Part Three: Candescence

Fred and George, without even realizing it, began to play an extravagant game of pretend. Both of them knew something was wrong, but neither knew how to name it. What could be wrong between a pair that never left each other's sights? George in particular was careful around his brother, and made a show of being in good spirits, whether or not he was. In truth, George felt ill most of the time, these days.

Both were secretly quite eager for the Summer holiday.

Their reputation had flourished to infamy by just the end of their fourth year. They were well-liked. Lee Jordan had grown close to the boys, and they found the atmosphere very relaxed when his casual laughter and warm voice formed a barrier between them.

There was sometimes a point at night in the Gryffindor Commonroom when all had gone to bed save the twins. They would huddle on the weathered sofa in front of the warm, dimming fire and talk. Plans, prototypes, schemes, merrymaking. They took it all quite seriously. They were practically duty-bound to liven up the school, afterall.

However, that was not what was significant about these nights. It was the only time they were truly alone together. They would speak without looking at each other, without needing to. Sometimes their conversation would stray to their family and their friends, even their future. It was comfortable there, with nobody to impress.

Once every so often their hands would touch, and they would deliberately leave them there.

It was an important time for both of them.

Summer came at last. When the Weasley children were all together under one roof, quite a ruckus was caused, which was much to Fred and George's liking. They grew closer to their younger siblings every day, as well as created dear enemies of them at the same time. Even their eldest brother had made time to visit, which was a rare joy, and made The Burrow feel more like home than ever. The twins could sink into this old comfort as if they'd never left it.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, late into an evening in July the pretense was finally tested. Outside, the air was humming with peeping frogs and singing crickets. Fred was lazily reading that season's Quidditch Review, only partially focused on the words but enjoying it all the same. George was standing at the open window, bent far enough to feel the night air.

"It's wonderful tonight, Fred," he said, withdrawing, "We should keep the window open."

"Fine by me," said the latter without looking up. George sat heavily at the foot of his bed.

"School is brilliant and everything, but this is where I want to be, right here," He said contemplatively. Fred didn't respond. He seemed absorbed. "You know," George continued, "With mum and dad and Bill and everything."

Fred still didn't seem to notice.

"And you."

His sibling glanced over the top of the newsletter at last and made eye-contact with him. He set the booklet gently down beside himself and sat up, stretching as if he were bored. George pushed him lightly and asked, "Why've you got such a cob on? You've been ignoring me half the night." Fred was visibly bothered by this, mumbled something a bit too quiet to hear. "C'mon mate," George insisted, "Have I done something?" He reached out for his brother and put a hand a bit too firmly on his shoulder, to which Fred jerked immediately away. George's expression fell and he stood up on reflex when his brother apologetically seized his wrist. The motion was so abrupt that he stumbled, and just as Fred moved to steady him, they collided.

When George fell and his brother did not let go they tumbled heavily onto the bed together. He landed with a huff on his brother's chest, his cheek pressed into his collar. His face flushed fully and he forced himself quickly up onto his elbows. Fred's expression was inscrutable; surprised or maybe tense.

George wanted to apologize, but his throat had clenched up, and he felt immobilized. He was achingly focused on a narrow spot above the hip where their shirts had ridden up and their skin was touching. He held his breath. Somehow, neither of them moved. Fred watched him. His expression remained aloof and it unnerved George terribly.

His arms began to tire where they held him and his shoulders dipped. Fred seemed to notice this. Then, weak with nerves and doubt, George buckled, and he found himself hovering an uncomfortably meager distance over his brother. His stomach twisted and he flushed even darker than before. Feeling suddenly and intensely absurd, he pulled back, but his brother caught him by the shoulder. Fred's face was finally readable, and it was thick with uncertainty. Then, slowly, he reached his other hand up towards the back of his brother's head, and closed his eyes. George had only a moment to feel confused until his brother's palm pushed softly upwards through his hair, and his fingers found the warm skin underneath. George's heart skipped a beat. A terrible and wonderful shudder of electricity ran down the back of his neck, and his own eyes fluttered shut unbidden.

He slowly lowered himself until his cheek was pressed against his brother's neck, and Fred did not release him. He stayed perfectly and utterly silent, lest the illusion between them shattered.

He could hear his twin's breath against his ear, smooth as if uncaring. George could not begin to fathom what his brother might be thinking. He opened his eyes quietly and looked up at him as much as he could. He could see the faint pulse of his neck, and the unmoving line of his jaw. George lifted his chin only barely, but Fred caught the movement and looked down. Their eyes connected peripherally, and they both shifted to make better use of the gaze. Fred's expression flickered. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, softly, the weight on the back of his head grew heavier as he pulled George inward. There was only a moment between that one and the next in which he was fully cognizant of what was happening. They grew close until their lips were just brushing, and Fred rose gently to meet him. Their mouths slowly pressed into a deep kiss. George's stomach rolled as if it were melting. The details of the room became a blur, the sounds outside ran together. His brother's lips fit perfectly against his own. He wanted to shut off the world.

Fred pulled quietly away from him, and let his head drop, eyes still closed. George felt for the first time that he was trembling. He didn't know what to say or do. He had no idea what had just happened. He dropped his face over his brother's shoulder into the pillow and his cheeks burned against the cool, indifferent fabric.

Quietly, Fred's arms wrapped around him. The thunderous pounding of his heart began at last to subside. He didn't move, (he didn't dare,) and the night advanced on them.

Whether they slept that way by choice or by accident, Fred held him just as tightly the long night through.

The following morning, neither had a thing to say to one another. The absolute candescence of the kiss the night before was ignored altogether. George might have thought it had never happened at all, if the air didn't turn electric when they neared each other. He desperately wanted to say something. To say anything. Instead, the day progressed like any other, save the unusual sense of distance. Just far enough that neither tested the boundary, just close enough that nobody would question them.

The next day was much the same. Fred began to seem unconcerned, jovial even. The message was clear. They were not to speak of this. If it were a pact, then George had signed it unwillingly. Still - no matter how many hundreds of times a day he looked for the right thing to say, he never found it. Had he the bravery to confront his brother, he hadn't the words.