Pairing: Fred/George, sorta.
Summary: Tragedy starts where laughter ends.
Word Count: 274
A/N: for fivil, to make up for the pumpkin seeds. (un-betaed again)
When George laughs – when he laughs – Fred thinks there is something of himself in that sound. Their voices are similar, not identical, as one might expect, but similar, yes. They can still speak in perfect unison if they try.
The twins haven’t spent a night apart from each other in ages, and, now, with the war raging all around them – threatening to swallow them both whole – they aren’t sure they would know how to cope on their own. They’re a matched set – matching clothes, hair, eyes…
George smiles now, fingering the darkness, the air above the bed they share when the night is too cold for them to sleep separately. (It’s summer and, while it is unspoken, they both know the night is still too cold.)
Their arms – freckled and bending with shared joints and muscles – wrap around each other in the way they must have once when they were younger, and Molly Weasley was still alive to mix them up, call them by the wrong names. No one confuses them now, because Fred has dark shades of purple and grey under his eyes from Auror training, and George looks more serious than he used to, and laughs only for Fred, because even laughter is rationed now.
In private, when it is just the two of them – or the one, the twins, together, a singular – they can smile. They understand each other enough to know that smiling isn’t the same as losing, that they don’t have to retain hardened shells with each other, that they are allowed to laugh.
They’re a matched set – matching clothes, hair, eyes… matching laughs, when they let themselves laugh.