#rosekillermicrofic

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.

“You’re staring again,” Barty said lazily from across the fire.

Evan blinked. “I’m guarding you.”

“You’re glaring at me like you’re considering murder.”

“That too.”

Barty grinned into the rim of his cup. Firelight danced over the gold embroidery of his traveling robes, making him look less like a prince in exile and more like some dangerous woodland spirit pretending at humanity. His silver jewelry glinted whenever he moved — rings, chains, tiny charms hanging from his ears that chimed softly when he tilted his head.

Everything about him was deliberate.

Beautiful.

Annoying.

They’d been traveling for nearly two weeks from the Kingdom of Vesperhold toward the northern courts of Eirendale, where Barty’s arranged diplomatic engagement waited like an execution sentence. Officially, Evan was his appointed royal guard. Unofficially, he was there because the royal council trusted nobody else to keep Barty alive long enough to arrive.

Which was insulting, considering Barty was perfectly capable of keeping himself alive.

Usually.

The whiskey barrel beside them was already lighter than it had been that morning. Barty had insisted they celebrate surviving the mountain pass without being robbed by bandits or eaten by wyverns.

“To survival,” Barty had declared earlier.

“To your inability to stay quiet for more than ten minutes,” Evan had replied.

Barty had laughed so hard he nearly fell off the log.

Now the prince rose smoothly to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. The movement shifted his robes just enough for pale skin to flash beneath layers of dark fabric.

Evan looked away immediately.

Which only made Barty smirk.

“I need to take a dip in the water over there,” Barty said, pointing toward the lake visible through the trees.

Evan instinctively started to stand, but Barty stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“You know the laws against seeing mythical people without clothes,” Barty said lightly, a teasing curl to his mouth. “Even though I know you’ve been dying to see what’s underneath these robes.”

Evan snorted into his drink. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you follow me everywhere.”

“Literally my job.”

Barty only laughed again before sauntering off toward the lake, boots crunching softly over fallen leaves.

Evan took another drink of whiskey, determined not to watch him go.

Determined.

Completely determined.

Unfortunately, determination had never stood much of a chance against Barty Crouch.

Through the corner of his eye, Evan caught glimpses of him moving between the trees — moonlight spilling over dark curls and embroidered sleeves. The prince walked with impossible grace, like the forest itself bent around him. Not human.

Never entirely human.

The old stories called Barty’s bloodline starborn: descendants of ancient celestial beings who had once crossed into mortal kingdoms centuries ago. Magic clung to them differently. Wilder. Stranger. The laws about seeing them unclothed weren’t merely traditions — they were warnings.

To witness a starborn bare-skinned was said to invite obsession.

Madness.

Devotion.

Evan already suspected he was suffering from all three.

The sound of fabric rustling drifted from the lakeshore.

Then silence.

Evan stared hard into the fire.

He absolutely was not going to look.

A soft splash echoed across the water.

His grip tightened around the cup.

Another splash followed, accompanied by Barty humming some unfamiliar tune under his breath.

Evan exhaled sharply through his nose.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he called toward the lake.

Barty’s laughter floated back instantly. “Doing what?”

“Being irritating.”

“Oh, Evan,” Barty sighed dramatically. “If I wanted to irritate you, I’d start singing.”

“You already are singing.”

“Yes, but badly.”

Evan rolled his eyes despite himself.

The wind shifted then, carrying the scent of lake water and cedar smoke through camp. Somewhere beyond the trees, Barty moved again, and against every sensible instinct Evan glanced sideways.

Just for a second.

Moonlight poured over the lake in shimmering silver bands. Barty stood waist-deep in the water, his discarded robes draped carelessly across a nearby rock. Strange glowing markings traced along his bare shoulders and down his spine like constellations come alive beneath skin.

Evan’s breath caught.

The stories had never mentioned that part.

Barty turned slightly, enough that the light struck the sharp line of his jaw, the arch of his throat. He looked ethereal. Dangerous. Ancient in a way no mortal should ever appear.

Then Barty glanced over his shoulder.

Straight at him.

Their eyes locked across the water.

A slow grin spread across Barty’s face.

“Well,” he called softly, “there goes your sanity.”

Evan should’ve looked away.

Instead, he found himself standing before he even realized he’d moved.

