I Suppose I Do
After spending the night with Regulus, Barty couldn’t shake the restless energy coursing through him. Without really thinking, he found himself standing at Evan’s apartment door, his knuckles rapping against the wood before he even fully registered what he was doing.
He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him. All he knew was that he couldn’t get enough—of either of them. The pull between them was undeniable, as messy and complicated as it was.
The door opened, and there was Evan, still a little disheveled because he wasn't a morning person, no less enticing though. Barty felt a surge of something, maybe urgency, maybe frustration. He didn’t know anymore. But what he did know was that he couldn’t stay away. Not from Evan. Not from Regulus.
“It’s you again,” Evan said, opening the door wider, his voice laced with an amused exhaustion.
It had become a strange, familiar pattern: Barty showing up unannounced every couple of days, slipping into Evan’s space without a second thought. Evan didn’t mind, not really, but sometimes he wished it wouldn’t be so early. He was never a morning person—too much of a mess, too little energy to do much of anything except complain.
“Surprise,” Barty grinned, strolling past Evan and helping himself inside without waiting for an invitation. He dropped onto the couch with a casual ease, and Evan, a little too tired to fight it, followed suit. The TV screen flickered with scenes from Shameless, one of Evan’s favorite shows. Barty only ever watched it when Evan did, though he’d begun to get hooked. It was dark, twisted, and more than a little ridiculous, but in a way, it was addicting.
“Fill me in, will you?” Barty asked, his eyes still fixed on the screen as if it was the most important thing in the world.
Evan shot him a look, half-surprised, half-amused. “You literally just got here,” he muttered, a little defensive.
“Shameless, Ev,” Barty clarified, his smirk wide. “Fill me in on the show.”
“Oh.” Evan blinked. Of course. That was what Barty meant. With a sigh, he settled back into the couch, making himself comfortable. It seemed like this had become their routine, too—Barty walking in without a care in the world and Evan reluctantly playing along. Even if mornings weren’t his favorite, at least it was never boring when Barty showed up.
“Alright,” Evan began, eyes on the screen. “So, Fiona’s being a mess again—“
And so it went, Evan catching Barty up on all the chaos and drama he had missed on Shameless. The way Evan narrated it—sarcastic yet oddly invested—had Barty grinning and shaking his head in amusement. Eventually, Evan ran out of updates, leaving them to sit in companionable silence as the episode played on.
Somewhere along the way, Evan, still groggy from the early hour, let his head rest against Barty’s shoulder. It was a thoughtless action, borne more of comfort than intent. And Barty? Without even realizing it, his hand drifted to rest on Evan’s thigh, his fingers lightly brushing against the fabric of Evan’s sweatpants. Neither of them said a word about it, their attention fixed on the screen.
“How’s your sister?” Barty asked as the credits rolled on the episode, the silence between them finally giving way to conversation.
“She’s fine,” Evan replied, stretching his arms over his head. “Haven’t seen her much lately, though. She’s been swamped with ballet.”
“Oh yeah, she mentioned that,” Barty said, his brow furrowing in thought. “She told me she was having some trouble with a competitor, but they’d worked something out, right? Like, some sort of truce?”
“Pretty much,” Evan said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “They’ve agreed to help each other out. The other girl’s teaching my sister how to dance with more emotion, and my sister’s showing her how to refine her technique.”
Barty let out a low whistle, impressed. “That’s... surprisingly mature. I figured ballet rivalry would be all sabotage and dramatic feuds.”
“It can be,” Evan said with a shrug, his smile widening. “But my sister’s not really the cutthroat type. She’s all about improving herself. Besides, she figured they’re better off learning from each other than wasting energy on a rivalry.”
“Smart,” Barty commented, leaning back into the couch. “I like her. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Unlike some people I know.”
Evan raised an eyebrow, catching the jab with ease. “People like you?”
“Me?” Barty echoed, feigning offense. “Nah, I’m the pinnacle of maturity when it comes to competition.”
“Barty, please,” Evan said with a scoff, shaking his head. “I’ve only been to one of your races, but I saw how you acted around Regulus’ brother. You can’t stand him.”
“Yeah, well, that’s different,” Barty retorted, his tone defensive. “I think he’s a lousy brother, and that’s putting it mildly. Seriously, who doesn’t know their best friend broke their brother’s heart?”
“Maybe Regulus didn’t want Sirius to know,” Evan pointed out, trying to play devil’s advocate.
“Oh, he definitely didn’t,” Barty said, nodding as though confirming a long-held suspicion. “But that’s only because a part of him always believed that even if Sirius did find out, he’d be mad at him—not James. Regulus was terrified of losing Sirius, of being left behind.”
“And yet?” Evan prompted, sensing there was more.
“And yet,” Barty continued with a bitter edge, “the bastard still left. Packed his bags and went off to university with Potter like it was nothing. Didn’t even look back.”
Evan tilted his head, watching the way Barty’s jaw tightened, the bitterness spilling into every word. “Sounds like you’re more upset about Sirius leaving than Regulus is.”
“Yeah, because I’m not blinded by sibling loyalty,” Barty shot back, his tone sharp. “Reg can pretend he hates Sirius, resent him all he wants, but deep down? He cares. He’s always cared.”
