Entry tags:

fic, fred/george, percy/george, slash

Happy Springsmut, aome!
Author: emiime
Recipient: aome
Title: Withdrawals
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Percy/George, past Fred/George
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: In making his brother well, Percy discovers what he needs to heal himself.
Warnings: Past drug abuse. Also see pairings.
Word Count: 6555
Author's Notes: Heaps of thanks to the two wonderful people who helped me to plot and plan and jump-start this fic. ♥


Percy usually tried to avoid the less savoury parts of wizarding London, but there were times when it simply couldn't be avoided. Like tonight. Kingsley had asked Percy on his way out the door for the weekend if he could make a quick detour down Trigon Alley on his way home. Percy suppressed a groan—he always got lost when he went there—and took the proffered package, promising to drop it at a certain address. He didn't mention to his employer that he lived nowhere near Trigon.

A third of the way down the alley, it began to drizzle, and Percy pulled his cloak tighter around his neck, turning up the collar, marching resolutely forward. Night was falling fast, and Percy didn't want to be caught at the dodgy end of this dodgy street when it was dark.

He dropped the package at the address indicated—a place called the Kneazle's Claw, which was sandwiched in between a seedy pub and a tattoo parlour that looked as if it should have been shut down long ago for health violations. He hoped fervently that the witch to whom the package was addressed wasn't the woman of ill repute she appeared to be, rather an undercover Auror or something of the sort, someone with whom it was plausible Kingsley Shacklebolt would be corresponding.

He also hoped she hadn't given him any diseases when their hands brushed. He was wearing gloves, but that didn't mean something couldn't have…crept in.

Percy shivered and resolved to take a scalding shower the moment he got home.

The rain was falling harder as he turned to make his way back up the Alley to where he could safely Apparate home. A streetlamp fizzled and popped above his head, then went out, and Percy scurried along a little faster.

Rounding a corner, Percy smacked into another body with enough force to propel him backwards. He narrowly missed landing on his arse in a puddle, instead skidding along and grasping at the wall to keep himself upright.

The other party was not so successful. He—she?—teetered for a moment, then collapsed into the same puddle that Percy had avoided.

"I'm so sorry," Percy managed, straightening up. He adjusted his cloak against the rain, which was turning into a deluge, then looked back at the prone figure in the puddle.

It wasn't moving.

Percy crouched by the wizard—he could see now it was a male figure—and, curling his lip, reached out to shake his shoulder.

"Pardon me," he said, clearing his throat, "Are you all right?" He prodded at the wizard's shoulder with one gloved finger, and a wave of relief washed over him when the wizard moaned and swatted his hand away, sending up a cloud of whisky-perfumed breath. All right. He was alive. That was something.

"Well," Percy said then. He looked up at the flickering streetlamp and past it to the starless sky above. He told himself he should go—should already have been home, in dry pyjamas and with a boiling kettle—but he couldn't bring himself to leave the figure in the puddle. There was something familiar about him. But even if there hadn't been—well. One didn't go smacking into people and then leaving them on the ground, even if said people were denizens of Trigon Alley.

"Pardon me," Percy said again. The rain began to trickle down his neck, and Percy shivered.

Then the wizard rolled over, into the shaft of light from the flickering streetlamp, and Percy shivered again.

"I—George?"

---

Percy paced around his tiny kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. He'd already washed his hands twice since he had arrived home and his face once, and he was trying to resist doing his hands again—George was absolutely the filthiest person Percy had ever set eyes (or hands) on. The instant the kettle began to shriek, he poured its contents into a mug, added the herbs he'd laid out on the counter, and stirred it vigorously. He approached the snoring figure on the sofa and knelt, wafting the steam towards him.

"George."

But his brother didn't move. Percy tried again, holding the herbal concoction just under George's nose, his hand shaking.

"Please, George," Percy intoned, knitting his eyebrows together, and he blew the steam off the cup and held it to George's lips. "This will help you to relax," he coaxed, "And to feel better."

George snorted and his eyelids fluttered, and Percy took these signs of life as encouragement. He tipped the cup just enough so that some of the tisane made its way into George's mouth, then held his breath as he watched George swallow it automatically.

A few minutes and several sips later, George's eyelids fluttered again, and he groaned. He opened his eyes a crack, and Percy pried one lid open the rest of the way, only to find that the pupil constricted to a pinpoint, lost in a sea of blue.

