A/N: Title from Mike Doughty's "I Hear the Bells."
"Do you remember what it's like to laugh?" he asks. No response. He's not surprised at the lack of response, of course not, he's not mad or anything. It's just that a small part of him always sort of expects it, even if the rational side of him - that rare, mysterious beast that rarely rears its ugly head – knows that it'll never happened. Still, he likes asking questions, even if the deafening silence –again with the clichés! – leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
He keeps talking. It's not like he can do anything else. "I remember back when all we would do was laugh. It really wasn't all that long ago, if you think about it. It just, I dunno, feels like it was a hundred bloody years ago, instead of, what, about seven months or summat." A pause. "I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I know exactly how long it's been. It's been seven months, two weeks, three days and six hours. Not that I'm keeping count or anything. It's just something I do, sometimes. A lot of the time. Can't help myself."
He cuts himself off. He doesn't want to keep talking. It's embarrassing. It's embarrassing that he's embarrassed. They've often been accused of being shameless, but now he's not so sure. He feels silly babbling like someone who's had far too much Firewhisky, but where they at least have some excuse to justify their loose tongues, he has none. He hasn't touched a drop of the stuff since before…well, just since before.
His arse is starting to get numb from sitting on the frozen grass and snow, but he's too sodding tired to move. He doesn't really feel much of anything anymore. Even the sting from the cold has faded into a slightly-uncomfortable numbness that seeps into his weary bones. That's alright, though. At least he can move now. That's something.
"Do you remember the first time we got a detention? Of course you do. It was on our very first day at Hogwarts. The feast had just ended – Merlin, did we eat! – and we were s'posed to be following the others to the common room. Instead, we snuck off. Decided to do some exploring and investigating. I wanted to see the Quidditch pitch and you wanted to find out the secrets of the castle. You always were the clever one, even if no one else saw that. They always slurred our names together. Didn't even bother trying to see us as two separate people. It always bothered me. We're brothers. We're partners-in-crime. But we were never the same person. We're not the same person. We're two people!" He's starting to get agitated, and he stands up. The slightly-uncomfortable numbness is starting to thaw out, and he's beginning to feel, and Merlin, it hurts.
"We're two fucking people! It doesn't matter that we look the same. It doesn't matter that I always know when you're planning something or that you always know when I'm feeling angry or sad or happy or just bloody tired. It doesn't matter that I always know what you're thinking. We're still two separate people, alright? So why does it feel like a part of me has been ripped away? Tell me!"
His legs are sore from the cold and his hands are shaking like they were the first time his mum took them to St. Mungo's. They were both little and scared, but didn't want anyone to know, especially their mum. So they laughed and shoved each other and ran around the sterile, white halls, screaming and shouting themselves hoarse. When the exams were over and they were shooed out of the room with disapproving glares, they didn't bother to hide their relief and tiredly held hands are their mum took them home.
He doesn't want to remember that. He doesn't want to remember anything. He just wants answers.
"Tell me," he says, quietly this time, the wind carrying his plea to the cold, silent observers around him. "Please. I can't remember what it's like to laugh anymore."
He stands there in the cold, wet grass, staring at a slab of concrete for an eternity, waiting patiently for a response that he knows will never come.