Archive of Our Own

Evan had made a lot of decisions in his entire twenty-three years of life. As soon as he became aware of the habits of his perfectionist mother and over controlling father at the young age of nine, he hardheadedly made choices that were his, and his alone. In fact, because there are too many, he developed a habit of categorizing them into three: the Good Decisions, the Bad Decisions, and the Just Had To.

The Good:

• Running away from their house to live with his twin sister in an apartment in the city the moment he turned eighteen. Best fucking idea he ever had second to transitioning.
• Transitioning as soon as he left.
• Learning how to play guitar when he was a teenager (his mother forced him to have a ‘talent,’ her exact words were “Fucking good-for-nothing son, learn this to at least have something you’d say you’re average at!” It worked well for him, though, so he still considers it as a good decision.)
• Collecting photos and polaroids from a camera Regulus has gifted him as a “parting gift,” away from his shitty excuse of damned parents. A wall of his room is covered with the different phases he had since he ran away, all documented—even his pink hair phase (which he dutifully closes an eye on, and it only lasted at least a week before he got sick of it), even when he dated James Potter for the sake of having a relationship (they are still good friends who were often up to fucking until Lily Evans captured James’ attention and affection), his first concert, first museum, first aquarium, first trip to New York, all that shit—all posted in the wall, permanently memorialized, in black and white or sometimes in colors.
• Subscribing to a lifetime flower delivery for his mother’s birthdays, anonymously, of course.
• Studying and acquiring a Creative Writing degree which earned him a songwriting job on an entertainment company.
• Agreeing to being Remus’ part-time editor.
• Pursuing his passions.
• Accepting Barty’s cigarette on a random night in a bar he can’t even remember, because for the first time, he got properly kissed, but that’s a story completely unrelated to this folder, but then again, it’s good. It really is. The kiss.

The Bad:

• Leaving his cat at their childhood house that night because she doesn’t have space in his car anymore, now he doesn’t even know if she’s still alive, or being taken care of.
• Letting his sister cut his hair, all because she got so persuasive, using the “new life, new hair” motto as a weapon—now, he can’t tame it the way he likes.
• Writing a whole sample album about his motherfucking father, and the insanity of his life, for a job application, only realizing late that his works would be sung by none other than Barty, all because he wasn’t researching who he could possibly work with.
• Selling his car to pay for a tattoo he’s genuinely regretting so far (Barty made him do it: a thin but large BCJR under his jaw, occupying the whole space, only visible if he looks up. They were drunk. They were also high. He wasn’t thinking.)

The Just Had To:

• Stealing his inheritance documents from his father.
• Buying a new signature scent to symbolize “new beginnings.”
• Hooking up with Regulus (he really, really just had to, he has no defense for this one: that fucking guy is beautiful. What Sirius doesn’t know won’t hurt him, anyway.)
• Agreeing to be an emergency back-up vocal if there is a need.
• Being Sirius’ personal proofreader.
• Buying a motorcycle in replacement of the car.
• Fucking Barty.
• Kissing Barty.

And well, as obviously stated, Barty is in every of his decisions. He’s prided himself as a smart kid, proven a lot of times he could be intelligent, what with all his medals and certificates of recognition all plastered in his room as a sign of his progress and growth.

So, how fucked up is that? How fucking pitiful could he be? How dare a person, fucking Barty, be in every piece of Evan’s life when he tried so hard to rebuild it to be his?

How dare Barty invade his daily life and how foolish is Evan to let him?

Barty?

Him who he only met when they officially had to; the singer he should write songs with, the singer who would have to voice out his inner shit and sing them into a dome of strangers. (They were paired up by Dorcas, Pandora’s friend, and he doubts it was something random. His sister definitely had a hand on it. There is no way he got this lucky.)

The first time they met, Evan’s brain which talks in lyrics didn’t just short-circuit—it combusted. Rewired in real time, a livewire looping itself into the shape of Barty’s name. A song with no melody, just the constant strum of a heated electric guitar riff. No words. A blank slate ready for the taking.

What else can he do? He’s helpless, especially with the way the other just barged in his life and made it revolve around him, like a ball he’s spinning around his pointer finger. This is Barty, who wears silver and pearl jewelry excessively, accessorizing even the most boring white tank top. Barty who wears leather jackets on a hot day “for the plot.” Barty who loves to wear low-rise jeans to flaunt his thin waist. The little shit who got him into weed in the first place.

So. Maybe he does need to have a fourth category. A fourth folder.

Decision #4: Barty.

He sure could be the smartest in the room but there is no denying that Evan is an idiot. Evan is fucked up. Evan is… well.

He couldn’t admit this to anyone else, more so to himself. Wouldn’t, actually. He makes it his life mission not to pay attention with the way his heart races when the other is around, and denies it with all his might the whole time his eyes keep searching for him in a crowded room.

He doesn’t acknowledge it lest it comes true.

He couldn’t believe it, himself. If asked, he’d probably go as far as spitting Barty’s name with pure disgust. It’s utterly appalling if he ever thinks about it a second more.

Is he even serious? Barty Crouch fucking Junior?

That person is not someone who he could be in love with.

That’s just… unbelievable? Why? No one in their right mind would. He can’t. He shouldn’t.

Really, really should never.

So he just wouldn’t. (Wouldn’t, what? Acknowledge the feelings he harbors? Wouldn’t, what? Fall in love?)

Is he, though? In love?

He tells himself this isn’t love. Maybe something that goes around the fact that he likes it when he’s around, but he’s not in love.

It isn’t love.

It’s more like an impulse—a flicked lighter in a dry field. A dare, maybe. A song half-written that bled over the margins, red-ink splotches and cross-marks and circles around words that just doesn't make sense.

It isn’t love.

He repeats it, like a chant. Like a plea. Like confession might make it untrue.

Barty is—

God, he is awful.

Loud. Unpredictable. Ironic. Dressed like a fever dream. That voice like velvet soaked in gasoline. And those fucking fingers, always strumming, snapping, tapping against the desk like they were searching for a rhythm that didn’t exist yet.

Evan hated him.

That’s the problem. Evan wanted to hate him.

Because Barty smiled like trouble, smoked like he didn’t care about lungs, and touched like sin had been invented just for his fingertips.

And Evan is reduced to being useless and pliant.

Evan lets him. That’s it. No more excuses. He just can’t help it. The last ounce of his self-preservation have been reserved for a time where Barty would say ‘please.’ In the meantime, he lets him.

Again. And again. And again, until he forgot what it felt like not to.

The worst part? There wasn’t any one big moment. No, “shit, I like him,” realizations around midnight when his mind just couldn’t shut up. No crescendo. No chorus. Just quiet unraveling. Just unavoidable acceptance.

Just Barty sitting too close on the studio couch, their legs touching. Just Barty humming under his breath whenever they’re alone with Evan’s melody, but softer.

Just Barty’s hand on his wrist, guiding the pen, saying, “you could write this darker, Rosier.”

Just Evan, blinking up one day and realizing he’d written an entire album thinking about Barty’s silhouette under the moonlight.

It was never supposed to mean anything. It was supposed to be just his. This nonsense was supposed to be a secret he’ll take to his grave.

But no. With just one kiss on a drunken night, the ownership he had with his feelings slipped away from his grasp into Barty’s waiting hands. To do whatever he wanted. And it was never supposed to mean anything.

Until it did.

Because the first time Barty kissed him—in that alleyway on a freezing night while the moon and the stars were shining bright—it was like they’d always been doing this in secret.

It happened again, and again, and again. Until he held Evan like a lyric too precious to share, a secret tattoo only visible to chosen eyes. Until Barty memorized each and every mole Evan has on his body, and Evan to locate where exactly Barty's birthmark is. Until Barty knows by heart where Evan is the most sensitive, and Evan knows just how to do it right when Barty touches him.

It happened again, and again, fucking in the bathroom of the studio, in the car, in the empty street around midnight, in Barty’s couch, in Evan’s bed.

It happened again, and again, until Evan let it happen and kept letting it happen and refused to name it.

Because once you name something, it becomes real. And Evan Rosier is very good at pretending nothing is real until he can control it.

He’s good at playing life like that. Deflection. Denial. Defiance.

He kissed Barty again. And again. He made sure to kiss him as if tomorrow, Barty would never let him, push him away. He kissed him with a ferocity of a person weaponizing hunger—teeth clattering, tongue invading, hard enough for it to mark. To invoke blood. To make Barty remember.

Because Evan does. Remember.

He had always tasted like ash and peppermint, guilt and glitter.

That, he remembers, and this: there was no grand “I told you so!” moment to pinpoint when it all started. One day, he just stopped pretending he wasn’t counting the seconds between their text messages.

He stopped denying he recognized Barty’s footsteps before the door even opened.

