It's night. George stares at the mirror in the bathroom.
The ebb and flow of each other's thoughts cannot be blocked from their intimately connected minds. Every little nuance is picked up.
He knows Fred can be a complete arse.
He knows he doesn't like admitting his weaknesses.
He knows he likes to play the older brother.
Be the dominating one.
Be the protective one.
He is supposed to be the one to be there for him through everything.
Today, the Prophet carried the news of how The Dark Lord has promised another million galleons for the one who presented Harry Potter to him; there was particular stress on how Harry must be alive and in condition to fight back. The Snatchers have caught a dozen more muggle borns and ended their lives. The Dark Lord's men are hunting for every single person who is associated with being on Harry's good side.
It's been two weeks since Ron left them. He had shown up a few weeks before that in the middle of the night, haggard and just beat. Their mum had showered all the love she has - and that is quite a lot – what's more, with her fierily protective side suppressed (it took a lot of effort on her part for that). He has never seen their mum gentler.
And then Ron left. They hear from Ginny through letters; she is holding up somehow at Hogwarts, and all he could do is hope that nothing gets to her in the place that has gone from being the safest to the most perilous. He really doesn't want any more woes to be added. Not now.
The time when Fred kept taking dreamless sleep potion and running away from him, trying to block one end of the bond; thatwas nothing.
Now, George just sits listless, staring out the window of the bedroom that he has all for himself. The bed at the side is empty. He still changes its sheets; he doesn't know why he does that.
You better give me a good reason for why you've gone back to being an arse! You can't be wanting to fuck her every single moment until this all ends! Fucking look at me! What- now where the fuck are you going?! Stop – fucking – running – away! This isn't really about fucking your life to death, is it. What is it that you really are you scared of?! One of us dying? Well then let's die together! If I die, you can end your life! Yes, I'm telling you to end your life if that's to happen! And I will end mine for you if you're the one to leave me the first!
I will end - mine - right - now if you won't stay!
Fred!
Fred Fred Fred fuckin Fred. George takes a shuddering breath, then exhales slowly.
After the dreamless-sleep-potion phase of running away was a phase of coming closer. A phase of sweet kisses to his hair, his ear, his neck, his cheek. A phase of twining limbs and sweet nothings whispered against his skin.
Until his other half sensed the frostiness that met the growing fire.
George feels tremors go through him unbidden.
Fred's paler these days. There are no jokes, no laughter; so his skin has forgotten it's flush.
There are dark circles under his eyes; his hair is a little longer, jaw a little more sharp... He's going gaunt...
George thinks as he stares into the mirror.
Their bodies are in sync, identically losing vigour. Since the bond is a permanent one, sealed at the moment of their creation, their souls stay connected even as there's such friction; the result being them getting scratched and damaged.
No laughter.
No vigour.
They've lost their identities.
They've damaged the material of their soul.
What if he is playing the older brother?
George stares at the pale, grim face. He shakes his hair slightly and lets it cover his injured ear. He then lets his eyes go colder, yet somehow make a certain fire dance beneath their veneer.
There, now Fred is staring back at him.
You're playing the older brother, aren't you?
Fred keeps staring at him; aloof, cold.
I can see the fire you try to hide beneath your coldness, you little piece of shit. Do you think that I'm blind?
George watches as tears spill quietly down those eyes.
Fuck you, Fred.