Nightmare

Title: Stormy Night. Part three.
Rating: Mature readers only
Warning: Very adult situations, slash, boys together. Specifically, Harry and Ron.
Summary: Ron has questions. Plus repeated mentions of Ron’s pale skin and red hair! Oh yes. It’s good to be a writer...
Author’s Note: Once again, I apologise for the loooong wait. Seems to be a trend with me, huh? Ah well, it may be a while later but at least I’ve updated! Sincere thanks to everyone for their inspiring comments and words of encouragement. This is for you guys. Hope you like. *big hugs*

(PS. I so can’t wait for the next film!)


In the last chapter:

“Feel better now?”

At Ron’s caring query, Harry nods, unable to express enough thanks for what the other boy did for him.

“Good.” Ron gives him a quick smile and then turns solemn again, pondering more important issues. “Do you want to have a chat?”

(Part three.)

“About what?” Harry sounds evasive, wondering where this is going. If it’s about Cedric, or his nightmares, then no, he doesn’t want to discuss it, thank you very much.

“About us.” Ron gazes at him challengingly. “I think we should talk. Don’t you?”

Pulling up the sheet to cover his nakedness, Harry nods again, reluctantly, but he knows they have to do this sooner or later. He’s been trying to avoid it for months but they really do need to have a serious, meaningful conversation. Particularly now that they’ve had their first intimate encounter. That is a very important event and they can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.

“Are we all right?” Ron starts anxiously, rumpling his forehead. “I mean, I know you’re going through a rough patch at the moment but we used to be so close, once upon a time. We used to share everything. Why don’t you trust me anymore? What’s going on?”

“I...I don’t know,” Harry answers uncertainly, though he’s got a fairly good idea of what the problem is; all he has to do is look in a mirror and there it is. “It’s just that there’s so much stuff happening all at once and it...it’s really difficult for me to deal with.”

“Well, that’s why I’m here, Harry. To help you deal.” Ron sighs and leans back against the bed head, frustrated. “If you’d only let me once in a while.”

“I know you want to help, I do,” Harry says quickly, “and I appreciate it but some things I just have to handle on my own. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Ron. It’s not that at all. You’re the most trustworthy person I know.”

“So, am I still your best friend?” Ron prompts, needing to hear it because most of the time he’s not sure.

“Of course you are. Oh, Ron.” Unhappiness fills Harry’s voice. “How could you even doubt it?”

“I dunno.” Ron shrugs awkwardly. “You don’t tell me anything, especially not how you feel. I try to talk to you but you push me away. Sometimes, I get the impression that you don’t care as much as I do.”

“That’s not true,” Harry replies, a furrow appearing between his dark eyebrows. “I DO care. I care a great deal.”

Still seeming unconvinced, Ron returns, “Like you care about Cho?”

“I don’t-” Harry begins to say but Ron impolitely butts in.

“Yes, you do. You kissed her!” Jealousy colours the second teenager’s tone as he thinks about the pretty Asian girl with the long black hair who’s competing with him for Harry’s affections.

“You told me and Hermione all about it. Said it was wet.” Ron can’t help sounding slightly revolted, even though he’d found it amusing at the time.

“Well, that’s because she was crying,” Harry argues. “She was upset.”

“And you were just trying to comfort her, I suppose,” Ron replies sarcastically.

“It wasn’t like that at all,” Harry persists, feeling very misunderstood. “It just kind of...happened.”

“You LET it happen.”

Ron’s accusation cuts through Harry like a knife but he doesn’t deny it because it’s true. He just glances down, hating himself for hurting Ron, for disappointing him, for turning his back on their friendship and everything they’d promised each other.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers guiltily, wishing he could take it all back. The experience really wasn’t worth it.

Looking at him with big, sad eyes, Ron asks, “Do you love her?”

After an uncomfortable pause, Harry admits, “I tried to. Rather pointless really, because she’s still in love with Cedric. She only turned to me because I was his friend and the closest thing to him she’s got left.”

“So...you don’t fancy her, then?” Ron questions in confusion, making a cute puzzled expression.

“No, Ron. I don’t.” Harry concludes softly, “I fancy you.”

