five times fred & george were nearly more than brothers, fred/george, r
Title: five times fred & george were nearly more than brothers
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Fred/George
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, character death
Summary: ...see title.
A/N: Basically, I really wanted to write twincest again, so here you go. :)
-One-
They’re seven years old and scampering up the stairs back to their bedroom after stumbling upon their parents sharing a rare tender moment together. They’d known that Mum and Dad kissed, of course, but knowing and seeing are two very different things.
“Ew,” says Fred simply, throwing himself down onto the pushed-together beds in their room.
“I know,” George agrees and wrinkles his nose.
“Why d’you think people do that?” Fred asks as George settles down on the bed next to him.
“What, kiss?”
“Yeah.”
George thinks about this for a moment. “Must feel nice,” he says with a shrug.
“You think?” asks Fred.
“Yeah. Why else? It’s just gross otherwise.”
Fred props himself up on his elbow and considers this. He grins. “Wanna try it?”
George makes a face. “Like properly?”
“You’re the one who said it must feel nice,” Fred reminds him.
“Yeah, OK then.”
Fred leans over and presses his closed lips against his twin’s.
“That’s nothing,” George interrupts him, and Fred feels his brother’s breath warm against his own lips. “You’ve got to move them. Like Mum and Dad were.”
Fred groans. “Don’t remind me!” he says dramatically, then returns his lips to his brothers, surprised at how comfortable it already feels. Fred stretches one leg over his brother’s body and clambers on top of him. George parts his lips a little and Fred copies. They kiss.
“That does feel nice,” Fred breathes. He sounds impressed.
“Shh,” says George. “Again.”
Fred obeys.
The door opens.
“Fred! George!” cries Molly in shock. “What are you doing?”
That night, their beds are separated and spelled that way, and they are too scared to show affection to each other again until they go to Hogwarts.
-Two-
They’re in their second year of school and are already aquiring quite the fanbase. They’ve pulled so many pranks they’re famous for it. They spend all their time together, and do everything together. Anyone who asks about it invariably recieves the response, “We’re twins.”
One night they manage to steal a whole bottle of elderflower wine from the kitchens, and they sneak it back up to their dormitory and share it when Lee is asleep.
“It doesn’t taste so funny anymore,” Fred giggles, taking a swig from the nearly-empty bottle.
“That’s ‘cause you’ve had so much already,” George informs him, snatching the bottle back. Fred burps in reply and they fall about laughing for no real reason at all.
“I like being drunk,” Fred says thoughtfully. “It makes me feel braver.”
“Whatever, you’re always brave,” George tells him. “Aaaalways.”
“I mean I feel like I could do anything,” Fred continues. “Anything at all.”
“You always feel like that,” George says. “Like when we took the wine in the first place. And yesterday when we charmed Patricia Stimpson’s fingers together with that weird glue you made. And the day before that when you nicked that magazine from Lee-”
“The magazine!” Fred interrupts, throwing his arms up in the air and nearly showering them both in wine.
“What?”
“I forgot about it!” Fred explains, and then leans over the side of the bed, rummaging underneath it until he reappears clutching the magazine in his hand. “Look,” he says triumphantly, flicking through a few pages and then opening it.
“Wow,” George admits, staring at the glossy pages.
“Naked girls,” Fred agrees happily, then prods one of the pictures with his finger.
“I don’t think she liked that, mate,” George teases him as the girl in question shoots them a look.
“Oh, I think she did,” Fred grins, watching the girl spread her legs wider and wink at them. “You want to - y’know?” he asks, gesturing.
George shrugs.
“C’mon, I know you’re hard,” Fred teases him.
“Oh yeah, like you aren’t.”
Fred just rolls his eyes and then settles down under the covers, making the magazine levitate in front of them. George gets under the covers too, and they grin at each other before reaching down into their pajama trousers. They’ve been doing this for a little while now, ever since they heard each other wanking in their own beds and simultaneously pulled back the curtains in disbelief. Wanking directly next to each other didn’t seem so different to doing it with a few layers of fabric between.
George rests his left arm across his chest, reaching out further with it to grip the sheets as he gets closer to coming. Fred reaches out with his left hand, too, to do the same, and suddenly their fingers brush against each other. Without thinking they clasp hands, squeezing tightly as they come together.
