#bil weasley series

[wisteria-blooms]

long hair & tattoos (bill weasley & reader) (14/15)

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

CHAPTER 14: Aided by two drinks too many, you dig into Bill's heart to gauge how he feels about something you've been thinking about - matrimony and who he'd favour for it . 5.1k words. TAG LIST moved to the bottom! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged or if I've missed you.

A/N: How... did we get here already. I feel like the last chapter is going to be dialogue-heavy to tie up all the loose ends so this one was good practice. Thank you everyone for reading, and leaving a comment! Seriously makes my day to get a notif during work with a comment of someone stumbling onto this baby I've nestled since February.

"Hush, I know they said the end is near. I'm still on my tallest tiptoes, spinning in my highest heels, love, shining just for you."

CHAPTER 14: MATTERS OF MATRIMONY (A MILE AWAY)

In a room full of family, one thing rang true: Malfoys, in addition to perpetual winners and never-criers, were also functional drunks. Malfoys weren’t slobbery, embarrassing drunks, but very truthful and sentimental drunks. Phrases like “Rosie, I’m glad you chose a different designer because you looked very much like an expensive cream puff at last year’s wedding” flowed like water. Anyway, it turned out that, through lineage, you were no exception to the rule.

Your current state was punctuated by the wine that never stopped flowing the rest of the night. In fact, there were enchantments to keep your glasses full of the best wine your Uncle Theodore’s money could buy and pay the caterer. Every time the meniscus on the crystal glass dipped too low, your cup magically rose to where it should’ve been had it never touched your lips. And it was a shame it went like honey down your throat.

“Have you done the math, Bill?” You pointed to the 600-galleon bottle of Petrus on display at the centre table. Bill shook his head, so you explained. “It works out to 150 galleons per glass, 30 galleons a sip.”

“Have you just done the calculation?” he asked. “It’s impressive if you did.”

“As kids, practicing arithmetic,” you stopped and corrected yourself, “not drinking it that young, of course. Just doing the math.”

As the night progressed, things got hazier and hazier. It felt nice to finally let loose, say things unabashedly and without the muzzle that was a social filter. You were always on the lookout for Bill, who was sometimes beside you but otherwise preoccupied talking to your father or some other family members. You even congratulated Genevieve who told you she was grateful you were here. To be fair, it wasn’t you or her talking—it was the alcohol that spurred the camaraderie. You met Maxime, though his features were all blurring into one tall, blonde blob and you didn’t even remember what you’d said, but he was pleasant.

At this current point in time, the fairy lights up ahead were beginning to look like a blur, like you’d permanently crossed your eyes. You were twirling Charlotte—or was it Clara?—around to the music on the slope of land overlooking the sea. They weren’t twins, just born two years apart, but they looked very much alike. There was less people on the floor than before, and you were betting on staying here until your youngest cousins were swept by Aunt Rosamund.

“To be young again!” you exclaimed, watching your youngest cousin nimbly twirl on the floor.

“You’re only six years older than me!” Charlotte or Clara retorted with a shake of her head, her wild blonde hair flapping about.

“I pray you never reach my age,” you said. “There’s so much shit to think about and it’s bloody confusing.”

“What’s there to think about?” she questioned earnestly.

“Just wait until you reach my age,” said a voice.

You spun around and came face-to-face with a familiar chest. “Bill!” you exclaimed, a warm tingle arising in your chest, and fell towards him. He caught you by the hands. You looked up at him with a lopsided smile. “Where’ve you been?”

“Looking for you. Thought it was easier with the thinning crowds.”

“Where is everyone?” You looked around, your hand still firmly in his hand. “Draco, Astoria, mum, dad?”

“They went home.”

“Without me?” you gasped dramatically.

“They said you were having too much fun, so I was tasked to bring you back safe and sound,” Bill said. Then he raised an arm and prompted you to twirl around. “That is, unless you want to dance the rest of the night away.”

