georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

For what felt to him like way more than just a second or two, everything had stopped again and it took a moment to realize he was being spoken to. Everything in his line of sight seemed to be vibrating and it made his eyes hurt, and he was hit with a slight pang like a small child would get when they throw up for the first actual time and they get scared because they've got no idea what's going on, why it feels so gross and why they suddenly want to cry. 

He spit into the waste bin sharply to try and rid his mouth of the taste of bile, albeit not very successfully, and he let go of it with one hand to grab the edge of the counter and hold on. Turning his head a little, he gave Fred a watery expression and nodded, wincing at the movement and taking another second to catch his breath. He wished they had paper cups in the bathroom, or something, so he wouldn't have to lean down and take a drink straight from the faucet how he was thinking he was desperate enough to do, but alas; no cups.

It didn't feel like he would need the waste bin again for a while, at least, and with a slightly shaking arm, he lowered it onto the floor and scooted it a little more to the side, tucking it in the nook between the toilet and the side of the counter. His hand found his knee again and he braced the other on the counter, moving to stand and finding that it'd be much easier if his limbs didn't feel like fucking Ramen noodles. Despite how slowly he'd managed to move, the vertigo was instantaneous and he swayed on his feet, fingers scrabbling for a better grip on the edge of the counter and nearly losing purchase on it. He didn't, though, and managed to almost steady himself by tipping a little sideways and resting his elbow on the counter, muttering swears at himself and cursing his misfortune. 

Try To Stay Calm, Try To Stay Dry || Twins

“Oh,” murmured Fred to the still mewling cat. “Here we go.” 

George retched and Fred winced, only because the splatter of vomit wasn’t all that appealing to listen to. It was ok for a moment until the scent hit him, and he had to raise his arm and block his nose with the rain-wet fabric of his still-worn coat. Otherwise, he said nothing, nor did his eyes. He held no judgement towards George, because blimey, head wounds hurt. Having had his fair share in the boxing rounds, he knew the way they set you off-kilter. The way it made the world swim and make it impossible for you to wade along. 

When George seemed to stop, Fred quirked a brow and shifted his wrist to keep the kitten still, squeezing its ribs just gently. It dug its claws into his hand in return. 

“You wanna lay down, dude?” His voice was muffled by his coat, but his eyes didn’t waver from their lock on George.

#dry #ugh my head hurts this is not helping LOL

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

He'd let his eyes fall shut as Fred secured gauze to his forehead, wincing at the pressure and not bothering to try and hide it any longer, because what good would that do? Sure, there was a pride thing involved, a 'tough it out, you fucking priss' mindset he'd adapted over time when he suddenly had a reason to slump a little rather than tower over people he felt he should belittle. But, despite how sometimes that mindset was heightened around Fred, who better to crumble before than the only person who's judgement was never a negative factor?

When Fred leaned away and the rustling of wet fabric being shifted reached his throbbing ears, George pried his eyes open to peer at whatever he'd withdrawn from his pocket, and they widened just a bit in surprise, shrinking back to half-lidded status when he couldn't keep the expression any longer. 

"Where the literal fuck did you find that thing? It looks like a friggin ball of lint." He laughed a little, giving a small smile out of amusement, mostly, but also disbelief.

"You trying to kill it or something, keeping it in there? Your pocket, what are y-- what are you think--..."

And with that, he was thankful for the plastic waste bin as he swiveled where he sat (away from Fred) and leaned forward to retch, aiming well enough but not so thankful for the harsh pressure the act put on the pain in his head, raising the discomfort level back to splitting. Coughing, he made a face and gasped, hunched forward over the waste bin and blinking blearily at the crease between the wall and the floor that stretched along the hallway he could see through the open door.

Try To Stay Calm, Try To Stay Dry || Twins

His thumb sealed the gauze against George’s head gently, testing initially, before he reached for the gauze tape, pulling it onto his lap. He worked on cutting strips, mentally measured long enough to keep the gauze to George’s head, only-half listening as he went on. He sounded out of it, as if there was no grip on the words he was speaking. Task done, he turned to his twin, pressing the gauze to his head again and laying down the tape, always making sure his arm was very out of the way.

George’s color hadn’t really returned, and the brightness in his eyes hadn’t gone away, but he was still fluent in English and speech - save for the slight slur. He wiped his hands even though nothing clung to them, and leaned his elbows onto his knees, hands dangling between them. He blinked at George’s question, brows drawing together in slow confusion. What was he - oh! His eyes snapped to a widen. Shite. The cat. 

“Blimey,” He leaned back, looking left and right before to his pocket, reaching down to pluck the little ball of fluff from it. The kitten gave a pitiful meow, probably bruised from being bopped around, and flopped around on the cradle of Fred’s hands. “I found a cat. Lookit it’s legs.” He curled his hand to surround the kitten, lifting one little stubby leg and waving the tiny paw at George. “Innit a sad sight?”

#dry

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

He had started tipping a little forward when Fred let go, his head ducked a bit over the waste bin. For a second, most everything had started to drift away and it took him a moment to realize Fred had asked a question. He opened his mouth to speak, and a moment of confusion crept over like a magician sticking a handkerchief in his assistant's ear and pulling it straight out the other side. He shook his head slightly, not in response but rather in attempts to clear it, detesting how it only seemed to make it worse.

He blinked and it stung as Fred gestured for him to lift his head, and he did so with almost a reluctance born from the desire to just sleep and wake up only when this was over. "Sounds like you want me to, you freak." 

