Hours turned into days which, before they knew it, turned into weeks and still, somehow, the world continued it's orbit- life, so to speak, went on. Ron knew all of this from the snippets of conversation he overheard. He knew this because every hour passed in mind-numbing boredom, and sheer terror. At least, he could reassure himself, it could be worse; he could have no visitors; no voices to hang onto with all his strength; and if that had been the case, he knew he wouldn't still be among the living because they were the sole reason he was continuing this unending fight. Those voices wouldn't let him drift, or disappear like he so wanted to. They kept him going. They kept him fighting. They kept him alive. Even Percy, who could bore even the unconscious, and who had recently been moved into the Department of International relations- and boy did they know it- was a welcome distraction. Even the three hour monologue he had been forced to endure on the French Ministry's stance on Spain's refusal to condemn rogue black market exporters of of Gillyweed had been worth it.
Why was Percy so boring? Like really? Was he the wand sellers? Or had he been dropped on his head too often as a baby?
Surprisingly, Percy wasn't his least favourite visitor. Shockingly, his most irritating brother was fourth from bottom which was an impressive achievement Ron would love to tell him of. If only he could move, talk and scratch the tickle under his left eye that had been irritating him for the past four or so hours.
No, his least favourite visitor was George because he somehow managed to hover between manic and depressed- both irritating and frustrating in their own ways. Sometimes, George would simply poke and prod him (the other day he had shoved his finger sharply between his ribs which Ron would have thumped him for if he'd been able) which was goddamn annoying. Other times, most times, he would sit, shake, and sob. That, that hurt. Ron knew how hard George had found life after Fred. Because that's how they all qualified it, still, life before, technicolor and wonderful, and then the cold harsh reality of after. He hadn't realised, hadn't even considered, that his death, his injury, could affect George just as much.
George was visiting now. He was silent. The silence was uneasy; Ron felt as though a million spiders were crawling up and down his body. He wished he could shudder. Wished he could scratch that tickle under his left eye, actually.
"Ronnie," said a quiet voice right in his ear. If he wasn't stuck in this never ending body-bind, he'd have jumped a mile and cursed the bugger. "Ron, I can't do this," George whispered brokenly, and Ron could feel the shaking of his brother's body beside his still one. He could feel the wetness that dripped onto his cheek.
If only he could turn his ears of and disappear from here. He didn't want to hear this. His heart sank further as the shaking continued. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to suffer this. Neither of them deserved this. He couldn't listen. He couldn't hear his big brother sob for him, break for him, when there was nothing he could do to fix it. If he could only vanish from existence, like he'd never been here, and save them both from this heartbreak.
"Ron-" George broke off, a heavy hand coming to rest upon his neck. Not caressing, but feeling. Feeling for his pulse; the heartbeat that proved he was still here and fighting. Ron felt like a coward as he wished to be anywhere but here. He'd once been described, aptly at the time, to having the emotional range of a teaspoon. Overtime, he'd got better at voicing and explaining his feelings- especially with Hermione and his children, but never with his brothers. After the war, he'd tried to be the rock for his family. He had been the one to watch out for George, to pull Percy from his room. He'd even learnt to cook while his mother had still been unable to function. Then, when she was becoming herself again, they'd cooked together and learnt to laugh in this new world of broken families. He'd even put off following his dream of being an auror by eight months because he'd known that George, and his family, who for so long had played second fiddle to Harry, Dumbledore and the Horcrux mission, needed him. There weren't many things he felt like he could be proud of in life, but he was proud of how he'd been able to support his family after the war. He knew, that for once, he had helped rather than hindered.
In all that time, he'd never truly lost control in front of his family. He'd refused to become the man who stormed away from his feelings, who left when things become difficult. He'd decided that he was going to be brave, steadfast and dependable for a family that had always been that for him. He'd forced himself to be the strength his family needed. That wasn't to say he hadn't cried, or lost control, because of course he had- he was Ronald Weasley after all, and a Gryffindor to boot- but he'd always been with Hermione, with Harry and once even with Neville. He hated feeling out of control with his family. He'd wasted too many years taking it out on them to ever feel the need.
George's emotion broke him: he didn't want to be the cause of such harrowing pain. He wished he could scream: "I'm here! I'm here! I'm okay!" But he couldn't. He could only lie useless like a puppet with its strings cut.
A door opened and snapped closed jolting Ron out of his self-pity. No one spoke and Ron hated it. He hated that he didn't know who was in the room. He hated that he couldn't move. He hated that he had not control over his bodily functions. He hated that he still couldn't scratch under his eye. Most of all, however, he hated that he'd let himself get into this position. A chair was drawn up on the same side as George and there was a rustle of fabric. Ron could imagine the person placing an arm around a pale, trembling George. The silence crept on. The silence made it all the harder to stay. The urge to drift off grew no matter how he fought. He could feel panic closing in on him; he didn't want to drift: he didn't know where he went, but he knew with certainty that sooner or later he would be unable to come back.
"Thought it was Harry's watch next?" George asked shakily. Ron's consciousness surged forward again with a rush of relief.
A sigh escaped the other person. It was deep and gravelly. His Dad? Bill? Certainly not Percy- Percy's entire being was far too nasally.
