When I come home from work, Harry's sitting on my sofa in the dark. I close the door to my flat and wait for him to react to my presence. He does nothing, which means he's either asleep or sober.

I watch him for a few moments, trying to assess the situation. There is a thick tension in the room, as though he's been caught doing something naughty. But he hasn't moved or said anything. He's breathing deeply, but it's overly controlled. This means he's not sleeping.

Eerily distraught and sober Harry worries me, so I take off my work robe and grab some beer before heading to the sofa. I put the bottles on the coffee table and sit down on the opposite end from him.

I look at my hands, my knees, the table, the floor. There is still no noise or movement from Harry's end of the sofa. He is frozen, breathing in his sad way, waiting for something. And I am waiting for him.

It's not that unusual for Harry to make camp in my living room when he's upset. It's barely August and this is the third time he's been here like this so far this year. The first two times were during fights he was having with his girlfriend. She wants far more from him than he is willing to give of himself. She wants commitment, a shared pet, a shared apartment, a promise of a future together. He wants someone who doesn't put pressure on him.

Harry can handle things at his job that routinely blow my mind. He is a master of magic and calm, of cunning and wit. He walks out of physically and emotionally crippling situations without batting an eyelid. He is brave and reckless, confident and smart. The Aurors love him.

His professional life is nothing short of perfect. His personal life, of course, is the worst train wreck I've ever seen. He's incredibly fragile but doesn't want anyone to know it, so he puts up a mean, calloused, defensive front that few can see through, let alone break down. Things between him and Ginny did not last long after the war. She expected him to give heartfelt dedication and undying love. He expected her to understand that he needed time and space to recover and regroup.

Their breakup was unpleasant and he spent nearly two weeks on the sofa at my first flat. He swore he'd never fall in love again, that he'd learned his lesson, that nothing was worth the heartache. A few months later, of course, he was pursuing other girls. Each time things ended badly, he'd wind up on my sofa, usually drunk, occasionally stoned, and refuse to leave until I'd fed him several hearty meals.

This is not to say that my own love life is drama-free or that Harry is never there for me. When Hermione and I broke up, I camped out at his place for well over a week. We considered, at that point, finding a two-bedroom flat that we could share, but it never happened. Harry had lease issues or wanted privacy or any number of excuses.

Secrets have been told on nights like these, when there is enough booze. He's told me about his fear of inadvertently killing everyone he's ever loved, his dream of marrying and traveling the globe, his reoccurring nightmares. I've confessed my insecurities, my dependence on others to show me what I need in life, my desire to sleep with men.

Each and every moment of deep loss or trouble, be it his inability to stay with a woman for more than a few intense months, or my inability to find a decent steady boyfriend, has been played out on one of our sofas. Usually with alcohol, always in the dark. The blackness provides an odd protection, a sort of anonymity, that allows us to share our pain with each other.

I don't know how long we've been sitting together in silence, but suddenly it feels like long enough.

"Not thirsty?" I ask, chancing a glance over at him. His face is blank.

He says nothing, so I grab the beer and go back to the kitchen, returning to the couch with two glasses and a bottle of firewhisky. I pour him a shot and he drinks it greedily. There is an immediate change in his manner. He relaxes slightly into the cushions, breathes more freely, taps his fingers on his knee.

"Bad day?" I ask before downing my own shot.

He laughs openly, which lets me know that everything is going to be okay. He has not yet lost hope in humanity or his future. I wait for a little longer, to see if he's going to open up willingly, or if I'm going to have to weasel it out of him.

"Katie and I broke up," he says, after a short pause.

The news is in no way surprising. It's been coming for weeks. Months, even. They were doomed from the start. Katie has a thing for troubled men, and when it didn't work out between her and George, she pounced on Harry. She goes into these relationships knowing that the man is utterly emotionally stunted and unavailable, and then demands outrageous things (marriage, for one) until they break up with her. I don't understand it.

"I'm sorry," I say, even though it's not true at all. He's better off without her.

"I'm not."

He sounds genuine, honest. If he's so unfazed by it… why is he here? Why does he need the alcohol? Out of habit? Is he that self-destructive?

"Oh, so… you're not upset about it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I mean… it was weird."

"Weird how?"

