Warnings: EWE, canon and non-canon character deaths, masturbation, explicit description of m/m sexual activity, sexual assault (non-titillating description), mental illnesses, drug and alcohol abuse, semi-public sex, strong language, four funerals and a wedding.

Author's Notes: The title, chapter titles and quoted passages are taken from various versions of the Anglican funeral service. (Yes, that's how cheerful this story is).

This was written for the live journal 2011 ron big bang. I am intensely grateful to my betas feltonxmalfoy and masteroftrouble, to glockgal for doing artwork which can be seen here: /wwmrsweasleydo/pic/0005yh4s/ and also to the ronbigbang mods for running this big bang.

Disclaimer: The characters and settings herein are the intellectual property of JK Rowling.

YET SHALL HE LIVE

CHAPTER ONE: Our Dear Brother Here Departed.

Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life ...

It should have rained on Fred's funeral. The sky should have shed the tears his friends and family held back. The sun blazed instead. His pall-bearers sweltered in the dragon-skin suits they wore in his memory, almost replicas of the ones he had designed for himself and George when they had first gone into profit, only with black bands circling the upper arms.

Fred's brothers and his best friend carried his coffin. Ginny had protested, but she was too short; the coffin tipped towards her when she tried to join them. She walked ahead of them with her parents. Arthur looked very old, as though he were being held up by the pale, damp-eyed women on either side of him.

Charlie and George were shorter than the others, but only by a few inches, it was little enough difference that they could compromise, accommodate, adapt. They were at the back. Ron was at the head end with Bill because they were the tallest. Both of them had attempted to defer to George, but he had said, "If it all tips over and he falls out, I want him landing on his feet not his head." Percy was behind Bill and Lee behind Ron.

"Charlie's strong," George had said, "I might need him to take over my share of the carrying. I pass out sometimes these days."

When it came to it there was a good chance that any one of them might have lost consciousness; Lee had shared out enough rum in the vestry to keep a pirate ship from mutiny. They needed it.

The service had been sombre and so heavy that it was a wonder any one of them had managed to push enough air off them to stand. But stand they had, watched by the packed, black-clad, congregation. All six of them had walked down the aisle, to the coffin in front of the altar — the box which couldn't really have Fred in it — and they had stood in their allocated positions and hefted it in unison onto their shoulders.

They had followed Molly and Arthur and Ginny out through the cool dark of the village church, and had been hit with the blaze of a hot summer sun in the graveyard. It should have rained; it should have been grey and cold and damp. The weather ought to have been as miserable as they were.

"At least you've got a good day for it," Mrs Figg said and Ron wanted to punch her.

Why was she even here? She'd never met Fred. Ron couldn't fathom why Harry had brought her along. The whole Wizarding world seemed to want to mourn the dead of the Battle of Hogwarts, to praise their heroism. Ron wasn't comforted by that; it just felt like intrusion.

"It's bad enough burying nephews, but one shouldn't outlive a great-nephew," Great Aunt Muriel complained. From her it sounded like a criticism of Fred.

"Can't hack any more of this," George said and he walked out of the wake, along with Lee and Charlie. Ron got Harry and then followed them.

"Can I take my mourning robe off?" Harry asked as they stepped out of the back door.

"Of course, mate. It's bloody hot." Ron looked round the garden and caught sight of the others climbing up into the treehouse.

"It's not disrespectful or anything, is it? I've never been to a Wizarding funeral before. Except Dumbledore's and that was different."

"Funny that. With all the deaths in the last couple of years." Ron shucked off his own dragon-skin jacket, but hugged it to him. "We did Cedric's, but then the Diggorys only live over there." He waved vaguely towards some hills.

"I don't know the etiquette."

"Sod that. Would Fred give a shit, or would he rather you were comfortable?" Ron was thinking about what Fred had said about weddings, about his own wedding and how informal he wanted that to be; it was never going to happen now.

They climbed up the wooden stepladder into the old treehouse they had played in as kids. Ron dropped his jacket near the door and took the bottle of rum which Lee immediately offered him. Harry struggled for a moment with pulling the heavy black mourning robes off over his head, then he came and sat beside his best friend in the silent circle of drinking men.

"You got some stuff?" George was asking Lee.

Lee looked nervously at the other men in the room.

"I can do what I like today, remember? Nobody's going to say anything." George looked pointedly at his brothers.

"Whatever gets you through," Charlie said sympathetically. "Bloody horrible day."

"Bet you can't wait to get out of the country." George pulled a pipe out of his pocket and tapped it against his palm.

"Don't know," Charlie muttered. "Don't know what I'm going to do."

"Stay." Ron surprised himself with the neediness in his voice. "Just for a bit," he added. "Mum would like it."

"I know," Charlie replied.

George pushed at Lee's knee with his foot. "Go on."

Lee sighed and pulled a velvet pouch out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Ron watched with interest, and then checked Harry for his reaction. He looked wary.

"Percy's driving me round the bend. I mean, all hail the prodigal son's return and all that ..." George took the pouch from Lee and started transferring something which looked almost like tobacco into the bowl of the pipe.