He stopped pretending that his name, when spoken around him, didn’t make his ribs ache.

You see, his Good decisions, some of them he’s genuinely proud of. When he ran away, it was the first time he made a decision for himself with a promise to make his life his own. Not even his sister’s. He did them with the intention to get better. To live. Because he owes it to himself to be free from the shackles of being controlled under the palm of someone’s hand. He’d boast about it if he had an opportunity to do so. The ability to be able to be, because he was brave.

Deflected. Denied. Defied.

His Bad decisions, however, are just a series of “Shit, I didn’t think.”

And there’s only one person who makes him forget he has a working brain.

Barty, who’s currently skating towards him, hands thrown out to offer him one of his Monster energy drinks.

The sun setting behind Barty’s back is making Evan squint. It creates the illusion  that behind the soft orange glow of the sky, there is a shadow coming towards him, only that it’s an angel.

They just finished working on a soundtrack Barty was assigned to, a film about to be released next month, intentionally shattering the world because no one expects them to be in that movie, since it’s not their genre. He’s having a hard time coming up with lyrics, and Barty seems to be on the same boat as he asked to go home after their sixth try translating Evan’s melody into his guitar but failed, and so, here they are. On the street, like teenage kids unsupervised.

He was about to reach for the drink when Barty suddenly stumbles, and Evan’s hands automatically catches him, steadying him through his waist, without even thinking of doing so.

“Careful,” he mutters, and lets go when Barty’s standing firmly again. The other just laughs out loud at his almost accident, and Evan rolls his eyes, reaching out for the skateboard instead.  Barty gave it without a fuss, grinning.

Evan scoffs. Takes the drink. Rolls his eyes. Shakes his head. He opens the drink and twists it to pull the tab and hands it to Barty, who just raises and eyebrow at him to tease, licking his lips, his tongue piercing glinting against the sunset.

Evan knows the taste of that piercing very well.

He lies in wait as Barty unclasps the chain in his neck to insert the pull tab Evan has given him, together with the one on his drink. Barty nods after, and the two start walking together in the direction away from the studio. Drinks in hand, Evan thinks: is Barty a Just Had To?

Say, if his two hands aren’t occupied at the moment—if he reaches out to hold his hand, will it be Bad?

Or will it be Decision #4?

“I could hear you thinking, Rosier,” Barty says, and immediately, Evan feels a shiver run down his spine. Barty groans, “Are you thinking about a song again? Damn, let me rest.”

Barty’s voice had always been… haunting, in a way. Something cold laces it, but it’s also silky, that’s why the cruelty is slippery. Like mint. Or the smell of a pine tree. Same reason why he has always been perfect with an electric guitar. His voice is the taunting melody of a riff that could hurt. They’re a pair: they fit together, especially when he’s singing Evan’s lyrics.

“Nah,” he replies, “you just released an album a month ago.”

“Yeah, but it’s you who’s thinking,” Barty mutters, taking a sip of his drink.

Evan follows the rise and fall of his throat, and when Barty looks at him, he raises an eyebrow to hide his staring. “Maybe because you can’t, Crouch.”

Barty chuckles, a scoff leaving his lips, hands raised in surrender. “Foul.”

And in some sickening, maddening twist of fate, Barty reaches out to dangle his hands in Evan’s shoulder, controlling the pace of their walking. Evan’s mind buzzes, electrical.

Oh God, Evan thinks, the terrifying ordeal of being held.

“No, really,” Barty says, voice toning down into something… gentle? The kind of voice Barty uses when he’s coaxing Evan to let go. “Is there something bothering you, babe?”

“Stop calling me that,” he replies embarrassingly fast. Evan scrunches his nose in disgust. Fake, of course, because his heartbeats are racing and he knows this is Bad, but Barty doesn’t need to know.

“Why? It’s not like I haven’t tasted the insides of your mouth, among other things,” Barty smirks, and Evan fleas away, walking ahead, turning back to show Barty a middle finger.

Barty laughed, jogged, and walked beside him again. “I’m being serious right now. You’re uncharacteristically silent. Not your usual ‘I have nothing to say’ silent, before you argue. Penny for your thoughts?”

“Well,” Evan pauses, staring ahead, “Barty, what are we?”

Bad.

Just Had To.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

But. Just Had To.

Shit, bad. He wasn’t thinking! Bad decision!

Decision #4?

Barty laughs. He actually… laughed. And then, “Wait, you’re not joking.”

Evan pockets both of his hands in his jeans. Looks at Barty. Heart hammering, and he feels like choking.

“We have got to stop acting like this is nothing.”

Staring intently, he notices Barty playing with his rings. Swallowing hard. Avoiding his eyes.

The answer.

The silence that followed their journey home is something that would haunt him forever.

To think: it wasn't just silence—it was absence shaped like a future he won’t get to have.

He tried to write that night.

Blank pages stared back like they knew too much and refused to say something. The cursor blinked, rhythmic and mocking. A metronome for a song that wouldn’t start.

He typed one line.

Was it selfish to want for more?

Deleted it. Typed another.

Your nail marks on my skin that I adore.

Crossed out half a stanza before it even finished bleeding onto the page.

Barty was always easier to write when he was just a metaphor.

Back when he was a storm on the horizon, a silhouette behind glass. Back when he was just a sleep-induced thought on the back of his mind as he blinks, waking up. Back when he was just a black hole dragging Evan to the depths of his soul, baring it, daring him to leave.

Back when Evan could pretend he was writing about someone else entirely.

Now?

Now Barty is a desire made tangible he could look at, a pearl dangling on his neck when it gets a little hard to breathe, a lyric stuck in one of the pages of the journal he can’t let see the light of the day.

Now, Barty was a specific shade of silver, the echo of laughter behind a closed studio door, the silence that settled in the air after Evan asked something too real.

What are we?

He shouldn’t have asked.

He should’ve stayed where it was safe—beneath sarcasm, behind the smoke screen of unspoken rules.

He should’ve kept pretending.

Instead, here he is, staring at the half-finished lyric in front of him:

Wish I could undo what I did / I just wanted to be freed.

It sat there, stark and sharp, too honest. He hit backspace. Shaking his head, he watched it disappear. Seeing in real-time how much he fucked up.

By now, Barty should have texted him a meme. Or called just to say he likes the new brand of beer he found on his fridge. Or knocked in their apartment to punch him with his lips.

But all Barty did was walk with him until they reach Evan’s building, head nodding towards it, turning his back when Evan was about to speak.

Evan closed the document without saving.

Outside, the city hummed with the kind of loneliness that only existed at 3 a.m. The lights are blinking at him, as if asking the same question lingering on his mind.

Inside, Evan sat motionless, letting the quiet press into him like a weight he didn’t know how to carry.

He vividly remembers the first time they met. A sunny day after a week of sporadic rain. Dorcas was at her table checking his application lyrics, and she hums, saying “this is literally perfect for him.”

Evan smiled shyly, then. He doesn’t even know who she is referring to. And easily, it got erased the moment the door opened.

He noticed the jewelry before the person even spoke. Silver—too much of it, layered over his collar and hands like it meant something. A statement. There were at least three chains around his neck. One held a thick rectangular pendant with a carved black cross, neat and framed like it was trying to pass for holy. Another had a sharper, meaner cross—longer at the bottom, flared at the ends like a weapon more than a symbol. It looked like something you’d stab into the ground after a war. The last one had a fleur-de-lis loop, sitting crooked beneath his collarbone, like it didn’t care where it landed. None of them matched. Evan guesses maybe that was actually the point.

His hands were just as loud. All silver. One ring had raised lettering he couldn’t make out through the distance. Another was a polished band, heavy-looking, engraved but too scratched up to read properly. They weren’t flashy like gold or clean like platinum. These pieces looked worn, handled. Not showy, just... sharp.

“Barty,” the singer introduces, holding up a hand, the one with no rings.

Evan shakes it, and he notices how calloused Barty’s hands were, guitar string-scarred. “I’m Evan.”

“Lovely.” Barty replies, and then. He just takes off his jacket, revealing that his tank top is backless. “Too hot outside.”

Dorcas scoffs, and Evan remembers there was another person in the room with them. “You keep on insisting on wearing jackets, Barty. Leather, even.”

Barty just grins. He opens a window without asking for Dorcas’ permission, retrieving a cigarette from his back pocket.

And Evan hadn’t meant to stare. He was just trying to figure out what kind of person he was dealing with.

The tattoo hit him first. Black ink, stark against pale skin, spread across his upper back and shoulder like it had been carved in, not drawn. At the center, a thick iron-black cross ran down his spine, rough-edged and almost rusted-looking, as if it belonged on a battlefield more than a person.