Barty leaned back, crossing his arms defiantly. “Me, though?” His voice rose, laced with defiance. “I couldn’t care less about Black. Not one bit.”
“You know, for a so-called tough bad boy, you’re surprisingly soft,” Evan pointed out, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
“Soft?” Barty repeated, his voice tinged with indignation. “I’m anything but soft.”
Evan raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “But you care.”
“Only for Regulus,” Barty shot back, almost too quickly, as if it were instinctive. Then, after a pause, he added begrudgingly, “Maybe a few others, too. But that’s it. The rest of the world can suck my dick.”
Evan chuckled, shaking his head. “So, are you ready for tomorrow’s race?”
“Of course I am,” Barty replied, a cocky grin spreading across his face. “You’ll come with me?”
“If you want me there,” Evan said, his tone light but sincere.
“I do,” Barty affirmed without hesitation. He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Evan’s lips, his grin softening into something more genuine. “Wouldn’t want to win and not have you know how amazing I am.”
Evan’s lips curved into an amused smirk. “You’re such a narcissist.”
Barty tilted his head, giving an exaggerated shrug. “Eh, at least I’m honest about it,” he said, his grin as unapologetic as ever.
Evan rolled his eyes, his smirk lingering. “Yeah, because that totally makes it better.”
“It does, actually,” Barty shot back, leaning back on the couch with an air of smug satisfaction. “People love confidence, Evan. They eat it up.”
“Or choke on it,” Evan retorted, crossing his arms.
Barty laughed, the sound genuine and unrestrained. “Then I guess I’m the perfect dose—just enough to keep you coming back.”
“Speaking of choking on it—” Barty began, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Evan interrupted, holding up a hand, his tone exasperated but laced with amusement. He knew exactly where Barty was headed and wasn’t about to indulge him.
But Barty didn’t back down. His smirk deepened, his mind already conjuring an image that made his pulse quicken—Evan on his knees, his lips parted and glistening, looking up at him. It was intoxicating, the mere thought of it. Pure paradise.
Evan narrowed his eyes, catching the shift in Barty’s expression. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned, though his cheeks were betraying him with a faint pink hue.
“Oh, I’m not thinking,” Barty teased, leaning closer. His voice dropped, silky and deliberate. “I’m imagining.”
Evan groaned, pushing him away with a laugh that couldn’t fully mask his embarrassment. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And yet,” Barty said, grinning like the devil himself, “You still haven't kicked me out.”
“Come on, Rosy,” Barty murmured, his tone low and provocative as he shifted, smoothly straddling Evan with an almost predatory grace. His hand trailed down, slipping beneath the waistband of Evan’s underwear with deliberate slowness. When his fingers found their mark, a soft hitch escaped Evan’s lips at the sudden contact.
“See?” Barty teased, a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re already hard.”
Evan’s breath faltered, his body betraying him even as his mind tried to hold its ground. Barty didn’t stop—his hand moved with a steady rhythm, calculated and relentless. Evan’s head tipped back against the couch, his resolve crumbling with every expertly measured stroke.
And as if that wasn’t enough, Barty leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over Evan’s skin before his lips brushed against the curve of his neck. His mouth worked with a maddening mix of teasing nips and open-mouthed kisses, sending jolts of heat straight through Evan’s body.
“Barty,” Evan managed, his voice a strained mix of warning and surrender.
“Hmm?” Barty hummed against his neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Something you wanted to say?”
Evan didn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, his hands gripped Barty’s hips, pulling him closer as he let himself drown in the sensation. Barty knew exactly what he was doing, and damn it, Evan hated just how much he loved it.
In a single, fluid motion, Barty stripped off his shirt, tossing it carelessly aside before tugging Evan’s off with the same feverish energy. Their bodies pressed together, skin against skin, both of them desperate, greedy for more—always more.
Between ragged kisses, Evan sighed, his lips brushing against Barty’s. “It’s not fair that I can taste him on you,” he murmured, the bitterness in his voice barely masked by his desire.
Barty paused, just long enough to smirk, his hand tangling in Evan’s hair and pulling firmly, tilting his head back. “Then make the taste go away,” he demanded, his voice low, dark, and laced with a challenge.
The words hung heavy between them, and Evan didn’t hesitate. He crushed their mouths together, the kiss rough and consuming, as though trying to erase every trace of Regulus from Barty’s lips. His hands roamed Barty’s back, nails dragging lightly, leaving a path of heat in their wake.
Barty responded in kind, his grip tightening in Evan’s hair as he took control of the kiss, pushing him further into the couch. Their movements grew messier, fueled by frustration and passion, until there was no room for coherent thought—just the intoxicating pull of each other.
Evan could be surprisingly quiet around others, not because he was shy, but because he was laid-back—much like Regulus in that sense. He preferred to observe, taking everything in without feeling the need to jump into the chaos. However, when it was just the two of them, everything changed. In these moments, Evan wasn’t quiet; he was loud. Loud enough to drive Barty insane.