Percy wiped his hand on his handkerchief, then, and regarded his brother.

"My god, George," he declared, "You're a mess." Percy tried to keep his voice from trembling, though for George's sake or for his own, he wasn't certain.

"Ffffuck," George croaked. His eyeballs rolled back in his head, then he seemed to get hold of himself for a moment. He glanced at Percy, blinking.

"Percy," he finally managed. Percy nodded and set the mug on the coffee table again, not taking his eyes off George.

"Wha—" George groaned, and he raised his head from the back of the sofa.

Percy pointed his wand at George immediately, and George's head whipped back. George closed his eyes tightly then, as if against a bright light, little wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

"You'll start to feel better soon," Percy snapped, "But don't push it. Anyway, as soon as you do, I'm going to demand answers, so you'll probably want to take your time."

Percy wasn't sure if he wanted to hit his brother or shake him awake and demand answers regardless of his condition. He forced himself to stand, moving to the linen closet and taking out pillows and a duvet.

"Right, then," he said, facing his brother once again. He took up his wand again and pointed it at George. He figured one hover charm couldn't hurt. Better than hauling George's body around the living room, anyway.

George's compliant form rose from the sofa and settled into the adjacent armchair.

"You'll sleep here tonight," Percy told George as he made up a bed on the sofa, "And in the morning, either you talk to me about this or I call Mum." When he was satisfied with the makeshift bed, Percy turned once again to his brother. He heaved a sigh and debated with himself for a moment until his loathing for touching other people lost to his loathing of filth.

He knelt in front of George, unlacing his heavy boots, pulling them off, and casting them aside.

George's toes were coming through his socks, and his toenails were badly in need of trimming. Percy held his breath and wrinkled his nose as he pulled the ravaged socks off and tossed them towards the boots. George's threadbare jumper and shirt were next, and they, too, went the direction of the boots. Percy wasn't sure what he would do with the mud- and whisky fume-soaked pile of clothing. The fireplace did seem the best option. Perhaps the only option.

Percy paused for a moment, considering the button of George's jeans. He certainly wouldn't want to be seen in his pants by any of his brothers, but then this wasn't like when they were children and George (and Fred, Percy's brain nagged) had charmed the lock on the bathroom door to open just as Percy was getting undressed for the shower. No, this was essential. Like a visit to a Healer.

Percy gave a sharp nod and undid the buttons, yanking harder than was probably necessary. He tugged the jeans down George's legs and tossed them at the pile of clothing. Something clattered onto the floor—George's wand. Percy picked it up and put it in his own pocket.

He made a face, then, and decided that George's pants and vest should probably go, too. The fewer disgusting things that came in contact with Percy's duvet, the better. And George himself was disgusting enough at the moment.

Percy peeled off George's pants and vest, watching only as much as was necessary, averting his eyes when George's more personal areas came into view. He saw enough, though, to process that George was thinner—much thinner—than the last time they'd seen each other. His collarbone jutted out and he looked pale beneath his freckles. Percy wondered if he had been ill, if it had been stress, or if it could be something much worse.

But he shook off the worry and Levitated his brother again, landing him safely on the sofa and tucking the duvet around him.

He stood above George's limp form, crossed his arms over his chest, and sighed. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it and pointed his wand at the pile of clothes that were emitting the most horrifying combination of odours Percy had smelled in quite some time.

The fireplace was definitely the best place for them.

And for Percy, the shower.

---

Percy couldn't sleep that night. His mind was brimming with questions and theories, and the longer the night wore on the wilder the questions and theories became. He dozed here and there when his body gave out from exhaustion, but his brain kept snapping him awake with worries and what-ifs.

What if I'd refused to drop off that package for Kingsley? What if I had taken another route home? What if—oh, god—what if I'd just left him there? Dammit, George, dammit, what have you been doing?

And so in between bouts of dozing and tossing and turning, Percy kept getting up and padding into the living room to check on George.

"Fred," George murmured once when Percy brushed the fringe from his eyes.

Percy washed his hands and sat in the armchair after that and stared at his brother until the sun rose.

---

George didn't wake until the afternoon. Percy looked up from the newspaper when he heard rustling from the sofa, and he folded the paper over and set it on the coffee table when George's tousled head appeared from underneath the duvet.

"Well," Percy declared, "It's about time."

George, for his part, just rubbed his eyes, then blinked at Percy.

"Fred," he said, his voice as rusty as an old gate.

