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[...there were a thousand things...]
I wrote something weird. Yeah. See, HP is my estranged fandom, writing-wise, so I apologize for what I've done to Ron and George. I'm still surprised I wrote it. Like, check out my mood and stuff.
War Stories
Harry Potter. Ron/George. PG13. Warning: incest. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre.
"Maybe they've become invisible." Warfic.
'i wouldn't know what to do with another chance
if you gave it to me'
fiona apple, "the way things are"
Ron swats away nonexistent ants from his arms. He doesn't know since when that's been happening. It's not like the ants disappeared either. They're definitely there because he and George can't be bothered cleaning up after themselves. They just pick up the mess and move it to the side if they ever need space. There were half-hearted attempts at dishwashing and laundry, but for the most part, the Burrow is unlivable. The ants don't completely disappear, but Ron is so used to them that he can feel their legs scurrying up his skin. Maybe they've become invisible.
The sunlight is anemic through the grime on the windows. He has learned to tolerate the smell and feel of decay that seems to seep directly into his skin. He curls up into the sofa or his bed and he can feel the filth settling on him, into him, and he's just used to that. Sometimes George is with him, and the two of them become a Gordian knot of human touch and last resorts, pressed against each other like Ron is Fred or George is Harry. They don't do anything; they just lie there, finding comfort in the warmth of bodies and the inhale-exhale of deep, long breaths. Companions in a world that has become larger and smaller simultaneously, where the norms have changed and everything outside their door is falling apart (as well).
It used to make Ron uncomfortable, and still does, the way they lie together. It makes him think things he doesn't want to think about. It would be better if George was Harry in this case, so Ron can cut his losses and minimize taboos, and Ron can hardly believe he's thinking something like that. When he's surrounded by musty blankets and his brother's arms, his mind thinks things. Consciously he generalizes the thoughts, like everything is so soft and everything is so warm, because it makes sense that softness and warmth are good things, and everyone wants good things. Everyone would want a slice of that, especially if it's so fucking scarce.
One time on the sofa, George fell asleep. Ron stares at him, and studies his brother's thick eyelashes and increasingly concave cheeks. He studies George's lips, slightly parted, breaths whistling through the gap between his teeth, and Ron...
There were a thousand things Ron could do with this moment. His fingers twitched. His lips parted of their own accord. His chest was tight anticipation and.
There were a thousand things.
Ron thought oh my fucking god, fucking stop, fucking stop and put his hand over George's mouth. A compromise. This was how he could touch George's lips and still be safe. George woke up and Ron quickly withdrew his hand.
"What?" he said groggily.
"You were snoring," Ron lied.
Before George went back to sleep, he let Ron slip out of his arms and retreat back to their parents' room, which was now his room because it was bigger. George, however, has become a creature of habit and follow-through. He didn't move out of "me and Fred's room" and he didn't ask Ron why he was running up the stairs so fast.
But, there is one thing Ron would like to ask George. It's about Fred, though, so he doubts he'll ever ask it. He just wants to know why Fred's... why what happened to Fred affects George the way it does. "I thought you'd want to fight back," Ron would say. "You always did. Those other times, you always did."
Ron imagines the reply, because he's become adept at forming whole conversations in his head. George would say, "Those other times weren't Fred, were they?"
Another reason Ron never asks this question is what if George has a question just as cutting? No, it's not just a question. It's the question. He's rephrased the question several times in his mind because it frightens him, and it goes something like, "Harry's been missing for months so what are you still doing here?"
Essentially they'd be asking each other the same thing. Why are you here? are the unspoken words. Why are you dying here with me?
Questions that make them stare at their reflections in the filthy mirrors around the house and wonder what kind of men they are, running from a holy war to decay in their childhood haven that everyone else has sensibly abandoned.
"We're cowards, we are," Ron mumbles into George's hair.
The brothers are tangled in dirty sheets in Fred's old bed, and George says, "What?"
"Nothing."
And Ron is right.
[end.]
War Stories
Harry Potter. Ron/George. PG13. Warning: incest. Written for
contrelamontre."Maybe they've become invisible." Warfic.
if you gave it to me'
fiona apple, "the way things are"
Ron swats away nonexistent ants from his arms. He doesn't know since when that's been happening. It's not like the ants disappeared either. They're definitely there because he and George can't be bothered cleaning up after themselves. They just pick up the mess and move it to the side if they ever need space. There were half-hearted attempts at dishwashing and laundry, but for the most part, the Burrow is unlivable. The ants don't completely disappear, but Ron is so used to them that he can feel their legs scurrying up his skin. Maybe they've become invisible.