As Barty’s lips found the sensitive skin of Evan’s neck, he sank his teeth into it, pulling at the skin with just enough pressure to make Evan gasp, his breath hitching. The sound that escaped Evan’s lips was low and raw, a lust-driven moan that resonated in the stillness of the room. Barty smirked, savoring the effect he had on him. He could feel the tension in Evan’s body, the way he was melting under his touch, and it only made Barty want more.
Barty's lips traced a path from Evan's neck to his chest, his hands following closely, resting on his waist before moving lower. His touch was purposeful as it slid down Evan's abdomen, then to his hips, until he finally reached the waistband of Evan's sweatpants. With a swift motion, Barty tugged them off, his focus never leaving Evan's eyes. The tension between them was palpable, and Evan could hardly contain the effect Barty had on him.
Closing his eyes, Evan let out a breath, overwhelmed by the sensation. Moving to London, it seemed, had brought more surprises than he could have imagined.
After bringing Evan to the edge of pleasure with his touch, Barty shifted position, his tongue teasing with deliberate slowness. Evan's body trembled from the sensation, and Barty couldn't help but revel in the reaction.
"Should I stop?" Barty asked, a teasing lilt to his voice as he traced the tip.
Evan's breath hitched, his eyes pleading as he gasped, "No, don't stop. Please... never stop."
Barty smirked before fully taking him in, his movements smooth and controlled. Evan’s breath hitched as he lost himself in the sensation. Barty’s skill was undeniable, his tongue knowing exactly how to drive him wild. Evan’s fingers tangled in Barty’s hair, his head spinning, his eyes fluttering shut as waves of pleasure took over.
Evan’s body trembled, the rush of sensations overwhelming him. He pulled Barty closer, not wanting the moment to slip away. Every movement, every touch, sent shockwaves through him, and he couldn’t keep his mind clear anymore.
"You're close," Barty murmured, his voice low and almost teasing, but there was a rawness to it too.
Evan barely managed to nod, his breathing coming faster, his body betraying him. The connection between them felt electrifying, and he knew there was no going back.
That single nod was all it took for Barty to push Evan to the edge. With a fierce determination, he deepened his movements, as if nothing else in the world mattered but this moment between them. The urgency in Barty’s touch mirrored the intensity building in Evan, and the air between them seemed to hum with the force of it.
Evan’s breath caught, his body responding instinctively, and he couldn’t suppress the way his fingers clenched, pulling at Barty’s hair. Every movement felt like it was pulling him deeper into the moment, closer to the release that was building inside him.
Barty did one last thing with his tongue that pushed Evan beyond his limits and then he was cumming straight into Barty´s mouth.
“Fuck,” Evan panted. “I could do this all day long.”
Barty wiped his mouth with his hand, cleaning the mess on his chin. He couldn't help himself. "You're beautiful," he murmured, almost absentmindedly.
And he truly meant it. Evan Rosier, flushed and out of breath, cheeks rosy with the aftermath of their moment, was stunning.
“Careful there,” Evan teased, his voice carrying a playful edge. “You might be falling for me.”
“Me?” Barty replied, arching a brow as if the thought was absurd. “Never.” His tone was light, almost amused, but the grin that followed didn’t quite meet his eyes.
Evan offered a half-hearted smile in return, the kind that barely lifted the corners of his mouth and left his eyes untouched. He didn’t bother calling it out. Somewhere over the past few weeks, he had grown used to this—accepted it, even.
He was trying, quietly and determinedly, to make Barty forget about Regulus. A challenge he knew bordered on impossible, yet one he refused to abandon. Because this wasn’t just about feelings; it was about a deal—a pact he’d made with Regulus. And Evan Rosier wasn’t the kind of man to lose.
“Do you want me to—” Evan started, his voice low and tentative.
Barty cut him off with a quick shake of his head. “It’s fine,” he said, his tone surprisingly soft.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d refused the offer, especially when it was something he rarely turned down. But this time, he felt oddly content, more than satisfied with what he had just done to Evan. It was uncharacteristic—unsettling, even—not to demand reciprocation. Yet, for the first time, he didn’t feel the need for it.
This was new territory for Barty. A rare moment of simply giving without taking in return. Still, he reassured himself, he could always come back for more if he wanted. For now, though, the only thing he wanted was to stay here with Evan.
“Did you—” Barty began, hesitating for a moment before finishing, “Did you start your comic?”
Evan blinked, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. The question felt so out of place, especially given what had just happened between them. “Uh, yeah, actually,” he replied cautiously. “I did, surprisingly.”
He studied Barty’s face, trying to decipher what had prompted the sudden interest. It wasn’t like Barty to shift gears so abruptly, let alone ask about something as personal as his art. Yet, there was something about the way Barty asked—hesitant, almost unsure—that kept Evan from brushing it off entirely.
“Is it about me?” Barty asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Evan hummed noncommittally, avoiding his gaze. “Would you mock me if I said it was?”
“For real?” Barty asked, the teasing edge softening into genuine surprise. “It’s about me?”
Evan hesitated for only a second before confessing, “Yeah.”
Barty blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I thought you didn’t know me well enough for that,” he said, curiosity flickering in his tone. “Can I see it?”
