Scars

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And the scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel

He shoved his hands into his pockets angrily as he walked down the street, images and memories flooding into his mind's eye until they settled on a few choice--and painful--recollections. It started two months and three weeks ago, walking into his and his wife's, Angelina--his wife, damn it all--apartment and finding her drunk and passed out on the floor, vomit everywhere. Half-empty bottles of Firewhiskey and vodka were on the coffee table. It was a lucky chance they hadn't tipped over when the chair had crashed into the table--when had that happened, he wondered. He'd picked her up and cleaned her off, causing her to stir and ramble half-drunkenly about spiders before floating back into unconsciousness. After placing her in their bed, he'd spent the next five hours cleaning up the living room and the kitchen, the latter of which had turned out to be worse than the living room--apparently, Angelina had had a drinking partner.

It had taken him so long because he had never gotten the knack of cleaning spells like George and the rest of his siblings had. He cursed himself for not paying attention to his mother when she had taught them all the everyday at-home spells before they'd gone off to school. He'd finally finished around one in the morning and drifted off on the one couch that had escaped the projectile vomit that had been strewn about everywhere and was awoken eight hours later by Angelina's moans about the bright light.

"Angie," he'd said, leaning in the doorway, rubbing his head. "Why? Why did you do this?"

"Bugger off, Fred," she'd replied, hung over and sounding annoyed. "It's none of your business."

"Don't bloody tell me that," he had yelled at her, stomping over to the bed and continuing to question her for a quarter hour until she had finally responded, "It's stressful, alright? At work. I just wanted something... easy... to help me forget it for the night. I won't do again. Are you happy?"

"You're sure it was only one time? Are you sure you aren't going to do it again?" he had asked her pointedly, moving in front of the door so she couldn't get a Sobering Potion.

He hadn't known it then, but that was scar number one.

The next weekend, he was working a double shift in his and George's shop when his sister-in-law by way of younger brother, Hermione, came in looking worried and asking about her husband. He was puzzled, and asked her why he would know where Ron was.

Hermione shot him a surprised glance before she had answered, "Ron said something this morning before he left about coming to this side of town after practice. I thought he was coming to visit you. And, Fred, I'm worried. He's never been known to miss dinner before--especially if it's his favorite. It's too much like the old days for my comfort."

A sudden knowledge had jumped into his head. "Hermione," he had said, "has Ron been acting odd lately? Coming home late, drinking more than usual?"

"Now that you mention it," she had said slowly, forehead wrinkled in thought, "he has. Last week he came home smelling like whiskey."

His face set itself into a grim expression that he'd hardly ever had cause to use before. "Right." He walked from behind the counter and told George he was leaving. "Grip my arm tight, Hermione. We're Apparating."

When they appeared in his and Angelina's apartment they were greeted by the sight of their spouses asleep together on the couch, surrounded by empty bottles of liquor and piles of clothes. Hermione burst into tears and clung to him, but not even her loud sobs awoke the drunken pair on his once second-favorite coach.

"Ennervate," he had snapped out furiously at the sleeping figures as he guided Hermione into his bedroom while their shamefaced spouses dressed, now fully awake and aware of who had woken them up.

As he watched Hermione sob, crumpled up on the floor and rocking, he Summoned a suitcase and started shoving Angelina's things into it. There was a tentative knock on the doorway and he turned as Ron came in . He muttered a Hex at his brother, who barely dodged it before grabbing Hermione by the arm and Apparating away.

Only then did Angelina enter the room, buttoning up her barely vomit-stained Quidditch robes. By the sounds he'd heard from the bathroom she'd drunk quite a lot, and was regretting it.

"Fred," she had said, approaching him, hand stretched out, eyes begging for something, but he didn't know what. If it was forgiveness, there was little chance she'd get it. "Please. Don't leave."

"I'm not leaving," he had said to her coldly. He handed her the suitcase he'd packed. "You are. Get out."

