So Much

Ron was thirteen the first time he heard his twin brothers making love. Even at thirteen, gangly and clumsy and crass, he knew that was what it was. It wasn't fucking or bonking or even having sex. They were making love.

He was stumbling through the dark hallway by the flimsy light of his wand. It was July, hot and thick inside The Burrow. He made his way quietly down the stairs, avoiding the ones that creaked so that he wouldn't wake Ginny, who slept lightly and had a crackling temper. To get to the loo, he had to pass their room. A small glow was spilling into the hallway.

At first it sounded like whispering, and Ron was sure that they were plotting something. Curious, he'd risen to his tiptoes and made his way over to press his ear to the thin wooden door. It was whispering, but it was low and husky, the same texture as the air. He listened harder, trying to make out the words, careful not to lean too strongly. A mattress squeaked. Two almost-identical giggles -- Ron heard the pitch of one go higher at the very end and knew it was Fred's -- filtered through. Someone -- who, he could not discern this time -- shhh'd. Fred giggled again, alone. More whispers.

Ron's eyebrows knit together in concentration and not a small bit of confusion. Their laughter was a familiar sound, but this was soft, intimate, flirtatious; not the derisive snorts or conspiratorial chuckling or raucous guffawing he was used to. He tried to remember the last time he'd heard them giggle, and he pegged it around the time that he was ten, they twelve.

Something in the pit of his stomach grew uneasy, and he thought he should just continue on to the bathroom and then get back to bed, but his curiosity was gnawing. He held his breath to hear better.

What was happening beyond the door soon became unmistakable. Woven through the close tapestry of whispers and laughter, Ron recognized the sound of lips-on-lips, that slow, wet, urgent smack-and-suck. He felt his eyes pop open wide and his heart fall to his feet. His knees suddenly felt loose and wobbly. He bounced on his toes a bit, his feet wanting to run, but this was so truly bizarre, so unlikely, that he couldn't tear himself away.

The kissing stopped, then the cooing started. Little sighs, garbled words he couldn't make out interspersed with vowel sounds he could -- ohs and ahs and even an ee somewhere that might have been part of please -- hushed things that sounded like the language of spell-casting. Their voices tumbled together and hummed low under the sticky air. The mattress groaned and trilled. Ron imagined their bodies, what they were doing to make the springs protest. He shut his eyes and saw their pale, freckled arms locked together, their red heads indistinguishable as they leaned into one another. It didn't make sense. His throat felt constricted.

Then the springs started to make music through the door, started to rise and fall in a rusty rhythm. Ron recognized this sound, too. He had Charlie's old, rickety twin bed. It rocked with his hips and broadcast his movements to the dark, quiet room those nights when he stroked himself to sleep. What he was hearing was fiercer, but it was the same, familiar song. Then both of his brothers started to sing along.

Ron knew that he should be appalled, but they were so in tune, so lovely. They had gotten louder, and Ron glanced dimly at Ginny's door at the end of the corridor, but he couldn't bring himself to be concerned. He could make out some words now, and sometimes he knew who was speaking, and sometimes he didn't. There were breathy, affirmative yeses; there was George, sounding low and sweet and desperate, whispering Freddie (Ron couldn't remember anyone calling him that since he'd grown taller than their mother); there was a four-word conversation: Don't stop, then I won't. There were words muffled by, Ron imagined, blankets or pillows or skin.

Then, suddenly, he could hear just breath. Loud, hard, heavy breath, shot through with a low, round moan that settled into the marrow of his bones. Briefly, he wondered who it was, and then he realized it was both of them; one panting, almost there, and the other coming, there already. The breathing stopped, capped itself off in a thick, heady chorus of You, you, you, you, and Ron tried madly to discern whose voice it was, needing, somehow just to know, and he caught himself reaching for the doorknob and came to his senses just in time, his sweaty hand hovering dangerously close to disaster.

He shook his head, mystified, and let it fall silently against the doorjamb. On the other side, they were whispering again.

Love you.
So much.
Don't go.
Shhhhh.

Ron heard the mattress creak again, heard the gentle slap of bare feet, and realized that someone was standing up. Still on tiptoe and praying the old floorboards wouldn't betray him, he crept quickly down the corridor into the bathroom.

As he was pulling his pyjama pants back up around his hips, his heart pounding at his ribcage like a mad Bludger, he heard the door creak open. In the dimness, he couldn't tell who it was. They startled and pulled back a bit, and Ron's hand flew to his chest.

"Bloody hell, Ron!" said a voice he recognized as George's (he couldn't tell anyone else how, but he knew the individual timbre of their voices). "Just about pissed myself!"

Ron lit his wand. He squinted into George's face. "Sorry," he whispered. "Didn't mean to scare you. I didn't want to wake Ginny." George's lips were red and raw looking. His cheeks were flushed. Ron felt oddly nervous, felt himself redden.

George slapped at the side of Ron's face affectionately. "Get back to bed, you wanker." His palm was hot. He smiled. Ron swallowed hard and walked out, still feeling the echo of George's fingers on his skin.

He passed the wide open door to his brothers' bedroom. The glowing light was gone, but in a slant of moonlight, he saw Fred's bare back, his shock of messy hair, one of his arms tucked underneath the pillow. The beds were pushed together.