Warning: I have rated the story an R because of a Fred/George incestuous
relationship. Please avoid this fic if you do not like the idea of a same
sex romantic pairing.
A/N: I was born with bruised hands myself. Thanks to Serafitus who urged me to read 'The Carnivorous Lamb' and thus altered my opinion on incest between brothers.
Title: Gemini
Author: Penelope-Z
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.
Gemini
The Weasley twins were born with bruised hands. In the flesh cave of the mother's womb, swimming inside the peaceful nothingness they held each other tightly. As the months passed they grew, around and perhaps inside each other, before they were violently separated, born, shoved kicking and screaming into the morning of the world.
But when they were both fed and bathed and sated and brought together again in the cradle they reached out and gripped each other's hands once more. The delicate baby skin bled from the fierceness of their nightly embraces but they couldn't help it. For months Molly had to wrap their little pink fingers with soft cloth so that the wounds would heal.
From that age each twin subconsciously came to understand the reality of the other through pain.
*
It's oh, so quiet now.
Fred knows he should get off the bed, he is lying right in the middle of the wet spot and it's becoming uncomfortable. He should stand up and get dressed, put a T-shirt on at least. The room is chilly, the tiny silky hair on his arms and the back of his neck are prickling up. But he can't move.
He pops himself on his elbow and reaches out, trying to grab the pack of Marlboro's from the bedside table but almost loses his balance. George pulls him back on the bed and into an embrace that smells faintly of anise. Then, all of a sudden, he pulls away.
The ashtray is full, Fred empties it on the floor, a vomit of yellowish butts and grey ash on the pink marble stone. He lights a cigarette, cupping his hands around the soft glow of the match and inhales. George takes a sip from the water bottle and Fred watches in fascination the cool drops that run over his lips and across his chin.
This is the last time. Or rather was, because it's all over now, the whispers, the groans, the dance of tongues and fingertips. Now they're spent, like the empty water bottle, like the veil of smoke that dissolves as it twists gently around Fred's shoulders.
George is getting married to Katie Bell next week. He claims that he wants to be faithful to his future wife. Fred is suspicious that this sudden burst of self-righteousness will not last long, but the crack between the two of them has grown into a ravine through the last years and even if George ever cheats on her it won't be with him, his brother, his brotherly love.
'Want a cigarette?' he asks, taking another drag, but George shakes his head; he stopped smoking years ago. But Fred insists, again and again, the tone of his voice almost a plea, until he gives in and takes one. As George tries to light it a deep, gurgling sound fills the room and then the cigarette explodes in a shower of little twinkling stars, that rain on his shoulders and hair, and disappear when they hit the floor, clinking and rattling as if they were made of tin.
George scowls. 'What the hell is wrong with you?'
'You used to like tricks too' Fred mocks him, laughing.
'Yes' George says. 'Then I grew up'
Fred shrugs his shoulders, the wide toothy grin frozen on his face. They are so different now, strangers almost. But still, their lives are measured out together to the same pulsating heartbeat, through the endless miles of veins runs the same dark blood.
And still, no one can ever hurt him like George can. The bruises sleeping under the skin will never heal. The pain always waits there, like the promise of fire that slumbers in the candle wick.
Somewhere else Arthur and Molly are scribbling invitations with golden ink; their sweaty palms wrinkle the white, crispy paper. Katie tries her wedding dress on for the hundredth time and on the kitchen table a lump of cream, sugar icing and marzipan roses pretends to be a wedding cake.
Fred rolls away from the wet spot, wrapping the stained sheets around him like a cocoon. George slips into his black robes and smoothes his hair, running his fingers through them a couple of times. He hesitates, waiting for Fred to say something, anything, so that he can stay for a moment longer with him, his brother, his brotherly love.
But Fred does not speak a word for he suddenly realizes that George is using up all the oxygen in the room, sucking it in greedily and he can't be in the same place with him any more, otherwise he'll suffocate, he'll choke to death. George realizes it too and he walks out, slamming the door behind him.
Fred tries to light another cigarette but in his haste he takes one of the magicked ones. Little twinkling stars sing around him as he buries his face in his hands. Outside George leans against the door, his eyes closed.
