Sunlight is barely visible through the leaves on the branches overhead as they run. Ron still can’t quite believe it was a daylight attack. During the last year, since the war has actually become just that, the attacks are usually at night. There have been a few skirmishes during the day but he could count those on one hand. The Death Eaters liked to send their fucking mark into the night sky so everyone would know they’d struck, not into a sunny sky where it was barely visible.
He tightens his grip on his companion’s hand as he thinks about the reason they’re running through the forest. They’d been stupid. He’d been stupid. Hermione has told them, in an echo of Moody that made he and Harry share smirks, constant vigilance and to never let their guard down. She quotes battles from Muggle wars, events that left devastation and death, surprise attacks that resulted in wins and losses of entire wars. He can remember her disappointed gaze across the camp sight when the first curse hit.
It had been his responsibility to make sure they were safe, to make sure no one could find them. That was his job, to plan and strategize and make sure they stayed alive on the actual battlefield. Hermione teaches them spells, reads and studies and locates Horcrux and makes sure they are always alert. Harry keeps them all together, gives them a leader worth dying for, gives them a purpose.
When they set up camp, Ron had put up all the wards. He’d done everything the way he always did. It never occurred to him to reinforce the wards at daybreak. He knows that Harry grabbed Hermione as soon as the air turned green and orange from the Death Eater’s favorite curses. He knows that they Apparated away and he knows where they went. He’ll meet them later and hear who didn’t survive this sneak attack and he’ll feel every death as surely as if it was his own because it was his responsibility and they trusted him.
He becomes more angry at himself with every step he makes. He hears Malfoy breathing heavily behind him, holding his hand tightly, as if it’s a lifeline to redemption or whatever the fuck plan that Malfoy has in his scheming mind. Ron would blame this on Malfoy, accuse him of reporting their location to the Lord whose mark he still bears on his forearm, but he was there when they stumbled upon Narcissa Malfoy’s lifeless body and discovered Malfoy holding her against him and crying, as if his tears would bring her back to life.
He had seen the expression in Malfoy’s pale eyes when he raised his head to look at them and vowed to defeat the man who had destroyed his mother. It was the same look he knew would be in his own eyes if his mum was tortured and killed in such a way. At that moment, for the first time ever, he’d felt a connection to his childhood enemy. That didn’t mean he trusted him as far as he could throw him or actually liked the prejudiced bastard, but there had been a moment of empathy that he knew was worth trusting even if nothing else really was.
Now, he finds himself looking after the short blond despite knowing Malfoy doesn’t need his protection. He’s not sure why it’s become habit, to scan for Malfoy’s blond hair during battles and to feel a sense of relief when he sees him still standing after it’s over. Harry protects Hermione or maybe it was Hermione protecting Harry as he never really knows for certain with those two, Neville protects Ginny, and he---he protects Malfoy. He doesn’t want to think about it too much because he knows he might not like what he discovers. Hermione’s the thinker, after all, always analyzing things until they make sense.
Ron knows that sometimes things just don’t make sense.
He and Malfoy, they don’t make sense. Yet, in a twisted way he has no plans of considering in depth like some poncy poof in touch with his inner emotions, they do make sense. Perfect, odd, warped sense.
The light is bright through the trees where sunlight is visible, but the forest is still dark despite the time of day. It’s a perfect place to hide and he’s glad he insisted they make camp beside it just in case. He and Malfoy run until his leg starts to hurt as the muscles protest. He has an ache in his side and he ignores the wetness on his cheeks that he knows isn’t just sweat.
He tries not to think of those now lying dead at the campsite they thought was safe. If he does, if he lets them get to him before this whole fucking war ends, he’ll not be any use to anyone. So he ignores their faces, the ghosts that haunt his mind, until this is over and he can grieve and wallow in guilt without putting others at risk.
“Stop,” Malfoy hisses from beside him. Fingernails dig into Ron’s hand and he’s even more aware of his own bitten off nails that don’t even let him scratch his back well.
“Can’t stop,” he hisses back, trying to listen for the sound of those they’re running from.
“I hate running,” Malfoy whines in a petulant tone that even seeing death and being cursed hasn’t stopped. “Why don’t we just Apparate away, Weasley?”
“If they’re following me, they’re not killing anyone else,” Ron tells him in a hoarse whisper that betrays how out of breath he is from the exertion of their run. He’s in great shape, right fit, but running that fast through the forest with barely any light to guide them makes him feel tired and weak.
“That logic is fucked up, Weasley,” Malfoy declares matter-of-factly, not a slight tremor in his breath to show any effect from their efforts. “What good are you to Potter and Granger if you’re dead, you stupid bastard?”
“Love you, too, Malfoy,” he snarls as he surveys the trees around them. “We have to keep running. They’re out there somewhere and we know what they’d do if they found either of us. Go ahead and Apparate if you’re sick of running. I’m going on.”
Malfoy’s grip tightens on his hand and Ron knows he’s sneering when he says, “I’m not a coward, Weasley. I just think you’re acting like a stupid, selfish prat by risking yourself like this. We have magic for a reason, genius.”
“Shut up, Malfoy,” he mutters as he runs his free hand through his shaggy red hair. He starts to move but finds himself pulled back suddenly, the hand on his tugging him off balance. Ron’s eyes narrow as he looks at Malfoy, not noticing the flush on pale cheeks or the blond hair that is decidedly messy in a ’just been royally shagged’ way instead of a ’just spent half an hour running from Death Eaters’ way. Nope, he doesn’t notice those things at all and he certainly doesn’t notice Malfoy’s girly lips, far too full for any bloke damn it, curve into a smirk.
