Ron Weasley And The Dragons
...Dreamscape and dragons.
Ron's sleeping mind conjures a shifting landscape where nothing is steady, where even the rocks are maellable, and on the red and unsettled earth he slips his hands into his pockets, lounges, and offers a soundless Whatever to the sky. He's alone in his dream – he's always alone – but it doesn't bother him any more than it does in reality. You can't trust in anyone but yourself, right?
He watches the terrain bubble like quicksand rising. On the horizon beyond spurts of lava gasp from the soil, and further still he can make out the shapes of great lizards, bat-wings silhouetted against a sun as pink as flesh. He whistles – it's a calling, a summons, a perfectly pitched tone that causes the dragons to wheel from their predestinated routes and keen upward to the unadulterated sound.
They fly towards him and he awaits, arms raised to their gathering. The land on which he stands has become a rocky glacier amidst the rising lava – bouyed uneasily on the volcanic tides. It is difficult for him to keep his balance. He waves his hands in the air and patiently anticipates his salvation.
The dragons are closer now. They hum above him, and each beat of their monsterous wings nearly knocks him from his feet. He struggles; he yells something – and in response one of the lizards descends from the sky and dives towards him.
Ron strains. A pale hand extends from the back of the dragon, and pulls him easily over a scaled shoulder. Flat against the dragon's back, Ron stares down as the rock is submerged beneath the level of the lava. A crackling, a splintering – slightly muffled – and then the earth is blotted out by spiralling plumes of smoke, a dark and impenetrable smog which eclipses everything.
Ron claws himself upright, and straddles the dragon backwards, his legs spread to each side of the creature's ridged spine. When he has regained his confidence, he dares to lift his eyes to view his saviour.
Hey now. You were the one who called me.
I did not.
You did too. After all, I'm the only thing around here worth whistling at. Dragons. Really. How bloody adolescent of you.
What the fuck are you doing in my dream, Draco.
What am I doing in your dream? Excuse me? Who do you think I am, Freud? Ask your superego. As far as I know, I'm just along for the ride. Nice mental panorama you have here, by the way. Sociopath much?
Just shut up.
Nice thanks I get for saving your life. Hey. Did you know you were naked?
Ha ha. Made you look.
Draco yawns, in his Draco-way, and inspects his fingernails. Three hundred miles high, floating downwind of armaggedon, and he is inspecting his fingernails. His hands are remarkably slim and he flexes them experimentally, examining in detail the way the knuckles raise against the pale membrane of his skin.
It is strange that he does this – strange that he consciously, or unconsciously reflects on the driving force of Ron's psyche. For Ron is a man who has always thought predominantly with his hands. Whether it is the fist that they assume at the onset of a bar room brawl or the directive scrawl of pen across paper, it is his hands and not his head which determine the course of his actions, and attempt to reconcile the differences and indifferences of every situation.
Ron would far rather swing a punch than become involved in the facile discourse of debate or philosophy. The hand is a punctuative force – it is the full stop which defines the conclusion of each Whatever, each Shit happens.
Ron looks at Draco's hands, and then looks at his own.
He makes a decision.
Ah! Ow! Fucking –
I don't know how the hell you got in here, says Ron, sitting on Draco's chest, but I know a fairly quick way to get you out.
I think you broke my spine. And my kidney. Ow.
Well, that's one organ down. What is that, eight more to go?
Depends how you define organ. And how you define down, too.
Ron wrinkles his nose in distaste.
He he, says Draco.
I feel dirty.
I feel aroused. You're naked again.
I am not.
Yes you –
Holy mother of –
Draco feigns a horrified gasp.
And hey! What do you know. I'm naked too.
He he. What does that say about your subconscious, eh, Ron?
It says – Ron begins.
It says you have issues, Ron. Major issues. I think you're regretting you didn't kiss me. This is Dragon Rock, after all, or used to be. Lava and red rock and explosions. Very – hot. Steamy.
Shut the fuck up, Draco.
You know what? I think you're wishing we got down and dirty while Harry was out of the way. Not because you love me – no. You're too bloody cool to love anyone. You'd just like it as a notch on your belt – so like my damn father it's not funny. I, Ron the Rogue, did Draco the Dickhead. Isn't that right?
He has his hands on Ron's chest now, those sylph-like fingers dragging themselves downwards, somnolent, like a cat's stretch against a scratching post. Ron has nowhere to run. Draco's shallow smirk is all around him, hemming him in – the lips accentuated in the pale features, over-exposure in pink and ice.
Draco grips him by the hair and then grips him again - elsewhere.
He he. Look what I have.
Ease up a bit, Ron. This is a little much for our first date.
Like you can talk.
Draco writhes out from underneath him, then forces his body upwards, the concave arc of his abdomen pressed against Ron's stomach. Around them everything is hot, the air thick and heavy, but somehow Draco remains cool to the touch. He bites Ron's lips, and his teeth are like icicles.
So how about it, Weasley.
Gods, I gotta wake up. This is fucking twisted.
Draco sighs, and releases him. Ron doesn't recoil. He lies on Draco's chest, a cold place in this merciless desert. A relief, really. He wipes the sweat from his forehead against Draco's shoulder. He breathes rapidly into the niche of the man's collarbone, each inhalation scented with the pungent ambrosia of sex.
You really are going to leave, aren't you? says Draco, miserably – he pouts out his lower lip.
Yes. Fucking hell.
Oh well then. I guess it was fun while it lasted. Call me again next time you want to finish your wet dream.
Ron pushes himself away – reluctant to give up the chill of Draco's body. He looks down at Draco's face, the narrow jaw, the twisted mouth, the sharp upturn of the nose. The man's slanting eyes mock him with the colour of rainclouds.
I don't think so, says Ron.
You say that now. But tomorrow night – hey. I'll be waiting in the wings the moment you decide to call my name, baby.
Don't fucking –
Ta ta for now, Weasley. Draco wriggles his fingers. Catch you on the flip side.
Ron wakes up. He feels disgusted with himself and somehow guilty. His guilt is Harry-centralised. He says aloud, "Fuck." He scratches his head – he is burning up, and he suspects he might have a fever.
He suspects he might need professional help, too.
"Fucking shit. Draco. Fucking –"
The cursing makes things moderately better. His eyes are sleep-blurred; he rubs them with his fists childishly.
Once the nausea passes, Ron staggers out of bed and goes into the bathroom to find a bucket and some cold water...
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