Warning: suicide

Word Count: 1063


"Your hands are like ice."

George squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in. The air is icy and hurts his lungs, but he enjoys the pain. He deserves it.

"You aren't real," he mutters. "You're not here."

Fred just laughs in his ear. "I'm not here. You made sure of that, didn't you, Georgie?"

George stares up at the grey sky. "I'm sorry, Freddie. I'm sorry."

But sorry isn't good enough. Sorry doesn't take the pain away or bring his brother back.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

Fred doesn't smile. Neither of them really smile anymore. Some days are better than others, but losing their mother has sent them both into a downward spiral.

"Do you think there's a point?" Fred asks as they wall along the shore, feet bare and sinking into the warm sand.

It should be a happy place. Once, they had loved the beach and had leapt at the opportunity to visit Bill and Fleur. Now, they've formed a makeshift survivor camp. It isn't much, but they've stuck together and kept the zombies at bay for two months now.

"Has to be," George says, pausing to pick up a pebble. "Life always has to have a point."

Except maybe it doesn't. Maybe, in the back of mind, in the dark recesses of his thoughts, he has begun to think that there isn't any hope, that they are officially, completely, one hundred percent fucked.

But he doesn't say that. He has to be optimistic. He has to pretend.

"You aren't being fair," George murmurs.

Fred laughs in his ear. For a moment, George would swear his twin brushes his fingers over his cheek. The chill that engulfs him is nothing like the November air he knows.

"Life isn't fair," Fred says. "Then again, death isn't fair either. In case you were wondering."

"Stop it," George whispers. "Please… Just stop. You aren't like this."

"I wasn't," Fred corrects. "But that isn't quite true is it?"

Fred always did have a cruel streak that George lacked. He was always the one to take jokes too far, to push the boundaries.

But that was with other people. Not George. Never George.

They're on guard duty, and Fred is snoring softly beside him. George yawns. When is the last time he's had a proper night's sleep? It feels like an eternity.

Fireflies flutter in the distance, their soft glow breaking through the darkness. George thinks it's strange that something so normal could still exist. The world has been destroyed, but there are still fireflies.

He leans back in his chair and smiles to himself. It's such a peaceful night. So quiet, so calm. There hasn't been an attack in weeks.

A quick nap won't hurt. If anything, it will help. George is useless when he's tired.

He closes his eyes.

George makes up his mind. He kneels, glancing up at the oak tree. Between the branches, he can see the clouds gathering and promising fresh snow.

Heart heavy, he digs his nails into the ground, wincing as a small rock wedges itself in. But it's okay. It's fine. He needs the pain.

"What are you doing?" Fred asks.

"I screwed up, Freddie." Tears sting George's eyes. Unashamed, he lets them fall. Why should he continue to deny his emotions? It doesn't do him any good. It's to embrace it. "I'm sorry."

"Georgie? What the hell are you doing?"

He doesn't know what wakes him first: the screaming or the gunshots. He's on his feet in an instant, toppling the chair to the ground.

Fred isn't there. The mustard yellow blanket is a pool of fabric at the foot of Fred's chair, but he is gone.

"Fred?"

Heart pounding, he rushes toward the chaos, nearly tripping over a mangled body. Angelina. His stomach sours. He has to keep moving. He has to find Fred.

The first zombie groans and reaches for him. Hands trembling, George fires a bullet into its skull.

"Fred!" he screams

"Everyone's gone," George whispers.

Night has long since fallen, and he works by starlight. The hole is barely illuminate; the gentle light is dimmed by the ever-present clouds. It has grown. It isn't perfect. Not yet. But it will be.

His arms ache and burn, but he carries on. He has work today, and he will not stop until it's done.

"You're serious about this," Fred says before letting out an impressed whistle. "Never knew you had it in you."

George shakes his head. "Shut up. It isn't like that."

"Then tell me what it's like. Why don't you educate me? Hmm?"

He keeps going, eyes narrowing. "Get out of my head."

Some survive the attack. Not many. It's just him, Kingsley, and Alicia now. They're left behind, left to clean up the mess, to find a way to handle this strange, cruel world.

"There's a pit not far from here," Kingsley says, lifting Fred's body and dropping him on top of the pile on the cart. "Not the way I want to do it, but…"

"Mass graves are better than nothing," Alicia agrees.

George doesn't speak. His eyes are fixed on Fred, and the rest of the world seems to fade away.

Kingsley and Alicia hadn't lasted much longer. Kingsley had succumbed to a nasty bug; without proper medicine, there was no to treat him. Alicia had fallen and broken her neck.

George buried them both.

But what now?

Maybe living is the right answer. If there was any justice, he would live forever and let the guilt punish him for all eternity. But that isn't an option. Not really.

He looks at the hole he's dug, nodding. It's finally perfect.

Satisfied, he laid back, staring up at the clouds overhead.

He has buried far too many people, and now… Now he doesn't know what to do. It has been too long since he's seen another soul. Maybe he's the last person left alive. Even the zombies seem to have vanished, hopefully for good.

Who will bury him?

That's why it's best to end it on his own terms, lying in this whole and waiting.

Exhaustion washes over him, and he smiles. "I'll see you soon, Fred," he whispers.

As he closes his eyes, the first snowflake falls and melts on the tip of his nose.

It won't be long now.