Disclaimer: Not mine
Dancing
They are in the middle of it. Doing it: life. All those middle-of-the night wake ups and all the almost entirely sleepless nights. Staying up much too late because they hunger for that elusive alone time. Regretting it always in the sharp morning light.
Mittens, hats, crayons, strewn all about the kitchen floors. Runny noses and bath time and shoes. Merlin, so many shoes, scattered all over their hallways.
He had a Muggle colleague, Thorpe, a couple of years back who was deep in his divorce proceedings while Bill and Fleur were still doing the old awkward dancing round the subject. Bill had not envied him back then and does so now even less. It's one thing to manage the every other week schedule when you can Floo and Portkey yourselves around but having to rely on Muggle transportation for it to work out sounds awful.
Hermione is pregnant again and Ron beams like a beacon. To everyone's collective horror she had subjected herself to some form of Muggle medicine and now knows – however that's possible – that they are having a boy. Rose is ecstatic, going round telling everyone that her baby brother is also going to be named 'Rose', after her. Or 'Tadpole', after her pet toad who himself had been baby once, you see.
It is late spring, bordering on early summer, but still quite cold and rainy. His mum had hoped they could eat outside tonight but a heavy downpour had put an end to those plans. Instead, they will have to cram themselves into the kitchen.
Weddings and divorces, kids and pets. Victoire's ballet lessons. Goblins and endless paperwork. It is easy, too easy perhaps, for anyone to lose their sense of self in the mess of it. To allow it to swallow you up. On occasion, Bill will catch his reluctant reflection in the bathroom mirror and not recognise himself. He still keeps his hair long. In defiance, perhaps. But where had those grey hairs come from, those fine lines in the corners of his eyes? He has no idea.
But by then it's bedtime and he lies beside her because she still wants him to even though she is eight. And her hand curls in his and he holds her close until she stops squirming and her breathing evens out, and everything makes perfect sense.
Almost.
He leaves them chatting and laughing in the sitting-room. He's restless and uncomfortable. Victoire left for Fleur's last night and the minute she disappeared among the emerald flames he began feeling it.
Once he'd overheard her, at the playground: "My dad's a werewolf, he can punch you on the nose!"
A new generation, a new way at looking at things. It should be good.
Tension has crept into his muscles, there is a vague ache between his shoulder blades. He needs to stretch or to run or preferably both. But he is stuck here for dinner.
At least they did not Floo in together. Not that it really changes anything but maybe it means something?
He's so sick of his own thoughts.
His skin feels so tight over his body. It itches like its drying and cracking. He'd not understood a word of what Angelina was saying to him. She could have talked about knotgrass or the national Quidditch quarter-finals or anything in between, for all he knows.
He flexes his fingers and the need to touch something grates through him.
They're back there, somewhere near the window overlooking the garden. Bill's eyes had followed them as they crossed the floor. He'd felt that pull in his body, an irritation in his teeth.
When the greetings and hugging were done away with, Charlie and Harry had crossed the room and come to stand by the window, not too close but not necessarily too far away from each other either. Bill had seen his brother's bright blue eyes fix on Harry and grow brighter still. And Harry, eternally slightly self-conscious, had given him a smile that Bill had loved and hated in equal measures.
He escapes into the hallway, swathed as it is in rain-washed shadows. Cloaks and coats and boots of every colour and size. An overwatered spleenwart droops in the small window by the door beside a stack of old schoolbooks.
The sound of mingled voices trickles along the floor, creeps over the threadbare carpet to gnaw at his feet. He swallows, closes his eyes and tries to not breathe but it doesn't much help. In fact, it doesn't help at all.
He could blame the waxing moon. He could blame Greyback, he supposes, though that would be unfair. Because Fenrir Greyback only bit him, only dragged his jagged claws down his cheek and caused the scars there. He never changed Bill's heart.
A sound. Faint at first but growing louder. Footfall.
Bill turns to the doorway, only half toying with the idea of evading this meeting. But the hunger is rising and it's too easy to give in.
He can taste Harry's hesitancy, but anyone could detect the sudden tightness in his voice. "Bill?"
"Yeah," he says, his own voice already on the rawer side. He takes a step forward.
Harry lifts his chin a fraction, as if he intends to fight this time. He swallows, too, though, and Bill takes another step.
The moving shadows weave over Harry's clean-shaven face. Outside, cold rain is soaking the earth and rushing through leafless branches. They are all still stuck in this perpetually grey world. This grey area.
"How you been?" Bill asks, voice low.
Half an awkward shrug. "OK."
"He's taking care of you?"
Harry makes a face, like he dismisses the idea. Is denying his needs. "He does his best."
"I bet he does."
"Bill…" It is a plea, perhaps, to leave the debate be.
