Hang: A Drabble by Drusilla Williams
Some where between Dumbledore's death and McGonagall's promotion to Headmaster, though she tried to deny it countless times, this had become a ritual. Usually on a rainy, stormy night, Ron would feel the shift of the bed, feel it sink as new weight had been added, and feel the new body, hard, and fragile, and crawl up his own. The soft lips pressed against his neck came next. And from there, things would just go, natural and awkward at the same time.
There had been times when it wasn't raining and he joined him. There had been times when it was only because of a nightmare or simply because he didn't want to be alone. Ron never turned him away. At first it had been strange. At first, the idea appalled him but he couldn't push him away even then. And their nightly ritual had begun. Ron would lie awake at night and wondered if his new found lover, if that's what you would call him, would join him or not. Soon enough, he would hear the footsteps as they entered, hear the steady heartbeat as it joined his own, feel the warm, sweet breath that would graze his cheek. Whispered words of nothing at all could be heard but only between them.
In the past, there had been times when his best friend had crawled into bed and they had simply slept, purely platonic, nothing more and nothing less. That had started their second year together, the first time at the burrow. Ron had been content then and it started more frequently until the fourth year when girls started getting involved and Harry had fallen for Cho. Then, sharing the same bed came less and less until finally, Harry didn't need the reassurance of Ron's body next to his own to scare the bad dreams away. Ron had to get used to the feel of the single bed only holding one person as it was meant to, instead of holding two like he was used to. But the feeling of abandonment came and went quickly until one night. A night just like any other, two months after Dumbledore's death, Ron felt the shift of his old bed, felt it sink as Harry joined him. Only this time, instead of just sleeping like they used to, Harry asked for something more.
And even though Ron was in a new relationship with his other best friend, he complied with Harry's request, swallowing his doubt, his fears of what could happen, of what could be. And for the first time, even though he had done this particular dance with Hermione many times, he felt complete. He felt right, the world felt right, everything was at piece, and it was all because of his best friend.
Tonight, there was something different in the air when Harry joined Ron in the bed. Instead of his usual quiet, soft hiccups were emitting from his mouth. Instead of almost dull, dead eyes, they were shinning, glimmering, and holding life in them. Instead of confident touches, they were shy, soft, and almost altogether non-existent. Ron shifted slightly, moving to sit up and see more of his face.
His cheeks were flushed, red, and moist. His green eyes were watering and his scare was inflamed, harsh, and almost looked new. But, even though most would have thought that Harry was crying because of his scar, Ron knew it was something else entirely by just a look. Ron now made sure he was sitting up erect as he collected Harry in his arms, pulling the other lanky form to him and holding Harry to him. His fingers ran through raven locks. He whispered soft sweet songs of reassurance, and he listened contently as Harry only wept in his arms.
And for tonight, there was no rush of divesting clothes. There were no harsh pants or guttural sounds filling the room. There was nothing that disturbed the peace of the room. Tonight, there were only two friends, two best friends, two lovers, who found solace in the others arms. And for Ron, tonight was the last night he'd ever feel empty again.
Fin