For your love

Chill air sends shivers down his spine, and Barty crosses his arms, regretting not bringing a jacket. He feels stupid. Not because he didn’t bring a jacket and is now suffering the consequences of the cold, but because of the whole situation he’s stuck in.

Evan is coming to pick him up, and the guilt now gnaws at his conscience. Barty woke Evan up in the middle of the night and forced him out into his cold car, simply because Barty can’t take care of himself.

It’s pathetic, really.

Barty bites the inside of his cheek, using the pain to distract from the tears threatening to form in the corners of his eyes. He's sitting on the pavement. His ass has been cold for far too long now, and his phone lies in his hand, switched off. It’s almost dead.

When he saw it was down to 10 percent, he knew he had to decide: go home or somehow survive the night. However, going home meant giving up, and if there’s something Barty doesn’t, it is to give up. He’s stubborn and he’s proud of it.

That left him with only one option: surviving the night whatever it might take, and although Barty has slept in worse places than an alley, the idea to do it with a dead phone doesn’t quite sit right with him. What happens if he suddenly needs serious help?

So, in the end, he caved. He pulled out his phone and stared at his dad’s contact with dead, teary eyes. He hated that he had sobered up; it made yielding so much worse. Dropping to the ground, he instead found Evan’s contact, feeling even more pathetic as he sent the careful text.

He was lucky.

Correction: He is lucky. Not everyone has an Evan, willing to save you from yourself.

Since sending the initial text, Barty has pulled himself together. He’s no longer on the brink of tears, just left feeling oddly empty. His father’s message remains unanswered, and though it’ll likely cause trouble, Barty plans on continuing to ignore it - at least, until he gets his emotions completely under control. He doesn’t want to risk smashing or breaking his phone in a fit of anger over something as trivial as his father. That’s just plain stupid.

Barty drops his head to his knees, stroking his arms in a weak attempt to regain warmth. He’s not sure how long he sits there, but by the time Evan’s sleek black car pulls up, his limbs are frozen. The car halts on the other side of the road, and while Evan steps out, Barty gets back on both feet, legs feeling rigid and sore from the time spent on the ground.

Evan is wearing grey sweats and a black hoodie, his hair ruffled - proof he’d been sleeping, or at least trying to, when Barty texted earlier. Guilt twists in Barty’s stomach and his teeth automatically find the inside of his cheek.

Evan crosses the road, eyes fixed solely on Barty. It’s stupid, Barty’s brain informs him. Evan’s going to get himself run over. It’s too dark for drivers to see anyone crossing, and when Evan isn’t paying attention he’s basically asking to be hit.

Barty’s about to say just that when he notices the hoodie in Evan’s hand - brought for him. It’s just a hoodie, yet Barty feels his throat tighten and his tongue swell. Evan knew. He knew Barty would forget to bring a jacket.

Not caring about any potential traffic either, Barty steps out onto the road, meeting Evan halfway to the car. Evan opens his mouth - likely to scold Barty for being reckless - but Barty interrupts by wrapping his arms around Evan’s neck, burying his face in his collar.

He’s not crying, but he’s dangerously close.

At first, Evan seems shocked. Then, after a few seconds, his arms wrap around Barty in return. It feels good. It feels warm.

They stay like that, engulfed in each other, for almost a minute before Evan’s voice suddenly rumbles close to Barty’s ear. “Don’t get too emotional on me, okay, Crouch?”

Barty snickers, appreciating Evan’s attempt to lighten the mood. Somehow, he always knows when to push and when to hold back. Barty doesn’t deserve him.

“I’m not emotional,” Barty whispers into Evan’s hoodie. “I’m using you. You’re warm.” To prove his point, Barty squeezes Evan, as if trying to crawl into his chest. Evan laughs, a deep genuine sound, and warmth blooms in Barty’s chest.

“Sure,” Evan snorts, gently pushing Barty away. He knows the truth - that the hug isn’t just about the cold, but that’s the thing about Evan. He doesn’t mock Barty. Not about this, at least. He just gets it. “Put this on then.”

Evan hands Barty the hoodie - black, just like his own - and Barty wastes no time before slipping it on. It smells faintly like Evan, like he’s used it not so long ago, and Barty wraps his arms around himself, cozying himself.

Evan doesn’t know it yet, but the hoodie is Barty’s now. He’s not getting it back anytime soon.

Suddenly, a pair of headlights appear from the left, and Evan quickly grabs Barty by his elbow, hauling him onto the pavement, so the car can pass by unhindered. It’s gone just as fast it comes and then they’re left alone again, their only company being each other and the night.

In the darkness, Evan’s eyes are hard to see, but Barty knows they’re blue - like a summer sky. He doesn't know why he finds the colour so beautiful, but he’s absolutely mesmerised by it. 

“You ready to go home?” Evan asks, tilting his head.

Home.

“I can’t go home, Evan. Not tonight.” Just like that Barty’s voice wavers again, and he hates it. He hates how easily the emotions resurface. Why can’t he just feel empty again?

“Sorry,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I phrased that wrong. Are you ready to go home - to my place?”

Home.

Family.

“Of course I’m not taking you back to him, Barty. I’m not a monster,” Evan adds, like it should’ve been obvious. Barty swallows tightly, biting away at his cheek. “That- god, that’d be awful. You’re coming home with me - if you want to.”

He says the last part like it just occurred to him that Barty might refuse.

“I want to,” Barty confirms. There’s nothing he’d rather do, but he doesn’t voice that. Instead he just holds Evan’s gaze for a moment, before Evan nods in the direction of his car.

Let’s go home, he silently says.

Home.

—

Twenty Four hours pass before Bartemius Crouch Sr. hears from his son again, and perhaps that’s because said son spent the whole Thursday asleep, wrapped in his best friend’s arms. 

Or perhaps it’s just because his phone was dead and he unfortunately didn’t have a charger on him.

Bartemius Crouch Sr. will never know. Just like he’ll never know where the black hoodie his son was wearing came from.

And what a shame that is.