Fic: Sisyphean | George Weasley/Angelina Johnson | R
Title: Sisyphean
Characters: George Weasley/Angelina Johnson
Words: 267
Rating: R/Mature
Summary: Grief takes many forms. This is theirs.
Warnings: Alcoholism, angst
Author's Note: Written for drcjsnider for rarepair_shorts’ Summer Wishlist Event.
To be numb, that’s his goal. Apathetic. Indifferent. Frozen. He’s collected a thesaurus worth of words that he wishes he could be, one for every shot and pint put before him.
He sinks into each drink, feeling the effect take hold. First, his mouth; a strange anesthesia of tongue and teeth. After that it’s a slow progression of lost limbs until marionette strings raise his arm for the next round. He floats in nothingness, just a mind, a pair of eyes, and a mouth.
Eventually, he’s not even that. He is deadened, ceasing to exist until morning. It’s no loss, he thinks; he was only half there to begin.
Angelina wants to be anything but numb. If she has her way, she’ll go up in flames, a flash of fire and sensation. She’s hungry for everything. There will never be too much whiskey, too many cigarettes, or too many men. There’s only what’s next.
She chases every thought about the past with a shot and a kiss, convinced they’ll keep away this time. She fills herself up until there’s no room to remember the dead.
They fall into bed together with ironic regularity, unhealthy but symbiotic. George keeps the room dark, Angelina tops. It’s a relief to them both, to not have to pretend to care. When it’s over, she steals all the covers and he rolls to the edge of the mattress, both their minds blank. It’s the best sleep they get all week.
In the morning, they don’t speak because they both know. He is not numb, she hasn’t forgotten, and they both need a drink.
Characters: George Weasley/Angelina Johnson
Words: 267
Rating: R/Mature
Summary: Grief takes many forms. This is theirs.
Warnings: Alcoholism, angst
Author's Note: Written for drcjsnider for rarepair_shorts’ Summer Wishlist Event.
To be numb, that’s his goal. Apathetic. Indifferent. Frozen. He’s collected a thesaurus worth of words that he wishes he could be, one for every shot and pint put before him.
He sinks into each drink, feeling the effect take hold. First, his mouth; a strange anesthesia of tongue and teeth. After that it’s a slow progression of lost limbs until marionette strings raise his arm for the next round. He floats in nothingness, just a mind, a pair of eyes, and a mouth.
Eventually, he’s not even that. He is deadened, ceasing to exist until morning. It’s no loss, he thinks; he was only half there to begin.
Angelina wants to be anything but numb. If she has her way, she’ll go up in flames, a flash of fire and sensation. She’s hungry for everything. There will never be too much whiskey, too many cigarettes, or too many men. There’s only what’s next.
She chases every thought about the past with a shot and a kiss, convinced they’ll keep away this time. She fills herself up until there’s no room to remember the dead.
They fall into bed together with ironic regularity, unhealthy but symbiotic. George keeps the room dark, Angelina tops. It’s a relief to them both, to not have to pretend to care. When it’s over, she steals all the covers and he rolls to the edge of the mattress, both their minds blank. It’s the best sleep they get all week.
In the morning, they don’t speak because they both know. He is not numb, she hasn’t forgotten, and they both need a drink.