Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare: NOW Edition. Much love to my Beta, iwasbotwp.
Song Prompt - Against All Odds (Take A Look At Me Now) - Phil Collins
Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this creation.
I can tell from the way Ron is refusing to look me in the eye that he is going to leave. It isn't the first time.
We're standing in the front hall of my home, having the same polite disagreement we've had so many times before. He isn't raising his voice, he doesn't like to hurt me, but he's slowly moving closer to the door. I've noticed, even if he hasn't, even if he doesn't mean to.
"Please, Harry." The whining tone in his voice makes me more irritated than sympathetic because I know what comes next. "Just let me take you out. Who cares what they say? Who cares if our picture winds up in The Prophet ?!"
He's getting agitated, frustrated. I can tell by the way he clenches his fists at his sides, the way the muscles in his forearms bunch tightly, even as he tries to smile casually. The guilt creeps up on me again and I look down at my shoes.
We've always been a bit like oil and water, Ron and I. On the surface, we have so many things in common that it took some time for the ways in which we are fundamentally incompatible to creep up on me. He must have noticed too, but we never talk about it.
Ron had always craved the spotlight while I hid from it at every turn. Neither of these things was ever likely to change. There is really no way for the two of us to exist in public as a couple and keep our privacy, we both know it. But every time we have this conversation, it becomes a little more obvious to me that he isn't going to stop wanting that attention and he resents me for denying him.
The bottom line is that I don't need the whole world to know who I'm dating, and I would feel the same way if it were anyone else. It's enough, for me, that I love him and he returns my affections. Ron would prefer to shout his love from the rooftops. He told me once that he needs everyone to know I belong to him and that nobody else can have me.
I'm not very good at compromises.
"I'm sorry, Ron. I can't." I whisper the words as though it might prevent him from hearing my shame, from bearing it.
He lets me have things my way. The unfortunate side effect is that he hates it. He feels like he isn't good enough, like he's my dirty little secret. Then we fight and the cycle starts over.
Love has a funny way of making you hope for the best outcome even when it's as plain as the nose on your face that it's nearly an impossibility.
We weren't always in love, of course, there was a time when our friendship was untainted by the extra feelings that come with romantic entanglements, like a burden nobody asks for. We had an easy camaraderie for so many years. Some days I miss when I could look at his body without the heat of interest and arousal rising under my collar. My memories remind me there was a time before I ever found myself staring at his lips or losing myself in his blue eyes.
I can still remember the moment it changed.
We were in that blasted tent in the Forest of Dean and I could see them arguing, Hermione and Ron. I thought they were in love; I thought the ache in my chest as I watched their angry, whispered exchange was guilt for the strain I was putting on them.
And then he left and I knew how wrong I had been.
I tried to keep it from Hermione, thinking it wasn't my place to disrupt their already fraught relationship, but she saw right through me. She told me there was nothing to disrupt, she knew deep down they would only ever be friends, and I'll never forget that first cruel bloom of hope in my chest.
She cried with me when I confessed I was in love with him. We didn't know, then, how he felt about me. Given the fact that he'd just left us there in the middle of a crisis situation, I had every reason to believe I might have lost one of my closest friendships. It nearly went without saying that my romantic designs would never be reciprocated. The first time he left me, he wasn't mine to lose yet, but it hurt just the same.
It took weeks to adjust to my newly admitted feelings. The affection I had always felt for him was unchanged, but there was a new possessiveness about that affection that took me by surprise. I didn't want to share him, I wanted him to be mine . Mostly, I wanted him to come back. Eventually, he did.
I told him the truth after the Battle of Hogwarts, all our grief be damned. Keeping it from him any longer felt wrong. I was convinced my feelings would never be reciprocated, but against all odds, his interest was immediate and intense.
We came together in turmoil and with tears. It's a peculiar thing, to transition from friends to lovers over the course of a single conversation, but even more so when there is grief involved. Our first kiss, a soft and exploratory moment of bliss I recall vividly, came after a particularly difficult funeral. We learned that day that it was sometimes easier to take comfort in intimacy.
Ron struggled a lot with his brother's death and it was like a delicate balancing act, trying to figure out when he needed his best friend to grab a pint with him or when he wanted to be pinned down and snogged until he could forget for a while.
It gave us a weird sense of boundaries for months, where we didn't really exist separately, only as two different versions of us, the public and the private. Looking back, I'm pretty sure Ron would have been happy to merge the two even then, but I resisted and he knew me so well that he understood right away that it was about me not wanting commentary on my love life in the press. At least, I thought he understood.
But it was still beautiful, in those moments when everyone else couldn't see us, to have someone like him to hold. Those moments were my solace and my undoing.
He means everything to me; so much that I have to swallow my impulse to chase after him every time he leaves. There are places he knows I won't follow. He always comes back contrite, but it still breaks me a little when he goes.
Part of me knew that we would be doomed as soon as it started. It was easier to convince myself he was changed, as though he had been flawed to begin with, than it was to see him for who he is. I was selfish, I didn't want to see his desires, which were so different from mine, as valid. I wanted him to be everything I needed him to be. Maybe I've been the problem all along.
"What do I have to do?" He raises his voice, I can see his self-control is splintering. "What else can I do, for you to stop being ashamed of me―"
"―That isn't fair, Ron! You know I'm not ashamed of you!" Disappointment bubbles in my gut as I'm faced with having to defend my feelings or compromise my boundaries, again. "It's not about you, I just want a―"
"―A quiet life. I know. You've told me so many times." He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I just want to live my life with the man I love. I don't want to hide away like this."
He sets his jaw, lifting his chin slightly, and I know he is about to say something unpleasant. It's been three years since the war, I know all his tells. He's always worn his feelings on his sleeve, but these days I can read him like a book.
"You're right about one thing, Harry. It's not about me. It's never been about me."
His words are like a paper cut, there's a sharp, immediate sting to them. It fades quickly, but I'm left with a surprisingly painful reminder and I know it will hurt every time I touch it for days to come. The truth is, I know he deserves better than what I can give him. I can't be what he needs. But I love him. And he's right; that's about me.
His eyes soften when he sees my face and I find myself thinking of what he looked like just this morning, lying tangled in my sheets as the sunrise slowly lit up his freckles, one patch of skin at a time. I think of his soft skin and hard muscle under my fingertips. I remember his warm lips, his hot breath, the way he hummed into my mouth when he kissed me.
It was only a few hours ago, but the agony of change weighs heavily over the time that passed between then and now.
He's watching me, as though he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I try to smile at him, but he shakes his head a little and I feel my breath catch at the sadness on his face.
"I'm done, Harry." Ron's eyes hold mine for several long, painful seconds, the ghost of tears clinging to his lashes. "I just can't do this anymore."
I watch him turn and walk away. I know I should do something, say anything, because his words felt final and I don't know if I can breathe. He might as well have put me in a full-body bind. All I can do is watch him leave.
It's not the first time, but I think it might be the last.
He's almost at the door and I wish he would turn around. I can't bear the thought of him not looking back before he goes. Every single thing I've never said to him spins around in my mind and the urge to call out to him and offer him anything he wants, if only he'll stay, is so strong I can feel the words dancing on my tongue.
I know I would regret it. I would resent him and we would end up here again. But, surely giving up my privacy is better than losing him?
The door slams, bringing me back to earth in time to stare at the empty space he was just standing in. My face is wet with tears, but I make no effort to wipe them away. There's a rogue hope rising in my chest that he'll come back to me, the way he has every time before. The odds are against me; I know I need him more than he ever really needed me, but all I can do is wait.
The man I love is gone. And this time, I know my love is not enough to bring him back. I let him go.