So Much

ONE YEAR LATER





Ron tried to open his bedroom door, but it fought back. He jammed his shoulder against it and was finally able to budge it all the way, but an odd scraping sound accompanied his success. Peering inside, he realized that there were now three twin beds crammed into the already-crowded attic room, and his opening of the door had pushed them all together into one giant-looking bed that took up almost the entire room. Noting the sheets (one solid blue, one plaid), Ron knew the other two belonged to Fred and George. This was vaguely alarming.



"Mum!" he hollered, bolting back down the questionable staircase. "Mum!" He stepped on his shoelaces and almost fell into the kitchen, where there was a large pot boiling on the stove, and his mother was mending what appeared to be a hundred pairs of socks. He knocked into the table, rattling its contents and panting. "Mum!



His mother looked up at him. "Tie your shoelaces, Ronald; you\'re going to knock yourself senseless. Bill and Charlie will be here this evening; they\'re coming with the rest of you to the World Cup. That\'s why your brothers are in your room. I know it\'s cramped, but you\'re just going to have to make do. It\'s not for long. Stir the potatoes, will you?"



Ron poked at the boiling pot, his stomach feeling a bit uncomfortable. "But Harry..."



"I know, dear. We\'ll squeeze him in somewhere!" His mother smiled brightly up from the pile of socks. She flicked her wand. Ron\'s laces tied themselves in a neat bow.





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Bedtime was a complicated affair. Fred crawled in first, his long legs gracefully navigating the sea of bedclothes, and stood, half-crouching, on his bed. George threw him his pyjamas. Ron and George shimmied into their own, standing in the tiny space between Ron\'s bed and the door. Fred tossed his discarded clothing at the far corner of the room, but he shot short and his shirt floated out of the air and landed across Ron\'s back as he bent to adjust his bottoms. George lifted it and brought it to his nose.



"Fred, have you ever considered a nighttime shower?" Fred\'s trousers came in for a direct hit across George\'s smirking face.



"No. Useless. You\'d just stink me up again, you smelly prat," Fred laughed. Ron\'s ears started to burn. George threw Fred\'s clothes into the corner along with his own and climbed up into the middle bed.



When Ron was tucked under his covers, he shut the light and drifted to sleep somewhere in the middle of a lengthy conversation about Quidditch.





________________________________________________________







He woke again early. Light was just beginning to filter into the room. His eyes fluttered and then shot open when he registered the unfamiliar sensations against his body.



George\'s long, freckled left arm was wrapped around his waist, his elbow resting on Ron\'s hip. He was breathing warmly and evenly against Ron\'s neck, every puff of air ruffling the wisps of hair there. Ron could feel George\'s nose pressed into the back of his head. Most unsettling of all, though, was George\'s bloody stiff knob, which was tucked tight against Ron\'s bottom. He could feel it like a third, quiet heartbeat between them.



Ron\'s immediate urge was to leap out of bed and run, bellowing, down the stairs, but the feel of George\'s warm, sleeping flesh reminded him, oddly, of being small and curled up into his Mum\'s lap, crying over some torment or another that one of his brothers had inflicted upon him - minus the hard prick against his arse, of course. The thought stalled him long enough for him to realize that Fred, also, was awake.



Fred\'s quiet chuckle drifted across the humid air. Ron quickly shut his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, feeling embarrassed to be caught in an unwitting morning spoon. He heard the bed creak as Fred propped himself up on a sharp elbow and surveyed the scene. He felt Fred card his fingers through George\'s hair and bump gently against the top of his own head.



Fred drew his fingertips down the back of George\'s neck, and George stirred a bit and made a pleased, sleepy moan right against Ron\'s neck. Ron\'s flesh prickled a bit at the vibration. "Georgie," Fred whispered, leaning in close. George moaned again and wriggled against Ron\'s body, which was steadily growing hotter and more uncomfortable. Ron clenched the muscles in his behind against the feeling of George\'s hard-on pressing into it. "Over here, you toss-pot. Open your eyes," Fred said, right into George\'s ear this time. George\'s eyelashes batted a bit in Ron\'s hair, and then Ron felt him, finally, untangle himself slowly and roll away. Ron tried to relax his muscles, but they quite refused to loosen. He tried to focus on his own silence and stillness, desperately hoping not to be caught awake.



Fred was laughing still, quiet, but obviously highly entertained. "Something you\'re not telling me, George?"



George\'s voice was thick and drowsy, but it was ringed with amusement. "Oh, but Fred, don\'t you think he\'s cute?" Ron\'s ears went purple.



"Oh, terribly. But only because he resembles me a bit, don\'t you think?"



"No, I think he looks more like me. He\'s got your bony arse, though." George shifted further. Ron felt his mattress spring up a bit as George rolled off of it.



"I\'ll give you a bone in your arse," Fred whispered archly.



"Not right now, you won\'t." The smile was audible in George\'s voice.



Ron heard his brothers sliding together through the bedclothes, could feel the covers tug across him a bit as George moved into Fred\'s arms. His heart was deciding whether to beat itself right out of his chest or stop altogether. It settled on something in-between and thumped hard against his ribcage before sticking in his throat.



"No, I won\'t," Fred murmured. "Ickle Brother looks so peaceful, hm? Wouldn\'t know what to do with himself, would he?" He paused. Ron heard a kiss. Against his will, his eyes shot open for a moment. He squeezed them shut harder, willing himself to fade into sleep again, but he knew it was hopeless. "But you know what to do with him, don\'t you?" Ron\'s heart stuttered in his chest at Fred\'s words, and he had to fight not to leap from the bed.