“Really?” Ron’s voice lifts, his hesitantly hopeful expression causing Harry’s heart to tighten painfully.

“What you just did...I wouldn’t let any other person do that to me,” the smaller boy confesses. “You’re the only one I have those kinds of feelings for.”

“Really?” Ron asks again, as if afraid to believe it in case he gets let down once more.

“I’ve never wanted anyone else. Not the way I want you.” Harry sits up in the bed and takes the other boy’s face in his hands, green gaze reading Ron’s wide blue eyes. “You need me to prove it?”

Knowing that he does, Harry doesn’t give Ron time to reply or object, pulling him in and slanting his mouth over the other teenager’s bigger, softer one. Cradling Ron’s jaw, Harry presses firm, sucking kisses upon those lovely lips, aiming to show the first boy that what he says is true and that things can go back to how they were between them. Or even better.

Making a muted moan of longing, Ron closes his eyes and encircles Harry’s slender waist with both hands, opening to him, their tongues meeting and melding together like warmed caramel, which is exactly what Ron tastes like. The scorched syrupiness of the Dragon’s Breath toffee lingers more strongly at the back of his mouth, causing Harry to probe further, wanting to savour all of it, all of Ron’s sweetness and kindness, his generosity, his caring and gentle nature, all of the good things that Harry loves about him, all the good things that make up for the injustice and bleakness of this world. Dragging in a lungful of air, Ron breaks away just long enough to swap sides, tilting his head the other way and then recapturing Harry’s moist, parted lips again, kissing him back with equal depth and hunger, letting Harry know how much he’s wanted to do this over the last couple of years. Unlike his brunette classmate, Ron hasn’t kissed anyone else during that whole time because the only mouth that he wanted was this one, the one he’s devouring right now, the one that’s readily accepting his plunging thrusts and returning them with just as much fervour and pent-up passion. Ron’s chin moves against Harry’s, the scratchiness of emerging stubble rasping between them, the two young wizards searching each other’s mouths like long-lost lovers, getting reacquainted with the more sensual side of their relationship, a side they almost let disappear completely with the chaotic lives they lead, a side that is fast being rekindled as each second passes and each deliciously deep kiss is exchanged.

Needing to breathe, Ron finally pulls back, gazing at Harry with heavy-lidded eyes, both of the boys panting softly, their lips starting to swell and glinting in the lightning with each other’s saliva. There is a small raised brown mark near the left corner of Ron’s mouth; something he loathingly calls a mole but which Harry secretly thinks is a beauty spot.

“Cripes, that was nice,” Ron remarks wistfully, licking his lips. “You realise we haven’t done that since the night with the Truth Toffee, when we were fifteen?”

“Yeah,” Harry muses, thinking that it seems like so long ago. They were both so naïve and innocent then, full of romantic ideals, not yet knowing what a tough, angst-ridden road they had ahead of them.

“I never forgot it, Harry. Or what we said to each other,” the blue-eyed boy acknowledges, his expression heartfelt and honest. He brings his hand up to cup Harry’s cheek, tenderly caressing there with his thumb. “I still love you, mate. I want you to know that.”

“I do know,” Harry whispers, sudden tears pricking at him. “I didn’t forget either.”

Rather than talk about things that will make him cry, Harry reaches out for Ron again, wanting to show his friend how he feels without having to speak it out loud. What they have between them is more important than words, more important than magic and spells, more sacred than the last unicorn in the world and more precious than all the sunken riches on the floor of the ocean. They need to cherish every moment of their time alone together and make the most of it because tomorrow may be too late. Also recognising the importance of this night, Ron stifles all the voices in his head, all the questions he wants to ask, and lets Harry claim his mouth again, drawing the shorter teen nearer towards him, running his palms up and down Harry’s sides from hip to rib.

