Crying by Avon

Ron squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head under his pillow. Why was it that he could hear every sound, every movement, every breath from Harry's bed? This wasn't normal.

It was like a recurring nightmare for Ron. Almost every night, he woke up in the small hours of the morning to Harry crying. At times like this, Ron was tortured by his overwhelming desire to climb into Harry's four-poster and hold him tightly until the pain went away. But what would Harry think of Ron and his unnatural ideas? Weasleys were a normal wizarding family. The girls graduated from Hogwarts, married nice boys, and made more Weasleys. The boys graduated from Hogwarts, married nice girls, and made more Weasleys. But Ron wasn't interested in girls.

It was at awkward times like these that Ron found himself skimming over memories with Harry in them, memories that made the back of his neck tingle. Being with Harry, brushing his arm against Harry's back in the corridor made his skin prickle. He remembered the first time he hugged Harry, in their first year. Ron woke in the hospital wing after winning the chess game against McGonagall's giant chess pieces. Harry was sitting at the end of Ron's bed, fear and worry etched in every feature. Hermione was in the common room, doing some last minute homework, and Pomfrey was off mixing a sleeping draught. The moment Ron had opened his eyes, he was in a sitting position, and Harry's arms were around him, clutching wildly, and his shoulders, his sides, the back of his head, his hair. Ron, in turn, had squeezed Harry tightly, as if to reassure his friend that he was okay. Seconds, later, footsteps approached the door and Madam Pomfrey entered. Shocked and embarrassed, Harry and sprung backward and shoved his hands in his pockets. That moment they had shared of raw emotion was never mentioned.

Tonight was like all others. Harry's stifled sobs reached Ron's pricked ears, somehow missing Seamus, Dean and Neville. Ron never blamed Harry for crying. The people Harry cared about were being taken from him, and he felt helpless. His parents, Cedric, and then Sirius. The only father figure Harry could remember having, the only shred of hope Harry had for a normal family of his own was ripped from him, while he watched. Harry was facing the prospect of more unavoidable deaths, those including either Voldemort's or his own. The thought of losing Harry brought Ron to tears when he put serious thought into it. But, he thought to himself sometimes, he had to prepare himself for the worst. War was upon them.

Ron rolled on his side so he was facing Harry's side of the room. All the lights had been extinguished that evening, but a shaft of moonlight from a window cut its way across the flagstone floor.

It struck Ron once again that the one thing he wanted to do most at that moment was to throw off his covers and pad soundlessly over the cold stone of the floor to Harry's bed. He was about to mentally slap himself for being so stupid until he remembered something Hermione had said earlier that day.

Seize the moment.

Before he knew what he was doing, Ron was next to the velvet hangings around Harry's bed. He stood for a few seconds, rethinking what he was doing.

I shouldn't be doing this.Too late.

Extending a hand, Ron pulled back the curtains that had created a barrier between him and Harry for so long. Harry was curled in a tight ball, his back to Ron. Lost in his grief, Harry didn't even notice his visitor.

I can't believe I'm doing this. Boys don't do this kind of thing. Harry will hate me. Ron curled himself around his friend, despite what his conscience was screaming at him. He wrapped his arms tightly around Harry's waist, pulling his friend close.

When Harry felt Ron's presence in his bed and in fact not only there but wrapped around him, a jolt of electricity zapped his mind. At first he was shocked, but it didn't take long to realize how good Ron felt to close to him.

Oh, no. Ron thought as Harry started to squirm. He's going to tell me to leave and he'll never speak to me again. Ron pulled his arms away from Harry and closed his eyes. He wanted to feel what it was like to be in Harry's bed just for a few more seconds before Harry kicked him out.

But to his surprise, Harry's expected rejection didn't come. Ron felt arms snake their way around him, pulling him back.

Ron opened his eyes to see Harry's own, inches from him.

"Ron..." Harry breathed, his nose touching his friend's.

"I'm here."

Seemingly unable to find words, Harry buried his face in Ron's chest. Ron brought one hand to Harry's head and stroked his friend's untidy, raven hair lovingly. Feeling a surge of bravery, he caught Harry's chin in his palm, bringing their faces level.

"Are you okay?" Ron's eyes asked the question more than his voice.

Harry swallowed and almost nodded, but then realized that he was far from okay.

"No."

"Can I help?"

A knot in Harry's chest kept him from speaking for a moment. "You're already do."

Feeling inspired, Harry kept talking.

"You help me every day. Every time I look at you. Every time you laugh. Every time you run your hand through your hair when you're frustrated. Every time you cheer at a Quidditch game."

Ron was taken aback. He had not expected any specific response from Harry, but this was so unforeseen he did a double take. Seeing Ron's surprised look, Harry flushed slightly. He then waited anxiously for Ron to say something. Damn the night, fucking with his head.

"That last Quidditch game was brilliant," Ron said, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Harry smiled and looked at the ceiling, as if enjoying a memory. "I heard you calling my name after I caught the snitch, and when I turned to look at you - "

He broke off as if embarrassed.

"What?" Ron asked, a small smile on his face as well.

Harry shook his head a little before answering. "You - you looked more beautiful than I've ever seen you." He rushed on and avoided Ron's gaze. "You had one fist in the air, and your cheeks were flushed. You're hat had fallen off and you're hair was all messy. And you were smiling..." Again Harry cursed the nighttime for his loss of control over his mind.

Instead of answering with words, Ron released Harry's chin and pulled him closer still. Their cheeks touched and their legs intertwined. Ron ran his hand up and down the length of his friend's back, in a simple reminder that he was still there.

The last thing either of them remembered before drifting out of the conscious world was the incredibly surreal feeling of mutual touch, mutual love.

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