Fred Weasley (hisangelictwin) wrote in reduxpitch, @ 2016-05-30 22:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | !thread, character: fred weasley, character: george weasley, location: diagon alley |
Let it be a dream.
WHO: Fred and George
WHEN: An unholy hour of the morning, Monday, May 30th
WHERE: Their flat
WHAT: Bad dweams
WARNINGS: Dealing with death and loss and strong bro-feelings.
STATUS: In Progress
The school was on fire. No, it was falling down. No, it was soaked in blood. So, so much of it. It was all a haze, as dreams often are, a red and grey and green blur, streaking past as he ran. Footsteps pounded behind him, voices called after that he shouldn’t go, let others handle it, but he had to see. Ever since he’d heard the words - and not believed them, because he would have felt it - he had to go.
Up the stairs, through the familiar, twisting corridors. An alcove. A hand. George slowed to a walk, afraid now of what he was going to see. He crept around for a better view and felt the world fall away as he saw his brother, his best friend, his other half, his partner. Gone.
He felt hands on him as he sank to the ground, heard someone screaming, but it was all so far, far away. Here, inside, it was just emptiness. Forever.
It was the shouting that woke him, and the rawness of his throat told him it had been his own. He was confused and hurting, there in the dark. A soft bed drenched with sweat, the covers thrown off. A body in it. He instinctively cringed away from the form, seeing again the form of his brother swimming in front of his vision.
No. This was a girl. Blonde. She was stirring, mumbling a question, blinking blearily at him in the dark. Somewhere he heard a dog barking. Lydia. This was Lydia. He knew that. Mini-golf and star-gazing and peanuts. Bananas and hammocks and the back seat of a town car. He pressed his hands over his eyes, sorting out what was reality and what was the nightmare.
There was a cold hollowness and such blinding terror. He launched himself from the bed and grabbed for his clothes. He heard her voice, asking what was happening.
“I have to go,” he said, his voice wavering as his whole body shook, “I… I’m sorry. I think something bad happened.” If he were to take a minute and think, he’d have realized that his dreams were not prophetic and that he was just affected by the content, but it had been so real.
He circled the bed to kiss Lydia. “Go to sleep. I’ll... “ He didn’t finish the thought, because he didn’t know what he’d do. He just hurried from the room and out into the hall where he disapparated straight home, though it was only across the road. The instant the flat materialized around him, he started shouting his brother’s name.
--
Fred had been lost in his own dreams. Fire. Rubble. Explosions. Pain. So much pain. He felt it all over his body, then he felt nothing at all. Where once his breath had filled his lungs there now was a cold, empty nothingness. His eyes stared blankly upwards but he saw nothing. Then, all at once, he saw everything. It was as though he was seeing himself from the outside. Still. Quiet. Staring but unseeing. There was a blankness upon his face that he had never seen before. Death's stare.
The sound of his name on screaming lips didn't rouse him. The words seeming to echo off of the walls - or what remained of them - that surrounded his body. Fred recognized the surroundings but they were different than what he remembered. Something was wrong. This wasn't the place that he knew like the back of his hand. This wasn't what he remembered. But it felt so real.
The shouting continued, his name on a familiar voice. His body remained in his flat, in his bed, half under blankets, half hanging off of one side as it always did. It wasn't until George was nearly on top of him that his eyes started to move beneath his eyelids, darting back and forth. His throat hoarse despite being unable to scream, unable to move. The dream continued on with no signs of stopping. The weight in his chest, the scratch in his throat, the darkness that seemed to envelop everything before him unwilling to dissipate.
His body stiffened, fingers clutching at his bedsheets. Then, all at once, he opened his eyes and jolted upright, gasping and coughing as he tried to call out for George.
--
The flat was so quiet, even after the echo of his first shout died, that he was so sure that his dream was real. The panic closed around him and he threw himself across the living space and into his twin’s room, tearing the curtain away. His brother looked so still, so lifeless that George shouted again, hysterical. He ran to the bed and grabbed Fred’s shoulder and shook, hard, tears welling in his eyes. “No, no, no, no, wake up.”
And then his brother did wake and relief flooded George like hot water and he stumbled back, sinking onto the floor, where he sat with his head in his hands, shaking, trying to remember how breathing was supposed to happen.
“Fuck,” he said into his hands, not sure exactly what real words he could use to express exactly why he’d barged into his twin’s room at whatever hour of the morning, shouting to wake the dead. Literally.
