Just A Coincidence

When Regulus opened the door to his apartment, his breath caught in his throat. Barty was right there, standing just inside, leaning lazily against the frame as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. The dim glow of the hallway lights cast sharp shadows over his face, making the smirk curling his lips look even crueler.

“Thanks for bringing him back to me, Potter,” Barty drawled, his voice dripping with mockery, with that venomous amusement Regulus had come to know too well—had come to crave, despite himself.

A sharp, cold wave of panic flooded Regulus' veins. His skin, already pale, seemed to drain of all color in real-time. His fingers twitched at his sides. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Barty wasn’t supposed to be here.

Instinctively, his eyes darted to James.

James, who had frozen in place. James, whose face flickered—just for a second—with something raw and wounded before it was stamped out, replaced by something quieter, something eerily composed. He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening as he clicked his tongue against his teeth.

“Tsk. Unbelievable.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t demand an explanation. He didn’t even look at Regulus again—just turned and left, his steps brisk, determined. The sound of his departure echoed down the hallway, each footfall ringing in Regulus’ ears like a nail driven into his chest.

“Wait—” Regulus choked out, already lurching forward, desperate to stop him.

But a firm grip clamped around his wrist, yanking him back.

Before he could process it, the door slammed shut, and he was spun around, his back colliding with the wood. Barty loomed over him, one hand braced beside his head, the other pressing against his waist, keeping him caged.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Barty murmured, his voice almost sweet, almost gentle. But there was something dangerous beneath it, something that sent a shiver down Regulus’ spine.

Regulus swallowed, his breathing unsteady. He tried to move, but Barty didn’t budge. Not aggressive, not violent—just there, just in the way, just impossibly close.

“Barty, let go,” Regulus rasped, glancing sideways, searching for an opening, an escape, anything.

But Barty only tilted his head, watching him with a cool, unreadable expression. “Why?” he asked. “So you can run after him?” He leaned in, voice dropping to something softer, something crueler. “I thought you said you were mine.”

Regulus’ throat tightened. His hands curled into trembling fists at his sides.

He clenched his jaw, eyes burning, and then—suddenly, violently—he shoved Barty away.

“And you’re supposed to be mine!” The words tore out of him, raw and aching, louder than he meant them to be.

Barty barely stumbled, but something in his face flickered—just for a second, just enough. His smirk wavered. His eyes darkened.

“Don’t you get it?” he said, voice low, almost breathless. “All I am is yours.”

“No, you’re not,” Regulus snapped, shaking his head. His vision blurred with unshed tears. “You’ve never been. You never wanted to be.” His voice cracked, and his chest ached with the weight of it. “I told you that I loved you, and you—” His breath hitched. His hands trembled. “You fucking discarded me.”

Silence.

“Archie, come on,” Barty coaxed, his voice softer than usual—too soft, too careful.

Regulus tensed. His breath hitched, his pulse spiking at the name.

“No.” His voice was sharp, almost breaking. “Don’t pull that card.”

Barty tilted his head, studying him with that infuriating mix of arrogance and familiarity. His lips twitched—not quite a smirk, not quite a frown.

“Why not?” he murmured. “It’s only ever been mine to pull.”

Regulus exhaled sharply, a shuddering breath that barely held him together. His shoulders sagged as he dropped onto the couch, his body heavy with exhaustion, with grief, with something dangerously close to surrender.

The tears slipped down silently, tracing cold, salty paths along his cheekbones. He hated it—hated that Barty could still do this to him, hated that his chest still ached in ways it shouldn’t.

And yet, through the blur of his own pain, he could see it—Barty’s eyes, rimmed with red, his irises turning glassy under the dim light.

He was breaking, too.

One moment, Barty was leaning against the counter, distant but watchful. The next, he was between Regulus’ legs, so close that the space between them barely existed.

“Please, Reg,” he murmured, his voice hushed, almost desperate. His hands, warm and steady, found their way to Regulus’ thighs, fingertips pressing in just enough to make him shiver. “Let’s not fight.”

He crouched down, his breath ghosting over Regulus’ skin as his palm slid slowly up his leg, a touch that was both familiar and foreign in its tenderness.

“Barty, I—” Regulus started, voice unsteady, but Barty cut him off before he could finish.

“You want the truth?” Barty asked, looking up through his lashes, waiting, watching.

Regulus hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.

Barty’s lips twitched into something almost sad. “The truth is, you belong to me just as much as I belong to you.”

