#sunkiller-microfics

The common room was worse.

Too many people. Too many movements that didn’t sync up with the sounds they made. Someone laughed from the corner, sharp and sudden, while the TV droned on about something no one was really watching.

James hovered in the doorway, heart climbing up into his throat.

Go in, the voice urged. Softer now. Encouraging. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache. You wanted this.

“I did,” James muttered.

“Did what?”

The reply didn’t come from inside his head.

James froze.

Someone was standing a few feet away, leaning back against the wall like he’d always been there. Tall. Pale. Dark curls falling messily into his face. There was something sharp about him—not dangerous exactly, but… deliberate. Like every movement had been chosen in advance.

And then James saw it.

The piercing.

A silver barbell through his lower lip—snake bites, he thought distantly. It caught the overhead light every time the boy smiled.

Which he was doing now.

Not a friendly smile. Not exactly.

“Look like you’re about to bolt,” the boy said. “First time out?”

James swallowed. “Yeah.”

That’s him.

The voice in his head—clearer than it had ever been—thrummed with certainty.

That’s him.

James’ stomach dropped.

“I—uh.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Just got cleared.”

“Congratulations,” the boy said lightly, like he was congratulating him on something ridiculous. “Big step. Very inspiring.”

There was something off about his tone. Mocking, maybe. Or just amused in a way James couldn’t quite place.

“Thanks,” James said anyway.

Silence stretched for half a second too long.

Then:

“I’m James.”

The boy tilted his head, studying him.

Up close, his eyes were… wrong. Not in a way James could explain to a doctor. Just wrong in the way some reflections didn’t quite match what they were reflecting.

“Barty,” he said. A pause. A grin that showed the flash of silver again. “Barty Crouch Junior, if you’re feeling formal.”

The name hit James like a dropped weight.

Barty.

The voice in his head practically purred it.

Barty.

James’s breath stuttered.

“…what?”

Barty’s smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Something wrong?”

“No,” James said too quickly. “No, I just—”

You know him.

“I don’t—”

You do.

“I don’t,” James insisted under his breath.

Barty’s eyes sharpened.

“Who are you talking to?”

James snapped his mouth shut.

The room suddenly felt too full again. Too loud. The TV, the laughter, the distant clatter of a dropped cup—everything layered over itself until he couldn’t separate one sound from another.

Except—

“Me, obviously.”

James went still.

Barty hadn’t moved. Still leaning against the wall. Still watching him.

But the voice—

The voice had come from right there.

Same tone. Same rhythm. Same presence that had been curling through James’s mind at three in the morning for weeks.

“No,” James whispered.

Barty pushed off the wall and stepped closer.

Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that James could see the tiny scar at the corner of his lip, where the piercing must have been done wrong the first time.

“Careful,” Barty said softly. “You’re going to start making a scene.”

“I know your voice,” James said, words slipping out before he could stop them. “I know it.”

Barty’s expression flickered—something sharp and pleased breaking through.

“Do you?”

Tell him, the voice coaxed. Go on.

James’ hands started shaking.

“You talk to me,” he said. “At night. When it’s quiet.”

Barty leaned in slightly.

And for a second—just a second—James couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from anymore. Inside. Outside. Both.

“That so?” Barty murmured.

The silver of his piercing caught the light again, flashing like a signal.

James’s pulse roared in his ears.

“You say things,” he continued, barely aware of the room around them anymore. “You—you tell me I’m not alone.”

Barty’s smile softened.

Not kinder. Just… closer.

More intimate.

“Maybe you aren’t,” he said.

See? the voice whispered.

James’s breath hitched.

“That’s not—” He shook his head, trying to ground himself, trying to remember what Dr. Evans had told him. Reality checks. Evidence. Boundaries. “That’s not how this works.”

Barty’s gaze flicked over his face, searching, calculating.

“And how does it work?” he asked.

“I hear things that aren’t real,” James said, the words tasting like metal. “That’s the diagnosis.”

Barty hummed thoughtfully.

“And yet,” he said, “here I am.”

James stared at him.

The world tilted.

“Yeah,” James whispered. “You are.”

