"Why did we concur to do this dubious task? It's utterly repressing me. This is child labor. There should be laws against this disgusting parental order of physically grueling vindictiveness."
"In other words, you're not enjoying tidying out our room, sir?"
"Exactly," replied George, pulling a pair of used underwear from under his bed. He wasn't sure how long they'd been lying there, and quickly came to the conclusion that he did not want to know. He threw them carelessly into a near-by laundry basket, which was already filled to the brim.
"I congratulate you on the usage of a four-syllable word by the way," smiled Fred, polishing his bed frame, and doing a not-so-good job of it. "I'm so very impressed."
"The dictionary I swallowed this morning seems to be coming back up," replied George. He reached under his bed again and this time dug out old jars, two of which he had no idea of the contents. One was a cloudy brown coloured liquid, and the other was a gooey yellow, both with no labels. He figured he'd have fun later trying to figure out what their purpose was. He reached out and grabbed a quill from his dresser and threw it at Fred, forcing him to turn around and face him.
"Liquid Laughter. Keeper?" he asked, holding up a jar of what looked like plain water.
"Most definitely," Fred nodded. "I feel like watching Ronald wet himself later on tonight, don't you?"
"Who wouldn't?" George placed the jar inside his chest of drawers for safekeeping. He kept on talking, kind of buzzed by his finding of Liquid Laughter, which was one of the first pranks the two twins had ever made together. "Remember when we first tried it out, Fred?"
"It was the first time I saw a smile on Percy's constipated face," Fred reminisced.
"A smile which didn't wear off for two and a half hours," George nodded.
"He laughed so much he seeped from every known orifice," Fred grinned slyly.
"Good times, good times…" Silence fell on the twins as they frowned inwardly. They were finally moving out of the Burrow. At first they'd been so syked about getting their own place, setting up their joke shop, standing on their own two feet … now, as they cleared out their bedroom, they were beginning to see just how much they'd miss the place. After all, they'd spent their whole lives there – and were able to sponge off their mother at any given time. The only reassurance they had was that they were being independent with each other.
George started to tidy again, whilst Fred had stopped polishing the pine of the bedpost in thought. He plunked himself onto the bed and began wringing the duster in his hands. The only noise that could be heard was George rummaging through the under of his bed. Fred turned to see George's whole torso lost under the bed, his long legs sticking out comically. He half-smiled at his brother and shook his head as he finally emerged, gripping quite a lot of small, second hand books.
"I'm binning these," George said definitely as he sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor. He looked at his twin, seeing the down-and-out look on this face. "What's wrong, Fred?"
"Nothing," he said in barely-there voice.
"You honestly expect me to believe that? I know you more than you know you," George said, annoyed that Fred had forgotten this fact. "Now spill. What's wrong?"
"I'm … tired." George got up from the ground, dumping the books carelessly to the floor. He sat beside Fred and put a comforting arm around him.
"I'm sad, too," he said in a small, but truly knowing voice. Fred let his head fall into the dip of his brother's shoulder. George's hand caressed Fred's forearm. God, he knew how to make him feel better without even trying. That was the beauty of their bond. They knew each other inside out, and as different as they were inwardly, they ultimately completed each other … from when they were but one-day-old to the present day … they were both an extension of one another. As they sat close to each other, they knew they both realized it, knew how lucky they were to have one another.
"I – I don't want to leave, George. I actually don't," Fred admitted, the way the words were spoken breaking his twins heart.
"We'll have our memories. From our first Quidditch match when we were six in the backyard…"
"… To sleeping in Mum's bed when we both had the same nightmare," Fred said, finishing George's sentence. He let himself smile at the recollections.
"We had to move out of this dump sooner or later," George told him.
"It's not a dump. It's our dump," frowned Fred. George tightened his arm around his brother.
"Yeah … this place has been good to us. I even learned to like the ghoul in the attic," nodded George. They sat for a few further minutes, George's hand now running through Fred's shaggy red hair, gently massaging his scalp. Fred enjoyed it. He enjoyed most of the physical things they both did or had done, whether it be wrestling playfully at inappropriate times to relieve boredom, or back when they used to share a bed when the Weasley family were struggling with money – they'd cling onto each other, sharing their body heat to keep warm. Even recently, Fred had hopped into George's bed to get warmed up, as his bed was right next to the window. It had been a particularly cold night and the freezing chill had been blowing through the shoddy window. They'd lain, bodies intertwined, both feeling the amazing familiarity of it all. Fred doubted whether that would ever happen again. Because of Harry's generous giving, they now had enough money for a great house and shop. There most definitely wouldn't be shoddy windows. All Fred's best memories lay in the Burrow, and he was afraid that if they left, not only he but also his brother would completely forget them. That might cause a void between the two, and they might not be close anymore, not as close as they once were. Fred feared this the most. If he lost what he had with George, then he would never laugh or smile or joke again.
"We'll still be like this, right?" asked Fred, finally breaking the silence.
"Huh?"
"We'll still be like this, won't we?" He looked into the maroon brown eyes of George, the exact same colour, intensity and vividness of his own.
"Of course we will," smiled George. "Always."
"Always…" Fred repeated.
"You don't think that … we'll drift, do you?" asked George, now that the meaning of Fred's words at set in.
"It – it's a possibility," frowned Fred. Suddenly he couldn't look George in the eye, feeling guilty for thinking what he had. George ruffled Fred's hair.
"Merlin," George muttered. His heart skipped a beat as he noticed tears swelling in his twin's eyes. "Fred? Oh, crap, Fred…"
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, rubbing at his eyes violently with his sleeve.
"Don't apologize, you twit," George told him firmly. He cuddled his brother close to him, close to his heart. Fred wrapped his arms around George's waist, letting himself melt into him – back into one. "You'll always be my bro, bro. Nothing can change that. Not money, not a house, not anything. I love you." He placed a kiss on the top of Fred's head.
"I love you, too."
And somehow, all Fred's worries, fears and discomfort vanished with that kiss. He may not have been able to live in his house of memories, but he would have the key to all of those memories … his heart and soul … his twin.