oo6.

[feorge]

[ accidental video ]

[An absolute silence hangs between the twins as they stare at a picture frame hanging on the wall. Some might recognize the photo within it, others still might recognize the Hall it's posted in. And even if they don't, Fred and George can hardly spare a moment to care, because that silence has a rather tight grasp on them, forcing them to recognize them both for what it is.

Ronald Weasley has left the City.

Fred looks over to George, a look of discontent (and perhaps even anger) clear on his face, before looking back over to the frame.]

So that's it, then? Gone without so much as a sound, just a photograph in some dreadful hallway?

You tell me. You've the one who's been here longer.

[George runs a hand over his face. Without even thinking about it, his hand reaches out and grips firmly onto Fred's shoulder.]

He'd barely even got here.

[Fred visibly tenses at the hand on his shoulder, much as it should be a comfort, and he looks up to the ceiling for a moment before shaking his head.]

Unbelievable tosspot.

[His voice does not sound strained there, thank you very much, and there is nothing even close to a deep, shaky exhale to follow before he shrugs George's hand from his shoulder and turns to leave.]

We ought to go muck up his room. Test out those new fireworks.

[George crosses his arms and fixes Fred with a hard stare.]

Don't be a prat, Fred. That's the last thing everyone needs right now.

The last thing everyone needs right now--!

[In the process of shouting, and Fred only stops to notice the device is recording them. A low string of swear words can be heard as he walks up to it and his hand covers the feed for the briefest of moments before everything starts spinning and the feed ends with a crash!]

Comments

video;

[feorge]

[No. It's what he ought to say, isn't it? He should turn her away immediately, because company is something he can't have right now, shouldn't have and not because he's upset and breaking things but because he's not meant to have it. He doesn't want to see her, he doesn't want to see anyone or anything for that matter.

Easier to be angry, but wouldn't it be easier if he was just dead?

The way he's meant to be, but he's not and it's beautiful and wonderful and terrible all at once. He's spent so long in denial of these aching fears that maybe it's a dream or maybe it's not real but either way, they'll all leave eventually -- and now he isn't sure what to feel. What to think or what to do.

Boring the heels of his hands into his eyes, he exhales shakily and nods his head.]

Yeah.

[ooc; for timeline's sake, we'll say this is after the other action threads and Fred's locked himself in their room. Also: this is my first phone tag since breaking my phone and I still can't see the keyboard so I apologise for mistakes. :c]

video; -> action; (that's fine and there are no mistakes! :D)

[knowledgeably.livejournal.com]

I'll be there shortly.

[ She can tell he isn't all for this idea. She knows him well enough, can read him well enough, to know that. But it's not going to stop her, because she knows that what he wants and what he needs are probably very different. He may not be Ron, but she's met enough Weasley men in her life to catch the patterns of pride and stubbornness that come with each and every one of them.

There's the usual crack of someone apparating, but she makes no further moves toward him. She just stands there, barely inside the door, looking at him with her own emotions written all over her face, trying to get a read on his. That lasts a few minutes, her studying him, before she makes a motion.

She steps forward, then finding a place where she'll be able to sit facing him, relatively close. Hermione reaches over, placing her hand atop one of his, and gently rubs her thumb over his knuckles. ]

Fred... [ She trails off, eyes locked on his face, hand unmoving. He knows what she wants and is trying to say. ]

action; (SCORE! :D)

[feorge]

[Just as she appears in his room, Fred tosses his device carelessly to the working bench across the room then looks up to meet her eyes. Where emotion can be found written across Hermione's face, on his, there can be found none. Or many there is simply too much to read. His eyes are darkened and tired - they'd gone to the Hall early in the morning when Fred noticed Ron's absence during a half-sleeping bathroom run. At first, he thought he was imagining things, or was certain he was downstairs stealing snacks from the cupboard as per usual, something, anything but gone, and there wasn't a moment to spare when he realised he was.

From there, his emotions went from fearful to angry to guilty to distraught to everything in between and far beyond, but the moment he lays eyes on Hermione, he just feels tired. Tired from waking up early and running about, tired from shouting and throwing things and hitting other things. But mostly tired because he has no need to be tired at all.