His fingers found the buttons of Regulus’ suit jacket, working them open one by one with quiet precision. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, discarded, then his shirt followed, revealing skin marked by the ghosts of their past—of every touch, every bruise, every scar left in their wake.

“I’m the bear,” Barty murmured, his voice thick with something unreadable. “And you’re the keeper of the bear.”

His hands never stopped moving, mapping out every inch of Regulus like he was memorizing him all over again. And Regulus just sat there, silent, watching Barty with wide, unreadable eyes—stunned, overwhelmed, breaking apart at the seams.

Because for all the heat between them, all the history, all the fire—this felt like something else.

Like longing.

Like heartache.

Gently, almost hesitantly, as if afraid he might shatter him further, Barty pulled Regulus to his feet. His touch was uncharacteristically careful, a ghost of a thing, lacking its usual possessiveness. Then, without a word, he sat down in the very spot Regulus had just occupied, his hands still lingering where they had steadied him.

He looked up, eyes searching, then gave the smallest nod—an invitation.

Regulus didn’t fight it. He simply moved, slipping onto Barty’s lap like it was second nature, his knees bracketing either side of him, their faces so close he could see the lighter flecks in Barty’s irises under the dim lighting.

His hands found Barty’s shoulders, gripping softly, grounding himself. And yet, despite everything, the tears still slipped down his cheeks in fragile, silent betrayal.

Barty exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, something close to exasperation but softer—softer than Regulus ever thought Barty Crouch Jr could be.

“You know,” Barty whispered, brushing his thumb across the wet tracks staining Regulus’ face, “angels aren’t supposed to cry.”

Regulus swallowed hard, his breath uneven.

“They say,” Barty continued, his voice barely above a murmur, “that the sight of it is so devastatingly beautiful… that anyone who witnesses it loses their vision.”

His touch lingered, thumb trailing down to rest against Regulus’ jaw, the moment stretched impossibly thin between them.

“It’s funny,” Barty murmured, his voice low and deliberate, pressing further into the space between them. “When I was a kid, I used to be terrified of that happening—of losing my sight.” He let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, though there was no humor in it. His fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns along Regulus’ back. “But now? I wouldn’t care. It would be a blessing to do so, for there ain't nothing else worth seeing.” 

Regulus swallowed thickly, his throat constricting against the weight of his emotions. His eyes, glistening with unshed tears, locked onto Barty’s—deep, luminous crystal blue against dark. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, erratic, unstable, like it might give out at any second.

“Barty, I—” Regulus tried, but the words caught in his throat, strangled before they could fully form. His hands clenched slightly where they rested on Barty’s shoulders. “I’m no angel. I don’t—”

But Barty didn’t let him finish.

He surged forward, capturing Regulus’ lips in a kiss that was hungry yet reverent, savoring every trembling breath, every salt-laced tear that touched his tongue.

“Don’t give me that,” Barty whispered against his lips, pressing another kiss, then another, chasing away every doubt with each touch. “Angels are supposed to save souls.” His teeth grazed Regulus’ lower lip, his voice dropping to something almost broken. “You think you don’t do that to me every time you kiss me?”

Regulus inhaled sharply, his breath stuttering as his fingers curled around the nape of Barty’s neck, holding him close, unwilling to let go.

Barty’s lips traveled lower, pressing against his jaw, then his throat, his breath warm against delicate skin. He found the bruises from the night before—faint, fading reminders of his claim—and marked them again, his teeth scraping over the sensitive spots, biting down just enough to make Regulus shudder.

Barty smirked against his skin, his voice a rough whisper between each kiss.

“You purify me.”

******

“Can you fucking open the door? I know you’re in there!” Evan’s voice cut through the early morning stillness, raw with frustration.

The quiet of 6 a.m. pressed in around him, thick and unyielding. He had been banging on Barty’s door for over ten minutes, his knuckles sore from the relentless knocking, but no one had dared to answer.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Look, Barty, if you’ve got some slut over, I don’t care—just throw them out, okay? But—”

“Why?”

The voice came from behind him, low and velvety, dripping with a dangerous amusement.

“Do you wanna be my slut?”

Evan jolted violently, his breath stalling in his throat. His body reacted before his mind could catch up, his pulse spiking, muscles tensing as he spun around.

Barty stood there, a smirk carved into his lips, eyes dark with something unreadable yet entirely menacing.