As they kiss, Harry is gliding his palms along Ron’s lightly furred forearms, travelling higher over his shirt-sleeves to the second male’s shoulders which have spread and developed massively over the last year, along with the rest of him. His hands and shoe size are double what they used to be and he’s much taller than Harry now, not that Harry minds at all. Ron being bigger than him makes Harry feel safe somehow, shielded, especially when Ron gazes down at him with such concerned protectiveness, like he’d kill anyone that tried to hurt Harry, or at least punch the snot out of them for daring to wrong his best mate. He’s big and brave and Harry loves that about him. Sometimes, Ron appears ill at ease with his towering height, as if he hasn’t gotten used to it yet, ducking under doorways and occasionally tripping over his own feet like a clumsy giraffe. It seems like his arms and legs get longer every day and he’s gone through piles of his brothers’ patched-up hand-me-down clothing trying to keep his lanky limbs covered properly. And then to add to his acute self-consciousness there are the hereditary Weasley traits; bright orange locks and abundant brown spots, both of which Ron detests with every fibre of his being. He might not be fully comfortable in his own skin yet but his tall figure, floppy red hair and fair, freckled complexion are part of what makes him such a handsome young man, not that Ron would believe it if he were told.

Harry starts kissing his friend with impassioned purpose and urgency, wanting to demonstrate with his actions just how fine Ron is and how greatly Harry desires him. He scrapes his nails up the back of Ron’s neck into his loosely-curling locks, giving Ron momentary shudders. Harry combs through Ron’s stunning hair, the fiery threads slipping through his fingers like silk, before roaming over Ron’s upper back, arms and shoulders, investigating the feel of the other male’s muscles, the firmness of flesh beneath the light grey t-shirt prompting Harry to scrunch the fabric up so he can touch it unhindered. The skin of Ron’s lower back feels smooth and warm beneath his questing palms and he tracks the curve of the taller teenager’s spine with his fingertips. Ron groans into his mouth at the feel of Harry’s hands on him, the feather-soft touch giving him goose-pimples from neck to waist.

Harry severs the kiss, intending to take Ron’s shirt off, but as he commences to raise the material Ron stops him, stating kindly, “You don’t have to, Harry.”

“Quiet,” Harry hushes, prying Ron’s fingers from his wrist. “It’s my turn to make you feel better.”

Ron gulps nervously. “Well, if you insist.”

“I do, actually,” Harry reaffirms, lifting the article of clothing up at the back, the whisper of cotton over skin masked by the ceaseless hammer of rain on the school’s roof. Ron lifts his arms so Harry can peel the shirt off him. As his head pops out of the neck-hole Ron’s hair tumbles down in a mess and he impatiently shakes it, the flaming mass settling back above his shoulders, the thick fringe falling endearingly in front of his eyes, emphasising just how pale blue they are, even in this dim light.

Flicking his gaze across Ron’s chest, down to his belly and back up again, Harry follows the path with his fingers, learning the shape and texture of his friend’s torso, the first time he’s touched Ron in this way, bare palm against bare skin. Hardly able to accept the fact that this is finally happening to him, Ron watches Harry’s exploratory motions, tingles rushing over his flesh wherever the small white hand sweeps across him. He feels his nipples tightening and turning sensitive, breath hissing through his teeth as Harry rubs them with the pad of his thumb, the green-eyed boy enthralled by the reaction his hesitant caresses produce. Ron is already wickedly turned on from what he did to Harry mere minutes ago and the acute sensation of the other boy’s fingers connecting with his flesh is magnified a hundred times. Even though he really didn’t intend or want to get anything in return for his favour it seems he will after all. He does not expect Harry to perform the same act as Ron, not in the slightest, but will be immensely thankful for whatever he gets given. Honestly, just to have Harry touching him is enough.

He tenses as Harry’s fingers trail down his stomach, circling his navel. Looking down, Ron makes a face of despaired embarrassment, his pyjama pants doing little to hide his highly aroused state, acting much like a circus tent and drawing attention to it, however Harry doesn’t appear to be offended or put off in any way. If anything, he seems curious to see what Ron looks like underneath the striped flannel, just as curious as Ron was to see Harry. The dark-haired youth experimentally brushes his hand over that enticing bulge, Ron instantly uttering a couple of very British swear words and jolting with the electric arc that zaps him straight in the groin. He grabs Harry’s arm, trying to warn him not to do that again unless he wants to witness Ron disgracing himself but Harry misses the hint, taking the grabbing as a sign of encouragement and reaching for the elastic band around the redhead’s waist. Harry yanks at it, wanting to get the pyjama bottoms down but as Ron’s arse is currently sitting on them it’s not going to happen. Harry looks expectantly up at him, wanting assistance, and Ron swallows before courageously getting up to undress completely. It’s only fair since Harry is already naked.

