Easier Sometimes

The stone hits the smooth surface of the pond with a PLUNK and sinks. Sixteenth one in a row to do that.

Ron curses and plops down on the embankment, drawing his knees up to his chest. A small pile of flat stones lie beside him in the soft grass and he decides to ignore the lot of them. He hasn't been able to skip a sodding stone all night; as far as he is concerned, he ought to just give up. Giving up is easier sometimes, anyway.

"Giving up is easier sometimes," he mumbles, resting his chin on his knees. His voice is thick and catches, and he doesn't like that. There isn't any sense in being upset about things. It was inevitable, really. Mad to think it would work out, even, all things considered.

There isn't any sense in being upset about things, especially when it was inevitable that it would go wrong.

But Ron doesn't always have sense, because sense is for rational people, cautious people, and he's never been either of those things. He's always been a 'feel first, do second, and think later' sort of bloke, and he reckons it suits him. Analysing every little thing before taking action is Hermione's thing, and Harry does because that's what makes Harry Harry, while Ron feels and then does and saves thinking for last, if at all.

Ron's always been a 'feel first, do second, and think later' sort of bloke, which is why he doesn't understand what he's doing outside his childhood home in the wee hours of the morning (so wee one could still call it night), bollixing up skimming stones. Well, he does understand, but only to a degree.

He left Draco yesterday.

He left Draco yesterday, and he wandered around Diagon Alley for several hours, just to have something to do. After narrowly avoiding Fred, who was standing at the storefront to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, for about the fourth time, he settled into a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron and downed a few cauldron makers. Tom cut him off shortly after midnight, and Ron didn't know where else to go but home. Not the flat he shared with Draco. That wasn't home any longer. No matter if his name was on the lease. He'd been the one to end things, so he ought to be the one to move out. The first home Ron had known was the Burrow, so that's to where he Apparated, and that's how he came to be at the pond's edge, failing at attempt after attempt to skip stones. Upset.

The ground is damp and his arse a bit cold, so he sighs and climbs to his feet. His eyes automatically fall to the pile of skipping stones and he stares so hard at them that his vision begins to blur, much like his sense of right and wrong and 'ought tos' and 'should nots'. It was right to leave but maybe more wrong than right and he ought to buck up and move on but he should not should not should not think on Draco any longer. Things went wrong, Ron didn't stop them from going that way, and sod his bloody idealistic youthful notions about love.

Sod them to hell.

Forcing himself to focus on the stones and see, Ron grits his teeth and bares down as all his anger, all his fear, all his wants, all his hurts, all his could-have-beens twist and turn and become one great giant knot in his stomach and he kicks. Stones go flying into the pond, water splashes, a frog somewhere nearby ribbits, and Ron falls to his knees at the water's edge.

He tells himself again that giving up is easier sometimes, but he's less sure about it than he was before.

He wonders where Draco is and what he's doing. Is he in their flat redecorating the study? He'd always hated the way Ron had decorated it, all Chudley orange and Gryffindor red and gold. Or perhaps he's spending the night in Wiltshire with his mother, ordering the house elves about and supervising as they air out his room and cater to his every whim? Or maybe he's... Ron doesn't know where else Draco might be, other than definitely not with him.

"It's over," he says in a low voice, lifting his chin to glance over his shoulder at the Burrow. It sits on the other side of the pond, past the garden, large and sprawling and just as rickety-looking as ever. It was the first home he ever knew and it will always be his home, but it doesn't feel home to him, not now. It doesn't feel like home now, not even while he's kneeling next to the pond he swam in summer after summer, just beyond the tree with the secret fort he and Ginny built just after the twins went off for their first year at Hogwarts. He knows it's home, but it isn't Home. Home is - was, he reminds himself - where Draco is. Was. Isn't.

"It's never over."

Ron freezes at the sound of that voice.

He's got to be imagining things. This is the last place he would be. Could be. Should be.

"Weasley." The voice is subdued and slow and familiar, and Ron's chest tightens. He feels, and then he does. He rises and turns toward the voice - "It's never over." - and his heart leaps in his throat.

"What are you doing here?" Ron tries to be calm. He tries to be casual. He tries and tries but he fails because he wears his heart on his sleeve for all to see, for him to see.

And Draco sees. He always does.

"I could ask you the same question," he says evenly, quirking a brow.

"Do us both a favour and fucking don't, all right?" His voice breaks and he turns his back on Draco, hands clenching into fists. Can't look at him. Won't look at him. It's over. It's ended. Ron clears his throat and crams a hand into a robe pocket, fingers picking at a hole in the lining. "It's ended, Draco."

"No. It hasn't."

A strangled sound comes out of Ron's throat at that, and he isn't sure if it was more of a laugh or a sob. Throwing his hand up in the air, he pivots round to stare at Draco hard. "It has. I told you. I told you. We can't- we- just leave it!"

"You're not ending anything." Draco advances toward him, and Ron feels his resolve slipping away.

God- Merlin- Hell, Ron is willing to throw Dumbledore in there as well - but Draco is-- There aren't any words that do justice to just what Draco is. He is everything and all and completion and he is kissing Ron and Ron is drowning, drowning, drowning and he doesn't want to drown. Not now. Not again.

"Don't--" he gasps, pulling back.

"Don't what?" Draco asks, grabbing his arse and pulling him close.

"I meant what I said." Ron's knees grow weak and his cock stirs but he can't do this. He won't.

Draco's eyes narrow nearly into slits and Ron can feel the weight of his stare, heavy and piercing and hot. It's uncomfortable and he shifts. He wills his knees to firm up so he can walk move flee, and Draco's mouth sets into a thin line.

"You're serious," he says flatly.

"I am," Ron says, and he wants to throw up when he realises that he is serious and he did really mean it. It was over.

Draco nods as he considers Ron's words. There is a beat, and then he produces his wand, twirling it with precision in his fingers. "You're wrong, Ron," he says, and a shiver races up and down Ron's spine. "This isn't over."

In the blink of an eye he is gone. Disapparated.

Giving up may be easier sometimes, but Ron is no longer certain that is the case here.