Barty’s expression shifted — amusement softening into something quieter, warmer, infinitely more dangerous than teasing.

The lake rippled around him like liquid starlight.

Like if he gets the scent just right, he can rewind the last twenty-four hours. Back to before the words slipped out. Back to before Barty’s expression went from amused to flat in the span of a heartbeat.

“You don’t mean that,” Barty had said.

Evan had meant it—except he hadn’t. Not like that. Not the way it sounded once it was out in the open, sharp and ugly and impossible to take back.

Now the apartment is too quiet.

Except for James.

“You’re making this place feel like a funeral home,” James murmurs from the floor.

Evan doesn’t bother lifting the hoodie off his face. He just grabs the nearest pillow and launches it in the general direction of the James-shaped obstruction sprawled across the carpet.

It hits him square in the ribs.

“Ow. Violent. I’m grieving too, you know.”

“You’re grieving the fact that you haven’t moved in three hours,” Evan mutters, voice muffled by fabric.

“I would move,” James says lazily, “but there’s a tragic atmosphere pinning me down.”

Evan groans and presses his face deeper into the hoodie. It’s already fading. That’s the worst part. Every second that passes, the smell gets a little less him, a little more just laundry detergent and Evan’s imagination trying too hard.

“I ruined it,” Evan says, quieter now.

James doesn’t respond right away. Evan can hear him shifting on the floor, the creak of old wood, the soft thud as he rolls onto his back.

“You had a fight,” James says. “You do that. Constantly.”

“This was different.”

“They’re all ‘different’ when you’re in the middle of them.”

Evan pulls the hoodie down just enough to glare at the ceiling. “He looked at me like I was someone else.”

That lands heavier than the pillow.

James exhales slowly. “What did you actually say?”

Evan hesitates.

Because saying it out loud now will make it real in a way it isn’t yet—right now it’s still floating, half-formed, something he can pretend wasn’t that bad.

“I said…” He swallows. “I said he doesn’t care about anything. That he’s just—reckless for the sake of it. That it’s exhausting.”

Silence.

Then, carefully, “Ouch.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Evan snaps, sitting up slightly. “He was—he skipped something important, and I was already annoyed, and he kept joking about it like it didn’t matter and—”

“And you went for the jugular.”

Evan drops back against the couch. “I didn’t think.”

“That’s kind of your signature move.”

“James.”

“I’m just saying,” James adds, raising his hands in surrender even though Evan can’t fully see him, “you two run on chaos and bad timing. This was inevitable.”

Evan closes his eyes.

He can still see Barty standing there, keys in hand, jaw tight.

“Right,” Barty had said. “If I’m that exhausting, I’ll save you the trouble.”

The door had slammed hard enough to rattle the frame.

Evan hadn’t followed.

That’s the part that’s eating him alive now.

“I should’ve gone after him,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” James says simply.

No sugarcoating. No comforting lie.

Evan huffs out a bitter laugh. “Wow. Thanks.”

“You want me to lie?” James props himself up on his elbows. “You’re not upset because you said something dumb. You’re upset because you let him walk out like it didn’t matter if he came back.”

Evan doesn’t answer.

Because that’s exactly it.

The hoodie slips slightly as he shifts, and he grabs it tighter, like it might disappear if he loosens his grip.

“I thought he would,” Evan admits. “Come back, I mean. He always does.”

James hums. “And if this is the time he doesn’t?”

The question lodges somewhere deep in Evan’s chest, sharp and cold.

“I hate this,” Evan mutters.

“Good. Means you care.”

“I always care.”

“Yeah,” James says, pushing himself up into a sitting position now. “You just don’t always act like it at the right moment.”

Evan glares at him properly this time. “Are you here to help or to make me feel worse?”

“Both,” James says cheerfully. “Multifunctional.”

Evan groans and drags the hoodie back over his face. “I can’t just show up. What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

“Then you’ll know,” James shrugs. “Which is better than sitting here turning into a Victorian widow.”

Evan goes still.

Because the idea—terrifying as it is—feels better than this. This endless loop of what-ifs and almosts and the phantom weight of something already gone.

“What if I make it worse?” he asks.

James stands, finally, stretching like he’s just woken up from a nap instead of loitering through emotional devastation.