"Ah. No. Percy, actually," Percy said, trying to disguise his impatience.

George shook his head and rubbed his hand over his eyes and blew out a long breath, then burrowed back beneath the duvet. Percy rose and stretched. He didn't have time for this nonsense. He decided to go right into the order of questioning he'd decided upon while George was still unconscious.

"What were you doing in Trigon Alley last night?" he asked, beginning to pace in front of the sofa. When his brother didn't answer, Percy paused and lifted a corner of the duvet to check that he was still awake.

George blinked up at him like a subterranean creature whose home had been invaded.

"Come under," he said after a moment, and he stretched out a hand towards Percy.

Percy recoiled, dropping the duvet. "No, thank you. You're positively filthy. And besides, I'm not—" Percy cut himself off just in time. The twins had loved to spend time together under blankets from the time they were babies up until—well, until recently, Percy assumed, as they'd been doing it when he left home and he couldn't imagine they'd stopped, even as they'd grown older and the propriety of the action had grown less and less appropriate.

"Come under," George murmured again, lifting up the duvet and peering at Percy. It was the sort of invitation he might once have extended to Fred. And that was not okay with Percy. He didn't need to be reminded of, compared to, or confused for the brother he'd helped to lose.

He knelt by the sofa to tell George exactly that, and to stop the nonsense, but something in his brother's eyes stopped the words before they could reach his lips.

"George," he said instead, after a moment, "Tell me, really—are you all right?"

George hesitated, then shook his head, his eyes wide, his pupils back to normal size, not blown as they had been the night before. The wide rim of piercing blue around the black orbs was vaguely unsettling.

Percy couldn't remember the last time George had admitted to weakness. Probably because he never had. Not in front of Percy, at least.

"All right," Percy whispered then, clutching the duvet in his fist, unsure of what to do next. George closed his eyes and Percy bit his lip. "All right."

---

It had taken quite a bit of time and manoeuvring, but Percy had finally managed to get George lucid enough to get him into a shallow bath. George didn't do much once he was in it, just sat passively and shivered every now and then while Percy washed his hair for him after several unsuccessful attempts to get him to wash it himself.

The water did seem to rouse him somewhat after a while, and he began to flick at it with his index fingers at intervals of a minute or two.

"So now that you're relatively sober and awake, do you want to tell me why you were in Trigon Alley last night?" Percy asked after he had rinsed all the shampoo from his brother's hair. George just shook his head and mumbled something and flicked a little water at the wall.

"What's that?" Percy had decided somewhere between drawing the bath and scrubbing the several days' worth of grease from George's hair that if he were going to be able to make any sense of the situation, he was going to have to distance himself from it. If George showed weakness, Percy would just have to be stronger. He would have to stick to facts and not get caught up in the emotion of the situation and the questions that arose from it. He would have to ignore the revulsion that sprang up inside him whenever he touched his brother, and be led by the instinct that almost dared him to do so.

And he wasn't going to let George mumble as an answer to a perfectly appropriate question.

"Percy," George said then, a little louder, his voice cracking, "I'm fucked."

"Oh," Percy said then, taken aback both by the language and by the coherency of George's response. "Why—why are you—?" He took up the bar of soap to avoid finishing the sentence and slipped it into George's hand.

George stared at it for a moment before he began moving it in circles on his chest, working up a lather.

"George?" Percy prompted, and George nodded.

"Right," he said, still moving the soap on his chest. He didn't look at Percy, but started straight ahead at the wall.

"I—dunno how you found me. Don't remember coming here. This is your house?"

"My flat," Percy corrected.

"Right." George sighed and dropped the soap into the bathwater. "Perce, I'm so fucked. I was in Trigon last night because I've been living there off and on. Can't live at the shop anymore. Fred—" And George's voice broke.

"I understand," Percy soothed. He fished the soap out of the water and put it in George's hand again.

"No," George said without a trace of venom in his voice, "You don't. No one does."

Percy sighed and nodded. He could argue the point later.

"You live in Trigon now," he said, "With whores and drug dealers."

"Percy, don't."

Percy's nostrils flared. "I'm trying to help you," he spat. "I could firecall Mum instead, if you like. Shall I? I'm sure she'd love to see you in this state." He rose, making for the door.

"Fuck—Perce. No. Not Mum."

"Okay, then." Percy moved to the sink and began to wash his hands. George looked like a child there in the tub, surrounded by cooling water that was opaque from the soap and shampoo that had been washed into it.