--
Fred felt as though he was a bit delirious as he sat there, eyes wide and throat dry. The familiar sound of his brother's voice broke the silence in the room, but he just couldn't seem to figure out how to manage words. For a long moment, he stayed quiet and staring. As quiet as he'd been in the all too real dream. He finally shook his head as though that would rid him of the memories that weren't his own. Thoughts of George replaced them after a moment and he realized that his twin shouldn't have been in the flat at all. He'd gone off with his girl and that is where he'd expected him to spend the night.
"What are you doing here, George?," he asked him, unwilling to mention the dream for fear that it would come true. He worried that he'd somehow speak his own death into existence if he dared to breath it aloud. "I thought you were with Lydia." It was only after he said the last bit that he realized how hoarse he sounded and felt the sting of moisture slipping down his cheek. Hoping the darkness would keep George from realizing something was wrong, he lifted his hand to wipe the back of it across his cheek.
"Are you alright?"
--
“Peachy,” George replied, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. “I was just super bored, you know,” he went on, adopting his best casual air, “sitting around, being asleep, dreaming about fluffy kittens.” He let out a shuddering, tell-tale breath at the lie. He sure wished it had been fluffy kittens, even ones with tentacles for heads or a taste for human flesh, at least that could have been forgotten in a few minutes.
“So I thought to myself, what would be the most fun ever?” He rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. “Waking up my brother, who is, conveniently, the most alive.” He laughed, then, with relief and delirium. The adrenaline was draining out of him, and suddenly the whole thing seemed so stupid. Of course it had just been a dream. Dreams were dumb. He liked the real world better.
“Sorry,” he added. “For taking you away from whatever beach you were probably on.”
--
It was a load of bull if Fred had ever heard one. He knew his brother better than he knew himself and before he'd managed to get half a word out, he knew he was lying. He would have let the lie go if it hadn't been for the words in the middle of all Fred had said. The most alive. It hit him like a punch to the kidney and he swallowed down the ache that he'd thought he'd rid himself of.
"Why wouldn't I be alive?," he asked him. "It's not like I exploded randomly or something," he muttered, unhappily unable to forget the dream no matter how hard he tried. "Stealing my dreams now, Georgie?," he questioned. "Please tell me that if I die in more than one dream it's not going to come true." Dreams didn't work like that. Did they? Fred sure as hell hoped not.
--
George had been just about to brush the whole thing off, to say forget it, to say something witty and pointless, and then go crawl into his own bed and try to sleep again. There was no way he’d leave the flat again until his head settled. But then Fred said the things that brought back the chill, made his own heart seem to stop and his fingers to go numb.
“I sure hope not,” he replied with a shaky voice, peering through the darkness at the form that was his other half. “And I hope to whatever that you’re kidding, even though it’s not funny.” He raked his hands through his hair and drew his knees up.
“It was awful,” he said in a quiet voice, “the screaming and the blood and you were…” He shivered then, unable to finish the thought aloud.
--
Unfortunately, he wasn't kidding. Even if he tried his best to make it seem like it was lighthearted, it wasn't. There was a painful twinge to Fred's voice as he moved to slide off of his bed and onto the floor beside his twin. "Dead," he finished the sentence, swallowing down the spiked lump that formed in his throat. The nothingness that he'd felt before all too real and clenching at the edges of his insides.
"What was it, George?," he asked him. "It felt… too real." More than real. It felt as if it were happening right then and there. As if he were living the moment himself. Now it felt like it was on repeat, playing again and again in his mind both in visual and emotional surround sound. "A nightmare? The both of us? But…," he shook his head. There had to be an explanation. "Someone must be having a go at us," he told him. "Some crazy dream spell. Soon as I figure out who it is, I'm gonna make 'em wish they'd kept their jokes to themselves."
--
George felt physically sick. His stomach turned and though he couldn’t remember what he’d eaten the night before, he had a feeling he might be reminded rather soon. The adrenaline had drained away and he was cold and shaking and empty.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, vividly remembering exactly how dead his brother had been. “It was real, it had to be…” He stole a glance over at Fred. “You’d been… Crushed.” He felt a wave of revulsion at speaking this out loud, like it was the wrong thing to do, like it shouldn’t be voiced lest it come true.
He couldn’t think of anyone who would think this was funny enough to do it as a joke, nor could he think of anyone terrible enough to do it as punishment, and that’s what made him feel so helpless.
Normally George would have at least given a minor attempt at talking his brother back from violence, but in this moment, it just felt too personal to do so. “Damn right,” he agreed.