He swiveled where he sat so Fred could reach his forehead better, clutching the waste bin and blinking slowly. "M'pretty surprised I haven't al- ahem, already..."

His stomach was still sloshing uncomfortably, with the warning, but he'd held it down this long so why not the next few minutes it took for Fred to clean up the mess he'd made of his face? Few minutes, can't be that hard.

"Never answered my question, though." He added, slightly slurred. "Whadja' find?"

Try To Stay Calm, Try To Stay Dry || Twins

“There ya go,” Praised Fred, thumb stroking the unharmed temple. “Suck it up, Buttercup.” His hands moved with a gentler stroke now, intending to soothe since George had grown used to the nipping peroxide. He cleaned the site, rather pleased with how little blood there actually was but none too content at the goose-egg that had grown. Because of it, he was careful not to press any harder than he needed, a sympathetic cringe stuck on his face. “You gonna be okay?” He tossed the browned wipe into the bin in George’s lap, turning to his line up. He snagged the gauze, and tickled his fingers in an unusual tap beneath George’s chin to get him to raise his head. 

“No puking?” He leaned in to blow at the wound, mostly to dry what Peroxide was left over. He moved to sit on the tub ledge, cutting out a patch small enough to fit it. There was a dull thud as his coat pocket banged into the tub’s side, but his focus - again - was not on it.

#dry #jktrngjer

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

Shuffling backwards at being pushed, George didn't fight it, though his knees seemed wonky at the joint and one had locked back when he went to bend them and sit, and he let his foot slip on the ratty tatty rug in front of the shower with the decent sized hole in it in order to sit right. He closed his eyes and made a face at how the light, as dingy as it was, still seeped past his eyelids and stung even when he blinked, those tiny blips of time when he figured he could have just a split second of peace and a duller darkness that didn't ache.

When Fred let go of his arms, he leaned a little forward to rest his elbows on his knees and hang his head again, trying to duck into the shadow cast by Fred's tall figure and maybe steer away from the light. He shook his head very slightly, the simplest of movements like biting down on aluminum foil, and flicked a hand at the wrist like a wave of dismissal. "I don't know. There was some douchebag and a car and a sidewalk and then a shit ton of pain." He groaned, reaching up to wipe his eye again with a curled fist, exhaling sharply in what would have been a laugh at Fred threatening to beat him with a shoe. 

"I'm not gonna p-- hey, watch it!"

He cringed as the light was suddenly at a new angle to shine through his eyelids and his head was moved painfully enough to make it feel like he'd ground his teeth enough to make them vibrate in their sockets. His expression might have wilted if not for the blinding sort of pain that followed in the form of stinging pressure right where he didn't think anymore pressure was necessary, thank you very much,-- "Fuck!" -- and he jerked back in response, turning his head away from the touch and whatever made it hurt so badly. The stinging pressure that conjured quick bursts of white behind his eyelids that was so much brighter than the dim light of the bathroom, and suddenly brought back the dizzying nausea that made him rethink what he was about to say before about not needing the trash bin.

He didn't get very far in his protest, though, as Fred's hand on his head was steady and he might have tipped over onto the floor had he not been bracing him how he was. Swallowing hard, and with a bit of difficulty that worried him, he sat back up again and bit his lip before turning his head again in Fred's favor so he could tend to the wound like he knew he had to let him. His fingers found the edge of the counter and latched on, the act of holding his breath to keep from cursing again making the rest of his head throb. 

Try To Stay Calm, Try To Stay Dry || Twins

“Whatcha fell over for, ya dummy?” Although the words could sound harsh to other ears, they were with great affections for George. He moved him back, having noted the way a leg had moved to brace an uncoordinated body, and guided him to sit on the toilet. He didn’t relinquish the grip on his twins’ biceps until he was sure George wouldn’t suddenly keel over. He still looked unsteady, yeah, but Fred kept close - in reach to catch him in time. “So what happened?”

He pulled away to open the mirror cabinet, doing a quick gaze-scan before coming up successful with the med kit. He pulled it free, turning to George. His brow snapped up in question, trying to hurry his twins’ answer, full well knowing George would be sluggish and slow. Head wounds were a bitch, after all. His coat swung against his legs, but the weight of the cat didn’t register. As far as he was concerned - the cat could suffocate and Fred wouldn’t notice so long as George was still sore, bleeding and out of it. His deft fingers flicked the compartment open, prying peroxide wipe packets, gauze, the scissors and gauze tape. He lined them up along the rim of the sink, picking up the plastic trash bin on the opposite side of the sink to hand it off to George.

“If you puke, do it into that. If you get it on my shoe, I’m beating you with it.” 

He ripped a packet open, pulled the wipe and flung it out so it fluttered. His other hand tilted George’s head, palm against the unharmed side of his head and turning the wound to the light. It wasn’t…. so bad, not really - or at least any more. He frowned anyway, because at some time George had hurt. Was he still? Fred’s lips fell into a comical state of a frown, brown eyes flicking to the wipe in his hand. Well, he was still in for a world of hurt. “Sorry, mate.” He shrugged, and with a deep breath gushed out in a blow - pressed and wiped to try and clean water, dirt, and whatever else was in that head cut.

#dry #eek #jrnefjkn why do i still tag my shit #/organized.

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

Creaking hinges, footsteps, and a voice reached his ringing ears and George looked up from the sink, blinking at the door past a fogginess in his eyes that was more cloying on the left side, as red tinted water still trickled down his face. Even as the water stopped rolling in droplets off the tip of his nose and the hem of his clothes, the blood was becoming a little thicker, it seemed, without the mix of pouring rain to thin it. He thought vaguely, maybe he should have reached for a towel at some point? Brought the damned first aid kit out, clearly. Something other than the back of his hand ought to keep it out of his eye, eventually staunch the flow that still seemed utterly ridiculous to him. It was such a thin cut, it shouldn't bleed so much. 

