A/N This is based on the song Remembering Sunday by All Time Low, and is written for Sparkling Soul's Songfic Challenge.
George woke up from his dream, turning over and wishing desperately to fall back into his sleep. His dreams were filled with times when he had both of his ears, a brother, and his girl. He swore under his breath and felt the pounding of a hangover overcoming his thoughts; as a consequence, his took another swig of the bitter alcohol. He was numb to its taste, numb to the burning down his throat. He put on his shoes and stepped outside of his flat, the breeze hit him, the cold air like a slap to his flushed cheeks.
He hasn't been sober for days.
He leaned into the breeze as a memory flew into his brain, and he fell to his knees.
"Come on, George, I made you breakfast!" Angelina smiled at him brightly, placing a plate of two eggs with other breakfast items in front of him. He smiled at her, still partially groggy from sleep; right after he woke up, he had been dragged to his regular Sunday breakfast with Fred's girlfriend.
'I should really start referring to her as my girlfriend now, she's not Fred's anymore,' George thought to himself, but the voice in the back of his head reminded him that she would always be Fred's girl. Always.
He'd been pulled out of thoughts by Angelina pulling on his hand with a grin on her face, and he realized that in his daze, he had finished eating. Angelina bit her lip as she led him upstairs, a place that was very familiar to him by now.
George took another swig of his bottle before throwing it into the wall; he hadn't seen or heard from Angelina since that day. He stood up and Disapparated abruptly to her neighborhood, landing directly in front of her door. He banged on her door to no answer.
"Fuck, Angelina, answer the damn door," George spoke, the sentence coming out louder than intended. He kept banging on the door, then caught a glimpse of inside of the house by the window next to the door; it was empty. A confused look crossed his face, and he turned away, walking to her neighbor's house. He knocked softer on their door, not giving a second thought to his appearance, or that he was waking their neighbors at 2 in the morning, sopping wet from the rain he couldn't feel pounding on his skin.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be a bother, but have you seen the girl next door?" George asked when the door was pulled open by a teenage girl.
"Uh, why?" the girl looked him up and down, confused as to why this man who smelled strongly of booze was searching for the girl next door.
"I'm going to ask her to marry me," George answered, getting a raised eyebrow look from the teenager. She sighed; she obviously had been doing something of importance before she was interrupted.
"Sorry, I haven't," she tried to shut the door, and he began pleading.
"Please, just try and remember," she had to remember. She had to. She shut the door in his face.
He had gotten the same reaction from everybody's door that he knocked on, his moves very monochromatic as he was pulled into another memory.
"George, do you think you'll ever be able to love someone again, since the war?" Angelina was laying on the floor of her room, staring up at the ceiling. She did this often; said it helped her make sense of her mind.
"Do you?" he didn't want to say what he was thinking, for fear of her response. He knew what he was feeling couldn't be right.
"No, I don't. I don't believe in love," Angelina answered quickly. Her answer was understandable, but his wasn't. He shouldn't be feeling this; it's Fred's girl he was talking to. Fred's. Not his.
"I do." the answer was automatic, but as he looked at her, he knew that it was true. He could deny his feelings all he wanted, but who could deny the butterflies filling his gut?
"She moved away; the moving truck was there all Tuesday. I figured she was crazy, who would move on a Tuesday? While it's raining, no doubt?" the woman was very happy to have someone to talk about her gossip to, but George just nodded at her before turning around and walking back down the path. He suddenly became very aware of the rain pounding onto his skin; the rain that had been pouring since the day before when she had moved away.
Something dropped onto his head which was out of place with the pouring rain; a picture perfect letter with extremely recognizable handwriting, however scrawled out it was.
I'm not coming back. I've done something too terrible and I'm terrified to speak, not that you'd expect that from me. I'm mixed up, but the rain is just washing you out of my hair and out of my mind. I'll be keeping an eye on you as you conquer the world, sitting so many thousands of feet off the ground. I'm over you now (in the literal sense); I'm at home in the clouds that are towering over your head.
Angelina once told him of a place sitting atop the clouds, thousands of thousands of feet off of the ground. He couldn't remember the name, but she said it was an afterlife of sorts, which her muggle mother's family believed in. She'd said however insane it was, she hoped to go there, when there was nowhere else to go.
Everything started to make sense; the clouds followed him wherever he went, whenever, they were there. Serving as a constant reminder of what he didn't have, and what he couldn't have. The moving truck made sense, and it clicked into his mind that she didn't move away, her things did.
I guess I'll go home now…