“First of all, no,” Evan said firmly. “I don’t show my work until it’s finished. And second—” his voice dropped slightly, quieter, almost vulnerable—“I know you... a bit.”
“Oh yeah?” Barty leaned in slightly, his expression unreadable. “How much?”
He wasn’t really expecting an answer. No one ever really cared to know him beyond what his body could offer. People rarely stuck around to dig deeper, and he figured Evan would be no exception. The idea of Evan claiming to know him was intriguing, but Barty wasn’t bracing for anything profound—it was safer that way.
"Well, let’s see—" Evan started, leaning back thoughtfully. "You’ve got a thing for violence, that’s for sure. And you’re not afraid of anything happening to you, at least not physically. That’s why you risk your life every Thursday. It’s the adrenaline, right? Knowing you could die at any second… it’s exhilarating," he added, so casually it was almost unsettling.
Barty’s pulse quickened, but he didn’t interrupt, watching Evan with a guarded expression.
"You also like pain, or you wouldn’t have so many tattoos and piercings," Evan continued, tilting his head as if inspecting a puzzle. "Your favorite color is black—no, wait. You said it was gray because sometimes the sky fades to gray, and it lets you pretend that real life doesn’t exist, that this is all just an illusion."
Barty blinked, his breath catching. He had no memory of ever saying that aloud, but the words struck uncomfortably true.
"And you don’t believe in God," Evan added with a shrug, "probably because you think you’ve got nothing to lose, so why bother? Except for Regulus. You care about him."
Evan’s voice remained casual, but the precision of his observations felt sharp, like he was peeling back layers Barty didn’t even know he had.
"And there’s more," Evan said, his expression lighting up as he went on, listing things Barty couldn’t remember mentioning. "You don’t like spicy food—not because it burns, but because you hate how it tastes. Regulus told me that, by the way. And, oh yeah, you smoke about a pack of cigarettes a week. Honestly, I expected more, considering it’s you."
He paused, rubbing his chin like he was trying to recall something crucial. "You’ve got books in your apartment—not a lot, but still—and they’re mostly sci-fi. Oh, and you’re into anime," Evan added with a grin, as if this discovery amused him.
"I mean, you’ve never said it outright," Evan clarified, his grin widening, "but it’s obvious. Chainsaw Man, Tokyo Ghoul—that kind of thing. Violent, but with impressive main characters. Makes sense. I get it."
Evan didn’t wait for Barty to confirm or deny anything, his words rolling out like an unstoppable current. Yet, beneath the nonchalant delivery, there was an eerie accuracy to every detail, leaving Barty simultaneously intrigued and unnerved.
“And then there’s the racing you picked up just to piss off your father,” Evan continued, his voice light, as though he were recounting trivia about a celebrity rather than delving into Barty’s personal life. “Can’t recall if it was Dorcas who told me that, or if it was you—maybe it was Regulus,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyways, your dad’s an ass. Don’t know the full story, but from what you’ve told me about Barney, I get the feeling he made you feel like a freak. It’s not my place to point it out, but I’d bet you treat others like shit—no judgment—because of him.”
“Evan—” Barty interrupted, his chest tightening with unease.
When had Evan pieced all this together? More importantly, why? Why did he know so much? Did he care? The thought left a sickening weight in Barty’s stomach, a fear coiling inside him that he couldn’t ignore.
“No, wait—” Evan cut him off, oblivious to the growing distress on Barty’s face. “I know other stuff too. Like how you can’t sit through a two-hour movie because you always fall asleep. And if you do manage to watch one, you split it into two sittings. Honestly? Kinda cute.”
Barty’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but Evan pressed on.
“Oh, and you’re more of an autumn guy than a winter guy, which is definitely more Regulus’ thing—at least that’s what I’ve been told. And you don’t do well with authority. Not exactly groundbreaking there, but—”
“Evan,” Barty tried again, his voice more strained this time.
But Evan was lost in thought, words tumbling out in an unrelenting stream.
“You used to play basketball as a kid, but you quit because you hated having to rely on teammates. That tracks. Racing suits you better—it’s a solo thing. Oh, and you don’t like rats, but you find them weirdly intriguing. Still remember you telling me the best way to kill a rat is to make them feed on each other. Great random fact, by the way—”
“Evan,” Barty tried again, louder this time, but Evan kept going.
“Anyway, bats are your favorite animals now, but that’s recent. You didn’t tell me why, though. It used to be spiders—”
“Evan!” Barty finally shouted, his voice raw, cutting through the air like a whip. “Stop. Please, just—”
Evan froze mid-sentence, his expression faltering as he took in the look on Barty’s face. Concern replaced the easygoing smile he’d been wearing. “Did I do something?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Barty couldn’t bring himself to answer. The words stuck in his throat, tangled in the overwhelming churn of emotions Evan had unknowingly unearthed.
Why did he know all this? How and why? Barty couldn’t wrap his head around it. No one had ever paid this much attention to him since Regulus Black.
But that wasn’t the only problem. The real issue was that Barty knew things about Evan too.
He knew the scar on Evan’s knee came from a skateboard accident when he was five. He knew Evan’s favorite color was electric blue, vibrant and striking. He knew Evan preferred spring over summer because, as an artist, he found inspiration in the idea of renewal, of new beginnings blooming all around him.