“You talk too much,” Malfoy declares with a smug smile and challenging gaze.
Ron glares at him, his gaze raising from the lips he’s not staring at, and opens his mouth to protest. Everyone knows he’s not a big talker, damn it. Even the fucking Death Eaters know he’s not keen on conversation. How dare the slender slip of a girly-man in front of him make such accusations? He raises to his full height, several inches taller than Malfoy, and he prepares to tell him just where he can bugger off. The words never get past his brain because Malfoy is suddenly shoving him against a tree, far stronger than anyone that skinny had the right to be, and his lips are on Ron’s.
Ron’s eyes widen as he’s kissed by Draco fucking Malfoy. Fucking Malfoy. God, that is not what he needs to have in his mind right now. He grips Malfoy’s shirt to shove him away but his fucking brain won’t talk to his hands and he pulls him closer instead. When he feels Malfoy’s tongue lick his lips and press forward, he clenches his jaw tightly and certainly doesn’t groan and open his mouth for the arrogant prat. It’s just coincidence that his lips part and Malfoy deepens the kiss.
A leg presses between his own, rubbing against the erection that has begun to stir from pouty full lips and smirks he wasn‘t staring at. He whines deep in the back of his throat when he feels Malfoy’s cock pressed against his own leg. He doesn’t want to touch. He can’t possibly be kissing Malfoy back when their camp was just attacked and people are dead and they’re being chased. Oh, God, where did he learn to do that with his tongue?
Not used to being the one not in control means Ron finally says ‘fuck it’ and shoves Malfoy forward until he’s pushing him against a tree. He takes over, both fighting for control as their hands move and their mouths clash. He can taste blood on his lip but doesn’t care as he shoves his leg against Malfoy’s cock and begins to rub him. He’s done this before, a few times, but it’s never felt like this. He forgets everything as he claims Malfoy, hands bruising skin as he reaches beneath Malfoy’s shirt and touches pale skin, marking him just as surely as Malfoy’s fingernails scratching his freckled back are marking him.
They rut against each other, Malfoy riding his leg in a way that makes his leg press against Ron’s cock. The friction is unbelievable and he’s soon rocking against Malfoy. When he feels a hand slide beneath the waist of his trousers and pants, he bucks forward into the smooth palm as it wraps around his cock. His eyes roll back and it’s not long before he’s coming in his pants like some kid. He can feel the smirk against his lips and wastes no time in returning the favor.
He moves his hand into Malfoy’s trousers, grips his hard cock, and begins to wank him. His pants are wet and he’s sure there’s a place on his trousers from how much he’s come, but he can fix that easy enough. Malfoy’s hand is still there, moving up and down as they kiss. Ron lets go of his mouth and bites Malfoy’s neck, hard. Malfoy whimpers and spills all over his hand. Ron keeps stroking him until he’s breathing heavy and his hips stop jerking forward.
It takes him a minute or five to finally pull his hand free. He’s in a bit of a daze, not entirely sure what happened. Well, he knows what happened but he doesn’t get why or what it really means. He sighs when Malfoy pulls his hand out of his trousers and growls when the prat lazily licks his wet fingers clean of Ron’s come. When Malfoy puts one wet digit against his lips, he opens his mouth and licks, tasting salty bitterness on his tongue. He’s licking his own come, he realizes, and panics slightly.
Malfoy grabs his hand, then, and sucks his fingers, lapping at his come as if it’s the best thing ever and Ron has to taste. He sucks his finger, noticing that Malfoy tastes about the same as he does but maybe not as bitter, and then they’re kissing again and he’s still fucking confused but it feels good so he doesn’t end it yet. A muscle in his leg reminds him they were running and he wants to be angry at Malfoy for distracting him but he just can’t muster it at the moment.
He pulls back and glares at Malfoy. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he says firmly.
Malfoy smirks and rolls his eyes. “Of course it doesn’t, Weasley,” he says in a condescending tone that makes Ron feel like a silly child being placated.
“Right. Just so you know,” Ron murmurs, feeling a bit foolish and awkward as he frowns and tries to figure out what Malfoy is thinking. He doesn’t know how Hermione can do this thinking thing constantly because it just gives him a headache and makes him even more confused.
“I know,” Malfoy drawls in a voice that is far too smug and ‘I know something you don’t know, silly prat’-ish. “Can we go now? They’re not still chasing us and probably haven’t been since we got so deep into the forest. I’m tired and need a shower.”
“You’re such a whiny git,” Ron accuses even as his lips quirk slightly. He takes Malfoy’s hand, not noticing how the sticky and wet fingers fit together rather well. He feels his wet trousers and shorts stick to him and mutters, “I think I need a shower, too.”
“You know, Granger is always going on and on in that annoying voice of hers about conserving our resources,” Malfoy tells him as he arches a pale brow. “She’d probably be very proud if we save on water.”
Ron blinks stupidly and licks his lips before he clutches his hand around his wand to Apparate them to meet the others. He grins slowly and says, “I do like to make Hermione proud of me,” before he winks and Apparates them to safety.
Sometimes things that don’t make sense actually make perfect sense.
The End
Don't Make Sense
Story Notes:
1/15/06