Fred's chest feels constantly clogged and heavy these days. His jokes seem feeble. He's losing his touch.
It's as if he's anticipating something.
Something irrevocably damaging.
It's still dark. The light outside is a hazy, deep purple- the depressing, early morning light that only tired souls who have stayed up the whole night would witness.
But Fred slept peacefully this time.
He had George by his side.
But the something that's weighing down on his heart like a ton of bricks has awoken him as abruptly as being jolted awake by a slap to the face.
God, it's unbearable, this constant angst, this constant, utter fear.
He feels like a child that needs comforting hugs and loving words all the time.
And that thought is what makes him shoot up to a sitting position on George's bed.
God, what is he? Some helpless little cub that needs its sibling's warmth to survive the cold?
But how long until-
"Oh for fuck's sake," he mutters, screwing his eyes shut.
He tries not to, he tries so hard, but like moth to light, his eyes travel to his twin lying beside him.
He is at peace as he sleeps, face resting sideways against the pillow, chest rising and falling gently under the blanket, red hair tousled and contrasting sharply as they lay spilled amongst the white of the covers and pillows and blankets.
Warm, safe.
How long until-
His jawline is sharp, his skin pale, and those warm brown eyes that can shift through a thousand different moods – lively, jovial, quiet, considerate, even a tad wicked if he gets too in touch with Fred's spirit – rest hidden for now beneath his closed eyelids.
He is lanky, every bit like Fred; even somewhat ridiculously elegant in the way his bones are structured. Elegant shoulders, elegant long legs, elegant fingers, elegant neck...
And a severed ear that has left only a gaping hole in its stead.
Fear and protective love wash over him in waves, and his fingers reach to skim gently over the healed wound.
"We'll get through, Georgie." he whispers. George frowns and flips over in his sleep, turning his back to him, lazily dragging a leg across the bed and crooking it into an awkward angle. He has crumpled his blanket completely under him, crumpled his night shirt up to reveal his lower back, and ridden his pants up to his calf.
Fred pulls his own blanket and carefully drapes it over him to cover all the exposed skin, before quietly climbing down the bed...
And leaving his twin's bedroom.
"Hey mum."
Their mum leaps upon them to hug them both one by one, before her expression quickly turns from loving to admonishing. "Look at how skinny you've turned! I keep telling you to come home on Mondays. But you insist on worrying us, and we're left with no choice but to apparate over to see if you haven't set fire to your flat yet!"
"We don't set fire to our flat." George says, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah, mum. We're not you. Setting fire to things to prove a point." Fred says, a bit acidly, referring to the order-forms episode. He feels bad when their mum's face falls. "It's okay, mum. Just kidding," he says quickly, leaning in and hugging her.
"Freddie," she sniffs, and holds tighter to him when his hold slackens. "I'm sorry. I only wanted the best for you both." she releases her hold and regards them with misty eyes.
"I'm George." Fred says, smiling a little.
"Oh I know the sharp tongued one is you, Fred," their mum says. But she is smiling, wiping discreetly at her eyes.
It's Monday morning. After three weeks of being awol, their mum sending a rather shrill howler demanding their arses back in the Burrow is what got them scurrying to their home.
And so they are settling into the chairs around the table in their stuffy old little kitchen, and as he takes in the familiar smells and sights, Fred thinks that they should have dropped in more often.
"Here," their mum immediately sets plates of heaps of bacon and eggs and sausages before them, and they do not waste much time before taking hold of the fork and spoon and digging in. Two glasses full of orange juice follow, and Fred is reminded how abysmal his and George's culinary skills are, and realizes that perhaps their mum is right about them looking thin.
Their mum settles on a chair before them, and Fred could feel her eyes fixed on them. He looks up and raises a brow. She only shakes her head, eyes emotional and lines of worry around her face, looking as though she is trying to lock the sight of them to her memory.
There it is again. There it is fucking again. The constant angst and fear. It's starting to grate on his nerves.
Fred looks down at his plate and tries to quell his irritation.
"Where's dad?" George asks.
"Off investigating a new trouble that's come up. Someone's been bewitching muggle vehicles, and it's oddly spiteful. Not the usual, harmless things like incessant honking or changing colours."
"Oddly spiteful?" Fred asks, trying to focus on something else to shake off the mild irritation still clinging to him.
"Yes." their mum sighs. "It's something with the, um, breaks, your dad said. Something they use to-"
"Stop the vehicle." George nods.
"Ah, yes." their mum nods, "Yes. Someone's been bewitching them to stop working. So the muggles are crashing into things and.."
"Road accidents." Fred helpfully puts in.
"Yes," their mum sniffs, anger and sorrow in her eyes.
"Yes. A lot of them are dying."
Their dad was back by evening, and related the events of the day to them over dinner. It was sad, and he sounded frustrated as he expressed his helplessness, but then quickly changed his tone and expression at a very pointed look from their mum.
He grinned at them and said that 'oh but everything will be under control soon!' and to that, Fred had finally lost it and said, 'Stop treating us like we're going to die tomorrow!' Their mum burst into tears, frantically summoning a parchment and quill and writing furiously to Charlie, moaning 'Oh I don't even know if he has cut his hair yet! I don't know if he hasn't stopped trying to calm that stupid Icelandic dragon!'
When she started crying over Percy next, slumping onto their dad's shoulder who was trying to calm her, they quickly took off from the kitchen and fled to their old bedroom.
Fred sighs as he finishes recalling their mum's silly crying match of the evening. He has finally finished separating the piles and piles of parchments and books that their mum had stacked to a corner of their room in their absence without bothering about their contents. While a seventy percent of the parchments had their scribbled, rough joke product ideas, the rest were actually a lot of silly notes that they'd written to each other (with Lee occasionally joining in) in McGonagall's and Snape's classes because they couldn't keep from talking to each other, and preferred not to get caught by them. The rest of the periods, they talked freely, because, well, Flitwick would politely ignore that they are talking, Trelawny was glad that someone was at least talking and not sleeping, while Binns never noticed a living soul anyway.
They hadn't gotten rid of any of the trash. They are memories, their fond, little memories, and if one of them is ever to-
He stops. No, he won't go into that line of thought. He's acting just like their mum, for god's sake.
He turns, and sees George standing by their window, looking out into the familiar, beautiful sight of the countryside fields outside. Currently, it is bathed in moonlight, resembling a silvery dreamland.
He walks over to him quietly, and stops beside him, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. George acknowledges his presence with a light, fond elbow to him. He pushes back just as gently.
And they stand side by side, staring out into the night.
"It's bright outside tonight. Lots of stars." George says.
"Mhm. Clear sky." Fred says.
George snorts lightly with laughter. "Look at us, commenting on the skies like centaurs."
"Yeah, well, unless you want to discuss on death and blubber over it."
George turns to look at him. Fred takes his eyes off the dark sky to look back at him.
George's eyes are quiet as the night, and Fred shivers a little as a blast of cold wind whooshes in through the window, flapping at their loose shirts and the curtains.
"Better to let it out than keeping it all bottled up, don't you think?" George says in an infuriatingly knowing tone.
Fred averts his eyes from him when George reaches a hand and threads his fingers through Fred's.
When it's just the two of them, George turns gentler than a fucking lamb.
Light, innocent brushing of skin against skin to show that he cares for him.
That there is nothing in this world that means more to him that Fred.
Fred's jaws tighten. He looks back into their room, eyes roaming over the messy beds, not seeing a thing.
A light touch to his shoulder has him jerking.
"Fred..."
"I'm sleepy, actually." Fred mutters as he shuffles over to his bed. "Good night."