Barty also knew Evan only drank white Monster, refusing every other flavor because, as Evan put it, “white is the only one that actually tastes good.” He knew Evan had a knack for psychological horror—not just horror itself, but the kind that twisted your mind, leaving you dissecting and analyzing every layer long after the credits rolled.
He even knew the brand of cologne Evan wore, the exact games he loved—Until Dawn, Life is Strange, Red Dead Redemption—and that he had a weird thing for Sonic the Hedgehog. He knew Evan used to play soccer, quitting only when he realized he couldn’t keep up with the others. Still, Evan had a killer direct shot.
There were other things, too—odd quirks and habits that Barty had noticed, sometimes unwillingly. Like how Evan preferred his pizza cold, an inexplicable preference that Barty couldn’t quite fathom. Or how Evan took four a.m. walks almost religiously. Barty only knew about those because he was awake at that ungodly hour himself, listening to the quiet creak of Evan’s door as it opened and closed. Evan would disappear for about thirty minutes and then return to bed.
Barty was also, much to his annoyance, painfully aware of Evan’s undying love for Eminem. The records spun endlessly, filling the shared corridor with lyrics Barty could recite by heart now, despite his best efforts to tune them out.
He knew Evan was introverted, though not in a traditional sense. It was something rooted in childhood, in feeling like he didn’t quite belong. But in smaller settings—just the two of them, or with a close-knit group like Dorcas and Regulus—Evan came alive. He was sillier, more animated, a surprisingly fun presence when he let his guard down.
And then there was his favorite brand: A Bathing Ape. Evan adored it, though he’d only started wearing it recently. In France, he’d held back, too self-conscious to fully embrace the bold designs. But here, he seemed freer, more willing to express himself.
He also knew that, despite being twins, Evan was technically the older sibling—by a mere half minute. Yet, funnily enough, it was Pandora who felt like the elder of the two. It wasn’t about appearances but demeanor; she carried herself with a quiet maturity that Evan, with his easy going nature, didn’t seem to embody.
Thanks to Pandora, Barty also knew about the dog they’d had as kids—a creature named Spots. The name wasn’t inspired by its fur but by its penchant for hiding around the house. Every time someone stumbled across the pup, they’d gleefully shout, “Spotted!” And so, the name stuck, a relic of their childhood.
It was maddening, really, how much Barty knew about Evan—how deeply these details had embedded themselves in his mind, uninvited yet firmly rooted.
It wasn’t until this moment that Barty truly realized how much he knew about Evan—and how much Evan knew about him in return. The realization hit like a tidal wave, overwhelming and unwelcome. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to know Evan, wasn’t supposed to let Evan know him. They were supposed to be nothing more than fleeting moments of physical indulgence, nothing deeper.
When had the lines blurred? This unfamiliar feeling twisted in his chest, cold and suffocating, filling him with a sickening dread. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to name it. Naming it would make it real, and he wasn’t ready for that.
As he’d done countless times before, Barty hurried away, scooping his clothes off the floor with trembling hands and a pounding ache in his chest he couldn’t quite name.
“Shit—sorry,” he muttered, his voice low and uneven, offering a half-hearted excuse as he tugged his shirt on. “I was supposed to meet up with Reg. Totally slipped my mind.”
Evan, still lying on the bed, propped himself up on one elbow. “He can come over if he wants,” he suggested, his tone casual, almost hopeful, completely unaware of the panic tightening in Barty’s throat.
Barty froze for the briefest of moments before forcing a swallow. “Our plans don’t really involve a third,” he replied, forcing out the words with a strained chuckle, hoping the implication would cover the lie. “If you know what I mean.”
Evan’s expression faltered, the light dimming in his eyes. “Oh,” he said, his voice quiet and unsure. “Yeah, sure. Um… see you later, I guess?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Barty said quickly, pulling on his jacket and heading for the door before he could see the disappointment settle on Evan’s face.
But deep down, he knew there was a very real chance that “later” would never come.
******
James had been sending flowers—an overwhelming number of them. Regulus would have tossed them all away if not for the books that came with each bouquet. A new one every day for a week. Finally, on the seventh day, James appeared at his door, a book tucked under one arm and a bouquet of Black Dahlias in the other.
“Can I please take you out now?” James asked, his tone laced with a pleading desperation that mirrored the look in his eyes.
“Potter, I—” Regulus started, his voice sharp but faltering. “You can’t bribe me into going out with you.”
“Why not?” James countered, taking a small, hesitant step closer. “Please, I’m desperate. And I know you like the books... and the flowers—”
“How did you know?” Regulus interrupted, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
James hesitated for a moment, as if weighing how much to say. “You told me when you were sixteen,” he admitted, his voice softening. “That Black Dahlias were your favorite because of the—”
“Murder,” Regulus finished the sentence for him, a faint sigh escaping his lips. “The Black Dahlia murders.”
James nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching into a hopeful smile. “You remembered,” Regulus muttered, more to himself than to James.
“Of course I did,” James replied earnestly.