"Weird…" he trails off and pours himself another shot. I wince as he swallows it, his face screwed up in disgust. "Weird," he starts again, rasping against the burning in his throat, "because she broke up with me."

This is new.

"What'd you… what happened?"

There is a long, long silence and I find myself going over all of the things Harry might have done to warrant Katie, the neediest witch I know, to break up with him. Did he say something horrible? Was he violent? The possibilities are endless and each is more horrible than the last. Will I need more firewhisky myself to hear this? What he could possibly –

What –

Lips –

Harry –

Harry's lips.

I pull away and stare at him. He's next to me, right next to me with our arms and legs touching and he's holding my head in his hands and what the hell is going on? He just kissed me!

Harry kissed me.

He swallows and I exhale loudly. When did I stop breathing? His face is inches from mine and he looks wild and desperate. How bloody drunk is he? Maybe I was wrong, maybe he wasn't sober when he came over. Harry would never kiss me. He's straight. What the hell is going on?

"Harry…" My voice cracks. Fuck. My hands are shaking. He just blinks at me and his lips are red and shiny in the dark… red and wet, oh Merlin. Those green eyes, that messy black hair, that nose, his jaw, those lips.

How bloody drunk am I?

He moves forward and kisses me again. I go with it, my body more or less responding without much thought or direction on the part of my brain. This makes no sense. No sense at all. Harry's my best friend, my best mate since the age of 11, the only real friend I have. We shouldn't be doing this. This makes no sense.

Oh, fuck.

He kisses to my ear, flicks his tongue in once. I react unwillingly, shivering and gasping into the silence.


"Don't," he mutters against my neck before kissing it, sucking it, oh hell sucking it. Hard and – oh Godric his hand –

I'm not drunk enough to just let this happen. My brain protests at every movement, every new kiss, every twitch of my – fuck I feel like I haven't been this hard since I was at Hogwarts, wanking furiously to thoughts of fucking Hermione. Or sometimes Harry. But just because I fantasized about him when I was 16 doesn't mean that this should suddenly be happening or that I shouldn't be asking questions.

But it suddenly is happening and I can't even form a question in my mind other than "what?"

There. Trousers unbuttoned. Unzipped. His hand – Harry's hand in my pants, fuck. How many times have I come to the thought of Harry touching my cock? Always during climax, when I can tell myself that I can't control my thoughts. That's when he sneaks into my mind, naked, hard, glasses askew –

I reach out and pull his glasses off. He looks up, smiling, as he starts stroking me. It's too much to handle. Those eyes, that hair, his lips

We kiss again, hard, and suddenly, oh my fuck, he's up and straddling my thigh, taking a tighter grip on my cock and fuck I can feel his cock through his trousers, hard, rubbing against my thigh.

I can't. I want to – oh fuck do I want to. But this is wrong. Harry's drunk and he doesn't know what he's doing and this can't keep going. He'll regret it. I'll regret it. One night with the man I've – one night with my best mate and things will never be same. I can't do this. I don't understand. What THE HELL is going on?


"Have you ever thought about kissing me before?" he asks. He has a ridiculously stupid grin on his face. He looks like a child who just got a pony for Christmas, and early at that.

"Er." Work, brain. Say something. Anything. "Y-yeah." No, not that. Why? Fuck. I can't let him know that I want this. Because I don't. I don't want this to happen. I don't want things to change. I can't have him. I never could.

Kiss. "Me too." Kiss. "For so long." Kiss.


"Harry, don't…"

Ow, fuck that feels amazing. Hand on my – Harry's hand on my cock, and his mouth on my neck and I can't handle so many lips on my neck and I want to come but, fuck, I don't want to ruin this friendship. He's all I have and I need him and I can't lose him when he wakes up tomorrow and realizes that he's made a mistake. What if things are too awkward? What if they change too much? What am I supposed to do without my best mate? My whole life I've been taking care of him, and if he leaves –


My balls, hell, ow, fuck. No, yes, that's good.

Oh, fuck, he's never done this before. He's never been with a man and I can't be – holy hell – can't be some experiment. I need this to last, to be who we are –

He's – no, already? Wait. Fuck! Harry on the floor, Harry on the floor pulling at my trousers, Harry on the floor with his tongue on my cock.

