I don’t know why I let Ron talk me into these things.  An elf on Christmas Eve?  As Hermione would say, honestly.  Yet, here I am, green tights and all, dressed as the Muggle version of an elf.

One tiny Weasley – one of Fred’s I think – has already told me the outfit matches my eyes.  For a moment, I flashback to Uncle Vernon reading Dudley How The Grinch Stole Christmas! – with the Weasleys as Whos and me as Max.

It’s humiliating.  And I’d only do it for Ron.

It is further humiliation when Fred and George nearly tackle me to the sofa.  With one twin on either side, I’m boxed in.  I’m worried.

“So, Harry,” George begins.

“Our ickle brother convinced you to –”

“– prostitute yourself –”

“– not prostitute, humiliate –”

“– in such a fashion –”

“– for Christmas,” Fred ends.

I feel like the net in a tennis match.

“Um, yeah,” I reply slowly.  It’s already bad enough that as soon as we arrived, Ginny laughed so hard that she pissed herself.  Granted, she’s eight months pregnant, but still.

“Harry, Harry,” Fred croons, shaking his head as George clucks his tongue.

“You should know better,” George says.

“Being a grown man and all,” Fred adds.

George narrows his eyes at me.  “You are a grown man, right?”

“Yes,” I growl through gritted teeth.  If I hear one more crack about allowing Ron to not only get me into an elf costume but shrink me to four-foot-six, I’ll kick them in the balls.  Or punch them in the balls.  Or both.

Better yet, I’ll head outside the Burrow and bang my head against a tree for an hour.

“Harry!” Ron bellows.  Fred and George cackle madly even as I groan.

I can’t take it any longer.  Standing, I turn and glare at the twins.  Shaking my finger at both of them, I state, “If you two don’t shut up about it, I will tell all your children that Santa Claus doesn’t exist for Weasley children, then tell your wives you said it.”

They both paled.  Well, became more pale than usual.

“You wouldn’t,” George whispers.

Fred grins.  “That’s some right good blackmail there, Harry.”

It feels very girlish when I stomp my foot and quit the room.  Ron stops me at the base of the stairs, all parts of his costume in place except the beard.

“Have I told you thanks for doing this?” he asks as he fastens the beard.

I blink and nod slowly, feeling like I’ve been hit with a Stunner.  I’ve always had this attraction to Ron, whether I called it merely friendship in fourth year or recognized it for lust during the war.  Whatever I call it now, it’s rendered me stupid and silent.

“Harry?” Ron begins, hefting the bag of gifts onto his shoulder.  “You ready?”

Nodding stupidly again, I follow him into the rear garden.

“Santa’s here!” he shouts.

The cry draws Weasleys from all corners of the garden.  Ron, laughing, leads them into the house and into the front room, settling himself in front of the tree.  Other Weasleys storm down the stairs sounding like a herd of hippogriffs.  I gather the stragglers like a good elf, ignoring Bill’s smirk.

It takes a good hour for Ron to hand out gifts even with my assistance.  I’m exhausted.

All the Weasley children, gathered around Ron, their eager faced upturned to watch him, are clamoring for more when Ron pulls a small box from the bag.

Waving it, he says, “Last one!”

This sets them into a near-frenzy, sharks scenting blood in the water.  Ron laughs, dodging several of his nephews as they try to tackle him and take the box.

He shakes his extended index finger at them.  “Santa can take your gifts away.”

The same little Weasley who liked my tights earlier chimes in, “No fair!”  She stands, hands on hips, and stares down her cousins and brothers.  “Sit down!”

I barely stifle a laugh at the sight of a five-year-old cowing children older than her into submission, reminding me of both her aunt and grandmother.

“Elizabeth, I won’t take yours away,” Ron says gently.  She grins broadly before taking her seat again, leaving the other Weasley offspring to grumble.

“As I said,” Ron begins again, pitching his voice to be heard over the grumbling, “this is the last gift.”  He makes a show of checking the tag.  “And it’s for...Harry.”  He meets my eyes, sending my heart into my throat as I take the gift.