I told you, the voice said.

Barty’s lips didn’t move.

“I told you I was real.”

James’ knees nearly gave out.

Because that—that—hadn’t come from inside his head.

It had come from right in front of him.

From Barty.

From the boy with the snake bite piercing and the too-knowing smile and the voice that had been haunting his nights long before he ever stepped into this room.

James exhaled shakily.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted.

Barty’s grin returned, slow and sharp and utterly certain.

“That’s alright,” he said.

He reached out—hesitated just a fraction—and then tapped two fingers lightly against James’s wrist.

The contact was real.

Warm.

Grounding in a way nothing else had been in weeks.

“We’ve got time,” Barty added.

All the time in the world, the voice echoed.

Barty doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move at all, actually—just leans back against the closed front door, keys still dangling from his fingers, jacket half-zipped. He looks tired. Ink stains his hands, dark crescents under his nails, and there’s a smear of red on his wrist that might be ink or might not.

“Yeah,” Barty says, flat. Not dismissive. Not hurt. Just… there. “You said that already.”

James’s hands curl into fists. He hates that tone more than anything—the calm, the knowing. Like Barty’s memorized the script. Like this is just another loop in the same broken record.

“Maybe I mean it more this time,” James snaps, pacing now, dragging his hands through his hair hard enough to pull. “Maybe I finally realized I should’ve meant it the first hundred times.”

“Right,” Barty mutters, pushing himself off the door at last. He tosses his keys onto the side table with a clatter. “That must be it.”

“You were gone for six hours,” James continues, voice rising, words tripping over each other faster than he can filter them. “Six. Hours. You said you’d be back by four.”

“I had a client.”

“Oh, yeah? Must’ve been a really important client.”

Barty exhales slowly through his nose. He shrugs off his jacket, hangs it up with deliberate care—like if he moves too fast, something will snap.

“She wanted a full sleeve redone,” he says. “Took longer than expected.”

James laughs, sharp and humorless. “Of course she did. Let me guess—she just couldn’t let you go, right? Needed you there, touching her all day—”

“Don’t,” Barty cuts in, not loud, but firm enough that it slices clean through James’s spiral.

But James is already gone, already halfway down the slope.

“—because you’re just so good at that, aren’t you? Everyone loves you. Everyone wants you. Why wouldn’t they? You’re—” He gestures wildly, like the word is somewhere in the air and he just has to grab it. “—you. And I’m just—”

He chokes on the rest.

Barty watches him carefully now. Not cold. Not distant. Focused.

There it is.

The pivot.

It always comes—the turn from anger into something messier, something hollowed-out and aching.

“I’m just what?” Barty asks quietly.

James shakes his head hard, like he can dislodge the thought before it finishes forming. “Nothing.”

“James.”

“I said nothing!”

Silence crashes between them, heavy and buzzing.

James presses his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind them. His chest feels too tight, like his ribs are shrinking around his lungs.

“You should just go,” he mutters, voice dropping, losing all its earlier sharpness. “Honestly. I don’t know why you’re even still here.”

Barty doesn’t answer immediately. He moves instead—slow, measured steps across the room until he’s standing just a few feet away.

“Because you don’t mean it,” he says.

James lets out a broken laugh. “God, you’re so arrogant.”

“No,” Barty replies, just as steady. “I’m experienced.”

That almost gets a smile. Almost.

James drops his hands, eyes red-rimmed and too bright. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t,” James snaps, frustration flaring again. “That’s the whole problem—I can’t explain it, I can’t stop it, I can’t—” He gestures helplessly at himself. “—turn it off. One minute I’m fine and the next I just—” He swallows hard. “I get this thought stuck in my head and it won’t leave.”

Barty’s expression softens, just slightly. “What thought?”

James hesitates.

That’s new.

Usually he just deflects, lashes out, says something cruel enough to end the conversation. But tonight the words sit heavy on his tongue, demanding to be said.

“That you deserve better,” he admits finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Or that you’ve already figured that out and you’re just… waiting to leave.”

Barty’s jaw tightens.

“And tonight?” he asks.