Out from each side, jagged wings stretched across his shoulder blades. Not soft. Not even. The feathers looked like they’d been torn or slashed, as if something had tried to rip them out mid-flight. It wasn’t symmetrical. It wasn’t clean. But it had weight. Intention.

Vines curled around the cross and wings, thin and winding, like smoke or scars—except they didn’t fade. They twisted into the design, tightening like barbed wire. Some parts looked unfinished, or maybe like they were meant to bleed into something else, like movement.

Evan couldn’t stop looking. It didn’t feel like a regular tattoo. It felt like a warning. Or a scar that had chosen to stay visible.

Barty didn’t say anything about it. He just stared at the window, smoking, unfazed. Like Evan hadn’t just seen a map of something violent and personal inked across his back.

Evan didn’t ask. He just nodded like he understood. He didn’t. But he got the message.

The second time he got a close-up view of that tattoo, it was entirely a mistake.

He hadn’t meant to stay the night.

That was the first mistake.

The second was waking up before Barty did.

The curtains were half-closed. Morning leaked through the slats in gold lines, striping Barty’s bare back in light. He was curled toward the wall, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other flung out like he’d meant to reach for something and forgot.

Evan sat at the edge of the bed, unsure what to do with the quiet.

Barty, asleep, looked nothing like the storm he usually was. He looked... human. Exhausted. Beautiful in a way that made Evan’s throat close up.

His gaze caught on the back tattoo again—how it stretched and shifted with every breath. The jagged wings. The war-forged cross. The vines that looked like they’d grown from pain.

Evan wanted to touch it.

Trace it.

Understand it.

He didn’t. He just got up, quietly, and left the room like a coward.

But the memory of that tattoo never left his mind ever since. He wrote at least four songs about it. Wings. Cross. Vines.

It starts the way it always starts—with Barty showing up at Evan's door at 1 AM, guitar case slung over his shoulder and that particular look in his eyes that means he's been thinking too much.

"Couldn't sleep," he says, like that explains everything. Like that justifies the way he's looking at Evan's mouth instead of his eyes.

Evan should say no. Should tell Barty to go home, work through whatever is eating at him with his therapist instead of using Evan's body as a distraction. He could just offer a beer, or a coffee, or a tea, hell, even an orange juice was an option. But Barty's wearing that black tank top that clings in all the right places, and his hair is still messy from running his hands through it, and Evan's been staring at the same chord progression for three hours without making progress.

"Studio?" Evan asks, stepping aside to let him in.

"Later," Barty says, and his voice has that rough quality that goes straight to Evan's gut. "I want—" He stops, shakes his head. "Can we just—?"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. Evan knows this dance. They both do.

"Yeah," Evan says, like always. "Okay."

The space between them disappears in seconds. Barty's mouth is hot and desperate against his, tasting like cigarettes and the mint gum he chews when he's anxious. His hands find Evan's waist, fingers pressing into skin like he's trying to anchor himself.

This is what they do instead of talking. Instead of admitting that these late-night visits aren't really about music or convenience. Instead of acknowledging that the way Barty kisses him—like he's drowning and Evan's air—means something more than casual.

Evan's back hits the wall and Barty follows, pressing against him full-length. The guitar case thuds to the floor, forgotten. Barty's hands are everywhere—tangled in Evan's hair, skimming under his shirt, mapping skin he's touched dozens of times but still approaches like it's new territory.

"Evan," Barty breathes against his neck, and there's something raw in the way he says it. Something that sounds dangerously close to need.

Evan responds by pulling Barty's shirt over his head, revealing the constellation of ink across his shoulders and back. The fallen angel wings spread across his shoulder blades look different in the dim light—less like decoration, more like confession.

They stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes and inhibitions in equal measure. By the time they hit the mattress, they're both breathing hard, all pretense abandoned.

Barty maps Evan's body with reverent hands, like he's memorizing every curve and hollow. When he takes Evan in his mouth, it's with the focused intensity he usually reserves for writing—like nothing else in the world exists except this moment, this connection.

Evan arches beneath him, fingers threading through Barty's dark hair. The sounds he makes are wordless but eloquent, a language they've perfected over months of these encounters.

When Barty moves up his body, settling between his thighs, Evan can see everything in his face—the want, the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide, the way he looks at Evan like he's something precious instead of just there when convenient.

Evan can’t help the way hope creeps on his veins especially in moments where he’s being held with such adoration and careful exploration.

"Ready?" Barty asks, and his voice is gentler than it has any right to be for what's supposed to be casual.

Evan nods, pulling him down for another kiss as Barty slides inside him. The stretch is familiar but still overwhelming, still perfect in a way that makes Evan's chest tight with feelings he's not supposed to have.

They move together with practiced ease, bodies finding their rhythm like muscle memory. But there's nothing mechanical about it—every touch, every kiss, every breathless whisper of each other's names feels charged with meaning neither of them is brave enough to voice.

Each sigh that leaves their lips echoes their idiocy. Barty moans in his ear as if he’s confessing his sins to anyone who’s listening, and Evan replies with a silent ah-ah-ah’s as if he’s found salvation right there where Barty’s hips meets his.

Barty's face is buried in Evan's neck, breathing harsh and uneven. "So good," he murmurs. "Always so good for me."

The praise sends heat spiraling through Evan's veins. He hooks his legs around Barty's waist, pulling him deeper, chasing the feeling that's building between them.

When they come apart—Barty first, then Evan following seconds later—it's with the kind of intensity that leaves them both shaking. Barty collapses against him, face pressed to Evan's shoulder, breathing like he's run a marathon.

For a few minutes, they just lie there. Barty's weight is warm and solid against him, familiar in a way that should be comforting but instead makes Evan's heart race for entirely different reasons.

This is the dangerous part. The aftermath, when the physical need is satisfied but the emotional one remains, gaping and obvious. When the silence stretches long enough that one of them might accidentally say something real.

Barty lifts his head, meets Evan's eyes for just a moment. There's something soft there, something vulnerable that makes Evan's breath catch.

Then it's gone, replaced by Barty's usual careful distance.

"Guitar?" he asks, already reaching for his clothes.

"Yeah," Evan says, even though what he really wants is for Barty to stay. To sleep beside him. To wake up together and pretend this means what it feels like it means.

But that's not what they are. That's not what this is.

So he gets dressed too, and they go to the studio, and they write music that's safer than honesty. And if their songs sound like longing, well—that's just good art, isn't it?

Nothing more.

EXCERPT: LYRIC SHEET

Rosier, Evan

Track #4, Unnamed Album

Draft, Incomplete

UNTITLED, 2m 04s

The closest that I have ever been to paradise,

Is when you kissed away my sighs,

Oh, when will you stop pretending?

We were always meant to clash

Because my father hates me and your mother loathes your very existence,

And you like knowing I want you in spite of all your negligence,

You said you want to burn your house down using the lighter of my cigarettes,

And I said ‘why not?’, that’s not the worst crime I have ever done to death

Oh, darling boy, you’re so beautiful with my blood all over your mouth,

If I could, I’d give you every breath I take,

I’ll hold you when all you really wanted to do was to shout

I’ll offer all of me, all of me, do you hear? It’s yours to break

You could fuck the life out of me and I’ll thank you for your grace— your mercy,

I’ll carve your name into my bones,

I’d fucking built you a shrine from what’s left of me,

Just say the word, I am yours to own

The studio is empty except for the two of them, the last guitar note still hanging in the air like a question. Evan's fingers are still pressed against the strings when Barty looks up from the piano, and there's something in his eyes that makes Evan's breath catch.

"That was good," Barty says, but his voice is rough, distracted.

"Yeah?" Evan sets his guitar aside carefully. "What part?"

Instead of answering, Barty stands and crosses the small space between them. His hands find Evan's face, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones like he's memorizing the shape of them.

"This part," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on Evan's, desperate and demanding.

Evan responds immediately, hands fisting in Barty's shirt to pull him closer. This is familiar territory—the space between friendship and something more, where they can touch and want without having to name what it means.

Barty's hands slide down to Evan's waist, backing him against the wall. "Is this okay?" he asks against Evan's lips, even though they've done this dance a dozen times before. If Evan could laugh, he would, because there’s literally no such thing Barty could do that would make Evan love him less.

"Always is, with you," Evan breathes, and feels Barty smile against his mouth.

Their clothes disappear in a blur of urgency—Barty's shirt dropped on the floor, Evan's jeans pushed down just enough. Barty's hands are everywhere, mapping skin like he's trying to commit it to memory, and when his mouth follows the path his fingers traced, Evan has to bite his lip to keep from making too much noise.

"Let me hear you," Barty says, looking up at him with dark eyes. "No one else is here."