The noise of the children egging me to opening the gift is something I’m barely aware of.  I feel trapped by Ron’s gaze and don’t want to fight it.

We break eye contact when one of Bill and Fleur’s boys tugs on my tunic.  I look down at him reluctantly, thought I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed by the tugging or by drawing my attention away from Ron.

“Yes, Guillaume?”

“Open it,” he says in a stage whisper, a slight lisp in his three-year-old voice.

I raise the box and shake it slightly.  “Should I open it?”

“Yes!” comes the unanimous shout of reply.

Smiling, I make a big production of unwrapping the box.  With each careful peeling back of the paper, there’s a groan from my audience and a laugh from Ron.  At last, the paper is off.  I hold the box up and shake it again just to torment the children.  After further groans, I finally open the box.

Small faces press closer, whispering speculation about what might be in the box.

“What is it, Uncle Harry?” several voices ask as I pull the top layers of tissue paper away.

A key is nestled against a bed of more tissue paper.

Frowning slightly, I look up at Ron, ignoring the audience for the moment.

“Ours,” he says simply.

It takes me a minute to realize what he means.  When I figure it out, I leap up and shout, “Yes!”

It’s a key to our flat.  Ron had refused to share one with me until he could afford his half – no matter how many times I protested he wasn’t a charity case and that I didn’t mind paying more than half.  The key means we can finally move in together.

I sit back down, stunned.  Together.  I’ll see him in the morning, half-dressed and sleepy.  I’ll see him lounging about to avoid housework.  I’ll hear him shower.  Why do I torment myself?

Unaware of my internal angst, Ron asks, “Want to go see it?”

“See what, Uncle Ron?” Elizabeth asks.

Ron frowns at her until she calls him Santa – Uncle Santa, but Santa – before answering, “The flat I’ll be sharing with Uncle Harry.”  He tosses the empty bag over his shoulder before taking my hand.  “Santa knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for Christmas!”

And before anyone can say a thing, Ron Disapparates both of us.  When we appear in the living room of a modest-sized flat, I’m breathless with shock.

Releasing his hand, I mutter, “Warn a person next time, would you?”

Ron just laughs.  Dropping the sack, he uses his other hand to pull his beard off.  “Welcome to our humble abode.”

“Before I look around, could you please un-elf me?” I whine, spreading my arms.

With a grin, Ron pulls his wand and chants the counter spell.  It feels even more strange to grow than it did to shrink.  I shudder comfortably once my six-foot height is restored and my elf costume is transformed back into my jumper and jeans.

Tossing the beard and hat on the sofa, he leads me into the kitchen, giving me a tour.  I know he’s telling me all about the flat – the rooms, the cost, the neighbors – but I’m not paying a bit of attention.  Instead, my eyes are fixated on his mouth, his lips and his hands as he speaks with animated gestures.

It’s only once we get to the first bedroom – “This is yours, Harry” – that he realizes I’m not paying attention.

He snaps his fingers in my face.  I startle.

“I thought you’d like it,” he says softly once I focus on him.

“I do!” I retort.  I love it, but I don’t know how I’ll survive living together with him.

“No, you don’t.  You’re not paying attention,” he pouts, slouching against the wall just beside the door.

The war I wage with myself is fierce despite its brevity.  In the end, lust wins.

I take two steps forward and pin Ron to the wall, my lips fastened to his, tongue demanding entrance.  He gasps in shock and I take ruthless advantage of it, shoving my tongue inside his mouth to taste him.

He moans, startling me.

I break the kiss and pull back.  He tugs a hand free to touch his lips as he opens his eyes.  Using his fingertips, he traces the edge of his now-swollen lips.  I run my tongue over my own lips, tasting him there and wanting more.

“How long?” he rasps.  I take a step forward, pressing myself chest-to-hips against him, entwining my legs in his.  Despite the layers of his Santa suit and my jeans, I’m sure he can feel my hardened cock against him.  “How long?” he repeats even more hoarsely.

“Seven years,” I murmur.

I lean in to kiss him again, but he turns his head.  Not to be thwarted, I kiss his jaw, trailing my tongue along the hard line there before kissing it thoroughly.

