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birdsofshoreTitle: Capriccio
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione
Rating: R
Word count: ~1150
A/N: Written for the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
geneva2010, with thanks for her wonderfully supportive help with my Smoochfic. Sorry this took a while, geneva, but your suggestion to try Johnlock threw me a bit! I seem fated to stick with H/D for now, sorry. Your other prompt was "H/D - piano", and I hope this entertains you.
*
Ron has always hated the piano. His motto is “Never trust an instrument that needs its own room.” So when he walked in to the holiday apartment they were sharing with Harry and Malfoy, and saw - in addition to the advertised sunken whirlpool bath, the balcony with panoramic views of the beach, and the enormous, circular beds - a ruddy great grand piano, and a white one at that, he just knew it's a sign that this whole thing is an enormous mistake.
“Come on holiday with the Ferret, they said. It'll be fun, they said.” Ron mutters to himself, kicking a stone crossly as he walks up the drive to the apartment. He knows better than to say it where Hermione could hear. It isn't that he's homophobic, whatever she thinks. He doesn't mind if Harry shags girls, blokes, or goblins, for all he cares. But it's a bit steep to expect him to enjoy spending time with the git. And when he has the distinct impression – well, more like inescapable proof - that Malfoy is getting his end away a whole lot more often than Ron is.... let's just say, it isn't adding up to a great holiday so far.
It's all very well having these luxury fancy bedrooms, if only Harry and Malfoy would limit certain activities to their own one. Ron's lost track of the number of times he's walked into a room to find them snogging, or worse, groping each other. Hands everywhere, lips locked, and oblivious to everyone else around them. In the kitchen... on the beach... on the balcony, for fuck's sake! There are suspicious noises from the shower, one morning, and he also feels uneasy about what was going on in the whirlpool bath that time when Draco was sitting in Harry's lap and squirming around. It didn't take an Auror to see that they both looked a lot more flushed than the water temperature merited. Basically, they appear to think they're on some kind of bloody honeymoon, without having bothered to get married first, with Ron as the unwilling witness, and Hermione the delighted bridesmaid.
The worst of it is in the evenings, when they've all had a drink and Malfoy starts to play the piano. Trust flaming Malfoy to be a real smooth customer at that, just like he is at everything else. After a while, Harry goes to sit next to Malfoy on the stool and sort of leans into him, like he just can't bear to be apart from him any longer. It's no use moaning to Hermione – she thinks they're “completely adorable.” And her eyes get misty when Malfoy's giving it all that soulful crap on the piano.
Ron would probably feel a lot less grumpy about it if it weren't for the sunburn. He applied protective charms the first day, just like Hermione showed him, but either he did it wrong, or Weasley skin requires something extra (he remembers Dad forgetting his hat in Egypt and turning a nice shade of beetroot for the rest of the week). Either way, he's burnt his nose. And his shoulders. His legs and back. And most of the rest of him, to be honest.
He winces as his collar rubs against a raw patch on his neck. It was a pain to leave the shade of the beach umbrella to come and fetch Hermione's book – who wants to read all the time, anyway? They are meant to be on holiday, for crying out loud. If there was ever a time when you didn't have to read a book, this is it! But he is finding it hard to resist anything Hermione asks him, at the moment: it might be something to do with how she looks in those little Muggle swimming outfits. What was it she called them? Kibinis, that was it. He couldn't believe it when she first put one on and said she was going to leave the apartment wearing it! But who is he to argue? Yeah, Ron is pretty fond of kibinis.
He fumbles for the key (all these Muggle things to get used to! Dad is going to lap it up, when he tells him), but then realises the door is unlocked already. Bugger. Harry and Mr. Pointy Twat must have come back early. And from the sound of it, they're playing the ruddy piano, as well. Ron shakes his head. Merlin, it sounds terrible, though. He doesn't have the greatest ear for music, admittedly, but even he can hear the notes are all over the place. Harry must be having a go, Ron thinks with a smirk. There's no way Mr Perfect Malfoy would make such a racket.
