A/N: Fred and George.

Written for The Vocabulary Challenge on HPFC, where I was given the following:

Lunar mamomie, n. – the yearning to unsee the illusion of the man in the moon, that silly tilt of the expression, maw agape and eyes akimbo, silently screaming across the empty miles that you are trapped inside yourself and that objectivity is a fantasy of escape from a world of shockingly few ingredients mushed together like yam chili.

I hope you enjoy.

Dear Fred,

I remember when we were six and you told me you were going to build a ladder long enough to reach the moon one day. I think you said it at least once an hour for about a week, and by the end, I almost believed it was possible. I mean, we were six, and we hadn't realised there were things magic couldn't do yet.

We were seven when you tried to convince me someone had already done it. You tried to say that the face we could see was that of the man who tried it, once. According to you, he realised that it was too far, but he'd realised too late and that as his heart beat for the last time, the image of his face contorted into a scream of anguish was scarred onto the surface of the moon forever, to serve as a warning to all those on Earth.

I think you just wanted to believe in the possibility that there was more than yourself and what you knew. The moon, so far away, is the perfect location for a sweet escape, isn't it? It's far enough away, even, that you might even be able to stand there and look down upon the large ball beneath you and see how infinitely small we are. When you realise how small a person is, it's easier to be impartial towards them. They're easier not to hate; easier not to love. They're just stardust and water, really, and surprisingly little else.

We always tried to be like water, didn't we? We were flexible, innovative, forming our own path through the landscape, with a fire in us that spurred us on. Now, you're the earth beneath my feet, and I'm flying, floating between one and the other; between the inside and the out; between the dream and reality.

I wish now that I could forget the wide eyes and agape mouth of that face. It reminds me too much of you. It's bad enough that I can't even face going our shop, Fred, but I can't even look at the bloody moon. Are you up there? Is that it? It would be comforting to think so. Or it might be a horrible thought. I don't know. All I know is that you're not here anymore, Fred. You aren't here and I'm looking for you all the time and you're in everything I do, and say, and see, and I'm trying to avoid you like the plague every Goddamned second and where are you, Fred?

Did you finally do it? Did you build your ladder? The face scorched into the side of the moon, is that yours, now? That would be a beautifully sad story, wouldn't it? Instead… instead I'm left with the truth.

The truth burns through my skull and lands like tar in my belly. It makes sleeping hard and eating harder. The truth is what hurts, Fred, and I wish….

With all my heart, I wish I could unsee that anguish on that face etched into the side of the moon.

Forever I'll be,

Your other half,

George