Part Four: Vehemence

The quiet distant hostility followed them into their Sixth year. George felt often that he was waiting for something, though he didn't know for what. He occupied himself perfecting his craft, something which he and his brother could still engage in with perfect synchrony. They breathed life into any space they occupied, and their peers loved them for it.

For the teachers, on the contrary, they were absolute terrors. More often than not, the Weasleys were confined in detention. Rebelliously, they used these times above all others to plot. There was an effort more deliberate than there had been before to maintain a persona. To appear happy, carefree and playful. To give no-one a reason to question them. Least of all one another.

Fred tossed his brother a bottle of butterbeer, the glass frosty from a chilling charm.

"Thanks mate," said George nonchalantly, his feet up to absorb the heat from the fire. He watched Fred gather up the last of his Christmas pickings and scrutinized the impulse to call him to sit down three times over. Fred approached regardless and sat down with a sigh at the opposite end of the sofa.

"I didn't expect that stunt in the Great Hall to go so well," he said as he relaxed into the cushions. "Debuting the Skiving Snackboxes, that was a riot, eh?"

George shrugged and withheld a satisfied smile. It had been his idea. "I almost feel bad," he lied, "McGonagall has never done us any wrong."

"She should have known better than to teach at a school with us in it," Fred said, "I don't even know what she was thinking."

George smiled into his bottle as he took a thoughtful sip. Then, a familiar forced silence settled over them. It was as far as they could take the conversation. While staying in character, thought George, surprising himself with his own bitter inflection. He glanced over at Fred and noticed the distance between them with renewed discomfort.

He sighed and gently tilted his wand towards the fire. "Incendio," he murmured. The fire hissed as if angry, but then flourished to a full glow.

Another minute passed. As if compelled to break the silence, Fred said, "Not that categorizing flame types with you isn't great, but I think I'm ready for some sleep."

George waved his brother off, making a deliberate effort to appear disinterested. He wanted to stay here and think.

Often, George would take this time to try and unwork the knots in his mind, but it always ended very much the same. He would begin to relax, to convince himself that things were alright, at the very least, in this moment. The thoughts which wanted his attention, coursework, classmates, prospects, all began to dim and quiet down. He would think, Everything's okay, as long as you're together. But they weren't together. George was here, on the common room settee, alone.

And of course, if he let himself sit and think for too long, his mind would wander. He would feel that spot on his brother's hip, the pressure of his hands, the warmth of his lips. The memory followed him like a ghost. Anything short of totally rejecting it felt like a betrayal, somehow.

He would sit, quietly staring forward into the fire. He would see faces, unthinkingly. Friends, family, strangers with familiar features. His brother. More than anything, his brother. This one and only person who knew him for who he was, and not what he presented to the world. In fact, Fred saw George past even what he presented to him, and George knew it.

He closed his eyes as if it would ease the burden, or perhaps as if the world was kinder when you could not see it. He could hear his twin's voice with distressing clarity. It felt easier to conjure than even his own. As close as his next breath, as present as his guilty conscience. His hands twitched in his lap and his expression compacted softly.

And when he opened his eyes at last, it was like crashing from a great height. He was himself, and he was alone, in the silence of a room long abandoned by people with other places to be. Fred was among them. His absence became so heavy at those moments that George would force himself to his feet. Going to the bottom of the stairwell felt like wading through water, but by the time he had reached the first step he had convinced himself that his thoughts that evening were totally unremarkable. He was at his best, and his most ordinary, and everything was looking up for them.

It wasn't fragile.

It could keep on like this.

Everyday the charade grew more elaborate. It was exhausting, the way it had become so routine for both of them. Fred would often look at his brother when he thought he couldn't be seen, and wonder what he was thinking about. He always had the distinct feeling that George wasn't happy with him, and it made him feel hostile. He used to be able to know with just a glance what George was thinking, what he wanted. A small voice insisted that he still could, but something about its tone made his gut clench and his thoughts stop in their tracks. It was all so unthinkable.

It was because of a moment like this, a moment when George felt eyes on the back of his head, that the impulse struck. He knew that his brother was watching him. The thought that he had something to say that he just wouldn't made him feel ready to jump out of his skin. Ready to turn around and confront him there, in the crowded hallway. He couldn't do that of course. Planning a confrontation was equally inconceivable. What could he possibly say? Where could he possibly say it?

It then followed that the impulse settled into an itch. Something he never stopped feeling, but which could not compel him to do anything. Something he could confidently ignore.

Until, for the first time in a great while, they were alone together.

They had overheard Angus Matlock bragging about a passageway behind a mirror that had remained undiscovered; one which only opened if you made a series of absurd faces into it. Fred and George had of course, discovered it on their first outing to Hogsmeade, and they both knew that it opened for anyone who stood long enough in front of it, whether one embarrassed themself or not. Matlock's lofty claims that he could now hide Galleons inside had not gone unheard by the twins. Either to defend their reputation, or just for the fun of holding it ransom, they had agreed immediately to recover it.