"No, Skeeter is publishing another story and he's trying, with Kingsley, to put a stop to it." It was Charlie's voice. Charlie was back from Romania? Nobody ever told him anything! George grunted but didn't say anything else. "You doing okay?" Charlie asked in a voice Ron was sure he used with injured dragons- all careful and calming. Ron would have rolled his eyes. It was always better to be to the point with George. Also, what the heck was Skeeter writing and why did Harry need to help? Harry was above average on his visiting scale. He was certainly better than Percy. Not to mention he had the most interesting news (if a rather over helping of irritating guilt).
"Well, my little brother is in a magical coma hanging from death by his fingertips. So, yeah, I'm going with no," he said sarcastically.
Ron would have grinned, or high fived George. George had got very good at patronising straight-laced humour of late. Although, Ron much preferred it when it wasn't directed at him. "You don't have to be a dick," Charlie said sullenly.
"No, but I am," George said in a sing-song voice. A voice Ron had, in the past, when it was directed at him, wanted to punch George for.
"You been sat here moping then?" Charlie asked waspishly. "Or have you just been cheerfully informing Ron that he's going to die?"
There was a sharp intake of breath. "Ron is not going to die," George said rather desperately. Ron was more aware of the rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat that pounded sluggishly. Life suddenly seems so fleeting when you about to topple away from it.
"I know that," said Charlie unconvincingly. Why did Charlie have to come and be a Debbie-downer? He and George were perfectly happy pretending he was going to be fine. Sort of. George had been crying a lot, hadn't he? Actually, maybe Charlie wasn't that bad. Not as good as Percy and his Gillyweed, though. Least Percy never mentioned death and Ron in the same breath.
"He will not die." The words were firm, even if a little wobbly.
Ron felt a surge of warmth (hopefully is was a surge of warm love because he really didn't want to have wet himself in front of his brother- again). George was such a hypocrite. He'd been perfectly happy to sit and mope thinking Ron was going to die when he thought no one could hear him. Only George could sit here and sob believing his brother was going to die, only to get angry at the next person for thinking the same thing. Ron was going to remind him that he was a hypocrite if he ever woke up. When he woke up he corrected desperately.
"I know." There was a pause and Ron could feel himself listening on tenterhooks. Merlin, he missed being able to see. And move. And talk. This body-bind uncncious thing was so last week.
"Because if he dies, I'm going to kill him. I've only just started to- well started to-" Ron knew what George couldn't say. He knew that George had only, in the past couple of years, started to work through his grief for Fred. He'd only just started to live again. He'd only just managed to move on. It had been awful through the years watching George struggle as they all began to move on. They'd had to watch him suffer through addiction, and depression and everything else. George had been through so much and just as his life was back on track and he had Angelina, and baby Fred this was happening. Another thing to derail his life. Ron could feel tears surging forward. "It'd kill me Charlie, to lose him. I know it would." Ron believed him, he believed every word.
Charlie moved; George moved. Chairs squawked as they were dragged over the tiled floor. They both surged forward into each other's arms. Ron could feel their sadness and the weight of this crashed down on him again. Tears began to fall down Ron's cheeks, rolling down, leaving a wet trail where they'd kissed his skin. Still more tears fell while his brothers cried beside him. Weasley brothers crying together, it would seem.
He wished he'd just died in that house.
It would have been far simpler; he didn't even care if he was a coward to thinking it.
Anything other than this never ending pain.
"Charlie!" George said suddenly his voice thick with worry, "Ron's crying, he's crying- is that... is that normal?" There was panic in George's tone, but also hope. "Get someone, quick!" Charlie dashed from the room overturning his chair as he went. "Can you hear me Ronnie?" George said softly into his ear, a hand clutching at Ron's. "If you can hear me, do something, squeeze my hand, flicker those gorgeous, girly eyelashes," Ron's heart sank like a stone because he knew he couldn't give George what they both needed. Still, he tired, and tried, until his grip with reality was slipping. Whilst he concentrated on the seemingly impossible, other people managed to slide into the room without him noticing. People prodded, poked, swished and flicked. Meanwhile, he tried to twitch something, even an ear would do. He pushed everything in him that was left into giving some sort of signal. He thought, for a second, he'd managed to twitch his fingers, but before he could try again and be certain his mouth was opened a potion was poured in.
No.
Please no, he was just managing to... he could have maybe…
He was beginning to feel strange.
"Involuntary reaction to the pain," a healer said crisply. "We've given him another pain potion and he should be feeling its effects now." There were wrong- they were so wrong, and he was going to slip away. He was going to fall away. Panic clawed at him and more tears rolled down his slack face. He was scared; he was more scared than he could ever remember being. This was worse than those bloody acromantulas. Why couldn't someone help him? Why did no one know he was screaming out for help? Did no one care that they were killing him?
He couldn't feel the cool air around him anymore, or the soft touch of the bed sheets on his body. Even the itch that had been bugging him for so long had gone away. The sounds of footsteps and breathing dimmed and was replaced with a soft buzzing.
Was this what it felt like to die?
No.
No.
NO!
Ron wanted to scream as the potion washed over him. He could feel himself slipping further away. He could no longer feel his brothers' hands in his. If this wasn't death then surely death was better.
A/N Look at me, updating twice in a week. Who'd have thought it? Thank you for the kind reviews. I am simply amazed people are still reading this even though my update schedule is non-existent. Thank you, you make it all worthwhile.