“Then congratulations,” he says, stepping over the pillow and nudging Evan’s foot. “You’ll have officially tried.”

Evan peeks out from under the hoodie.

James offers him a hand.

“Come on,” he adds. “Go fix your mess.”

Evan stares at it for a long moment.

Evan pushed himself up onto his elbows, the sheets slipping down to his waist. His tank top clung slightly, rumpled from sleep, and his hair spilled over his shoulder in pale waves.

“…Barty,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Why are you redecorating at—” he squinted toward the window “—whatever ungodly hour this is?”

Barty didn’t turn around immediately. Instead, he leaned in closer to the plant, brushing a speck of nonexistent dust from one of its brittle leaves.

“You have to create the right environment,” he murmured.

Evan frowned.

“For what?” he asked.

A pause.

Then, very seriously: “For it to feel welcome.”

That was when Evan properly registered the plant.

It was… dead. Not wilting. Not struggling. Fully, irrevocably dead. Leaves crisped into delicate curls, color leached into a sad, dusty brown. Even the soil looked wrong—too dry, too still.

Evan stared at it. Then at Barty.

Then back at it.

“…You do realize that plant is dead, right?”

Barty finally turned, eyes bright, expression almost offended.

“It’s not dead,” he said.

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Barty, it’s literally a fossil.”

“It’s resting.”

“Resting.”

“Yes.”

Evan sat up properly now, dragging a hand through his hair, trying very hard to decide if this was one of Barty’s bits or if he’d finally snapped in a new and creative way.

“You’re talking to it,” Evan said slowly.

“I am encouraging it,” Barty corrected, as if that made perfect sense. He gestured toward the plant. “Recovery is a process, Evan. You can’t rush these things.”

Evan let out a quiet, incredulous laugh, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“It’s a plant, not someone in rehab.”

Barty gasped, genuinely scandalized. “How dare you.”

“I dare very easily, actually.”

Barty turned back to the plant, crouching again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t listen to him. He lacks vision.”

“I lack delusion,” Evan shot back, but there was no real bite to it.

He watched for a moment in silence, something softer creeping into his expression. The way Barty adjusted the pot again, just slightly, like it mattered. Like it would make a difference.

“Where did you even get it?” Evan asked.

Barty shrugged. “Found it.”

“Of course you did.”

“It spoke to me.”

Evan snorted. “Did it now?”

“Yes,” Barty said, completely straight-faced. “Said it needed a home.”

Evan shook his head, but he was smiling now, faint and fond despite himself.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m compassionate,” Barty replied.

“You’re insane.”

“Those are not mutually exclusive.”

Evan huffed out another quiet laugh, leaning back slightly on his hands, watching him.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“…You’re going to keep it there, aren’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“In our bedroom.”

“Where it can thrive.”

Evan looked at the plant again. Dead. Utterly, tragically dead.

Then back at Barty, who was now sitting cross-legged beside it like some sort of deranged guardian.

“…If it starts haunting me, I’m blaming you.”

Barty grinned, sharp and pleased. “If it starts haunting you, that means it worked.”

Evan groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.

“I hate you.”

“Liar,” Barty said lightly.

Evan didn’t bother responding.

But after a moment, he shifted—just slightly—so he could still see the corner of the room.

Just in case.

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.

Snow crunches under his shoes, thin but stubborn, a layer that hasn’t quite decided if it wants to stay or melt. The sky is that dull, endless gray that feels heavier than night, and the wind howls down the street like it’s looking for something to tear apart.

Barty shoves his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker out of instinct—useless. The cold seeps through instantly, like the fabric isn’t even there.

“Right,” he mutters to no one. “Great choice.”

His voice sounds wrong. Too loud. Too empty.

He keeps walking.

The beanie sits snug on his head, slightly too big, slipping down over his ears. Evan had made it like that on purpose—“so it actually keeps you warm, idiot”—and Barty had laughed, tugged it down further just to annoy him.

Now it smells faintly like laundry detergent and something softer, something that might just be Evan if Barty lets himself believe hard enough.

He pulls it down tighter.

The wind cuts through him again, harsher this time, and it’s immediate—his fingers sting, his cheeks burn, his eyes water from the sheer force of it. It’s overwhelming, physical, undeniable.