The all too familiar voice grew louder as its owner drew closer and George winced at the sound, because it echoed and mingled with the still loud as fuck drumming on the outside walls of the apartment and slapping against the windows. It seemed that every unpleasant thing he had to deal with on a regular basis had been amplified today, whether it be deafening sounds, or idiots in the street, or rain, or all of it. Bullshit. 

Suddenly he was being turned slightly, in a way Fred must have thought was gentle-ish, (or at least, as gentle-ish-ly as Fred could manage,) and he winced again, swear words bouncing off the inside walls of his skull and vibrating the bone, sending unpleasant zings down and around each and every column of his spine. The very faint scent of chocolate wafted in front of him and mixed with the copper; it was a thoroughly sickening component and he felt his stomach flip.

"...I, um," he began, his voice a bit tight. "I think it was my fault, actually. Fell. Or... d-uh, s-somethin'." He would have screwed up his eyebrows if not for the bump that already obscured his forehead, because despite the blood he'd look a mess. Be one. He kept his grip on the edge of the counter and moved one knee in a bend to rest against the dingy cabinet beneath the sink, partly for balance. 

He blinked at his brother, gaze drifting to a random spot on his shoulder without him meaning to. A surge of relief overtook the sick, though, and a twinge of curiosity clambered its way to the top of the priority pile; he blinked again, raising his eyes back to the general direction of Fred's face.

"Said you found somethin'? What is it?"

Try To Stay Calm, Try To Stay Dry || Twins

His night had been… intriguing.

It had begun with a cruddy bout of rain that water-logged his fags and him in the process. Then a pretty blonde thing with tiny tits invited him up for tea and proceeded to lounge around, in his presence still, naked as the day she was born. It certainly had been something to scoff at, seeing as he didn’t particularly fancy the wiles of women and their bits and bobs. He didn’t fancy anyone’s bits and bobs. He even lacked such a care for his own (and yet still groomed). Either way! thought Fred with a deep sniff, tucking his neck down into his soft jacket a little more. It was still a little damp, and therefore rubbed uncomfortable against the stretch of his neck - but it was a small price to pay to keep the rain from coating it.

It had been a long walk without the car. His pants were soaked to mid-calf from the size of the puddles and the ignorance of passing cars, and his misery stemmed from that alone. It wasn’t the walk he minded; it was the weather and people. People who earned themselves a flip of the bird was they doused him on their way by. A few choice words. Dirty whore-cunt muncher amongst them. In reality: the favourite. But once he managed to duck through the wrenched open diamond-wired fence into their shitty excuse of a parking lot, he was scot-free of stupidity amongst the human race. 

The car was still parked where he had left it after an afternoon excursion to the grocery store the day before, which gave the obvious answer that George was most likely home. Unless he went out the way Fred did, in which case was cool too. He broke into a run, thinking of the Mars bar somewhere in there, maybe under the seat, that he had forgotten. There was a gnaw in his gut - not of hunger, but of emptiness that needed filling. He didn’t particularly get hungry, and if he did it was rare. He wasn’t, by far, a junkie but the drugs had done their job in robbing him of an appetite. There were a few new scratches, Fred noticed once he reached the car, in the paint job but vandalism wasn’t foreign here. At least they hadn’t hot-wired the car. He curled his fingers under the handle to yank it open when a soft mewl broke his attention, and his head snapped towards the source.

A furry thing was hanging from the top of the wheel.

Frowning, Fred relinquished his hold and stepped back. The furry thing flicked, and his brow jerked up like it were metal and a magnet had beckoned it. His hair was flattened, plastered to his forehead but he pushed it back as he crouched, cracking at his bending knees. Under the shelter of the hub cap, curled into a ball on the considered-flattest was a flurry-thing! Wait, no, not a thing, he rationalized, squinting through the rain-blur of his vision. Oh. That was a cat. Kitten! Kitten, not cat - it didn’t look adult. Big yellow eyes, when Fred focused into the world again, were returning his gaze and without a second thought, he scooped the thing up and tossed it into one of the rather large pockets of his coat.

He carried out fishing his Mars bar from the car before running around to the buildings’ entrance when the rain hurried down, harder, again. The small lobby wasn’t very warm, but he didn’t stick around long enough to focus on it. He turned left down the hall that would lead him to flat 93, jostling his hand around his pocket while using his teeth and other to rip open the tab of his chocolate bar. He paid no heed to the walls or what wasn’t him, spitting out the flab of plastic once it gave. The smell of chocolate and caramel was taunting and he didn’t wait to take a bite, wrestling his messy link of keys out before coming to the thought that if George was home, he wouldn’t need them.

The door swung open easily and the kitten mewled with the shriek of the old springs. “George!” Called Fred, eyes landing on a discarded jacket that was most certainly George’s. But why ever was it on the floor? He frowned, regarding the couch, a good amount of centimetres apart. Maybe it had slipped off. “Where are ya, scoundrel? You’ve gotta see what I’ve found.” The cat squirmed in his pocket and he gave it a firm pat, earning a few mewed grunts. “George?” He spun in a circle, coat billowing, before heading down the hall to see if George resided in his room. But he wasn’t there - he was in the bathroom. “Blimey, George, if you’re going about your business you could shut a door or two - oh shite.” George wasn’t taking a leak in the loo. His head, though, was leaking and fear spiked in Fred’s own blood and pumped through his heart like the wrong sort of adrenaline. As it were; it was just that. “What the fuck happened to you?” He stepped into the bathroom, turning George’s head with a firm, kind hand, narrowed gaze zeroing in on the cut. “What sucker fuck gave you this?” 

