Chapter Text
Harry has kissed him a couple of times in their several decades long friendship. Ron catalogued each kiss but it never was a big deal.
It was just something Harry did when something really life-changing happened or one of them nearly died...again.
They had a rather tactile friendship if you took their age and gender into account, but during their rather dangerous quest to save the world from itself they were bound to be close.
Ron never had any illusions about Harry. Harry was as much a full-blood wizard as he was, even considering his upbringing, and wizards dated and married witches to keep the community alive. There was no chance for anything else so it didn’t do him any good to dwell on any could-have-beens.
Harry dated witches and Ron chose the only witch that he didn’t feel uncomfortable kissing.
He had the two kids, so no one could say he hadn’t in the production of the next wizard generation and then, after about ten years of him trying to be a good husband and Hermione trying to balance her career and her family life, they had called it quits.
Maybe one of the reasons was her sleeping with a fellow scientist because he was not able to force himself to have sex with her any more. She didn’t cheat on him, she told him that she wanted to and he said unfazed “Okay.”
They tried and it hurt, but it was surprisingly okay.
Even in the dark times of his divorce Ron never dared to think about kissing Harry.
Now though, as he is bleeding out on the cold stony floor in some stupid cave, the corpse of a dark wizard two steps away from him, he can't help but think about it and he's aching for Harry to be there at the end of his journey.
He’s not so dumb to believe they’ll find him on time.
He knows he’s dying.
Ron is supposed to think about his family now. About his children and if they will be okay after he’s gone and he does for a moment but his anaemia-muddled brain only supplies memories of being kissed by Harry and he's way to distracted by his own approaching death to censor his thoughts.
It started with their first Christmas at Hogwarts. Ron had written his mum a very desperate letter a week before the holidays after he’d found out that Harry didn’t expect any gifts for Christmas and his ever-loving Mum had stayed awake to finish another sweater for the little orphan boy on time.
Ron still remembers with how much disbelief Harry had stared at his presents and how much fun they had that day. At the evening they had sat in the empty dorm room eating Christmas fudge and cookies until Harry who'd been giddy all day had finally calmed down enough to doze off next to Ron on Ron's bed.
They were eleven and things were uncomplicated and Ron was just happy to have his first real friend with him and played chess against himself until Harry had pulled him on the pillow beside and kissed his cheek and mumbled something about this being the best Christmas ever.
Ron is not sure he can feel his fingers any more. He feels dizzy and the pain is drumming mind-numbingly in his ears. The floor under his back is wet and the air smells like iron.
Harry kissed him again two years later, after Ron had pushed himself between Sirius and Harry, and he didn’t even notice the pain of his broken leg that much, though it was difficult to keep his balance. He was scared and desperate and in that moment he didn’t even stop to think that he was thirteen and Sirius was a grown wizard. He just needed to do something to try to keep his friends, keep Harry safe.
It was then that Harry probably understood that Ron was willing to die for him.
It scared him.
Harry had cried back then, his nose pressed against his temple and kissing the place just beside his ear. It early morning before the curfew ended and things had been very confusing what with Ron’s rat being a traitor and his friends travelling through time and Ron just sat there and let it happen while the sun was sending its first rays through the infirmary.
Ron is sure it isn’t normal when you stop feeling your limbs. He’d close his eyes but the dark is even scarier than looking at the walls the waves washed into the stone.
The next kiss was after Harry was pulled from that dreaded lake. It was cold and their wet clothes were frozen stiff and after Ron weathered the storm of Hermione he was just happy that Harry was alive and he was in a warm bed. He didn’t have the energy left to be surprised when Harry slipped into his bunk. He just pulled him close and Harry buried his face in the crook if his neck and clung to him like he had believed him to be gone for ever.
It was him who cried, because Harry was alive and him and he found them and he still didn’t know if his family would survive with Percy was still missing and his brothers in the order literally begging to be killed and everything was so overwhelming.
Harry stroked the back of his neck and kissed that sensitive spot on the neck until he stopped shaking and he didn’t have any tears any more.
Ron aches to have him here right right now. For Harry to hold him close and tell him things would be okay even though it’s a bloody lie and they both know.
Then Harry died again. And was alive again.
And Fred was dead and Remus and Lavender and Colin and so many others and he’d kissed Hermione because he needed something alive and breathing and she was his rock while everything else crumbled. That night they all three sat in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room the pain was numbing. It didn’t feel like they won. There was no winner, there was just sadness and death and being alive when, all things considered, it was logical for you to be dead.
They didn’t cry.
They just sat there and each of them didn’t know how to support the other. How to stop it from hurting so much.
Hermione had finally succumbed to a fitful slumber and Ron had held both of them in his arm and they were breathing and warm and Harry’s hand clawed so much in his shoulder it hurt.
It had been almost early morning and Harry kissed him on the spot between his nose just above the mouth. He apologised but Ron was too exhausted to ask why.
Ron hears the waves echo through the cave and he think it might not be the worst sound to die to. He’d always liked the sea. He always liked the salty wind in his hair and the way wet sand feels in between his toes. It feels like freedom and summer.
Harry kissed him for the last time the night before his wedding.
The Weasley men and their old dorm mates had organised a stag party with a lot of alcohol and Ron loved his sister enough to care about getting Harry home drunk but not too drunk that a sober-me-kwik wouldn’t get him wedding-ready in the morning. Ron had pushed him in one of the chairs. He kneeled down to help him untie his shoes. Harry swayed from side to side mumbled something he didn’t catch.
As he looked up to find out what Harry’d wanted the man had yanked him up into a bruising kiss directly on the lips and Ron is feeling almost like passing out remembering it.
He’d never felt so desired again and he was angry because Harry was marrying his sister for Merlin’s sake.
He’d pushed himself off and fled from the room.
The next morning he had pretended it didn’t happen, like he always did. He made sure Harry was showered and sober. He retied his tie and tried to fix his hair and muttered that he’d better make Ginny happy and Harry had smiled nervously and looked like he was about to puke.
There's the sound of apparition echoing against the cave walls, but Ron is too far gone to protect himself.
Someone swears and there's a hand slapping the sides of his face telling him to stay awake and the blood-loss makes his vision blurry but he’d recognise that jet-black chaos head everywhere and he knows Harry is talking to him but his ears are roaring so loud that he can't decipher what he’s saying.
Harry’s there.
It’s too late.
He can’t feel his limbs and he feels cold and dizzy. Ron whispers Harry’s name as loud as he can and his friend crouches low down closer to his face and it’s his death and he can do with it whatever he wants. He doesn’t need to take anyone’s feeling into consideration. Not Ginny’s, not his Mum’s, not the ones of general public and he gathers the last bit of his strength and lifts his head to touch Harry’s lips with his own. Softly.
He doesn’t have time to revel in it.
it’s getting dark and he doesn’t even feel it when his head falls back on the rocky ground.