So Evan lets himself be loud, lets himself arch into Barty's touch and say his name like a prayer. When Barty takes him in his mouth, slow and deliberate, Evan's hands tangle in dark hair and he stops trying to be quiet altogether.

After, when they're both breathing hard and Evan's legs feel like water, Barty presses gentle kisses to his collarbone.

"We should probably—" Evan starts.

"Yeah," Barty agrees, but neither of them moves.

This is the part they're both good at—the touching, the wanting, the physical honesty. It's everything else that gets complicated.

"Same time next week?" Barty asks, casual as if they're discussing a business meeting.

"Wouldn't miss it," Evan replies, and pretends the casualness doesn't sting just a little.

EXCERPT: LYRIC SHEET

Rosier, Evan

Track #7, Unnamed Album

Draft, Incomplete

UNTITLED, 57s

When your fingers touch mine and you don’t even flinch, what does it mean?

When you look at me in a crowd like my eyes are the only thing in there to meet, what do you mean?

When you whisper your secrets around my ears,

When you offer me the other pair of your things, say, a beer

When you say you like being around me,

When you say “wanna fuck?” with eyes too pleading as if you’ll die if you don’t get inside me this instant,

When you get angry and irritated when I mention another man,

When you get suspicious when I’m on my phone too long,

When you make it your decision where to eat when we’re together, like there is nothing wrong,

When you buy me things, flowers for fucking sake, roses,

Oh, what do you fucking mean?

Because you act like my boyfriend,

And then look away when I ask.

Evan wakes up when he hears a loud ring. It cuts through sleep like a blade. Too loud, blaring in the early morning. He cracks his neck, left and right, and stands up from the seat to stretch.

He didn’t even realize he fell asleep on his desk until the pain in his spine made it obvious. As if reminding him through his bones of his mistakes.

He reaches out for his phone on the bed, waiting for him, Pandora’s name staring back. It’s fucking eight a.m. but he’s not really surprised. Time doesn’t hinder all things that are Pandora. He quickly answered the call.

“Good morning, sis,” he greets, yawning. He stretches, only for him to fall back on his bed.

On the other side of the phone, Pandora’s voice is static. “Dorcas asked me to call you. Sirius is organizing a party tonight.”

“Who’s in?”

“Sirius said yes, so by extension, Remus will be there. Regulus, too. James will catch up after his night schedule, he said. Dorcas, me. Oh! Remus said he’d call Lily. So there’s a big possibility Mary will also come, unsure, though, especially Marlene. I don’t know, exactly.”

Evan hums, his mind reading between the lines. He hadn’t heard his name. He doesn’t know if things are about to change.

Is this the time when Barty couldn’t even handle him and Evan being in the same room?

Is this the time when he’s confronted by the fact that whatever he had with him has finally vanished, reduced to ‘no, I can’t come, I have something to do’ conversations when there is a plan that involves their group of friends?

How about their album?

Their job?

Their… friendship?

“... And Barty?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“I was hoping you’ll be the one to call him?”

Oh.

Right.

“Ask him first. Until then, I’m abstaining.”

“Fine. Whatever. There’s a leftover mac and cheese on the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

The call ends. Now, there is only silence. Too much of it. Too loud.

He sighs.

He stands up, walks out of his room to look for the food his sister mentioned. He reheats it in the microwave. He waits.

He waits, until there’s a knock. Three. Not hurried. Not hesitant. His head automatically looks towards the door, his hands immediately start trembling.

He opened it, and his breathing stopped.

He’s just so…

He stares. Maybe if he stares long enough, Barty would evaporate. Maybe he’s just imagining things. Maybe he’s hallucinating. There is no way he’s here.

But he’s very, very real. Very real with the way he feels his teeth clash with something hard—Barty’s teeth, Barty’s mouth—and they’re kissing, and Barty is pushing him inside, closing the door behind, shoving him to a wall, and he’s kissing Evan.

And Evan’s brain stops.

He’s being kissed and he lets it. He doesn’t understand what is happening, his mouth the only part of his body that knows what to do. He kisses back, tongue and teeth, his hand clutching Barty’s shirt, the other uselessly hanging around himself until he remembers he could pull Barty’s hair, and Barty’s hands in retaliation make their way towards his neck, squeezing, and the other on his hair, gripping.

And they’re kissing.

And Evan is pliant.

Then.

His brain catches up, and he’s pushing Barty away without even realizing it.

The look on Barty’s eyes could only be described as repetitive. That same look when he first leaned in to kiss Evan. The look when he first pushed into him. The look when Evan asked, just yesterday.

Questioning.

Bewildered.

And Evan couldn’t take it, any more. He’d very much like to kiss him again and hold him and make him his, but he can’t do this again without being answered.

If he can’t control this even with just the littlest bit, he doesn’t want it.

So he deflects. He denies. He defies.

“No more of this, Crouch.”

He watches Barty take a step back. And again, and again, until Barty bolts towards the door, leaving like he was never there.

And Evan hears the silence again. Louder than Barty’s incessant yells.

Evan Rosier asks questions like he’s tuning a guitar—careful, precise, expecting every answer to fall into perfect pitch. The problem is: Barty Crouch Jr. has always been more noise than melody.

You will find him in places where bass line hit your chest harder than fists. Places where the engine’s roar matches the scream of the crowd, where yelling is encouraged and silence is sacrilege. That’s him. Parties. Concerts. Formula 1 Grand Prix. Boxing rings. Tattoo shops. Anywhere loud enough to drown out thought.

He grew up in a house with only two settings: volcanic arguments with slamming doors and broken glasses or the kind of silence that clings to your skin like sweat. Where the tiniest whisper could spark another war. It taught him that sometimes, screaming is safer than saying nothing, because nothing invites something. Turns out silence can really fuck with your head, huh?

Evan, by contrast, is confident in his quietness. The kind of silence that knows. The kind where you can see his mind moving behind his eyes, calculating, parsing, writing. You will catch him at libraries, in the corner of cafés with a teacup and a lyric sheet. On his couch with his laptop, eyes squinting at a line that won’t behave. He writes like breathing. Creates like it’s a habit. His silence is productive.

His silence does not make Barty flinch.

Sure, you’ll find him at concerts or parties—if Barty drags him out like a misbehaving cat. Which he often does, and all the times Evan only said yes was when Barty threatened to put his lyrics on fire.

(He even got Evan to show up at Sirius’ tattoo shop once. That was last year. 2 A.M. Good thing Sirius doesn’t sleep. They were drunk—but still. A fucking miracle. And somehow, somehow, Barty convinced him to get a tattoo.)

His initials. BCJR. Inked on Evan. That fact alone could feed Barty’s ego for years.

He’d suggested the lower back, cheeky and smug, claiming it’d be a fun view when they fucked. Evan had just smirked, leaned in, whispered something to Sirius, and disappeared behind the door.

Barty waited at the lobby with bouncing legs and anxious nerves.

When Evan finally strutted back into the lobby, cocky and calm, he pressed a kiss to Barty’s mouth.

And when Barty moved to kiss down his jaw, Evan flinched slightly and said, casual as if talking about the weather, “Not there. It still kind of hurts.”

Barty froze.

His breath caught.

He stepped back.

His jaw fell open.

And behind them, Sirius clapped, grinning wide, and declared: “Your boyfriend’s freaky.”

Barty didn’t even bother denying it.

He was too busy staring at the BCJR inked right beneath Evan’s jawline—only visible when Evan tilted his head up, like a secret only the brave got to see.

He has never come so hard on Evan’s waiting cunt so hard that day.

But here's the thing about Barty that nobody gets, not even Evan: he doesn't live in moments. He lives in the spaces between them.

In the pause before someone says goodbye. In the held breath before a song drops. In that feeling when you say “I’m so close, don’t fucking stop.” In that split second when you're falling and haven't hit the ground yet—when gravity exists but consequence doesn't.

That's where Barty has built his entire fucking existence. In the void. In the almost. In the not-quite-yet. In the is-there-but-nowhere.

The thing is, Barty knows exactly what they are. He sure damn knows what Evan is to him. He's known since that first night when Evan's lyrics hit him like lightning and he couldn't get the melody out of his head for weeks. He's known since the fourth time they fucked and Evan accidentally stayed the night, curled against his chest like he belonged there. He's known since he started buying two coffees every morning just in case Evan showed up early to the studio.

But knowing and saying are two different things, aren't they?

Because the moment something becomes real, it becomes breakable. When something is acknowledged, it becomes destroyable. Prone to depreciation. When something exists, it becomes something you could lose.

And Barty Crouch Junior is a master craftsman when it comes to controlled demolition. He knows exactly how to destroy something while making it look like an accident, like inevitability, like anything other than choice.

