nekare

I like this one quite a lot, and I actually dreamt about this the night before (why yes, it was a nice dream). Apparently though, I fail at chritmacy vibes, 'cause this is angsty as hell.

Title: Closeness
Raiting: PG-13
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Word Count: 841
Author Notes: Written for the 'All I want for Christmas is you' challenge over harry_and_ron. Beta-ed by why_me_why_not.


Hermione will be all right, the Healers say, but she won’t be able to walk for a month.

It’s only an hour before sunset, and Hermione’s parents are in the room, talking in too high voices as they wonder what was she thinking when she injured herself (and Harry can hardly explain she had taken a curse for him), but at least Mrs. Granger isn’t crying anymore (that had been a stab of guilt, cold expanding in his chest where the yellow jet of light would have reached him). The walls are too white, almost as if it were a Muggle hospital, instead of ancient St. Mungo’s with its talking portraits and flashes of magic, but there are touches of red and green that mark this as Christmas day, the jolliest of the year.

(What a lie.)

Harry and Ron are sitting next to each other, both still shaking a little at the idea of almost losing Hermione, their memories revisiting once and again the moment (in which time stopped) when she lay in the grass, eyes opened and yet unseeing, chest moving with the slightest of breathing.

They’re sitting too close together, thighs flush and shoulders touching; warmth seeping through old hand-knitted jumpers and too many shirts. Harry shifts closer, his clothes making a screeching noise he could do without as he slides against the wood of the bench. He winces slightly, loathing the sound that just doesn’t fit this silent evolution, this silent touching in which they’re indulging out of misery, out of despair, out of lust (out of the other L word, but he won’t think of it); but then everything’s all right since Ron presses harder against him, staring as blankly ahead as Harry himself is doing.

Ten minutes pass, marked by the too-loud clock on top of them (tick-tock, their time is running out), and the space between them is nonexistent; closeness that is too filling and yet almost painful physically. They’re both still looking at Hermione’s door, listening to Mr. Granger’s sighs; inside they’re looking at the time something (everything) must have changed between them, listening to each other’s heartbeat.

Harry brushes his cheek against Ron’s once, Ron does it twice, and Harry’s hand ghosts over Ron’s wrist, not quite touching, not quite caressing, but the hairs on the wrist not covered by a too-short jumper stand on end. They’re not doing anything, but they’re panting slightly, short breathes filling their lungs with the lemony scent of St. Mungo’s and each other’s sweat and life. They’re both flustered, Gryffindor scarlet on their cheeks, as Harry finally turns to Ron. An inch, and he stops, and Ron whimpers and Harry smiles and exhales against his lips.

A hazy moment, and Harry stands up abruptly, walking down the hallway with large strides. He turns a bit just before going around the corner, and makes an inviting gesture to the red-faced Ron, still sitting on the bench with confusion and lust written in his eyes. He goes into the men’s bathroom and doesn’t look back at all.

- - - - -

When Ron enters the bathroom, Harry is staring at the little window high in the wall, and when he turns around Ron stops breathing for a second as the almost-sunset colors frame Harry’s figure; the Christmas decorations making his hair shine with the reds and greens that fit him so very well (and make Ron look ridiculous).

Ron swallows and crosses the three steps that separate them. Harry twists his fingers into his belt loops, and suddenly he’s once again pressed together to Harry’s warm body, fingers straying just below his waistline as he presses Harry against the wall. One of Ron’s arm wraps around Harry’s shoulder, the other hand flat against the cold tiles, but neither realize that as Harry’s neck strains as he looks up into his eyes, his height practically forcing Ron to curl into him; and they breathe again (Their hearts stop, though), warm air reused.

Ron’s head is racing, Too close, too close, not close enough, not nearly enough, and then they’re kissing, warm and sweet and hard at the same time, a happy second to remember and a thousand despairing ones to forget. They grope at each other, touching everything they can get under their hands while still being so close together (mouths and bodies; blood and soul), and somewhere along the way Harry ends up with his legs wrapped tightly around Ron’s waist, and Ron’s trying to not let go; to support his weight, his heartaches, his dreams.

Harry’s mouth opens hot beneath his, and Ron tries to forget about thinking, with his best friend turning into everything he ever dreamt of and his stomach doing summersaults inside. The war is still out there, death is probably still waiting for them, but they’re all right, Hermione is on her way to be, and for a moment, he can pretend he’s completely happy.

(Harry sighs his name into his mouth, and it almost becomes true).