Switch

They’ve tried to get away from each other.

Even though they never really coordinate their efforts on purpose, they always end up kissing someone else at the same time, or kissing the same person at different times. Several members of their Quidditch team won’t even talk to one or both of them anymore, and they’re getting a reputation of being heartbreakers, doing that confusing twin-switch thing when really all they’re confusing is each other.

Or else they catch each other, sliding their hands simultaneously beneath someone else’s robe beneath the breakfast table and then meeting eyes over it, drawing their hands immediately back at the look in each other’s mirror-eyes.

It never works.

They always end up joined at the skin again, Fred’s hands in George’s hair and George’s fingers on Fred’s lower back but they both feel hands, fingers, in their own hair and on their own flesh, and eventually they lose track of who is who and what is what.

“You’re the only one who knows what I’m—”

“Thinking. Yes. You’re the only one who knows what I—”

“Really want. You. Yes.”

They fall asleep naked, wrapped around each other like they were in the womb. When they wake up, it hurts to have to return to separate identities.

 

END

return to decay