Occupation/Legation (Percy/Ron, NC-17)
Title: Occupation/Legation
Pairing: Percy/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1043
Warnings: See pairing.
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.
Summary: Ron is never at the Ministry to visit Percy. Not officially.
Notes: Originally posted to LJ on 1/10/07.


Sometimes, when Ron and Percy are together, silent but for quickly suppressed gasps and groans, Ron wishes it could be otherwise. He doesn't always wish it—he's never really been one to let thinking get in the way of fucking—but sometimes when he's sucking his brother's cock behind the spelled-shut door of Percy's office, he wishes his Ministry visitor's nametag read RON WEASLEY: SUCKING HIS BROTHER'S COCK.

But it doesn't, of course, and nor should it, and nor will it ever, because Ron is never at the Ministry to visit Percy. Not officially. He's there to visit his father, or Harry, or even Hermione, in a pinch. Never Percy.

Because there are six Weasley children, as far as anyone is concerned anymore, but Ron tends to find a reason to detour to the pin-neat office of the phantom seventh.

Percy never seems surprised to see him. It's always as if he expects Ron, though Ron's visits are infrequent and irregularly spaced, so how could he, really?

Percy only ever stands and nods and closes and locks the door with a swiftly efficient flick of his wand. They never speak, not since the first time, when Ron found himself at Percy's door quite by accident and an argument became a shouting match which turned physical, and then too physical, and then it was too late, and Ron didn't allow himself to realise what was happening until it was over and Percy was cleaning them both with his wand. Percy had stood then, stiffly, and had told Ron he had best be on his way. Immediately.

And that's the last word either of them has spoken to the other in months.

And has it really been months now? And how many times in those months have they done this?

And how many times now has Ron thought—wished—that it could be otherwise, that Percy could be anyone else, that anything could be different, that they could speak, could perhaps even kiss?

But they never do.

If either brother speaks, Ron knows, even a single word, a half-word, a name (and oh, how many times has Ron nearly strangled himself choking back all the things he wants to say?) it'll all end.

It can't happen.

But oh, he wants it, wants so badly to gasp Percy's oh-so-proper name as his brother's lips surround his cock, wants to moan the things he likes, wants, needs to moan during sex, things like yes and more and harder and ohfucki'mcoming, but he's silent, save harsh breath, as he spills into Percy's mouth, bucking against tender pink lips, the lips that have formed such hurtful words so recently.

Gah, Ron gasps, Per—

--and it's almost a name, and Percy's sharp blue eyes flick up at him once, and before Ron's entirely done, Percy stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

As Ron is buttoning his trousers, looking down, concentrating on the buttons themselves, he hears Percy draw a tremulous breath as if to speak. Ron looks up. His hands still. He locks eyes with his brother (they don't do this often; bespectacled, ginger-lashed blue eyes almost never meet Ron's anymore) and silently pleads with him not to speak.

Percy presses his lips together in a thin line and furrows his brow. He pauses, breathes sharply through his nose, then nods, once, curtly.

And Ron can't help himself. He surges forward and he kisses his brother, uncertain what exactly he's doing, whether he's sealing his fate one way or the other, but tears are pricking threateningly behind his eyes and it's either kiss or cry, and Ron's made his decision.

And just as Ron is pulling away, Percy kisses back. It's not much, just the most tentative, too-late press of dry lips on dryer lips that aren't there anymore because Ron's already stumbling away, finishing fastening his trousers, damning himself. He's bollixed everything up now, and he knows it.

As if everything wasn't weird and wrong enough already.

But he's only just put his hand on the doorknob, turning it fruitlessly until he remembers he'll need his wand, when Percy's voice sounds across the room.

"Ron."

Percy's voice is dry and soft and cracked, as if he hasn't spoken at all, to anyone, in the months since he said his last words to Ron. As if he's speaking from the depths of sleep.

"Ron," Percy says again, as if testing the name on his tongue, and he pauses then, and Ron doesn't turn, but he doesn't unlock the door, either.

He waits.

Percy is silent still, and Ron knows he's searching for exactly the right words, probably shoving his glasses up on his nose as he always does when he's annexing his inner thesaurus.

But for once, Percy doesn’t have the words. Ron slumps forward and places his forehead against the cool, smooth oak of Percy's office door.

"I know, Percy." And Ron can't believe he's just said his brother's name aloud, and he's never before realised what a sharp, spitting, hissing sort of name it really is.

Ron tries again, softer this time, closing his eyes, his head still stabilising him against the door.

"Percy. I know."

Ron's not certain what he knows, actually. It's just a relief to speak.

He flicks his wand at the door, then, and the sliding click of the lock is louder than he expects it to be.

Neither brother speaks after the door is open, and Ron's on the elevator before he realises that he's made his way down the long, wood-panelled corridor outside Percy's office.

Ron wishes he had stayed, but he didn't, and he couldn't have, and he can't go back. He wishes he'd said something meaningful, but meaningful has never been Ron's speciality.

Ron wishes a lot of things.

But he doesn't know enough to wish for the owl that's waiting for him when he arrives home.

The owl carrying a roll of parchment with a Ministry of Magic wax seal on it.

A roll of parchment bearing nothing but an address in Percy's impossibly neat handwriting.

An address Ron is fairly sure lies in the heart of Muggle London.

Ron has sometimes wondered where Percy lives.

He'll go tomorrow.

They'll talk.