AN: Written for WingardiumRomione with the ask "Bad Habits by Ed Sheeran". Trigger warning for PTSD, depression and alcohol abuse.
The room spins as Ron raises his hand in the air, signalling for the bartender's attention.
"One more," he slurs, without niceties, as he pushes the empty tumbler towards the server.
"Haven't you had enough?"
Ron shakes his head. "Nowhere near it, mate."
The bartender eyes Ron for a moment before turning with a shrug to fill up the glass. It's a clear liquid this time, perhaps sambuca or vodka. The redhead stopped caring after the fifth one.
He shouldn't be here, but at least the place brings him comfort. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke fills the air, mingling on his tongue with the taste of the liquor, heightening the seconds of pleasure the drink gives him before it sends him spiralling further into his deep, dark depression.
These nights sat in a pub began as an opportunity for the survivors of the war to get together and remember those they'd lost. But it didn't take long for the long nights in gloomy bars to turn into a coping mechanism. Where the others have moved on with their lives, Ron still sits here, swapping the Leaky for Muggle taverns where nobody knows who he is.
This way, none of the important people in his life can seek him out and admonish him for his drinking.
Not that they haven't tried. Bill, Percy, George, Harry, Hermione. They've all wrapped their fingers around his and tried to prise the cold glass from his firm grip, but the resulting sobriety only lasts until the next thing goes wrong. One fuck up at training or a heated exchange with his mum, and Ron finds himself sitting at a sticky bartop, pissing away his generous reward money on alcohol and hangovers.
Ron has a lot to feel awful about, too: He's close to losing his position at the Auror Training Academy. He's pretty sure his mum is about ready to throw him out. Harry doesn't even need to open his mouth to let Ron know how disappointing he's acting, and his brothers only speak to him in lectures and 'be careful's'.
"Cheers, mate." The words tumble out as one, gaining a sigh from the barkeep on the other side of the counter.
"It's your last one, so make the most of it." The waiter slides a pint of water towards Ron, too, then takes the pile of coins Ron spills onto the wood, counting out enough to cover the bill before pushing back the rest.
The burn of the liquor traces down Ron's throat as he takes a sip. When the glass is back on the counter, he spots the blonde woman who slid into the seat next to him over half an hour ago, still yammering away. He'd forgotten about her for a moment and is surprised she's still there, considering his apparent disinterest.
"So anyway, Sheila said that the yoghurt was hers, but she'd told Frank to eat it. That makes it his fault that it was sat in the fridge growing mould." Her high-pitched cackle penetrates the cotton wool walls of his ears, the sound muffling enough to stop Ron from making sense of what she's saying.
Who the fuck are Sheila and Frank? Who the fuck is this woman? She must have introduced herself during their time together, but Ron didn't care enough to retain the information.
Felicity? Verity? Mandy?
Nope. None of the names rings a bell or suits the dark-skinned woman, now regaling Ron with stories about when she went to Ladies Day at Ascot.
What the fuck is an Ascot? It all means nothing to Ron.
Training his unfocused eyes on her, he attempts to rest his elbow on the counter but misses, almost bashing his head against the dirty wood. That's all I need now, a concussion on top of a hangover. Fucking brilliant. His new pal doesn't notice the slip and continues with her storytelling as if Ron is a rapturous listener.
As he tries his best to tune out the woman—Sarah? Laura?—'s voice, Ron's thoughts drift to the only woman he should be spending time with right now. Of course, he has no difficulties in remembering her name; he's said it many times over the past eight years he's known her.
She's Hermione when he's mad at her and 'Mione when they're friends again. He breathes the four syllables of her name whilst alone in bed, his cock hard in his hand as he imagines her warm lips wrapped around it. He murmured 'Er-my-nee as he recovered from his poisoning.
He wants to be with her. Their kiss in the Room of Requirements was supposed to signal the start of a fantastic relationship. But Ron chose to partner with a bottle of Jack over facing his demons, and soon, they drifted apart.
Fed up of the yearning and pining, he makes a quick decision to see her right now.
Taking a moment to regain his balance after sliding off his stool, he grasps the glass and pours the last of his drink into his mouth. If he has enough liquid courage in his system, then maybe he can confess his true feelings to Hermione and ask for the help he desperately needs.
Without saying goodbye to his friend—Charlotte? Chloe?—he stumbles from the bar, bouncing off a wooden chair, catching his hip on the shoulder of a pub patron and walking smack into the corner of an alcove before finding the entrance and pushing the door open. The squeak of the hinge grates in his head, causing a wave of nausea to bubble in his stomach. He regrets the six drinks he inhaled earlier as the entire contents of his belly threatens to travel north.
