Weasly twin drabble!
Yay! 839 words of pure Weasley twin! Well, except not, cause there's other parts people in there as well... Anyway, it's not twincest and it's sort of like drabble [except not, since it's far, far over 100 words] in that it started as one and I spent about 45 minutes on it. ...And then twice more that with reishin trying to figure out a title for it. Thank you, shaenie for being the genius that you are! Poor baby working hard into the night...
Disparity
There's a lot of things about us that's different, Fred thought idly. He was seated next to George in a particularly tedious lecture with Professor Flitwick. The man droned on and on in the background about something nobody in the class cared about. Fred poked his quill at the protesting wood of the desk, glancing sideways at his twin.
There were little details, but he didn't really count those. He didn't feel he needed to. Their freckles were different, but he felt that was as obvious as the fact that their fingerprints were singular. Some things just couldn't be replicated. They had the same sparse dusting of specks of tan over their noses, their shoulders, and arms. His own eyes darkened a bit in humor (which was often), but in essence, they were the same sharp blue as George's. And sometimes, when a joke caught him by surprise (which was rarely), his twin would breathe in sharply before laughing or grinning, something Fred never did. But they still found the same things funny, so that wasn't really so much of a difference either.
No, we have real differences, he thought, prodding an indentation in the table surface repeatedly. Because, though it never got in the way of Them, they were two different people.
For one thing, he reflected as he watched George scribbling on his parchment, his twin was fond of drawing. Nothing serious, but he would often spend his classes sketching rudimentary drawings of random pranks to play, or if his mind was numbed by an especially boring lesson, crude stick figures. Today, for instance, he was working on the sixth panel of a comic in which stick figure Flitwick was getting butt-raped by stick figure Sprout, who seemed to be adorned in bondage gear and a large strap-on, but it was hard to tell as they were rather hastily drawn and hardly more than several lines connected. Sprout could be a hermaphrodite. He wasn't sure.
Fred himself had never attempted anything beyond the forgery of a professor's signature of allowance into the Restricted Section of the library, and that hadn't exactly gone off too well. He doubted he could manage one of George's stick figures. At least one could tell whatever was coming from between Sprout's legs was supposed to be some sort of penis, real or fake. His attempt would probably look like a third leg.
Another difference was their taste for temperature. It had become a routine nuisance for them to deal with the cold or the heat. At night they slept enclosed in their own magical shrouds of air, George's comfort level a good 15 degrees below Fred's. And when it rained, George couldn't be bothered to sleep. While Fred grew drowsy as on any other evening, George remained energetic, sometimes urging his twin to dare out into the night for a game of Quidditch amidst cold sheets of water. Most of the times, as Fred was as stubborn as his twin and sneaking out required much more effort than remaining curled up in warm sheets, George was forced to make do with staring out a window at the stormy weather, focusing his odd adrenaline into time-passing, solitary exercises while Fred slept soundly.
As Flitwick continued his monologue, Fred thought of many more things that separated him and his twin from each other as individuals. He was always a bit cheekier with their mother than George ever thought was truly appropriate. George's voice was a little rougher and lower, though he thought perhaps that only they could hear it. George loved roast ham and he himself wasn't particularly appreciative of any red meats. Instead, he shared with his twin a love of Indian food, but he could stomach the spicier plates far better than his twin. Aside from rainy nights, George always fell asleep first. George was never afraid to gobble down even the most questionable-looking Bertie Botts Bean. Fred only did it because his twin egged him on. Fred bared his teeth when he laughed, and George's hand touched unconsciously to cover his mouth. George liked Arithmancy and Fred was good at it. Fred would have failed Potions if it wasn't for his twin's instinct for certain herb-based recipes.
We're very much alike, Fred thought, catching George's eye. He raised his eyebrows suggestively and then glanced pointedly at the seat in front of them. Alicia Spinnet's shapely bum had become rather nicely noticeable through her robes when she had shifted moments earlier. He glanced back up at his twin, who grinned back, and looked toward Alicia's seat.
And we're very different, too, he concluded, as George's eyes settled not on Alicia's lovely rump but on the hand beside it clutching a secretly-passed note, written in the tell-tale pink ink of a gossipy female classmate. Fred, who appreciated any possibility of mischief, still viewed the girl's bottom with a lot more attention.
About as much attention, he thought, as George had given to Oliver's bum at practice that morning.
[end]
Note: Though essentially fruitless, reishin and I in our brainstorming produced between us such catchy titles as "Arse Bandits," "Rump Lovers," "Subterfuge: A Tale of Betrayal and Romance on the High Seas," "1+1 = Not Quite Right," "Not All Weasleys Make Babies," "Fred on George," and of course, the ever-classic and close to my heart, "GeorGE+OlivER 2gether4eva like omg!!!1!!!! by Fred <3." Thank you, Rei.