James huffs a weak, self-deprecating breath. “Tonight it was both. You were gone too long, so obviously that meant you found someone better and just didn’t feel like telling me yet.” He shrugs, brittle. “Makes sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Barty says immediately.

“It does in my head.”

“Your head’s a liar.”

James snorts. “Yeah, well, it’s very convincing.”

Another stretch of silence. This one isn’t as sharp. Just… tired.

Barty rubs a hand over his face, smearing that streak on his wrist further. “She cried halfway through the tattoo,” he says suddenly.

James blinks. “What?”

“The client,” Barty clarifies. “Said her ex used to draw on her arm when she couldn’t sleep. She wanted me to copy the designs exactly, even though they were shit.” He huffs softly. “Took forever because she kept asking me to redo lines that were already perfect.”

James stares at him, thrown off.

“I wasn’t cheating on you,” Barty adds, quieter now. “I was stuck with a crying woman who couldn’t decide if she wanted a star or a spiral.”

A beat.

“…spiral’s better,” James mutters automatically.

“Yeah,” Barty agrees. “I know.”

The tension cracks, just a little.

James sinks onto the couch like his legs give out all at once. He drags his hands down his face, exhausted now, the manic edge burning out and leaving something duller in its wake.

“I hate this,” he says, voice small. “I hate that I do this to you.”

Barty shrugs, but it’s not dismissive this time. Just honest. “Yeah. Me too.”

James winces.

“But I also know it’s not really you,” Barty continues. “Or not all of you, anyway.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” Barty agrees. “It doesn’t.”

He steps closer, then stops—close enough to reach, far enough to give James space to pull away if he wants to.

James doesn’t.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Barty says, softer now. “Even when you try to make me.”

James lets out a shaky breath. “You say that now.”

“I say it every time.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It does,” Barty cuts in gently. “You just don’t believe it yet.”

James looks up at him, eyes glassy. “Why?”

Barty tilts his head, considering him like it’s the simplest question in the world.

“Because I know the routine,” he says. “And I’m still here anyway.”

That does it.

James’s shoulders finally drop, tension draining out of him in a slow, uneven exhale. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, like the weight of everything is finally too much to carry standing up.

“…I don’t hate you,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Barty says, nudging his foot lightly against James’s. “I know.”

A pause.

“…you can still be a bit of a dick, though.”

That earns a weak, real laugh.

“Shut up,” James murmurs.

Barty smirks, just a little. “Make me.”

Now James trudged through the sand, jacket zipped up against the damp wind, heart pounding in that familiar, exhausted rhythm of worry.

And there he was.

Barty was stretched out on the sand like he’d simply collapsed there. His arms were folded behind his head, curls damp with fog, shoes kicked off beside him. He stared straight up into the pale sky like he was trying to read something written there.

James slowed his steps.

Careful.

Always careful.

He approached from the side, lowering himself down onto the sand a few feet away so he wouldn’t loom over him.

“Sometimes I'd like to know what's going on in your brain,” James said softly, voice low so he wouldn’t startle him.

Barty didn’t look over right away.

The wind tugged at his hair.

For a long moment he just kept staring at the sky.

Then he said, very calmly, “It's loud today.”

James exhaled slowly through his nose.

Not the worst answer.

Not the best.

“Yeah?” he asked.

Barty nodded faintly.

“Like a crowded train station.” His voice stayed distant, thoughtful. “You know when everyone’s talking and you can't tell which voice is the one you’re supposed to listen to?”

James dug his fingers into the cold sand.

“I imagine that gets exhausting.”

Barty huffed out a small laugh.

“You have no idea.”

Finally he turned his head to look at James.

His eyes were glassy in that way James knew too well—not quite focused on the present.

“They said the ocean helps,” Barty continued.

“Who said that?”

Barty shrugged one shoulder.

“Don’t know. One of them.”

James resisted the instinct to react.

Instead he leaned back on his hands and looked out at the water too.

The fog rolled over the waves like smoke.

“Well,” James said gently, “did it help?”

Barty thought about it.

“Maybe a little.”

Another pause.

Then Barty frowned faintly and asked, “Did you have to come get me again?”