He intentionally keeps his mouth shut especially on the things that are really important. This is why his Instagram account is rotting except when he posts 20 second demos on his story. This is why his songs are full of metaphors—he makes Evan rewrite it when the lyrics are too real. This is why he doesn’t go with his real name on his artist pages, on his songs.

This is why he’d rather drown in noises rather than speak his truth.

Because as established, saying something out loud makes it real. Makes it something that can be broken.

Makes it something his father can ruin, like everything else good in Barty's life.

(His life has been systematically destroyed since he was old enough to have opinions.)

Barty Crouch Senior didn't just disapprove of his son's choices—he obliterated them. Friends who stopped calling after mysterious conversations with dear old dad. Opportunities that suddenly dried up. Relationships that ended with confused apologies and blocked numbers.

So he goes with B as a singer. Because biologically, he uses the same name as his father.

And when he’s not Bartemius or Barty, his father couldn’t pin a hand on who he is.

Because when he’s B, he’s not as tainted.

The tattoo sprawled across his back isn't just a decoration—it's a blueprint. Those jagged wings weren't designed to fly; they were designed to fall with purpose. The cross isn't about bearing salvation; it's about bearing weight that was never his to carry in the first place. And those vines? They don't grow. They strangle. Slowly. Beautifully. Until breathing becomes optional.

He got it done the day after he turned eighteen, in a shop that didn't ask questions and didn't require parental consent. Sat there for six hours letting a stranger carve trauma into his skin because pain you choose is different from pain that chooses you.

So.

Barty is a lot of things, but he’s also just a kid held on a chokehold.

He has his own apartment now. His own income. His own life. He completely cut his father off for four years already. Really doesn’t care even when he heard it from the news that the senator Bartemius Crouch Senior is hospitalized. That was last year.

Because it is never real as long as he doesn’t care enough to talk about it.

The world already knows enough. About who he is. The rockstar son of the most ruthless senator. The wannabe singer of a female prosecutor.

That’s all he was when he lived in London.

And now he had his own legacy.

Something his, and his alone.

The world knows fucking enough, they don’t need to be in Evan’s nose, too.

But when Evan asks "What are we?" he's asking Barty to step out of the threshold. To choose substance over shadow. To exist in the terrible, wonderful clarity of definition.

And Barty? He doesn’t do that. Never did. Never could.

So when Evan asked "What are we?" yesterday, Barty's first instinct wasn't to answer. It was to run.

Because the moment he says the words, the moment he admits that Evan Rosier isn't just a friend available to fuck or a collaborator or even a fucking genuine friend, he could lose him.

And Barty can handle his own world burning down—he's done it before, will probably do it again.

But Evan? Evan who fought so hard to build something that was his, who ran away from controlling parents and made a life on his own terms?

Barty won't be the reason that gets destroyed.

Because he knows damn well how hard it was. How redeeming. How difficult to reclaim something that is supposed to be yours in the first place.

But fuck, he wants to be Evan’s something. He wants to be selfish enough to say yes, we're something, we're everything, we're whatever you want us to be as long as you keep looking at me like I'm worth writing songs about.

But Barty has spent twenty-four years perfecting the art of disappearing while staying visible. He's the guy everyone knows but nobody really sees. The one who's always there until he isn't, who leaves before he can be left, who breaks things before they can break him.

Evan wants permanence. Evan writes songs about building something that lasts, about making choices that matter, about taking up space in the world and refusing to apologize for it.

And Barty?

Barty is terrified that if he stops living in the almost, if he actually lets himself want this—want Evan, want them, want a future that doesn't end in self-orchestrated ruins—he'll discover he was never built for anything but the fall.

Instead, he showed up at Evan's door this morning because he's a coward who can't stay away but also can't give Evan what he deserves. So he kissed him instead of talking, touched him instead of explaining, because his body has always been more honest than his mouth.

And when Evan pushed him away, when he said something about not having more, Barty felt something close to relief. Because familiar destruction is easier than unfamiliar construction.

And Barty ran, because that's what he does. That's what he's always done.

He runs, and the silence follows him home.

Because he knows how to be left.

He's never learned how to stay.

The party is exactly the kind of chaos Barty usually thrives in. Bass thrumming through the floorboards, bodies pressed together in manufactured intimacy, the air thick with smoke and sweat and the particular desperation that comes with trying too hard to have fun.

He shouldn't have come. Pandora's invitation was clearly a test—see if he'd show up knowing Evan would be there. See if he'd finally grown a pair and learned how to exist in the same room as his own feelings.

Spoiler alert: he hasn't.

But here he is anyway, leather jacket clinging to his skin despite the heat, silver chains catching the strobing lights like a fucking disco ball. He's scanning the room with the practiced eye of someone who's spent years learning how to locate exits, and that's when he sees them.

Evan and James Potter, sitting at the kitchen island like they're the only two people in the world.

They were clearly doing tequila shots, if the lemon slice on Evan’s lips is not proof enough. He sees James Potter gulp a good chunk of the alcohol straight from the bottle, and the fucker leaned in to—

Fuck.

James is licking the salt on Evan’s neck.

Close to where the ink in Evan’s jaw starts.

And no. It wasn’t enough. Barty could almost laugh at the sight of James Potter sucking the lemon straight out of Evan’s lips.

Barty's chest does something violent and necessary, like his ribs are trying to cave in to protect his heart from what it's seeing. Because this—this is exactly what Evan looks like when he's comfortable. When he's not trying to figure out if the person across from him is going to disappear the moment things get real.

James says something that makes Evan throw his head back laughing, and the sound cuts through the party noise like it was engineered specifically to destroy Barty. That laugh—the one Barty thought was his. The one that usually comes after Barty's done something particularly stupid or charming or both.

Evan's wearing a black band t-shirt that's too big for him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and Barty can see the edge of his tattoo peeking out from under his jaw. BCJR. His initials. On Evan's skin. Permanent in a way Barty never learned how to be.

James leans closer, whispering something that makes Evan's cheeks flush pink, and Barty realizes with crystalline, devastating clarity that this is what normal looks like. This is what it looks like when someone doesn't have to live in the spaces between moments. When they can just exist in the present tense without constantly calculating escape routes.

James Potter, with his easy smile and his uncomplicated history and his ability to touch Evan like it doesn't require a fucking doctorate in emotional archaeology.

And the worst part? The absolutely soul-crushing, toe-curling, want-to-set-himself-on-fire worst part?

Evan looks happy.

Not the careful, controlled happiness he wears around Barty like armor. Not the guarded joy that comes with knowing the other shoe is always about to drop. Just... light. Unburdened. The way he probably looked before Barty taught him that caring about someone means preparing for them to leave.

Barty should go. Should turn around and walk out and let Evan have this—whatever this is. Should stop being the ghost haunting the edges of Evan's life, should stop making everything complicated just by existing in the same space.

Instead, he stays frozen in the doorway, watching James Potter be everything Barty isn't: present, available, safe.

Watching Evan be everything Barty wants: his.

And that’s when Evan decided to meet his eyes.

And as expected, the warm bubble surrounding Evan shatters as easily as when he didn’t answer Evan’s question. Barty sees the moment when Evan’s breathing becomes heavier, from the way his lips curl downward, frowning, something akin to disappointment reflecting on his eyes.

He sees it. The death of the lightheartedness Evan was feeling before he caught the sight of him.

Barty turns.

He leaves.

The only thing he’s best at: ruining Evan’s life.

Evan has always been good at knowing when to stop.

When his parents kept pushing him toward law school, he stopped arguing and started saving money to leave. When his first boyfriend couldn't handle that Evan wrote songs about other men, he stopped explaining and started packing. When the music industry tried to sand down his edges, he stopped compromising and started writing under his own name.

Evan would never, ever force himself into Barty’s life.

So when Pandora texted him that Barty would be at the party, he should have stopped. Should have stayed home with his guitar and the half-finished song that's been haunting him for weeks—the one with lyrics too honest to ever let Barty rewrite.

Instead, he still went.

Maybe this would turn out to be Good. If not, then a Just Had To.

He wouldn’t even approach him. Wouldn’t speak. He would just exist in the same room, like some practice. If things turned out like shit. Sure, he’ll leave Barty alone and stay far behind, owning up to his yearning and longing, but that doesn’t mean he won’t live his life. He hasn't seen his other friends for a while, and they only have chances like this to get together and have fun once in a blue moon. He’s not going for Barty.

At least, not entirely.

So he dressed himself after he had drowned himself in the intoxicating scent of his bath. He put on a little bit of lip gloss and a mascara, never forgetting to perfect his eyeliner. Checked himself out in the mirror. Satisfied, off he went.

The party was in full swing when he entered the scene. Sirius never jokes about parties he organizes. The bass of the song—James’ new release, matches the beat of his heart, in sync with his pulse. The lights were dim but he spotted Pandora immediately, with her long blonde locks being evident in the dark.