"Fred-"

"Get out!" he had yelled. Instantly he wished he hadn't. He didn't want to hurt her--he loved her. No matter what she did to him, he would still love her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that."

Her frightened face softened. "Please, Fred, listen-" she had started again.

"I meant to say it like this: Get. Out," he said, this time in a low voice that shook. "I don't--can't--talk to you right now. Take your things and go."

"Go where, Fred?" Angie had whispered, almost whimpering. "I don't have anywhere to go..."

"Go to your lover's house then!" he had spat at her, backing away from her outreached hand, cringing away from her touch. "Go to my brother's house. I'm sure his wife will be ecstatic to see you!"

"You don't understand!" she had wailed at him. "Work is-"

"I don't want to understand, Angie!" he had yelled. "And I know what work is! Work is stressful, work is hard, and work is a pain in the ass. But I've never let my job drive me into my sister-in-law's arms! Or, rather, her-"

"Fred, stop," Angie had whispered, her eyes closed in pain. "I'll go. Please, don't... don't hate me."

"I can't help the way I feel," he had said, his eyes closed too. "I hate you. And God help me, I love you too. Get out."

Once she left, he locked his door and made sure anyone trying to get in touch with him magically would get an "Out-Of-The-House" message before retreating to Angie and his--no, just his - bedroom. His wife was gone. Gone. Out of his life. Forever. And when that truth hit him, he sat on his bed and cried as much as Hermione had when she first saw her husband and his wife together. The pain receded after a while, but it left a scar. His second scar.

I tried to help you once
A kiss will only vise
I saw you going down
But you never realized
That you're drowning in the water
So I offered you my hand
Compassion's in my nature
Tonight is our last dance

He finally left his apartment a month and a half after he threw Angie out. When he opened his door, it must have sent an Alarm Charm to his family, because immediately half of them Apparated onto his doorway, demanding details about his recent anti-social behavior, citing that he wasn't normally like that.

"Mum, Dad, George, Ginny," he had begun, running his hands through his hair, "I've been slightly reclusive because I needed some time alone to think about what I wanted to do with my life. Angelina... Well, a month and a half ago Hermione and I were looking for Ron and we found him and Angelina together."

They stared at him in shock for a few moments before his father finally said in a faint voice, "What?"

He frowned. "Hermione didn't tell you?"

"Hermione said Ron was away on business..." Ginny told him slowly, the truth dawning on her. "I suppose... because she didn't want to tell us what happened just yet. Why would she, though? Why would she lie to us?"

"I don't know," he had said to her. "But it's not my business. I have to go, excuse me." He shouldered past his crying mother and quickly left the apartment building with his twin in tow, asking questions that he ignored.

Two weeks after he had started back into his life, he opened his door to see his wife, completely drunk and swaying, tears running down her face standing in the hallway.

"Fred," she begged, shoving herself into the doorway. "Please, Fred. Help me. I'm so sorry, Fred. I'm so sorry..." She sank to the ground and cried in great gulping sobs and his heart melted. "I love you, Fred. Just you... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry..."

He had sighed deeply, knowing that he was probably going to regret what he was about to do, and picked her up and pulled her into the apartment. He had cleaned her up once again and let her sleep it off as, with the little amount of cheerfulness he could scrape together, he poured every drop of alcohol down the drain, whistling a broken tune.

He went to work and came back to find her making dinner. He felt his heart sing as she smiled at him, drunkenness completely gone and back to the person he had fallen in love with. That night was one he remembered even now, the feelings coming back to him: elation, joy and, most of all, the pleasure that emitted from their coming together. The next morning he sang in his shower--something he hadn't done for nine months. Had it been that long, he wondered as he dressed, Angelina smiling at him from their bed, running her fingers through her hair as she tried to persuade him that George surely didn't need him at such an early hour... He gently told her no and kissed her goodbye before Apparating to work. He had been in a good mood for a month, he remembered, as he passed a happy couple kissing and laughing together, love written into every motion they made.

