springsmutfairy (springsmutfairy) wrote in hp_springsmut, @ 2008-03-05 12:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic, harry/ron, slash |
Happy Springsmut, mizbean!
Author: enderxenocide
Recipient: mizbean
Title: life in the subjunctive case
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Harry/Ron
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary : Friday evening is pizza from the shop on the corner and fire whiskey, and it’s easy (almost too easy, Harry thinks) to brush his fingers over Ron’s knuckles while reaching for a napkin.
Words: ~2000
Author's Notes: mizbean, when I received my assignment, I was extremely nervous. I’m such a fan of your writing, and generally think you might be the nicest person in the fandom. I really hope that you like this! Thank you very much to Y and N for the encouragement.
Hermione comes and goes, bringing bags of groceries or stacks of newspapers with red ink in the classifieds. She helps herself to Harry’s cheap teabags and stale biscuits, bringing out three mugs from the kitchen regardless if Ron and Harry asked for any. Once or twice, she’s fixed the stove, oven, and the kitchen sink after Ron and Harry ignored the problem for days. The oven temperature is still just over 100 degrees off, but neither of them bothers to mention it to her.
You might have decided on a better flat, she murmurs between sips of Earl Grey with too much sugar and not enough milk. Harry looks up from circling articles in The Evening Standard’s travel section, and Ron finishes chewing on a piece of toast.
Harry shrugs and does not mention that he likes the view out of the bathroom window, and watching Ron in the bedroom in the mirror above the sink. The rent is relatively inexpensive and the landlady does not recognize his face. Hermione leaves around two-thirty, asking Harry to look over the employment ads. He smiles (strained and synthetic) as she shuts the door behind her. Ron ducks into the kitchen to add the plates and cups to the growing pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
Harry sinks into the chair in the living room. Hermione’s right, he knows. He hasn’t been able to hold a job longer than a week since the end of the war. He had only lasted five days as an Auror before handing in his resignation and storming out of Kingsley’s office. His magic has been a bit off since the end of the war, and he’s almost afraid to use more than he has to.
(Ron leaves the day after Harry).
&
The first time, Ron’s murmuring around a toothbrush, unintelligible words and flecks of water against the mirror. Harry’s just out of the shower, pulling a towel over his head and rubbing it dry. There’s a faint stream of water to the edge of his smile as he says you’ve got something here, can I just, and reaches over, thumb brushing against the corner of Ron’s mouth. Ron’s ears are bright red as he self-consciously rubs his mouth with the back of his hand, before reaching over to dry Harry’s bangs with his fingers.
And when Ron kisses him, Harry thinks this might have been inevitable, after years of sleeping next to each other in cold dormitories, and sleeping back-to-back in Ron’s small bed in the Burrow. Ron cups the side of Harry’s face, burying his face in damp hair, and Harry grabs the edges of Ron’s t-shirt, nearly ripping the fabric. Ron leans (shaking) against the sink, pressing kisses along Harry’s jaw. There’s an awkward scuffle (elbows jabbed into ribs and the smack of foreheads) as Harry’s bare feet slip on water from the shower, and they are on the floor, Ron’s pajamas around his knees and Harry’s towel half covering his face and falling. Ron mouths at Harry’s neck, warm and sour breath against his skin and Harry turns (pressing a brief kiss against Ron’s open mouth). Oh, Harry thinks, as Ron’s fingers edge towards Harry’s boxers, brushing against his stomach and slipping over the elastic. Oh, you too.
&
Hermione knocks at ten-thirty every Saturday morning, a faded blue corduroy bag hanging off her shoulder and slightly blood-shot eyes from working late the night before. Ron says nothing, just nudges Harry’s shoulder and they file out the front door. There is a pause, and then a collected breath (one, two and thr—) and Harry stumbles slightly as they land in an empty graveyard just off the Scotland coast. Hermione slips the Portkey (a tube of dark red lipstick) back into her bag, and Ron tugs slightly at Harry’s elbow, guides him towards the rows of grey headstones. Harry’s trainers crush small purple flowers underfoot, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets.
Ron nods towards Fred Weasley, running his hand over the words until his fingernail catches on the first letter. Hermione stops in front of Remus Lupin and places a small bouquet of wildflowers from the florist near Ron-and-Harry’s flat. Harry pauses, sinks down in the damp grass in front of Severus Snape, pushing his glasses up with the back of his hand. It’s silent, until Ron starts laughing faintly, wiping his hands on his jeans. I reckon Fred would’ve wanted to be next to Tonks, more than Mad Eye. Hermione blinks, smiles and pulls out a thermos and a large paper bag. She pours hot chocolate and hands it over to Harry, and Ron leans over Hermione’s shoulder to grab a sandwich. Harry lets out a deep breath, closes his eyes, and rests his shoulder blades against Ron’s legs.
&
Harry’s leaning against the sink in the bathroom. If he turns his head, he can see Ron changing in the bedroom in the bathroom mirror, framed by the doorway. Ron walks in and out of view, losing socks and gaining the jeans he wore yesterday. Harry chews lightly on the toothbrush caught between his teeth, watching Ron’s eyes as he walks out of the bedroom.
Harry spits into the sink, turns off the tap.
Ron’s sitting on the edge of the couch, sorting through the mail. He rips open an envelope, and his shoulders tense, relax. What’s that, Harry asks, sitting down on the couch next to him. Harry pulls a sweatshirt over his head, and emerges with his hair pointing in all directions and his glasses lopsided.