I was so not prepared for this. I thought this would be another night of us drinking in relative silence, or us drinking while Harry rehashes all the horrible bits of his latest relationship and I nod supportively, glad he's out of another nightmare and hoping he'll do better next time.

What if I'm the next time?

Fuck, this can't end that way. The way all his relationships end. This needs to stop. We need to stop. We can't

"Harry... "

Bloody hell, he can't honestly be tonguing at my – shit! Balls were one thing – oh – oohh – fucking fuck his tongue on my arse and where did all this come from? What – stop thinking. Stop thinking. Harry Best Mate Potter has his tongue on your arse.

This is torture. I need to come. I need to come not in my best friend's mouth. Godric I can't stand it, I can't stay still, I can't get enough, and shit I shouldn't have opened my eyes – that hair!

He looks up at my wild moan and fuck those green eyes will be the death of me and he grins that insane childish grin and his tongue is lapping up my pre-cum and if that isn't the sexiest thing I've ever seen, then I don't know what is.

It doesn't even matter that he's not that good. Over the years I've gotten quite picky about technique and pressure and speed but, fuck, that was all just because I never cared about who it was. It never mattered before, who I was fucking. But this isn't some random Muggle, it's Harry Bleeding Potter and he's my best – and it doesn't matter that he's not an expert because it feels wonderful anyway.

I'm in pain and he puts his mouth back around me and – and – and


I can hear his moving around and there's a rustling sound but I can't open my eyes. I want to, I want to see what he's doing. Is he leaving? Is he freaking out? Is he undressing?

I manage to pry my heavy post-orgasm eyelids open and he's right in front of me, crawling back on top of me, those green eyes millimeters away and – oh – that, that… that's his cock, Harry's hard, wet-tipped, red cock lying on my stomach.

I rip my shirt off. Then his, for good measure. I look down, hoping with everything I have that this isn't my only chance to look at Harry in the nude. With an erection. An impressive, mouth-watering erection. Hell if I've ever seen a more beautiful cock than the one resting on my belly, sticking out from all that black hair –


Oh, please don't let that be the last – even if it is the last time he ever whispers my name with an erection, I could die a happy, perverted man. I look over his body and he's built and thin and muscular and beautiful. And I'm lanky and skinny and I have awkward angles and what does he see in me, and why, and for how long, because this has all stopped making sense. It stopped making sense ages ago and I have no idea what I'm doing.

I feel like a virgin again.

"Ron," he whispers, leaning forward to kiss me, to bring me back to reality. And the reality is that my incredibly sexy best mate is sitting on top of me with a hard cock, waiting for me to do something.

Nothing comes to mind. I have no idea what to do. This isn't just some shag, it's Harry and will I ever wrap my mind around it? Will it ever not seem like a hallucination? I can say his name and look at his face, at those eyes and that hair and those perfect lips, and it still seems unreal.

So I kiss him and it's real and he presses himself against me and he's rocking his hips and how could he want this, how could he want me? After so many years of nothing more than friendship between us, after so many other men that I've slept with, so many other men he knows I've slept with.

My brain is utter mush but I reach out and find his cock, wrap my hand around it, stroke it firmly. His mouth goes slack against mine and he's panting against my lips. I'm already hard again and –

He flops sideways, pulling me down on top of him and kissing me roughly. His lips are scrambling and his tongue is curling around mine and his cock is rubbing against mine and



I can't handle it. I slide down, wanting to kiss and lick and touch his entire body but I can't wait. That cock, fuck, I need to touch it and taste and – yes – I lap at the clear drops on its head and Harry's breath catches in his throat.

I stroke it a few times and look up at him. His fucking green eyes and his wet, red lips and that perfect jaw bone and his bobbing Adam's apple… what will happen after he comes? How drunk is he? Does he have any idea what he's getting himself into?

He thrusts his hips up into my hand and I build speed, dipping my head down to cup his balls with my tongue. He groans and it goes straight to my cock. Oh, how I want to fuck him. I continue tonguing his balls and he drops a leg off the side of the sofa, opening himself up to me.

That arse. So much better in real life than in my dreams, even though we're still in the dark. My tongue drops down and he sighs shakily, one of his hands moving to my hair. Fuck. How did my tongue end up on this, of all the arses out there, this marvelous arse belonging to the hero, the celebrity, the Boy Who –

"Ron," he groans.

