...except now that he had sat himself here and decided that he would be having this conversation today damnit, George didn't know what to say. For a second he thought of brushing off his purpose entirely and coming up with some sort on-the-spot get-out-of-trouble card, but -- he'd done that plenty of times already. It wasn't fair to her, and it was probably better if he saved the drinking anything alcoholic part until after he had gotten this off his chest.
"No thanks," he mumbled with a shake of his head. Just do it, George, just get it over with. "Listen, I have something I need to say, so I'm just going to say it and be done, and then I'll take the strongest thing you can possibly mix up here. Please."
And now he'd talked his way into the conversation and there was no backing out. But deep down he knew it would all be better -- at least in the sense that it wouldn't be on his mind anymore, but preferably in that things would feel more like they were back to normal.
Taking a deep breath, he said: "I'm sorry I freaked on you when I first got here and that I made such a big stink about everything. What I want to say next, I'm not trying to say it as an excuse, but it just is--I don't handle things like that very well. I'd just seen Fred die. And suddenly, before I can even understand that, all this other stuff sort of hit me like a dragon. On top of being in some weird village. And I know it's been a year, and that I sort of shafted you, and I'm sorry, because you don't deserve that.
I still don't--I don't know where I'm at right now. It's still hard to understand everything. And you know, it's--it's rotten, to be in this spot where that whole time-heals-all-wounds thing starts happening, except you don't want it to, because you still don't want the reason for that happening to even be. I still can't accept the outcome of the war. Nothing and no one will ever fill that void. I still don't understand how I can ever be happy back there. I don't have any answers. Reckon maybe the only way to get those answers is to live them, isn't it, but I can't do that.
I can't rightfully say I'm trying to heal," he said that word almost distastefully, "because I'm not. I don't want to. I don't even want to think about it because when I do, it's like -- being trapped underwater. You're being held down to the sand and you're drowning and you're choking. I've been that, and I've been so--angry, it's maddening. Angry at Voldemort, angry at myself, angry at so many people for reasons I shouldn't be. I can't go with this trying to handle it faster than I can."
He swallowed to try and calm his nerves back down. Almost here, he was almost there, and almost done with saying his piece. Whether or not he'd still stay for that bloody drink was anyone's guess by this point. "So...that's it. I miss you, Ange, being mates like we were back in school. Before all this ruddy mess with the war and this village. That's all I wanted to say.
So... can I put this on my tab? Because I haven't been to the bank yet this week..."