Hello! So I love Fred and George and while I already wrote a story about Fred's death before, I never wrote for George so I wanted to give it a try. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed getting my feelings wrecked while writing it.

wordcount: 1.520 according to Word.

Disclaimer: None of it is mine, the characters and universe belongs to J.K Rowling

Pretending

It is almost a tradition the way he wakes each night some minutes before three in the morning, his eyes itching with the tears he shed during the night, his head aching and his hands fisting the threadbare sheets of the bed in a familiar mix of frustration and tiredness before he kicks them away from him. He searches blindly in the dark for his shoes and puts on the night robe he keeps besides the bed over his shoulders. He wants a drink so badly that it burns.

Through it all, he avoids looking at the other side of the room, keeping his back to the other bed and he is silent, his breath barely making any sound. He knows what he will see anyway if he would dare to look; the empty bed, the open dresser with its drawers open, shirts and underwear peeking through and the broomstick resting against the left panel, the slight dust covering the nightstand, the shirt that Fred left on the floor still resting there, there are rolls of parchment scattered around and books laying down on the most absurd places.

He would see it all and he would think of Fred, because out of the two George had always been the neat freak and thinking of Fred would lead to thinking how bad it hurt that he wasn't there anymore.

Maybe leaving the room altogether would be better but he can't stand the thought of it.

As long as he lived, he'd shared this space of The Burrow with Fred. This was their place, just as the shop was their place and the thought of parting with any of these places, painful as though they were to be in, is like losing Fred all over again and he is not strong enough to live through that. Parting with their room and with their shop meant that there is, perhaps for the first time of his life, just George instead of Fred and George and the idea is still too painful to bear. Like this he can almost pretend that Fred is only away for a small time, even though they had never been apart for more than a few days at the time and he likes to pretend that.

He doesn't want to think about Fred's dying or about that thrice damned day. He doesn't want to think of anything at all. Not really. Thinking hurt and it tired him, sapped him of energy until all he wanted to close his eyes and bury himself in a mountain of covers, never coming out.

It is safer, better when he can't think of anything or when he can pretend. Then he can pretend that he's functional and his mom would stop looking at him like he might break any moment even though it has been well over a year since it happened and he was better. He can pretend he is better. Even though thinking hurt and sometimes being alive hurt too to the point that he wanted to hurt himself because surely, surely having his arm cut in half would hurt less than this open, raw wound that never seems to close inside. He can.

He does an awful lot of pretending these days.

And then he moves. He tries to be silent, his steps barely making any sounds as he moves through the darkened hallways of the Burrow and down the stairs towards the kitchen. Before the idea of sneaking around always was accompanied with mirth at the new trick they would play, his lips stretched into a big anxious smile as he tried to contain giggles that would give him away. Tonight, just as many other nights before, his face was grim, the telltale signs of sleepless nights clinging onto it and painting a gruesome canvas.

He is surprised to see another person the kitchen, the silhouette cutting the slant of light coming from the kitchen door and for a second he debates with himself whether or not he should turn back, his nightly cap -or caps- of Fire whiskey forgotten. He stands there for a couple of seconds before something inside of him decides to push open the door all the way open.

It is Percy and he is sitting at the front of the kitchen table, his hands clutching a small, steaming cup of what George supposes is tea.

He isn't sure of what he should say. If he should say anything at all.

"I know." Percy says suddenly, his hands clutching onto the cup so hard that for a minute George feared that he would break it. "I know what you are thinking George. I know... know that you preferred me instead of Fred... "He lifts his eyes then to look into George's eyes and the pain in there makes George flinch back.

"That's not true." He denies, his hand clenching onto his pants as he looks down, not wanting to meet his brother's eyes. Because deep inside, he knew he was lying and that, if he were to choose, he would prefer to lose Percy and keep Fred and he fears that if he looks into the other's eyes he won't be able to hide it from him.

He hates himself for that.

"Don't lie. I see the way you look at me... that everyone looks at me. " Percy looks down into the cup now, his lips drawing a small sad smile that makes George's stomach lurch and all of sudden he notices just how slim Percy is. It settles badly with him, somehow. "I think even mom thinks that." There is no anger or bitterness on Percy's face, there is only sadness there, a deep sort of resignation that sends a trickle of fear down George's spine.

"Mom doesn't think that." He defends vehemently because he knew, knew of the countless hours that mom spent worrying about Percy when he left and he knows that mom loves them all and would have been devastated for any of them.

"But you do, don't you?"

George is silent and it takes all but for a couple of seconds of his silence for Percy to look away from him, his eyes hollow.

"Do you want a cup of tea, George?" Percy voice breaks the silence after some minutes have passed.

George unthinkingly nods and he watches as the older one tinkers away in the kitchen and soon enough the smell of chamomile hits him full force and his lips draw a small smile because chamomile had been Fred's favourite bland of tea.

"There you go." Percy says softly as he hands him the cup and George takes it, the soothing warmth coupled with the soft smell comforting him.

"Chamomile was Fred's favourite." George finds himself saying suddenly, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Oh, sorry, I... It is my favourite too and I didn't think... "

"It's okay." And it really is. The smell of the tea brings back memories of countless hours spent planning and preparing, and of their shop and he can almost pretend that Fred is the one sitting in front of him, even though Percy's hair is slightly darker and his skin just a tad bit darker as well. He finds that nice, comforting, somehow and he wonders just how messed up is that.

"Sure?" At any other time, George would have probably tease his older brother about the sudden birth of a heart somewhere in his chest but he's not that boy anymore. That was before.

"Yeah... "George nods, sinking deeper into his chair and clutching the cup tighter. "Do you do this often? "He asks even though he knows the answer.

"No. I couldn't sleep... "George nods.

"I don't really think that... about you and Fred." The words feel off in his tongue because a part of him can't help but think that he is lying but he needs to say it as well. "I don't want to lose another brother, Perce." He continues in a soft voice, using the moniker he'd reserved for Percy when they had been younger and taking a long look towards the emaciated face of the older one, stopping in the sunken cheeks and on the long sleeves.

There is a significant pause.

"Me neither, Gred." Percy's eyes are poignant, not looking at him but rather behind him, into the pantry George keeps his liquor in and George looks away, his breath hitching, a mix of shame and anger tingeing his features as he thinks about the other nights.

He nods and they don't speak anymore as they watch the softer light of the dawn coming from the window, receiving the new day.

George knows that tomorrow he would pretend they never had this conversation and he finds comfort on that because he knows that like all the other nights since Fred's died George would keep up waking a bit before three and drinking himself to stupor and he doesn't think he can keep up with that tradition if he thinks on how sad Percy's eyes look just then.

Task 3 - Someone being comforted by tea. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

(Drink) Tea - Are you crazy enough to do it challege

And Tradition in the Start and Stop Challenge

So tell me what do you think? don't be shy! that little button down there won't eat you, in fact, it is quite friendly!

So please, with a cherry on top, would you write what you think?