Sleepwalking.
That’s how the last week has felt. Everything’s surreal, there but not, and the air feels strange, like it’s trying to suffocate him. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything without some guidance.
Get up. Try not to miss him. Shower. Try not to miss him. Get dressed. Try not to miss him. Sit quietly while everyone talks around you like you’re not really there anymore. Try not to miss him. Do whatever Mum says as she keeps making up things to try to keep you busy. Try not to miss him. Eat when food is put in front of you. Try not to miss him. Go to sleep. Dream about him. Wake hearing his laughter. Find yourself all alone again. Try not to miss him. Repeat cycle.
No one understands. They feel the loss, they see the empty chair, and maybe they even hear the ghost of laughter, but they’re still whole. They can bury him and move on at their own pace, and they’ll eventually forget as memories become more faded. Then Fred will just be remembered on birthdays and holidays, the ghost of the one who didn’t live. But George lost part of himself. Two parts, if he counts his ear, and losing Fred is like half his heart. Without Fred, how can he still be alive? How can he breathe and laugh and live when part of him is buried in the family plot beside Uncle Fabian?
No one can tell him that. No one even tries. They whisper above his head, worry and fear that he’s wasting away or might do something stupid like take potions to make it feel better. Fred would come back from the grave and kick his arse if he ever got into that sort of thing, and George doesn’t want to disappoint Fred. Not when he has to believe he’s there still, watching and listening. If he’s not there, it’s real, and he’s gone and there’s nothing left but memories.
George can’t explain how he felt it, how he knew Fred was gone before he ever saw the body. He had been fighting alongside Neville when there’d been a pressure on his chest, quick and sudden, and he’d stumbled back and leaned against the wall of the castle as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes had burned, his stomach had clenched, and he’d felt more pain than he had even when he lost his ear. It hadn’t lasted five seconds, but it felt like an eternity. And when he’d been able to breathe again, he’d known Fred was dead just as surely as he’d known his own name.
Why hadn’t it been him? Why did it have to be Fred? No one can answer that, either. Not that he’d ask. Mum cries enough as it is when she doesn’t think anyone can hear her, and Dad doesn’t cry enough. George knows he’s being a selfish bastard by not letting go, by reminding them all of who they lost and not healing fast enough or whatever the fuck they expect from him. He tries to follow their routines and not make things worse, but he’s so numb and nothing seems to make it better.
He wants to hate Fred. Hate him for getting himself killed and for leaving him. How could he do it? Doesn’t he know that George can’t do this on his own? It’s always been FredandGeorge, and George just has no idea who he is without Fred. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to move on and act like everything’s okay. He wants to wake up and find out that this is just a horrible nightmare and that Fred’s okay, that he’s whole again and they can reopen their shop and celebrate Voldemort’s defeat.
It’s not a bad dream, though. The empty flat is testament to that. Mum didn’t want him to come home yet, wanted to keep him at the Burrow so she could coddle and feed and make sure he didn’t waste away. He had to get out, though. Had to see if maybe he’d stop suffocating if he was back home. It’s just as bad here, if not worse. It’s so quiet, dusty and empty, and he can’t stop himself from standing in the doorway to Fred’s room and missing him so much. He crawls into Fred’s bed and starts to cry, sobbing heaves as he hugs Fred’s pillow and just lets go for the first time since he died.
He wants to think he feels familiar arms hugging him and hears a voice he’d know anywhere telling him it’ll be okay, reminding him that he’s alive and now has to live for both of him, whispering that he’ll never forget so stop being such a scared prat. Of course, there’s no one there. It’s just him, alone, and there’s still that hole in his heart where Fred’s supposed to be. And he still doesn’t know how to live without Fred, isn’t sure he’ll ever be that strong, and he begins to laugh hysterically when he can practically feel a slap on his arm telling him he’s being a whiny arse.
“I miss you so much,” he whispers, closing his eyes as he tightens his grip on Fred’s pillow. He thinks about Fred, about their lives, about their plans for a future after Voldemort was defeated. He thinks about his family, about Mum and Dad and Percy and the others, and about Harry and Ron and Hermione, and how they’re so young yet they managed to do such amazing things. God, Fred would be so bloody proud of them. He’d be planning a huge party, a way to celebrate and remember those who died, so their deaths wouldn’t be in vain. They’d fought for the right to live, after all, and it was only right to celebrate their lives instead of dwelling on their deaths.
It sounds so easy, but it’s not. How can he think about celebrating Fred’s life when Fred’s gone and he’s now incomplete? Fred didn’t deserve to die, not when the bloody Malfoys are still alive or when there’s dozens of Death Eaters awaiting trial. Lupin and Tonks didn’t deserve to die, either, leaving their baby without parents. So much loss to win, to be able to have a chance at living without fear and death. He knows the sacrifice was worth it, knows even that he’d have died fighting himself, which would mean Fred would be going through this now instead of him.
He isn’t ready yet, but he knows, somehow, that he will be soon. For now, though, he can’t let go, can’t move on, and he’ll never forget. Fred is everywhere. His laugh and his teasing and his Big Ideas that totally mean trouble and his smile and his hugs and George hates that he didn’t get to say good-bye. That he didn’t get to tell him he loved him and he’ll miss him. He wishes he’d said the words, wishes the last thing he said to him wasn’t ‘we’ll have a pint after’, because there is no after now, and Fred died never knowing just how much it meant being FredandGeorge and how he loved him even if they shared a face and their lives and bickered and sometimes wanted to be different. Maybe that’s what hurts the most, the things that were never said and never could be now.
“I love you. You’re always part of me, regardless of where you are,” he says into the silent room. Fred can’t hear him, but it makes him feel a little better. Maybe he’ll break the routine later by showering at night or he’ll try to get the energy to do something more than sleepwalk. Until then, he’s content here in Fred’s bed letting go of everything he‘s kept bottled up for days. He curls into a ball and cries more, closing his eyes so he can imagine he feels a hand rubbing his back while he cries and hears a voice saying ‘Love you, too, Forge’.
End
Sleepwalking
Story Notes:
July 22, 2007