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Neville was being tortured.
Okay, not actively tortured. Mostly. Neville doesn’t think he’s doing it on purpose.
See, Neville had run into car problems recently. The Ford Fiesta that he’d inherited from his mother was starting to break down like crazy, and despite the fact that he had quite a bit of money… He doesn’t think he’d ever have the heart to get rid of the old girl. Too much sentimental value. So he’d asked around, questioning any of his friends on if they had any experience with cars.
Turns out they did! Well, Sort of. Harry had texted him back saying that Ron Weasley had actually gone into mechanics after they’d graduated secondary school. It was obvious that those two would stay friends, along with Hermione, but Neville actually hadn’t seen much of either her or Ron since he’d moved a bit further north. He’d heard of their amicable, but devastating, breakup through the grapevine - But that was pretty much it. Neville thought it’d be harmless, so he asked for Ron’s contact information and invited him over for some lunch and machinations.
And that’s how he ended up feeling like a pervert in his own garage.
Ron had finished fixing up whatever the hell was wrong with his car, he’d had to use a jack to hike it up a small bit and slide underneath with one of those wheeled things - Which sounds so very intelligent, but it’s not Neville’s fault he’s always been bad with cars. He was now walking the taller boy through everything he did that afternoon, and Neville couldn’t focus at all.
Because Ron was standing in the gentle summer sun, freckled skin sweaty and covered in grease. His hair was pushed back out of his eyes, he had two leather bracelets on one wrist and his oversized jeans were practically hanging off of his hips. A sweat droplet slipped off the tip of Ron’s nose onto the white tank top he was wearing and Neville thought he was going to faint.
“So whaddya think, mate?” Neville unfortunately tuned back into the conversation right as Ron asked him a question, and he had exactly zero context to figure out how to respond. It’s not like he cared too much about that anyways, he was too focused on Ron running a hand through his hair like he was in a Goddamn porno. The bottom of his shirt lifted up with the movement, working in tandem with those low-rise jeans to show off a silver of Ron’s abdomen and a peek of his happy trail.
Dandy, Neville thought.
“Dandy,” Neville said.
“Dandy?” Ron repeated.
If it wasn’t torture before, it was definitely torture now. Problem one was that Neville was still staring, effectively, where Ron’s crotch was. He ripped his gaze upwards, only to make eye contact with his amused blue irises. Problem two, he was not paying attention at all and somehow had to formulate a response to what he was asked. Also, he just made an ass of himself so he should probably come up with an excuse for himself.
Except Ron seemed incredibly entertained by the situation, and was gently teasing his bottom lip with his teeth. He only looked more pleased when he realized that Neville had been staring at his mouth instead of responding. Then Neville realized that he was staring at his mouth instead of responding, and promptly gave up.
“I’m sorry,” Neville let his shoulders drop, hunching in on himself.
“Don’t be,” Ron said as he slung his cleaning rag over his shoulder and sauntered past Neville through the garage door back into his house. “You still owe me lunch.”