"I didn’t think you cared," Regulus admitted, his voice quiet but edged with vulnerability. "When we were together—or whatever it was—I didn’t think you were paying attention."
"I was," James replied quickly, his words tumbling out. "Why wouldn’t I?"
Regulus clenched his jaw, giving him a sharp, pointed look. "Well, you ran back to Evans as soon as you could. So, I figured everything we had was fake."
James’ lips twitched, caught off guard by the accusation. "Reg, I didn’t know, okay? I just—back then," he started, his words faltering as he stepped inside the apartment without invitation.
"Potter," Regulus cut him off, his tone clipped. "Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about how Lily was the one for you—"
"No, but you need to understand—" James interrupted, pushing forward as if his words could somehow fix everything. He placed the bouquet and book on the desk, his movements hurried and restless. "I just—I don’t know. Since I was young, I had this massive crush on her, and it was like my brain convinced itself that it had to be her. That’s who I’d been chasing after for so long. And if it wasn’t her, then who could it be? Right?"
"Shut up," Regulus snapped, his words a hiss.
"No, but the point is—" James pressed on, his voice rising with urgency. "I thought I needed to be with her to prove something to myself. And I did love her—none of it was pretend. But that summer we had?" He paused, running a hand through his hair, his composure cracking. "It messed me up. It threw all my plans out the window because you were just so—" He faltered, the words caught in his throat. "You were so captivating, it was unbearable. You came along and ruined everything I thought I wanted. It terrified me because each day, I was falling harder and harder for you. And I did pay attention, okay? None of it was fake. But I was so caught up in the idea of Lily that my brain got scrambled—"
"Potter," Regulus tried again, his chest tightening under the weight of James’ words.
"No, because people don’t know what they have until they’ve lost it," James pressed on, his voice cracking slightly. "And you—you were stuck in my head like a plague. Every single day with her, no matter how hard I tried to bury you, there you were." He exhaled sharply, almost laughing bitterly. "And I had to bail. I had to! I ghosted you because your ghost was haunting me. It wasn’t fair, I know that. But it’s funny, isn’t it? I know it was wrong, when I said it was true, that it couldn't be me and be her, in between without-" He looked at Regulus, his expression raw. "-without you."
“And I needed the space," James continued, his voice unsteady. "I thought if I put some distance between us, it would erase you. But goddamn it, even in Spain… it worked for a while. Pretending you didn’t exist, convincing myself I’d moved on—it became easier. Or at least I thought it did." He paused, exhaling sharply. "But then I got back to London, and the moment I saw you, just one look, and everything came rushing back. All of it. And I knew—I just knew—I couldn’t let you slip through my fingers again. Not a second time."
His eyes met Regulus’, desperate and raw. "So, please," he said, almost pleading. "Please, Reg, go out with me. Put me out of my misery, because I can’t—I can’t go on like this any longer."
"Alright," Regulus said suddenly, his tone curt but resolute.
James froze, his words caught mid-sentence. "What?"
"I said, I’ll go out with you," Regulus repeated.
"You will?" James asked, his voice a mixture of disbelief and cautious hope, as though he couldn’t quite trust his ears.
Regulus rolled his eyes, crossing his arms as he regarded James with a flat, skeptical expression. "Yes, Potter. I will," he said evenly, though his tone carried a sharp edge of distrust. "But just so you know—it’s going to cost you."
James straightened slightly, his brows furrowing. "Cost me?"
Regulus tilted his head, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice. "You’ll take me to the fanciest restaurant you can find, and you’ll wear a suit because that’s what I want. If I see something I like, you’ll buy it for me—no complaints. You’ll pay for everything, pick me up, and return me home when we’re done." He leaned closer, his gaze narrowing. "And you won’t come up to my apartment afterward. No kissing me. Not even a goodnight hug."
James blinked, stunned for a moment, before a slow, desperate grin spread across his face. "I won’t," he agreed quickly, nodding with the fervor of a man clinging to hope. "I’ll pay for everything, Reg. Whatever you want. I’ll be such a good boy," he said, his voice shamelessly eager, nearly pleading.
Regulus let out an involuntary yelp, his heart skipping a beat. Why did James have to say that? "I’ll be such a good boy..." The words rang in his ears, and suddenly, his mind was spinning with thoughts he shouldn’t be having. Dark, indecent thoughts—thoughts about James that were entirely out of line. The boy who had shattered his heart now had Regulus' mind running wild in ways it never should have.
His cheeks flushed an angry red, and the warmth spread quickly, making him feel uncomfortably flustered. Regulus could feel his composure slipping, his usual cold exterior starting to crack under the weight of the thoughts he couldn't control. He turned away, trying to steady his breath, but the images kept swirling, too much, too soon. Damn James Potter and his ability to make everything so much more complicated.
"Tomorrow, you're free?" James asked, completely oblivious to the effect his words had on Regulus.
Regulus swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. "At eight," he replied, his voice slightly strained. "And if you're late, I’m not leaving my apartment."
"Eight p.m. sharp. I'll pick you up," James said, sounding confident.
"Good," Regulus muttered, his tone colder than he felt. He hoped his composure was enough to hide the storm of thoughts raging inside him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the facade.
