#bartulus

“Do you think they’ll ever…” Barty starts but lets his own voice die down at the end of the sentence. He breathes out, instead, and cards his fingers through Regulus’ hair, slowly and deliberately. Barty wets his dry lips with the tip of his tongue and tries to just enjoy the warmth of Reggie’s head on his lap, the sight of his chest rising and falling placidly and the sight of the electric streetlamps outside the window.  If he’s lucky, Reggie won’t realise what he meant, won’t let his beautiful brain get filled with images of a war they’ve both been trying to ignore for as long as they can. 

It’s been taking its toll on them, though, the war. It’s been stealing their time, stealing their moments like this one until the two of them barely have the opportunity to see each other alone. It used to be easier, Barty thinks, to sneak away from their parents’ prying eyes and disappear into one of the many rooms at the Crouch’s residence, or Grimmauld Place alike. Barty misses the second-floor parlour at Reggie’s family home – the overstuffed leather chairs, the lush furniture, the Black’s family tapestry and the way it used to symbolise something other than this ridiculous dispute over who had the most right of calling themselves true wizards. 

Barty is tired of it all – tired of being tugged in directions he doesn’t want to go in, tired of the expectations that seem ready to drown the both of them any day now.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that,” Reggie yawns, though Barty can tell he’s tense. 

He can feel the nervous energy that radiates from Regulus’ body – tall and lean and muscular and holy Merlin’s saggy tits, his body – but Barty doesn’t reach down to rub his shoulders, doesn’t touch him with any more purpose than to smooth his thin, shiny hair away from Reggie’s face. 

“Just wondering if they’ll ever call us down for dinner, love,” Barty lies.

It’s one of his specialties, lying. He’s good at it, maybe too good. He doesn’t like lying to Reggie, but he also wouldn’t dare worry him further. Barty doesn’t like the way that sort of dark frown takes over Reggie’s regal features – he hates the way he can see it ate away at Regulus right before his eyes. It’s not fair, he thinks, for the millionth time, cursing Regulus’ selfish prick of a brother, who left him to be imbued with all the responsibilities he was too much of a coward to take up himself. 

“Let’s stay here, then,” Reggie shifts, looking up at Barty from where he’s got his head on Barty’s lap. The light from the fire in the hearth paints his raven hair golden, and Barty thinks perhaps it’s just his eyes, playing tricks on him. It must be. “Kreacher will call us when they remember we exist.”

Barty: Won't be a problem.

LISTENNNN barty is my little fucked up son but i cannot take credit for ace!regulus. that’s all @confunded-gryffindor’s doing (and let me tell you, it’s really great!) tbh i merely butted into kevo’s idea and said ‘ok but if barty went to therapy they could definitely be together’ and this became a WIP with alternating POVs.