*sleeping*

“This is humiliating,” Barty muttered as he bent forward with all the grace of a folding chair collapsing in on itself.

Behind him, sprawled on the couch like a lazy housecat, James snorted.

“You’re doing amazing, love.”

“I’m one wrong move away from snapping my hamstring clean in half.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Barty glared over his shoulder, blonde curls sticking to his forehead already. “If you laugh at me again, Potter, I’m turning this into a murder scene.”

James lifted both hands innocently, though his grin ruined the effect. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“You literally just laughed.”

“I laughed with affection.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

The instructor on the TV transitioned smoothly into another pose. Barty stared at her in horror.

“She’s not human.”

“She’s flexible.”

“She’s possessed.”

James bit down on another smile.

The living room smelled faintly like the coffee they’d abandoned on the table an hour ago. Morning light poured through the windows, warm against the hardwood floors. Barty stood barefoot on a yoga mat James had bought three months ago during one of his “we should take care of ourselves” phases.

Usually Barty ignored those phases until they passed.

This one apparently had staying power.

“Come on,” James coaxed softly. “Just try the next one.”

Barty sighed dramatically enough to qualify as performance art before shifting into position again.

James watched him carefully.

Watched the slight wobble in Barty’s arms as he held himself up. Watched the concentration pulling his brows together. Watched the tiny frustrated huff every time he lost balance and had to reset.

But mostly—

Mostly James watched how hard Barty was trying.

That was the thing that kept making warmth bloom painfully in James’s chest.

A year ago, Barty would’ve quit after five minutes.

A year ago, anything involving patience with himself turned ugly fast. One mistake and he’d spiral. One stumble and he’d snap something cruel about his own body, his own mind, his own worth. James remembered nights spent peeling sharp words out of Barty’s skin one by one, holding him together while he shook with frustration at himself.

Now?

Now he was still here twenty minutes later, sweaty and annoyed and muttering curses under his breath—but still trying.

James couldn’t stop smiling.

Barty dropped into a plank pose with a noise of immediate regret.

“Oh, fuck this.”

“You’ve got it!”

“My arms are vibrating.”

“That means it’s working.”

“That means I’m dying.”

James laughed quietly, softer this time. Fond enough that it almost hurt.

Barty still didn’t notice the staring.

Probably because he was too busy fighting for his life.

The instructor started talking about breathing techniques.

Barty wheezed, “I can’t believe people do this for fun.”

James leaned his head against the couch cushion, eyes never leaving him.

There was something unfairly beautiful about Barty like this. Not polished. Not sharp-edged and defensive and dangerous the way he presented himself to everyone else.

Just… Barty.

Hair messy. Oversized sleeveless shirt slipping off one shoulder. A faint flush spreading across his cheeks from exertion. Completely focused on trying to improve himself because James had suggested it might help with the back pain he constantly ignored.

Because James had asked.

God.

James loved him so much he felt stupid with it sometimes.

“Okay,” the woman on the television said cheerfully, “time for boat pose!”

Barty looked physically offended.

“No.”

James burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” Barty said, pointing accusingly at the screen. “Look at her. She’s balanced on her arse like a fucking enchanted swan.”

“You can do it.”

“I absolutely cannot.”

“You said that about the stretches earlier.”

“And I was correct.”

Still grumbling, Barty shifted onto the mat and attempted the pose.

It lasted approximately three seconds before he tipped sideways entirely and rolled onto the floor with a loud thud.

James immediately sat upright. “You okay?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Barty started laughing.

Not irritated laughter. Not manic laughter.

Just genuine, breathless amusement.

James stared at him.

Barty lay sprawled dramatically across the yoga mat, giggling into the floorboards at his own failure, and something inside James went painfully soft.

Because that was new too.

The ability to fail without tearing himself apart over it.

Barty finally looked over. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

James blinked, apparently having been caught staring for far too long.

“Like what?”

“Like I just personally hung the moon.”

James smiled before he could stop himself. Big and helpless and probably far too emotional for ten in the morning.

Barty’s laughter quieted.

And James realized, suddenly, that Barty had changed enough to notice things like this now too.

The softness. The pride.

The love.

James pushed himself off the couch and walked over until he was standing beside the mat.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I’m really proud of you.”

Barty’s expression immediately twisted into suspicion. “Why are you saying it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to make me cry before breakfast.”

James crouched beside him.

Barty’s cheeks were pink now, whether from exertion or embarrassment James couldn’t tell.

“You’ve just…” James hesitated, trying to untangle feelings too big for language. “You’ve come really far, B.”

Barty looked away instantly.

Classic.

James reached out and brushed sweat-damp curls back from his forehead.

“A while ago,” James continued softly, “you wouldn’t have let yourself be bad at something long enough to improve at it.”