James let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“Yeah, Bee. I did.”

Barty winced at the guilt in his tone.

“I forgot my phone again, didn’t I?”

James pulled the device out of his pocket and held it up.

“You actually brought it this time.”

Barty blinked in mild surprise.

“Huh.”

James smirked tiredly.

“Progress.”

For a moment they sat in silence, the sound of waves filling the space between them.

Then Barty spoke again, quieter this time.

“Did you have a bad day?”

James glanced at him.

Barty was watching him now with a strange kind of clarity, like the fog in his head had parted just enough to let him see.

James shrugged.

“Work sucked.”

Barty hummed.

“Sorry.”

James rolled his eyes a little.

“You didn't cause my day.”

“Still,” Barty said softly.

He reached out blindly across the sand until his fingers brushed James’s sleeve. When James didn’t pull away, Barty hooked two fingers into the cuff of his jacket like a kid making sure someone wouldn’t disappear.

The gesture was small.

But James felt his chest loosen anyway.

“You scared me,” James admitted.

Barty stared at the sand between them.

“I thought if I stayed in the apartment they’d get louder.”

James nodded slowly.

“Yeah. That happens sometimes.”

“They like quiet places,” Barty muttered.

James followed his gaze to the ocean.

“Well unfortunately for them,” James said dryly, “you’re stuck with me.”

That earned him a tiny smile.

“Tragic.”

James bumped his shoulder lightly.

“C’mon. Let’s go home.”

Barty didn’t move at first.

“Are they still loud?” James asked carefully.

Barty tilted his head, listening to something only he could hear.

Then he shrugged.

“Not as much.”

“Good.”

James stood up and brushed sand off his jeans before offering his hand.

Barty stared at it for a second like it was a complicated puzzle.

Then he took it.

His fingers were freezing.

James squeezed them anyway.

They walked back toward the car together through the fog.

Halfway there Barty spoke again.

“You know what one of them said earlier?”

James sighed.

“What?”

Barty looked at him sideways.

“They said you’d stop coming to get me eventually.”

James stopped walking.

Barty froze too.

James turned to face him, jaw tight with something fierce and stubborn.

“Yeah?” he said quietly.

Barty nodded.

James grabbed the front of Barty’s jacket and tugged him a step closer, not rough, just firm enough to make sure Barty was really listening.

“They’re wrong.”

Barty’s eyes flickered.

“I’m always gonna come get you,” James said.

The fog swallowed the pier lights behind them.

Barty stared at him for a long moment before letting out a shaky breath.

Barty rested his chin in his hands and stared at the vending machine like it personally offended him. Evan knew that look. It wasn’t about students.

“…He hasn’t texted me today,” Barty said finally.

The red pen paused.

“Bee,” Evan said carefully.

“It’s just weird.” Barty waved his phone in the air. “When he left for the tour he was texting constantly. Like constantly. Pictures of terrible gas-station food, Sirius stealing his sunglasses, Remus reading in the back of the van—”

“Thrilling.”

“But the last few days?” Barty sighed. “Barely anything. Just a ‘goodnight’ yesterday.”

Evan leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. He studied Barty for a moment, fondness softening his expression.

“Barty,” he said, “your boyfriend is James Potter.”

“Yes, thank you, I remember.”

“The James Potter,” Evan continued patiently, gesturing vaguely toward the universe. “Lead singer of the biggest rock band in the country. Currently touring arenas with Sirius Black causing property damage and Remus Lupin trying to pretend he’s not part of it.”

Barty groaned and slid down further in his chair.

“That’s exactly my point!”

“Is it?”

“What if he’s—” Barty lowered his voice dramatically. “—cheating.”

Evan stared at him.

“Bee.”

“I’m serious!”

“I know you are.” Evan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I can’t comment on whether Potter is cheating on you or not, Bee.”

His voice softened a little as he added, “But I can say you’re spiraling.”

Barty huffed.

“You didn’t see the fans outside the last show,” he said. “They were literally climbing barricades.”

“Fans tend to do that when someone writes a love song that tops every chart in existence.”

“That song was about me,” Barty muttered.

