[Fred takes the hit right back to the side of his eye, and the pain that blossoms across them both is a welcome substitute for the alternative. 'It's been four months,' which means he's long dead and gone back home. Buried in the ground where no one will ever see him again, and isn't that just the loneliest damn thought in the world? He missed George, gods, did he miss him, but there's a lot more packed behind that blow than sadness. There's happiness and relief, but also fear and guilt, the sort of anguish that doesn't make sense, shouldn't be possible but somehow is because of this bloody place and Fred can't contain it all. He can't control it, can't stop it, but he won't let himself cry. Not yet. He'll just grab for his brother's shirt and take another swing.]
It doesn't matter, you're still late!
[He was waiting, waiting for so long and dammit, he is not going to cry.]
i had to find you, had to let you know that you aren't alone;
It doesn't matter, you're still late!
[He was waiting, waiting for so long and dammit, he is not going to cry.]