Yet, by some miracle, Regulus was saved from his own indecency by a loud, furious voice that cut through the tension.
“Why the fuck are you here?” Barty demanded, storming into the apartment, his eyes locking onto James with a fury that left little room for question.
James turned just in time to face Barty head-on, his mouth going dry as a mix of surprise and a strange, unexpected hurt washed over him.
“Leave,” Barty spat, his tone brokering no argument.
James chuckled, a nervous edge to his laugh. “What? I’m not going to—”
But Regulus interrupted, his voice calm but firm. There was something unspoken in his gaze, a flicker of something urgent that made his decision clear. Barty needed him, and that came before anything else.
“Potter,” Regulus sighed, his voice like a quiet command. “Leave.”
James hesitated, faltering for only a second as a stubborn thought flickered in his mind: Why should I leave just because Crouch is throwing a fit? But that defiance was fleeting, dissolving the moment he looked at Regulus. If Regulus was asking—no, telling—him to go, then he knew he had to comply.
"Alright," James said with a resigned sigh, his tone softer than he intended. "Whatever you want, Reg. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?"
He lingered for a moment, as if hoping for some sign that he didn’t have to leave, but Regulus didn’t waver. With one last glance, James turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him.
And just like that, he was gone.
“Tomorrow?” Barty asked, his voice tight with barely concealed anger.
The day had already been a disaster—Evan’s morning stunt had left him wrecked—and now, his night was veering straight into catastrophe. Of all people, it had to be Potter standing in his space, with that smug look and unwelcome presence. Didn’t James know that Regulus was his? That he always had been, and always would be?
Sure, maybe Barty was a hypocrite. Maybe wanting both Evan and Regulus at the same time made him selfish. But it was different. It just was. And no one, least of all James bloody Potter, had the right to take what was his.
Regulus sighed, a weight settling deep in his chest. He didn’t know how to put into words the tangled mess of feelings he had for James. It wasn’t supposed to be like this—James wasn’t supposed to make him feel anything. And yet, he did.
He hated himself for not being able to resist the temptation, for letting James slip past his carefully constructed walls. But in this moment, who cared about James Potter?
Not when Barty was looking at him like that—jealous, unhinged, teetering on the edge of losing his composure. Not when those piercing eyes burned with possessiveness and something else Regulus couldn’t name.
Who cared about James Potter, indeed?
“It’s nothing,” Regulus muttered, brushing off the weight in his voice. “Just... the usual, I guess.”
Barty took a step closer, his presence consuming the space between them like a storm rolling in. “You know you’re mine, right?” he said, his voice low, possessive.
And oh, yeah. Regulus totally was—friend, lover, whatever label Barty decided fit in the moment. He always was.
Regulus swallowed hard, his gaze locking with Barty’s in a familiar, magnetic pull. He’d done this a hundred times before, letting himself be drawn in, letting Barty's words soothe and burn in equal measure. So Evan Rosier could go to hell, because no matter how much time Barty spent with him, it was Regulus he always came back to.
But that didn’t change the fact that Barty had rejected him before—shoved him into a corner marked friendship only, made it excruciatingly clear they could never be anything more. So what did he mean now?
“I am?” Regulus asked, his voice soft, his heart skipping a beat it had no business skipping.
“You are,” Barty said, his voice firm and unwavering. Then, as if the very admission ignited something volatile within him, he grabbed the bouquet off the table, glaring at it like it had personally offended him. “And James Potter can eat shit for all I care, because he has no business leaving you—what—” He waved the flowers around, his voice rising with fury. “Your fucking favorite flowers! Oh, he’s done his research, hasn’t he? That little bastard—”
Barty’s jaw clenched, his eyes wild with a mixture of anger and hurt. “I’m gonna kill him. I swear to God, I’m going to cut his head off with a chainsaw—”
“Bee—” Regulus tried, stepping closer, his voice a quiet plea.
“No, because—like—he pulled that stunt when you were sixteen!” Barty pressed on, his words relentless, each one dripping with venom. “He erased you from his mind, like you didn’t exist! And now, what? He thinks he can just show up, buy you some flowers, and fix everything? Like he can win you back?” Barty’s voice cracked, raw emotion seeping through his rage. “Like you’re not mine?”
Regulus stood frozen, caught between the storm of Barty’s words and the weight of the truth in them. He wanted to interject, to calm him down, but a part of him—the part still aching from the wounds James had left—was struck by the undeniable passion in Barty’s outburst. It wasn’t just anger. It was something deeper and messier.
“I can’t change what I feel,” Regulus said with a heavy sigh, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“You feel?” Barty echoed, his voice sharp at first, then softening into something far more fragile. The shift was jarring, a crack in his usual armor. His next words came out low, almost a whisper, as though saying them aloud would hurt more. “For him?”
The question hung in the air, raw and exposed, like an open wound. Barty’s eyes searched Regulus’s face, desperate for denial but bracing for the answer he feared most.
“Why, Reg?” Barty pressed, his voice cracking just enough to betray the storm brewing beneath his words. The silence that followed was unbearable, a suffocating weight neither of them could ignore.