Evan grinned. “Yes. The nation’s favorite rock anthem is about a nervous schoolteacher who color-codes his lesson plans.”

Barty kicked his chair lightly.

“You’re not helping.”

“Helping would be confiscating your phone.”

“I’d bite you.”

Evan believed him.

With another long sigh, Barty leaned forward and grabbed the remote off the coffee table.

“If he’s cheating,” he said dramatically, “I’m going to find out.”

“Please tell me your investigative strategy isn’t daytime television.”

Barty turned the TV on.

It immediately landed on one of those awful paparazzi gossip channels.

Evan groaned. “Oh no.”

“Shh.”

The segment banner flashed across the screen:

“ROCKSTAR TOUR CHAOS — EXCLUSIVE HIDDEN FOOTAGE.”

“Oh my god,” Evan said.

The shaky camera footage showed a backstage area outside some huge arena. A caption explained a “dedicated fan” had managed to sneak near the band’s staging area.

Barty leaned closer.

There they were.

Sirius was pacing dramatically while telling some story with wild hand gestures. Remus sat on a crate looking long-suffering. And James—

James was leaning against a wall, messy hair falling in his eyes, laughing at whatever Sirius had just said.

In one hand, he held his phone.

His thumbs were moving quickly over the screen.

Typing.

Barty narrowed his eyes.

“Suspicious,” he whispered.

Evan stared at him. “He’s texting.”

“Exactly.”

On the screen, James snorted at something Sirius said, still typing away.

And then—

buzz

Barty’s phone lit up on the table.

Both of them froze.

Slowly, Barty picked it up.

James 🌟

Miss you. Sirius just tried to convince security he’s my emotional support guitarist. Remus says hi. Also I saw a teacher supply store today and almost bought you twenty packs of those stupid color tabs you like.

Barty blinked.

Another message popped up.

Anyway I was thinking about you and got distracted for ten minutes so if Sirius falls off the stage tonight it’s technically your fault.

On the TV, James finally hit send.

Then he looked up, grinning at Sirius again.

Evan slowly sipped his coffee.

“…Mystery solved,” he said.

Barty clutched the phone to his chest.

“He remembered the tabs.”

“Bee.”

“He remembered the tabs!”

Evan rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

Barty typed back quickly.

You’re an idiot. Also buy the tabs.

Across the screen, James’s phone buzzed.

He checked it.

And immediately broke into the brightest grin imaginable.

Evan pointed at the television.

“There,” he said. “See that face?”

Barty nodded, unable to hide his own smile.

“Yeah.”

“That,” Evan said, “is not the face of a man cheating on his extremely neurotic schoolteacher boyfriend.”

Barty relaxed into the chair.

“Good,” he said.

On TV, Sirius tried to steal James’s phone and got shoved.

Evan glanced back at his grading.

“Now,” he said, “stop stalking paparazzi footage before the bell rings.”

Barty just smiled fondly at the note. He grabbed his Metallica hoodie, tugged it over his messy hair, and walked down the stairs until he found the door to the fitness center.

James was easy to spot. He was the only guy there this early in the morning, but what really caught Barty’s eye were the shorts James was wearing.

Barty leaned against the doorway, smirking to himself. Those shorts should’ve been illegal—bright, too tight, and clinging to James in a way that was almost indecent. His curls were damp with sweat, tank top sticking to his chest as he ran on the treadmill, totally oblivious to being ogled.

Barty shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, staying there to watch. His boyfriend was annoying. Bright, stupidly charming, and now apparently determined to torture him by running in shorts that left very little to the imagination.

James finally noticed him in the mirror, nearly stumbling in surprise. He pulled his headphones down, breaking into a grin. “B!” he called, slowing the treadmill. “Did you get my note? You took your meds, right?”

Barty pushed off the wall, making his way over. “Yes, mom,” he muttered. He stopped at James’ side, tugging at the hem of those cursed shorts with two fingers. “But what the fuck are these? Planning to blind me with neon?”

James just laughed and leaned forward, pressing a sweaty kiss to his cheek. “You like them. Don’t lie to me, Barty Crouch. You came all the way down here just to stare at my thighs.”