“Is it that time already?” you asked, facing him again when you’d finished spinning. “Then I think it’s best to leave before we’re the last ones here.”

“Alright,” he agreed. “There’s a carriage down the steps waiting for us.”

“Bye, sweet, dear, cousin of mine.” You embraced who you realized was Clara. She was a little more reserved of the two and asked less invasive questions.

“Bye, (Y/N),” she responded in a whisper, her hands lightly pressed on your back. “I hope it’s your wedding I go to next. I’m sure you’ll have a much better dance floor.”

“We’ll dance until the next morning,” you promised.

Then you skittered to keep up with Bill, leaving the faint chatter and last round of drinks behind you. You began descending the stone steps, leading to the shore where your carriage would be parked. It would’ve been completely dark if it weren’t for the dainty little lamps in the flowery bushes providing light. This, along with your impacted coordination, made you prone to tumbling down and face planting on the cement. Hence, you were very cautious with your steps. It was hard though, because your high heels had progressively blistered your feet throughout the night, and your heels felt like they were on fire.

Bill noticed your awkward gait and stopped on the step in front of you. “You’re going to break an ankle,” he remarked.

“My feet hurt,” you whined. “I very much abhor these shoes.” And then came the first flow of liquid courage. “I only wore them because you’re so tall.”

Bill laughed, then crouched down slightly and patted his thighs. “I’ll take you down the steps.”

Your eyes lit up. You couldn’t pass up a free ride. “Really?”

“If you broke an ankle, I’d have failed my task of getting you home safely.”

“Say no more, I’m already convinced.”

You looped your arms around his shoulders and jumped up on his back. Bill’s hands were securely holding onto the back of your thighs. He felt sturdy and infallible. You adjusted yourself to get comfortable—which included happily planting your chin on his shoulders and burying your nose in his soft hair. You accidentally let out an happy groan as you nestled in.

“Did you have a pleasant night?” you asked as he began moving.

“Of course.”

You stroked the material of his suit jacket and murmured in appraisal, “My changed man of a father actually did a fair job with you. I would’ve chosen the same thing for you.”

“I suppose a wedding’s a very special event,” Bill responded.

“Have you been to a lot of weddings?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have a lot of extended family. There’s at least four weddings a year.”

“I feel like Genevieve is going to pave the way for a slew of cousin marriages,” you said. “Claude next, then Draco, then probably Charlotte then Clara.”

“And where are you in this?” Bill asked.

“I’ll end up last. I’ll be a haggard old witch by the time a man gets on his knee for me, only because we’d both be dying and he can’t stand anymore,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh. You poked your head at Bill, nose just inches away from his cheek. “Have you ever thought of getting married?” you queried, then quickly added: “Don’t these kinds of events make you wish for it?”

Bill paused for a moment, his body stiffening and the corner of his lip tightening slightly. “I think about it more often that I’m older, but I can’t be rushed into it.”

You cocked your head. “Who’s rushing you?”

“The same person who’s rushing you.”

“Narcissa is rushing you?” you purposely misinterpreted with a snicker. “Did she sit you down and give you the talk in the middle of a busy café?”

You smiled when you heard the sweet notes of Bill’s laughter joining yours in harmony. “No, it’s Molly.”

“I can see that,” you hummed. Molly was very motherly, and her wanting to dote on her grandchildren was very in-character for her.

“Mum’s always on my back, too, heckling me to get married,” Bill said, “because my younger brothers have partners, and I’m apparently too old to be single anymore.”

“That’s not true,” you argued. “You have plenty of time. You’re a man. You’re blessed with an infinite reproductive mechanism.”

“Tell that to my mum.” Bill inhaled deeply and pitched his voice up to sound like a Howler. Fred and George got a ton of them back in school. “William Weasley!”

