I think this is the queerest title I have ever used. But I like it.
Also, I shouldn't have written this. I'm spending nearly all my writing time on The First Year, as I should be. It's nearly complete; I have hopes that in a few weeks it'll be finished and ready to be posted (if you add me to your Alerts you'll see...). But while I was writing a bit on George and Angelina in The First Year, this came to me.
This is my first attempt at writing drabbles. Do tell me what you thought of it.
Denial
He is beautiful, even in death, the ghost of his last laugh etched across his face. But his blue eyes are flat, empty, lifeless, staring out into the void. It's awful, seeing him like this. She doesn't cry because she has no tears left and because Fred loved her to be tough – "My lovely, strong Ange," he whispers, kissing her hair as he wrapped his arms around her –, but she feels like her heart has just shattered into tiny pieces. Why hasn't anyone closed his eyes? She reaches out to do just that, but a hand wraps itself around her wrist with surprising strength.
"Don't."
"George," she gasps. "Stop it. You're hurting me."
"Don't touch him," he says, and at that precise moment, she hates him. "It'll only... it'll only..."
He looks, if possible, worse than Fred. Angelina has always thought that being Kissed by Dementors was worse than dying. This is what George looks like, in comparison to his twin. He moves, he breathes, he cries, but inside, he is dead.
"It'll only make it real," George says.
She leans forward anyway and, with her other hand, gently shuts Fred's eyes forever.
Anger
"Why did he die? Why did he leave me? How could he leave me?"
"I don't know," she says for the hundredth time.
"I never believed he would die," George says, and it's not grief in his eyes, it's rage. "He promised me he wouldn't. He promised... He lied, he was just a fucking liar... bastard liar..."
"Don't call him that!"
Every word is like a knife to her heart. She doesn't know why she sticks around, why she's still here for him when all he does is hurt her. She tells herself she's doing it for Fred, but it's not the entire truth.
"Fuck, George – do you think he wanted to die?"
"No, of course not... It's Rookwood's fault. Rookwood. He killed Fred. Why didn't they catch him?"
"They're trying to."
"They should try harder!"
"They're doing their best, George," she snaps. "It's none of your business anyway. Even if they do catch him – there's no guarantee they will, and don't look at me like that –, it won't bring Fred back and you know it. Wherever Fred is now, he doesn't care. He doesn't give a shit about Rookwood and you know it. He's just worried sick about you."
Her words calm his anger. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply and irregularly. When he speaks, his voice is thick with tears.
"It just isn't fair..."
"Life isn't fair," she says harshly.
Bargaining
"Stop it, George," she says, snatching the bottle of Firewhiskey out of his hands. "That's more than enough for one night."
"Is it?" he says, his eyes unfocused, his words slurred. "Nothing ever feels like enough anymore."
"Well, I'm telling you it's enough," she says, her voice firm. "You're drunk. I told you not to get drunk again!"
"I won't get drunk if you can find a better way to bring Fred back," he offers.
She staggers, thrown. "What?"
"You heard me," he says, his voice unusually steady. "It brings him back. You should try it sometimes."
"I won't."
She doesn't need to bring him back. She already sees him every day, in the form of George, and every night, in her nightmares.
"I'll stop drinking," he says, "if you find a way to bring him back."
Depression
George is sinking, and he's dragging her down with him, she can feel it. Some days she just wants to give in, to take the leap and join him. Then she takes a good look and knows she can't. She doesn't really want to end up like him, unfeeling and uncaring.
"What's the point?" he asks one day. "If we're all going to die anyway..."
"The point," she says, though she doesn't really know herself, "is to be happy. Fred, up there, isn't happy because he's watching you and you aren't happy. Suck it up, George. Stop feeling sorry for yourself."
"I know what you think about me," he says, except he doesn't, how can he know, she hasn't told anyone? "And I don't care anymore. I don't care about anything anymore..."
"Well, I do," she says. "I care about you."
There, she's said it. George is a mess and they both know it, but Angelina cares about him anyway, and he cares about her. Maybe it isn't love, maybe it's just need; he would die without her. But need is enough, for now.
Acceptance
George is unstable, but she doesn't mind. Every relationship has their ups and their downs, and unlike most, theirs are never about arguments. Some days he will wake up in a darker mood than usual, and she knows how to handle him then. Over the months, she has learned how to deal with his every shift of temper. She knows him, and she has grown to love everything about him. He'll always miss Fred this much, but that's okay because she always will, too. She doesn't think she could bear to be with someone who didn't know Fred, who wouldn't understand about him. She doesn't think she could bear to wake up in the morning and not think of him immediately. But over time, her nightmares have left her, and so has her grief. George's hasn't, and she tries to tell herself it doesn't matter, but it's hard for her and he knows it.
"Ange," he says, "Why do you even bother?"
"Why do I bother with what?"
"Staying," he says. "Why haven't you left me already?"
She isn't surprised, because when he entered his depression, this was one of his most common questions. "I'll never leave you."
"Why?"
"Because I love you."
"You'll always stay, then?"
"Yes."
He is quiet for a moment. His blue eyes, so like Fred's, look at her searchingly. She looks back, unflinching, because she loves his eyes, their eyes.
"He'll never be back, won't he?"
"No," she says. "I don't think so."