wise man once said
Barty was about to hit her head really hard against the wall. Useless, useless useless, was what his mind kept saying and shouting over and over again. There were sheets scattered throughout the room, stained with ink and with incomplete words. The vintage typewriter on the floor seemed to laugh at him. Oh the poor thing! Can't write a decent song? You spoiled, useless boy. And so it repeated itself. Again and again and again. He needed songs, he needed an album, he needed everything. - It was sent by someone who wanted me dead - he writes absently, more like a joke, something he used to say to his friends when talking about his father "It was sent by someone who wanted me dead, I bet" - You were writing a ... oh fuck you! - he shouts, ripping off the sheet of paper and throwing it across the room. Stupid music.
Barty was starting to get frustrated every time she thought about her considered promising career in music and her bright and unimaginable future in it. The songs he insisted on writing himself, only accepting help from Regulus when he was most desperate, the videos he didn't want anyone other than himself and Sirius to direct, the albums he needed to record. He He He He. Barty was against anyone who tried to do that for him, these types of people reminded him of his father.
Bartemius Crouch Senior, oh what a ridiculous, stupid and morbid name. A name he had the misfortune to carry with him, further proof of how arrogant his father was, making his son take something that wasn't meant to be his, throwing the burden on Barty's shoulders. His father was responsible for that crisis in his career, his father was responsible for everything bad that happened in his life.
The articles, the allegations that he was a spoiled brat with no talent, the false accusations of plagiarism, the relationships that gave way because of the power his father had. It was all his fault. All.
That's why Barty needed something new. He needed the book of his life or some shit like that to change the course of history. He needed stupid newspaper columns to stop writing articles summarizing his music to something superficial, he needed paparazzi to stop approaching him at his friends' houses, at dinners with his friends. He needed someone other than a typewriter to understand him.
That's why he decided to write, to compose. That's why he spent sleepless nights thinking about the concepts for that album, that's why he stayed up all night playing old and new instruments, testing sound effects on state-of-the-art equipment, calling Regulus in the middle of the night and asking him what he thought. of that excerpt he had written, writing down his dreams to use in plain letters.
That's why that afternoon Bartemius Crouch Junior decided he needed to do something about it.
The cell phone in his hands was hot from constant use, the battery was almost running out, his fingers were shaking with nervousness but his face contained an almost insane smile. He searched for that contact as if his life depended on it, that number he made a point of calling when any kind of idea crossed his messed up mind.
- Regulus, do you still have Rosier's number? Evan Rosier? - he asked hurriedly when Regulus answered the phone, no "good afternoon" or "how are you?" Straight to the point. - I know you normally work with me on projects but...
- Evan would understand exactly what you want now - the boy on the other end of the line adds - He would understand the kind of work you want, of course, but I'm pretty sure he's busy promoting his own work, Barty.
Barty couldn't contain the impatient sigh that left her lips and the roll of her eyes that made her eyeballs hurt.
- He won't mind. We have an agreement, he can't have forgotten - the line was silent for a moment - He can't have forgotten, right?
- It's been Barty's birthday - Regulus said honestly, his voice, although almost imperceptible, was softer than moments before - He has tours to do and songs to record, he's helping Pandora in her band. I don't think he's completely forgotten you but... it can't be something he remembers either.
He swallowed hard. Evan wouldn't have forgotten, no, of course not. Regulus had no idea what he was talking about, it was all nonsense.
- Do you have his number or not? - his voice comes out rougher than he expected and he can hear the sigh coming from Regulus.
- Yes - the other says, voice undecided - Don't do anything that could put your career at risk, Barty, please
- I won't, relax a little - he murmurs, picking up one of the crumpled sheets of paper on the floor and stretching his arm to get a pen from the desk - The number is...?
𑁍ࠬ 🕷⊹ ࣪˖🖋️
The cell phone in his hands was hot from constant use, the battery was almost running out, his fingers were shaking with nervousness but his face contained an almost insane smile. He searched for that contact as if his life depended on it, that number he made a point of calling when any kind of idea crossed his messed up mind.
- Regulus, do you still have Rosier's number? Evan Rosier? - he asked hurriedly when Regulus answered the phone, no "good afternoon" or "how are you?" Straight to the point. - I know you normally work with me on projects but...
- Evan would understand exactly what you want
He lies down on the floor, picking up his cell phone and calling the only person who could help him sort this all out right now, the person who may or may not have been the inspiration for some of his songs over three years, the person who supported him and then he moved away. The blond hair that appeared in his dreams sometimes, the arms that held him on the nights he had nightmares, the lips that were a source of distraction and euphoria.
With one last breath he presses it and hears the cell phone ring, Barty observes the icon where Evan's photo should be, what should he look like now? How do you write your songs after so long?
- Who is it? - the voice scares him and comforts him at the same time. Evan.
- Barty - he replies, his eyes closing - Bartemius
He hears the short breaths and the soft sigh that sounds so much like Evan that he feels like screaming.
- I don't know if you remember me but...
- Of course I remember you - Evan interrupts - Of course I remember Bee.