"Let me see you."
Harry opens his mouth and looks to be on the verge of saying something but the words never come. Instead, he throws a glance over his shoulder. Uncertainty goes to war within him, Bill can tell. Because it usually does. But it very rarely wins.
Bill is very aware of his own breathing as Harry slowly closes the distance between them. A faint drumming begins somewhere in his body and it urges him on. Harry is wearing a dress shirt the colour of the building storm outside and the light in his eyes is skittish. His gaze flits from Bill's mouth to his chest to his eyes. The drumming gains control of Bill's right hand. It pounds in his ears as he moves to touch, and he cups the back of Harry's head. Behind his spectacles, Harry's eyes go wide. As if he hadn't known this was coming.
He looks closely into Harry's face. Searches it and hates himself when pleasure stickily slides down his spine at his discoveries. Were he a better man, William Weasley would not wish to find the old ghosts there, waltzing in the depths of that green gaze, but he is not that man.
"You still dream?" His voice is a rasp now.
"Yes," says Harry, his voice faint. And with the admission, something changes in his face and the way he is standing. A hardness collects in him and sharpens his jawline.
Bill knows the nightmares. His are different from Harry's but he can relate. He moves again, drags the pad of his thumb over Harry's mouth.
He does not need to ask.
The kiss is bruising. It is like nothing Charlie could offer. Charlie with his sparkling eyes and ready smiles and carefree spirit.
Bill dives deep, pushes his tongue into Harry's mouth in a surge of desire. Harry's hands fist in his t-shirt and he opens up completely. He lets Bill do what he likes, melts into him, relies on him to steer their way through the turns. Bill chases the bitter memories he finds under Harry's well-dressed surface. He growls at them, bites at them, cows them. His tongue tip teases Harry's lower lip, his hands find their way into the black hair and the silky softness contrasts so starkly against his own feral cravings.
A small moan escapes Harry and Bill feeds on it. He spins them round, backs Harry up against the wall, deeper into the shadows. Harry's glasses are discarded somewhere in the process. Bill covers all of him and Harry yields without objections.
He nudges a knee between Harry's thighs, faded denim scratching fine wool. The monsters scream from the edges of his conscience. They howl and holler but Bill's in control now. In their faces, before their yellowed eyes, he works his hands under Harry's shirt to map the flat plain of his belly. When their screams reach a high enough pitch, he ends the latest kiss on a hiss, and presses his flaming forehead against Harry's.
Harry will tell you that his scar has stopped hurting. He'll tell Mrs Weasley and Ron and Hermione that. He'll say the same to Charlie. Perhaps he has even convinced himself of it. But Bill knows better. He absorbs the dull pounding in Harry's head and the decades-old, ever lingering prickle of fear – he channels it all through his own frustration and pent-up desires. In the back of his throat he tastes dead saltwater and dirt, and the sickly green light that once upon a time burst from a wand tip in Godric's Hollow.
By then, Harry's hands are on his hips. He fumbles with the top button of Bill's jeans, cannot seem to get his own fingers under control. He whimpers, even as he tries and fails again. Bill grinds against him, not helping, but he is hard now and so is Harry and he is desperate.
With jeans, trousers and underwear all pushed down, Harry's straining cock, weeping at the tip, bumps against Bill's. They kiss again, a messy collision of mouths. Hands move. A quick charm is muttered against burning skin. Harry turns. And then Bill is there, so close, for a frantic heartbeat teetering on the edge. Then he pushes inside.
He takes up space. Lays a claim and forces the shadowy foes in Harry's mind to shrink back. Red eyes with slitted pupils narrow. Bill pushes deeper. He makes the rules now. He'll make them dance for him.
He takes Harry's pounding prick in a firm grasp and strokes. Harry drops his head. His exhale is a frayed and fragile thing as it falls from his lips. He is trembling. Bill continues to stroke, pulls his hips back and slams them forward again. When he can no longer think, he bites into Harry's shirt-covered shoulder and a furious scream echoes in the bottomless folds of memory.
After that, the waters calm. Bill finds Harry's throat with his mouth and kisses him, gentler now. Harry lifts his head a little. He moves, too, into freedom, as Bill sets a softer pace. With his thumb, Bill teases the head of Harry's cock and the younger man lets go of a shaky, breathy laugh. Their mouths meet again.
They bring each other over. Harry's release is beautiful to watch and Bill sways with him, emptying himself, finally, in Harry's welcoming depths.
His mind clears gradually. He presses his cheek against Harry's hair and breathes in the scent of sweat and rain. He lets Harry's prick go and hugs him to his chest and battered heart instead.
If it only ended here.
He gives them a little more time, but not much. Soon he comes, tight-fitting blue jeans and sun-yellow jumper, and his blue eyes are piercing in the shifting shadows.
