F&

The twins have always come as a pair. You became the third point of something that had always been a line, and the shape held. Tonight: George's head in your lap, your fingers moving carefully through his hair, away from the bandage. Fred at the window, unable to be still, unable to be useful, unable to fix the thing that happened in the dark on a route that someone knew too well. They knew where we'd be, Fred said. Not quite to either of you. George is quiet in a way that's new. You're the still point between them — not fixing anything, not saying the right thing. Just there. Tonight, that's enough.