George didn't often tell lies.
He couldn't help it. He just couldn't, when it happened – it just hit him over and over again, like being punched in the chest, knocking the wind out of him, his head spinning, his hands feeble, mind cracking with the same words over and over again.
Fred is dead.
Fred is dead.
Fred is dead.
It was so simple. It could've killed him.
And never could he get away from it. Never could he not look in the mirror, and see only the pitiful, dimmed reflection staring back at him. Never could he not go to work without having the reminder emblazoned on everything in sight: Weasley & Weasley. He thought now, bitterly, that it might as well be called Weasley & The Other. Or worse, perhaps Just the One.
But the brute of it was always at night, of course. He couldn't disguise the worst of it, even in the darkness. He couldn't fool himself with jokes or hide behind the firecrackers and confetti. This time the monsters were real. Nearly tangible. He'd clench the sheets, his body tensing, his eyes straining, thinking go away go away go away, this naked skeleton monster that claimed him in the ungodly hours. He folded over himself, hoping she wouldn't notice.
She always did.
"George, George," she called softly.
He turned his back to her. No, he didn't need anyone. Anyone except Fred. Anyone except this demon of sinew and shadows that pounded his head and heart.
"George, love, turn around. Look at me, George."
No, he wouldn't. Not even hearing his name, not even her fingers pawing at his shoulders. How could he do anything with this hellish pit sprouting in his chest, how could he turn around when his head was being wrung and spiked, his fingers turning white under the pillow, thinking go away go away go away.
He cried out, a terrible, wounded noise that rang through the room, hollow yet full, his heart's morbid cry for help. Angelina's hands wrapped around him, pulling on his chest from behind.
"George," she cried quietly, curling around his back, trying to pull him toward her.
He wished she would leave him to rot in the abyss, he wanted nothing more. Loneliness engulfed him, and he feared that no one would fill the void torn open inside him. He tried to remember the nights when Angelina was like this, and he was the one on the outside. He tried to remember that she understood, and tried to remember that she let him help her. But he couldn't do the same. He couldn't let her wrap herself around him, whisper I love you in his ear, kiss him so hard it hurt, and pretend that would make it better. He couldn't be as gentle and open as she.
They laid, George fisting the sheets, his body jerking with each wrenching sob, fingernails pulling crescents in the bed. Angelina wouldn't let go, working her fingers through his hair, across his arms, back, neck, stomach, doing whatever she could to roll him away from the demons that clouded him.
The next morning, he turned over, rubbing the stains roughly from his cheeks. Angelina sat cross-legged beside him, running her hand over his hairline and looking at him deeply.
George didn't often tell lies.
"I'm fine," he said, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he cracked a grin.
There would be one exception.