The shrillness of his voice stirred some critters in the trees. After thirty years alongside his mother, Bill naturally did an amazing impression of Molly. You nearly snorted before breaking into a braying laugh. It was nearly midnight but you could’ve cared less about the noise you were making.

Bill continued to flaunt his theatrical talents, limited to his voice and animated facial expressions because his hands were preoccupied supporting you on his back. “Arthur and I will be in wheelchairs by the time you have a wife, nevertheless a child! We want to be present for our grandchildren. We want to visit you and your wife at St. Mungos when it happens, not to already be patients there.”

You giggled. “At least you didn’t get the talk about your eggs shrivelling up. It’s quite the nasty thought, isn’t it?” Then, you wondered aloud, “How does your dad go about it?”

“He’s indifferent but he just gets roped in. Mum will comment about how it would be nice to have a grandchild and dad will just sit there and agree.”

You could imagine that scene perfectly. Bill, walking into the kitchen innocently, trying to fix himself some tea and a sandwich, and Molly remarking how quiet and child-less it was in the house. “Does she hound your brothers, too?”

“Not at all,” Bill responded with a sigh. “Fred could marry a Hippogriff and she would be overjoyed that he at least married someone… or something. It’s me who has to get it perfectly right.”

“It’s unjust. All the expectations seem to fall on our shoulders, doesn’t it?” you commented.

“When Fred and George dropped out of school, mum was only livid for a week before she accepted the circumstances. I don’t reckon I’d have gotten the same treatment,” he continued. “The curse of being the eldest child.”

“You’re the only one who understands, Bill,” you added. “I’m the one who takes the brunt of Draco’s crap.”

“Do you?” Bill mused. “Funny, he did mention something about that.”

“He was talking about me?” you gasped, your fingers tightening their hold on his shoulders.

“They weren’t awful things,” Bill assured.

In the silence that lapsed, you were feeling braver than usual. Alcohol had a funny way of working. You found it ironic that people referred to it as liquid courage, because liquid was easily tampered with. You preferred to think of it more like armour—heavy, study. Regardless, alcohol unlocked a trove of questions that you kept buried in the deepest confinements of your heart, because you never had the nerve to ask when you were sober.

There were real repercussions, real chances of irreversible damage, especially if you were to ask: “Weren’t you involved with someone before you came back to England?”

“For a little bit, yeah”

You frowned slightly. Bill didn’t catch this as he was focused on getting down the steps with dropping to both of you. Admittedly, you were jealous that someone out there got to experience loving Bill Weasley, got to hear him tell them ‘I love you’ back, and forming a spoken and physical connection with him. The hope of that was slipping through your fingers every hour that ticked down to tomorrow’s departure.

“Why did it end?” you prodded.

“We just weren’t right for each other. It happens.” Bill shrugged, his shoulders rising and prompting your shoulders to graze his jaw. “Ended on good terms.”

“Was it that woman at the bank?”

Bill paused in thought and turned around to look at you. “What woman?”

“The tall blonde one that you kissed on the cheeks.” You tapped him where the shadow fell from his structured cheekbone twice. “Did you fancy her?”

Bill laughed, maintaining eye contact, and your face turned redder than they’ve ever been. The invincible armour from the alcohol faltered momentarily and you felt hot shame for asking.

“No, that’s Fleur Delacour,” he explained. “She’s the global liaison for Gringotts. She’s been trying to recruit me to our sister branches across Europe.”

“Oh.” Well, you felt like an absolute fool.

“What would make you think that now, (Y/N)?” he teased.  

“You just looked close.” You quickly tried to reroute the conversation, not wanting to talk about how hopeless you felt when you thought they were together. Besides, you wanted to know less about her and more about how Bill felt about matrimony. “I bet Molly would want you to get married to someone like Fleur.”

“There’s no chance of it,” Bill deflected with a laugh.  “They’ve got to be the right person for me, not my mum. Otherwise, it’ll be Molly waiting at the altar in a suit.”