The floor is cold under Ron’s feet as he straightens, bringing himself up to his whole height. He glances down, hair hanging in his eyes to avoid Harry’s piercing stare. Hooking his thumbs behind the waistband of the pants, Ron slips it down over his hipbones and thighs, letting the pants fall past his knees to his feet, stepping out of them and kicking the puddled fabric away. He stands there uneasily for a moment, allowing Harry to see him. It’s still dark in the dormitory and they have the curtains drawn around Harry’s bed but the blinding branches of white light in the night sky are flaring in through the windows and bouncing off the ceiling, enlightening his pasty nudity all too brightly, making him feel humiliatingly exposed, like an unclothed mannequin in a shopfront, but he stays standing there in full view because it’s what Harry wants.

With both love and lust in his green eyes, Harry gazes at Ron from top to toe, at the second boy’s lengthy body with its acres of creamy skin, milk-chocolate dots dusted over the upper arms and chest, light pink nipples, fine hairs sprinkled on the forearms and lower legs. His belly is smooth and flatter than stone; his tapered waist and broad shoulders giving him a tall triangular shape, much envied by other, shorter, stockier males. Whereas Harry’s is dark as ink, the fleece between Ron’s thighs is reddish-blond, a few hues lighter than the gleaming mop on his head.

Harry murmurs something to himself and, reading his lips, Ron could almost swear it was ‘gorgeous’ if he didn’t know better. Nobody’s ever called him that. He knows he’s not the ugliest bloke at school but he also knows he’s far from the best-looking. Far, far from it. Somebody ought to tell Harry that because for some reason he’s staring at Ron like he is.

Silently, Harry motions for Ron to return and the bigger boy gratefully slinks back to the bed, glad he doesn’t have to put himself on display any longer than necessary. He lowers his gangly form down on the mattress next to Harry, voicelessly looking at his partner, wondering what Harry wants to do now. Standing up there with his private bits all shamefully uncovered has cooled Ron’s ardour somewhat but that’s not a bad thing because it means he has more control of himself now and won’t go off like a firecracker the moment Harry touches him. Which is exactly what the second boy does next, shifting nearer and flattening his palm on Ron’s chest again, slowly sliding his hand down, over the muscularity of the red-headed wizard’s tummy. Exhaling unevenly, Ron leans back on his hands, allowing Harry full access to his body. Ron trains for Quidditch just as much as Harry does and it shows in every part of his build. He’s slim but sinewy and strong and Harry traces the line of Ron’s sleekness down over one hip to a long thigh and back up again, his skin soft but the flesh beneath it toned and firm. Harry takes his time, laying caresses on his best friend from collarbone to knee, revelling in the sensual way Ron responds, rolling his spine like a cat being petted, the gruff rumbling in his chest felt more than heard over the storm outside.

Ron’s lashes are lowered in rapturous delight and when Harry daringly grazes over the hard length of his arousal, the taller teen gasps, his eyes flying open and fixing on Harry in excited surprise. As he slips his fingers around the male part of Ron, Harry watches him tense in anticipation, watches the other boy’s blue irises turn cloudy with wanting. Those eyes drift shut again when Harry begins to carefully stroke and Ron draws in a trembling breath, holds it for a few seconds and then releases it along with Harry’s name, like a sigh, the whispered expression of need awakening Harry’s own desires once more. He watches Ron’s head falling back in bliss, the warmth rising in his face and darkening his cheeks, the unconsciously erotic way he bites his lips and then licks them, making his lush mouth even more swollen and rosy. A flush spreads over his pale chest, an artery pulsing at the base of his throat. He looks hot and sexy and beautiful and Harry wants him, wants to please him, to make him feel as good as a young man can feel.

