{{Thank you for being so patient!! The end of the school year is approaching quickly which of course means my professors like to assign double the amount of work. I hope everyone is well and that they enjoy <3 much love to you all!}}
Olive bites down on the fleshy part of her palm to keep from laughing.
George is sifting through his carefully organized clothes, lifting sweaters and jumpers before tucking them away with a shake of his head or a grunt. He'd been at it for nearly twenty minutes.
"George," She mumbles around her hand, "I really can just run home—"
"No," He insists over his shoulder with an impatient huff, "I'll find something." She feels her cheeks aching from her smile. He seems set on her not leaving, so she leans back and watches as he stares shrewdly at his clothes. He finally pauses, grabbing onto something and turning to face her. Olive eyes the sweater in his hands, quirking a brow at the yellow 'G' knitted amongst green. He hesitates, muttering, "I can't find anything more colorful—"
"I like it," Olive says warmly, heart thumping erratically when his lips lift at the corners and his cheeks turn pink. He shrugs a little, "Mum always forgot who liked green." His voice sounds strained, but she was grateful he was sharing, guilty that she hadn't shared her secrets in return. She shakes off the idea, standing to grab the sweater from his hands and pull it on over the tee shirt he'd lent her. He steps closer, rolling up the sleeves with a wry expression. He snickers when he kneels down to roll the ankles of the sweatpants he'd thrown at her earlier after bemoaning the temptation of her arse.
She nudges him with her knee, he catches it with his hand and shoots a warning look up at her. Her lungs just stop working when he presses a kiss just above her knee. She shouldn't feel the heat of it through the pants. She shouldn't feel like she may pass out.
She does.
George stands and tugs on her sleeve, saying reluctantly, "We'll floo."
Her brows raise in surprise. She hadn't known that his flat was connected to the Burrow. George doesn't answer her unspoken question and Olive doesn't voice her confusion. She decides to let it go, shoving her feet into her trainers before following him out of his room and towards the fireplace on the opposite side of the couch. She frowns at the seat that mocks her, ignoring George's twitching cheek. He grabs floo powder from a statue without a head, again conjuring more questions. He turns to her after stepping into the fireplace, asking nervously, "You'll be right behind me?"
"Right behind you, George." She smiles and pats him on the arm. "I promise." He stands there, looking at her. Just looking. But the glint in his eyes is heated, mischievous. He still looks like he's getting used to smiling, his left corner of his mouth straining slightly and forming a smirk she hadn't really seen before. Something warm settles in her lower belly, her heart stuttering as undeniable desire pools in her veins. She huffs, "Go, George."
"Yes, Ollie," He finally says, mirth latent in his tone, and she steps back while he throws down the powder and disappears from sight with a flash of green. She hurriedly grabs the powder from the odd statue, clambering into the fireplace and saying firmly, "The Burrow."
She doesn't have time to even wipe the soot from her nose when lips descend on hers, a muffled complaint leaving her, "George!"
"Relax," He mumbles, snaking his arms around her and pulling her free from the Weasley's fireplace. He palms the back of her neck, pressing firmly and gliding his mouth over hers in a way that has her quickly forgetting why they left his bed...and why they had agreed to take things slow. George slides his mouth lower, drags his tongue across her throat before rasping, "Mum's out in the garden. I wanted a kiss."
"A kiss, huh?" Olive gasps when his teeth sink into her skin, leaving a tender sensation behind that fills her with buzzing arousal. Fuck. Something had changed since the night before. Or perhaps it was the early morning where she'd nearly passed out from feeling George Weasley hard beneath her, whispering her name and claiming her lips. Something had changed, and her need for him had climbed to new heights. Her brows furrow slightly in delight, a sigh sounding from her lips when he soothes the bite with gentle kisses up and down the side of her neck. She likes it. She likes him. Like-like.