Oh, Ron starts, stuffing the letter back into the envelope. It’s nothing. Just a job offer from the Tornadoes, but I probably won’t take it. Harry hesitates, picks up the rest of the mail to sift through. Tired of getting your rejected offers, he says, a strange smile tugging his lips
Not like you need to get a job for awhile anyway. I don’t mind paying the rent, he says, sinking into the couch. They haven’t talked about money, not since Harry invited Ron to share the flat with him. (It’s too big for one person, he had said, and anyway, you can just stay until you find somewhere else.) Harry has been picking up the bills for the last few months, just out of convenience and because he doesn’t want Ron to feel like he has to work. Since Hermione got the job at the Ministry, Harry and Ron hardly ever have time to see her, just in between lunch hours and the Saturday morning routine.
And when I leave? Ron sits on the edge of the couch, running his forefinger and thumb against his bottom lip, eyes on his feet. I didn’t mean it, Ron starts to says, but he’s not sure if that’s true.
&
Friday evening is pizza from the shop on the corner and fire whiskey, and it’s easy (almost too easy, Harry thinks) to brush his fingers over Ron’s knuckles while reaching for a napkin. Ron finishes his slice in silence, his knee shaking slightly under the table. Harry pauses, reaches for his glass and drains the rest of the fire whiskey. Let’s go see a film, Ron blurts out, then, and brushes his grease-stained fingers against his jeans, pushing his chair back.
The walk down to the cinema is uneventful, just deliberate brushes of elbows and awkward silences. Ron picks the murder mystery over the independent art film and Harry hands over a twenty pound note for two tickets. The film is hardly worth twenty pounds but it’s only the third film Ron’s seen, and Harry sinks into the uncomfortable seat. About halfway in, Ron’s fingertips rest on the back of his hand, and Harry can feel Ron’s heartbeat (a steady thump-thump) through his fingers. Harry turns his hand over, and presses the inside of Ron’s palm with his thumb, tracing Ron’s life line and the edge of his wrist.
Afterwards, Harry leans into Ron’s shoulder on the walk home, and slips his left hand into Ron’s jacket pocket.
&
It’s not until Sunday afternoon, with Ron leaning against the wall in the hallway outside of their bedroom, legs in between Harry’s and hips pressed together that he leans over, and wraps his arms around Harry’s neck. What are we doing, Ron asks.
I don’t know, he answers and his voice breaks around the vowels, and the remnants of the sentence are stuck between his lips and his tongue. Harry remembers a time when they would not have had to ask, and just runs his thumb over Ron’s upper lip before pulling Ron’s hips closer and burying his face in Ron’s neck.
&
Ron accepted the offer with the Tornadoes, Hermione says over Darjeeling and slightly burnt cheese sandwiches a few days later, flipping through the Daily Prophet. She’s on her lunch break and had stopped by at the flat (unannounced) to raid the cupboards. Harry drops his sandwich into the bowl of tomato soup. Didn’t he tell you?
She sighs, sets down her cup of tea. Harry has wanted to ask for months why Ron and Hermione didn’t stay together, but he could never bring himself to ask. He sort of wishes he had.
Are you jealous of him? she asks, tucking hair behind her ears.
Not really, Harry answers after a moment. And it’s mostly true. He’s jealous that Ron and Hermione seem to have moved on from the war, that he’s the only one that can’t quite seem to start his life again. He had hoped (reckless and careless) that things might never change between them. Hermione reaches across the table, knocking over a salt shaker and a pile of napkins, and takes Harry’s hand. He loves you, you know.
I know, Harry thinks. Maybe, he says.
&
Harry wakes up with his hands clenched around sheets, sweat dripping down his neck and Ron’s fingers at his elbow. Harry tries to take a few deep breaths, and settles against Ron’s chest. Nightmare? Ron asks, his voice hoarse and slightly cracking on the inflection, and brushes his thumb against Harry’s neck. Harry wants to say no, it’s just too warm next to you, but he keeps the words trapped behind his teeth. He presses his hand against Ron’s side, pushing him down and sits up on his elbow. Ron’s face is familiar in the dark, and Harry thinks he could probably trace the freckles spread across his nose, and map out the awkward angles. He hesitates, reaches out and drags his finger down Ron’s chest and moves towards Ron’s sharp ankles. You don’t—Ron starts, wide-eyed and knuckles white against Harry’s t-shirt. Harry lowers his head, presses his lips against the seam of Ron’s pajamas, and dull fingernails leave half-circles on Harry’s arm. There’s a shudder, an intake of breath, and Harry’s fingers pull down Ron’s boxers. He slips in between Ron’s legs, his elbows brushing against the inside of Ron’s thigh. Harry’s never done this before, but he drags his tongue against the underside of Ron’s cock, fingers pressing Ron’s hips into the mattress. Ron groans, tugs Harry back up, tearing the t-shirt and crushing his lips against Harry’s. Can I stay? Ron asks in between kisses, and Harry replies with the jerk of his hips, the press of his thumb just there, breathing into Ron’s mouth.
&
Harry comes in with the rain, dripping water on the carpet and drying his hair with his fingers. He pads into the living room, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it on the back of the chair. Ron’s curled up on the couch, and Harry slips into his arms, turning his face into the inside of Ron’s elbow and resting his trainers against the edge of the couch. His hair will leave a damp patch on Ron’s t-shirt, his trainers will leave mud-stains on the carpet, but Ron will wake up at four-fifteen and pull Harry closer.