Barty scoffed, but his hand lingered against James’ hip, thumb brushing the waistband before he shoved him lightly. “Shut up. You’re disgusting.”

“Disgusting enough that you followed me at six in the morning?” James teased, eyes gleaming.

“Disgusting enough that I’m dragging you back upstairs before someone else gets a look at you,” Barty muttered, grabbing James’ wrist and tugging him toward the door.

James laughed the whole way out, not resisting in the slightest.

The point was that James loved doing it. He loved the smell of apples and cinnamon. He loved the excuse to drag Harry out of the house for fresh air. He loved the feeling of making something with his hands, even if the result was… scientifically questionable.

Harry, now nine-years-old and extremely perceptive, eyed James’ enthusiasm with a level of caution unusual for a child.

“Dad,” Harry said as he zippered up his jacket, “am I allowed to be honest about the cider this year?”

“Nope,” James said cheerfully, grabbing the keys. “It’s about the experience, my sweet little hater.”

“But it tastes like—”

“Whoa!” James clapped a hand over Harry’s ears dramatically. “Language. We don’t use that kind of profanity in this household.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You didn’t let me finish saying ‘like cardboard.’”

“Still too harsh,” James said, ushering him out the door.

What James didn’t expect — what blindsided him entirely — was Barty already standing on the porch leaning against the railing, hands shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket, and that stupid wolfish grin on his face.

“There’s my favorite father-son duo,” Barty drawled, kicking off the railing. “You ready for the big trip, Potter?”

James blinked. “What… trip?”

Harry sighed with the weariness of someone forced to coexist with two idiots. “He invited himself to the orchard, Dad.”

Barty adjusted his beanie. “No, I didn’t invite myself. I invited James. He said yes.”

James sputtered. “You—you tricked me! You came up to me at work and said ‘Do you like traditions?’ and I said yes and then somehow that turned into—”

“Into me coming with you.” Barty beamed. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Harry groaned and got in the car.

James remained frozen on the porch, staring at Barty, heat creeping up his neck.

“You only said you liked my cider the one time because you were—”

“Trying to get into your pants?” Barty offered.

“Manipulating me,” James corrected wearily. “Same thing, I guess.”

Barty winked. “So. Let’s see the magic.”

James covered his face. “Oh, god.”

—

The orchard was bright and full of families, people wandering with baskets, trees stretched overhead like autumn-colored canopies. Harry strode ahead with practiced efficiency, already knowing exactly which apple varieties he preferred.

Meanwhile, James and Barty strolled behind him.

Or rather, James tried to walk normally while Barty stalked him like a fox, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes fixed on James’ every move.

“So,” Barty said, hopping over a tree root, “you gonna show me how a master does it?”

“I never said master,” James muttered.

“You implied it.”

“I did not—”

“You’ve built it up like this sacred ritual. You call it your annual cider pilgrimage.”

“…I said that once ironically.”

“Mhm.”

James held the basket defensively against his chest. “Stop staring at me.”

“No,” Barty said instantly.

James tripped on nothing.

Barty caught the back of his jacket with two fingers. “Careful, Potter. Hate for you to fall for anyone else.”

James made a noise that only dogs could hear.

Harry, several rows ahead, yelled, “Ew!”

The apple-picking itself went fine—mostly because Barty took it seriously in the worst way. He brought each apple to James like a cat bringing offerings.

“This one’s shaped like your ego,” Barty said, handing him a lopsided one.

“This one looks like your patience,” he said, giving him a fist-sized tiny apple.

“This one,” he plucked a perfect Honeycrisp, held it up to the sun dramatically, “is the one you’ll ruin in the cider.”

James shoved him. Lightly. Because if he shoved harder, he might enjoy it too much.

By the time they returned home, Harry retreated to his room with a simple, “Have fun being weird,” leaving the two grown men in the kitchen staring at the bag of apples.

Barty hopped onto the counter, sitting with one leg swinging. “Alright, Chef. Do your thing.”

James inhaled through his nose.

He could do this. He could make cider without embarrassing himself.

Right?