You stifled a laugh and looked up. You were blanketed by a starry sky, the moon arched so perfectly in the sky. There was no better night to get everything off your chest. And just like that, your liquid courage solidified again. “What’s the right person for you?” you asked, your heart beating like a hummingbird against Bill’s strong body.

“Are we still rehearsing?” he asked with a low chuckle. The ripples from his voice vibrated pleasantly against your own chest.

“No.” You felt your face grow hot again and you attempted to hide it in the crook of Bill’s neck. “I’m just curious.”

“It’s not complicated,” he said with a shrug.

“What’s complicated?” you asked hotly. You shook his shoulders. “You’re complicated, Bill! Answer my question, it’s not a riddle.”

“Isn’t someone demanding tonight?” he commented, voice thick with amusement.

“I have a right to know!” you countered, lightly smacking his chest. You were steadfast in your line of questioning.

Bill sputtered and cowered a little. “And exactly what right is that? Is there a written decree somewhere? Did we sign on anything? Because I’d never sign my name without reading every line of the contract and in-between them, too.”

You conceded. “Bill, I admit I have no good answer to that,” you said nonsensically, your brain too fuzzy to even try to formulate something reasonable or witty.

“A fair enough answer.” He hoisted you back up when he felt you slumping down. “I suppose a kind woman who cares about her family and mine. I told you, not complicated.” He turned his head back to look at you, the twinkling lights reflecting in his blue eyes. “Satisfied now, (Y/N)?”

You incoherently murmured a soft ‘no’, the words lost in your breath. Bill’s words were buzzing in your mind and you were trying to frantically mould yourself into his criteria. Were you kind enough? Did you care about your family enough? Did you care about his family enough? Percy’s words replayed in your mind and a bubble swelled up in throat: clearly, you didn’t care enough about them if you strung him and his family along in your selfish scheme.

You curled your fists and squeezed them until your fingernails made red crescents on your palm. You had to ask, all whilst praying he’d forget you’d asked tomorrow: “Have you met the right person?”

A few seconds of silence passed before he responded, “That’s a secret.”

“We don’t keep secrets between us,” you moaned in a half-whine. You continued without any direction. “What if someone asks?”

“I reckon we’ve thoroughly convinced everyone so there’s no need to ask anymore,” Bill reasoned. He chuckled as he descended the last step with a hop. You looked up to find a carriage in front of you, wheels flush with the edges of the white boardwalk. There was a driver leaning on the vehicle’s front door wordlessly with a cigarette in between his fingers.

You hated that Bill was right. There was no one left to convince. But if this was your initial objective, then why were you wishing there was more to be done? More clandestine meetings, more planning for a future that was now only half-fiction and half-hope, and most importantly, more time spent together.

Bill helped you up the steps to the seats. You tucked yourself in the corner while Bill made small talk with the driver, whose French accent was as thick as the thoughts in your mind. The carriage sped through the empty promenade. You remained silent though you had only a million more questions to ask Bill. Secretly, you were hoping one of them would lead him to say, ‘you’re the right person for me, (Y/N)’ and there’d be nothing left to ask of him. Instead, you reclined on the soft headrest and watched the dark waves rocking onto the cobbled shore, the sparse amount of boats in the water, and late-night stragglers speeding by you. Occasionally, your glance flittered to Bill’s hand resting on the seat beside you, wishing so badly to hold those fingers again.

When you arrived at the entrance of the villa, the driver and carriage disappeared into the thick of the night. You kicked off your shoes on the front steps and carried them up the stairs to your room. It was eerily quiet inside as everyone had gone to sleep. After you’d undressed and wiped your face of any residue in the washroom, you clambered on the bed, head pounding and limbs unsteady. Bill, as if reading your mind, went to the washroom and came back out with two glasses of water.

“Here.” Bill sat on the edge of bed beside you and held one glass to you. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better tomorrow.”