#dry #meep. short. sorry.

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

Try To Stay Calm, Try To Stay Dry || Twins

The window of the cab was cool on his temple, cool enough to soothe just a bit. Not soothe the lump on the other side that he could feel just above his left eyebrow, or the sting in his eye that came from the colors of dingy crimson and copper, but rather just the knowledge of the fact that there was something wrong in his head. How the thing that sat upon his neck and shoulders felt pressured, how the earplugs he'd just bought would do nothing to alleviate the ringing in his ears, and how the movement of the vehicle he was encased in was nauseating. 

He was on a boat again, but not the massive ship caught in a storm he was on before, being knocked about by not only the wind and rain but the tentacles of a sea monster, batting at it and throwing it off course, trying to tip it over and drown the mariners on board. No, now he was on his back in a plastic raft, rocking with waves that were just a step up from gentle, after being tossed off the ship of course, so he was tired. He'd just been floating on a piece of drift wood that used to be a door or a table and had managed somehow to clamber up on a raft floating by. Why was no one else on the raft? Where were the other rafts? There were other people on board, so why was he alone?

"'Ey, buddy! This your stop?"

Blinking, the sea went away and he jerked back from the coolness of the window. Fingers were snapping in front of his face and he squinted to focus on the hand they were attached to, the arm and the body it led to, recalling that -- shit -- he was in a cab, and it was parked outside the corner store a block away from the flat.

"Right... Thanks." 

He flung his hand up in a bend at the elbow to reach for the handle, curling his fingers around it loosely, but enough to make it click and open the door. Still leaning pretty heavily on it, he'd half fallen out of the damned cab when it opened, and he righted himself enough to get his foot down in another ankle deep puddle that made him fire off a string of unintelligible curses in one low breath. He caught the cab driver drumming his hands on the steering wheel in impatience, though George couldn't afford to be put off by how rude it was. As if he wanted to be so slow. As if he didn't wish he hadn't had to take a damned cab in the first place. As if he didn't wish he was upright enough to have never had to leave the flat at all.

After a second of leaning out the door, he murmured a quick, 'oh,' and reached for his pockets, those on his pants and his jacket, patting them down for any money he might have on him.

"No, no, your pal back in town square took care'a that. Don't worry about it." 

George paused, squinting at the puddle his foot was submerged in, watching the ripples and splashes from the still-pouring rain, disturbing what he wished was stillness because it'd be easier to tell if his eyes were playing tricks on him if everything would just stop moving. If it was tunnel vision or just the natural order of things, inky blackness creeping around as time went by and London sank further into night, or if it was just him. 

He swung the door closed without looking back, pleased to hear the bastard drive away, but less pleased at the sheet of muddy water the tires kicked up and shot at him to drench his back. "Fucker," he seethed, clenching his fists and trudging up to the store and stopped, teetering a little and pinching the bridge of his nose to ground himself with some sort of pressure that was purposeful. Which direction was he supposed to go, again? He looked around, the rain coming down so fast and so heavy he could barely see. After a moment it clicked, though, and he started down the street until he got up to the apartment building. It was a long walk, especially with him feeling more and more like he was floating out at sea, clinging to a life preserver hoop now, while questionable fish nudged his legs as they swam by and he didn't know when a shark would come by to just bite him in half and stain the water. 

By time he got inside and down the hall, -- he'd lost track of how long it took him to get there,-- he pressed a palm flat to the wall for balance, in turn smearing red tinted water all over the tacky, peeling wallpaper. It took him a few tries, squinting at the numbers on the doors, all the while fumbling in his pocket for his key ring. There were locks on their door that could only be locked from the inside, (sliding locks, twisting locks, etc.) and he'd left them undone except for the few that would take keys. Finding his door and unlocking it was a trial, as it came with heaps of frustration on top every time he stuck a wrong key in a keyhole. But, he did it and slipped inside. 

Shrugging off his jacket, he left it crumpled in a folded pile of muddy fabric with the plastic bag, dirty water pooling around it in drips and streams that seeped into the floor, headed straight to the bathroom to check his reflection. It was a ghastly sight, even in the shadows made by not turning on the light, and he blamed the rain for pushing the blood down his face far worse than it would be if he'd been otherwise dry. Or maybe not, head wounds always bleed the most, even if it's a thin cut.

It looked like a relatively thin cut, and it was the least of his worries. What worried him was the seasick feeling that came in waves, like the waves he felt like the floor of the flat were riding on. The kind of big, crashing waves that knocked over swimmers trying to stand and turned fishing boats over before the captain could get a grip on the wheel or the crew could run to one side of the boat to try and tip it the other way. What worried him was that he was trying to hold onto the concept of staying upright, and it was about as good as holding onto a splintering mast; trying to decide if it was worth it to hold on tighter and get sharp shards of wood in your hands or let go and roll to the end of the deck to hit the edge of the boat, risking falling over the edge and into the water.

Gripping the edge of the counter, he hung his head and focused on breathing evenly, keeping the sick down and holding onto that splitting beam. It was a lot to focus on, and it worried him that he thought so, but he had to work with what he had and just... wait for Fred to get home. He only hoped his brother wouldn't come home to find him sprawled out on the floor, or with his head in the toilet, so he remained where he was, drenched and clinging to a broken mast. 

