Mark
The first time he sees Draco after the war it's six thousand miles from home and Draco's dancing with one of the native girls, much too slow and too close for the music, and he has white powder on the end of his nose, and it's ten o'clock in the morning, for fuck's sake, they're only there for breakfast. The girl is a Muggle, Ron thinks, and at first he's not even sure it's Draco but a shaft of sunlight catches the mark on Draco's arm and Ron knows. He wears that mark like it was a badge of honor, like it was the Order of Merlin he never got, and not like a blasphemy at all.
And Ron's friends know who Draco is, if only by reputation. "He's deviant," they say smugly, like children telling tales out of school, like they're saying Draco has head lice. "He does unspeakable things." And Ron, freshly divorced, newly out of the closet, doesn't even try to ask, even though he's dying to know what they mean. Somehow it's the kind of thing everyone understands immediately but he never does. But it comes to him Draco is beautiful even with the mark on his arm.
The second time they meet in Azkaban and they share a boat back to the mainland. Draco's paler than he was, and his eyes and the tip of his nose are red. "I've been seeing my father, he says, as if it were nothing to be ashamed of-being Lucius Malfoy's son. "This place is hell, you forget, in between. How about you? Visiting someone?"
"My brother," Ron says stiffly. "Fred."
"Right," but he can tell by Draco's cheerful-enough nod, Draco doesn't remember Fred, doesn't have a clue what happened, doesn't care. "'S tough," Draco's going on, oblivious. "Don't suppose you'd fancy a drink?"
So when they disembark somehow they wind up in a wretched pub, and Draco commandeers a table near the big plated window. He's wearing twice as many clothes today as Ron is-no worries about the mark showing today-but he still looks cold and miserable. They have a drink, and then they have another drink. They talk about their families-dead mostly; about their marriages-over; about the Cannons' chances for the pennant-abysmal. And despite the camaraderie of it all Ron can't look at Draco without wondering what he'd be like in bed, and more than that, what exactly the deviant practices he favors are.
This is all so new to him, he feels like a kid again, only this time he doesn't have to pretend-not even to himself-that he's interested in pretty girls in short skirts. This time he can reserve his attention for the pretty boys. And Draco is a pretty, pretty boy, even in England where there is no tropical sun to turn his white skin brown or highlight strands of silver in his white-gold hair. Even shivering in three jumpers, his eyes bloodshot from crying, Draco is the prettiest thing Ron's ever seen.
But deviant things-what could that mean? Ron thinks of Draco handcuffed to a bed, his thin wrists pulled above his head, the mark like a banner on his arm. He thinks of Draco in Quidditch pads, Draco--. And he's miserably aware that he's gotten an erection that strains the laces of his trousers, and that he's lost the thread of whatever Draco's saying. Technically he doesn't even know Draco's gay-but he is, surely he is, and Harry can be frightfully upright sometimes, maybe he only means that Draco practices sodomy. Would Harry consider that deviant? Ron's not even sure Harry knows what it means.
"You're blushing," Draco says, and Ron knows he's right. His face feels like fire. "You're blushing, and you're drunk, Ron Weasley. Would you like to come home with me and see my etchings?"
"Yes, please," Ron answers, and manages not to stammer.
Draco blinks at him in surprise. "You have changed, Ron Weasley. I think I like it. Pay the tab and we'll Floo." Ron drops far too much money on the table and waits while Draco flings a handful of Floo powder into the fire and shouts "Malfoy Manor!"
And then he's struggling to keep his balance in a vast empty room with dirty windows and no light but the fireplace. "Most of the house is closed off, it saves on the heating and it's easier than arguing with the blokes from the National Trust," Draco tells him, reasoned as a tour guide. "And this might be a good time to confess that I don't actually have any etchings; the Ministry confiscated my father's pornography collection during the war. But I do have a quite large bed."
"Fair enough," Ron squeaks, and Draco smiles at him and kisses him, open-mouthed and soft and not at all rushed. Ron relaxes against him, boneless and breathless and weak, and finally Draco steps back and smiles again.
"Steady on, sailor," he says, as Ron comes back to earth. "We've plenty of time to find a bed."
"Lead on, then." Ron tries not to sound impatient, even though inwardly he's screaming for more. He does feel like a sailor, one who's been years at sea. His legs are rubbery and his eyes keep trying to cross, and he follows Draco through miles of dim uncarpeted hallways with walls lined with lighter spaces where paintings have been sold or destroyed or stolen.
