Rated: T
Disclaimer: We don't own Harry Potter.
This was co written by a-perfect-melody, AshenMoon42, Lillian Smith for TolkienScholar (Ellie). Congrats on winning the Yearly Reviews Competition! We hope you like this gift :))
Prompts:
People & Ships: Weasley Family; George/Angelina
Genres & Themes: Family; Friendship; Fluff; Hurt/Comfort; Sibling (or Sibling-like) Relationships
Objects: worn-out suitcase with a hole in one corner; leftovers
Travelling. They said it was good for you—a change, a way to escape from all those horrible memories and rebuild yourself. A fresh start. His family thought it was best he didn't travel by himself. They assured him sending Ron along was for some company, but he'd seen the worry in Mum's eyes—they probably thought he was going to off himself. But despite his younger brother chattering along constantly beside him, he felt more alone than ever.
The heat, which usually would've been a refreshing change from the perpetual gloom of England, was making George sweat through his shirt, and red burns from the sun had bloomed across his cheeks. The marketplace was packed, and even though their stuff was warded with all the anti-pickpocketing charms they could think of, George still kept an eye on his bag.
Sticky sun lotion trickled down the back of George's neck and he dragged his hand through his hair in annoyance. Ron shot him a nervous look, clearly anticipating an outburst, but for the sake of his little brother, George kept quiet.
It wasn't that George didn't want to be there; on the contrary, he'd be the one to suggest it (to startled faces and the smashing of his mother's best china plate, might he add) but, once out of England and safely on foreign soil his twin would never get the chance to set foot on, George was feeling rather overwhelmed.
What with the constant paperwork identification (the Ministry was still trying to round up any fugitive Death Eaters), stall-holders shoving their goods in his face, and Ron's never-ending babble, George could barely find a moment to himself, let alone think things through.
That had been the plan really, to travel and explore, and finally wrap his head around what the next step would be. For the past eighteen months, he'd been stuck in limbo, his life on pause, and George was really ready to get back on track.
Unfortunately, grief had had other ideas and kept its grip on George like a vice until he ate barely anything and scarcely left his (now very empty) room.
So George had thought it a good idea to clear his head and work things out, whilst also getting a chance to appreciate the world around him.
But now, surrounded by laughter and smiling faces that reminded him so much of Fred, George wasn't sure it had been the best plan ever. Fred would've loved some of the foods they were selling here. Even the fruit was brighter, and George was sure his twin wouldn't have been able to resist trying the oddly-shaped twists of bread at the next stall.
"Do you want to stop to eat something?" Ron asked.
George looked up. His brother was gesturing to a pizzeria in the shade at the edge of the square. He nodded in response, grateful for an excuse to leave the crowd of enigmatic locals and sunburnt tourists. It was suffocating, like moving walls on every side.
They made their way to the pizzeria and were lucky to grab a table. It might've been quieter than the square, but seats in any Roman restaurant were hard to come by in high season. A waiter came to their table almost immediately.
"Buongiorno! Welcome. Would you like to order some drinks?"
George let his mind drift away as Ron struck up a conversation with the waiter, whose English was accompanied by a musical accent.
He eyes the array of pizzas at the counter, wondering how little he could get away with without Ron having a fit, yet unsure how much his stomach could handle.
The question broke into his mind, as if from far away. "Are you … what is it they call it? Gemelli … twins?"
George flinched. He'd never thought they looked alike, but the fiery hair must be an immediately obvious characteristic. Ron was only a little taller than George, and George—who hadn't been able to build up an appetite since the battle—had never been so thin, which likened him to Ron's skinny frame.
"Err…no." Ron stuttered hastily, casting a look at George. "We're just brothers."
"Oh! I apologise," the waiter said. "It is that I saw you and was reminded of this painting" —he pointed to a painting on the opposing wall— "It is by, err…." —he frowned, stroking his chin— "Renoir, I think. It is beautiful, non è vero?"
There was an uncomfortable silence—unbeknownst to the waiter—as the brothers looked at the painting. It showed two identical girls wearing similar dresses with puffed sleeves, with one twin leaning on the other and content looks on their faces as they read a book together.
Twins.
"I-it's beautiful." Ron smiled at the waiter and then tactfully shifted the topic, "Do you like art, then?"
Reading books together.
The waiter's eyes lit up and they continued speaking as the waiter rambled eagerly about the various paintings he had seen, all of which had fascinated him so much. Ron listened politely, nodding every now and then, adding several comments—"We saw the Caravaggios just down the road. Stunning, they were."—all while keeping an eye on George.
Don't look at me. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.
George looked down, avoiding his brother's gaze and decided to stare at something else to keep his mind occupied. The pizzeria, despite looking cosy with its warm colours and comfy seats, only made him feel trapped. People bustled in and out all the while. Tourists stared at the wonderful food at the counter. There was a loud laugh from the table next to them. He breathed, tried to calm himself. At least it was still a lot quieter than it was outside.
As he observed his surroundings, he couldn't help but look at the painting again… and how happy they looked.
Playing pranks together (together).
They were smiling with rosy cheeks and looked so comfortable in each other's presence.
"It's not like they can stop us."