#posting because reasons. #sigh #sigh. #dry

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

He angled his foot on his side of the door to keep it still where it was, propped half open despite how she might try to push it open. The longer they stood in this limbo the more agitated she would get, and he knew this because he knew her. He knew why she was here based solely on the tone in her voice and the look on her face, and he wouldn't let her in if he could help it. Not unless by some miracle, she had stopped by for some other reason.

Which, again judging by just looking at her, was highly unlikely.

"No." He said simply, leaning his temple on his side of the doorjamb. "You came here for a fix."

He blinked, a bit blearily, out of a weariness both physical and born from months of telling her to go home, get help. Why had she picked now, of all times, to come to his door and fight with him over this again? He'd been over it more times than he could count, and he'd grown to resent her presence purely because he knew the result of her visits were never pretty. He loved Ginny, he did, she was his little sister for God's sake, and that's precisely why he didn't want to see her, under almost any circumstance.

He didn't want to believe that Ginny was as mixed up in this hellhole as the rest of London. Feeding her addiction would be like splashing water on a gas fire; you think giving her what she wants might calm her down, help her a little, but all it does is spread the flame and increase your chances of being completely engulfed, ensnared, and reduced to ashes. He was no fireman, but he knew enough to know that a good brother, despite his 'profession,' would never give her the things she'd been asking for. 

Fred would just give her whatever she wanted and be done with it, because she always had money and the job was the job, no matter who the customer. George disagreed. He'd take hits himself, watch Fred do it without care, sit and deal with how his parents organized the bullshit everyone was swimming in, but when he had a say? When it was his baby sister?

When it came to Ginny, the answer was no. 

He watched her for a while, waiting for the explosion to come and for her to demand entry again, waiting for a string of possible cusses and insults, for her foot to stamp down on his, any indication of just how desperate she was. It was easy for him to measure, for the most part, even with the dulled sensory attributes that came coupled with his concussion, and he blinked at her again, furrowing his brow to disperse a sudden itchiness around the scab and bruised, raised skin. Eventually, he gave up and scratched at it gently with the side of his fingernail, watching her still.

"If I let you in, can you promise all you want is conversation and a visit with your dear old brother? Can you promise me that, Ginny, or are we going to go through this again?"

Before We Turn To Stone || George and Ginny

Where was it? Where had she put it?

Ginny was manic, tearing apart everything in her room, trying to figure out where the fuck she had hidden her stash. It was usually kept in the same place - in a shoe box that she shoved underneat her bed. How her mother hadn’t found it after all this time, Ginny had no idea; it wasn’t as though it was very subtle. Anyone who knew her in the slightest would likely know exactly what it was used for, yet her parents hadn’t said a word to her about it, which she found somewhat odd.

The top of the box had been tipped over, more than likely because she had failed to actually put it on correctly, and aside from a couple of needles, there was nothing in there. Assuming that she had simply forgotten to put the drugs themselves away, she began to tear her room apart. The contents of her closet had been thrown onto her bedroom floor; most of her drawers were half-open, clothing draped over the sides, spilling out onto the floor and other surfaces of her room, since she had been literally throwing them around her room. She had been at it for a while now, and so far, she’d had no luck in finding her stash.

Defeated, she slumped onto the floor, running her fingers into her hair. She sat there for a while, her mind retracing her steps for that day and the day before, trying to remember exactly what she might have done with them. The only things she’d found during her search were an old pack of cigarettes, clothes she’d forgotten she’d had, and a box full of notes that she’d been keeping for ages now. (Why she’d kept them, she had no idea.)

She stood slowly, steadying herself against her dresser, looking at her reflection in the mirror for only a moment before she looked away. She hated that fucking mirror; she hated looking at herself and the person she had become. She had been meaning to get rid of it for ages now, but whenever it actually came time for her to rip it off the door and put it where it belonged - the garbage - she’d lose the motivation, or she would get sidetracked and forget about it until the next time she was reminded of its existence. Touching it with her hand as she took a few steps, she reached for her coat before slipping into the hallway, and out the front door of the house.

Her pace was quick and on her face was a determined expression. Her destination wasn’t clear to her until she had reached the building and was standing outside of it, taking a good look at it for a moment. It was a five-story building that hadn’t been kept in the best condition. It looked weathered and old, and she knew from past experience, having visited her brothers before, that this was not a great place to live. The place was small and the surfaces were tinged with mold, but at least it was a roof over their heads. Looking at the front door of the building, she moved forward, past a homeless man sitting on the stoop outside, and in toward the flat that her brothers shared.

Ginny knocked impatiently, determinedly, hoping that one of her brothers would magically appear at the door. After only a moment, she knocked again, figeting outside the door as she awaited an answer.

And there he was. George. The door was open, but only a crack; was he going to let her in?

“I came here to see you,” she answered, waiting for him to open the door for her, but when he didn’t, she fidgeted again, shifting her weight from one side to the other. She glanced down the hallway before her gaze found her brother again, a deep frown settling across her lips. Had it been only a year or two earlier, she’d have been smiling, explaining that she was only coming for a visit - only looking to check in on the two. It hadn’t been unusual for her to stop in every once in a while just to see their faces, but as time went on, her visits became less and less. Now, she rarely visited to see them. She was only there for one thing, and it was foolish for her to pretend otherwise.

“Let me in,” she demanded, pressing a hand against the door.