And then it's oh, so quiet again.
The end
A/N: I was born with bruised hands myself. Thanks to Serafitus who urged me to read 'The Carnivorous Lamb' and thus altered my opinion on incest between brothers.
Title: Gemini
Author: Penelope-Z
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.
Gemini
The Weasley twins were born with bruised hands. In the flesh cave of the mother's womb, swimming inside the peaceful nothingness they held each other tightly. As the months passed they grew, around and perhaps inside each other, before they were violently separated, born, shoved kicking and screaming into the morning of the world.
But when they were both fed and bathed and sated and brought together again in the cradle they reached out and gripped each other's hands once more. The delicate baby skin bled from the fierceness of their nightly embraces but they couldn't help it. For months Molly had to wrap their little pink fingers with soft cloth so that the wounds would heal.
From that age each twin subconsciously came to understand the reality of the other through pain.
*
It's oh, so quiet now.
Fred knows he should get off the bed, he is lying right in the middle of the wet spot and it's becoming uncomfortable. He should stand up and get dressed, put a T-shirt on at least. The room is chilly, the tiny silky hair on his arms and the back of his neck are prickling up. But he can't move.
He pops himself on his elbow and reaches out, trying to grab the pack of Marlboro's from the bedside table but almost loses his balance. George pulls him back on the bed and into an embrace that smells faintly of anise. Then, all of a sudden, he pulls away.
The ashtray is full, Fred empties it on the floor, a vomit of yellowish butts and grey ash on the pink marble stone. He lights a cigarette, cupping his hands around the soft glow of the match and inhales. George takes a sip from the water bottle and Fred watches in fascination the cool drops that run over his lips and across his chin.
This is the last time. Or rather was, because it's all over now, the whispers, the groans, the dance of tongues and fingertips. Now they're spent, like the empty water bottle, like the veil of smoke that dissolves as it twists gently around Fred's shoulders.
George is getting married to Katie Bell next week. He claims that he wants to be faithful to his future wife. Fred is suspicious that this sudden burst of self-righteousness will not last long, but the crack between the two of them has grown into a ravine through the last years and even if George ever cheats on her it won't be with him, his brother, his brotherly love.
'Want a cigarette?' he asks, taking another drag, but George shakes his head; he stopped smoking years ago. But Fred insists, again and again, the tone of his voice almost a plea, until he gives in and takes one. As George tries to light it a deep, gurgling sound fills the room and then the cigarette explodes in a shower of little twinkling stars, that rain on his shoulders and hair, and disappear when they hit the floor, clinking and rattling as if they were made of tin.
George scowls. 'What the hell is wrong with you?'
'You used to like tricks too' Fred mocks him, laughing.
'Yes' George says. 'Then I grew up'
Fred shrugs his shoulders, the wide toothy grin frozen on his face. They are so different now, strangers almost. But still, their lives are measured out together to the same pulsating heartbeat, through the endless miles of veins runs the same dark blood.
And still, no one can ever hurt him like George can. The bruises sleeping under the skin will never heal. The pain always waits there, like the promise of fire that slumbers in the candle wick.
Somewhere else Arthur and Molly are scribbling invitations with golden ink; their sweaty palms wrinkle the white, crispy paper. Katie tries her wedding dress on for the hundredth time and on the kitchen table a lump of cream, sugar icing and marzipan roses pretends to be a wedding cake.
Fred rolls away from the wet spot, wrapping the stained sheets around him like a cocoon. George slips into his black robes and smoothes his hair, running his fingers through them a couple of times. He hesitates, waiting for Fred to say something, anything, so that he can stay for a moment longer with him, his brother, his brotherly love.
But Fred does not speak a word for he suddenly realizes that George is using up all the oxygen in the room, sucking it in greedily and he can't be in the same place with him any more, otherwise he'll suffocate, he'll choke to death. George realizes it too and he walks out, slamming the door behind him.
Fred tries to light another cigarette but in his haste he takes one of the magicked ones. Little twinkling stars sing around him as he buries his face in his hands. Outside George leans against the door, his eyes closed.
And then it's oh, so quiet again.
The end