…Right?

He washed the apples, slicing them up with far more intensity than necessary. Barty watched him the entire time like he was observing art.

“Stop looking at me like that,” James muttered, dropping apple slices into a pot.

“Like what?” Barty asked. “Like you’re gorgeous when you concentrate?”

James almost cut his own finger.

“Jesus,” he breathed, flustered. “Do you ever stop?”

“No.”

James turned on the stove, tossing in cinnamon sticks and cloves like a man pretending he knew what the hell he was doing.

“Okay,” James muttered. “Now we let it simmer.”

Barty leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “That’s it?”

“That’s step one.”

“And step two?”

“Don’t rush me.”

Barty smirked. “But you’re cute when you panic.”

“I’m not—” James turned red. “—panicking.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot in here.”

“It’s barely warm.”

“You’re barely warm,” James snapped.

Barty blinked, amused. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to!”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Then Barty slid slowly off the counter, closing the distance between them with that predator kind of glide he did. He stopped only when he was close enough that James could smell the faint mint gum he always chewed.

“So,” Barty murmured, “the truth—did you wanna impress me with this cider thing?”

James swallowed hard. His voice squeaked. “No.”

Barty raised a brow.

“…Maybe.”

Barty grinned—slow, victorious, wicked. “Knew it.”

James turned away, face absolutely on fire.

The cider simmered for an hour.

Barty refused to leave the kitchen.

He poked James’ sides every five minutes, stole apple slices, leaned on James’ shoulder to read the recipe over his arm (even though James didn’t have a recipe and was just winging it), and occasionally whispered things like:

“If it tastes terrible, I’ll still drink it.”

“That’s not better,” James groaned.

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s pity.”

“It’s affection.”

“That’s worse!”

Finally, when the kitchen smelled like autumn and chaos, James strained the liquid into a pitcher. It looked… decent. Maybe even good?

He poured two cups.

Barty accepted his with reverence.

They clinked.

James took a sip.

He winced immediately.

Barty took a sip.

He didn’t react at all.

James stared. “You hate it.”

“I don’t,” Barty said softly.

“You do.” James covered his face. “Just lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Barty said, tapping his cup. “I like it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable.”

James peeked between his fingers. “You really like it?”

Barty stepped closer. “I like anything you make with your hands.”

James almost dropped his cup.

Barty caught it. And then—because he was Barty—he leaned down and kissed the corner of James’ mouth, cider-sweet and warm.

James froze.

Then melted.

From the hallway, Harry shouted, “If you start making out in the kitchen again, I’m telling Sirius!”

James yelled back, “We’re not making out!”

Barty murmured near his lips, “Not yet.”

James groaned.

“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!”

It had been stupid. He knew that. God, he knew it. They'd argued about the kind of stupid things couples argued about: money that shouldn't have mattered, a text misread, a joke swallowed the wrong way. Barty had said something sharp—about James never listening, about how he always fixed everything with grand gestures and not with the small steady things—and James had gone quiet in a way that hurt more than shouting. Then James' jaw had tightened, that small animal look Barty knew meant the words weren't far behind, and Barty, panicking and embarrassed and terrified that the floor might fall out from under him, had lashed out. He always lashed out when he felt cornered; it was easier to put the blame on someone than admit he was scared.

He had meant it as a bluff. He'd meant it as a shield. Now the shield lay torn between his teeth.

“Get out,” James had said. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. Barty had left, because he could feel the way his chest had gone hollow, the way the house sounded too big for just him.

He counted the minutes in breaths and small barters. If he sat here long enough, maybe time would fold back and un-say things. Maybe James would slide into the bed and laugh at him for being childish. Maybe James would forgive him and they’d both sleep heavy and stupid and sweating in the same sheets. Maybe.

But the guilt tasted metallic in his mouth, and every fight left a bruise that didn't show on the skin: a slow, gnawing thing that whispered James would grow tired of him. Each spat made him smaller, made the laugh lines around James' eyes seem like something he had no right to have helped draw. He pictured James stepping back from him, the man with the easy smile and the soft hands who always found his fingers in the dark—he pictured that hand slipping away like smoke slipping through fingers.