"Let's get you rinsed and dressed," Percy ordered, attempting some sort of clinical detachment, "And then we'll talk. Really talk. Yes?"

"Yes." George's voice was broken and bruised, and Percy turned away for modesty's sake as George staggered to his feet and pulled the shower lever to rinse off.

"Where're my clothes?" George asked as he stepped out of the shower.

"Burned," Percy said simply, "But I've got your wand."

"Oh." George looked around the bathroom.

"You can wear my dressing gown for now," Percy said, "Just there, on the hook. I can get you some socks and, ah, pants, if you'd like."

George nodded and Percy went into his room to fetch the required items. He took a pair of white socks and some white pants from the top drawer of his bureau, then paused when the room began to swirl a little.

He shook his head and blew out a breath and brought the things in to his brother.

---

Halfway through his explanation, George began to sweat and stutter. He had reiterated his confession about living in Trigon Alley and had told Percy that his shop was the furthest thing from his mind—Verity ran it, and she ran it well, and George didn't need to worry about that anymore.

"What about the whisky?" Percy asked. George gave a great shudder and his gaze began to dart around the room.

"Just…been drinking a lot, yeah," he said.

"Are you cold?" Percy asked. "I can make it warmer in here." He rose to put another log on the fire, but George held out a hand.

"No. I'm all right. I just—hey, Percy. Thank you for taking care of me. I've got to go, got to—something I have to take care of." Another tremor wracked his frame and he gave a groan as he moved towards the door.

"George—" Percy stood between his brother and the exit.

"Percy, it's okay." George clutched Percy's dressing gown around him.

"It is not okay. Are you ill? What's going on?"

"Not—just have to—" George managed, before he began to shake all over. Percy locked eyes with his brother and instinctively gripped both his arms, holding him up, for once not worrying about the touching, and George's eyes began to water.

"It hurts," George moaned, and he clenched his eyes shut tight.

"What hurts?"

"Everywhere," George sobbed, "Fuck, fuck, everything."

And that was when he collapsed.

---

Percy sat on the coffee table, his head in his hands, his glasses off. He gritted his teeth together and gripped two fistfuls of his hair in his hands and groaned.

George lay on the sofa again, whimpering in his sleep, his legs jerking of their own volition. He had thrown off the duvet and struggled out of Percy's dressing gown and now lay there in his borrowed socks and borrowed pants, dripping with sweat, tossing and turning. He let out another whimper and began to cough, his body racked with shudders.

Not for the first time, Percy got up and put his glasses back on and crossed to the fireplace. He was going to do it this time. He was going to call his mum, going to put up with the noise and the attention and the embraces and the tears. This was bigger than himself, bigger than George now. Too big for him to handle.

But as he knelt in front of the fire, George coughed again and called out Fred, but halfway through the word he switched to Percy.

And Percy turned and George was sitting up, and Percy's shoulders slumped.

"Tell me that's it," he said through dry lips, "Please. Tell me the worst is over."

---

But that wasn't it. The worst wasn't over. And had Percy known that when he and George had sat tucked into opposite ends of the sofa that evening, he would never have promised George that he'd keep him secret, keep him safe.

At three in the morning, when George began to seize on the sofa, Percy wiped hot tears from his eyes and damned himself for worrying about whether or not he'd have to owl in sick to work on Monday.

---

Percy did owl in sick to work on Monday, and then again on Tuesday morning. George was better—lucid, but still quite ill. He spent most of Monday vomiting, then dry-heaving when there were no more bland biscuits in his stomach.

"It hurts," he kept moaning, "Everywhere—everything—"

And nothing Percy did soothed him. Percy spoke softly to him and pressed cold and warm compresses to his feverish forehead, stayed by his makeshift bed, roused him with small doses of Ennervate and managed to brew a Draught of Peace for him, which George promptly vomited all over the carpet.

On Tuesday evening, George felt well enough to bathe himself. Percy was glad of this, but still he hovered around the half-open bathroom door in case of mishap or relapse.

"I'm all right," George kept saying as he bathed, "I'm all right. I'm all right." Percy wanted to believe him, but he couldn't, quite. Not after all he'd seen.

"I'm not leaving you," Percy called through the door.

George paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentler than it had been before.

"All right, Perce." He inhaled as if to speak again, and Percy waited, but there was only silence, then splashing as George stood up in the tub.

