index about this archive - biographies title: As In Neighbor & Weigh. author: Marvolo. The first thing that wakes him up is the feeling of breath on his ear, throat, neck. He shivers, just slightly, and then his senses fall into place and he realizes that it's a whisper, it's his whisper. And that's when the words start to have shapes, start to become sounds that he recognizes. He's gotten better about spotting the quotes now, and sometimes he'll whisper back, naming the play, the poem, the ancient Egyptian text. It's always in languages he doesn't understand, of course, because that's part of the game. Bill can speak eleven of them at last count, and most are ones that haven't been used for thousands of years, or are only ever spoken by small villages. They have a certain beauty, and he uses their ambiguous nature to tease. Charlie is like a child, and he spots them by their sounds, by the way vowels are pronounced. It's amazing he can even think that clearly when his older brother's lips are moving like that, and a hand is tracing lazy circles across his abdomen. Bill was Head Boy at Hogwarts, and he set an impossible standard for his little brothers. He had two girlfriends a year from the time he was fourteen on, and it's because of him that professors would squint at every one of his siblings and sigh about "another Weasley". He was always hopelessly beautiful, all long limbs and pale skin and nimble fingers, and Charlie likes to kiss right between his neat eyebrows. He kisses him there this time, rolling over and propping himself up on one arm as he flutters feather-light kisses down his brother's nose, cheeks, chin. And when he flickers his tongue out across the expanse of Bill's lips, he can only groan low and deep, sliding it from corner to corner of the older boy's mouth, across the sugary, slippery surface. "Mango," he mutters, sliding a hand up to run through Bill's hair, long enough to tangle his fingers through. "You've gotten better at that," comes the quiet answer, and the mouth under Charlie's opens, a warm tongue meeting his. They were the first two children of their family, eight years apart from the others. They were always close, always together, despite the fact Bill's Ravenclaw friends thought his sports-playing brother was a bit much. Charlie was a fifth year when Bill first kissed him, first pressed that experienced mouth against Charlie's startled own, his hands creeping through Hogwarts robes without hesitation. He had whispered then, too, just one word -- "Homesick." That's the word Charlie thinks of now, when Bill has come to Romania to examine some priceless artifact in a museum. His heart skipped a beat when he walked out of the medical tent, a new burn bright red on his skin, and saw his lanky brother leaning against the wooden fencing with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. It had been far too long. Bill kisses with lipstick and his soul, and Charlie never knows which one is sweeter. He likes to taste that flavor, that faintly plastic sugary one that coats his tongue; he bought a tube of the gloss his brother wears once, yet found that when he swirled his tongue in the waxen substance, it wasn't the same at all. Bill's mouth is slightly sticky from it, like the mouth of a child, and Charlie shivers in the dark as those lips and teeth move down his throat and collarbone. He went to Egypt once to visit him, a flurry of suitcases and room service, and Bill kissed him in the shadow of the Sphinx. They've played tag around the world, dropping in at each other's work sites and vacation spots, often being the only other flash of Weasley-red hair amidst the planes of Africa and the hills of South America. There is only one place where they keep their hands to themselves as a rule, and that's under their mother's roof. For all their hidden grins and brotherly antics, Charlie turns the lock on his door and Bill falls asleep on the living room couch. There was only one time they had an exception to that rule, when the house was empty and they hadn't touched in six months. Charlie had spent a weekend watching Bill teach Ginny how to play the guitar, aching hours leaning over her and adjusting her fingers on the strings as squeaking notes slowly took the form of actual music. He hadn't been able to decide as he watched the phenomenon which was more beautiful, and he swallowed uncertainly that night when he found Bill playing with their sister's makeup. When Charlie's hands slid through Bill's long reddish hair and his squinted eyes caught glimpses of mascara and eyeshadow, it had been difficult to think rational thoughts, to understand how any of the Weasleys could remain so separate. Bill rolls him over then, right then, and his blue irises are alight with a passionate flame. Charlie's fingertips trace over his cheekbones and down to his jaw as the other's careful gaze sweeps over his face. "I have to leave in the morning." He's still whispering. "I wish you wouldn't." "So do I." And then he slides down Charlie's body, slow and gentle and apologetic, and the younger closes his eyes and clenches his fingers in the dusty sheets. "I love you, Bill." "Ego amo te." The room is silent for a moment, and they can both hear their unsteady breathing. "Ego amo te." [fin] index about this archive - biographies