Disclaimer: I don't own Fred and George, or indeed any other Harry Potter characters. Nor places, nor spells or anything. J.K. Rowling does.
This chapter: You've heard Fred, now George.
A/N: Originally this was a oneshot but someone added this to their alerts and I couldn't resist the challenge. Oh yeah Harry/Ron was in the first chapter and it's here too. Please review! I hope this isn't really bad, but I won't know unless you tell me.
I remember our first kiss. Fred doesn't.
We were seven.
It was so soft, so sweet at first. A butterfly kiss. His lips barely grazed mine, his arms barely encircled my body. It became more heated. His hands roved everywhere, he pulled me so close and I could barely think…
Mum found us then. I saw her eyes at the door. Fred didn't. When she came in, I was so scared; even then I think I knew it was wrong for us to kiss like that. I don't know what possessed me to do it in the first place.
When she came in, Fred drew away from me slowly and I could see it, when he looked at me. It was there even then, and I felt sick.
Mum could see it too, but she only told us never to do that again. It was wrong, we were related, we must never do that ever again…
Fred soon forgot about our kiss, though it was still there, in his eyes. The way he stared at me when he thought I wasn't looking, the way he'd brush his hand so lightly across my cheek when we were alone, the way he'd always stand so near to me.
And I let him. We got older but he didn't stop. We were always so close and in all the chaos I think he must have just been reaching out to me, reaching out for someone to hold onto.
So when he pushed me against the wall, I let him. I let him taste me, run his hands through my hair. I let him cling on to me when he was down.
Then he wanted more from me, and I gave it.
Fred thought they were completely oblivious to our little affair, even when we'd made it so obvious. I knew different. Sometimes I'd hear them whisper, other times I'd actually see them stare. And I always caught the disgusted glances they gave us after we'd just fucked each other. They knew all right.
By this time, we were barely even bothering to mask it, although I think Fred still held onto the foolish belief that they had no idea what we were doing. Our make-out spots were becoming even stupider; the shed, the garage, the kitchen counters, Ginny's wardrobe, under desks and tables, the fridge… there was no limit to the places we managed to find. Hell, we even showered together. That's not forgetting that memorable Christmas when we snogged behind the tree, surrounded by shiny objects and mistletoe.
We didn't talk about it. We never discussed our relationship.
When the war ended, we moved back to Diagon Alley and didn't have to worry about getting caught any more. This was our flat; no one would be coming in without our permission.
And because the pain hadn't ended I was still screwing him whenever he desired, which was basically all of our spare time. He needed me, we were all tortured by Ginny and Dad's death, and he needed me to be there for him and him only.
I guess I needed him, too, but I could never stand to admit that to myself. I didn't want to dwell on how I'd let myself get sucked in, how I depended solely on another. But I held no delusions over what we were doing. I was shagging a mirror and liking it.
For Fred it was different. For Fred it was love.
Was I in love?
It hurt so much, there were so many dead and Mum was dead inside. Ron was screwed up, Charlie and Bill didn't give a shit and Percy…well, no one gives a shit about Percy. I only had Fred. When we were lost in each other, we could forget our anguish and focus on the one ever torment.
Touch on touch, skin on skin, tongue on tongue. Pain on pain, sorrow on sorrow, twin on twin.
Was I in love?
Am I in love?
There it is again, the all important word. Love. Oh, Merlin, I don't know. Fred knew though. I saw his abhorrence but I also saw the love he had for me. The love that had been there since we were seven and we kissed.
Maybe Fred did remember.
And because he was in love with me it hurt even more for him, I'm sure. When I pulled his shirt over his head and ran my hands over his chest I felt him shudder beneath me. When he looked at me after, the message was plain enough. Why do you do it, George? Why do you cause me such pain? Why don't you just leave? And he'd curl up against me.
He was the one to leave, even though I'd always tell him in my kisses that I didn't want him to go. How I'd always show him with my desperate advances that I couldn't live without him, that alone I would break, he ignored it all and left me here to die.
So far I haven't broken, but there are cracks, fissures in my mind. They started out small: his abandoned cloak lying on a chair, collecting dust; a broken glass alone on the table; a half empty bottle of firewhiskey behind the sofa having fallen astray in the heat of the moment
But they get bigger every day.
Whenever people ask me about it, I just grin and pretend it's nothing but I can't keep up the smokescreen for much longer.
And it still really cracks me up. The way they whisper as I walk by, the words they hiss at me… No wonder Fred splintered after just one hateful word from them. I even get threatening owls and howlers sometimes. It's as if I'd murdered and raped a whole bunch of children and gotten away with it. I just fell in love with my brother, is that so bad? They always say that you can't help who you fall in love with, that you should be free to choose without prejudice. They always use that argument for other "abnormal" relationships, so why was my relationship sick? Who are they to label love? They're the ones that make me sick.
I suppose I am in love.
I feel my head beginning to shatter as she stirs beside me. Another girl, another night. She'll be gone in a few minutes and I hope to never see her again.
It's like that now.
That extra freckle on his nose, that extra confident trait, that extra smile for me and me only.
She's fully awake now, she smiles at me but it's not his smile. She swaggers confidently towards the shower, but I don't join her. Why is she still here? Normally they get the message and leave.
Everyone thinks I'm over him now, that I'm absolutely a hundred percent fine. FINE. The only ones who know I'm not, that I can't be, are my family, but Mum's gone and Ron fucks Savior of the wizarding world to escape so there's no one for me there.
No wonder Mum went crazy. We're all fucked up, our lives are utter shit.
It's daunting without Fred. I presume he must have thought it'd all be just peachy if he vanished from my existence, but he was mistaken. We're twins; we're not meant to be isolated from each other, we're not meant to be solitary.
I often wonder about how he's coping. I hope he's managing as abysmally as I am.
All with one word, he left. He couldn't take it the way I could. We both hated it, saw it as depraved but it was the only way of survival for us. It was an insane way to keep sane.
She kisses me at the door and I close my eyes. I close the world and fantasise that it's him moaning into my mouth, that it's his arms that wrap around me and I realise I'm the one making the noises. When she pulls away my eyes flutter open and I crash and burn back into reality. It's not him and it never will be.
"If you know how to kiss like that I'm surprised Fred left," she teases, but I can see the glint of disgust at the thought in her eyes all the same. I look away, furiously fighting against the excruciating wall of emotions that have welled up inside me at the mere mention of his name.
She sighs and pecks me on the cheek, turning to go.
"I'll call." She slams the door and the oppressive silence of seclusion surrounds me.
I race out of my flat, crying out to her retreating back to stay. She twists around and I gaze at her with pleading blue eyes to come back to me, to keep me from my loneliness.
I can't replace him, but I can't be by myself either.