The next morning, Fred won’t stop going on about how pissed he was, and they never wank together again.
-Three-
They’re sixteen and Fred’s taking Angelina to the Yule Ball and George is spending every single second of his time trying to convince himself he’s not jealous. He’s a wallflower for an embarrassing portion of the night, and as he watches them dancing together he tricks himself into believing he fancies Angelina. It makes a whole lot more sense and it doesn’t make his head hurt half as much and he feels quite satisfied with this explanation, but he still goes up to bed early and lies there still, unable to deny the fact that he misses his brother.
Fred brings Angelina up to the dorm, and he hears him telling her “It’s okay, George is asleep,” and he rolls over onto his side and presses the pillow tightly against his ears. He stays that way for what feels like forever, not loosening his grip on the pillow at all, afraid of what else he might overhear. His wrists are sore.
Finally he hears the floorboards creak and some giggling and whispering, and then the sound of a door shutting. He doesn’t move. Suddenly there is a swishing of curtains and he’s being prodded in the side.
“George, George, wake up!”
He rolls over, feigning tiredness and rubbing his eyes. He fakes a yawn. “Hmm?”
“Me and Angelina,” Fred says simply. George can’t really interpret the look on his face. It’s not really pride and he’s not really boasting, which are two things he has to admit he expected.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
George nods. He forces his lips into a smile. “Great. Cool,” he says. “Well done.”
Fred smiles too, and then there is an awkward pause. George is afraid of it, because there are almost never awkward pauses when he’s with Fred. He tries desperately to think of something to say but his head is either too full or too empty and he just lies there with his mouth open.
“Can I get in?” Fred asks eventually.
“What?”
“Can I get in?” he repeats. “To the bed. Don’t really want to sleep in mine tonight.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, sure,” George says hurriedly, pulling back the duvet and shuffling over to make room. Fred climbs in and snuggles down under the covers. He presses his body close to George’s in the same way they used to sleep when they were kids.
George freezes. “Fred? What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable,” Fred replies simply. “If you don’t want your arm to fall off, I’d recommend moving it now because it’s currently underneath me.”
George says nothing. He pulls his arm out from underneath his brother and then holds it shakily in the air. The only place it can go is around Fred, so he puts it there. Fred makes a contented little noise and begins to drift off to sleep, but George can’t even begin to try.
“Fred?” he whispers. “With Angelina…was it good?”
Fred wriggles around for a bit, and George can’t tell if he’s even awake or not until he replies, “Not really. I mean, it was all right. Bloody awkward though.”
George laughs softly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Fred chuckles, then adds, “Night night.”
“Night…” George says. On instinct, he turns and presses a kiss to Fred’s forehead. Fred opens one eye, then the other. He frowns, looking thoughtful.
Just as he begins to lean in to kiss George on the lips, George goes bright red, mumbles ‘sorry’, and rolls over.
Neither of them mention that night again, and Fred stops speaking to Angelina without giving anybody a reason.
-Four-
“Our own flat!” Fred yells excitedly as he leaps out of their new bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair dripping water all over the floor.
George glances up. “That’s the twenty-fifth time you’ve said that today,” he remarks.
“You’ve been counting?”
“Of course.”
“Well, fine,” Fred says indignantly, shaking his head and spraying water to even further reaches of the bedroom. “But c’mon. It’s our own flat.”
“Twenty-six,” George replies.
“Shut up,” Fred retorts, then leaps onto the bed and tackles his brother.
“Ew! Get off!” George shouts. “Oh Fred, you’re all wet!”
Fred’s eyes twinkle mischievously as he straddles his brother and tickles him in the ribs until George is begging for mercy.
“Please-” George gasps, fighting for use of his arms. He writhes underneath Fred. “Please - let me go, you wanker-”
Fred’s towel slips a little.
George stares.
Fred stops tickling him.
“You’ve got a hard-on,” George whispers, because it’s true and for some reason he just can’t not say it.
“No I haven’t,” Fred lies, grabbing the towel and pulling it higher, but it does nothing to hide his erection.
“You have,” George says. “Why? From - from that?”
“What?” Fred asks, clambering off the bed still gripping the towel tightly around him. “No,” he scoffs.
