(look lovely for the liars)

. ... .

travel the farther distance

The space between them is almost nonexistent. George can feel his twin's bony hip against his stomach, and there was a chancy moment earlier when one of Fred's knobbly knees dead-legged him in the thigh, dangerously close to something else.

The space between them is almost nonexistent. They lie together in a puppy-heap on George's four-poster bed - all thirteen years old and each other (we have no concept of i) and hating themselves for teasing Ginny almost to her death - and breathe in the same cadence and rhythm. George twists Fred's shirt tightly in his left hand and bites Fred's shoulder instead of letting loose a scream of -

"I know," Fred says (or maybe he says it himself) soothingly into his spine. A hand identical to his own traces his ear restlessly, and he twitches before poking Fred in the side.

"Yeah," George mumbles, burrowing his face farther into the apex of Fred's shoulder and neck. "I know."

. ... .

ratio of me/you

George knows that he is Gred and Forge and so is Fred - and he is Fred, too, and so is George.

So he doesn't know what to say when Fred -

It goes like this.

They are sitting alone in McGonagall's office for the two hundred and fifty-ninth time with identical sore ears, results of McGonagall's earlier strong and dragging grip. The professor herself has left for a moment to fetch the Headmaster, and George doesn't even know what the hell has just happened.

"What the - "

"Shut up."

George glances at Fred for the first time since their capture and sees simmering anger.

"Oi," he replies indignantly, not even about to roll over for his twin, "don't take this out on me! We both designed that potion, and it's just as much your bloody fault as mine. I know it's not that, so what're you on about?"

Fred is glaring now, brown eyes hot and slitted and furious, and George feels himself beginning to match.

"Have you ever thought," Fred hisses in a snarl that George has never heard, "that I don't want to waste my time on you for the rest of my life?"

They are fifteen and young and flippant and stupid, and this is the first fight they have ever had. These are unforgivable words, words that punch George in the gut like molten suits of armor and make him stare with sickened eyes, trying not to throw up.

He doesn't know what to say.

. ... .

twisting in the wind

There is a story. There are many stories, and this story - mum tells them at bedtime, carefully tucking the blankets around their curled, sleepy forms - is about a pair of twin brothers.

The brothers are heroes. They are gallant and dashing and brave and strong, and they can do anything in the world. They battle dragons and rescue princesses and perform other magnificent and epic feats. But their greatest power - says the tired, too young mother - is to make others smile and be happy.

Now: is now. Now children are grown up and mothers are old and bedtime stories are - never mind. Bed time stories don't really fade. Fred and George still try their best to make everyone laugh, unconsciously striving to live up to a hastily invented story that was never meant to matter so much. They play pranks and pull outrageous stunts and go too far and make plans for their joke shop, always and forever the Weasley twin comedy act.

And they're fairly successful. They put a little cheer back in Harry's tired, too old eyes and distract their fellow students and -

Sometimes, when George hasn't been able to truly catch his twin's eye for three days straight and his face feels like it is about to crack, he wonders what life would be like if it felt meaningful or like anything less than a huge lie at all.

(Things haven't been the same between them since that day in McGonagall's office, but all Fred gives him is meaningless chatter and silence and jagged edges that won't fit together. George shoves them in place anyway and pretends that everything is fine.)

admit your alcoholism

Nineteenth birthday, and Fred is passed out on the floor. George laughs when Lee gives the heavily snoring co-birthday boy literal bunny ears with a flamboyantly drunk wave of his wand.

And then he boots Lee out of their flat with a friendly kick in the arse, mocking his friend's cries for vengeance while locking the door behind him with a quick thanks for the help getting Fred home. He lets his smile drop as Lee's stumbling footsteps meander away and he realizes that he has to get his brother to bed.

He is fairly blitzed himself.

He nearly loses his balance when he bends down to get a grip on Fred. He straightens up quickly - too quickly, nearly losing his balance again - and scowls lightly down at his brother's unconscious body.

"You're an idiot."

George doesn't know if he is talking to his brother or himself.

Nineteenth birthday, and George has too many bad habits. (His brother. Silence. Misunderstandings and hurt and decay and distance and not-fitting and suffocation and smallness and the most useless, cowardly tongue in the world.)

. ... .

here is my tragicomedy

George finds it alternately hilarious and chest-gouging that Fred's last words were spent teasing Percy.

In the numb wake of this - in the wake of the battle and the first tentative death count and the chaos - he finds himself sitting alone in an alcove that has only a little spell damage to the detail of its scrolling. It has been hours - or maybe days - since the Dark Lord's fall. Hours - maybe days - since Fred's fall.

They never did talk about that afternoon of malice and flippancy and fury and stupidity and unforgivable words. George wonders now what he is supposed to do. Is he supposed to be -

He doesn't even know. He refuses to - he can't make everything okay now. He can't make them alright again. He can't - because now Fred is gone, and talking to a tombstone to make peace is a cop-out cheaper than a Knockturn Alley whore. He refuses to lie to himself like that. (Anymore.)

- the brothers are heroes. they are gallant and dashing and brave and strong, and they can do anything in the world -

George is tired of lies.

He slips away during the funeral and doesn't see any of his remaining family again for four months.

. ... .

ready is an impossible state of being don't lie to me

George really hates Angelina.

They meet up out of nowhere on the first anniversary of Fred's death. Everyone is drinking and everyone is hurting and no one will meet each others eyes as laughter rings out desperately and tinnily in the streets and bars, and this is when he first hates her.

"One day," she says, punching through the whiskey-bitter haze, "one day - one day you'll be okay again. It won't hurt so much. You'll be ready to - fucking let go."

George snarls something he doesn't even understand and throws back his tenth shot of firewhiskey.

A few shots later, they fuck, and a few years later, they marry.

She bears him a son.

After the birth, he looks her in the eye defiantly and blazingly and brazenly and you-were-wrongly and says, "We're naming him after Fred."

She looks away without saying a word.

He doesn't stop hating her, quietly and truly and unimportantly and factually (like: the sun will rise and Harry is a hero and I miss my brother - I hate my wife), and as the years pass he doesn't know if it is because she suggested he was capable of moving on or because she was wrong about it.

He doesn't really care.

A/N: Written for HellsAngel101. I'm about to lose my net access for a while and I wanted to go ahead and post this. Sorry it's not more!

Edit: So I beefed it up, corrected a few flaws, and generally polished it a bit. Yea me. XD