Panic starts to bloom below her ribs, especially when George turns and takes a step away from her just when his mother walks in. Casual. We're they—was this...Olive wasn't sure what she wanted to ask. She couldn't remember ever being this worked up over a boy. He seemed to like her too—he'd said it, hadn't he? Exclusively. He'd said that too. He'd held her hand in front of his family. Merlin, he'd kissed her in front of Lee--
"Hi, Mum," His voice sounds mangled, strained, and when Olive glances at Molly Weasley, she can see why. For a split second, something flashes over her eyes. Joy. It's disbelieving joy. It's gone the next time the witch blinks, and Olive feels a pain far greater than she'd been anticipating. Because in that split second, Molly Weasley thought that Fred was standing in front of her fireplace once again. Fred, not George. Olive doesn't reach for George's hand. Instead she presses the side of her arm against his hip, just a little. He doesn't move away.
"Good Godric!" Molly laughs nervously, clutching a pair of mismatched gloves to her chest, "You two scared the day lights out of me! What are you doing here?"
George is quiet, and the way his shoulders seem to sink lower tells Olive that they're nearing a potential shut down moment. She knew them all too well, had experienced the same sensation of suffocating unknown where all she can do is cry and scream and scratch at her mouth when it begins to prickle with memories. She smiles, bright and cheery, "I forgot something here yesterday."
Molly's brows raise in acknowledgement, but it's George that is looking at her in confusion. He had expressed his urge to apologize early this morning, but the words never seemed to get close enough to his lips. His frustration with himself was palpable. Olive ignores him, feigning a sheepish grin, "Though now I can't remember what it is I forgot."
"That's alright, dear," The older witch says encouragingly, "I'm sure it will come to you."
For a few long moments, awkward silence blankets the three of them. Olive wants to ask when was the last time that George had come home for something other than a family obligation. Though she has a pretty good feeling it was B.F.D. Molly seems to be pondering the same thing, but quickly attempts to ease the tension with another good natured smile.
"Did you two want something to eat?" Molly asks hopefully, dusting her hands off on her dress. Olive replies happily, "Oh, George already made..." her voice falters, words stoping short. She blinks a few times, brows furrowing. This morning. They'd eaten this morning, she knew because she was full. But she couldn't remember what it had been. The nerves were eroding at her already weak memory, anxiety preventing her from fully recalling the chain of events over the last several hours. She glances at the clock on the wall, panicking slightly. How long had they been there?
"We had pancakes already, Mum," George's voice is nonchalant, and Olive forces an awkward smile. She's too busy worrying about forgetting any moments with George to see Molly pinning her son with a suggestive look. George clears his throat, and Olive glances up at him in surprise when he says, "We were hoping to just spend the day here. I still haven't shown Ollie around."
Olive reckons it's as close to an apology that he can manage for his attitude the night of his mother's birthday. But Molly seems to take it well, her eyes shining with tears faster than she can blink them away. Her hair seems brighter when she says loudly to cover up her wobbling smile, "Of course! I'll make lunch around two. Unless you're hungry--"
George cuts her off, lips twitching slightly, "That's fine, Mum. Don't worry about us."
Molly Weasley wrings the gloves in her hands, looking back and forth between her tall, brooding son and the eyes of the girl at his side that seem to barely reach his shoulder. She glances at the 'G' sweater swallowing Olive nearly whole before saying emotionally, "I'll be in the garden if you need me!"
George nor Olive manage to say anything else before she rushes out of the door, leaving them to stand silently beneath the low ceilings of the Burrow. Olive slowly turns to George, rocking back on her heels and asking slowly, "So..." She draws it out until he looks down at her with a bemused expression that makes her grin so wide it hurts her cheeks, "What do you want to do?"
He tilts his head slightly to the side, reaching out to tug on one of her stray curls. He wraps it around his finger, replying quietly, "Lets go outside. I could use some air."
She hopes she doesn't look surprised by the admission. He was about as locked up as any treasure chest. Any hint at his feelings was a treasure more priceless than any galleon. She nods, her heart warming slightly when he lets go of her hair to grab her hand. Exclusive. She was hoping he liked the sound of that as much as she did, she only wished she remembered how to be brave enough to ask.