#turntostone

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

Alabaster || George and Luna

The nights in which he didn't sleep were happening more often than not, even as the brunt of the affects receded. As much as he hated to think about it, it had consumed his thoughts for the time being, and he figured... what else did he have to think about? What did he have to dream about, aspire to, plan and work for and live? Not much. In retrospect, there really wasn't much aside from survival, money, and ... and ...

There really wasn't much. 

The sight of a dry London sidewalk on the other side of the window had George reluctant to tear his eyes away, though, simply because at first he wondered if it was a mirage of some sort. An illusion, a trick of the light, because with so much rain for so long it was hard to believe that the pavement was as chalk dry as it looked and the puddles had evaporated into nothing. It was hard to believe, but the absence of echoing splashes and merciless drumming was enough to confirm that Mother Nature had finally hopped off her high horse and decided to take some fucking Midol.

For the first time in over a week, he felt that alligator smile creep over his lips and change his face in a genuine manner, as opposed to the neutrality he'd been wearing when it wasn't a downright frown. He turned from the window and grabbed his jacket, sick of the beaten walls of the flat and determined to remember what dry, fresh air tasted like. He didn't bother to tell Fred where he was going, because he didn't know that yet, and assumed he'd figure it out in due time.

London, as smoggy and stale as it usually smelled to anyone who was used to the perfumed fragrance of nice plazas and clean sheets, or even cheap motels with too-strong air fresheners to try and cover up the dinginess of it all, was much sweeter a smell than the fumes in the musty flat that he'd holed himself up in all week. The soft sound of the soles of his shoes scuffling along the sidewalk was refreshing, in comparison to the sloshing and splashing he'd stayed inside to avoid.

He'd reached the corner store a block away and stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels and leaning his upper body forward to look both ways across the street, searching for something to do, somewhere to go, anything normal. An everyday thing that he hadn't allowed himself to do for a while.

He straightened up and looked ahead, eyes widening on a slight contented smile when he caught sight of the donut shoppe right across the street. The color in the windows was surprisingly enticing and it had just dawned on him upon seeing it that he hadn't stepped foot in there in a long enough time that he couldn't recall what a damned donut even tasted like. Not quite liking the feeling of not knowing, he looked both ways down the street again before crossing, his hands still jammed in his pockets. He would have jogged and landed with a hop but his head was still pressured, and the about-eighty-five-percent-healed cut was now seated within a sizable bruise that was just as tender as the lump had been, -- and there was still a bit of a lump, --, and was simply unpleasant to behold. 

The door jangled cheerily when he pulled it open and walked inside, and the bitter smell of coffee mixed with the sweetness of sugar and icing was overwhelmingly... good. The alligator smile played at his mouth again and he stepped forward to stand in line, head tilted upward to look at the menu on the high wall. There was a girl in front of him of familiar height, the color of her hair startlingly recognizable, as well, when he looked down to idly investigate the back of her head. She'd ordered two coffees, which was strange, because she only ordered one donut, (a standard one with the pink frosting and colorful sprinkles, no less,) and there was no one else in the shoppe.

What was strange about it was that he knew who she was, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why she would order two coffees, or how she even had the money to pay for them. 

He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a bit of money, counting out what the cashier had said to her, and before she could dig through her purse, leaned forward around her to extend his arm to the cashier himself.

"Allow me."

The cashier nodded and accepted the money from him instead, and George stepped back. He'd accidentally bumped her shoulder in leaning forward, the awkward angle causing him to stumble just a bit, and he winced internally because since he knew who she was, he knew she wouldn't be very happy about that. But instead of saying anything more, or walking away, he smiled at her a little differently than he had the last time they'd met. He had no reason to be rude to her, or manipulate her at all, because honestly he didn't want tension today. It was a dry day, it was a nice day, it smelled nice and he was oddly happy with the atmosphere despite how there was an aching in his head that was physical and mental all the same. How it never went away, even when he was in good shape, but he was willing to bury it for a few minutes with coffee, donuts, and random acts of kindness towards a person he felt that he'd hurt the last time they met. 

#alabaster #george weasley #luna lovegood #guna #para #woo

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

Before We Turn To Stone || George and Ginny

It had become increasingly difficult to force himself to get out of bed in the morning. 

For the last week, lethargy had crept over him like a heavy, wet, woolen blanket and he didn't care that the fabric was cold; it was poisonous enough to steal his will to shrug it off. It wasn't unbearable, but it was slow. It was slow, and tiresome, regardless of the sleep he managed to get. Some days it was too much sleep, so much so that sometimes Fred would have to shake him to make sure he hadn't slipped into a damned coma, other days it was hard pressed to get him to close his eyes. It was hardly different than how he normally behaved, but with the weight of a concussion, there was caution to be had. 

The rain had stopped, save for occasional drizzles that came down in a soundless powder that didn't hurt his head near as much as the torrential downpours that had haunted him for days on end, forcing him to go out and buy earplugs. It was like mental arthritis; rather than joints and muscles aching, it was his ears, his head, his mood, and for a while, a shred of his sanity. He'd had enough, and was thankful for the bit of mercy the clouds had decided to grant him. 

Fred had gone out again, some other unknown destination, and George found himself worrying less and less where he went, and how often he was left alone. Maybe it was the brain swelling talking, but his views on things that used to bug him had shifted a bit, as well as things he never thought about before had now jumped to the forefront of his mind. Keeping Hawking out of the drugs was a hassle, because that damned cat just could not keep his nose out of the cocaine. His eyes were starting to shift to opposite sides, George noticed, and he shook his head as the little clunker walked straight into a wall every now and again. Damned cat. The things Fred manages to find, pft. 

