[On any other day, this would've been where Fred shuts down. Where he simply turns off any sort of emotion and relies on that ever familiar humour defense mechanism that has seldom failed him thus far. He's never been one for physical contact, but he so rarely gets even this close to anyone these days, even George. It's odd, how being dead makes him overly self conscious of the fact that he's colder than he should be, that he breathes only out of habit than necessity, but above all else, that pesky little fact that his heart is no longer beating.
Strange, how the thing feels heavier when he no longer needs it.
But that's the problem in the first place, isn't it? His death and the distance created because of it. That impossibly large chasm between him and everything he's known all his life - his friends, his family, his home. And they do so much to try and hide from it, to cover it up with playful banter and blatant denial, but it's always there all the same. At the end of the day, they still have to face that space in their lives where Fred Weasley used to be - but isn't.
He's just so bloody tired.
Though he's never really been comforted by anyone while upset like this besides his Mum (before he decided touching him when he's upset is signing a death wish), the light, comforting brushes and circles feel nice, if he'll admit it. Which he probably won't, in the way he laughs something dry again and shakes his head.]
Rather think I've outgrown being coddled, love.
[Which may seem as though he's outright saying no, but the way Fred is, it would've been a lot more sardonic and almost vicious. No, this is rather a declaration, possibly even a warning, before he pulls away from her and shifts along the bed. He doesn't bother with taking off his shoes or pulling out the bed sheets, simply sprawls out along it on his side and beckons her over with a tug. It's petulant, almost childlike, the way he won't voice it beyond what he's already said and the weakened look in his eyes, but it's very much a day when words have consistently failed him in light of losing something he wanted so dearly - and now that he wants this, he hasn't a clue what to say. Perhaps it simply doesn't need saying.
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branchandroot
action; lmao it's okay, baby. <3
Date: 2011-12-19 05:28 pm (UTC)Strange, how the thing feels heavier when he no longer needs it.
But that's the problem in the first place, isn't it? His death and the distance created because of it. That impossibly large chasm between him and everything he's known all his life - his friends, his family, his home. And they do so much to try and hide from it, to cover it up with playful banter and blatant denial, but it's always there all the same. At the end of the day, they still have to face that space in their lives where Fred Weasley used to be - but isn't.
He's just so bloody tired.
Though he's never really been comforted by anyone while upset like this besides his Mum (before he decided touching him when he's upset is signing a death wish), the light, comforting brushes and circles feel nice, if he'll admit it. Which he probably won't, in the way he laughs something dry again and shakes his head.]
Rather think I've outgrown being coddled, love.
[Which may seem as though he's outright saying no, but the way Fred is, it would've been a lot more sardonic and almost vicious. No, this is rather a declaration, possibly even a warning, before he pulls away from her and shifts along the bed. He doesn't bother with taking off his shoes or pulling out the bed sheets, simply sprawls out along it on his side and beckons her over with a tug. It's petulant, almost childlike, the way he won't voice it beyond what he's already said and the weakened look in his eyes, but it's very much a day when words have consistently failed him in light of losing something he wanted so dearly - and now that he wants this, he hasn't a clue what to say. Perhaps it simply doesn't need saying.
'Help.']