You accepted his offering and chugged the cold liquid like no tomorrow. You’d drink the entire sea here if the French Minister of Magic allowed it.

“Why doesn’t it fill up immediately like the wine did?” you complained, eyeing at the bottom of the glass when water stopped pouring down your throat. Bill let out a throaty chuckle and took your empty glass.

“You just ask, and I’ll refill it for you.”

“Even at three a.m.?” you asked.

“Anytime,” he affirmed.

He left his full glass on the nightstand for you and took the empty one in his hands. When you heard a small creak and the bed get lighter, you called out.

“Bill?”

You peered at him through half-lidded eyes at his strong back and the light from the washroom filtering past his form.

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

‘Stay,’ you wanted to plead. ‘Stay with me.��

You reached out and gestured for him to come closer to you. He obliged. Apprehensively, you wrapped your arms around him, fingers shyly grazing his back, and whispered, “Thank you, you’re—”

Bill remained quiet as you tried to get the words out, but sleep was grappling for you, its treacherous hands reaching out to pull you to slumber. You, however, didn’t want to fall asleep, not knowing there were only twelve more hours to make things right.

“So—”

Your efforts were futile; you were falling in and out of consciousness quickly.

“Good—”

The last two words died on your lips. ‘You’re so good to me’, you wanted to say. In your half-lucid state, you were sure you felt Bill rest his chin on your head, and his hands gently rubbing circles on the small of your back.

“Anytime,” you thought you heard him confirm.

Before you could ask him to repeat himself, you were sound asleep. You recently developed an uncanny habit of falling asleep in inconvenient places. You didn’t think Bill’s arms would be one of them, but were you ever glad they were.

The next morning, you’d woken up with just a slight headache and a hankering for a full, greasy English breakfast. Instead, you just stood on the balcony, letting the sun kiss your skin all over and watching the waves crash onto the shore.

“I’m going to miss it here,” you mumbled to Bill who was standing behind you with your luggage.

“You’ll be back before you know it,” he said.

“I know,” you sighed heavily and turned to face him, “but I always hate going back to life as it was.”

‘As it was meaning,’ you clarified to yourself. ‘Without you, without this.’

“(Y/N),” he called, ready to confer knowledge. “Your life is up to you. It doesn’t have be a loop if you let it.”

Whatever Bill said, it didn’t matter. In your opinion, summer always ended when the trip to France ended. In the two weeks you were gone, the weather in England had either taken a downward dip in temperature, or it was just unimpressive compared to the French Riviera. The English weather was a parody of itself; it boasted grey skies and looming end-of-summer thunder today just as a private welcome-back party for you. Instead of turquoise beaches and palm trees, you only had rotting and overflowing gutters and thinning trees in the parks to look forward to.

You stopped briefly to say goodbye to your family at Malfoy Manor. You and Bill left right after, supposedly going home to the penthouse together. You walked mainly in silence. Every second that passed was tortuous, because you knew you were counting down to the end of everything. Last night, you had twelve hours, now you only had twelve minutes. Eventually, you arrived at the intersection between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. You treaded down the slope towards the bustling shopping street and continued walking until you were at the entrance of the flat. There, Bill laid your suitcase by the swinging doors and kept his own in his hands.  

“Thank you,” you said, referring to the luggage. “And for coming with me.”

“My pleasure, (Y/N),” he responded. “Thank you for having me. The French Riviera is indeed as beautiful as the books say it is.”

Any other words were lodged in your throat, so you waited.

A large drop of rain splattered on your face, the start of more precipitation to come.

You waited.

The amassed rain poured down the sewer like the last shred of hope you held onto, spiralling into darkness, like a buoy pulling on your heart.

You waited.

Finally, Bill spoke. He held up a hand, his main and middle finger slightly bent. “I’ll see you around.”

You’d be lying if you said that was what you wanted to hear.

With that, he apparated away.