And finally, finally, Draco's bed: made of carved mahogany and hung with dusty silver curtains, and big enough for an entire Quidditch team. Ron sends up a brief prayer that that's not what's on the agenda for tonight. He's not sure his heart would be strong enough. He flops down on the bed, torn suddenly between desire and exhaustion: all he wants is for Draco to fuck him into the mattress, and then let him sleep for days.
But Draco waves a hand and sets the logs in the hearth blazing, and Draco slips off layer after layer of clothing until he's wearing nothing but the mark, and Draco leans over him and suddenly Ron's wide awake. And Draco says, "There's something I need you to do for me."
"What?" Ron asks, trying to sit up. The featherbed seems to actually be pulling him down.
"I need you to cast Imperius on me," Draco says to him.
"What? Why?" Ron has no trouble sitting up now. "Why would you ask me-why would you want me-why?"
"I can't do it if you don't," and at least Draco has the grace to look a little bit ashamed here. "The mark-he did something to me so I can't-without. No matter how much I'd like to."
When a reformed Death Eater says he you know who he means. Ron looks away. "Why me?" he asks painfully. "Because you thought I'd be the sort of person to do it?"
"Because you're the sort of person I can trust to do it," Draco says tiredly. "Do you have any idea how rare honest men are? How many gay Gryffindors do you think are out there?" He sighs and sits down beside Ron, and Ron is amazed by how comfortable he seems in his skin. He seems not to mind not having any clothes on, not at all. Ron runs an eye over Draco's very, very nice body, before he forces himself to look away. "Look," Draco says, "it doesn't matter. You can go, okay, Weasley. I'm sorry I propositioned you." He touches the mark on his arm with his other hand. "I'm sorry about all of this."
Ron doesn't move. Draco looks over at him, eyes hard as flint. "Go, Weasley, seriously. Before I forget we're on the same side."
Ron's wand is in his hand, even though he can't remember reaching for it. I'm going to regret this, he thinks, no matter what I do. "Imperio," he says. He's never cast it before, and he's surprised how easy it is.
Draco gasps, his head jerks a little. He isn't fighting it. Ron can see the difference, the vagueness clouding out the steel. "Lie down," he says experimentally, and Draco does it, obedient as a dog. He lies on his face on the bed, his arms spread wide, like a man being crucified. Ron traces the bumps of his spine, and Draco shivers under his fingers. "Spread your legs," he tells Draco, sliding a hand under him. Draco isn't the least bit hard; his penis is limp, the skin soft and thin and insubstantial. It makes Draco vulnerable, in a way Ron has never thought of him.
"I want you hard," he says, "Make yourself hard for me." Draco rolls onto his back and slides a hand between his own legs. His hand is gentle, questing, and he looks like he's thinking of something else, something complicated. His wrist is so narrow, almost fragile, and he has no scars on his body but the mark. He slides his fingers down his penis, up and down, methodical as a house elf, but it works. His penis fills with blood, hardens, and swells. Ron swallows, looking at it curving toward Draco's stomach. His own cock is hard, untouched, still in his trousers, and he stands and frantically scrambles out of his clothes. Draco strokes himself dreamily and Ron can't look away.
"Suck me," he says, and Draco moves toward him. It's wrong but Ron can't resist it. He feels seventeen again but even seventeen wasn't like this. Draco's mouth closes on the head of his penis and Ron's heart stops beating. He's going to fall-he's going to fall-he reaches out for something, anything, to hold onto and his fist tangles in Draco's hair but Draco never flinches. He doesn't even seem to need air; he seems to be able to breathe through Ron. His tongue scrapes delicate patterns around and under Ron's foreskin. He runs light fingers along the underside of Ron's cock, presses on the spot behind Ron's testes. Ron's never had a blowjob like this, never; he never knew that anything could feel so good.
Draco is tireless, brilliant, and he's driving Ron out of his mind. It's deviant, all right; it's fucking depraved. If this is what it's like to be a Death Eater-if this is how Voldemort felt. Ron would kill for this kind of power, too. Ron would kill for sex this good. What he is doing now, even though he does it at Draco's request, is no better than killing. He comes in Draco's mouth, and only the hand he's twisted in Draco's hair keeps him upright.
He totters to the edge of the bed and falls on it. His heart is beating so fast it feels as if his ribs will break. He sinks onto the bed; Draco stays where he is, on his knees. "Fuck me," Ron says with the last of his breath, and Draco shakes his head.
"It wore off," he says hoarsely. "Maybe next time."
"I fucking love you," Ron says, without thinking about it first, and Draco smiles.