Good.

That’s the point.

Because everything else is... Nothing.

Not even numb. Numb would be something. Numb would be a state you could identify, name, sit with.

This is just… absence.

A hollowed-out version of himself walking down a street that looks the same as it always has, except it doesn’t. Nothing does.

Everything is wrong.

Barty keeps moving, slower now, his feet dragging slightly against the snow. It’s already getting harder to feel his toes. There’s a sluggishness settling into his limbs, like his body’s trying to convince him to stop.

He doesn’t.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket for a second, screen lighting up his face in the dim afternoon.

Missed calls.

Messages.

James: Where are you?

Regulus: Barty.

Regulus again: Answer your phone.

He stares at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering.

Then he presses it off and shoves it back into his pocket.

Do Not Disturb.

He can’t—he can’t deal with them right now. He can’t handle James’ frantic concern or Regulus’ sharp, quiet worry that somehow cuts deeper. They’ll look at him like he’s something fragile. Like he might shatter if they breathe wrong.

They don’t get it.

No one does.

Because Evan—

The thought hits too fast, too hard.

Barty stops walking.

The wind howls past him, snow swirling in uneven spirals, catching in his eyelashes, melting against his skin. His breath comes out in shaky clouds, uneven, stuttering.

Evan should be here.

That’s the problem.

That’s the entire, unbearable problem.

Evan should be here, complaining about the cold while simultaneously refusing to wear anything heavier than a hoodie. Evan should be slipping his hands under Barty’s jacket, pressing cold fingers against his stomach just to hear him swear. Evan should be—

Alive.

The word doesn’t even feel real.

Barty laughs, and it comes out wrong. Broken at the edges.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, voice getting swallowed by the wind. “That’s… that’s the issue, isn’t it?”

His knees feel weak suddenly.

He keeps standing anyway.

The cold is deeper now. It’s not just surface-level pain anymore—it’s sinking into his bones, settling into his chest, wrapping around his lungs. Breathing hurts. Actually hurts.

Good.

Good.

That’s something.

That’s—

His chest hitches.

For a second, he thinks he’s going to cry.

Nothing comes out.

Just that same empty, hollow pressure that’s been sitting inside him for days, weeks—he doesn’t even know anymore. Time stopped making sense somewhere between hospital visits and quiet beeping machines and the way Evan’s hand felt in his, lighter every time he held it.

Barty squeezes his eyes shut.

“Come on,” he whispers. “Just—something. Please.”

Nothing.

The wind answers instead, a sharp gust that makes him stagger slightly.

His fingers are numb now. Completely. He can’t feel them at all when he tries to curl them into fists.

His lips are tingling.

His entire body feels heavy, like he’s wading through something thick and invisible.

And still—

Still, it’s better than the nothing.

Because this is pain.

This is real.

This is something he can point to and say, that hurts.

Not the quiet, suffocating absence of Evan’s voice.

Not the empty space on the couch.

Not the way his apartment feels too big now, like the walls have stretched to accommodate the fact that Evan isn’t there to fill them anymore.

Barty exhales slowly, watching the breath disappear into the cold air.

“…You’d hate this,” he murmurs.

He can almost hear it—Evan’s voice, exasperated and fond all at once.

“Barty, you absolute idiot, you’re going to get hypothermia.”

A weak smile tugs at his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably.”

Another gust of wind hits him, and this time he actually sways.

That’s—

Okay.

That’s fine.

His body’s just—

Tired.

He hasn’t been sleeping. Or eating. Or doing anything, really.

Just existing.

Barely.

His knees buckle slightly, and he stumbles forward a step, catching himself awkwardly. The world tilts for a second, edges blurring, the gray sky bleeding into the white ground.

His phone buzzes faintly in his pocket.

He ignores it.

It buzzes again.

And again.

Persistent.

Annoying.

Alive.

Barty frowns slightly, sluggish, and finally pulls it out with clumsy, uncooperative fingers.

Regulus.

Of course it’s Regulus.

He stares at the name for a long moment, thumb hovering.

Then, without really thinking about it, he answers.

“…What?” His voice is hoarse, barely there.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end.

“Where are you?”

Regulus sounds controlled. Too controlled.

Barty swallows, glancing around like that’ll somehow give him an answer he can articulate.

