Disclaimer: These people belong to J.K. Rowling, not me. So … yeah.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Twincest! If it's not your thing, then why are you here? =P
Author's notes: Okay, well, this is my absolute first attempt at Twincest. I've always found stories about the twins very cute, but never had the nerve to write one of my own. Well, I'm passed that now. Woo. So, like, enjoy.
Told from: George's POVx.x.x.x.x
It all started one happy, glorious, sunny morning.
As always, I was woken up far-too-early by the sounds of my twin brother, Fred, hustling and bustling around the room, trying to find his last Canary Cream. In the process, he had strewn clothing all around the floor while searching through both of our dressers, over-turned our worktable and chairs, and, needless to say, made a hell of a lot of noise in the process.
When I first caught sight of him, he was on his hands and knees reaching underneath his bed, cursing something terrible. The silly git hadn't had the sense to realize that I would wake up soon after he did; I could tell by the way he reached his entire head underneath the bed as well. So, I did what any considerate twin would do: silently crept out of my own bed, snuck up behind him, and wacked him one right on the bum. How I loved to hear him yell.
Fred, with his brain cells now thoroughly in tact, got up off the floor and looked me in the face; a perfect portrait of my own. Well, almost. His eyes are a deeper shade of blue than mine are, and, though it may sound strange; I've always considered him to be the "good-looking" one out of the two of us. Maybe my feelings for him are just blinding.
"What was that for?" He feigned a pout, and vigorously began to rub his backside with both hands. I may be mistaken, but I think that his eyes sparkled a little bit more brilliantly than usual when he looked upon me that day. Perhaps I'll ask him sometime.
I smiled sheepishly, leaning forward to place both hands about his lower waist, and pulling his slightly muscular form into me. He playfully brushed his hand across my face, as though mocking a typical muggle girl, slapping her partner for being a raunchy little boy. And, like some muggles, he immediately apologized before kissing me faintly on the lips.
Being twins, we grew up doing basically everything together. Sleeping, playing, joking, laughing. Everything. Unsurprisingly, we're closer to each other than we are with anyone else in our family. Which is why, in our minds, we felt it was perfectly acceptable to show more affection to one another than we did to any of our other siblings.
However, there was one thing that I just couldn't bare to tell my brother: I loved him. Not just in that "brotherly" way, either. I flat-out, absolutely, positively, was butt-crazy in love with Fred. Figuring that he'd distance himself from me, I just kept it to myself for several years. I didn't know how I could have possibly carried on without my Fred.
"Stop staring and help me find that damned Canary Cream. Harry's coming over tonight, and I want it to mysteriously find it's way onto Ginny's plate. I need to get back at her for borrowing my Cleansweep without asking, and what better way to claim revenge than to embarrass her in front of the guy she has a crush on? I just hope she hasn't mastered human transfiguration yet …" He nudged his way out of my arms, busying himself by plowing through a pile (if you could call it that) of assorted T-shirts and pants that he had thrown on the floor earlier in his search.
I sighed. Each time we got close, he would always seem to find some sort of excuse to break it up too quickly. I guess maybe at the time he had set up boundaries for himself, so that his true feelings wouldn't show through. With Fred, who knows?
"Look, stop, stop," I yanked the faded pair of muggle blue jeans out of his hands, throwing them behind me, "You've looked through the pockets of those pants twelve times already. Clearly, it's not in there, you schmuck. Why not go and look through someone else's room? Ron's, perhaps?"
Identical grins spread across both of our faces. At the time, nothing was more exciting for us than searching through Ron's bedroom. If you knew where to look, you could find out all sorts of interesting information in there: love notes from several younger classmen (which he took to locking in a safe when we began taunting him about them), magazines that would have made mum give him several hours worth of lecturing, and, our absolute favorite, his journal. Ron kept his journal conveniently hidden underneath his mattress (how obvious can you get?). On just about every other page, he gushed about how gorgeous he thought Hermione Granger was, and how he wished with all of his heart that he had the courage to ask her out. Silly git always was the shy one in the family.
After silently agreeing that Ron must have the Canary Cream (although in our hearts we truly didn't believe he did), we strode down the hallway, holding hands and giggling like the first year girls at school did whenever they passed the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor Quidditch captains, Cedric Diggory and Oliver Wood.
Knocking was way out of fashion at the Burrow; no one had bothered to knock before entering rooms for at least half a dozen years. Unfortunately, no one really did anything embarrassing in their bedrooms anymore; Fred and I had randomly entered everyone's room at thirty-minute intervals when we were fourteen. It seemed that the only people who actually took care of normal teenage needs were Bill and Charlie, who had moved out a few years prior. Too bad.
Fred opened the door leading to Ron's bedroom, which creaked slightly as it opened. We barged right through the doorway quietly, though burst out into peels of laughter once we had become level with Ron's bed. After all the years of being peeping toms, are time of triumph had finally come.
Ron had been lying stomach-down on his bed, passionately kissing his pillow; gripping the bed sheets firmly between his fingers. As soon as he had heard our laughter, he began to shout about how no one had any privacy in this house anymore, his face redder than we'd ever seen it before.
"Who were you pretending your pillow was?" Fred cooed, though we both knew that it could only be one person: Hermione Granger. Before he continued to speak, I knew what he would say; and I completely agreed. "I feel bad for whoever it was … you'd end up drooling all over her. Don't you even know how to kiss properly?"
Ron, who was incredibly red-faced, shook with unsuppressed rage. It took him a moment to come to, but when he did, his response was as cool as Fred's little taunt was. "Oh, and I suppose –you- would know all about kissing girls, then?"
Fred shook his head unblushingly. "Well, I don't know about girls, but …" he ignored Ron's stupefied stare, "I know that no one in their right mind would possibly want to be kissed like that. Here, let me show you the proper way, so you don't make a complete fool out of yourself when Hermione comes over."
To my absolute disbelief, Fred didn't grab for the pillow in Ron's hands: he reached out for me. His hands settled comfortably at my
sides; his fingertips unbelievably warm. Without a second's hesitation, he leaned forward, pressing his lips lightly against mine.
Perfection. If you were to describe that kiss in one word, that would be it (of course, using many words is much more interesting). His lips were light and soft, feeling like rose petals against me. As the kiss began to deepen, I noted the subtle taste of cherries; the immense urgency that clearly had built between our bodies. Instinctively, my arms rose up around his neck, pulling him in, wanting to get closer and closer; so close that our bodies would just merge into one.
Gently, Fred pushed me up against the near-by wall, his lips seemingly trying to devour mine in the most passionate kiss I'd ever received in my entire life. The world around me grew completely still; the beds, the windows, the decorations on the walls, and the mortified vision of Ron had escaped my mind completely. The only thing in the entire universe that mattered at all was this one kiss.
After what seemed like ages (a minute and thirteen seconds in reality), Fred and I parted our lips, though clung to each other selfishly. Ron's jaw looked as though it were seconds away from dropping to the floor as he gaped at us. Words had escaped both Ron and me, but Fred, my Fred, as usual, knew exactly what to say.
"That's how it's done, Ronnie-kins."
x.x.x.x.x.
The End!