"Come on, old man," She finally says, tugging him by the hand towards the door. He snorts from behind her, grunting, "Lead the way, crazy girl."
Olive bites down hard on her cheek to keep from laughing, pushing open the door and inhaling the cool fall air. Her eyes find the oranges and yellows of the trees, a sense of serenity washing over her at the sight of the grass blowing in the breeze. She hesitates before looking up at George and challenging, "Race you to the top of that hill."
His head turns in the direction of where she's pointing, staring out at the expanse of fields that build into one of many hills beyond his home. For a moment, Olive fears that maybe it's too childish. Maybe it's too much, to ask George to do something wild and crazy. Something he had probably done thousands of times B.F.D. She could picture him, young and freckled with flushed cheeks from racing his older brothers. Her mouth opens to take it back, regret weighing her chest--
"You're on, Ollie."
Her head whips up to meet his twinkling gaze, and her mouth runs dry at the brown irises warmed by amusement at the challenge. He raises a brow, eyes sliding down her legs. "I'll give you a head start," His drawl is lazy, confident. Olive wrinkles her nose, staring at him silently for a few long seconds before darting off without another word. His laughter forces a grin onto her face, legs pumping harder at the sound of his footsteps thundering behind her. She runs as fast as her short limbs will carry her, her own laughter carried by the wind and traveling towards the hill that marks the finish line. It feels good. It feels incredible. It feels like a memory, one that she may have also had as a child. One that she plans to cherish like treasure. A disbelieving shout escapes her when George flies by her, his tall stature carrying him much further for each stride.
"Hey!" she complains, rooting around in her pockets while she runs in search of her wand. She grins when her fingers wrap around wood, her lungs burning from the air she intakes hurriedly before pointing at the ground just in front of him. George lets out his own yelp of surprise when the grass bubbles under his feet, forming a tiny lump that causes him to stumble and nearly fall.
"Cheat!" He cries dramatically just as Olive catches up and begins to overtake him. Her knees start to ache from the uneven terrain, but the hill is so close. Closer and closer, a triumphant cheer lodged in her throat as she scrambles up the incline--
An embarrassingly girlish shriek escapes her, muscled arms wrapping around her from behind with such force that she topples to the ground. The air leaves her lungs in a large 'woosh,' spine smacking the grass and causing a grimace to twist her mouth. She groans, staring up at George Weasley's flushed cheeks and easy smile. Easy. It looks easy. His smile, his breathing despite the exerted rise and fall of his chest. It's beautiful. Olive sucks in a shaky breath, blinking rapidly before saying softly, "I win."
George rolls his eyes with such exaggeration she wonders if they could get stuck. He huffs, inhaling and exhaling a few more ragged times before managing to get out, "A tie, crazy girl. It's a tie."
She scoffs, poised to argue her position as winner of the race until her claims are forgotten at the mere brush of his lips against hers. George's easy smile turns into a boyish grin and when his lips cover her own, the injustice of his last ditch effort to win is lost to her mind. She wiggles her arms out from under him, dragging her fingers up the column of his spine and sinking them into the softness of his auburn hair. Their chests bump each other, heavy breaths from something other than the sprint to the hill they lay sprawled upon. George finally leans back, replacing his lips with his thumb and rubbing the calloused skin across the only mark of war she has. Her scar tingles under his touch. She's tempted to pull him back in, snog him on the hill that looks over his childhood home. It's as close as she's gotten to his past, to him. But her blood cools when George asks to see hers in return.
"Tell me about...tell me anything, Olive," His eyes search hers for answers that she'd kept locked up for two years. Answers that felt blurred by time and faux memories and desperation to let the past die. Olive blinks, her hands falling from his shoulders. George looks like he regrets asking, like he wants to take it back. But instead of lying or telling the truth, Olive simply whispers past the shards of memories sticking in her throat that beg to be put back together,
"I can't. I can't"
She wont.