“Fred, it’s okay,” George insists. “It’s not like I mind.”
“Fuck off,” Fred snarls, backing out of the bedroom.
Fred sleeps in the spare room that night and manages to avoid George for three days. When he starts speaking to him again, he acts as though nothing has happened, and all George can do is play along.
-Five-
Fred lies, pale and thin, in the hospital bed, his red hair a shock of colour against the stark white pillow and his eyes closed and sunken into his face.
George has barely left his bedside for two weeks now, ignoring what anybody says to him. The doctors tell George there is nothing more that they can do, nothing more that anyone can do. There is a machine keeping him alive. A machine.
The rest of the family take it in shifts to sit with George, but they find it unnerving and reel off excuses, reasons to leave the room for ten or twenty minutes, half an hour or an hour.
Outside, the streets are filled with celebrations.
Voldemort is no more, Harry Potter is a hero, et cetera et cetera and Fred is dying.
George just sits there, almost as lifeless as his twin, staring at the bed and never saying a word.
Outside the window, crowds pass by clutching drinks and cheering. George reaches forwards and clutches his brother’s hand.
“Fred, Fred, can you hear me?” he hisses urgently, his voice almost dying away the second it leaves his mouth. Fred says nothing and George chews his lip anxiously, watching his brother’s motionless face.
He takes a deep breath, checks around him for doctors or nurses or Charlie back from the toilets. “Fred, I want you to know that I love you,” he whispers, fighting back tears. “I love you like you know I love you, and I love you in a way that you don’t know - a way I need you to know.”
There is nothing but the continuous sounds of festivity outside and the steady beeping of the machine that Fred is hooked up to.
“I think I’ve always felt this way,” he goes on. “And I’ve never told you because I was scared. I knew nothing could come of it and - oh god, Fred, I’m sorry,”
He chokes on tears, sinks his head down onto the bed by Fred’s side. The machine’s beeps are slowing, the jagged lines widening, and nobody is coming.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chants desperately. Fred suddenly squeezes his hand tightly, then goes limp, and out of the corner of his eye, George sees the zig-zag lines on the machine’s screen go flat.
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Fred/George
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, character death
Summary: ...see title.
A/N: Basically, I really wanted to write twincest again, so here you go. :)
-One-
They’re seven years old and scampering up the stairs back to their bedroom after stumbling upon their parents sharing a rare tender moment together. They’d known that Mum and Dad kissed, of course, but knowing and seeing are two very different things.
“Ew,” says Fred simply, throwing himself down onto the pushed-together beds in their room.
“I know,” George agrees and wrinkles his nose.
“Why d’you think people do that?” Fred asks as George settles down on the bed next to him.
“What, kiss?”
“Yeah.”
George thinks about this for a moment. “Must feel nice,” he says with a shrug.
“You think?” asks Fred.
“Yeah. Why else? It’s just gross otherwise.”
Fred props himself up on his elbow and considers this. He grins. “Wanna try it?”
George makes a face. “Like properly?”
“You’re the one who said it must feel nice,” Fred reminds him.
“Yeah, OK then.”
Fred leans over and presses his closed lips against his twin’s.
“That’s nothing,” George interrupts him, and Fred feels his brother’s breath warm against his own lips. “You’ve got to move them. Like Mum and Dad were.”
Fred groans. “Don’t remind me!” he says dramatically, then returns his lips to his brothers, surprised at how comfortable it already feels. Fred stretches one leg over his brother’s body and clambers on top of him. George parts his lips a little and Fred copies. They kiss.
“That does feel nice,” Fred breathes. He sounds impressed.
“Shh,” says George. “Again.”
Fred obeys.
The door opens.
“Fred! George!” cries Molly in shock. “What are you doing?”
That night, their beds are separated and spelled that way, and they are too scared to show affection to each other again until they go to Hogwarts.
-Two-
They’re in their second year of school and are already aquiring quite the fanbase. They’ve pulled so many pranks they’re famous for it. They spend all their time together, and do everything together. Anyone who asks about it invariably recieves the response, “We’re twins.”
One night they manage to steal a whole bottle of elderflower wine from the kitchens, and they sneak it back up to their dormitory and share it when Lee is asleep.
