Percy doesn’t smell like failed joke potions, or taste like butterbear and Pepper Imps. When Fred touches him, he doesn’t laugh and touch Fred, too. Instead he presses forward and pulls back all at once.

He tastes like bitter tea, and smells like ink and paper, and kisses like something deep inside of him is hurting, or hungry.

Yes, his hair is red, his body freckled against pale skin. But he’s not Fred’s other half, or even Fred’s friend. He’s…Percy. Older brother, Bighead Boy, more serious than Fred could ever conceive of being.

No one ever said Fred made sense.

 

END

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