Today, it was one of those days where he hadn't slept the previous night. He'd been far too awake to shut his eyes, all too aware of the throbbing over his left eye and the lump that was still there, along with the thin cut that was now covered with a little scab, but if he made a facial expression drastic enough, God's little band-aid would pull and split open, and there would be a thin stream of blood seeping down to the bridge of his nose. He'd managed to keep his face relatively lax for the past few days, and even drifted off a few times, Fred having to snap his fingers in front of him more often than not to bring him back down to earth. It was a hassle, much like the rest of the trials that came with this stupid injury he shouldn't have, but he supposed that was life. He'd have to live with it, until it went away.

A knock at the door jostled him from his seat at the table, which was now positioned in the left corner of the flat, a tatty stolen book under one of the legs to keep it steady. He'd been leaning his chin in his hand, staring just above a hole in the wall that came from the side of Fred's fist maybe a month or so ago, but at the sound of impatient rapping, he turned his head in a snap, wincing at the unconscious motion. 

He stood up, sighing silently through his nose, and squinted into the peep hole to get a look at whoever chose today of all days to bother him. Stepping back a little, furrowing his brow a bit, he blinked and looked again, wanting to believe that maybe it was a different girl with red hair standing outside his door, someone else looking for a fix that didn't happen to share his last name, the blood in his veins and the unfortunate hand his entire family had been dealt when his parents shuffled the Fate cards. 

No. It was Ginny. 

He worked to unlock the length of the door, twisting the knob finally and pulling the door open a crack, looking out at her with a slight frown.

"What are you doing here?"

#turntostone #george weasley #ginny weasley #Hawking is the cat that me and Fred were going to bring into the para we planned for when shes done with Fleur. #This is set after my para with fred. #sob

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

#personal

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

The sound of screeching tires made George cringe, amplified noises all around him channeling the headache straight to his stomach to the point where he leaned a little forward and clapped a hand over his mouth in protest to the threat and warning. The bag around his wrist flopped around and swung in front of him as he lifted his arm, bouncing off his chest. The contents of the bag shouldn't have made such a clatter when jostled and the sound of it was just an additive to the throbbing in his head and the flipping of his stomach. It was a false alarm again, though, and he straightened up, sniffing casually and wiping his face again. 

He listened to Moron conversing with the cab driver without really hearing what they were saying, and not caring to know, to be honest. The want to get home was as strong as ever, and he was starting to be eager, even, to be made fun of by Fred if it meant getting out of this rain and away from this idiot. He'd reached for the handle while they spoke, climbing in the back seat and closing the door behind him to find he'd caught his coat in it, and had to open it again to free himself. Closing it finally, he set the bag on his lap and sighed, waiting for Moron to back away from the window.

"Where to, mate?" 

"Hm? Oh. The uh, the..." He closed his eyes, rolling his fingers in a get on with it gesture to himself, trying to place the name of the place he usually let cabs take him to, a block away from where their apartment building was. "Oh. The uh, shop on the corner of 5th. Left side."

"Gotcha."

The car started moving, and he spared one look out the window at Moron, nothing more. Not a wave, not a nod, nothing. He sighed and leaned against the door for a little, fingers fiddling with the handles of the plastic bag. After a while, he moved one of the handles and reaches inside, feeling around for the earplugs and brushing his fingers against the edge of the first aid kit. They brushed something else, though, a sheet of paper that he assumed was the receipt but felt a ragged edge on. A receipt wouldn't have a ragged edge.

He took it out of the bag and held it up to where the flashing lights of passing streetlamps shone through the window so he could read it, seeing it was a note with a telephone number on it, and Moron's real name. He scoffed to himself, a hollow sound, and crushed the paper in his fist, pressing the button on the door to lower the window enough to fit his hand through, tossing the crumpled paper out into the rain. Closing the window, he leaned against the door again, sighing to himself and swallowing past the nausea that pricked at his stomach.

Moron would stay Moron to him, and he didn't want his goddamned number.

Raindrops Are Falling On My Head || George and Lee

#raindrops

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

Oddly enough, George's expression in this gif is pretty much his face in this RP at all times. That is his neutral expression. :|

THE AMOUNT OF BITCH PLEASE IN THIS IS OUTSTANDING.

#personal

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

By time Moron got to the door, George had opened it and was leaning heavily on the handle, breath a little ragged with not only the difficulty of the act but the annoyance that had grown into loathing and impatience. The spray of the rain was a sickly cold mist, but for the first time in his life, it was somewhat of a relief. The store had become sweltering hot for some reason, and the blast of cool air that came from opening the door was almost... pleasant.

Something had definitely scrambled his brains, for him to, even for a moment, rethink his opinion of this weather.

He reached for the bag and snatched it out of Moron's hand, not quite trying to be rude but because the control he had over even his arms was a little wacky, and he'd moved quickly and focused more on curling his fingers securely around the handle than much else, so to not drop it. 

"Thanks." He said curtly, stepping out into the rain and wincing at the feeling of it plummeting down and landing hard on his head, his shoulder, splattering him from all directions and leaving muddy droplets to fall in his wake as it slipped off the edge of his clothes. It mingled with the rivers of water that ran along the crease of the curb and the road, emptying into the sewers, and he reached up to wipe his eye again to clear it of bloody water. It had seeped over his lips, he could feel it dripping down his chin to go onto his neck and stain the collar of his shirt, and he blamed the rain for making it move so quickly.

Reaching the curb, he grabbed onto another parking meter and turned to Moron with reluctance, again reaching up to wipe his face. "Think you could just hail the cab or something?"