Evan’s heart was hammering so hard it almost hurt. “What the fuck?!” he hissed, shoving Barty’s shoulder, more out of frazzled nerves than genuine anger. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

Barty only chuckled, rolling his shoulders back, entirely unbothered. His gaze flickered over Evan like a predator watching something small and squirming.

“But it’s so fun,” he murmured, eyes glinting with something close to cruelty.

“I—” Evan faltered, his voice catching in his throat. He clenched his jaw, forcing his expression into something indifferent. “It’s, in fact, not fun.”

Barty exhaled through his nose, a mix of amusement and exhaustion, before brushing past him. His keys jingled softly as he unlocked the door, pushing it open with little care. “What are you doing here, Rosy?” His voice was thick with fatigue, as if he had already decided Evan wasn’t worth the energy.

And why was he here?

Evan’s fingers twitched at his sides, a creeping sense of self-disgust clawing at his insides. On the surface, it was simple—he hadn’t slept all night, his mind a restless blur, and he needed a distraction, someone to kill the time with. But deeper than that?

Barty had discarded him two nights ago like he was nothing. After fucking him, he had gone straight to Regulus without a second thought, without hesitation. And yet here Evan was, standing in the doorway like an idiot, searching for something—what, exactly? Closure? A reason?

Pathetic.

His throat tightened as he swallowed down the bitter realization. He shouldn’t be here. But he was.

“A new episode of Shameless came out yesterday,” Evan said, the excuse tumbling out before he could think twice. It felt flimsy the moment it left his lips, but he clung to it anyway. “You didn’t come by.”

Barty had been halfway into his apartment, barely paying attention, but at that, he hesitated. His steps slowed, his posture stiffening before he turned just enough to glance over his shoulder. His expression was… off—something between confusion and regret, his brows faintly pinched, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“Oh,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I must’ve forgotten.”

Forgotten.

Evan let out a breathy laugh, hollow and bitter. He nodded slowly, rolling the word over in his mind, testing how it felt.

“Yeah,” he echoed. “Forgotten.”

Out of nowhere, everything hurt too much.

The way Evan said that word—forgotten—was a wound split open, raw and aching. It told Barty everything he needed to know.

Who the fuck had done this to him? Who had made Evan feel like an afterthought, like he was disposable? Who were the bastards who had the audacity to forget that face, those eyes, him?

Barty’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides as a sharp, burning anger coiled in his gut. He needed names. Now.

He’d kill every single one of them.

“Screw them,” Barty said, stepping toward Evan with a sudden, burning clarity. His voice was firm, electric, like he had just uncovered some undeniable truth.

Evan frowned. “What?”

“You’re a lot of things, Evan Rosier,” Barty pressed on, his gaze unwavering. “But forgettable isn’t one of them. I don’t know which fucking asshole made you think you were, but they were wrong. You’re not. Because you’re impossible to erase.”

His chest rose and fell, breath unsteady, the weight of his own words sinking in. What the fuck was happening?

Why was he feeling so much for someone he barely knew? Why was he standing here, saying this—meaning this—when only an hour ago he had been wrapped in Regulus’ arms? Just an hour ago, he had held heaven by the hands.

And now? Now he was throwing it away.

For what?

“Tsk.” Evan laughed—a pitiful, hollow sound that barely reached his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t?” Barty challenged, tilting his head. “Then tell me I’m wrong. Go on. I dare you.”

Evan’s jaw clenched, and his brows furrowed in anger. He stepped closer, towering over Barty, trying to assert some kind of dominance. But it was in vain. Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t the type to be intimidated.

“You are wrong,” Evan spat, his voice sharp as broken glass. “What do you want from me? You want me to say it? To spell it out for you?” His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You want me to tell you how much of a mediocre, worthless piece of shit I am?! Is that what you want?! Because I am! Okay?” His voice cracked, just slightly, his breath ragged.

“I’m not glory or grandeur like the kind you crave. I’m not perfect curls and emerald eyes or the fucking thrill of danger.” His voice dripped with self-loathing, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his words. “I’m just—”

“Human,” Barty interrupted, voice low but firm.

Evan froze.

“What?” he whispered, like he hadn’t heard right. Or maybe he had, and that was the problem.

“You're real.”

“I don’t—” Evan started, his hands trembling slightly. “I don’t understand what that means.”