Somehow, without realizing it, they’d shifted positions in the apartment. Regulus wasn’t sure when it had happened, but now Barty stood directly in front of him, too close for comfort yet not close enough.
“Why do you feel for him?” Regulus countered, his tone sharper than he intended, a feeble attempt to deflect.
Barty’s lip twitched, the question hitting him squarely in the chest. He hated how seen he felt, how painfully called out. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words, caught in the uncomfortable truth he wasn’t ready to admit.
“I don’t know,” Barty sighed, the words dragging out of him like they hurt to admit.
Regulus took a slow, measured breath, as if steadying himself against the weight of his own emotions. “I don’t know either.”
And it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Regulus wasn’t supposed to be falling for James, and Barty wasn’t supposed to be falling for Evan. They were supposed to have fallen together, at the same time, their paths perfectly aligned. It should have worked.
But it didn’t.
Neither of them knew how the other truly felt, their unspoken truths forever tangled in what-ifs and missed chances. Right person, wrong time, or some tragic nonsense like that.
“What’s wrong, Bee?” Regulus asked softly, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. His gaze lingered on Barty, searching, gentle yet piercing. “I can see it in your eyes—something’s messing with your head.”
Barty hesitated, his jaw tightening as if the words were fighting to stay trapped inside. But then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he let them slip. “I just... need you,” he confessed, his voice raw, barely more than a whisper.
And oh, Regulus loved hearing that. Fuck you Evan Rosier. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Their descent into chaos was almost immediate, a storm of limbs and mouths, pulling and taking without restraint. Clothes were stripped away in hurried motions, kisses turned to biting, nails raked over skin in a frenzy that bordered on pain and pleasure. They tumbled onto the couch, but it wasn’t enough—Barty had Regulus in his arms again, lifting him effortlessly and setting him down on the cool surface of the kitchen counter.
It was raw. It was messy. It was them.
Barty’s hand worked feverishly, stroking Regulus as their mouths collided, devouring one another with unrelenting intensity. Teeth grazed over sensitive skin as Barty bit down, leaving marks like declarations of ownership—a message for James Potter, as if he’d ever let the other man forget who Regulus truly belonged to.
Regulus tilted his head back, letting out a broken gasp, his fingers threading into Barty’s hair and tugging sharply as Barty took him into his mouth. His tongue and hands moved in tandem, unraveling him with precision. Regulus was utterly wrecked, teetering on the edge, his voice reduced to desperate, pleading sounds that spilled freely.
Barty didn’t stop. He didn’t let up. He pushed Regulus to the brink until his legs trembled, tears pooling in his eyes from the overwhelming sensation. Then, in one swift motion, Barty turned him around, bending him over the counter.
“You’re mine,” Barty growled, his voice thick with possessiveness as he thrust into him.
“Hm-hm,” Regulus gasped, his back arching, his hands gripping the counter’s edge like a lifeline.
“Say it,” Barty demanded, his pace punishing, his voice a command that brooked no disobedience.
“I’m yours,” Regulus choked out.
Barty gripped Regulus by the hair, the force of each thrust intensifying. Regulus let out a deep moan, lost in the rawness of the moment, relishing both the aggression and the intimacy.
They kept going until they both came, breathless, right there on the kitchen counter. Soon after, they moved to the bedroom and repeated it—again and again—until their bodies could take no more.
By three in the morning, Barty was gently playing with Regulus' hair, their faces close. The pillows beneath them were cold, but their bodies, tangled and warm, provided comfort. The quiet wrapped around them, and in these moments, they forgot about everything else—forgot about the reasons they weren't supposed to want each other.
"I always thought you were the most beautiful boy I've ever seen," Barty murmured.
"Really?" Regulus murmured, his eyes closed, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
"Since the first time I saw you," Barty replied softly, his tone steady and certain.
“Do you, uh—” Barty hesitated, his voice laced with uncharacteristic nerves. “Do you resent me for it?”
Regulus’ brows furrowed in confusion. “For what?” he asked, his tone cautious.
“For turning you down,” Barty clarified, his gaze faltering.
A flicker of sadness crossed Regulus’ face, tugging faintly at his lips. He opened his eyes, the faint glow of the dimly lit room casting soft shadows over their features. Yet, in the haze, all he could truly see was Barty’s face.
“Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice quiet but honest. “Why are you asking?”
“Hm, I just—” Barty began, his voice unsteady. “I think I ruin everything I touch. And maybe... maybe I’m just not cut out for love, you know?”
Regulus blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Oh,” he murmured softly. Without thinking, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to Barty’s forehead. As he pulled back, he let out a quiet sigh.
“You’re plenty okay for love,” Regulus said, his voice low but steady. “It’s there. You have it.”
“Doesn’t feel like I do,” Barty muttered, his voice tinged with frustration and doubt.
“But you love me, yeah?” Regulus asked, his tone soft yet probing.
“I suppose I do,” Barty admitted quietly, the vulnerability in his words almost breaking him. He hesitated, his gaze flickering to Regulus. “And you? Do you—”
Regulus interrupted him with a soft smile, one so delicate and fleeting that it felt like it could shatter under the weight of the moment. Barty wished he could capture it, hold it close forever.
“I suppose I do,” Regulus replied.