"You all right there?" Ron hollered across the Quidditch pitch. From this
distance, he looked so much smaller than he really was. Harry rubbed at the
throb in his left shoulder, not feeling at all irritated at Ron for causing
it. That was the whole point of practicing. Trying to knock each other off
balance, trying to gain the lead while racing along side each other. Whatever
it took to become a better player.
"Yeah," Harry called back.
He flew in a straight line towards Ron, who flew to meet him at the centre
point of the pitch. It was getting late. The sky had clouded over and darkened
at the onset of evening, though Harry had been having too much fun to notice.
Ron's cheeks were flushed a merry red from both exertion and laughter.
Perhaps, Harry thought, they really weren't the best pair to practice
together, since most of the time they larked about, often ending up creased
over their brooms in hysterics. Particularly whenever Ron saw fit to shout a
running commentary of their swoops and dives in a stupid voice that resembled
the Sorting Hat to a near-frightening degree.
Ron looked at Harry seriously for a moment. "I didn't mean to hit you so
hard."
"It wasn't that hard," Harry said, forcing himself not to start rubbing his
shoulder again. It had been, really, but Ron didn't need to know that. He
didn't seem to be aware his own enthusiastic strength sometimes. Once, they
had wrestled for a laugh in the second year, and even then, although Ron had
been considerably smaller than he was now, Harry had ached for days
afterwards. All in the name of fun. And it had been worth it. "You hit like a
girl, anyway," Harry added, winning himself a grin.
"Tosser." Ron leaned to the right and then flew a narrow circle around Harry,
before stopping in front of him, a challenging smile spread over his mouth
that ignited his eyes as well. "You want to race again?"
"Yeah, all right," Harry said with a shrug. Why did Ron even bother to ask?
Harry was always ready to fly; be it a game, practice, for exercise or just
for the feel of the wind in his hair. They both swiftly made their way to one
side of the pitch, coming to rest in front of the Ravenclaw stands, then
turned, hovering next to each other with the thrill of excited anticipation.
"On three," Ron said, bending low over his meticulously polished Cleansweep.
Harry nodded and lowered himself over his Firebolt, feeling the narrow,
familiar length pressing along his stomach. Sometimes he fancied he could feel
it when he was in class, or at night when he was trying to get to sleep.
"One... two..."
The silence ran on.
"Ron, stop arseing about--"
"Three!"
Ron was off, a streak of ginger hair and maroon Quidditch robes. Harry swore
at himself for falling for it, then shot forwards with as much determination
as he could muster. Fairly, he didn't find himself playing with as much vigour
as he did when against an opposing team's players, but Ron obviously tried his
best to wind Harry up to produce the desired effect. Harry went along with it
most of the time, but occasionally he found himself slipping into the near
trance-like state he experienced during matches, where everything was reflex,
frighteningly fast. Fierce playing. Real Quidditch.
Although, mostly it was unadulterated fun. Because it was Ron.
Ron, who was in the lead by a couple of feet.
"Come on, Potter! Fly boy! Do it for Hogwarts! Do it for England! Do it for
S.P.E.W! House elves unite and all that shite!"
Harry let out a bark of laughter and slipped back further, giving Ron the
opportunity to gain a fair distance between them. Damn Ron for using jokes!
Harry was laughing for real now and couldn't stop, knowing that he was going
to lose if he didn't remain focused. He forced himself into Quidditch mode,
concentrating on his breathing and his goal: to reach the other side before
his opponent. His opponent, who wasn't Ron anymore, just another boy who was
threatening to win, like Malfoy... Harry felt the resulting jolt of this
thought in his body, vibrating through his broom and melding him to it as if
it were another limb; with eyes sharpened and fixed straight ahead he
accelerated with a flush of determination. Almost there… Ron was beside him
now, they were level pegging, though the length of the pitch was running out
rapidly. This was always Harry's favourite part, probably Ron's too -- the not
knowing how far you'd end up going, who would stop first, pull back before
hitting the solid, and potentially lethal, brick wall of the Gryffindor
stands. Which was right there! The individual stones were clear; a network of
cracks spread darkly over the weathered surface, jagged, like lightening
bolts.
But Harry didn't stop, because Ron hadn't stopped.
Harry was dimly aware of the tail of Ron's Quidditch jacket whipping against
his side, but could only hear the thunderous wind, feeling it numbing his
face, his hands locked around the broom handle, the brush of wood against his
chin and smell of the wax he used to polish it.
