Disclaimers and warnings: I
would dearly love to claim these characters for my own because Gred and Forge
are just lovely. However, they're hers *waves at JKR*. But the plot is mine. So
leave it with me please.
This contains: slash,
twincest, much Fred angst, suicidal thoughts, and purple flying rabbits. Yes.
A quiet fills the room
and I am knee-deep in silent anguish.
Touch me. Hold me. Take
me.
Or hate me.
Anything to fill the desperate quiet that sinks into my skin
I gasp, "Do you- do you want to do something?" Except maybe the silence was
better now that I think about it. And he looks at me like a moron, the way he
never looked at me before and I think, this is where we are now.
"Um. Sure?" He says or asks or whatever in a voice so like
mine but not because its lacking the edge that degrades me and the obsession
that destroys me, destroys us.
I begin to ramble spewing out our options as if they burn me
and truly they do because we never had to suggest things before we just knew
and I see now that nothing comes without a price. Looking too long or a little
too hard at him changed everything and there's no going back I think.
His hand brushes over my forehead smoothing flattening my
hair the way Mum used to do when we were sick or frightened or angry or upset
and I'm all of them now but Mum can't help me no one can. Isn't it enough I
have to suffer this infatuation why do I have to lose him as well?
Jesus, Fate is such a bloody whore.
Once he asked if he'd ever fallen, and I'd said yeah, with
myself. And now oh God oh fucking God it's true but it's not, because he's not
me. He's- oh, fuck. He's my fucking brother. My twin.
Fuck love. I hate it, the mere concept of it twists in my
chest like nine million knives digging deeper into my flesh at the same moment.
How can I, how can he not, after all aren't we the same goddamned person split
in two at the very last second and maybe we were supposed to be one person and
what would have happened if we were?
Every time I look at him, speak to him, feel his skin on
mine. Christ. It hurts.
Sometimes I lie awake at night, his arm draped over my waist,
his bare chest pressed against my back, and I can't help but look at my wrists-
unscarred as they are- and wonder what if? Because sometimes it seems death is
the only way out of this situation I've gotten us into because he doesn't love
me, not like that.
Not like I love him.
Bloody hell. Why can't we just go back in time to when I was
young and didn't even believe in love and had never heard the word 'homosexuality'
or 'incest' and it was just me and him, him and me. Fred and George.
Where did that go? And why did it go? Because Jesus. I need
that now.
Your tenderness
overwhelms me and I hate you myself.
Want me. Need Me. Love
me.
Or break me.