They are meant to be together. All the time. They were born together, and George thinks it is only fair they should have been allowed to die together.
He can’t finish his own sentences. They hang, limp in the stagnant air, and he chokes on nothing, and feels the ice cold fingers of grief clutching his heart.
He remembers what it was to have someone know him. He remembers how easy it was to be with someone who looked through him, and saw each one of his veins and his beating heart. He remembers what it was to have someone know the end of each sentence and the start of the next.
He remembers waking in the middle of the night, and seeing the top of his brothers head, one bed over. He remembers feeling safe. As long as they were together.
He remembers being ten and hiding in the woodshed from an older brother, and at first, he was proud of himself, because this is a good spot, and he will never be found. He remembers wondering where Fred was. He remembers the uneasiness resting on his shoulders in his brother’s absence. What, he thinks, is the point of a perfect hiding spot, if Fred is not there to smother his laughter when Charlie walks by.
He remembers Percy shaking his head at them, while they floated in the lake with all their clothes weighing them down, the cold air making them shiver. He remembers both his brothers grinning. He remembers Percy shouting, laughing, that they are fools. That they will catch cold. No, Fred calls back in goofy voice, George will keep me warm. George remembers his twin gripping him tight and dragging him under the water. He remembers being pulled down next to his brother, eight lanky, pale limbs, flailing in the water, two identical laughs.
He remembers the last laugh, too. Before the death.
George remembers a lot. He wishes he didn’t sometimes. Remembering hurts.