Percy pushed the door open and reached for a towel, then turned to hand it to his brother. George, however, was staring down at his erect penis.

"Oh—" said Percy, jerking his gaze away and dropping the towel.

"It keeps doing that," George mumbled, not looking up at Percy. "I'm not—I mean I don't feel—but then I think about Fred or something, or maybe just nothing at all. And I can't make it stop. It's sick."

Percy didn't know what to say. He crouched to pick up the towel where he had dropped it on the cold tiled floor, and he stayed there longer than necessary, willing the blush in his cheeks to fade.

"I know about you and Fred," he murmured, scraping his thumb over the grout between two tiles, "So, I mean if—it's all right—I mean—" It wasn't actually all right—Percy couldn't imagine touching anyone like that, especially his own brother—but he couldn't stop talking.

"Perce, I—" George interrupted, and Percy stood, staring at the wall behind his brother, holding out the towel.

"Just dry yourself," he said. George took the towel and rubbed it over his face and his hair, then stepped out of the tub.

Or tried to. He slipped and fell forward, and Percy's arms shot out instinctively and he caught his naked, slippery brother. The towel went flying and the brothers landed in a heap of tangled limbs on the tiled floor. Percy banged his elbow on the floor and his head on the doorjamb, but George was all right, wasn't he?

"George," Percy gasped, wriggling out of their accidental embrace. George swore and pushed himself up, then sat back against the tub.

"You're all right?" George asked, his eyes close, his head thrown back. Percy closed his own eyes and assessed himself.

"Yes," he replied after a moment, "You?"

"I'm fine." George was breathing hard and his knees were drawn up to his chest and spread slightly. When Percy opened his eyes to look at his brother, he blushed—the erection George had sported when he stood up in the bath had not lessened, but still strained between his legs.

"Cover yourself," Percy mumbled, averting his eyes again, and, after a moment, George did, draping the towel between his legs.

"I'm going to make you something to eat while you get dressed," Percy continued, "and then you'll rest while I take a shower."

---

Percy had tried to convince himself that he needed the shower to clean himself up after such extended human contact, but three minutes in, he put a hand around his insistent prick and squeezed, gritting his teeth.

Had it been the sight of George's erection that had done this to him, or the remembrance of how George had moaned when he was with Fred? Percy had never been caught when he'd listened at their bedroom door at night, and he had vivid images that he'd carried, filed away all these years, of exactly what he imagined had gone on behind that battered door.

He allowed himself to remember them for a moment, like opening an old photo album, and he began to pull on his cock, bracing himself against the wall with one hand while the shower water beat down on his head and his back.

Fred and George kissing. Fred and George taking off each others' clothes. Fred and George touching each other, oh, god. Touching each others'—pricks, oh god, coaxing moans and smiles from each others' mouths.

They had started it so long ago; they were both so young—Percy had been so young, and had listened at their door until he couldn't stand it anymore and had to tiptoe as quickly and as quietly as he could back to his room to pull on his prick like he was doing now until he came, gasping, all over the bedclothes, and—

—god, it was all over the shower wall and it had ended before Percy had half realised it had begun.

He clenched his jaw and shook his head to clear it of the images that had accumulated, one on top of the other, then stood upright again in the shower spray and cleaned himself off.

When Percy emerged from the shower, George was waiting for him. Percy looked frantically around for his dressing gown before his brain processed the fact that George was wearing it, then he reached for the nearest towel, throwing it around his waist.

His blush was spreading from his face up to his ears and down his neck; his chest was warming under George's gaze and he knew it would be only moments before it, too, was a splotchy red colour.

"What—" Percy began.

"Dinner was good," George interrupted, "I kept it down. So far, anyway." He paused. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome," Percy replied, and he adjusted the towel, which was slipping. "George, if you don't mind—"

"Perce, it's not a problem. You've seen me naked a million times. Especially these last few days. So I don't mind seeing a bit of you."

Percy scowled. "That is not my point. This is different. Come on, George. You should be resting, anyway—go and lie on the sofa while I get dressed. Please."

But George wasn't having any of it. He shuffled a little closer, so close that Percy could see the deep bags under his eyes.

"Percy," George said, and he reached out and drew a hand down the back of Percy's bare neck, skimming over freckles.

"Don't touch me!" Percy shrieked, and he jerked himself away from George's touch and dashed past him into the bedroom and slammed the door.

