This one is a bit more serious, but I hope you like it nonetheless.
George sat down on the couch in their flat next to Angelina. He was having one of his bad days, when he wouldn't talk for the day, and simply need Angelina to be there, her hand on his knee, anchoring him to life, keeping him on the ground. Because sometimes, he was pretty sure that she was the only reason he was still alive.
George pulled a bit away as the though that had kept on surfacing in his dreams surfaced again now. "Angie," George's voice was raw with emotion. "What if Fred had lived?"
"What do you mean?" Angelina looked at him, trying to gauge his mood.
"Would you have chosen me?" he looked alone and down trodden. "I mean, am I just second best 'because your favourite died?"
Angelina was too worried about George to be insulted about what he was saying. "No," she said firmly, squeezing his hand. "We went out once or twice and it was nothing. We were just friends. I mean, I miss him, but I love you."
George leant forward and took her in his arms. "Who do you think is better looking?" He asked of the one person who could always tell them apart.
"You look exactly the same," she laughed. "How can I choose?" George loved her even more when she used the present tense. He knew it wasn't healthy, but he felt as if he had to keep some relic of Fred's with him, and pretend he was still there, otherwise he might just disappear with him.
"You could always tell us apart," he reminded her gently.
"It wasn't your looks," she said quietly. "You – I don't know – held yourself different or something." She paused. "I know I'm going to sound completely corny, but it's what's on the inside that counts."
George gave her a thankful kiss. A kiss to say thanks for keeping him grounded, fro keeping him from simply drifting off this earth after Fred died. Angelina was his rock.
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