He was in the lead... the wall! Fuck. Stop!
He pulled up, turning to the side, pulling with all his strength until he
thought his broom might snap. With an almost shuddering breath, he slowed to a
stop, mere inches from the wall. Ron came next, grinded to a halt beside him,
his body bumping against Harry's, ice cold hands coming up to Harry's face,
turning it, lips on Harry's chin, then his mouth...
They started to sink down towards the earth, floating slowly and completely
unaware of the motion, too caught up in each other to notice when they landed
on the grass in an awkward tangle of limbs and brooms.
This was another practice that they enjoyed. One that Harry was as passionate
about as Quidditch, if not more. Quite possibly more, he thought; Ron's hands
impossibly everywhere on his body at once. They had a technique too. A
familiar technique that worked best for them. It was a little sloppy; lots of
tongue and teeth at first, hot breaths against the face, fingers in hair,
pulling too hard, but it was their technique. And it always slowed after a
while, the kisses becoming deeper, tongues calling a truce and agreeing to get
along peacefully. Harry loved it. And from the sound of it, so did Ron.
Ron's fingers tugged the buttons of Harry's jacket out of their holes, then
slithered inside, trying to find an easy way of getting at his skin. It took
some time and fumbling, but he eventually settled for hoisting Harry's jumper
up and sliding his hands underneath. Harry broke away. "Ah, wait! Your hands
are freezing!" But Ron paid him no heed, only grinned and pinched a nipple.
"It's only because your broom's faster than mine, you know." He dipped his
head and kissed Harry's jaw. "If I had a Firebolt, I would have beat you... or
at least we would have tied," he said, voice muffled from where his mouth was
pressed, against Harry's neck.
"Yeah, or we would have both killed ourselves. That was a close one." Harry
relaxed his head back against the dewy grass -- feeling the cool moisture
creeping through his hair -- giving Ron better access. "That was awesome," he
added, the adrenaline of the flight still drumming through him, combined with
the adrenaline from feeling Ron's hands gradually warming against his chest,
deftly rippling their way down over his ribs.
"You must really be rooting for house-elf equality, mate."
Harry laughed. "That was pretty funny. Hermione would have been pissed off if
she'd heard you." If only Hermione knew how much he and Ron teased about
S.P.E.W when she wasn't around.
Ron raised his head and smiled. "Naturally. It didn't distract you for long
though." Harry almost said 'yeah, but this does' when Ron's hand slipped below
the waistband of his trousers, but he couldn't find his voice. And he didn't
care.
Everything made the times spent like this perfect, even the small mistakes.
Ron's hand was still too cold, but because it was Ron's hand that didn't
matter. Harry arched into the first touch, sighed at the gentle, almost
cautious glide of thumb along his shaft, chewing his lower lip as the grip
intensified. Ron seemed more comfortable voicing his pleasure than Harry was;
he lay down beside Harry and welcomed his hands as they unbuttoned his
trousers and reciprocated, sighing a light moan before Harry had even touched
him. Ron moved his head, his nose brushing cold against Harry’s, their breaths
puffing against each other’s lips. Murmuring something incoherent, Ron pushed
his hips forwards to seek out some friction.
They moved against each other, uncoordinated thrusting, hands working with the
need for something to make this a little easier but not so uncomfortable so as
to make them stop. Harry's mouth was open and moist, the shadows of his
eyelashes falling against his cheek, brows moving along with every stroke of
Ron’s hand. It was the most familiar face Ron knew, and knew intimately.
Harry gasped, opening his eyes, not having realised he'd closed them in the
first place, to see Ron looking at him with a quiet awe that slipped from his
face as soon as he became aware that he was being observed. They both smiled
at each other.
No words passed across the small bridge of air between them, only moans. Ron
came, his stomach muscles tensing and the most freeing feeling washing over
him. Harry's lips quirked at the sides. He made a light sound in his throat
and then crushed his mouth against Ron's, catching Ron off-guard so that their
teeth clinked.
It was great.
It was great.
Though neither had noticed the stealthy darkness descend, Ron clearly saw the
change in Harry's expression when he came, even in the dim light. He felt it
in his hand too, pulsing and hot, fast and fluid. Harry's forehead wrinkled,
his eyelids fluttered, his mouth trembled...
And then peace.
Cold yet warm at the same time, they unwrapped themselves from each other and
rose. Brooms were lifted in sticky hands and laughter escaped swollen lips.
All was good. Practice had gone well. Everything was perfect.
~Fin~
|