Disparity
There's a lot of things about us that's different, Fred thought idly. He was seated next to George in a particularly tedious lecture with Professor Flitwick. The man droned on and on in the background about something nobody in the class cared about. Fred poked his quill at the protesting wood of the desk, glancing sideways at his twin.
There were little details, but he didn't really count those. He didn't feel he needed to. Their freckles were different, but he felt that was as obvious as the fact that their fingerprints were singular. Some things just couldn't be replicated. They had the same sparse dusting of specks of tan over their noses, their shoulders, and arms. His own eyes darkened a bit in humor (which was often), but in essence, they were the same sharp blue as George's. And sometimes, when a joke caught him by surprise (which was rarely), his twin would breathe in sharply before laughing or grinning, something Fred never did. But they still found the same things funny, so that wasn't really so much of a difference either.
No, we have real differences, he thought, prodding an indentation in the table surface repeatedly. Because, though it never got in the way of Them, they were two different people.
For one thing, he reflected as he watched George scribbling on his parchment, his twin was fond of drawing. Nothing serious, but he would often spend his classes sketching rudimentary drawings of random pranks to play, or if his mind was numbed by an especially boring lesson, crude stick figures. Today, for instance, he was working on the sixth panel of a comic in which stick figure Flitwick was getting butt-raped by stick figure Sprout, who seemed to be adorned in bondage gear and a large strap-on, but it was hard to tell as they were rather hastily drawn and hardly more than several lines connected. Sprout could be a hermaphrodite. He wasn't sure.
Fred himself had never attempted anything beyond the forgery of a professor's signature of allowance into the Restricted Section of the library, and that hadn't exactly gone off too well. He doubted he could manage one of George's stick figures. At least one could tell whatever was coming from between Sprout's legs was supposed to be some sort of penis, real or fake. His attempt would probably look like a third leg.
Another difference was their taste for temperature. It had become a routine nuisance for them to deal with the cold or the heat. At night they slept enclosed in their own magical shrouds of air, George's comfort level a good 15 degrees below Fred's. And when it rained, George couldn't be bothered to sleep. While Fred grew drowsy as on any other evening, George remained energetic, sometimes urging his twin to dare out into the night for a game of Quidditch amidst cold sheets of water. Most of the times, as Fred was as stubborn as his twin and sneaking out required much more effort than remaining curled up in warm sheets, George was forced to make do with staring out a window at the stormy weather, focusing his odd adrenaline into time-passing, solitary exercises while Fred slept soundly.
As Flitwick continued his monologue, Fred thought of many more things that separated him and his twin from each other as individuals. He was always a bit cheekier with their mother than George ever thought was truly appropriate. George's voice was a little rougher and lower, though he thought perhaps that only they could hear it. George loved roast ham and he himself wasn't particularly appreciative of any red meats. Instead, he shared with his twin a love of Indian food, but he could stomach the spicier plates far better than his twin. Aside from rainy nights, George always fell asleep first. George was never afraid to gobble down even the most questionable-looking Bertie Botts Bean. Fred only did it because his twin egged him on. Fred bared his teeth when he laughed, and George's hand touched unconsciously to cover his mouth. George liked Arithmancy and Fred was good at it. Fred would have failed Potions if it wasn't for his twin's instinct for certain herb-based recipes.
We're very much alike, Fred thought, catching George's eye. He raised his eyebrows suggestively and then glanced pointedly at the seat in front of them. Alicia Spinnet's shapely bum had become rather nicely noticeable through her robes when she had shifted moments earlier. He glanced back up at his twin, who grinned back, and looked toward Alicia's seat.
And we're very different, too, he concluded, as George's eyes settled not on Alicia's lovely rump but on the hand beside it clutching a secretly-passed note, written in the tell-tale pink ink of a gossipy female classmate. Fred, who appreciated any possibility of mischief, still viewed the girl's bottom with a lot more attention.
About as much attention, he thought, as George had given to Oliver's bum at practice that morning.
[end]
Note: Though essentially fruitless, reishin and I in our brainstorming produced between us such catchy titles as "Arse Bandits," "Rump Lovers," "Subterfuge: A Tale of Betrayal and Romance on the High Seas," "1+1 = Not Quite Right," "Not All Weasleys Make Babies," "Fred on George," and of course, the ever-classic and close to my heart, "GeorGE+OlivER 2gether4eva like omg!!!1!!!! by Fred <3." Thank you, Rei.