(ahem) (rolls up sleeves)
SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS!
Now that we've gotten that over with, we may proceed.
I know that because of Fred's death there will be a swamp of angsty twincest stories. I, sadly, feel the need to add to the swamp. Do forgive me. I'll try for a happy one later.
And sorry for those waiting for more RWDM drabbles; I'm finishing a bunch up and shall post them tomorrow evening. I promise you.
Warning: twincest, angst, and spoilers for Deadly Hollows, although why you haven't finished reading before diving into fanfiction again I have no idea. I do hope you like it. Here you are.
George doesn't look in mirrors anymore. He averts his eyes when he passes them in hallways, keeps his gaze resolutely fixed on the countertop in bathrooms.
He's not sure if it's like everyone thinks, that he hates seeing his missing ear, or if it's because of the sickening jolt he got when he looked in the mirror as he adjusted his tie for the funeral wake that reminded him Fred was lying cold in the dirt.
As he comes to realise, when he can force himself to think about it, it is because he hates seeing his missing ear. He hates looking into the mirror and seeing someone who is very much George stare back at him.
When Fred was alive, the twins had minded the missing ear, because it meant they were no longer identical. It made them individuals, and individuals can be killed or lost. To counterbalance this, they had started to go everywhere together. They had, it must be admitted, both liked that.
George hates that he can no longer look into the mirror and pretend he can see Fred.
George hates that there is only George, painfully and definitely, for as long as he walks the earth. And this hurts more than anyone else in his family can imagine.
When he closes his eyes, he can still see Fred sprawled pale and motionless on the floor of the Great Hall. He remembers cradling the limp head in his lap, everything else, even his sobbing parents, fading to an apathetic blur.
When tries to sleep at night, sometimes he remembers the exact moment when Fred died. The shock, the sheer lack of balance, the feeling that everything in the universe had gone wrong and that it could not be set quite right on its axis again, that there would be no happy endings from then on.
George hates that there was an ending and that he has to keep living past it.
George hates that everyone knows his name as he comes into the shop, but refuses to cease cracking jokes about how no one can confuse the two now. Fred would be scandalized to think that there could be a taboo subject, something sacrosanct that the twins –twin, George must remind himself—could not mock.
George hates that the bed is too big and empty and hollow, but refuses to switch to—he grits his teeth as he thinks the word—a twin bed. It would mean accepting completely, utterly, totally, and without possibility of change that Fred was gone—dead, George accepts, but not gone, not really, as long as George is still around (and doesn't look in the mirror mustn't look in the mirror)-- and George had moved on. Because George has moved on, admirably, in every area but that.
George hates looking into mirrors because George hates seeing just George.
Just couldn't resist. Terribly sorry for adding to the flood, but I just had to.