However, when they reached the tunnel, George felt his pulse quickening. Something between anxiety and resolve was swelling in his chest. When the tunnel sealed behind them and the inviting darkness took over, it gripped him like devil's snare. It was a chance. For what, he didn't know. He didn't have time to find an answer. He heard the sound of Fred drawing his wand, and reached out - just barely catching the hem of his sleeve. Fred froze, well-tuned to his brother in the darkness.

"George," he said under his breath, "What is it mate, do you hear something?"

George stood there, choking on everything that had ever been left unsaid. He felt for his brother's other arm and eventually clutched it, trying to steady himself in the murk. The air turned cold and expectant. He felt suddenly so foolish - what had he planned to do? He thought about the feeling of Fred's eyes on the back of his head, the pangs in his stomach when he could sense him casually not speaking his mind, the hundreds of ignored impulses to take his hand and for just a moment feel close to him. He harnessed them.

"Just hold on a moment, Fred," he murmured, patting along his arm until he felt his shoulder and pausing there.

"Mate, what is it," Fred repeated, using an impatient tone to mask his discomfort. George leaned forward just close enough to sense the warmth of his brother's body.

"I said," he whispered, "Just hold on a moment."

A silence spread out from that point which enveloped the entire corridor. Fred shifted his weight and seemed to consider saying something, but didn't. He tentatively reached out and clasped his brother's shoulder and said, softer this time,

"Mate?"

George's sigh sounded relieved. It was so difficult to pull Fred down to his level. He allowed his head to gently meet with his brother's chest, and the two stood as if in the aftermath of terrible news. Fred uncertainly squeezed his sibling's shoulder. They were very aware of one another's presence. Quietly, wearily, George spoke.

"Don't you..." he ventured, "Don't you ever think much, mate? Outside yourself?"

Fred's eyebrows dipped indecisively. He decided George hadn't meant it as an insult.

"What's that mean exactly, Georgie? I think about loads of things," he said, "If you're calling me empty-headed, that hur-"

"What I mean, Fred," George interrupted softly, "Is don't your thoughts ever move on their own? Without you? And you just..." He paused, as if not knowing how to complete the sentence. "You're just a witness to them, to what they want?"

"No," Fred lied, "What's this all about?"

"Isn't it mental," George said softly, "That I miss you when I'm with you everyday?"

The words impacted Fred, and he took great care not to show it. He hesitated significantly before answering.

"What a daft thing to say," he whispered, barely audible.

"Even more mental how much time I waste thinking about you when you're bloody next to me."

Fred's fingers closed tight over his brother's shoulder.

"Have you gone barmy, George?" he hushed, "What on earth are you going on about?"

"Like you don't know," He bit back, "Like you haven't felt how empty it all is when we can't talk to one another. Good Godric Fred, I've known you since birth, you think I can't read you?"

Surprised and a bit embarrassed, Fred didn't think as he gave his incensed reply,

"A line like that could only come from George Weasley. Don't you ever think I get sick of you?"

George drew back as if he were hit. Fred grimaced in the dark, instantly regretting saying it.

"Oh... Oh, Georgie," He murmured, feeling forward, "George, I... I mean, I never,"

George moved back until he met the wall. He closed his eyes and put his hands against the chalky stone, getting one deep breath before his brother found him. Fred fumbled for his twin, latching on instantly when he felt the brush of cloth. He put his forehead defeatedly against the wall beside him. "I'm sorry," He muttered.

"Fred, come here," George whispered in return. His twin shifted in the dark, the rustling of his cloak the only evidence that he had heard.

"We really need to talk, mate," Fred whispered, the proximity of his voice startling George. A long silence followed. Then, the words finally left him unbidden. They had been waiting for so long that they came without measure or thought.

"You kissed me," George said.

A heat rippled through the air at that instant. Fred turned as rigid and unmoving as stone. George's stomach lurched, and the lack of response compelled him to continue. "Over holiday. When we were fourth years," he said as if Fred might have forgotten, "We were alone and it was dark and you kissed-"

"I'm sorry George," Fred just barely choked out, "I knew that this had to be because of that, all of this, I - I'm sorry…" The emotion in his brother's voice upset him more than anything else could have. Fred moved forward and found both of his twin's shoulders. "I wasn't thinking. It just happened. I didn't want you to think less of me, George, I -"

George found his brothers face by the sound of his voice and kissed him vehemently on the mouth. Fred's entire body jolted and every muscle lifted with tension. Then, softly, they both melted. Instead of pulling away, Fred wrapped his arms tightly around his brother's back. The embrace grew tender and warm and unrestrained. George hummed a sweet, earnest sound into his twin's lips, and Fred squeezed him tighter in return. When George eased out of the kiss at last he felt giddy and relieved. He tried desperately to find the right thing to say when his brother leaned unexpectedly in and kissed the side of his neck. A fresh surge of heat went through George's body, and his chin raised almost by reflex. His brother kissed him again, firmer and more slowly. Then a third time, his hand meeting the other side of his neck. He noticed vaguely that George was incredibly hot to the touch.

"Georgie," Fred murmured against his skin.

"Fred," George returned, feeling two years of unexpressed emotions spilling into his voice. How often had he thought about this?

"We…" Fred's voice caught a bit, and the sound tugged at George's heart, "We really need to talk."

George sighed undisguisedly.

"I know, mate," he said, "We really do."