“Outside.”

A pause.

“Barty,” Regulus says, quieter now. “Be specific.”

He huffs out something that might be a laugh.

“…Cold.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then, very carefully: “Are you alone?”

Barty looks down at the snow-covered ground, at his own footprints trailing behind him.

“…Yeah.”

The line goes quiet for a second, and then—

“We’re coming to get you.”

Barty’s immediate instinct is to protest.

To say no. To tell them to leave him alone, that he doesn’t need them, that he’s fine—

But the words don’t come out.

Instead, he just stands there, swaying slightly, the cold digging deeper into him with every passing second.

The knot is tight, neat, and refuses to come undone for the entire day. Barty spends the next eight hours insufferably pleased with himself, periodically glancing down at his shoes like they personally validated his existence.

By the time he gets home, he’s vibrating with the need to show someone.

Evan is sprawled across the couch, long limbs draped like he’s been personally arranged for aesthetic effect, one arm hanging off the side while he scrolls on his phone. There’s a half-empty glass of something expensive on the coffee table and a candle burning that smells like sandalwood and poor financial decisions.

“Evan,” Barty announces, already halfway through kicking off one shoe.

Evan doesn’t look up. “If this is about the raccoon you saw again, I’m not naming it.”

“It’s not about the raccoon,” Barty says, scandalized. “This is important.”

That gets Evan’s attention.

He tilts his head just enough to glance over, eyes dragging lazily from Barty’s face down to where he’s crouched on the floor, aggressively re-lacing his sneaker like he’s preparing for a demonstration in front of a live audience.

“…Should I be concerned?” Evan asks.

“Yes,” Barty says. “But not for the reason you think.”

Evan props his chin on his hand, intrigued now despite himself. “Go on, then. Enlighten me.”

Barty beams.

“So, you know how normal people tie their shoes like—” he makes a vague looping gesture, fumbling through the standard bunny-ears method like he’s forgotten how it works entirely. “—like that. Boring. Predictable. Pedestrian.”

“Mm,” Evan hums. “A crime, truly.”

“Well,” Barty says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I don’t do that anymore.”

There’s a pause.

Evan narrows his eyes slightly. “What do you mean you don’t do that anymore.”

“Watch,” Barty says.

And then—

He starts.

It’s… a process.

It begins with confidence. That’s the most important part. Barty’s fingers move quickly, deliberately, like he’s about to perform a magic trick. He wraps one lace around the other—not once, not twice, but three times—then pulls it through in a way that shouldn’t make sense, looping it back under itself like he’s creating some kind of intricate knot used exclusively by sailors or cult members.

He pauses halfway through to adjust the tension, tongue poking out in concentration.

Then comes the flourish.

Because of course there’s a flourish.

He flicks the loops outward with a sharp little twist of his wrist, pulls tight, and—

Done.

Perfect knot.

Symmetrical. Secure. Almost… elegant.

Barty looks up, eyes bright with triumph. “Well?”

Evan is staring at him.

Not blinking.

Just… staring.

“…What the fuck was that.”

Barty gasps, offended. “That was innovation.”

“That was a ritual,” Evan corrects flatly. “You just summoned something. I felt the air change.”

“It’s just a better knot,” Barty insists, sitting back on his heels. “It’s efficient. It’s stylish. It—”

“Do it again.”

“I—what?”

“Do it again,” Evan repeats, already pushing himself upright on the couch. “I need to see if it was as unhinged the second time.”

Barty huffs but obliges, immediately undoing the knot and starting over.

And yes—if anything, it’s worse the second time.

Now that Evan knows what’s coming, he notices the details. The unnecessary extra wrap. The way Barty switches grip halfway through like he’s compensating for a mistake that somehow becomes part of the technique. The final little flick that serves absolutely no purpose except drama.

When Barty finishes, he looks up expectantly again.

Evan leans back slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

“…My boyfriend,” he says, voice measured, “ties his shoes like he’s performing a theatric display for an audience of Victorian nobles.”

Barty grins. “So you like it.”

“I think I need to film it and send it to scientists.”

“Oh, fuck off—”

“No, no,” Evan says, already reaching for his phone. “This is important. This needs to be documented. This is how serial killers tie their shoes, Barty.”