Charlie nodded his agreement. "If I have to hear one more time about how it was all his fault —"

"What was?" Harry asked sharply.

"Fred's death," Ron told him.

"But it wasn't!"

"We've all told him that," said George. The end of his wand glowed and he held it against the pipe. Smoke drifted out of it and Ron could smell something sweet and spicy — definitely not tobacco. George inhaled it deeply, then raised the pipe in the air. "To Fred!" he proclaimed.

Ron was holding the rum bottle at the time, so he lifted it up. They all repeated solemnly, "To Fred!"

George choked quietly, keeping his lips forced together so that the smoke spurted out of his nostrils. He took a deep breath. Then he put the pipe back in his mouth.

"You look like a Norwegian Ridgeback," Charlie commented with a smile. "Does that stuff help?"

George shrugged and passed the pipe to Lee.

"Why is he blaming himself?" Harry asked.

"Percy?" Ron clarified. "Because he was talking to him when he was hit, thinks he distracted him."

Charlie lay down to ease his hand into his too-tight trouser pocket.

"It doesn't matter, Harry," Ron muttered.

"Look, if he wants to feel guilty, then let him," Lee said, in words of smoke. "We all know that's not really what the guilt is about." He looked at Ron questioningly, turned the pipe round and offered the mouthpiece.

Ron didn't know what to do. He was curious, but scared, too. He looked at Harry for a lead, but Harry hadn't noticed his predicament. He was too busy worrying about Percy.

Ron nodded and took the pipe; Lee smiled.

"Better?" Charlie asked George.

"'Course not," George replied.

"Try this." Charlie pulled a small glass vial out of his pocket. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and then inhaled the contents sharply. He passed it to George.

"If anything, it's my fault," Harry mused.

"Not this again!" Ron sucked in smoke and closed his eyes. It tasted like it smelled, but it was hotter than he'd expected. He could feel his tonsils. He breathed the smoke in his mouth down to his lungs. He didn't know if it was his imagination — his expectations — which made everything a little blurred round the edges when he opened his eyes again.

Harry stood up. George was sniffing at the glass vial and Charlie watched him carefully. Lee stretched to take the rum bottle from between Ron's knees.

"Fuck!" George said in a small, awed voice.

"I'm going to go talk to Percy," Harry said, picking up his mourning robes.

"There's no point!" Charlie called after him.

Harry went away down the ladder.

Ron offered Charlie the pipe. He seemed to know what he was doing with it. Ron hadn't known about any of these substances. He'd never known his brothers were playing with fun stuff like this.

"Fucking immense!" George said to Charlie.

"Not too much at once," Charlie cautioned.

"Whatever gets me through," George answered and took another deep sniff.

"Let's have a go!" Lee took the vial. "What is it?" he asked Charlie after he'd inhaled it. "Oh, fuck!"

Charlie shrugged, passing the pipe to George. "I only know the Romanian name. Good, though, isn't it?"

It was hot in the treehouse; Ron was aware that he was breathing in stale air. His head was feeling light and he couldn't judge whether that was the weather, the drink and drugs, or just a reaction to the stresses of the day; probably it was a mixture. He thought about Harry and then forgot about him. Lee offered him the vial. It looked very small and pale in his big, dark hand. Ron hesitated.

"Not the kid!" Charlie said quickly. "Come on, Lee. Give it back!"

"I'm not a kid!" Ron snapped back, taking the vial. Lee let go slowly, sliding their fingers over each other. "I've done things this year ..." He lifted it towards his nose. He was scared to inhale, though.

"You should have been around more, Charlie. Ron grew up." George slurred the words together.

Ron breathed in. It smelled like putrid pears, and he had a moment to think about that before it hit. Then colours flashed across his vision and he could hear his heart thundering — too loud and too fast. He thought he was going to die.

When someone took hold of the thing in his hand, he realised that the slipping sensation he had been feeling had been the glass falling slowly from his grip.

He felt sick, and blackness was seeping over him, so he loosened his limbs and let his heavy head fall to the floor. Somewhere, distorted, someone was saying, "I told you. Look. He's a lightweight." The sound was blurred and rang with an unnatural clarity all at once. He lay on his back with his eyes closed and let the sickness wear off.

Suddenly he was awake and full of energy. His mouth was parched. He rolled his head, not trusting himself to sit up. The grey light coming through the door reflected on a bottle; he wondered when it had got so late. He put out his arm and then drank deeply from a Firewhiskey bottle which he couldn't remember being there.

"Oh shit."

Ron looked around until he saw George. He looked pale, sick.

"You alright?" Charlie asked him.

George groaned in reply. Then there was a shuffling sound and he lurched to his feet. Ron sat. He watched his brothers.

Charlie was looking like he felt guilty. "Where are you going?" he asked George.

"Bed," George mumbled.

"Not down the ladder! Hang on, mate," Lee said.

"I've got it. I'll take him down, get him to bed." Charlie took hold of George, gently lifting him up before they both disappeared into the evening.

"You feel ok?" Lee asked Ron. "That's some weird shit, the Romanian stuff."