Ron is silent, but his hands twitch against my back as if he’s uncertain whether he should pull me closer or push me away.

His voice is even more broken after I nibble on his earlobe.  “How long have you known you’re bent?”

I pull back far enough to meet his eyes.  The confusion and lust I see in his turns me on further.

“About seven years,” I answer with a grin.

His eyes widen.  “Me?”

I lift one hand to his face, tracing my thumb over his kiss-swollen lips.  “Always you.”

Whether it’s my words or my touch, but something sets him off.  His hands dive into my hair, holding my head in place so he can ravage my mouth.  Moaning, I respond in kind, tangling my hands in his hair.

He breaks the kiss to take a deep breath, opening his eyes once again.  Most of the confusion is gone, leaving only want.  He wants me.  He wants me...maybe I can live here.

“Shall we christen our flat?” he murmurs, sliding his lips to my neck, sucking on the skin there.

“How long have you known you’re bent?” I manage to ask before he kisses me again.

Ron chuckles, the vibrations destroying my restraint.  “About five minutes.”

Me.  Because of me.

I pull out of his arms and throw myself on my back onto the bed.  “Christen away.”

He pushes off the wall only far enough to shed the Santa jacket.

Propping myself up on my elbows, I watch him with a predator’s eye.  I’ve watched him in the Quidditch locker room, I’ve watched him on our Horcrux hunt, I’ve watched him for seven long years.  Now, this is for me.

“Take your jumper off,” he rasps, dropping the jacket.  I sit up and whip my jumper over my head, making my hair even more of a mess from the static electricity.  He pulls his t-shirt off, leaving him as bare-chested as me.

He tugs off his boots; I toe off my trainers.  He drops the red trousers of the costume, leaving him in his boxers; I unfasten my jeans.

He nods in the direction of my jeans.  “You going to take those off?”

I grin, stroking myself through the denim.  Though keeping my jeans on is downright painful, watching Ron swallow nervously is enough to abate the pain for the moment.

“There’s nothing underneath them,” I answer.  His eyes widen as his cock twitches against the fabric of his boxers.  “You still want me to take them off?”

He meets my eyes long enough to nod.  I grin wickedly, knowing he’s watching every move.  His eyes follow my hands as I run them down my chest to the waistband of my jeans.  Raising my hips a bit, I watch him lick his lips, watch his chest rise and fall faster than before, watch his cock pulse.  When I slide my jeans off, he stops breathing for a moment, then gasps.  Once they’re off, I toss them and my socks aside, leaving me naked on the bed.

“Still interested?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds teasing.  I’ve wanted him for so long that if he changes his mind, I don’t know what I’ll do.

The bed dips between my knees as Ron kneels upon it, drawing my attention back to him.

“Hell yes,” he answers before pressing a kiss to my thigh.

I can’t take being treated like a girl.  Grabbing his arms, I pull him up so he’s laying atop me, our cocks aligned.  I don’t know when he took his boxers off, but the friction of skin against skin is driving me to the edge faster than I’m ready for.  Though I want to push him onto his back and explore his body at my leisure, lust is pounding in my veins too loudly to allow me the luxury.

I reach down and wrap my hand around both our cocks, increasing the friction.

“Harry,” he breathes against my neck.

“Just enjoy,” I whisper.  I hope I can last long enough.

He jerks his hips against me at the same time he bites my shoulder.  Oh, fuck.

That’s all it takes for the both of us to lose all control.  I pull my hand away so I can grab his hips.  We arch against each other, frantically kissing and biting and moaning and grabbing.

He pants my name once before he comes, slicking our skin.  Moaning his name, I arch upward and come.

We’re both panting as we separate with a sticky pop.  Lying side by side, I attempt to catch my breath.  The only thing better would be for one of us to be inside the other, preferably me inside him.

“All good?” Ron murmurs.

After Summoning my wand and casting cleaning spells on both of us, I answer, “All good.”  Grinning, I prop myself on one elbow and look down at him.  “I don’t think I’ve ever kissed Santa before.”

“Git!”  He pounces on me, kissing me and tickling me at the same time.