Ron sit down.
And so the days went by, Harry being a fastidious maternal figure hovering over Ron to prevent the inevitable spontaneous combustion that results from an allergy augmented bug. Quite a few kids had it, Neville among them, not surprisingly, but Harry seemed to brush this off, acting the way everybody else did, a very 'Well it's just a cold' manner. Which was normal. What wasn't normal was Harry bullying poor Ron into carrying a flask of water around to all his classes and insisting he drained the whole thing every hour. Ron set the bathroom trip record, and was nearly incinerated by McGonagall's glare the fourth time he asked to go during one period, where, of course, they had to have a big ole test on the Theory and ethics of creating life from inanimate objects. It was actually quite a deep topic, as many consider this heresy, but the Wizard Orthodox Church is a very strange institution, with about half a dozen extra gospels and a load of cut out biblical books. Harry would have found it rather engrossing had he not spent the entire class glancing at Ron, who was doing perfectly well except for his overactive bladder.
Hermione noted all this in her little mental files, measuring looks of concern, counting worried glances, and watching the subtle way Harry was constantly standing, one foot carrying all his weight, the other nearly off the ground, so that he would be able to efficiently throw himself into Ron, catching the blue eyed boy before he collapsed into the ground, into a deep coma. Harry seriously worried about Ron becoming comatose, and found himself writing a eulogy for Ron's funeral in the likely event of his death from this nigh bubonic disease. He used love several times in it and spent an awful lot of time talking about how much Ron meant to him. He planned to kiss the casket at the end of his speech. Juicy information and data Hermione wishes she knew about so she could make more accurate projections.
Dotingly, Harry has already put food on Ron's plate by the time the redhead arrives. He blushes as Seamus makes a married couple joke, not out of embarrassment of being married to Harry, but of other people being able to find out that he wishes he was by seeing that he is, in fact, blushing. Hermione herself notes no distinction, and thinks instead of the unrequited attracted that poor Harry exudes like an aura of raw desire. Ron is a talented liar, better than Harry or Hermione, his skills of deception are honed by years of Weasley tricks, unsupervised and non-Molly sanctioned adventures, and of course chess has given him a great poker face. He hides his thoughts on matrimony well. Harry doesn't notice, he has his nose buried in a book on dieting for those with serious diseases. Ron merely has a tenacious cold, but Harry's acting like it's the rare and recently created lethal strain of viruses called eboleprosy. Yes, he was in fact so worried that it warranted an addendum to the English language.
Ron sneezes while they play chess, and Harry absolutely flips. He's on the verge of angry tears and grabs Ron, and drags him over to the Common Room table where a variety of fresh fruits are available. Ron is ordered to eat the oranges, as Vitamin C fixes everything. Ron is them marched up to bed, and Harry has to push him (touching!) at several points. Ron has a Harry-specified bedtime these dark days of illness, the freckled one needs his rest, or else he'll just keel over in Herbology and die and Harry won't be able to go on.
Harry sits Ron down on his bed, and waits while Ron swallows the last of his orange, and then he looks at Harry expectantly. Harry is flustered because Ron has nothing to say for himself, after that little display. Harry is informed he's crazy. Harry says Ron's ungrateful. Ron make a motion to let it be known he is actually very grateful. Harry makes a defeated harrumph. Ron smiles apologetically as he sneezes again. Harry, rather suddenly, presses his cheek against Ron's forehead. What's he doing? He's taking your temperature, Ron is informed. Harry is accused of doing it wrong. How do you do it, then, Ron? This was how Petunia did it when Harry was ill, he didn't think there was any other way but the way of his relatives, so absolute was their control over his mind.
"It's supposed to be a kiss."
"Oh. On the forehead, though?"
"Yeah, yeah, of course."
"Like this?"
EXPLOSION! HOLY SHIT THAT WAS BEYOND WORDS! OH FUCK HARRY, AGAIN!
"Yeah. So, then what's the verdict?"
"You're hot."
"Haha. Um Harry, you know that was..."
"Double something? Entendre?"
"Yeah. I don't feel that hot, though."
"Let's try again."
But whether or not Ron's temperature was different or not, Harry would never know, because the redhead boy's lips had jumped into the place where his forehead was. Harry wasn't sure which of them had moved to cause this collision that made them both moan. Ron apologized hastily as he sneezed into Harry's mouth. Harry chortled.
"Maybe I'll get what you have."
"Yeah, we might both end up bed-ridden."
"That was like a million entendre Ron. Bed? Both of us? Ride?"
"Yeah, well, I was trying to get all the ideas across at once."
"You need to save time for something?"
"Yeah."
Tongues danced a close intimate waltz, the boys lazily tasted each other. Ron tastes of citrus eaten moments ago, and Harry was a mixture of a leathery musk and the unmistakable scent of sex that danced in the bodies of all boys who have spent several weeks lusting after vulnerable best friends. They kiss hard, and Ron gets a second wind, pushing Harry onto the bed.
Ron is hot to the touch, but human heat is always comfortable. Ron burns like a bonfire, his hair is darkened with sweat, his bluefire eyes blaze as frecklesparks dance on fair skin.
Harry is cool to the touch. He is the earth, eyes forest green, his skin in white and carved from porcelain. His hair is wild and dark, like the mane of an animal, and he bites like one too, leaving vampiric marks along Ron's neck.
They groan, Ron has managed to discard troublesome school robes, thrown into a black heap at the foot of Dean's bed. Harry does the same, and they break their kiss, but not their embrace. If all goes as planned, they shall never let go of each other.
White shirts are transparent and adhere to skin from sweat. Buttons are torn and scattered as they are ripped from bodies that ache for unity, ties are flung like gold and red snakes across the room to nest in the cave of dark fabric at the foot of Dean's bed.
Belts are not bothered with, hips are scratched as waistbands are forced over pelvis and other "bones". Boxers are removed, too, and the two boys are naked, sweating, and in love on Ron's bed. Heat comes from them in waves, the two could reflect your best freezing spell with force of will.
Lust burns in their eyes, this is what they both wanted, and have wanted for months, if not years. Harry's hot mouth travels from Ron's down, down, down to between Ron's legs. Harry starts slow, but soon he regains his animal intensity and Ron is screaming his name, clawing his fingers into Harry's hair and back. Their primal sides burst out, noises of pleasure and power issue from their throats, and Ron bellows like an ape when Harry makes him come. Ron is more than happy to return Harry's favor.
Later, when adrenaline, testosterone, and other various pheromones are depleted, Ron and Harry lie in a nude embrace under the sheets of Ron's bed. Silence is the language of old friends, neither speaks, for words are not needed. At this point, it is a formality, but the three small words are exchanged. They kiss and fall into sleep.
The next day, Ron recovered from his battle with sickness almost immediately.
A/N: well obviously the story is very loose, but its late at night. The end is, of course, utter chaos, but thats how it's supposed to be. Also, to mad martha or anyone who ever read two households 2 part 11, i mean no infringement by saying wizard orthodox church. I'm not stealing your stuff, we just had a darwin wallace thing with two people having the same phrase for almost the same thing. She totally would have won, though.
Review this, and read my other stuff, I hear some of it's pretty good