---

Once Percy was dressed in his favourite blue pyjamas and his breathing had returned to normal, he slumped on the edge of the bed and wondered what he was going to do. He could see George's shadow under the door and wondered how long George could possibly sit there.

"Stubborn," he finally muttered, and he ran a hand through his damp hair. He knew if he didn't dry it, it would curl, and he'd left his wand in the bathroom. There was nothing to do but open the door.

And when he did, George collapsed into the bedroom.

"Fuck," he swore, and he rubbed his eyes.

"Were you asleep?" Percy asked. "Sitting against the door like that?"

"Maybe," George replied, and he snuffled a little, then struggled to his feet with the help of the doorjamb.

The brothers stared at each other for a long moment.

"Excuse me," Percy said.

George blinked. "Go right ahead, Perce." He didn't move out of the doorway, though, and Percy had to make himself as small as possible to squeeze past.

Percy tried to pretend he didn't see George watching him drying and combing and parting his hair. But when he turned around, George was there again, leaning against the wall. He might have looked cool if it hadn't been so apparent that he was leaning because he was still too weak to stand for very long.

"You shouldn't have to sleep in the armchair," George declared, and Percy would have arched an eyebrow if he weren't so exhausted from tending to George.

"I'm too tired for games," Percy replied, "So just tell me what you're after."

"Let's sleep in your bed," George said then, "Together. Then you can get some rest and I'll be right there for you to worry about."

"I—no," Percy said, cutting off the explanation he'd been ready to launch into.

"Yes," George said, and the rasp of his voice sent something shivering down Percy's spine.

"You have nightmares," Percy argued, "You call out Fred's name. You kick. You moan and you sweat. I'll watch from the chair, thank you."

George shrugged and stifled a yawn. "'M too tired to argue, Perce," he said, "Gonna go to sleep now." And he shrugged off Percy's dressing gown and crossed the hall to the bedroom and a moment later Percy heard the rustling of his starched sheets.

He bit his lip and followed.

---

Percy squinted at the clock and wondered why he was awake.

And then George cried out again.

He choked out their dead brother's name, thrashing about. Percy sat up, fumbling for his spectacles and smashing them onto his face.

He leaned over his brother. "George," he demanded, "George, wake up."

George gave only a choking cry in response and buried his face in the pillow. Percy closed his eyes tightly behind his glasses and swallowed his fear.

And then he put his arms around his brother. Firmly. Decisively. And though every cell in his body screamed at him to stop, stop, stop, Percy ignored them and just held George hard until he finally stopped kicking and crying.

---

George rolled over in Percy's embrace and lifted his glasses off his nose.

"Hey," he whispered, and Percy could only blink at him. The bags under George's eyes were gone and he had enough vibrant freckles for two of him.

George pressed forward and laid a chaste kiss on Percy's mouth, and Percy's eyes fluttered closed at the feeling of his brother's lips on his, his brother's hands reaching up to tangle in his hair. Percy splayed his hands on George's back and moaned against George's mouth, and George rolled the two of them over so that he was on top of Percy, and Percy's hips jerked upwards when he felt his brother's erection pressing against his thigh.

"I want to make you better," Percy said.

"Just be my Fred," George murmured, and he moved to drop kisses down Percy's neck.

Percy nodded, then paused and whispered in George's ear.

"But I don't know how."

"Then I'll show you," George replied and suddenly there was a firm hand around Percy's prick, and Percy didn't even have time to wonder why he found pleasure instead of pain in the touches before the hand was followed by a mouth.

"George," he cried, and George took his mouth from around Percy's prick long enough to call back Fred and it should have seemed strange but it didn't. Percy was willing to play whatever part George needed him to play.

Especially if it would make George better.

Especially if George kept doing that.

Percy kept thrusting up into George's mouth, and he gripped the duvet with one hand to keep it from falling completely off the bed, and he gripped a fistful of George's hair—and it was warm, and Percy didn't know why—with the other.

No one had ever done this to him before. He didn't even know if anyone had ever wanted to do this to him, but he didn't care because George was there, a warm and fiery red blur between Percy's thighs, and when Percy tugged on his hair and begged him to stop, George made a muffled sound of protest and worked his hand and his mouth faster, faster, and Percy came—

---

—all over the inside of his pyjamas, oh god, oh no, no, no, oh what if George had felt—

But George slept on, his breath coming in little puffs where his face was smashed against the pillow, and Percy peeled himself from his brother and padded to the bathroom to clean himself and his pyjamas. He cringed at the damp fabric clinging to his thigh and stripped the pyjamas off quickly, aiming a cleansing spell at the dark spot that covered the crotch. It wasn't ideal, but it would do—better than fumbling for a new set in the dark and then having to explain to George in the morning why he was wearing stripes instead of blue when he'd definitely gone to bed in blue.