“I am not a serial killer—”

“Debatable.”

Barty lunges for him, but Evan just laughs, easily dodging, holding the phone out of reach as Barty tries (and fails) to grab it.

“Do it again,” Evan insists between laughs. “For the camera. Come on, darling, give me the full performance.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you,” Evan says sweetly, “are never living this down.”

Barty pauses.

Considers.

Then—very deliberately—he sits back down on the floor, sets his shoe in front of him, and looks directly into the camera.

“If you’re going to mock me,” he says, already reaching for the laces, “at least get my good side.”

Evan snorts.

“—and I tell him, ‘that’s not minimal,’ and he goes, ‘well, I want it delicate,’ and I’m like, those are not the same—Evan, they’re not the same—”

Another soft hum. Agreement, probably. Or maybe just acknowledgment.

Barty keeps going.

He talks about the apprentice who almost passed out during a piercing. About the playlist at the shop that got stuck on the same three songs for an hour. About a woman who tipped him with homemade cookies that may or may not have been underbaked but he ate anyway because she looked proud.

At some point, his voice slows. Not because he’s running out of things to say—Barty never runs out of things to say—but because the warmth of Evan’s lap and the steady motion in his hair is dragging him somewhere soft and hazy.

Still, he keeps talking.

“…and I told him, if you touch that again before it heals, I will personally haunt you,” he mutters, words starting to slur together. “Like, not even in a threatening way, just… a promise…”

Evan’s fingers don’t stop. They comb, scratch, smooth. Over and over.

Time passes.

A lot of time.

Barty doesn’t notice how long until he pauses mid-sentence and the quiet stretches just a second too long.

His eyes blink open.

“…wait.”

Evan’s hand is still in his hair.

The room is dimmer than it was before. The light outside has shifted—golden hour bleeding into something softer, something evening.

Barty goes still.

“How long have I been talking?” he asks slowly.

Evan doesn’t answer right away. His fingers just glide through Barty’s hair again, like the question isn’t urgent. Like nothing is.

That’s when it hits.

Barty bolts upright so fast he nearly headbutts Evan’s chin.

“Jesus—Evan, why didn’t you tell me to shut up?” he blurts, already scrambling off the couch. “I’ve been going on forever, haven’t I? You were just sitting there—fuck, you were being polite—”

He starts pacing, running his hands through his own hair now, undoing all of Evan’s careful work.

“I didn’t even ask about your day, I just came in and started—God, I do this all the time, don’t I? I just talk and talk and—”

He turns, ready to keep spiraling, already halfway into an apology—

And Evan moves.

It’s quick, but not rushed. Deliberate.

His hand catches Barty’s wrist mid-gesture.

The contact is warm. Grounding.

Barty freezes.

Evan tugs—just enough to stop him, not enough to pull him off balance. His thumb brushes once over the inside of Barty’s wrist, absentminded, familiar.

“Barty.”

The way he says it—quiet, steady—cuts clean through the noise in Barty’s head.

Barty swallows. “Yeah?”

Evan looks at him like this is simple. Like this has always been simple.

“I love the sound of your voice.”

Barty blinks.

Once. Twice.

“…what?”

Evan’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, it softens, just slightly at the edges.

“I like listening to you,” he says, like he’s clarifying something obvious. “You get excited. You ramble. You make everything sound more interesting than it has any right to be.”

His thumb brushes Barty’s wrist again.

“It’s my favorite part of your day.”

Barty stares at him.

There’s a laugh somewhere in his chest, but it gets stuck halfway up, tangled with something warmer, something heavier.

“You’re insane,” Barty mutters, but it comes out quieter than usual. Less bite, more disbelief.

Evan just shrugs, like that’s not really a denial.

“Come back,” he says, giving Barty’s wrist a small tug.

Barty hesitates for half a second.

Then he folds.

He drops back onto the couch, a little less dramatically this time, settling with his head in Evan’s lap again like he was never gone. Like this is where he’s meant to be.

Evan’s fingers return to his hair immediately. Like they missed it.

For a moment, Barty is quiet.

Then—

“Okay, but I didn’t even get to the worst part,” he says, already shifting, already warming back up. “Because after the dragon guy left—”

Evan smiles, small and private, fingers moving in slow, steady patterns.