“It doesn’t taste so funny anymore,” Fred giggles, taking a swig from the nearly-empty bottle.
“That’s ‘cause you’ve had so much already,” George informs him, snatching the bottle back. Fred burps in reply and they fall about laughing for no real reason at all.
“I like being drunk,” Fred says thoughtfully. “It makes me feel braver.”
“Whatever, you’re always brave,” George tells him. “Aaaalways.”
“I mean I feel like I could do anything,” Fred continues. “Anything at all.”
“You always feel like that,” George says. “Like when we took the wine in the first place. And yesterday when we charmed Patricia Stimpson’s fingers together with that weird glue you made. And the day before that when you nicked that magazine from Lee-”
“The magazine!” Fred interrupts, throwing his arms up in the air and nearly showering them both in wine.
“What?”
“I forgot about it!” Fred explains, and then leans over the side of the bed, rummaging underneath it until he reappears clutching the magazine in his hand. “Look,” he says triumphantly, flicking through a few pages and then opening it.
“Wow,” George admits, staring at the glossy pages.
“Naked girls,” Fred agrees happily, then prods one of the pictures with his finger.
“I don’t think she liked that, mate,” George teases him as the girl in question shoots them a look.
“Oh, I think she did,” Fred grins, watching the girl spread her legs wider and wink at them. “You want to - y’know?” he asks, gesturing.
George shrugs.
“C’mon, I know you’re hard,” Fred teases him.
“Oh yeah, like you aren’t.”
Fred just rolls his eyes and then settles down under the covers, making the magazine levitate in front of them. George gets under the covers too, and they grin at each other before reaching down into their pajama trousers. They’ve been doing this for a little while now, ever since they heard each other wanking in their own beds and simultaneously pulled back the curtains in disbelief. Wanking directly next to each other didn’t seem so different to doing it with a few layers of fabric between.
George rests his left arm across his chest, reaching out further with it to grip the sheets as he gets closer to coming. Fred reaches out with his left hand, too, to do the same, and suddenly their fingers brush against each other. Without thinking they clasp hands, squeezing tightly as they come together.
The next morning, Fred won’t stop going on about how pissed he was, and they never wank together again.
-Three-
They’re sixteen and Fred’s taking Angelina to the Yule Ball and George is spending every single second of his time trying to convince himself he’s not jealous. He’s a wallflower for an embarrassing portion of the night, and as he watches them dancing together he tricks himself into believing he fancies Angelina. It makes a whole lot more sense and it doesn’t make his head hurt half as much and he feels quite satisfied with this explanation, but he still goes up to bed early and lies there still, unable to deny the fact that he misses his brother.
Fred brings Angelina up to the dorm, and he hears him telling her “It’s okay, George is asleep,” and he rolls over onto his side and presses the pillow tightly against his ears. He stays that way for what feels like forever, not loosening his grip on the pillow at all, afraid of what else he might overhear. His wrists are sore.
Finally he hears the floorboards creak and some giggling and whispering, and then the sound of a door shutting. He doesn’t move. Suddenly there is a swishing of curtains and he’s being prodded in the side.
“George, George, wake up!”
He rolls over, feigning tiredness and rubbing his eyes. He fakes a yawn. “Hmm?”
“Me and Angelina,” Fred says simply. George can’t really interpret the look on his face. It’s not really pride and he’s not really boasting, which are two things he has to admit he expected.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
George nods. He forces his lips into a smile. “Great. Cool,” he says. “Well done.”
Fred smiles too, and then there is an awkward pause. George is afraid of it, because there are almost never awkward pauses when he’s with Fred. He tries desperately to think of something to say but his head is either too full or too empty and he just lies there with his mouth open.
“Can I get in?” Fred asks eventually.
“What?”
“Can I get in?” he repeats. “To the bed. Don’t really want to sleep in mine tonight.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, sure,” George says hurriedly, pulling back the duvet and shuffling over to make room. Fred climbs in and snuggles down under the covers. He presses his body close to George’s in the same way they used to sleep when they were kids.
George freezes. “Fred? What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable,” Fred replies simply. “If you don’t want your arm to fall off, I’d recommend moving it now because it’s currently underneath me.”
