weasley twins one shots

you can tell everybody, this is your song // g.w

summary: george choses to recap your love story with a song

warnings: mentions of marriage, death, angst, mentions of food

word count: 2.8k

a/n: for @theweasleysredhair's 9k event, prompt "your song" by elton john! italics are flashbacks. :)

[i do not give consent for my work to be reposted on any other platform.]

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George didn't like wearing black.

He used to say it was because it didn't match his personality, that he much preferred to wear vibrant colours that could reflect the bright person he was inside. He'd say that dark colours just weren't for him.

But really, it was because he never wanted to be wearing black for you.

It was a funeral colour. A colour of sadness, of heartbreak. Which George thought was fitting, really, as he looked around at the people in the room. Many of whom were sniffling and mumbling apologies to him, telling him that they were sorry for his loss.

It was odd, hearing the word 'widower.'

Because he never thought he'd become one.

You had always promised him that you'd be around for your whole lives, that the two of you would grow old and frail in rocking chairs, mumbling the songs to your favourite daytime television shows and struggling to get off the couch together. He wanted it all, and he wanted it with you.

Even now, as he looked at the photograph of you, flowers surrounding your beautiful face, he still wanted it. He couldn't believe he'd have to grow old without you — without the love story that you two had built for yourselves.

Life was unfair that way, wasn't it?

"Oh, Georgie."

He felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around his waist, the feeling of Ginny's head resting against his back nearly making him crumble. He could barely stand his own weight today, let alone a hug.

He pushed her arms off of him before turning to face her, "Hey, Gin."

Her eyes were red and watery, and George had to take a deep breath to be able to look her in the eye without breaking down. He couldn't count the amount of times he had cried himself to near death over the course of the last few weeks. Today, he wanted to be strong for your memory.

"She looks beautiful," Ginny nudged her head in the direction of your picture, a faint smile gracing her lips. The two of you had been impossibly close, becoming best friends over the four years that you and George had been married.

He found himself fiddling with his wedding band before responding, "Yeah, she does."

He remembered the day that he took the picture — it was on your one year wedding anniversary and George had taken you on a picnic date to a lake. It had been so peaceful, so serene, and you had looked so radiant under the blazing sun.

His throat felt as if it were closing up, a sudden wave of sickness washing over him. He wanted nothing more than to jump into the picture frame and relive that day with you over and over for the rest of time.

He shouldn't be here, at your funeral. It wasn't bloody fair. You had always been too good for this world, too kind and caring.

This wasn't fair.

Ginny gave his hand a light squeeze, her head falling to rest against his shoulder. He could feel her tears hitting and soaking through his suit, but he didn't care.