Ron stomps slowly upwards. Bloody spiral staircases. Why did Hermione have to leave her book as far away as possible? The piano is sounding worse and worse. Keys banging, and notes plinking and plonking like mad. Then he hears it. Harry's voice is hoarse and breathless: “Merlin, Draco, I've been desperate to have you like this ever since the first time I saw you playing.”
Ron's horrified brain sends his legs an urgent message to stop moving, but it's too late. He's already standing in the doorway with an uninterrupted view of Harry's naked bum. That's bad enough, but – sweet Merlin – Harry's standing in between Malfoy's parted legs, thrusting altogether too enthusiastically, and Malfoy's bare arse is sitting on the keys, bouncing up and down and pounding out the most unholy din. Ron lets out a whimper, but it goes unnoticed amidst the sound of the piano clamouring out its passionate overture. Every detail of the scene seems burnt onto Ron's retina: Malfoy's hair flopping in his face, Harry's straining body, the clothes discarded on the floor around them, the urgency of their movements, the piece of sheet music sticking to Malfoy's sweaty back....
He backs away with their breathy cries ringing in his ears, the discordant notes seeming to mock him as he stumbles down the stairs. From Malfoy's exhortations, they appeared to be reaching the finale.
“Bloody hell...” Ron shakes his head to clear the images from his mind. “There are some things a bloke shouldn't ever have to see his best friend doing... do you ever owe me for this, Hermione....”
Realising he has completely failed to return with the promised book, Ron resolves to drag Hermione back to the apartment with him instead. He can get her to spend the afternoon rubbing some more of that Soothing Ointment she has stashed in her bag, all over his tender places. Maybe a nice cold beer while she's doing it. Aw, yeah, this holiday could turn out to be all right after all. They just need to make sure Harry and Malfoy haven't had time to get started on an encore.
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione
Rating: R
Word count: ~1150
A/N: Written for the lovely
geneva2010, with thanks for her wonderfully supportive help with my Smoochfic. Sorry this took a while, geneva, but your suggestion to try Johnlock threw me a bit! I seem fated to stick with H/D for now, sorry. Your other prompt was "H/D - piano", and I hope this entertains you.*
Ron has always hated the piano. His motto is “Never trust an instrument that needs its own room.” So when he walked in to the holiday apartment they were sharing with Harry and Malfoy, and saw - in addition to the advertised sunken whirlpool bath, the balcony with panoramic views of the beach, and the enormous, circular beds - a ruddy great grand piano, and a white one at that, he just knew it's a sign that this whole thing is an enormous mistake.
“Come on holiday with the Ferret, they said. It'll be fun, they said.” Ron mutters to himself, kicking a stone crossly as he walks up the drive to the apartment. He knows better than to say it where Hermione could hear. It isn't that he's homophobic, whatever she thinks. He doesn't mind if Harry shags girls, blokes, or goblins, for all he cares. But it's a bit steep to expect him to enjoy spending time with the git. And when he has the distinct impression – well, more like inescapable proof - that Malfoy is getting his end away a whole lot more often than Ron is.... let's just say, it isn't adding up to a great holiday so far.
It's all very well having these luxury fancy bedrooms, if only Harry and Malfoy would limit certain activities to their own one. Ron's lost track of the number of times he's walked into a room to find them snogging, or worse, groping each other. Hands everywhere, lips locked, and oblivious to everyone else around them. In the kitchen... on the beach... on the balcony, for fuck's sake! There are suspicious noises from the shower, one morning, and he also feels uneasy about what was going on in the whirlpool bath that time when Draco was sitting in Harry's lap and squirming around. It didn't take an Auror to see that they both looked a lot more flushed than the water temperature merited. Basically, they appear to think they're on some kind of bloody honeymoon, without having bothered to get married first, with Ron as the unwilling witness, and Hermione the delighted bridesmaid.