George says nothing. He pulls his arm out from underneath his brother and then holds it shakily in the air. The only place it can go is around Fred, so he puts it there. Fred makes a contented little noise and begins to drift off to sleep, but George can’t even begin to try.
“Fred?” he whispers. “With Angelina…was it good?”
Fred wriggles around for a bit, and George can’t tell if he’s even awake or not until he replies, “Not really. I mean, it was all right. Bloody awkward though.”
George laughs softly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Fred chuckles, then adds, “Night night.”
“Night…” George says. On instinct, he turns and presses a kiss to Fred’s forehead. Fred opens one eye, then the other. He frowns, looking thoughtful.
Just as he begins to lean in to kiss George on the lips, George goes bright red, mumbles ‘sorry’, and rolls over.
Neither of them mention that night again, and Fred stops speaking to Angelina without giving anybody a reason.
-Four-
“Our own flat!” Fred yells excitedly as he leaps out of their new bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair dripping water all over the floor.
George glances up. “That’s the twenty-fifth time you’ve said that today,” he remarks.
“You’ve been counting?”
“Of course.”
“Well, fine,” Fred says indignantly, shaking his head and spraying water to even further reaches of the bedroom. “But c’mon. It’s our own flat.”
“Twenty-six,” George replies.
“Shut up,” Fred retorts, then leaps onto the bed and tackles his brother.
“Ew! Get off!” George shouts. “Oh Fred, you’re all wet!”
Fred’s eyes twinkle mischievously as he straddles his brother and tickles him in the ribs until George is begging for mercy.
“Please-” George gasps, fighting for use of his arms. He writhes underneath Fred. “Please - let me go, you wanker-”
Fred’s towel slips a little.
George stares.
Fred stops tickling him.
“You’ve got a hard-on,” George whispers, because it’s true and for some reason he just can’t not say it.
“No I haven’t,” Fred lies, grabbing the towel and pulling it higher, but it does nothing to hide his erection.
“You have,” George says. “Why? From - from that?”
“What?” Fred asks, clambering off the bed still gripping the towel tightly around him. “No,” he scoffs.
“Fred, it’s okay,” George insists. “It’s not like I mind.”
“Fuck off,” Fred snarls, backing out of the bedroom.
Fred sleeps in the spare room that night and manages to avoid George for three days. When he starts speaking to him again, he acts as though nothing has happened, and all George can do is play along.
-Five-
Fred lies, pale and thin, in the hospital bed, his red hair a shock of colour against the stark white pillow and his eyes closed and sunken into his face.
George has barely left his bedside for two weeks now, ignoring what anybody says to him. The doctors tell George there is nothing more that they can do, nothing more that anyone can do. There is a machine keeping him alive. A machine.
The rest of the family take it in shifts to sit with George, but they find it unnerving and reel off excuses, reasons to leave the room for ten or twenty minutes, half an hour or an hour.
Outside, the streets are filled with celebrations.
Voldemort is no more, Harry Potter is a hero, et cetera et cetera and Fred is dying.
George just sits there, almost as lifeless as his twin, staring at the bed and never saying a word.
Outside the window, crowds pass by clutching drinks and cheering. George reaches forwards and clutches his brother’s hand.
“Fred, Fred, can you hear me?” he hisses urgently, his voice almost dying away the second it leaves his mouth. Fred says nothing and George chews his lip anxiously, watching his brother’s motionless face.
He takes a deep breath, checks around him for doctors or nurses or Charlie back from the toilets. “Fred, I want you to know that I love you,” he whispers, fighting back tears. “I love you like you know I love you, and I love you in a way that you don’t know - a way I need you to know.”
There is nothing but the continuous sounds of festivity outside and the steady beeping of the machine that Fred is hooked up to.
“I think I’ve always felt this way,” he goes on. “And I’ve never told you because I was scared. I knew nothing could come of it and - oh god, Fred, I’m sorry,”
He chokes on tears, sinks his head down onto the bed by Fred’s side. The machine’s beeps are slowing, the jagged lines widening, and nobody is coming.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chants desperately. Fred suddenly squeezes his hand tightly, then goes limp, and out of the corner of his eye, George sees the zig-zag lines on the machine’s screen go flat.