Barty swallowed.

The joking edge faded from his face.

James smiled gently. “But you stayed.”

Barty stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

Then, quieter than before, “Well. You asked me to.”

That nearly killed James outright.

He leaned down without thinking and kissed Barty’s forehead.

Barty made a grumbly little noise. “Don’t get sappy on me.”

“Too late.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love me.”

Barty finally looked back at him, eyes warm despite the insult already forming on his tongue.

Unfortunately, before he could say it, the woman on the television chirped—

“Now we’ll begin crow pose!”

Barty Crouch Jr. was in his lap with his hands tangled in Evan’s hair, kissing him hard enough to bruise. Their mouths clicked together messy and wet, breathing shared in sharp bursts while the fluorescent light above them buzzed like it was judging them personally.

Barty kissed like he was trying to win a fight.

Aggressive. Desperate. Mean around the edges.

Evan liked it.

His hands slid up under Barty’s school sweater, fingertips brushing warm skin. Barty shivered immediately, mouth parting against his.

Then—

There it was again.

That hesitation.

Not pulling away fully. Never fully. Just enough tension in his shoulders to make Evan notice. Just enough stiffness in the way Barty’s hips stopped moving every time Evan touched lower than his waist.

Evan sighed softly into the kiss.

Barty noticed immediately. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Evan leaned back against the wall of shelves, staring at him for a second. Barty’s tie was half-undone. Lips swollen. Eyes dark and angry in the way they always got when he wanted something too badly.

God, he was beautiful.

Which made this infinitely more irritating.

Evan tried again anyway, sliding a hand down Barty’s side. Thumb hooking just above the waistband of his trousers.

Barty grabbed his wrist instantly.

Not rough.

Just fast.

Like instinct.

The air shifted.

Evan looked down at Barty’s hand around his wrist, then back up at his face.

Barty let go immediately.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

There it was again too.

Sorry.

Always sorry after this.

Evan was suddenly exhausted.

Not physically. Something deeper than that. The kind of exhaustion that came from pretending not to notice things for someone else’s comfort.

“You know,” Evan said quietly, “most people usually want to touch the person they’re making out with.”

Barty rolled his eyes instantly. Defense mechanism. Predictable. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?”

“This weird fucking mood you get in.”

Evan barked a laugh. “Mood?”

“Yes, mood.” Barty snapped. “You get all sulky and passive aggressive—”

“Oh, forgive me,” Evan cut in sharply, “I forgot I’m meant to be grateful you let me kiss you in a supply closet between fourth and fifth period.”

Barty’s jaw tightened.

Evan could practically see the panic beginning underneath it.

That was the worst part.

Barty wanted this.

Wanted him.

Evan knew it every time Barty looked at him too long in class. Every time he cornered Evan after school with shaking hands and furious kisses. Every time he got jealous and cruel whenever someone else flirted with Evan.

But wanting wasn’t the problem.

Barty hated what the wanting meant.

And Evan was getting really fucking tired of being treated like the evidence of a crime.

“You’re being dramatic,” Barty muttered.

Evan stared at him for a long moment.

Then he reached up and wiped spit from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m tired of the charades, Crouch.”

Barty flinched slightly at the surname. Evan only used it when he was angry.

“Tell me when you make up your mind on what you want.”

“Evan—”

“No.” His voice stayed calm, which somehow made it worse. “You don’t get to drag me in here every other day just to act disgusted the second things become real.”

“I’m not disgusted.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Barty’s face went pale.

For one awful second, Evan almost took it back.

Because beneath the anger, Barty looked scared.

Not of Evan.

Of himself.

But Evan couldn’t keep doing this dance where Barty kissed him like devotion and recoiled from him like shame.

So before Barty could speak again, Evan shoved him off his lap.

Barty stumbled backward into a shelf of cleaning supplies with a loud clatter.

Evan stood, fixing the sleeves of his uniform blazer.

The tiny closet suddenly felt suffocating.

“Rosier—”

Evan opened the door.

Bright hallway light spilled across the floor between them.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Evan looked genuinely done.

“You let everyone else decide who you are,” he said quietly. “I’m just the idiot who keeps waiting for you to decide it too.”

Then he walked out.

The door slammed shut behind him.

And Barty stayed there alone in the cramped janitor’s closet, breathing hard, staring at the space Evan had left behind like it had been ripped open with a knife.

Because the worst part was—

Evan was right.

Barty wanted him.

Wanted the sharp grin and cold hands and the way Evan looked at him like he was worth something. Wanted every ugly, terrifying part of this.

But wanting Evan meant something.

Something permanent.

Something people got beaten bloody for at their school.

Something his father would rather see him dead over.

Barty slid down the wall slowly until he hit the floor.

Then he pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth hard enough to hurt.