Harry turns in Bill's arms. His shirt is creased but it doesn't matter. With a swipe of a wand, all traces of his union with Bill can be erased in an instant.
As if to prove a point, Bill tucks Harry's soft cock away, slowly. He does, however, have shame enough to cover himself up discreetly. But of his treatment of Harry, he makes a show.
Charlie's normally open face is closed as he watches them untangle. If Harry's palm lingers longer than necessary on Bill's arm, or if his expressive eyes fix on Bill's own too intently, Charlie doesn't remark on it. But he stands there, refusing to back down.
The rain beats down on The Burrow as Harry slips from Bill's grasp and leaves an endless void behind. He walks up to the other brother, the one who can never completely understand him – who is too optimistic and easy-going to handle looking into the dense darkness that hovers just beyond reach – but who fills Harry's world with laughter instead.
"You done?" he asks, quietly.
"Yeah."
No.
Harry looks more relaxed now. He shouldn't, but he does.
Charlie's eyes meet with Bill's in the gloom and the gathering dusk. He inclines his head ever so slightly.
"Thanks," he says, in a strained voice, while wishing he wouldn't have to because this is a fucked-up arrangement. But he is grateful and Bill knows as much for they have danced this dance for quite some time now.
He says nothing in return. He could, he supposes, but that would upend things and he'd risk never holding Harry again. Because Harry will never be his, he's quite certain. Wouldn't really gain anything from it. No, he only needs an outlet at times – someone to lean on who knows what it is to wade through the mires of worn-out memories. To spin out of control with. In the long run, he's probably better off with somebody who doesn't give in to the dark so easily. It is just unfortunate that it's Bill's arms that have to be left echoingly empty. It's just unfortunate that it's his heart that has to remain broken.
In the hallway, Charlie drops a firm, possessive hand to Harry's shoulder and is already turning away, towards the rest of the family and the lights. He makes ready to hold hands and smile again by the window.
Bill watches them go, suddenly bone tired. The ache between his shoulder blades is returning but it is different now: now it only makes him feel old.
He makes it through dinner by not looking at them, side by side at the table. Not long after the table has been cleared he heads for the kitchen and the fireplace.
There he stands, Floo powder in one hand and in the other a drawing of Tadpole that Rose has made for Victoire. And he is about to throw the powder onto the flames when he hears him coming.
Harry hesitates on the threshold. He is pale.
Bill lowers his hand. This never happens.
"Are you OK?"
Harry only nods. His gaze locks with Bill's but he says nothing.
Concern begins to weave its way into Bill's mind. A bit of Floo powder slips from between his fingers and drifts downward in a faintly shimmering cloud.
"Does it hurt?" His scar, his heart, his soul?
"No."
Harry is looking at him, eyes searching his face, but Bill is too confused to read him properly. This is not part of the deal. They confine their arrangement to dark corners and unlit rooms. The kitchen at The Burrow is too cosy and cheerful, too welcoming and warm.
His throat is tightening. He watches as Harry slides over the threshold. Harry is messing up their realities. He is not supposed to be looking at Bill like this while Bill is holding a drawing that Rose has made for his daughter.
More Floo powder idly sinks to land on the carpet. Bill finds himself unable to move as Harry closes more of the distance between them. When Bill can see the blend of different shades of green in Harry's eyes, his heart begins to hammer hard in his breast.
"I don't mean to..." Harry begins, but he falters, voice lost to the stuffy air.
Then he joins their mouths together.
Bill wouldn't much mind doing life if it wasn't so damn messy.
He kisses back, awkwardly at first, but they find a rhythm, a new one, and Bill leaves dusty handprints in the small of Harry's back. Harry applies only soft pressure and it is a devastating discovery: that it can be like this with him.
When they part, Harry's eyes are shining and it makes something hot-cold and almost acidic squirm its way through Bill's stomach. He is well-travelled on the paths that lead to the pitch-black pits and chasms of Harry's soul, but here before him are suddenly heights, gleaming.
Gentle fingertips come to trace the old ugly scars on Bill's cheek. Others have done it before in their different ways, but Harry knows scars.
"I don't..." he tries again, but Bill stops him.
He shakes his head, disrupts the flow of Harry's touch. "You should go back." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in ages.
Harry's hand falls to his side. He is so pale. So entrancing. His lips are still slightly reddened. Bill swallows hard.
"It's not that I don't want it," he adds. It comes out in a ragged whisper.
He no longer cares to remember how it began, but though he loves Harry, Charlie is his brother and he loves him too.
He loves Harry so fucking much.
The emerald flames rise to consume him as he steps into the fireplace. Through them, he can dimly see Harry's back, and the moving light makes the way he retreats look like he is dancing.
End