You stared at the spot where Bill stood and at the imprint he made with his loafers in the grass. Like the hot, summer days, he’d disappeared as fast as he’d came, leaving the last few months nothing more than a memory and a canyon of deep regret that you would’ve made more out of it—slept in less, stayed up later. Should you be glad you never admitted your feelings to Bill? Because his abrupt goodbye wasn’t conducive to him asking you to rekindle where you’d left off.

Dejected, you let out a long sigh and picked up your suitcase. You unlocked the door to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and lugged your stuff back upstairs to your dusty sliver of a room.

As if you needed anymore reminders besides the weather that the summer was over, the joke shop received a new wave of customers: young wizards and their parents perusing Diagon Alley on their annual back-to-school trip. Work was equally mundane and quiet, and you would slump on your office desk, quill in hand, crossing off all the days you’d gone without talking to Bill.

August 23th: I guess we said goodbye in Diagon Alley, so that counts as something.

August 24: He’s probably unpacking.

August 25th: It takes a day or two to settle in.

August 26th: Nothing.

August 27th: He could be catching up with work. 

August 28th: I sneezed twice today, so maybe he’s thinking about me.

August 29th: Nothing.

On Saturday, you stayed at home, battling your own thoughts from the comfort of your couch. The sun was out for a last hurrah and it was beautiful outside, but you just wanted to take refuge at home.

“(Y/N)?”

George crouched on the floor and waved his fingers in front of your face. Your eyes were still focussed on the radio metres in the background, your magazine hanging precariously from your fingers.

“(Y/N)?” he tried again. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, George?” You finally acknowledged him by slapping your magazine on the leather couch.

“Firstly, since when were you interested in Flourish and Blott’s quill catalogue?” He stared at the discarded magazine on the couch. “Secondly, what happened in France?”

“Nothing,” you responded a little more maliciously than you would’ve liked. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I got an O—for outstanding, if you remember—in human empathy back in school and I just know you’re not as chipper as you were before you left,” he responded matter-of-factly. “Did something happen there?”

“No,” you sighed, “I just…” You trailed off and crinkled your eyebrows, trying to figure out what you missed. Maybe it was seasonal depression, and you were muddling Bill with the tropical weather in Nice. It was definitely easier to not say anything and figure it out yourself. “George, would you like to come to the beach with me?”

“Sure?” he responded quizzically. “Since when did you go to the beach in England? Who are you?”

When he noticed you glowering at him, he shut up. “Prime time for it right now,” he said instead. “I’ll get my stuff.”

You wanted to go to the beach to feel a spark, to regain what you lost when you came home. You prayed that Bill was just a supporting act in the play that were your melancholy feelings.

After a short ride on the tram, you hopped off right at the entrance and walked onto the lukewarm sand with George, approaching the water from the west. The sun in England was so weak compared to the brilliant rays you soaked up in Nice. There were bodies of young females splayed out on the sand, but you would bet your life savings they’d never tan as easily as you did. Your mouth tightened when twigs and seaweed washed up on the green shore.

“Well?” George asked, staring at the water that creeped towards his feet. “Did you want to swim or something?”

“I’m not sure.” You experimentally dipped a finger in. The water felt slimy and you immediately grimaced. “Not really.”

George raised an eyebrow in bewilderment. “Then why’d you come to the beach?”

“I don’t know.” You retracted your finger and lied through your teeth. “I miss being right by the water, I guess. It’s awful to have to take the tram here and have it,” you gestured out to the desolate space, “look like this.”

“You’ll go again next year,” George assured. “With me, though.”

“Why with you?”

You almost laughed at the irony of your question. When your mother propositioned you for the trip, you’d almost forgotten about asking Bill. You recalled Fred’s shocked face as he held the parchment and him asking you if you’d lost your mind. Now, all you could think of was inviting Bill and spending another August with him.

“Because,” George drew in a deep breath, almost like he didn’t want to unfurl the next words on his tongue, “Bill is going back to Egypt.”