“Alone tonight?” James appears beside him like he was summoned, eyes already scanning behind Evan for the shadow that usually follows.

“Yeah,” he answers, the word tastes like freedom and loneliness in equal measure. “What about you? Where’s Lily?”

“Kissing Mary.” James points out to the girls aforementioned, really kissing at the darker corner of the living room.

“Holy shit, bro,” Evan laughs.

He never understood it, but he knows what James and Lily’s dynamic is. James was the one who told him why they were together in the first place. “No strings attached,” Lily told him, and James agreed, not because he was left with no choice, but because he understands Lily very well. He also doesn’t want to be tied down yet, but if there is a person who he would happily commit to, that would be Lily. Although that is thinking far, if ever they both truly get married, because one year into living together, there are still no signs of the two settling down. Sure, they call each other boyfriends and girlfriends, and yet one attractive person shows up and their held hands break apart.

They have this easy way to live life in a way where they can want other people without it meaning less love for each other. The casual intimacy without the terror of permanence. Maybe that's what functional looks like when you haven't spent months learning that caring about someone means preparing for them to leave.

If Evan thinks about it a little more deeply, he could perhaps do that with Barty.

Or no.

Maybe he’d die first if he sees Barty with anyone else—and that is off the table. Barty isn’t his. So he’s taken the time to get ready if ever he sees him kiss somebody else tonight. To see it, and survive it, anyway.

“Wanna have a drink?”

Evan looks at James. He nods because the alternative is standing alone, scanning the crowd for someone who probably won't show. Someone who definitely shouldn't show, given how they left things yesterday morning.

“Sure. Tequila shots?” He smirks, and James’ grin widens.

“Hell yes.”

They walked together towards the kitchen, James leading the way by holding Evan’s hand to drag, opening up a path for Evan to walk to without bumping into people. Evan let himself be pulled.

Not once have he seen Barty.

But he doesn’t think about it. Not when he’s about to do something reckless.

Once they were there, James sorts out the drinks, the salt, and the lemon slices. Evan raises an eyebrow like a challenge, tucking a slice on his mouth, and nods to James to go first. James only grins, dips his fingers in the salt and smears it in the side of Evan’s neck.

Evan throws his head back slightly, a laugh about to leave his lips if only there is no lemon on his mouth.

James downs the alcohol from the bottle and leans in to suck on Evan’s neck. James's mouth is warm against his throat, tongue lapping salt from skin that already tastes like sweat and anticipation. His breathing hitches when James doesn’t stop. Licking and sucking and bruising his skin. Evan’s hands automatically go to hold James’ waist, steadying them both together. James tilts his head forward to suck on Evan’s lips, the lemon being squished.

Were they kissing?

It feels dangerously like kissing.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t breathe. If he closes his eyes right now, maybe he could pretend this was someone else.

Pretend it's someone else's mouth. Someone else's hands. Someone who might actually stay past morning. Someone he oh so sincerely wants with all his blood.

But James tastes like tequila and good decisions, and Evan has spent too long drowning in someone who tastes like smoke and self-destruction.

When James lets go of him, Evan spits out the remaining lemon on his mouth on the bin near them. His breathing is heavy when he looks at James, who is currently mid-laugh.

“Shouldn’t have put salt on your neck, your skin is already salty enough.”

Evan, shocked, throws his head back to laugh. “Fuck you, you’ve been sucking on my neck like a starved child for minutes.”

James leans closer to his ear, his voice lower, sending Evan shivers. “I could suck better somewhere.”

“No, thanks,” Evan replies.

"Because of Lily?"

Yes, because no matter how much he wants this, he can’t find it in himself to do this to Lily.

To himself.

To him.

"Because of—"

Barty, who was standing on the doorway of the main entrance when he lifted his head to look. Barty, framed in the doorway like he's afraid to cross the threshold. Leather jacket clinging to his frame, silver catching the light, looking like everything Evan wants in his lifetime and more.

Evan squints, the light not enough to see his expression.

There he was, in all his glory, standing like he’s out of place.

Their eyes meet across the chaos, and Evan watches something die in Barty's expression. The same something that dies in Evan every time Barty runs.

For a moment, neither of them moves. The party continues around them—bass thumping, bodies moving, James saying something Evan can't hear over the sudden silence in his head.

How much of what he did had he seen?

Probably enough, because when their eyes met, Barty instantly turned back, like he saw nothing, like he saw everything.

Because Barty turns.

Of course he turns.

Of course he leaves.

Of course Evan stands there and lets him, because that's what they do. They hurt each other with the precision of people who know exactly where to aim.

Fuck.

Evan is still staring at the empty doorway when James touches his shoulder, voice gentle with concern. "You okay?"

No. He's not okay. He's tired of being not okay. Tired of standing in rooms watching Barty leave, tired of the way his chest caves in every single time, tired of—

"Evan."

That voice cuts through the party noise like a blade. Evan turns, and there's Barty, pushing through the crowd with the kind of determined violence that means someone's about to get hurt. His jaw is set, silver chains catching the strobing lights as he moves, and his eyes—fuck, his eyes are wild.

"We need to talk."

"No," Evan says immediately, because he knows this script. He knows how this goes. Barty shows up, says just enough to keep Evan hooked, then disappears again when things get too real. "We really don't."

But Barty's already grabbing his wrist, fingers wrapping around it like a shackle. "Outside. Now."

"Let go of me." Evan tries to pull away, but Barty's grip tightens.

"James, tell Lily I said hi," Barty calls over his shoulder, dragging Evan toward the back door. His voice is casual, conversational, like he's not currently manhandling someone through a crowded party.

The cool night air hits Evan's face as they stumble onto Sirius's back patio, and suddenly they're alone. The party noise becomes muffled, distant, and all Evan can hear is his own heartbeat and Barty's ragged breathing.

"What the fuck was that?" Barty spins around, and his face is twisted with something ugly and desperate.

"What was what?"

But Evan knows. Of course he knows.

"Don't." Barty's voice cracks. "Don't play dumb with me. Not now. Not after—" He gestures vaguely toward the house, toward the kitchen where moments ago Evan was letting James Potter map his throat with his tongue.

And something in Evan just snaps.

"After what, Barty? After you ran away? Again?" The words come out sharp, cutting. "After you saw me trying to move on from someone who won't even admit I exist?"

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what it is!" Evan's voice rises, months of frustration finally finding their voice. "You want to know what that was in there? That was me trying to remember what it feels like to be wanted by someone who isn't fucking terrified of wanting me back!"

Barty flinches like he's been slapped. "Evan—"

"No, you don't get to 'Evan' me. Not anymore." The anger feels good, cleaner than the constant ache of wanting someone who keeps running. "You don't get to disappear every time things get real and then show up acting jealous when I try to move on. You don't get to play games with my life just because you're too much of a coward to figure out your own feelings."

"I'm not playing games!"

"Then what do you call this?" Evan spreads his arms wide. "What do you call showing up here, dragging me outside, acting like you have some kind of claim on me when you couldn't even answer a simple fucking question yesterday?"

Barty's breathing is harsh, uneven. His hands are shaking. "I call it—" He stops, runs both hands through his hair, tugs at it like he wants to rip it out. "Fuck. Fuck, Evan, I call it being so fucking in love with you that I can barely breathe when you're not around."

The words hit Evan like a physical blow. He actually takes a step back.

"I'm in love with you," Barty continues, voice breaking on every syllable. "I'm so fucking gone for you that I write songs about the way you laugh and delete them because they're too honest. I buy two coffees every morning hoping you'll show up early. I have your fucking initials tattooed on my ribs, yes, I do, just last week, you wouldn’t know because I placed it where no one else can see them because I'm a coward who can't even admit to himself how much I need you."

Evan stares at him. The confession hangs between them like a lit fuse.

"And seeing you with him—" Barty's voice drops to a whisper. "Seeing you let him touch you, kiss you, seeing you look happy with someone else—it felt like… dying. It felt like everything good in my life was walking away and I was just standing there letting it happen."

"Stop." The word comes out barely audible.

"I can't stop. I've tried to stop. I've tried to let you go, tried to convince myself you'd be better off with someone who isn't completely fucked up, but I can't—"

"Stop." Evan says, louder this time, firmer.

Barty stops. His chest is heaving like he's run a marathon.

Evan looks at him—really looks at him. Takes in the wild hair, the desperate eyes, the way he's standing like he might collapse at any second. And he feels... empty. Hollowed out. Like all the anger has burned through him and left nothing but ash.

"You're a year too late, Barty."

"What?"

"I asked you what we were yesterday morning. One question. One simple fucking question, and you ran. We have been doing this shit since last year. And you can’t even answer that damn question." Evan's voice is steady now, calm in a way that feels dangerous. "And now you want to tell me you love me? Now you want to pour your heart out?"

