Entry tags:

*fic, 2010, luna, ron, seamus

Special Delivery for l3petitemort
Title: A Single Step
Author/Artist:
Recipient's LJ name: l3petitemort
Pairing(s): Seamus/Luna, Ron/Luna, Seamus/Luna/Ron, implied past Ron/Hermione (and/or Harry/Ron/Hermione if you're inclined to see things that way).
Rating: R
Summary There is too much there now. Too many tears and tantrums, fighting and fucking, hurt and heart and love and loss and everything that people can share with one another. It screams inside him, but he cannot force it out of himself; he cannot find the words.
Word Count: 2050
Warnings/Content: post-DH angst, bisexuality, hurt/comfort, threesome.
Author's/Artist's notes: I've never really bought the whole, "Voldemort was defeated and we all lived happily!" thing, so this is a take on that from Ron's perspective (it didn't start out that way, he just sorta took over). Overall, it hasn't quite turned out as I intended, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless ♥

He seeks an escape here, in this grimy Muggle pub.

In a place where no-one can find him.

In a place he can no longer find himself.

He sits, alone and silent. His person radiates with an aura that wards others away; that holds the world at arm's length.

Always out of reach.

And so it surprises him to hear a familiar voice; it surprises him that it should interlope into this, his nothing place, that its tone and timbre should ease between the cracked, weather-beaten walls of his sought-after solitude.

Initially, he ignores the sound of his own name. In his intoxicated state, he imagines holding the word, the name, his name – "Ron" – in the palm of his hand: squeezing it, hard and sharp and cold against the skin; as though he can absorb the man he once was.

As though the thing – whatever it was – that made him him - "Ron" – can pass through the skin and into the deepest parts of him, rebuilding the broken parts of him; as though those three letters can hold the fragments of himself together.

Yes: he holds it – "Ron" – in the palm of his hand.

With a sigh of sad resignation, Ron releases it.

There is no going back.

There never was.

He closes his eyes.

He takes a drink.

And he can see it.

For a moment he can see himself – the word, the name, the being - "Ron" - but it is only for a moment.

Ron breathes out, and the image, the moment, dissipates, and is gone.

"Ron."

It will not go away.

"What?" Ron asks gruffly. There is a pause and for a moment, Ron thinks that maybe he has heard nothing at all, and that it only exists within him.

"I never thought I'd run into you here," Seamus says as he eases onto the stool beside Ron.

Dolefully, Ron turns his head. He says nothing; merely offers a shrug in Seamus' direction.

"You alright, mate?" Seamus asks. He places a hand on Ron's shoulder. He waits, but Ron offers no reply. Seamus watches the slow, deliberate bob of Ron's Adam's apple as he swallows; as his fingers loosen around his glass; as he slides from his stool.

"Shit," Seamus hisses, catching Ron under his arms. "Come on," he says. He hoists Ron to his feet and with a mighty heave escorts him from the pub.

*

"Ohhh," Ron breathes. He winces as the morning light wakes him, the sun's rays bearing down upon his eyelids like some enormous anvil. Groaning, he raises himself up on his elbows and, through squinted vision, looks about him.

"Where the bloody hell am I?" he says. His voice is hoarse and when he speaks, his tongue tastes like the sourest notes of Firewhiskey; thick and gummy and pliable and he thinks he might be sick.

"YOU'RE UP."

"What?!" Ron jumps, as someone yells at him. The familiar Irish lilt echoing loudly inside his head.

"I SAID, 'YOU'RE UP," Seamus repeats.

Ron groans. He clutches at his temples. "Would you stop yelling at me?" he whines.

"I'M NOT."

"You are!"

"NO. I'M NOT.

Exasperated, Ron turns to Seamus. "Yes, you –"

"Seamus?" a woman's voice interrupts the exchange of protestations. The sound of her travels on the air like dandelions on the breeze; she sounds like cartwheels in the summertime.

"Seamus?" she repeats and, from his position on the couch, Ron sees a figure emerge from the hall.

"Luna?" Ron asks, confused.

"Oh. Hello, Ron." Luna smiles. She is clothed only in a tattered, over-sized shirt, the stretched neck of which sags over her collarbone, exposing the gentle slope of a lightly freckled shoulder. Her hair sways a little, brushing the bare skin of her neck.

Nudging Ron's legs off of the sofa, Luna seats herself beside him. Ron nods a hello and then looks to Seamus; and back to Luna again before the realisation occurs to him.

"Ohh!" he says, "Are you two –" Ron gestures to each of them with his hand to indicate his meaning.

"No," Luna says, just as Seamus counters with a "Yes;" and in a moment, each reverses their position.

"Well," Ron says, with an amused look on his face. "As long as you two know what you're doing."

"It's not – it's not like that," Seamus says defensively. He leans back on the arm of the couch. "It's just –"

"We needed each other," Luna finishes.

"After – everything."

"The war," Luna states matter-of-factly as Ron turns his head from side-to-side as each of his former schoolmates speak.

Indeed, he is still looking expectantly at Seamus when he feels the gentle caress of Luna's fingertips on his thigh.

"Luna, what are you -?"

"Seamus said – he told me you've been – that it's been hard for you. That's all. And we thought, well, maybe you needed someone as well," Luna offers by way of explanation and, as she does, she leans into Ron, closing the space between them.

"We?" Ron asks.

Luna nods. "It's alright to need someone, Ron."

"What do you mean, 'we?'"

"It's alright, Ron," Luna soothes, "We've always had a bit of a crush on you."

Ron swallows. "What – what is this 'we' you keep on about? Who is 'we'? Luna?"

Ron gets to his feet: Luna is gazing up at him searchingly, her eyes wide; Seamus, however, is unable to even nod in Ron's direction; he has turned his face away and is silent, fiercely fighting the blush that is rising in his cheeks.