You couldn’t control the startled look on your face. George just looked at you, oblivious that his words sent a shockwave of hurt through your heart. You needed a few moments to process this new piece of information and any semblance of a response was lost on your lips. It made no sense. Bill hadn’t mentioned Egypt at all throughout the summer, he looked ready to stay put. But again, he also hadn’t made plans with you for after the summer. You supposed you weren’t an important piece in the chessboard that was his future.  

“Is he?” you choked out, grateful that the pale waves in front of you were washing out your bleak tone. “When?”

“September first, we’re having a farewell dinner tomorrow,” George responded, hands in pockets and standing so casually, like he wasn’t clenching your poor heart with his bare fists with every sentence he spoke. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Nope.” You fiddled with your hands and a thought came to you, eliciting a bitter chuckle. “We’re not really together, so why should he tell me?”

“Fake relationship or not,” George turned to you, “you should get your goodbyes in before he leaves, yeah?”

You stared out at the sea. Your lips pulled into a pout when you realized you only had tomorrow to catch him. Tomorrow was the last day of August.

“Yeah, I will.”

Your voice was full of conviction, but your will to confront impending heartbreak was faltering fast.

After your trip, you headed back to the flat. You were quiet on the tram, your eyes flittering from the streets of the shopping alley to George’s face. You studied it and compared it tirelessly to Bill’s. George had a sturdier face, Bill’s was more chiseled and elegant. George’s eyes favoured a warmer brown shade with a light dusting of hazel specks, but bore no trace of blue like Bill’s. George’s nose was more crooked, Bill’s was straight. Most importantly, George was staying in England, and Bill was going back to Egypt.

As your eyes ran from freckle to freckle, you wondered if you were going crazy, trying to compare the two because they were different people, but you just couldn’t stop thinking about Bill.

Later that night, when Fred returned, you were in a worse state than before.

“Welcome back to civilization, (Y/N),” Fred said as he sauntered through the doors. “How was France?”

“Great.”

“Are you coming to dinner tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it.” You shrugged, but your face flushed with embarrassment. Why would you want to show up anyway? To say goodbye to Bill and pretend that him leaving didn’t affect you at all?

“What’s there to think about?” Fred remarked, grabbing a beer from the fridge and inching closer to your face. “Bill’ll be there, and we know how much you’d want to see him after a looooong week apart.”

Guess you weren’t the only one counting down the days.

You stared at Fred’s retreating figure and felt a wave of nausea overcome you. Maybe staying at the flat wasn’t a good idea after all. Fred and George were constant reminders of Bill—sharing his blood—and were trying not to think about him. Plus, they were so nonchalant about your feelings, acting like it was just a game. And at some point it was, but now they you knew your feelings for Bill were very real, it wasn’t a game anymore. Every joke or jest later that night was a thick needle prick to your heart and you couldn’t bear to tell them the truth.

You knew you had to get away, but just where you’d run off to was the question.

>> NEXT CHAPTER

&lt;<CHAPTER DIRECTORY

TAGLIST: @inpraizeof @milkiane @lovesanimals0000 @alisslahey @milfodyssey @itscheybaby @lookingthroughmirrors @stiles-argent24@aki-ham @my-current-fandom-is @salvatoremuse @nimue-lady-of-the-lake @agathne @benbarnesismybaby@bangbaang @venus-d-vinyl @lexxxtacyyy @pink-hufflepuff @unicornicopia1@itsrhyann@awesomeowlbook @bamboozledflamplant @howpeculier​ @jaix-8102 @vilentia​ @sophneedsfandoms ​@dontbesuspiciousss @sugarrush-blush@actuallyade @thatgoodolswitcharoo @kakorrhaphiphobia @cigaretttes-aftersex @pandoraneverland @theluvcafe@eternally-ineffable @winterishfallinknowledge @tygecjjd