The sunlight is anemic through the grime on the windows. He has learned to tolerate the smell and feel of decay that seems to seep directly into his skin. He curls up into the sofa or his bed and he can feel the filth settling on him, into him, and he's just used to that. Sometimes George is with him, and the two of them become a Gordian knot of human touch and last resorts, pressed against each other like Ron is Fred or George is Harry. They don't do anything; they just lie there, finding comfort in the warmth of bodies and the inhale-exhale of deep, long breaths. Companions in a world that has become larger and smaller simultaneously, where the norms have changed and everything outside their door is falling apart (as well).
It used to make Ron uncomfortable, and still does, the way they lie together. It makes him think things he doesn't want to think about. It would be better if George was Harry in this case, so Ron can cut his losses and minimize taboos, and Ron can hardly believe he's thinking something like that. When he's surrounded by musty blankets and his brother's arms, his mind thinks things. Consciously he generalizes the thoughts, like everything is so soft and everything is so warm, because it makes sense that softness and warmth are good things, and everyone wants good things. Everyone would want a slice of that, especially if it's so fucking scarce.
One time on the sofa, George fell asleep. Ron stares at him, and studies his brother's thick eyelashes and increasingly concave cheeks. He studies George's lips, slightly parted, breaths whistling through the gap between his teeth, and Ron...
There were a thousand things Ron could do with this moment. His fingers twitched. His lips parted of their own accord. His chest was tight anticipation and.
There were a thousand things.
Ron thought oh my fucking god, fucking stop, fucking stop and put his hand over George's mouth. A compromise. This was how he could touch George's lips and still be safe. George woke up and Ron quickly withdrew his hand.
"What?" he said groggily.
"You were snoring," Ron lied.
Before George went back to sleep, he let Ron slip out of his arms and retreat back to their parents' room, which was now his room because it was bigger. George, however, has become a creature of habit and follow-through. He didn't move out of "me and Fred's room" and he didn't ask Ron why he was running up the stairs so fast.
But, there is one thing Ron would like to ask George. It's about Fred, though, so he doubts he'll ever ask it. He just wants to know why Fred's... why what happened to Fred affects George the way it does. "I thought you'd want to fight back," Ron would say. "You always did. Those other times, you always did."
Ron imagines the reply, because he's become adept at forming whole conversations in his head. George would say, "Those other times weren't Fred, were they?"
Another reason Ron never asks this question is what if George has a question just as cutting? No, it's not just a question. It's the question. He's rephrased the question several times in his mind because it frightens him, and it goes something like, "Harry's been missing for months so what are you still doing here?"
Essentially they'd be asking each other the same thing. Why are you here? are the unspoken words. Why are you dying here with me?
Questions that make them stare at their reflections in the filthy mirrors around the house and wonder what kind of men they are, running from a holy war to decay in their childhood haven that everyone else has sensibly abandoned.
"We're cowards, we are," Ron mumbles into George's hair.
The brothers are tangled in dirty sheets in Fred's old bed, and George says, "What?"
"Nothing."
And Ron is right.
[end.]
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OhyouwriteWeasleycestbeautifully!
I really love the inclusion of Fred and Harry as sort of... excuses to talk to each other and comfort each other.
That was really sad. But very good.
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I love your imagery, as always, and the emotions you put into your characters. Such talent. Can't imagine why you're surprised you wrote this.
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Thank you. ^^
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*memories it* <3
Thank you!
*flattered like woah*
:D
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I am not worthy to besmirch your brilliance with comment.
..
..
..
But I will.
*tries to find words*
*comes up with 'Argh!'*
Argh!
I dunno...every now and then you say "...But I don't write HP anymore" and then you get ambushed by a plot bunny.
I think you have a HP subconscious where HP fics materialise without your knowledge; then they seep into your conscious mind and take you by surprise.......thank goodness!
:D
And hey - multifandom is our friend...makes us well-rounded
fangirlsindividuals.no subject
And you may be right about the HP. I reckon the Gryffindor boys are trying to take back what was once theirs. Damn their bull-headed valiance!
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Ha!
*continues to secretly provide Gryffindor boys with provisions and secret maps*
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Thank you.
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I mean.
IT'LL BE CHAN NEXT.
I mean, no, wait.
I mean. Heh. You and me both. I never thought I'd be writing HP again, but apparently the PTB say differently.
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*despairs*
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Sorry for short review...
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Cruel, too :o(
It's a pretty tasty flavor. ;)
A little late, but...
Consciously he generalizes the thoughts, like everything is so soft and everything is so warm, because it makes sense that softness and warmth are good things, and everyone wants good things. Everyone would want a slice of that, especially if it's so fucking scarce.
That's a really nice little piece of psychology, and you can read so many things into it: generalising things so he doesn't have to think about what he's doing, exactly, generalising so it blots all the rest out, and so he can take all the good he can get from it. OK, actually, I can't explain it, but that's exactly why I love that bit, because it just feels right.
And the way everything points to how they're just nothing anymore. *shudders*
Thanks very much for sharing!
Re: A little late, but...
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xx