"I was scared—"

"I don't care." The words are brutal in their simplicity, exactly like a sword Evan twists inside Barty’s neck. "I don't care that you were scared. Is scared, still. I don't care about your daddy issues or your fear of commitment or whatever psychological bullshit you've convinced yourself justifies treating me like I'm disposable."

Barty's face goes white.

"I have spent months—months—trying to love someone who acts like loving them back is a burden. I have written songs about you, stayed up nights wondering if you were thinking about me, turned down other people because I was hung up on someone who couldn't even admit I mattered to them."

"You matter to me more than anything—"

"Then why did it take seeing me with someone else for you to say it?"

The question lands like a slap. Barty opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. No words come.

And then, to Evan's absolute shock, Barty drops to his knees.

Right there on the concrete patio, Barty Crouch Junior—who never apologizes, never begs, never shows weakness—drops to his fucking knees and looks up at Evan like he's staring at salvation.

"Please." His voice is broken, raw. "Please, Evan. I know I fucked up. I know I'm a year too late and a million apologies short, but please. Don't give up on me. Don't walk away. I'll do anything—I'll go to therapy, I'll write songs about how much I love you and perform them in Times Square, I'll tattoo your name across my forehead if that's what it takes. Just please don't give up on us. Evan, please, don’t give up on me."

Evan stares down at him, and something inside his chest cracks clean in half.

This is what he wanted. This is what he's been waiting for—Barty on his knees, finally admitting how he feels, finally fighting for them instead of running away.

So why does it feel like too little, too late?

Why does it feel like manipulation instead of love?

"Get up," Evan whispers.

"Evan—"

"Get up." Stronger now.

Barty remains on his knees, looking up at him with eyes so desperate they're almost feral. "I can't lose you."

And that's when Evan realizes the truth that's been sitting in his chest like a stone: he's already lost. They're already over. Have been over since the moment Barty chose fear over honesty for the hundredth time.

"You already have," he says quietly. “Yesterday was our expiry date.”

Then he turns around and walks away, leaving Barty kneeling on the concrete, finally saying all the words Evan once would have died to hear.

There he is again.

Denial. Deflection. Defiance.

A week into the silence, Evan shows up at Barty's door at 2 AM like a ghost seeking vengeance.

He's been drinking—not enough to be drunk, just enough to blur the edges of his better judgment. Just enough to make the fifteen-minute walk from the bar to Barty's apartment seem like a good idea instead of emotional suicide.

Barty opens the door looking like he hasn't slept in days. His hair is a disaster, his eyes are bloodshot, and he's wearing the same clothes he had on at the party one week ago. The sight of him—disheveled and broken and still somehow beautiful—makes Evan's chest burn with rage.

"Evan?" Barty's voice is hoarse, disbelieving. "What are you—"

"You look like shit," Evan says, pushing past him into the apartment.

The place is a wreck. Empty bottles on the coffee table, takeout containers growing mold on the kitchen counter, clothes scattered across the floor like he's been undressing wherever he happened to collapse. It smells like depression and stale cigarettes.

"I know," Barty says quietly, closing the door. "I know I look—"

"I hate you." The words cut through the air like a blade, Evan ruthlessly aiming it right where it would hurt most. "I fucking hate you, Barty."

Barty flinches like he's been slapped. "Evan—"

"No, don't." Evan spins around, and his eyes are wild, furious. "Don't say my name like that. Like you have the right. Like you didn't spend a year making me feel like I was crazy for wanting something real with you."

"I'm sorry—"

"I don't want your apologies." Evan steps closer, close enough that Barty can smell the whiskey on his breath, can see the fury burning in his eyes. "I want you to hurt the way I've been hurting. I want you to feel like your chest is caving in every time you wake up. I want you to know what it's like to love someone who treats you like you're nothing but someone that could have been dumped any fucking time."

Barty's breathing is shallow, uneven. "I never treated you like nothing."

"Bullshit." Evan's voice is vicious. "You treated me like I was disposable. Like I was convenient. Like I was just some warm body to keep you company until you got bored."

"That's not true—"

"Then why did it take seeing me with someone else for you to say you loved me?" The question explodes out of him, raw and bleeding. "Why did you wait until you thought you were losing me to decide I was worth fighting for?"

Barty opens his mouth, closes it. No words come.

Evan laughs.

Like fucking always.

"I spent months trying to love you," Evan continues, his voice breaking. "Months writing songs about you, turning down other people, hoping that maybe if I was patient enough, if I was understanding enough, you'd finally see me as something more than a mistake you kept making."

"You were never a mistake—"

"I was your dirty little secret!" The words come out as a shout. "I was the person you fucked when you were lonely and ignored when you were scared. I was nothing to you. Do you hear me, Barty? You made me feel like I’m fucking nothing for months! You don’t get to say shit like ‘that’s not true’ because the only thing I’ve ever felt real coming from you was this!"

"You were everything to me," Barty says quietly, desperately, voice pleading. "You are everything to me."

"Then why did you run?" Evan's voice cracks completely. "Why did you always fucking run?"

They're standing close now, close enough that Evan can see the tears gathering in Barty's eyes, can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Close enough that when Barty reaches out, tentative and desperate, his fingers brush against Evan's wrist.

"Because Evan, as always, I was scared," Barty whispers. "Because I didn't know how to want something without destroying it. Every damn time I get a hold of something it gets taken away."

Evan stares at him, chest heaving, fury and heartbreak warring across his features. He sighs in exasperation. "I hate that I still want you," he says, voice barely audible. "I hate that seeing you like this makes me want to fix you instead of walking away."

"Evan—"

"Shut up." And then Evan's mouth is on his, brutal and desperate and nothing like any kiss they've shared before.

It's not gentle. It's not romantic. It's teeth and tongue and the taste of whiskey and regret. It's Evan pouring one week of fury and longing into Barty's mouth, it's Barty kissing back like he's drowning and Evan is air.

Like fucking always, right?

Evan pushes him backward until his spine hits the wall, and Barty gasps into his mouth. Evan's hands are in his hair, tugging hard, and the pain makes Barty's knees weak.

"I hate you," Evan says against his lips. "I hate you so much."

"I know," Barty breathes. "I know, I'm sorry, I—"

"Stop talking." Evan bites down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. "Stop fucking talking."

Their hands are everywhere—Evan's fingers digging into Barty's ribs, Barty's palms sliding under Evan's shirt, both of them desperate and violent and starving. When Evan pulls Barty's shirt over his head, he scratches down his chest hard enough to leave marks.

"Is this what you wanted?" Evan's voice is ragged. "Is this how you imagined it would be when you finally decided to fight for me?"

Barty's answer is lost in a moan as Evan's mouth finds his throat, biting and sucking like he wants to leave permanent proof of his presence. Like he wants to mark Barty as his even as he's destroying him.

They stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes and inhibitions, all sharp edges and desperate hands. When Barty tries to slow down, to make it gentle, Evan pushes him back against the mattress with force.

"No," he says, eyes blazing. "You don't get to make this soft. You don't get to pretend this is love."

But it is love, even as they tear each other apart, isn’t it? It's love twisted into something sharp and painful, love that's been starved and ignored until it's become something dangerous.

It's the kind of love that destroys everything it touches.

The kind of love that could spark a war and a revolution.

Afterward, they lie in the dark not touching, both breathing hard, both raw and empty and ruined.

"I should go," Evan says quietly.

"Don't." Barty's voice is broken. "Please don't."

"This doesn't change anything," Evan says, but he doesn't move.

"I know."

"I still hate you."

"I know."

They lie there in the silence, both knowing this solved nothing. Both knowing they'll hate themselves in the morning. Both knowing it was exactly what they needed and exactly what they couldn't afford.

"Evan?" Barty's voice is barely a whisper.

"What?"

"I love you. I know you don't want to hear it, I know it doesn't matter anymore, but I love you."

Evan closes his eyes, and for a moment, his expression softens. "I know," he whispers back. "That's what makes this so fucking tragic."

When Evan leaves the next morning, he doesn't say goodbye. And Barty doesn't try to stop him.

Because they both know that love isn't always enough to fix what's been broken.

Sometimes it just makes the breaking hurt more.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of Evan pretending he doesn't check his phone every five minutes. Three weeks of writing songs that sound like goodbye and deleting them before the second verse. Three weeks of his friends walking on eggshells around him like he might shatter if someone mentions Barty's name.

Which they don't. Because apparently everyone got the memo that Barty Crouch Junior is now a forbidden topic in Evan's presence.

Everyone except Pandora, who shows up at his room in their apartment on a Tuesday afternoon with coffee and the kind of determined expression that means she's about to say things Evan doesn't want to hear.