--
"Don't remind me," he muttered. The crushing weight of whatever it was made him sick to his stomach. He had to keep himself still and quiet for a moment to keep from hurling.
"I can still feel it," he admitted. "Like it just happened. Like it… like it was real." If it had been a spell of some sort, it was a damn powerful one. He didn't know if he liked that thought or not. He'd done his share of practical jokes, but he'd never gone quite this far. He couldn't seem to fathom that anyone would be so angry with him as to put a dream of his own death not only in his head but into George's as well.
The more he thought on it, the more he felt like he might be sick. Edging closer to George and the warmth that came off of him, Fred rested his head against his brother's shoulder as he tried to urge his stomach to stop flip-flopping. "You didn't spook Lydia, did you?," he asked him.
--
The topic of either of them dying ever was not one George wanted to keep talking about, so he took the out and latched onto it. “Probably,” he replied, feeling a twist of guilt in his gut on top of all the other stupid feelings. “Though she was pretty out of it, maybe she won’t remember.” And then a fresh thought popped into his head and he groaned.
“Except if she doesn’t remember, then she’ll wonder where I went.” He sighed. He’d have to write her later or buy her a cake or bring her lunch or something.
“I don’t want to think about this anymore,” he said quietly, though he knew that would be impossible. They could stay up the rest of the night if they wanted, doing what they always did, but every time he blinked, every time he let his mind wander, he’d see the staring, dead face of his best friend in the universe.
--
Just as eager to move past their mutual horrid nightmare, Fred was glad when George decided to answer his question. Lydia, if she didn't remember, would certainly wonder where George had gone. "Guess you'll have to make it up to her, won't you?," he asked, already knowing the answer. He could practically hear the wheels turning in his brother's mind as he tried to think of something that he could do to apologize for rushing out on Lydia.
"Me either," he agreed. Even if he wanted to forget it, though, it was absolutely obvious that it was damn near impossible. As tired as he was, Fred didn't think he could go back to sleep. Fearful that he'd fall right back into the dream, he wasn't sure if he even wanted to consider sleeping any time soon.
"Are you going to stay?," he asked George. "Or do you need to get back now that you know I'm, ya know, here?"
--
“Yeah,” George agreed. “I”ll come up with something.” He could worry about that later. She would be asleep for a while, he figured, so there was no need to rush right back out the door and buy her flowers or a pizza or something. Or maybe an apology and a hug would do the trick. Whatever he’d do, it wouldn’t be right now.
“I’m not going back,” he said with a little, humorless laugh. “No way in hell I’m letting you out of my sight at least until the sun’s up and I can find someone to shout at or something to break.” Because that’s what he did when he was upset, he broke stuff. Like their whole flat. Oops.
He had a few theories already. He liked theories, they gave him focus.
--
Fred breathed out a sigh of relief when his twin told him he wasn't leaving. He didn't think he would, of course, but hearing it aloud made him feel a considerable amount better. "Just don't break the flat again," he told him, a tiny attempt at humor in his voice. "I'm not in the mood to clean."
He tried to think of who might have had it in for him that would have cast such a horrid spell, but he was coming up blank. It wasn't because he didn't have his share of enemies, but because he and George didn't really have any enemies in common. Who could hate them both enough to pull such a terrible prank?
--
“Nah,” George replied, finding it easier to live in a place of good humor, “I learned my lesson there. I’ll only break everything when it’s really important.” Like if the dream had really been really real. “I’d really just rather break a nose, actually.” He wasn’t usually a physically violent sort of person, but everyone had their limits. This, apparently, was his.
He sighed and put a hand to the floor to push himself up to his feet. “Do you want food or something?” He wasn't really very hungry, between the late hour and the twisting in his stomach, but the panic had left him feeling drained and he figured getting something to eat would both be good and would give them something to do while neither of them slept.
--
Fred felt the same sort of violent urges and the more he thought about the dream, the more angry he became. There was no real place to direct that anger and that was what made the entire situation worse. If he knew who had caused the nightmare in the first place, he'd have felt better. Not knowing was infinitely worse.
When George got up, Fred did the same. The question got a shrug then he nodded. "Sure," he said, even if he wasn't really hungry. He needed to do something else lest he keep repeating the dream over and over again in his head. "Pancakes?," he suggested as he moved towards the door, rubbing a hand over his face as he turned on a light.
