Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 25

Intimacy was an off limits conversation for George.

At least, it had been.

Because intimacy now was usually a drunken hookup every few months with Angelina—one that lasted maybe twenty minutes unless he couldn't even get it up in the first place. Because Angelina would drink too, not as much as George, but enough that she would usually forget to say his name in the throws of passion instead of one that started with F. It damaged George, tore him up inside. But Angelina was what he had left, so he was always there when she needed him.

Intimacy felt phony, felt like a lie. And George was content to leave it behind with memories of Fred telling him he had a crush on the muggle that worked in the paper shop in Ottery St. Catchpole and ones of George confessing that he thought love didn't exist in real life. Fred had laughed, told him to wait and see. George was still waiting, and in his head Fred was still laughing.

But when Olive let him touch her scar, allowed him to trace the thicker skin with his finger without an ounce of alcohol clouding his brain, it felt like intimacy. And George liked it.

He liked it very much.

He liked it so much that when he woke up sweating later that night, his body hot and wired and his briefs uncomfortably tight, he had closed his eyes and thought about that scar stretching and lifting and curling into a smile beneath his own lips. Sleep was futile, he'd taken a freezing shower instead.

It happened the next night too, and the night after, until he finally grew so tired of dreaming of the smell of raspberries and the reluctant beauty of green, that he'd been forced to fist himself until his chest felt like fire and his hand was a mess.

Ollie.
Fucking hell.
Ollie.

And so, after closing Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for the night, George finds himself standing in front of that familiar pink door with a foreign sensation prickling his skin. He pushes it open without a second thought, eyes scanning the ice cream shop and freezing his feet in place on the back and white tile.

George stares at the counter, focus locked onto two backs facing him. Olive is chatting up the blokes, her eyes crinkled and hands flapping in the air wildly, and something one of them says makes her laugh. Her head tips back, like she's gifting the sky with that noise. When she leans back up, George tries not to feel something close to greed when her eyes land on him and light up to that sage color he was beginning to think about often. Selfishly, he declares that sage and that happy grin as his own, and his nerves disappear when she says excitedly, "Hi, George."

"Hi, Ollie,"

He shoves his hands in his pockets but does as she silently asks and makes his way over to the counter. He inhales for six beats before exhaling for five. He ignores the two sets of eyes flicking back between him and Olive as she lifts the divide off to the side of the counter and wriggles out from behind it.

She reaches out and pulls on the cuffs of his shirt, three short tugs that make his lips twitch before he can stop it. He lifts his free hand and playfully pulls on the strap of her dungarees. Lavender today, the kind of purple that feels like serenity. He missed the flavor of ice cream, not that he would tell her. He missed the pumpkin pasty flavor too, but when he asked why it wasn't out yet, she had said she gave up on it.

"George," She says it again, and his body fills with comfortable warmth. He feels his lips give in and curve into a half smile as he answers lowly, "Ollie."

"These are my friends from Hogwarts. Do you know Nigel and Dennis?"

That warm feeling turns to icy dread, and he feels a prickling of guilt when her smile slowly fades. His must be gone too. He can't imagine what he looks like right now. He swallows past the lump in his throat and turns his head to the blokes watching him and Olive with differing expressions. Curiosity, disbelief. Concern. The last one irritates him and makes him hold on tighter to the purple strap over her shoulder. He'd never hurt her. Never.