As if nothing in the world could stop them from doing what they wanted, from being who they were.
Us.
George started tapping his foot in random rhythmic motions as he tried to control his breathing. Shit. Just stop. Don't think. Look away; breathe. Don't look there. Don't, don't, don't.
Empty your head. You're okay. You're all right. Stop. Look away. You can do this.
Why did he start thinking of him again? Was he stupid? He was supposed to forget—no, not forget—think of only positive memories; he was supposed to focus on healing, and here he was, panicking in a restaurant.
Calm down.
Breathe.
1… 2… 3… inhale, exhale. Think of something else.
"George?" Ron's voice brought him back to earth as he tried to control his facial expression and hide the panic in his eyes.
He doesn't need to know. Just stop. Just breathe.
George winced as he noticed Ron's concerned and patient expression. In a low voice, Ron asked, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," George replied tightly between breaths, as he looked away, once again avoiding Ron's searching gaze. Just like how he avoided everyone back at home.
"You don't look fine," Ron said gently. "Do you want—"
"Then stop looking," George snapped, and then got up. "I'm just going to the loo."
He almost ran to the little toilet at the back of the pizzeria, making sure he was alone before closing the door and scrambling for the lock. He clutched the edges of the sink with his shaking hands, tilting his chin down to his chest and just breathing.
Don't panic. Don't panic.
George looked up and immediately regretted it. The face in the mirror stared back at him. His face. Fred's face.
Shit.
Because those brown eyes were suddenly not his own. The freckles across his cheeks were hauntingly familiar. He cursed himself for having the same face as his dead brother. The only difference was the crater where his ear had been and the mole on the underside of his chin. He couldn't tear his eyes away.
He took a moment gulping in air before he could finally look away. He splashed his face with cool water, relishing the droplets against his skin before wiping it off with his sleeve. He kept his gaze averted from the mirror, knowing he'd only hurt himself.
He straightened his crumpled shirt before taking one last desperate breath and leaving the little room. George stepped back into the flow of people in the pizzeria and made his way slowly back to Ron, who was looking at him with concern.
"Why don't we go back to the hotel?" his brother asked gently.
George breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes. Thank you."
He could almost feel the presence of the painting behind him as they left.
Their walk back to the hotel was silent; George didn't feel like talking and, for once, even Ron had fallen devoid of his usual chatter.
George felt overwhelmed like he hadn't in months and he could barely manage to walk straight without feeling like somebody had punched him in the stomach. Everywhere he looked, he saw his twin; in the two boys playing tag beside the road, in the laughter of the family perched on the bench.
Claustrophobia clamped down on George's shoulders like stiff hands, and it took all he had in him to keep taking slow, measured steps instead of bolting straight to the hotel.
That's it. One foot in front of the other.
Safely situated back in the blissfully air-conditioned hotel suite, George felt his breathing begin to return to normal. Sinking into a chair, he ran a hand through his hair; a nervous tic he'd carried with him since childhood.
He barely registered that Ron was speaking to him until the small rubber duck their father had given them "just in case," sailed across the room and landed with a soft thud in George's lap.
Looking up, he saw Ron gesturing to bag in his hand, which held the pizzas he'd bought from the pizzeria whilst George had been distracted.
"Do you want some?"
George swallowed. "I'm not that hungry."
"Oh. All right. D'you mind if I do, though?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
They sat in silence for a while after Ron had brought out a pizza for himself. They were sitting beside each other, but they felt a world apart.
Somehow, the silence was even worse than the mass of bodies and heat outside. George longed to fill it up with words, but his brain couldn't focus on anything to say, and his mouth stayed firmly shut. Maybe, he thought, it was just him. Not the heat or the people. Maybe something was wrong with him and no matter where he was or who he was with, he would always feel slightly sickened, his head dizzy.
He was constantly aware of the battered old suitcase in the corner. There was a hole in the corner; it had caved in after years of holidays and using it for target practise with their wands. Fred always used to say that something would fall out sooner or later; jokingly he'd hoped it would be Percy's Prefect badge.
Staring at the suitcase and the hole in its corner, George wanted to snatch it up and take the soonest flight to somewhere far away and remote, where he could have no more reminders of everything he'd lost. Where would he go? Egypt had been wonderfully hot and exotic. He could lock himself in a pyramid with the mummies until he was old and grey.
"I always talk to Hermione about these things," Ron said, breaking the silence. "It helps." He continued to chew through a slice of pizza. It made George feel slightly sick, to even think about food.
He wasn't sure how to reply.
"I think you need to find someone too." Ron had turned to look him in the eye now. His gaze felt intrusive. "Someone who can help you."
He frowned, looking back at his brother. "What, a psychiatrist? Ron, I'm not—"
"No. Just … someone. A friend. A …"—Ron hesitated—"a girlfriend?"
"Oh." He stared at the spot where the wall met the ceiling. The paint was flaking in the corner.
"Anyone you know? Anyone you've got your eye on?"
"I don't know," George snapped.
A sigh. "George…"
"Ron, please." His voice came out like a hiss.
