His hair, his freckles, his lanky limbs were more unique that his best mate's yet he was still second place. Ron resented his friend and all he naively stood for. Fighting for this and go under cover for that; Ron lived for adventure, but liked it when he was the lead role. He wanted his stage set and for the orchestra to start straight at the crescendo because he was about to change the plot of his play.

Pale skin with blue eyes that were permanently in slits, watching for predators or more precious, prey. Draco's hair fell into his face, hair color merging into skin color, the lightest tone of skin as if he didn't have blood. Ron could see Draco's thin hands from the corner of the Potions dungeon, measuring rat's tails and porcupine pricks. His motions were slow, crisp, deliberate. Ron watched.

Flashes of black hair and that cursed forhead were in Ron's mind as he shut his eyes. His body was tense (from thoughts of Harry? touches from Draco?). Ron's face was into Draco's, their mouths were their speakers; silenced by suffocation into each other. Their hairs merged and from above looked like fire and ice. Ron pressed his hips into Draco's everytime one touched the others face with handsome hands.

Casually, Ron stepped out of the broom cupboard striding down the dusk-lightened corridor. His shirt was untucked from his pants.

--

Up in the boy's dormitory, Harry smiled and laughed while talking with Seamus and Hermione. Mione sat with a closed mouth laugh and a leg relaxed over Harry's. Ron smiled as he laughed too, for a different reason, for a different person, for a different play.