The soft brush of her touch, the warmth in contrast with his literal deathly cold, sends chills down his spine and he closes his eyes. Focuses on the heat in her palm, the lingering pain beneath it from punching the solid wall of the Hall earlier, and maybe just a little bit of pain from the gesture at all. His name on her lips sounding both a blessing and a curse, soft and sweet and lulling him to the sleep he so desperately wants but jolting him awake to the awareness he so desperately needs.

Ron's gone, he isn't the one that's left them. Fred left, died and went someplace far away where no one can reach him again, but then there's Hermione. Her warm hand on top of his cold one, her voice offering him the comfort that his lost early in the morning, and there's something terribly wonderful in that. When he finally opens his eyes to look at her, they're red from the loss of sleep, the loss of his brother, the loss of that comfortable bubble he'd built around himself - and a loss of resolve. He doesn't want to face all the things he's been denying, but he hasn't the heart to pretend they aren't there anymore.

Fred's dead. They're not. And whether it's in the middle of the night, tomorrow, or three years from now, they will leave this place and none of this will have happened. He can't fight it anymore. He hasn't the strength.

He sighs a humourless laugh and pulls his hand out from beneath hers to place it on top, returning the brush idly.]

I'm tired, Hermione.

action; thank you for bearing with me ._. i feel horrible lmao

[knowledgeably.livejournal.com]

[ Hermione recognizes that instead of a clear presentation of emotions, there is a distinct lack... Which is just as alarming, in her opinion. She understand his loss much deeper than she thinks he realizes, simply because she understood Ron's loss of him from a different perspective, as well as her own loss of him. He was more than simply Ron's brother to her. He was also a friend.

She'd also tried to deny it. To herself, to anyone else... She doesn't want to think Ron's really gone. But in her gut, in her heart, she feels the absence profoundly. More importantly, she feels the effect of his very real absence on the people around her, for whom she cares deeply.

It's the tenderness and swelling in his knuckles that she can feel first, and she is immediately worried. It gives her a moment's pause, but she'll make with healing it as soon as they've talked. The emotional aspect, at least in her opinion, is far more important at the present time. Despite his reciprocation of comfort, she transfers her ministrations, lifting her hand from his and placing her arm loosely around him, her palm tenderly making small circles at the center of his back.

She makes a physically insistent motion for him to rest on her, speaking softly and gently as she's able. ]

Come here... [ She really is barely murmuring, but her hand moves again, to his hair, brushing it back and smoothing over it in a motion she can only assume is comforting for him. ] Rest. I won't leave.

action; lmao it's okay, baby. <3

[feorge]

[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.

'Help.']

action; /gets better X(

[knowledgeably.livejournal.com]

Most people do, by much younger ages than our own. But no person ever outgrows comfort.

[ She says this very matter-of-factly, not really letting the way he deflects with dry sarcasm get in her way. No this time. She needs this just as much as she can tell he does. And she wants to provide it for him. She wants to help him, protect him, take care of him, just for these moments wherein she is able to. But she doesn't press, doesn't make any further advances toward forcing him to rest if he doesn't wish it. Perhaps just being there is enough.

Or, then, he could not be near her at all. She shifts also, a little awkwardly as she has yet to decipher what it is he's doing. Maybe he would rather not have her there after all.

Or he could surprise her.

Hermione turns and furrows her brow slightly, bit of a confused look on her face for a moment before she realizes that he's asking her, however silently, to lay with him. She worries not about the trivial things, just as he didn't, and turns toward him as she settles herself horizontally. She lays facing him, scooted rather close but not enough to be uncomfortable, and lifts a hand to brush her fingers through his hair, and along his cheek.

She makes a motion forward, making a slow and tentative advance, then presses her lips to his forehead before drawing back and simply looking at him. Her expression says it all. The pain, the sorrow... But more importantly, the understanding. The mutually needed solace.

'It's alright. It's safe here. You're safe.'

And ever as silently as his plea, she answers. ]