"I know you're thinking of someone," Ron started gently. "You can tell me about them. I'm sure they could—"
He shot up from his seat, not sure why he was so terrified and angry and confused. "STOP IT! Just stop pushing, all right?"
Ron stared at him, eyes wide with shock, mozzarella dripping from the slice in his hand.
George sat back down uncomfortably, settling on the edge of the sofa. He looked back towards the suitcase, almost with longing this time. He could just run, escape this god-awful conversation. He could become a hermit in the north of Alaska, he mused. No-one would go looking for him there. He sighed, remembering Ron beside him and the question still lingering in the air. "Angelina," he said, softly.
"Oh." Ron looked down, taking another bite of food. "I guessed so."
George flinched. "Was it that obvious?"
"No," Ron said. "I don't think anyone would even suspect. I just thought… well, after I saw you two at the joke shop."
"Right." George bit his lip. Ron would usually come over to the joke shop to help out George. Angelina came often to the joke shop too—she'd occasionally buy a thing or two, but she mainly came to chat. She had said she wanted some company since she'd started working in Diagon Alley but didn't really know anyone yet. She was making friends though, but she still dropped by every now and then. Ron must've seen them talking on one of her visits. And now he knew… Would he think that George was being selfish? Would he—
"But don't worry!" Ron's voice brought him back. "Even when I saw you talking, it never occurred to me at first. I only thought of it after repeatedly seeing you two together."
"That's not good," George muttered under his breath.
"Why not?" Ron asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You just said that it's not good."
George turned to look at Ron. Had he really said it out loud? "It's just …" George hesitated. It's all right, you can tell this to Ron.
He won't hate you.
Besides, he probably already knows anyway.
George took a breath, "It's just that she went out with Fred, you know? And I don't know how to feel about it." He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing and rubbing at his face tiredly. "What if she only likes me because I remind her of him? What if Fred wouldn't want us together? What if—"
"Stop it. Just … Fred would want you to be happy, and he'd want her to be happy too. It's up to you to decide if she likes you, but you shouldn't pull back. Not because of Fred, anyway." Ron was quiet for a moment.
That wouldn't stop me from feeling guilty.
"Besides, I think you could help each other," Ron said.
George looked at Ron. "D'you mean like… moving on?"
Ron nodded hopefully.
"I mean, she's…" George trailed off. Where could he begin? She and him…Well he couldn't deny that part of the reason why they were so close was because of Fred, and that just gave him all the more reason to not go out with her.
George bit his lip. He was such an awful person. He should just go—
Stop. Positive thoughts. Breathe.
Inhale… exhale. You're fine.
Thankfully, Ron just stayed silent throughout. If there was something Ron was good at, it would be comforting people, even though he was really awkward at times. As much as Fred and he thought of Ron as the "cry baby" little brother, they would grudgingly admit that he was the most sensitive sibling.
"Right," George began, after several more breaths. "She—she's made me smile. Like… an actual smile. She was the first person to do that, after.. After.."
After Fred's death. That's the reason you were able to—
"She's made you smile," Ron said, tactfully focusing on the good stuff.
Right. Positivity.
"She's quite funny, isn't she?" Ron asked.
"She is." George smiled. "Very, very funny. She comes over sometimes and brings me food. She knows that I just… forget to eat sometimes. She's—she's nice to talk to. She isn't nervous, she doesn't look at me with sympathy, but she gets it."
Because she was close with Fred too. She knew Fred well, and she knew George well. She knew them too well; it was laughably easy for her to tell them apart, for her to spot differences with not just how they look but also their personality. Katie and Alicia knew them well too, but Angelina knew them at a Lee-Jordan-level. Something that no other human outside of their family had achieved.
That's why Fred had fallen for her, and now George too. He saw her only as a friend in school, but not anymore. She managed to mention Fred in front of him without making him flinch.
"She is… she's able to comfort me properly. She listens, I listen," George said.
And then we both cry. And I'm not ashamed to cry in front of her.
"Woah," Ron said, and that was when George noticed that he looked in awe. He'd put the pizza aside for now, and the leftovers sat on a hotel plate on the coffee table. After releasing his secret, George was almost hungry enough to lean forwards and finish it off. Then Ron asked, "You really like her, huh?"
"She's asked me out," George said quietly. "But I refused."
Ron's eyes widened and then he punched George's shoulder slightly. "You idiot! Fred would never let you live it down."
George bit his lip.
"He'd think you're being stupid," Ron said bluntly. "Seriously. If he was alive, he'll knock the lights out of you for not saying 'yes'."
"If he was alive, we wouldn't have fallen for each other."
"Look." Ron stood up and ruffled his hair frustration. "Just… Uh, I'm not good at this stuff but I know that she liked Fred. She likes you. She chose you. If she still liked Fred, she wouldn't have chosen you."
George looked at him for a moment before grinning. "Is that really you, my dear Won-Won? When did you grow so much?" He sat forwards and, not stopping to think about it, snatched up the leftover pizza.
Ron's face turned the colour of his hair as he looked away, but he seemed pleased. "Sh-shut up. That's why I get for trying to help, you stupid git."
George gave a small laugh and Ron joined in.
And then, for the first time that day, there was a comfortable silence.