Barty exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yes, I like glory and grandeur and perfect curls with emerald eyes,” he admitted, pacing now, a restless energy surging through him like wildfire. “I love the fucking thrill of danger. It fuels me.” His tone turned sharp, disdain curling at the edges. “But let’s be real—who the fuck am I to claim those things?” He let out a humorless laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. “You really think I’m worthy of all that? Ha.” He smiled, a cruel thing meant only for himself. “In no universe do things go my way.”

Evan clenched his jaw, his breathing heavy. “So what are you saying?” he demanded. “That you’re settling for me because I’m just as fucked up as you? That you think you’re worthy of me because I’m not good enough?” His chest heaved, his voice laced with something raw—anger, hurt, something dangerously close to heartbreak.

“What? No—” Barty stopped pacing, spinning around to face him.

“You just said you want glory and grandeur but that you’re not good enough to reach it,” Evan bit out, his voice sharp, shaking. “So the solution is lowering yourself to my level? To people like me?” He scoffed, swallowing thickly. He couldn’t even say it.

God, he hated Barty so much.

“Rosy, you’ve got it all wrong,” Barty said, his tone edged with desperation, as if this moment mattered more than either of them could comprehend.

“Do I?” Evan challenged, his voice sharp, but something uncertain flickered in his eyes.

“Hey—” Barty stepped closer, his words tumbling out faster now. “You don’t. Let me explain, alright?” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration crackling through him. Before Evan could respond, Barty pressed on.

“The fact that you’re real is better. It’s not that you’re not good enough—it’s the fact that, ugh—” He exhaled sharply, searching for the right words.

Neither of them realized how the space between them had disappeared, how Evan had been backing up, step by step, until his back hit the edge of the kitchen counter. Barty was still talking, still unraveling, and Evan was too caught up in it to move, too caught up in him to do anything but listen.

“All those fucking things—glory, grandeur, whatever you think is better than you—it’s just—” Barty’s voice rose, fervent, desperate. “It’s fake! Alright? It’s an illusion, a fantasy. It’s momentary. It’s not everlasting, and I hate it. I hate it because it always slips through my fingers—”

He sucked in a sharp breath, his pacing erratic, his hands gesturing wildly.

“It’s like—I don’t know why, but whenever I’m with Regulus, I have this vision—” His voice trembled now, cracking in places. “Maybe I sound crazy, but it’s like his whole body blurs, like all the atoms in him are vibrating so fast that he doesn’t even feel solid, and his skin turns translucent, and—” He let out a shaky exhale, his eyes darting to Evan’s as if searching for understanding.

“It’s like if I ever reach out, my hand will go right past him, because—” He choked back something raw, something dangerously close to breaking. “Because it’s like he’s made out of glass or—I don’t know—light.” He let out a breathless laugh, one that carried no humor, just exhaustion. “Like he’s made of starlight.”

He finally stopped moving.

“I don’t belong there.” His voice was quiet now, a confession, a truth stripped bare.

And then he looked up—eyes glassy, searching, burning straight into Evan’s.

“But you?” A breath, unsteady. “Fuck.” His hands clenched at his sides. “You’re real, right? You’re not some made-up illusion from my mind, you’re not slipping through my fingers and—” Another breath, almost a gasp, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“You’re real.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain. Neither dared to move.

Evan didn’t know what was happening—if being real was meant to be an insult or a praise. He wasn’t sure if it was something to be proud of or something to resent. All he knew was that, whatever it meant, it was making Barty feel—and Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t do feelings, not like this. Not like they might consume him whole.

“You’re better,” Barty murmured at last, voice unsteady. His breath hitched as he swallowed down something raw, something that had been clawing its way out of him all night.

“You’re better because you’re real.”

“Does that—” Evan swallowed, steadying himself. He cupped Barty’s jaw, tilting his face upward, forcing him to meet his gaze. Barty’s eyes had been glued to the floor, avoiding the weight of the moment. “Does that scare you? Me being... real?”

A shaky sigh left Barty’s lips before he gave a small, timid nod. His cheeks were flushed, streaked with the remnants of unshed tears.

“It’s like—” He hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “With Regulus, it isn’t scary because, well—”

“You can’t lose him,” Evan finished for him. “Because you don’t have him. Not really. He’s starlight—unreachable.”

Barty let out a quiet hum, nodding.

“But you,” he pressed on, voice unsteady. “You’re real. And if I can have you, then—”

“Then you can lose me,” Evan murmured.

“Exactly,” Barty concluded.