For a month, it had been good. Angie quit drinking and went to alcoholic's support program meetings and was training with her Quidditch team steadily, coming home directly after practice to spend time with him.

But after that month... everything fell apart.

I can't help you fix yourself
But at least I can say I tried
I'm sorry but I gotta move on with my own life
I can't help you fix yourself
But at least I can say I tried
I'm sorry but I gotta move on with my own life

A month after Angie came back, he came home to find alcohol strewn everywhere. Clothes littered the floor and there was noise coming from the bedroom. He squared his shoulders and entered the room to see his brother on top of his wife, pounding into her and causing them both to scream as if in extreme pain. He stood there, trembling, as they let out one more animal cry and his brother rolled into his place in the bed and froze, seeing him standing there.

"Shit," Ron had said, fear seeping into his face.

"What?" Angie had asked dazedly, still out of it and stretching languidly.

"Fred. Shit," Ron had replied feeling for his wand as his older brother just stared at them.

Angelina's head turned towards him and her mouth dropped open, shock and pain seeping into her face. "I-" she had said, gulping. "I thought you were working late."

"George took my shift," he had said stonily, rage building up inside of him. "So this is what you've been doing while I've been working late? Fucking my brother?" He shook with anger.

"Look, you don't understand," she had replied, standing up and coming towards him with a sheet wrapped around her naked body. "You're always gone, you don't care-"

"I don't fucking care?" he had asked, barking out a laugh in disbelief. "If I didn't care, Angelina, you would've still been out on the doorstep from a month ago. If I didn't fucking care, you would've drank yourself to death."

"How can you say I don't care?" he had fumed on, his voice steadily rising in volume. "I took you back; I cleaned you up and helped you recuperate! I defended you against my family! I told them you were just going through a rough patch and it would all be over soon but I suppose I've just been deluding myself, haven't I, Angie?" He strode past her and pulled his trunk out of the closet and said angrily, "Pack," while harshly flicking his wand at the trunk. His belongings had snapped out of their places and packed themselves tightly into the trunk and he slammed it shut, taking a moment to give his quaking brother a murderous glare.

"I'm leaving," he had said to her, shouldering his way by as he dragged the trunk behind him. "I don't care what you do anymore. Trash the place or let my brother fuck you more, but I never want to see you again."

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And the scars remind us that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel

That had been yesterday. He stopped on a street corner as he waited for the 'Walk' sign to light up and rubbed his chest. He felt as if he had huge, harsh scars there but he knew they weren't physical scars--those would heal. He doubted if these ever would.

He'd taken his things to the old apartment he and George had shared before George had moved in with his then-fiancée and now-wife, Katie. It had surprised George, when he came up into the apartment--which they now used as a storage room and office--to find Fred asleep on the one bed they had kept in a corner, used for late-night napping. He hadn't bothered to explain, but his twin knew him as well as he did and had immediately guessed the reason. George knew better than to insult Angelina and instead told Fred he was going to owl their mother. That was when he'd gotten up and gone for a walk in Muggle London, not wanting to face his mother so soon after such a shock.

As the 'Walk' sign lit up, he crossed the street with his head down and not seeing the person he ran into as he stepped onto the curb.

"So sorry," he apologized.

"Fred?" asked the person. She swept her hair off her face and he saw it was Hermione.

"Hermione," he said, smiling grimly at her. "Out for a walk?"

She returned his grim smile with one of her own. She wasn't hurting as badly, though. After the incident when they had caught Ron and Angelina together she had left Ron, moving in with Harry and Ginny for the time being, or so George had told him. She hadn't been as weak as he. "I heard. I'm so sorry," she told him as he helped her up.

"I should've known," he told her, closing his eyes momentarily.

"No one could've, not for certain," she reassured him gently, her small hand squeezing his arm. He smiled.

"Thanks, Hermione." He glanced around for a moments and then asked, "Would you like to come with me?"