The worst of it is in the evenings, when they've all had a drink and Malfoy starts to play the piano. Trust flaming Malfoy to be a real smooth customer at that, just like he is at everything else. After a while, Harry goes to sit next to Malfoy on the stool and sort of leans into him, like he just can't bear to be apart from him any longer. It's no use moaning to Hermione – she thinks they're “completely adorable.” And her eyes get misty when Malfoy's giving it all that soulful crap on the piano.
Ron would probably feel a lot less grumpy about it if it weren't for the sunburn. He applied protective charms the first day, just like Hermione showed him, but either he did it wrong, or Weasley skin requires something extra (he remembers Dad forgetting his hat in Egypt and turning a nice shade of beetroot for the rest of the week). Either way, he's burnt his nose. And his shoulders. His legs and back. And most of the rest of him, to be honest.
He winces as his collar rubs against a raw patch on his neck. It was a pain to leave the shade of the beach umbrella to come and fetch Hermione's book – who wants to read all the time, anyway? They are meant to be on holiday, for crying out loud. If there was ever a time when you didn't have to read a book, this is it! But he is finding it hard to resist anything Hermione asks him, at the moment: it might be something to do with how she looks in those little Muggle swimming outfits. What was it she called them? Kibinis, that was it. He couldn't believe it when she first put one on and said she was going to leave the apartment wearing it! But who is he to argue? Yeah, Ron is pretty fond of kibinis.
He fumbles for the key (all these Muggle things to get used to! Dad is going to lap it up, when he tells him), but then realises the door is unlocked already. Bugger. Harry and Mr. Pointy Twat must have come back early. And from the sound of it, they're playing the ruddy piano, as well. Ron shakes his head. Merlin, it sounds terrible, though. He doesn't have the greatest ear for music, admittedly, but even he can hear the notes are all over the place. Harry must be having a go, Ron thinks with a smirk. There's no way Mr Perfect Malfoy would make such a racket.
Ron stomps slowly upwards. Bloody spiral staircases. Why did Hermione have to leave her book as far away as possible? The piano is sounding worse and worse. Keys banging, and notes plinking and plonking like mad. Then he hears it. Harry's voice is hoarse and breathless: “Merlin, Draco, I've been desperate to have you like this ever since the first time I saw you playing.”
Ron's horrified brain sends his legs an urgent message to stop moving, but it's too late. He's already standing in the doorway with an uninterrupted view of Harry's naked bum. That's bad enough, but – sweet Merlin – Harry's standing in between Malfoy's parted legs, thrusting altogether too enthusiastically, and Malfoy's bare arse is sitting on the keys, bouncing up and down and pounding out the most unholy din. Ron lets out a whimper, but it goes unnoticed amidst the sound of the piano clamouring out its passionate overture. Every detail of the scene seems burnt onto Ron's retina: Malfoy's hair flopping in his face, Harry's straining body, the clothes discarded on the floor around them, the urgency of their movements, the piece of sheet music sticking to Malfoy's sweaty back....
He backs away with their breathy cries ringing in his ears, the discordant notes seeming to mock him as he stumbles down the stairs. From Malfoy's exhortations, they appeared to be reaching the finale.
“Bloody hell...” Ron shakes his head to clear the images from his mind. “There are some things a bloke shouldn't ever have to see his best friend doing... do you ever owe me for this, Hermione....”
Realising he has completely failed to return with the promised book, Ron resolves to drag Hermione back to the apartment with him instead. He can get her to spend the afternoon rubbing some more of that Soothing Ointment she has stashed in her bag, all over his tender places. Maybe a nice cold beer while she's doing it. Aw, yeah, this holiday could turn out to be all right after all. They just need to make sure Harry and Malfoy haven't had time to get started on an encore.
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no subject
Date: 2014-06-12 10:48 pm (UTC)