Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter!

Warnings: language, some very un-brotherly action between Harry and George

Chapter 6: Paper Hearts

Ron watched as Harry packed his suitcase. His heart throbbed painfully, but he was unable to say anything. He'd really fucked up. Harry's long raven hair slipped into his face, and Ron longed to brush it from those emerald orbs. But he knew Harry would push him away. Ron had hurt him.

"I'll be back later, for my equipment." Harry declared in a cold voice.

Ron bit his tongue and barely kept himself from wincing. "Where are you staying?"

"George," Harry muttered. He waved his wand and the suitcase became pocket-sized. Harry stuffed it into his robes and turned to face Ron. His eyes were guarded, impenetrable…cold. They were not the eyes Ron was used to seeing.

He wanted to apologize, wanted to get on his knees and beg Harry to stay. He wanted to kill George. He wanted to pull Harry into a tight embrace and never let him go.

Instead, he watched Harry walk out of the bedroom. Ron heard the fire flare, and he knew Harry had left. Ron let himself fall to Harry's bed, his head hitting the rumpled pillow. Harry's scent, ingrained in his memory from the night Ron had held him close, wafted into Ron's nose. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the tears that threatened to spill.

Meanwhile, George held Harry close. It was a comforting hug, not like the ones they had shared in the past. The ones meant for another, but used on each other to ease their pain. Harry's tears soaked into his shirt, and George held him closer. Now Harry was with him as a friend desperately in need of comfort. Perhaps, in a couple of days, Harry would be in George's arms as a replacement George's heartthrob, and Harry would be seeing Ron's face.

They'd never had sex. Harry just couldn't bring himself to allow it. That would have been taking their relationship one step too far. George understood, and he didn't complain. The blow jobs were brilliant, the kissing was amazing… George knew that Harry would be utterly destroyed if he allowed George to thrust into any part of him that wasn't his mouth…because as much as they pretended, George wasn't Ron.

Later that night, Harry was curled up in George's arms, staring at dying embers of the fire. He'd cried himself hoarse, and he was exhausted, but he couldn't find sleep. It was impossible. George lifted his wand arm and waved it at the radio. It turned on, and picked up a muggle country station. (It was failed to be mentioned that George currently resides in the United States, far from the painful memories of his lost love.)

Harry exhaled and listened to the slow twang of the song. It wasn't one of those happy ones, or one of those slow love songs that idiot men used to seduce their lovers. It was one of those rare ones that screamed utter agony, one of those songs that just bled with the pain of heartache.

His mind raced, and he closed his eyes. He needed to forget everything, if only for a few hours. He sat up and then moved so that he was straddling George's lap. They kissed. The kiss was one of desperation and pain. It was brutal…a violent display of their sorrows. George pushed Harry onto his back on the couch, still kissing him. His hands moved up and down Harry's body roughly. George didn't have to be gentle with his pretend-love.

Their clothes disappeared quickly, and soon they were at opposite ends, sucking each other's cocks earnestly. George finished first, because he'd never been able to hold out against Harry's ability to swallow him whole. Satisfied, George focused on Harry. His hands held Harry's hips, pinning them to the rough floor. He did not watch Harry when his climax came. He tried to ignore Harry's cries, tried to ignore Ron's name coming from his lips. If he didn't, it would ruin the fantasy.

The next morning Harry had finished writing the lyrics for his newest song. He would record it later, but for now he wanted to think of a title. All that kept running through his head was the image of his best friend, staring at him with a blank expression as he walked away. His heart ached, but he finally thought of a title for the song: paper hearts.