Glass

Title: Glass
Author: scarling
Rated: R
Warnings: DARK ANGST.. I can't stress those words hard enough, character death, mentioned sexual themes, incest (look at pairing), insanity (could that be a warning?)

Author Notes: I wrote this right after I finished DH. That was a long time ago. I usually dislike dark themes, but this just popped into my head and I ran with it.

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For a long time, George used to sit in front of the mirror and stare at himself.
Well, what was remained of himself.
No, his body hadn’t been injured, scarred or disfigured in the war, but his heart and his soul was. He wasn’t all there anymore. He left when his other half did. He died when Fred died.

He had overheard Charlie reassure Ron and Ginny that it was his way of coping and that he’d become better sooner or later.
He would grin at himself in the mirror at how dense they were.
They were crazier then he was.

~*~

He slept on their apartment’s floor for while at first. The glass he had broken in frustration was now sprinkled on the tiled floor. It was cutting into his back, his legs, his neck and his arms, but he didn’t feel a thing. He’d only see the blood ooze out of his skin and stain their once white floor.
Fred wasn’t happy about it. He was always the neater one out of the two.

Most days he didn’t even eat, go to the bathroom or shower. He’d lay there, speaking to Fred in soft sentences.
Whispers and secrets that only they could hear.
Puzzles that only they could solve.
A secret love that only they could understand.

He would block out the world and it would be just them, lying on the glass and blood-covered floor. He would get pricked and stabbed by the glass.
Fred wouldn’t.
Fred would just lie next to him, glowing like the angel he was. Indestructible. Untainted. Pure.
George would get stabbed by the glass and bleed. Weak and unlucky. Weak, unlucky and undeserving of Fred.

“Why are you still here?”
Because I love you.

~*~

The phone would ring, and it would ring all day long. The answering machine picked up voices from the people who he once knew. All of them asking if he was alright.
And there would be knocks on the door along with the occasional “George, please. I know you’re in there.”

Fred would go away when they came. He would fade into the background with a smile when the phone rang or when a fist connected with the door, taking all of the artificial light away and leaving George feeling empty inside. Leaving him feeling sick, sick and alone.

~*~

He hasn’t eaten in days, maybe weeks, and his vision was starting to get dark in broad daylight. Fred was next to him, whispering private jokes and laughing mockingly at George, who was weak and broken, was unable to respond.

He was tired and numb and cold. Very cold. And Fred was fading again.

I love you, George. I miss you.

“You’re right here.”

No. I’m not.

He would reach out for his love. Hoping to hold him and soothe his hair. He would wish to kiss his crystal tears away and tell him that everything would be ok. That everyone else was wrong and that he would prove them wrong by kissing, nipping and loving Fred as he used to.

But every time he reached for him, Fred would watch his hand pass through him before fading away again. Disappearing back into George’s mind and provoking his insanity.

His heavy heart thumping in his chest reminded him everyday that Fred was there and he was here… alone.

~*~

Before he knew it, Fred was speaking to him again. This time he was calling him there. Where he was.

George accepted his invitation without a moment of hesitation.

On the night of the day before Christmas, he dragged his weak, broken and fading body off of the icy cold floor and made his way to their window. He smiled to himself as he sat on the ledge, his back facing the world, his front facing the picture of his muse.

Memories flashed by his eyes one last time.
Memories of them touching each other softly and murmuring sweet poetic words in each other’s ears.
Movies of them stealing kisses in their room late at night while being tangled up so tightly that they were one person.
Soundless films of them breathing in each other’s breaths and mapping the other’s body with their tongue, lips and fingers.

He would have that again soon. Yes. Very, very soon.

He leaned back out towards the high, open air as his hands still gripped tightly onto the ledge, his last bit of sanity holding him there. His, cold, wet fingers were slipping, but the more his hold onto the ledge loosened, the bigger his toothy grin got.

I’ll catch you.

The voice came to him as the wind. Tears seeped through his closed eyes as the thought of how high he was sent an eerie chill down his spine, making him sweat and making him slip even more.
The wind blew his ginger hair again; Sweet nimble fingers caressing his flushed skin. He took that as a sign.

George let go with no more than a gasp, and soon he was falling.
Flying, actually.
Like when he used to zoom past everyone on his broom with his brother right beside him, grinning and laughing.
No one else mattered.


He closed his eyes as Fred’s airy voice came floating back to him.
I love you. I love you.
“I love you, too.”

And then there was darkness, but it was alright because when he reached for Fred this time, his brother reached back for him with open arms.

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* italic text is "Fred's" voice.


R and R?
constructive criticism is more than welcomed.