He stumbled inside the cottage at what might have been three in the morning. Couldn't see straight, everything was bent and tilted and spinning until he couldn't recognize right-side-up anymore. Blur, focus, blur, focus, blur, trip. Caught his balance on - the table? A tree? Slowly sunk to the floor.
Tears trailed down his nose and fell onto the oak panels, where they penetrated the wood and left deep, twisting wormholes. Not tears, acid, it'll burn you, stop stop stop stop stop
"George?" The kitchen light came on but it wasn't the light, it was the white glare of the sun too close to earth, then it was pink, then green, then a slurry of neons that crawled into his skin and left brightly-colored thumbtacks there. They melted and floated off his arms. Opened his mouth to respond to the voice of what must be God, but his tongue was gone, had never been there in the first place.
A slim figure hesitated in the doorway before slowly approaching him. It knelt at his side. "It's okay. You're safe," it hummed. Its dimensions shuddered and pixelated as it reached out a hand to stroke his hair. The figure was a demon, or an angel. The figure was a holograph.
Let it to help him to his feet, half-carry him upstairs. With every step they took the walls groaned and screamed, trying to close in around them. Too loud, all too loud, need to be quiet, but now he was being tucked under blankets, hugged tight, and he realized that the figure was his brother, it was Fred.
"Fred. Freddie. Iss you. You came back," he mouthed.
Red hair like his own spilled over green, green eyes as Fred sat shakily in a chair next to the bed, and suddenly all the colors were spinning away again, and the shapes that were shapes again became once more moving, breathing things, and
He awoke to pale, quiet sunlight pouring into the room, and sheets sticking to his body. He sat straight up, breathing heavily and blinking away the headache that immediately fell over him. There were bandages and gauze over his arms. A weary sigh came from the armchair by the bed, where Bill sat, head in hands.
"You had a knife when you came in last night. You were cutting your arms up in the kitchen. Mum and Dad know this time."
"I thought I… Fred…" he managed.
His brother stood up. "Fleur made breakfast if you want to eat. Percy's coming to get you in a few hours." He paused. "I'm not angry at you, you know. I'm just worried. If you keep doing this you're going to end up really hurting yourself."
Bill turned and left the room, leaving the door open behind him. George swung his legs over the edge of the bed, fishing in his jeans pocket for the small plastic bag. He pulled it out, running his fingers over the individual tablets inside, before walking out to the bathroom and standing over the trash can. He moved to drop it in but caught it mid-air and instead pocketed it again. He had to see him again, even if it was killing him.