Evan’s lips shut tight. “I don’t want to hear it, Pandora.”

"He's not doing well," she says without preamble, settling into his couch like she owns it.

"I don't want to know."

"He's not eating. Barely sleeping. James says he's been showing up to the studio at weird hours and just sitting there staring at the piano."

"Pandora—"

"He wrote a song about you."

That stops Evan cold. He was reaching for his guitar, planning to ignore her until she left, but his hand freezes halfway there.

"It's called 'Knees on Concrete,'" she continues, watching his face carefully. "Regulus heard it. Said it's the most honest thing Barty's ever written. Also said it made him cry, which—you know how Regulus feels about emotions."

Evan forces himself to breathe. "Good for him."

"He's not releasing it. Won't even let anyone else hear the full version. Just sits there playing the same three chords over and over like he's trying to punish himself."

"Maybe he should be punished."

The words come out sharper than intended. And the thing is, Evan means it.

Barty should be punished enough for him to seek salvation from Evan’s lips.

Like fucking always.

Pandora tilts her head, studying him. "You know what I think?"

"That I should take him back? That love conquers all? That I should forgive him because he's suffered enough?" Evan's voice is bitter, tired. "Because I've heard this speech from James already. And Sirius. And Regulus. And—"

"I think you're both idiots."

That wasn't what he was expecting.

"I think," Pandora continues, "that you're sitting here punishing yourself just as much as you're punishing him. I think you miss him so much you can barely function, but you're too proud to admit it. And I think he's finally figured out how to fight for something he wants, but you're too scared to let him."

"I'm not scared—"

"You're terrified." She leans forward, eyes intense. "You're terrified that if you let him back in, he'll just hurt you again. And maybe he will. But you're also terrified that if you don't, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what if."

Evan stares at her, feeling exposed. He hates that they’re siblings. Twins. This feels like a confrontation out of sheer familial bond and not a friendly conversation. "He left me on my knees, Pandora. Metaphorically speaking. For months."

"And now he's the one on his knees. Literally speaking. Is this what you really want?"

"That's not—" Evan stops, runs his hands through his hair. "It's not about revenge."

"Then what is it about?"

The question hangs in the air. Evan knows the answer, has known it since he walked away from Barty three weeks ago.

It's about being tired.

It's about not knowing how to trust someone who's spent a year teaching him not to.

"I don't know how to believe him," he admits quietly. "I don't know how to trust that this time is different."

Pandora nods like she was waiting for exactly this admission. "So ask him to prove it."

"What?"

"You're both sitting in your separate corners feeling sorry for yourselves instead of actually doing the work. He says he loves you? Make him show it. Not with grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but with the boring, everyday stuff. The showing up. The staying. The choosing you even when it's not easy."

Evan considers this. "And if he can't?"

"Then you'll know. But if he can..." She shrugs. "Maybe you'll have what you actually want instead of what you think you deserve."

After she leaves, Evan sits in his empty apartment and thinks about what he actually wants.

He wants Barty's sleepy voice in the morning, asking if Evan wants the last of the coffee. He wants fights about stupid things like whether cereal counts as soup, and fights about important things like whether they're brave enough to build something together. He wants Barty's hands on his guitar, rewriting his lyrics into something better. He wants to watch Barty perform and know that those songs are partially his, that the man on stage comes home to him.

He wants the life they've been too scared to build.

And so, he doesn’t think.

He just feels.

So he does something unprecedented: he texts first.

Studio. Tomorrow. 8pm. Come alone.

The response comes three minutes later: Okay.

No questions. No demands. Just okay.

Maybe that's growth.

But his phone lights up again.

I miss you.

Barty arrives at 7:45, which is either eager or punctual, depending on how charitable Evan's feeling. He looks terrible—hollow-eyed and sharp-edged, like he's been living on coffee and self-recrimination. But he's here, and he's early, and he's holding a folded piece of paper like it might contain either salvation or a death sentence.

"You look like shit," Evan says by way of greeting. Because Barty does. Dark circles under his eyes, hair untrimmed, lips chapped.

Evan wants to kiss him.

"You look..." Barty's eyes travel over him, taking inventory. "Tired."

They stare at each other across the small studio space. Evan had planned what to say, rehearsed it even, but now that Barty's here, all his words feel inadequate.

"I wrote something," Barty says finally, holding up the paper. "For you. About you. I know you probably don't want to hear it, but I needed to write it, and I thought maybe—"

"Let me see it."

Barty blinks, clearly expecting more resistance. He crosses the room slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal, and hands over the paper.

Evan unfolds it, and immediately recognizes Barty's handwriting—messy and urgent, words crossed out and rewritten. The title at the top reads "Proof" and underneath, in smaller letters, "(For Evan, who deserves better than my fear)."

He reads it once. Twice. By the third time, his hands are shaking.

It's not a love song. It's an accountability song. A promise song. A this-is-how-I-plan-to-love-you-if-you'll-let-me song.

I'll show up when you don't ask me to / I'll stay when you tell me I can go / I'll choose you in the quiet moments / When no one else will ever know

I'll fight my ghosts instead of running / I'll speak your name instead of hiding / I'll build us something worth defending / Instead of tearing down what  is built

"Barty," Evan's voice comes out rough. He clears his throat.

"I know it's not enough," Barty says quickly. "I know words are just words, and I've said a lot of pretty words that didn't mean anything. But I thought maybe if I wrote down all the ways I want to prove it to you, all the ways I want to do better—"

"It's a start," Evan interrupts.

Barty stops talking, hope and fear warring across his features.

"It's a start," Evan repeats. "But that's all it is. Words on paper. I need to see the actions, Barty. I need to see you choose me when it's hard. When it's boring. When it's not dramatic or romantic or anything except just... showing up."

"I can do that." Barty's voice is steady, certain. "I want to do that."

"I'm not going to make it easy for you," Evan warns, voice determined. "I'm not going to pretend the last year didn't happen, or that we can just pick up where we left off. If we do this—if we try this—we're starting over. From the beginning."

"Okay."

"And I'm not going to be your dirty little secret anymore. I'm not going to be the person you hide from your father or your public image or whatever other bullshit excuse you come up with. If you want me, you get all of me. And everyone gets to know it."

Barty's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard. "Okay."

"And therapy. For both of us. Together and separately. Because we're both fucked up and we need help figuring out how to love each other without destroying everything in the process."

"Okay."

Evan studies his face, looking for signs of hesitation, of the fear that always used to creep in when things got too real. But Barty just looks... relieved. Like the conditions aren't restrictions but guidelines. Like he's grateful someone is finally telling him how to do this right.

"One more thing," Evan says.

"Anything."   

That was a fucking whine. Evan shakes his head, biting the inside of his lips to stop himself from smiling at how Barty’s becoming.

Pliant.

"I love you too." The words come out simple, honest. "I'm furious with you, and I don't trust you yet, and I'm scared you're going to hurt me again. But I love you. And I want to try."

Barty's face crumples with relief, and Evan hears the sigh he lets out. "Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for giving me another chance."

"Don't thank me yet," Evan says, but he's smiling now, tentative and real. "Thank me in a year when you've proven you can stick around for the boring parts."

Barty crosses the space between them, slow enough that Evan could stop him if he wanted to. When he's close enough to touch, he holds out his hand—not demanding, just offering.

Evan looks at the outstretched hand. At Barty's face, open and vulnerable and terrified. At the piece of paper still clutched in his other hand, covered in promises and hope.

He takes the hand.

"One day at a time?" Barty asks. Voice gentle, the same voice Evan longs to bottle up and inhale.

"One day at a time," Evan agrees.

And for the first time in three weeks, the silence between them doesn't feel like an ending.

It feels like a beginning.

B.

Profile on Spotify

1. vile evil lived - 234, 163 
2. Say Yes To Hell - 221, 589
3. to the victors, the spoils - 210, 987
4. crucify me later, father - 210, 954
5. ten p.m. - 209, 123

Proof

B.

I'll show up when you don't ask me to,

I'll stay when you tell me I can go,

I'll choose you in the quiet moments,

When no one else will ever know

I'll fight my ghosts instead of running,

I'll speak your name instead of hiding,

I'll build us something worth defending,

Instead of tearing down what is built

This is how I plan to love you,

Solidified promises of not letting go,

I'd fucking start a revolution just to

Know where you are and where to flow

Roses have thorns but I have always loved crimson,

The hurt is worth all my repentance and reason,

The best I could do is to love you even when you won't,

Give you all of me, piece by piece, I'll offer you my throat

I'm ready to start the rest of my life with you

Trust that here in this moment I have prayed for you

I don't even believe in saints, a sinner through and through

But to everyone who will listen, it's your name I'd sing to