Notes: George in losing Fred
I do apologise for the nature of this fic, but again, I have had this idea for a while, whilst reviewing some coursework I did for English Language. I hope it's somewhat accepted. Review?
Warning: Major character death and suicide hinted at.
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The tall, ginger-haired man named George Weasley was crumpled in the corner of the apartment he and his brother had shared. The one above their shop, Weasley Wizard Wheezes. Their little piece of genius, their mother had commented. It had hurt neither boys at the time, but it hurt George now. Without Fred.
He clutched the cool bottle of firewhiskey tighter in his hand, almost hoping that it would break and cut into him to distract from the other numb aches in his body. The ache of a missing part of him. Why he could no longer look in any mirror without remembering and regretting and hating himself. For being himself. For being Fred's twin. The burning of the firewhiskey did half the job, but he needed something stronger.
Some physical pain, perhaps.
It was difficult to form coherent thoughts other than the need for firewhiskey and the acknowledgement of Fred and everything which he left behind. Including the inferno in George's mouth. Was that Fred's fault too? And Hermione's increasing loneliness? That was another thing. They could no longer be friends with each other, given her dalliance with Fred. She would not look at him and he would not force his presence on her. He knew what it was like to see Fred in every day life and wouldn't impress it upon her.
George Weasley did not like the taste of alcohol. Had not frequented it much before then. He found it made him dizzy and sleepy and not at all thinking correctly or in any linear fashion. He could not hold his liquor as Fred had been able to do. Fred could drink and have fun, but George found that he would have to remain three drinks behind his brother. And would feel worse the next day.
Worse. That's how he felt all the time.
Worse. Worse in the morning. Worse at night. Worse. It was impossible to compare when everything felt like the next worst moment; the newest worst thing.
George Weasley did not appreciate the stench of liquor either. It was heavy and musty and went along with his own these days. Angelina detested it but continued coming to the flat, to make sure he showered. But the smell returned. With firewhiskey and several hours crumpled on the floor, considering himself. Considering his brother. And how he wasn't sure how he felt about being only one half of a pair.
George Wealsey did not like the effects of the alcohol. How it made him feel in the morning, whilst drinking it, and days afterwards when Angelina requested he stop for a couple of days. He wanted to make her happy, but sometimes that was too much. His voice would turn dry and hoarse from lack of use and intoxicant abuse. Unable to move from the vibrant purple carpet, which Fred had chosen. Curled away from it.
He then thought about all the days which Fred had missed.
Christmas, birthdays, New Year, Easter. Freddie, you missed them all.
Thinking his nickname sent a chill through him. Causing the goosebumps that would stay for maybe hours or minutes - time was strange in this place of half-numb and half aching.
He watched the clock. The one they had chosen together. It was one of those cuckoo clocks from Switzerland. Angelina had always hated it but would never even discuss the thing now. For fear. Then George turned his attention to other parts of the room, still clutching the cold bottle in his hand. The photo of the two of them on the mantelpiece. Next to a photo of Fred and Hermione, together. The Christmas before last when he had spent the day at Hermione's parents, for a staggering change. George remembered feeling an odd piece then. For that single day.
Now was another level. He was haunted by Fred in everything.
Their clothes were identical, as well as their faces. Everything in his wardrobe reminded him of Fred. The dragonskin jackets they had bought together to show off to Ron - to show that they were above education and poverty and that they were two genius twins. Walking around the apartment made George feel as though he was in Fred's skin. He felt like half a person. Half a life. Half an entity.
Of course, they had led separate lives. Fred had had Hermione. Was going to propose. And George was engaged, to Angelina. But George's life had continued, and Fred's had not. They were supposed to do everything together. On that night, George had proposed, but Fred had never had the chance. He had been planning to do it. They had thought it through together.
That the thing about separate lives. They ended separately. Despite starting almost exactly at the same time.
And now, nothing would change. There was nothing aside from George. No Gred and Forge. No Fred and George. Just one Weasley twin. Red haired, red faced and avoiding the family as much as was possible. They wouldn't see him like it. He would not allow it. His mother would not be allowed to ever see him like this. With Fred's face, without a smile. Red-rimmed eyes.
Everything reminded him of Fred. It was impossible to forget, and equally impossible to move past, right now. The photos, the books, the DVDs they had bought as jokes. Adorning the walls, the posters for their shop and their favourite bands and the view of Paris - another joke.
Even the door he had to walk through every day. The click of the lock which reminded him how Fred had left through it.
He was gone where George could not follow. Until now.
The packets opened, swallowing firewhiskey to keep the pills down, and waiting. Waiting for every part of his body to shut down and take him to Fred. To take him back to his partner in crime.
He would not live in the haunted apartment.
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