--
George gave an easy smile. “Pancakes I can do.” At the very least, it would give him something to do with his hands, so even if neither of them ate, at least he’d be occupied for a little while. He just wished he knew how to do the silly shapes like their mother used to do, the ones that always made George feel better after a bad night.
He blinked at the light, he’d been existing in the dark for hours now, but was able to easily grope his way to the kitchen area and start digging around in cabinets. He didn’t really cook ever, because he liked his home to not be on fire, but he knew where things were well enough that he’d gathered most all of it by the time his eyes adjusted.
He was quiet as he got things ready, retreating into his own head. He was trying to find something, anything else to think about. Beaches and fireworks and glittering, neon signs. It sort of helped.
“Oh,” he said after landing on something worth following, “I’m supposed to check for sure if you’re fine covering solo at the end of June. When we get back, I’ll do all the obnoxious chores and you can have some time, yeah?”
--
Fred was relieved to have something else to talk about. While George went about making pancakes, he got some dishes down so they'd have something to eat off of. Or, at least, something to put the food on while they poked and prodded at it before pushing it away entirely.
As much as he didn't want to be without George again, he wasn't going to say as much aloud. He deserved to have a good time, even if that meant a lot more time apart. "I'm fine covering," he assured him. "Don't worry about it." He wanted his twin to go and have a good time, even if he knew he'd miss him terribly while he was away. "Rest assured I'll have plenty of chores for you to do when you come back, though," he warned him, flashing a little smile in George's direction.
--
Maybe George’s leaving for two weeks wasn’t the best thing in the world to talk about today, but it needed going over, and it it was nice and distracting, so whatever. “Awesome,” he replied. He did feel a bit guilty for just deciding to flit off with Lydia and leaving Fred behind again, but he was really excited for this trip, their first one where they didn’t have to spend the entire time trying not to be couply.
He laughed as he slid pancakes onto a plate and pushed it across the counter toward Fred. “Yeah, just leave them all, I’ll take care of it when I get back. Just… don’t let anything get moldy, okay?” He shuddered. “Blech.”
--
Fred took the plate and proceeded to drench the pancakes with butter and syrup. Even if his stomach didn't think it was hungry, his brain certainly did. At least eating took his mind off of everything else. He was thankful for that and the distraction was certainly welcome.
"I can't make any promises," he told his brother. "You never can tell with mold," he teased. "Sometimes it just comes out of nowhere. I really can't be blamed if it just decides to grow on something. Completely beyond my control." Yeah, mold was better conversation than his dream death. It made it easier to forget what they'd both been so upset about only moments before. Distraction. It was wonderful.
--
“Oh yes,” George said seriously, “that rapid advancing mold is most devastating. Popping up all over the place, ruining perfectly good food out of the blue. You certainly can’t be held accountable.” He laughed then and gave a wink as he tipped the last of the pancakes onto a new plate and shut everything off. He then promptly forgot about the food he’d just made.
Really, he wasn’t all that worried about a few icky dishes or spoiled leftovers, he’d handle it, and he’d do it without complaint if if it meant he was, at least a little, paying his brother back for leaving him for so long.
“Well, just do the best you can.”
--
It was good to hear George laughing, especially after the morning they'd had. Pushing the whole thing to the back of his thoughts, he focused on his plate and cut his pancakes into smaller bites. He didn't eat them, but did scoot them around the plate a few times, soaking them further with syrup in the process.
"What do you guys have planned anyway?," he asked. "Got a schedule or are you just playing it by ear?"
--
Something about what Fred had said made George cringe a bit, like it had reminded him of something, but he couldn’t quite place it. He shook his head to clear the sudden ringing in his ear, but it didn’t help. He frowned as he prodded with his finger. When that didn’t do anything, he decided to ignore it and focus on the question.
“Um, exploring old ruins was at the top of the list,” he replied, “then some gross romantic cliff-side picnic stuff, Rome, and whatever else we feel like, I guess.”
He poked at his ear again, working his jaw to try to relieve the pressure or whatever was bothering it. Ugh.
--
Fred tilted his head, arching a brow at his brother curiously. "You alright?," he questioned, momentarily distracted from the conversation at hand by the way his brother was fiddling with his ear. As interesting as romantic picnics and ruins were - barf, mostly because he didn't have someone to do romantic things with and he was a teensy bit jealous - he was more concerned with the discomfort his twin seemed to be in.
"See, bet all that screaming you were doing when you got here messed something up," he teased, hoping to lighten the whole situation a little further. "That'll teach you."