⁂
In a blink of an eye, Ron is at Hermione's flat. He's not sure how he got there, but he's confident he hasn't apparated since all his limbs are intact. Taking the final step with confidence, Ron catches his toe on the carpet, sending him flying against the door with a loud thunk. He lands with his head resting on the hedgehog-like doormat, the words 'Welcome' glaring up at him in big thick black letters.
"Bet I'm not bloody welcome here, though, you liar," he tells the rug. "Not in this fucking state. You watch Hermione kill me when she sees me. Or hexes my balls off. Or maybe both. Maybe it's just better to go home?"
But he doesn't move. He doesn't even think he can anymore. His arms and legs weight him down like a boulder in the sea. He's doomed for, either way, so he might as well face whatever punishment she decides to dole out.
It doesn't take long for the door to open and a tut to cut through the silence of the hallway. It must be late, as Hermione is in her pyjamas, her wild curly hair pulled into a high ponytail. He hates that. Her hair exists to have fingers raked through it and his nose buried in it. No guilt comes at the thought of him waking her up, even as he takes in her pale face, still full of sleep and pale.
"Ron?" Of course, she's surprised to see him. It's been weeks, maybe even months. They've drifted apart; a bottle of tequila or vodka has wedged itself between them. Still, her voice is soft. At least she's no longer angry with him. "What are you doing here, and why are you on the floor?"
The burn of tears prick at his eyes, but he puts it down to the amount of alcohol he's drunk tonight, rather than the devastating realisation of how much he fucking misses her. It's not that they're not talking, just that they haven't made time for each other. Yet, he's still gravitated towards her because he knows only she can sort him out.
And he wants to get better. He wants to seek comfort out from Hermione, not the bottom of a bottle.
Ron opens his mouth, but no words fall out. Instead, racking sobs consume his body, taking him by surprise. He's used to showing his stronger side and never letting his emotions get the better of him. He needs to stand up and be strong, show Hermione that he's doing well, but wave after wave of debilitating grief crashes over him, leaving him as a pathetic crying mess on her hallway floor.
Everything is not okay.
Hermione sighs before squatting next to his body. "Why don't you come inside before the neighbours spot you."
Although he doesn't want the help, he allows her to slip a thin arm around his body and pull him to his feet. He puts all his weight against her tiny frame, which still hasn't had a chance to catch up after months on the run and eating nothing but mushrooms, berries and mouldy bread. His vision swims from the mixture of booze and tears, but he's walked the carpets of this flat so many times to know she's steering him towards the sofa.
"No. Bedtime," he mumbles, wiping his nose and eyes with his spare hand. It doesn't take much energy for him to change their direction, and they stumble towards her bedroom.
In a blink of an eye, Ron is lying amongst a soft burrow of warm blankets and duvets. A smell that is unequivocally Hermione—raspberry, new parchment, honey—envelopes him as he rests his head on the pillow.
His shoes and jeans are missing, but he slips his hand down his body to check he's not entirely naked. No, his shirt and boxers are still there. He's dreamed about this moment for so long, yet it's not as sexy as his fantasies. He's the least desirable right now; snotty, with red eyes and shoulders heaving with every sob.
Hermione tucks in him. She whispers about water in his ear, but his eyelids are already heavy, drooping closed and putting a stop to the burning tears.
She's the only person he'll allow to see him this way, but he pulls the duvet further over his head to hide it from her. As sleep steals him away, bringing a small amount of comfort to his broken soul, a weight climbs back onto the bed. The clink of glass on the bedside table next to his head rouses him just enough to pull her close as she curls up next to him.
He doesn't deserve this, Hermione is too good for him, but he's too far gone now to worry if he's using her or what might happen when they wake up in the morning, and she realises just how disgusting a human being he is.
Soft fingertips stroke the hair at the nape of his neck as the last tendrils of consciousness escape him.
Hermione whispers, "I wish you would just let me in. I can help you, Ron. Please allow me to try."
The words are sobering. Maybe Ron should give it a go. It has to be better than living his life from beer bottles to burning shot glasses. Being wrapped up in Hermione makes everything better, but he isn't a fool. There's a tangle of damage to unravel and too many ignored emotions for him to believe the recovery will be as straightforward as a cuddle at bedtime. But the hours with mind-healers will be worth it if she promises to stay close.
He can survive this, just as he survived the devastating effect the Horcrux had on him and everything else they've been through so far.
Together.
A kiss flutters near Ron's temple, and he returns it, sloppy, wet and hot on Hermione's cheek, but then he's fast asleep and finally feels nothing at all.