Bloodyhellhegroanedmyname. I can do nothing but groan in return, groan against his warm and clammy skin.

It's time. No matter what happens after it's all over, after we've both come and there's nothing left to do but confront what we just did, it needs to happen.

I press the tip of my tongue against his hole, debating if I should bring him off with my hands or my mouth. I have wanted to see his face when he comes for as long as I can remember, but I want to bring him off with my mouth and taste his come and have his hands gripping at my hair. He finished me that way, shouldn't I return the favor?

It's a matter of next time.

More specifically, will there be a next time? It doesn't matter what I do this time as long as there is another chance later on to do it differently.

Fuck he's practically whimpering and I've been at his arse for a long time and it's tempting to stay here for days but –

"Please," he gasps, tightening his grip in my hair.

Oh hell. I move up and take him as deep as I can in my mouth, holding his hips down with my hands. He arches up and curses and he's so fucking beautiful.

He comes with a muffled cry and I wish I could see his face, see him biting his hand to stay quiet, see his green eyes. But his come is flooding my mouth and he's shuddering and gasping and I swallow and it was worth it.

I stay down there, resting my forehead on his thigh, while he catches his breath. I need to know what he's thinking, if he's suddenly realized what a huge mistake this whole thing was, if he's going to flee the moment I get off him. I want to stay down here forever and bask in this glorious moment and never, ever face the risk of losing him because of one stupid night of sex.


I sigh heavily and suddenly he's pulls me up by my hair and I catch a glimpse of his dark green eyes before he closes them and kisses me.

It's too much. I want to believe that he wants this, wants me, but part of me is still screaming that he must still be drunk.


He opens his eyes and I sit up, running a shaking hand through my sweaty hair. This is it.

He sits up, too, and leans forward to kiss me again. Gently, briefly. Lovingly.

"It's okay," he says. Like he means it. Like it is okay.


"I love you."

He cups my cheek and kisses me again and we're naked and it's Harry and he's just told me that he loves me. His eyes are bright again in the moonlight and how much of a cliché could this moment be?

"You're drunk."

"I'm not – okay, I am drunk. But I still love you."

"You're straight."

"I just sucked your dick, Ron. Believe it or not, it's something I've wanted to do for a long, long time."

Where the hell am I?

"Why tonight?"

He looks as me and I look at his scar. I have known him too long to lose him now. I just don't understand.

"Katie," he says, finally. "She guessed. Guessed that I… wanted to be with a man. With you. And she wanted… wanted me to do something about it. I realized that I've been wasting so much time by pretending that I'm not attracted to you, that I don't care about you that way. I thought you wouldn't want me, otherwise you would have said something one of those other nights."

I shake my head. "I was too afraid. I thought you would freak out or leave or something. I thought… it's better to just be friends, no matter how much torture it is, than to lose you."

"We're idiots, Ron."

"Utter morons."

"Total gits."

"Fucking wankers."

He laughs and I kiss him, pushing him back down. He wraps his arms around me and hums against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

"You're hard again," he whispers in my ear. I try to control the full-body jerk this causes, but I can feel him smirking into my hair.

"How could I not be?" I lean up slightly to look at him. "You're gorgeous."

He blushes and it's my new favorite sight.

"And I love you."

No, it's that smile. That beaming, beautiful, bright smile that hits me in the gut, in the heart, in the soul. We are drunk and we are giddy with sex and love and this is the best night of my life.

He reaches down and squeezes my arse. I nip at his ear.

"I don't want to get up," I admit.

"Me either."

"My bed's bigger, though. More comfortable."

"More room to fuck."

I try to laugh but he looks dead serious. "Now?" I can't help but ask.

His self-assured look fades slightly. "Well… not right now, maybe… I thought… I thought maybe we could work up to that."

"Of course."

"You sure?"

"Of course."

"You're not disappointed?"

I glare down at him. "How in the name of Merlin's shaggy ball sac could I possibly be disappointed that you want to have sex with me in the near future?"

He laughs and pushes me off him. "Do you mind if I shower before that part?"

"Not if I can join you."

"Obviously," he says, sitting up. "Yes?"