Moons

They were leaning against the brick wall behind the science building during lunch, where all the smokers and assholes liked to gather. Sometimes both.

Barty had only gone there because Evan had skipped lunch to help Slughorn reorganize the art room again—because apparently being beautiful and beloved by every teacher wasn’t enough, he also had to be helpful.

Barty was halfway through stealing one of Evan’s cigarettes from his bag when he heard it.

Avery’s voice.

Smug. Loud enough to be heard. Designed to be.

“Rosier’s weird as hell,” Avery said, flicking ash onto the pavement. “Looks like he’d cry if someone stepped on a flower.”

Mulciber laughed. “Pretty boys always do.”

“Nah,” Avery said. “Pretty boys like him are worse. Think they’re untouchable because everyone wants to fuck them.”

There was more. Something about Evan’s clothes. His voice. The way he walked.

Barty stopped hearing specifics after the first sentence.

It was funny, really.

One second he was standing there, cigarette between his fingers, feeling vaguely bored.

The next—

“You should say that louder,” Barty called.

The little group turned.

Avery raised an eyebrow.

Barty stepped closer, grin already curling sharp and mean.

“C’mon, mate. If you’re going to be obsessed with my boyfriend, at least commit to it. Maybe write poetry next.”

Mulciber snorted. Avery didn’t.

His expression went flat.

Dangerous.

Barty, unfortunately, had never been particularly gifted at self-preservation.

“Actually,” he continued, “I think Evan would be flattered. It must be hard for you, looking like that and knowing he’ll never even pity-fuck you.”

There it was.

Mulciber muttered, “Oh, shit.”

Avery pushed off the wall.

He was bigger than Barty by enough to matter. Taller, broader, built like someone who solved problems with fists because words were too complicated.

Barty knew this.

Barty also knew he was right.

So he smiled wider.

“Aw,” he said. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

The first shove was hard enough to make him stumble.

The second sent him sprawling.

His shoulder hit dirt first, then his face, gravel biting into his cheek. The cigarette disappeared somewhere useless and tragic.

For half a second, the world was just impact and ringing.

His hands dug into the soil instinctively, fingers curling into earth as laughter echoed somewhere above him.

Blood flooded hot and metallic into his mouth where he’d bitten his lip.

He spat red into the grass.

Boots approached.

Then Avery crouched beside him.

Close enough that Barty could smell cigarette smoke and cheap cologne and the awful satisfaction rolling off him.

A hand fisted in the back of Barty’s blazer, hauling him just enough off the ground.

Avery leaned in, voice low and hot against his ear.

“The next time you grow a spine,” he murmured, “maybe pick a fight with someone smaller than you.”

Barty glared up at him, dirt on his face, blood on his teeth.

“Maybe,” he said, breathless and vicious, “the next time you insult my boyfriend, you should make sure I’m dead first.”

For a second, Avery just stared.

Then he laughed once—short, humorless—and let go.

Barty hit the ground again.

“Psychotic little freak,” Avery muttered, standing.

“Unoriginal insult,” Barty called after him.

Mulciber actually laughed at that.

Avery flipped him off without turning around.

Barty stayed there for a moment, face pressed to the dirt, considering the consequences of his actions.

Mostly: Evan was going to kill him.

“Barty?”

Ah.

There it was.

He rolled onto his back and squinted up at the sky first, then at the silhouette appearing above him.

Evan.

Perfect, lovely, furious Evan.

His pale hair was falling out of its clip from where he’d clearly run over. His expression was calm in the way that meant someone was about to die.

“Hi,” Barty said.

Evan looked at the blood on his lip.

The dirt on his uniform.

The forming bruise on his jaw.

Then he asked, very quietly, “Who?”

Barty sighed.

“You always make it sound so sexy when you do that.”

“Barty.”

“Avery.”

Evan nodded once.

Terrifying.

He held out a hand.

Barty took it, and Evan pulled him up with surprising strength, immediately brushing dirt off his blazer with irritated precision.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yes.”

“You could have gotten seriously hurt.”

“I know.”

“You are not allowed to get into fistfights for me.”

Barty tilted his head.

“So verbal violence is still on the table?”

Evan gave him a long look.

Then, despite himself, he smiled. Small. Crooked. Fond.

“Unfortunately, I don’t think anything could stop that.”

Barty beamed, split lip and all.

“God, you love me.”

Evan reached up, thumb brushing carefully at the blood near Barty’s mouth.

His voice was softer this time.

“Pathetically.”

Barty leaned into it without thinking.

“Good,” he whispered.