He’s already succeeding beyond expectation. Ron has had a hand on his dick, many times, but it’s always been his own and knowing that this one belongs to Harry makes it the hottest, most awesome wank in the world. Ribcage rising and falling rapidly, he arches up to meet Harry’s strokes, focused solely on the fingers circled around him, giving him such grand, pleasurable thrills, like silver stars that burst down his thighs, up into his stomach and behind his eyelids simultaneously. Too tempted by Ron’s bitten, licked lips, Harry bends forward to capture them with his own, Ron turning his face and lifting his chin to kiss back, eagerly and wetly in a tangle of tongues, front teeth accidentally clinking together. Harry is the one to pull back first and Ron feels his absence keenly, like the cold air after a blanket falls off in the middle of the night. Needing to have his emerald-eyed boyfriend closer to him, Ron pushes himself up and kneels on the bed, across Harry’s thighs. Straddling him, Ron coils his arms around the smaller boy, pressing into the column of his neck and breathing hotly on Harry’s skin. Welcoming the intimately close embrace and Ron’s warm weight, Harry rubs the side of his face into the satiny strands of his partner’s hair, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the coppery curls.

“Love you, Harry,” Ron is mumbling emotionally against his neck. “Always loved you...”

“I know, and I never stopped loving you either,” Harry pledges, kissing Ron’s freckled shoulder. “Not for one moment. Please don’t ever think that again.”

“I’ll try not to.” The redhead’s voice is muffled, like he’s attempting not to bawl. “Would help an awful lot if you said it again, though.”

“I love you, Ronald Weasley,” Harry breathes, squeezing him fiercely with both arms. “So very much.”

The taller boy gives an answering groan, shaking with the force of his desire, what he feels for Harry like nothing he’s ever felt before; intensely consuming and overpowering. He pushes his hips forward and starts rubbing against the first boy’s hardness, pleasuring not just himself but Harry too, who gives a low moan at Ron’s unexpected movement, instinctually lifting his bottom off the bed and pressing back. The young men continue making love in this innocently inexperienced way, Ron sitting in Harry’s lap, their muted murmurs and whispers drowned by the roar of the rain and wind, vivid forks of lightning creating a strobe effect and catching still pictures of the boys in the midst of their passion:

The two of them with their eyes closed and brows pressed together in bonded closeness, breathing each other’s breaths, sharing their endless affection and emotion.

The milk-white curve of Ron’s back, Harry’s hands splayed under his shoulder blades, supporting him.

Lips bumping clumsily as they try to kiss while moving and thrusting together.

Ron’s mouth on the space between Harry’s shoulder and neck, drawing hard on the skin and leaving a purple bruise.

Harry’s fingers in Ron’s golden-red curls, combing, grasping, tugging.

Ron with his head thrown back in abandonment and his mouth open in a gasp of sensuality.

Harry gritting his teeth in pleasure as Ron’s hips rhythmically rock into him, both of them sweaty and panting, getting higher and higher to the point of ultimate excitement.

Needing to get there right now, Ron grabs Harry’s hand, putting two fingers into his mouth and sucking on them. He then places that hand behind him, telling Harry without words what he wants.

“Are you sure?” Harry nevertheless has to whisper.

Nodding, Ron begs breathlessly, “Please.”

Willing to do whatever Ron desires him to, Harry doesn’t ask any more questions, beginning to press into his best friend’s heat, into the very depths of his body.

“Yeah. Oh, yeah,” Ron moans desperately against his lover’s throat, starting to lose it. “Oh, bloody hell, Harry...”

He drives his pelvis hard into Harry’s, jerking against him in ecstasy, sending the other teenager over the edge as well; the brunette boy’s abdominal muscles stiffening with unspeakable sensation as he too begins to shudder in unison with his ginger friend. Not able to keep himself silent during such an erotically charged moment, Harry is helplessly groaning into Ron’s hair; holding him tight with one arm, their released essences combining and spreading over his belly, warm and wet.

They stay like that for a little while, hugging exhaustedly and catching their breath, feeling the perspiration drying on their skin but not the wetness smeared between the fronts of them. Eventually, they have to separate and it’s very messy and sticky when they do. There may be a spell available to clean themselves up but Ron doesn’t know it and neither does Harry and really, it’s not terribly bothersome or difficult to grab a t-shirt and use that instead.

Smacking a satisfied kiss onto Harry’s scarred forehead, Ron flops back onto the bed, bouncing the mattress and Harry on it.

With a mix of tiredness and awe, he proclaims, “That was the most brilliant moment of my life.”


***

To be continued...