He hadn't come in his pants like that since he was a teenager. But he hadn't had such a vivid dream since then, either. He allowed himself to wonder—only for a moment—what George would say if Percy confessed what he'd dreamt, but he immediately shook the thought from his head and instead occupied himself with wondering if he should go out and sleep on the sofa.

But the image of George's eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks stopped him, and the thought of George's bare knees drawn up to his bare chest drew him back into the bedroom. He stood there for a long time gazing down at his brother and wondered what his touches would really feel like.

He thought he might be able to stand them.

Percy walked around the bed, then, to his own side, and lay on the edge, his back to his brother.

Because then again, he might not.

---

It had been a week. Percy had finally gone into work on Thursday morning and explained the entire situation to Kingsley—after swearing him to secrecy—beginning with the trip to Trigon and ending with a plea to use just a few more sick days, the days he wasn't going to use otherwise.

Kingsley assented with more sympathy than Percy had expected, and by noon on Thursday, Percy and George were eating chicken soup at Percy's scrubbed wood table.

And by Thursday evening, Percy had begun to wonder if George might be well enough to be on his own.

And by Thursday night, as he lay in bed beside his sleeping brother, Percy knew he had to let George go.

"I can't be Fred," he explained to George on Friday evening.

"I don't expect you to be," George replied. He ran a hand through his hair, which was starting to shine again as it always had. The circles under his eyes had lessened a little, too, Percy thought, and he seemed lit from within, as if a spark that had nearly gone out had been fanned once again into flame.

"I can't be—" Percy stumbled over his thoughts and paused, just looking at George, wishing he could communicate without having to speak.

"I—Fred and I, we were—"

"I know what you were."

"—brothers, first and foremost. And you and I, well. We're brothers, too."

Percy squirmed in his seat and reverted to sarcasm, as he tended to do in such situations.

"That's quite astute of you."

"Percy, shut up, would you? I'm just asking you to be my brother. Which you weren't, for a lot of years. And which you have been this week. That's all."

"That's all?"

"That's all I—all I need. Yeah."

Percy sensed that George was holding something back, but he didn't want to press for fear of discovering exactly what he wanted—exactly what he wanted to stop feeling, stop thinking that.

He sighed and looked at his brother, his shoulders slumping. "Come on," he said, rising, "I've packed a small bag for you. Stay one more night and I'll go with you to your flat in the morning."

---

There was a layer of dust on everything in the flat above George's shop. A skillet was on the stove with a film of grease in the bottom, the rubbish bin overflowed with liquor bottles and takeaway cartons, and a musty smell hung in the air. Percy could have sworn he saw something—a very small rat or a very large cockroach—scuttle away when he lit the lamp. His stomach began to churn and he wished away images of George actually living in the flat in this state.

"It's been a while," said George, dropping the bag Percy had packed on the dusty kitchen table and gazing around the flat.

"So I see," replied Percy, "Would you like some help cleaning?"

George paused. "No," he finally said, "I'll manage."

Percy almost reached out and put a hand on George's shoulder, but he stopped himself.

"I'll be checking on you," he said instead, "And—just—come over whenever you want to, or need to, okay? Or Floo call."

"Floo's been shut off," George said, gesturing at the cold black fireplace.

Percy just nodded. "Well."

And that was when George spun around and hugged Percy hard, one hand on his back, the other in his hair, crushing the breath from Percy's lungs.

Neither brother spoke for a long moment. Percy just concentrated on breathing, his arms creeping around George.

Nothing hurt.

"Perce," George choked then, his arms still tightly embracing his brother, "I don't want you to be my Fred. I know you can't be. And I'm not trying to replace him. I never could."

George swallowed hard and Percy could feel his heart beating, faster than Percy's own.

"I just—I can't go through withdrawals again," George said, his voice breaking.

And Percy nodded because he finally understood, and something hot crackled behind his eyes, and when George lifted his face, Percy caught his searching mouth in a kiss.

And nothing hurt at all.