He hated asking for favors, he'd always hated it. Normally it meant he owed someone else, and while Moron technically owed him more than just earplugs and cab fare, he still didn't like to make it clear he needed someone else to help him. He had his own first aid kit at home, obviously, people would be stupid not to in this climate, so clearly he wouldn't be tending to his head in the fucking cab. It was just getting annoying at this point, thinking Moron was still trying to push repayment in the form of dollar store items.

He didn't speak again, didn't tell Moron to look both ways from now on, or give him another curt reply. Simply waited for a cab to pull up so he could finally get out of this rain for good.

Raindrops Are Falling On My Head || George and Lee

#raindrops

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

No, I don't want to fucking sit down. I want you to get out of my sight so I can get home and sleep. 

Before he could say anything, Moron turned and fulfilled his mental wish for just a little while. He hung his head and gripped the shelf a little tighter, taking deep breaths and finding it a little difficult to focus still. He'd already made himself look like a wuss, no doubt, and while one could say he had an excuse, George disagreed. He disagreed because this didn't happen to him. He didn't go weak and wobbly over a bump on the head and he didn't allow some idiotic stranger pay for earplugs he wished he didn't need. And he did need them, he knew, because the sound of the rain behind him on the other side of the door was pounding in his ears, ringing and pulsing and painful. He looked up at the clerk behind the counter and scowled at him, not quite liking the look on his face, and really not liking how there were three of these looks floating around where there should only be one.

It was only a little while, though, that Moron was gone, as he was suddenly there again in front of him with a basket that hit the ground all too hard and too loudly for George's taste. 'Pick your poison,' he says, pft. 

He went to lean down and pick up the basket, holding in a grunt of discomfort as the blood rushed to his head, and got his fingers loosely around the handle and lifted it up, setting the edge of it on the shelf to sift through it. He couldn't read the labels and he didn't care to, picking up two packets and holding them up to Moron.

"These'll do. Just... go pay for the sodding things and consider your debt repaid."

His voice was dripping with an exasperated annoyance. All he wanted was to get out of here. He would rather face the fiery wrath of Fred poking fun at him for being a clumsy berk than standing here in a too-bright dollar store with the biggest dunce he'd ever been so unfortunate as to cross paths with. 

He started to walk towards the door, pressing his hand to the side of his forehead where there wasn't an enormous, tender lump. It rested over his left eyebrow and his fingertips brushed it, causing him to flinch and drop his hand back to his side. Waiting for Moron to ring up the earplugs was a tedious less-than-a-minute that felt far more lengthy to him in this moment, and he was growing more and more internally desperate to leave this place and get home.

Raindrops Are Falling On My Head || George and Lee

#raindrops #;-; #we need to go FASTERERRRR #both of us jernm

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

Wow, this jerk really was drunk. George closed his eyes and leaned a little to the side to brace himself on a shelf by his fingertips, sighing in exasperation as Moron rambled on and on about things he'd be willing to get for him in repayment for saving his life. A hat and a date seemed so minimal compared to the hell he knew he was going to face when he got home and had to explain this to Fred. He could practically feel the flames licking at his ankles as he sunk lower and lower into what he knew was molten rock, brimstone, and playful mockery that would only wind up making his head hurt even more.

"Just the earplugs. Fucking rain's been driving me mad." His voice was a bit strained, and he didn't even bother to comment on Moron's fumbling words that followed his offers. Straightening up a little and looking around the store, he tried to pinpoint through shifting vision where the aisle was that the earplugs were kept... it was somewhere near the... somewhere...

He gave his head a little shake, and reached up to wipe his eyes again, looking up in time to see he'd earned some rather suspicious glances from the bloke behind the counter and a few people passing. He looked at Moron and exhaled sharply, making a face.

"Just the earplugs. They're somewhere in this shit hole. Maybe aisle three?"

Raindrops Are Falling On My Head || George and Lee

#raindrops #short because ff.

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

Moron was relentless.

As if paying for a drink or whatever he'd been aiming to get at the dollar store would make up for not only the pain in his head and the sudden unsteadiness of his movements, but for the annoyance that came with doubt and the feeling of hatred towards humanity. The percentage of humanity that thought following and badgering him would be more productive than leaving him alone like he clearly wanted, and who would continue to pest even when he turned his back.

He turned his head to regard Moron, squinting and scowling a little out of petty anger and dislike for the man. He didn't know him, and he didn't want to know him, because he didn't care. If Moron didn't care before, what was the use of letting him redeem himself by spending a few bucks on alcohol or earplugs?

People these days.

It was probably pointless to be angry with him, though, because Moron couldn't have known he would slip the way he did. But it fucking hurt, and he had to blame someone, didn't he? Easier to blame the berk who stood in front of the car than the guy who despite his loathing for the human race would still jump forward and save him.

He pulled the door open and stepped inside, blinking rather hard to try and get used to the light. The dryness of the place was pleasant, the heat of it blasting him with the force of a hair dryer on high. In reality, the place was probably only lukewarm, maybe even a little chilly, but with the wet coldness that sunk down to the very marrow of his bones, it was like a god forsaken sauna. It was a little too strong, but he toughed it out and took another step before turning around and facing Moron, who he knew had followed him.

"You really wanna make yourself useful? You can lay down two bucks and pay for a pair of earplugs. Earplugs. Happy?"

Raindrops Are Falling On My Head || George and Lee

#Yes #they are #xD #HES CONCUSSED LET HIM WOBBLE.

[georgemotherfuckingweasley-blog]

#personal