"This – this is a bit weird," Ron says quietly; finally and, collecting his jacket, he departs Seamus' flat in a confused cloud of apprehension.

*

"Bloody hell," Ron mutters as he fumbles with the front door key. He is about to jam it awkwardly into the lock for the umpteenth time since arriving on his own doorstep when the door swings open.

"Hermione!" Ron says, stunned.

"Ronald!" she replies, her voice a mixture of relief and anger. "Where have you been?"

"What? I was just –"

"Ron!" Harry exclaims, emerging from the kitchen. "Where've you been, mate?"

"I was just – I went –"

"I mean what were you thinking? Disappearing like that? Anything could've happened and – " Hermione interrupts.

"Yeah, you really should've let someone know, mate," Harry offers as Hermione pauses to take a breath.

"And we wouldn't have known even where to look or –"

"Your mum was freaking out."

"I mean, we were so worried! How could you be so selfish and –"

Ron could feel his chest constrict with each concerned platitude that Hermione and Harry offered; and the sound – the sound of it – ricocheting inside his head, doubling and tripling until all he could hear was a wall of noise and all that he wanted was silence.

"HERMIONE. STOP. PLEASE."

"Ron, I –"

"Just, please - stop," Ron pleads, taking Hermione's hands in his. She jerks them away. Her eyes flash with hurt and she steps back.

"Hermione, I'm sorry," Ron says hurriedly, "It's just – I don't need another mother."

"Ron, I wasn't –"

"You were." He turns to Harry. "Harry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for anyone to worry. I only wanted a bit of quiet, yeah?"

Harry nods. "Course," he says, "But if something's wrong, Ron – you can tell us. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," Ron sighs. "But it's fine. Really." Herding Harry and Hermione toward the door, Ron ushers them through.

"You sure?" Harry asks as he and Hermione stand on the step.

"Yes," Ron nods. "It's fine."

*

It isn't fine.

Ron can't remember the last time it was; not clearly. Oh, he supposes it was sometime (and some time) before the war.

Before the only world he'd ever known was flipped and twisted and torn to pieces.

Before shreds of himself began to fall away, like meat stripped from the bone.

But he cannot recall the exact moment when everything was fine.

When he last felt like himself.

Whole.

*

Ron spends the next few days holed up in his flat. He owls his Mum (he wishes she wouldn't worry; and he wonders what there is to worry for), and Hermione (he was too short with her; she didn't deserve to incur his anger the way she did); but that is the extent of Ron's contact with the outside world.

He wraps himself up on the couch. It is weathered and worn and it scratches his skin, but he is not bothered enough to move. He simply settles in, and turns Harry's words over in his mind:

But if something's wrong, you can tell us.

For a moment, Ron half-thinks that he can.

But there is too much there now. Too many tears and tantrums, fighting and fucking, hurt and heart and love and loss and everything that people can share with one another.

It screams inside him, but he cannot force it out of himself; he cannot find the words.

And as his tongue undulates uselessly in his mouth, a dead weight, Ron thinks of Seamus; he thinks of Luna.

*

"Ron!" Luna says, taken by surprise as she opens the door.

"Luna," Ron growls and, stepping inside the flat, he takes her up in his arms, crushing his lips to hers with a desire he hasn't felt in all too long . His hands grasp at her arms and legs, urgently, before Luna places her hands over Ron's and guides them, eases them, over the curves of her body; over the rise and fall of her breasts and belly and thighs.

Pushing Luna against the wall in the entryway, Ron grunts; all the while touching her and tasting her on his lips and tongue where she bubbles like one's first Fizzing Whizbee.

"Easy, Ron," she gasps between kisses: "Easy."

Ron nods in agreement and, as he does, he sees Luna look past him, over his shoulder. Breaking the kiss, he turns to see what it is that has captured her attention.

"Seamus," Luna smiles and, with a wave of her hand, indicates he should approach. Ron is uncertain, but does not protest: he merely plunges into another long kiss with Luna; grinding his hips against her; she against him, and both of them against the wall.

Ron isn't sure how much time has passed when he hears the grunt and pant of Seamus' voice behind him or, rather, the grunt and pant of something that rises from the very base of his belly and, as Ron discards Luna's shirt, he glances over his shoulder again.

Seamus is closer now, and he is standing, watching with a curious expression, and slipping his long, lean fingers beneath the waistband of his trousers.

"Finnegan," Ron hisses, "What are you –"

"Ron," Luna says sternly, taking Ron's chin between thumb and forefinger and holding his gaze. "It's alright. We'll go slow."

Ron swallows. He looks back at Seamus who bows his head in a gesture of agreement; of consolation and deference.

It's alright to need someone.

"OK," Ron croaks. "OK."

*

In the middle of the night, Ron wakes. As his eyes adjust to the low light of the room, he sees Luna sleeping beside him, but the space in the bed where he last remembers Seamus being is empty. Groaning, Ron pushes back the twisted sheets and gets to his feet.

*

"How did you know?" Ron asks as he pads quietly into the kitchen. Seamus is standing at the bench, resting on his elbows; a cigarette dangling from between his fingers.

"How'd I know what?"

Smoke pours from Seamus' lips as he exhales.

"That I'd be there. That this –"

Ron gestures with his hands. He cannot find the words to say that this is what he has needed – what he needs – this space to be, and to rediscover the pieces of himself that he has lost; to lay hands upon those familiar parts of himself once again.

Seamus shrugs. "I was having a pint wi' me Dad. And I saw you. Saw me."

Ron's lips twitch; it is not quite a smile, but it is something.

Seamus takes a final drag, long and low and deep, on his cigarette before butting it out in the ashtray. "It's not like magic," he says to Ron. "It'll take time."

"I know," Ron says. "But it's a start."