"I don't think I like it." Ron took another mouthful of Firewhiskey.

"It's a buzz. Yeah, I'd do it again. Like at a party, I reckon. Wears off quick, though, doesn't it?"

"It's funny." Ron lay back on the dirt floor with his eyes closed. "Hearing your voice."

"My voice?" Lee took the bottle from Ron's hand. "How is that funny?"

"Keep talking," Ron replied. The bottle was replaced and he drank from it without looking.

"I don't know what you want me to say." After waiting for Ron to say something and hearing nothing, Lee spoke again: "I miss Fred, but, I don't know, I don't want to talk about him really. I know it's his funeral; he's supposed to have the spotlight, but ..." His voice trailed off. It was a little slurred, but so familiar that the drunkenness didn't matter much. "Do you think we should go after George?"

Ron had been so intent on Lee's voice that it took him a while to realise what his words had been, that they needed an answer.

"Charlie's got him. Keep talking. Please. Makes me feel safe — your voice."

"Safe?"

"Always did. Tuning in, finding it. All well with the world."

"Oh!" Lee sighed with understanding. "Potterwatch."

"Reminded me of school Quidditch matches. Something ordinary. Not dark."

"Ok." Lee paused. "You were a pretty good Keeper in the end. Better when the twins weren't watching you. Funny that. They raised their game when you were watching, tried to impress you. Too much for you, though, wasn't it?"

"Mmm hmm." Ron drank. His stomach flipped. Enough alcohol, he didn't want to throw up. He put down the bottle on the ground, near where he thought Lee was. He didn't look to check, though. He wanted to doze off to a radio voice the way he had done so many times before in the last year.

"In every group of three friends you always have times when there's a couple and a single. I've watched it happen with you and Harry and Hermione. The thing was, though, with me and the twins, well ... they were always the twins. I was always the extra. Sometimes you and Harry go off on one about Quidditch, or Harry and Hermione talk about Muggle stuff, y'know? Then you and Hermione — I don't know. Whatever. But it switches. Not with us. I was always the extra one."

Lee fell silent. After a couple of minutes, Ron wondered if he'd fallen asleep. He looked over to where he thought Lee was. He jolted when he opened his eyes, because Lee was much, much closer than he had been. He was staring intently into Ron's face.

"Er, all right, mate?" Ron asked. He swallowed. Lee looked weird. Pissed, yeah, but something else as well.

"Ron." Lee's voice was thick and cracking.

"You're just pissed, mate." Ron suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed, lying there on the floor. He remembered where his wand was: by the door, in the pocket of his dragon-skin jacket. He tried to sit up.

Lee moved fast. His hand pushed against Ron's shoulder, forced him back down. "I am pissed," he said. "But that's not it. Years. Years of thinking." His face was deathly serious.

Ron's heart hammered. His gorge rose. Adrenalin born of fear forced sobriety into his brain. He tried to scrabble up to a sitting position at least. Lee got his other hand onto Ron's skinny hip, holding him down, and then his knee was on Ron's chest.

Ron froze at first. He just stared at Lee's looming face.

"Come on," Lee pleaded.

Ron didn't know what he was pleading for, but he didn't think he wanted to give it to him; this felt bad. He shook his head. He felt helpless the way he had done as a kid when one of his big brothers had held him down and taken something from him. He couldn't even shout for his Mum here. Everyone else was back in the house. It was only a few hundred yards away, but it was beyond shouting distance and that was suddenly all that mattered.

Lee lay down on top of him, knocking the wind out of him. One hand held Ron's head now, and the other was at his fly. Lee licked his neck.

"Yes, yes, yes ..." he was saying. His breath was hot and stank of alcohol and something rank.

"No!" Ron shouted with what little breath he had.

Lee's hand forced its way into Ron's underpants at the same time as his mouth descended onto his in an obscene parody of a kiss. The twin shocks were enough to energise Ron's struggles. This was wrong and bad and evil, just like the Death Eaters had been. Ron might not have been able to fight off his brothers when he was a kid, but he'd been fighting bad men for years. In a rush he believed he could escape the situation and it was done.

Ron lifted one knee, aiming it for Lee's crotch. He missed, but he hit his thigh and knocked him off balance. The momentum allowed Ron to roll over, knocking Lee off him. Ron sprang to his feet. Shakily, Lee followed him to standing, and Ron punched him hard in the mouth.

Then he ran. Picking up his jacket on the way, he scrambled down the ladder at a speed which wasn't safe and ran to the house, holding his waistband up, no time to zip up. He was thinking that he would tell his parents, he would tell George, he would tell Charlie ... only they had enough to be worrying about today. Harry. That's who he would talk to. He could tell Harry anything. Only, when he lurched, panting, into the room he was supposed to be sharing with his best friend, it was empty.

He locked himself in by magic, turned the Muggle key and then shoved his chest of drawers against the door. He pulled a bottle of mead out from under his bed to swill his mouth, to get rid of the taste of Lee's mouth. He forgot to spit it out though and once he'd swallowed one mouthful he wanted another, and another. He lay on his bed with the lights on full, drinking and staring down his demons.

.