"Oh, bugger off," George whispered back, laughing quietly. His voice hitched a bit. "That\'s for you." Ron knew what that was. That had been dangerously close to his rear-end ninety seconds ago. Colors flashed brightly behind his eyes as he squeezed them tighter.



"It is, is it?" More kissing. Not lips, Ron thought. Lips sound wet.



"Don\'t get me started, Freddie." The mattress squeaked underneath George, as Ron surmised he tried to wriggle away. Ron imagined the position of Fred\'s hands. His blood felt like it might boil over under his skin.



"You\'re already started," Fred laughed back. "Let\'s finish you off, shall we?"



George protested weakly. "Ron..."



"Could sleep through a Howler," Fred said.



True, Ron thought. Most of the time.



George\'s resolve was eroding away. Their lips were together, and there were melodic little sounds coming from between them. Words escaped through: You (kiss) are (kiss) a howler.



Their voices rose together gently in a laugh. Fred answered, "I won\'t be this morning. Cross my heart."



"Oh, that wretched little black thing in your chest?" George whispered slyly.



"Mmhmm, that\'s the one." Fred\'s voice was low and urgent. "Finish you off, then?"



The sheets were tugging more as they moved together harder. Ron curled his toes and held on to the ones covering his body tightly with his fists. He waited to see if George was going to stop it. He didn\'t. Oh, Gods. He imagined George nodding.



Their breathing was getting harsher, though Ron could tell they were trying their best to be quiet. Fred spoke again. His whisper sounded like it was being pulled over sandpaper in his throat. "In my mouth, where you belong. Because you\'re mine, right Georgie?"



Ron was sure that if they were paying attention, they could hear his heart thundering inside of him. He waited, his own breath held, for George\'s reply.



"Yes. Yours." Ron\'s stomach flipped over.



"Be a good boy. Be quiet." The mattress heaved again as the two of them moved into Fred\'s bed, farthest from where Ron lay, knotted up tight, his knuckles pale and his body on fire.



Hot, wet sounds rose up and drifted into the air. Ron tried his hardest not to picture Fred\'s mouth -- which did remarkably resemble his own, and, of course, George\'s -- wrapped around George\'s prick; tried not to imagine the wrecked, red state of George\'s mouth in the bathroom last summer; tried not to wonder why his own morning erection wasn\'t going anywhere, when this for sure ought to be killing it dead.



George was gasping and hissing. Low, back-throated sounds started to come from him, but they were muffled quickly. Ron had a curious urge to know, with what? In spite of himself, more quickly than he could think, he stretched his body out as soundlessly as he could and rolled over. One of his eyes slitted open, but in the gray light, it wasn\'t enough, so he squinted both of them through his lashes.



George was on his side, his back mostly to Ron (though Ron could make out one side of his face), his bare skin white and shiny-looking. Fred was underneath the blankets, Ron surmised, watching them move and bunch. George had his own hand over his mouth, his cheeks screwed up hard like he was biting it.



Bloody hell, thought Ron. He brought his own hand quietly up to his mouth and bit lightly, shaking his head. Figuring he\'d better still be looking asleep, he turned back over and curled into himself, listening for the end, not knowing what else to do.



The end came quickly, with a desperate and still-muffled moan through George\'s lips and a heavy jerk of his legs, which Ron somehow felt all the way from his own bed. There was a gentle sucking noise, and then Fred\'s voice, sounding, Ron thought, awfully knackered or half-drunk, saying "Please, please, please..."



"Come here," George answered, and then a slippery rhythm that Ron recognized. Fred\'s breath started to shake like he was cold, the way Ron\'s sometimes did (he sounds like me, he thought absurdly), and then there was silence. Ron did his best not to imagine George\'s sticky hands, not to wonder if George wrung them through his pyjama bottoms like he did when he was too tired to clean up properly.



The silence lasted a few moments. Then the bedclothes shuffled, and George whispered, teasing, "Freddie, you\'re absolutely filthy, did you know it?"



"Mmhmm. And you\'re vile. Is he still asleep?"



Ron squeezed his eyes tighter and filled his lungs slowly, evenly.



There was a pause. George answered. "Of course he is, the silly little git." His voice was fond, affectionate. "Missed the party."



"Oh, did you invite him?" Fred laughed.



"Go back to sleep, you filthy pervert. It\'s only six-thirty."



"Right-o. "



"Think Ron will mind if I don\'t make the spoon with him this time?" George teased.



"Not at all. He knows how to share."



"Love you."



"So much."



"You arsehole."



"Goodnight."



Ron listened to his brothers adjust themselves. They fell back to sleep almost instantly, making happy little murmurs as their breathing evened out. When he was positive it was safe, he leaned up onto his elbow and turned to look at them. They were facing him, Fred wrapped possessively around George\'s body, the fingers of their left hands twined together. George\'s right hand was splayed, palm-up, across the bed. There was an angry-looking mark near his thumb. For a long while, Ron just stared, confused but somehow comforted by their lack of concern that he see them that way.



He ignored his still-half-hard prick and lay his head on the pillow. He thought about the World Cup. He thought about Harry. They were all going to get him today. Ron smiled, closed his eyes, and drifted back to sleep, much cooler than before.