Barty pictured losing him like that a lot lately—gripping smoke. He could hold half a breath before it was gone. He could hold hope until his palms went slick and empty.

The door creaked. For a second Barty thought it might be a dream—some betrayal of sleep—and he didn't move. "B?" James said, like he was a question and an apology wrapped in one syllable.

Barty pressed his face into the pillow until the duvet tasted like dust and stale laundry. No answer. He didn't trust his voice to be anything but cracked glass.

James padded closer. The floorboards sighed the way old houses did when someone carried the weight of too many small hurts. Barty could hear him pause at the bedside, the rustle of pajama fabric, the sound the world made when it rearranged itself around a person.

He felt the duvet shift as James tucked the edge in, careful, like he was laying out a flag—claiming territory with tenderness. Barty didn't move.

"Hey," James said, softer now. His voice was close enough that Barty could feel the heat of it through the blanket. "Can I—"

Barty's throat betrayed him with a small, stupid sound. It wasn't a laugh or a sob; it sounded like someone who'd swallowed a shard of ice. James didn't ask again. He slid into the bed with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged there. The mattress dipped under James' weight, and Barty could feel him stop, breathing jagged and then steadying, like someone bracing to do the right thing.

"I'm such an idiot," James murmured, not loud enough to be performative, the admission disappearing into the cotton. "I hated that we argued about the takeout, B. I hate that I made you feel like it meant less. It mattered to me because you were there. Because you were laughing and then—" He stopped. His hand found Barty's in the dark, fingers fumbling until the familiar shapes fit together. "I hate that I made you feel small."

Barty wanted to curl away from the warmth, to be honest and keep the mask intact, but the hand at his was warm and real and stubborn. He let his fingers uncurl and rat into the space between James’. It was ridiculous how much he needed it. He wanted to pull away and keep his pride, but he hooked two fingers around James' thumb and held on.

"You could walk," Barty said, the words tasting like regret. He could be selfish and say the thing he'd rehearsed in the mirror: tell James to go, to do what he wanted when he wanted. Instead it came out thin and brittle. "You could just leave."

"Yeah," James agreed, with that small, rueful laugh he only reserved for the two of them. "I could. But then I'd have to sleep on the sofa and listen to you snore like a grizzly in your own room. It's not worth it." His breath ghosted over Barty's knuckles. "Also, I don't actually want to leave you. Even when you're a raging idiot."

Barty snorted—half a laugh, half a sob. Being called a raging idiot by James had a way of making everything look less sharp. "You're the raging idiot."

"Maybe we're both raging idiots," James said. "Which, I'll admit, is not the most romantic of scenarios."

There was a silence that wasn't empty; it was full of things unblurted and apologies unsaid. Barty felt them like static under the skin. He wanted to list every transgression he'd committed against James, everything he was too ashamed to admit. Instead he said, "I'm scared you'll realize I'm not…enough."

James's hand tightened once and then again. "Barty, look at me."

He did. He turned his head, peering out from beneath the duvet at James' face, lit in the halo of the bedside lamp. James' eyes were ridiculous—soft and warm at the same time.

"I'll never figure you out if you keep hiding," James said, voice low. "But I also won't leave. I don't want to keep having fights that send you under the covers. Tell me when I'm being a dick. Tell me when you need me to stop talking and just hold you. Tell me when you need money and I will get up at dawn and pick up shifts. I don't care. I'm messy and loud and I make things worse sometimes, but I'm here. If you think I'm going to decide one day that you're not worth it—well, you'd better have a better plan than smoke."

Barty squeezed James' thumb between his fingers until he could feel the faint ridges of a fingerprint. It grounded him, like someone dropping an anchor into his chest. "You really mean that?"

"More than anything," James said. "You're the only one who knows how to find both my dumb and my good. Don't ever think you can be replaced by a better-scented version. You're mine, idiot."

The word landed like a kiss over his ribs. Barty couldn't remember the last time a compliment had felt so steady. He laughed then, full and awful and bright. "Mine?"

"Yeah. Mine," James echoed. "Now stop sulking."