“Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Can’t, ‘s too hard, Rosie.” Barty slurred slightly, pulling the sheets over him more and rolling over so he was facing Evan.
“Mh, you could always try sleeping drugs, y’know you need sleep,” Evan suggested, fondly.
Barty shook his head. The last time he’d taken sleeping pills he’d woken up with a funny head and did not want to go through that again—he’d rather overdose on caffeine than take sleeping drugs.
The two of them just lay in silence for a while, staring at each other in the dim room, the only sound the symphony of their breathing. It was a wonder how Barty hadn't already fallen asleep with how drunk he was; that seemed to be the only thing he did now—drink. He’d occasionally reach out to Dorcas or Pandora but he never got word back, except for after the fifth letter he’d sent Dorcas when he got a rather strongly worded reply telling him to piss off and that she was ashamed to have ever been his friend.
Barty shook his head, “I’m going to get water.”
He thrashed the covers off of him as they clung to his frame, before finally getting up and stumbling his way through the bedroom and banging into the dresser, tripping on the curtains (which then pulled the entire beam along with the curtains off of the wall), and finally getting to the door for it to be jammed.
It was as if the world had decided that Barty’s life would not be a good one from the start and everything that has ever happened had just proved this for him—except for his Rosie.
Evan was the best thing to ever happen to him.
He stumbled down the hallway with Evan trailing behind him, flicking on the kitchen lights and hiding his eyes from the sudden brightness as he tried to get used to it—his head throbbing.
Evan took his place leaning against the doorframe and watched Barty as he adjusted to the change of environment. He grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and filled it up with water to the rim so it was overflowing, the cold water trickling down his hand was a weirdly welcome feeling Barty had come to enjoy over the past few months after that one cold shower he’d had when he hadn't been bothered to change the temperature.
He downed the water and placed the glass down harshly next to the sink before turning to face Evan who was sporting a long face. Barty walked over, reaching up to cup Evan’s face, “what’s with the long face, huh? D’you want more?” He mused as Evan shook him off.
“Barty…”
“What? What is it? Why am I never in the loop anymore? Why do you and Regulus never tell me anything anymore?” Barty questioned Evan harshly as he grabbed Evan’s shoulders before collapsing into Evan’s arms sobbing, “why do you always look at me like that?”
“Barty, you need to sleep,” Evan hushed.
“No! No—fuck.” Barty choked out, “no, I want to stay up with you, I want to just be with you, please, Rosie.”
“Okay, then we’ll stay up.”
Barty hummed at this, pulling himself away from Evan and rubbing the tears away. He moved so he was leaning against the counter opposite the door frame, looking at Evan with sorrow filled eyes.
Evan always looked so beautiful, it was painful. He never looked bad, even at this ungodly hour with no sleep. His hair was always in the same braids, occasionally there were crystals weaved in—ones that Pandora had given him when they were teenagers—and he was always dressed in baggy jeans and some sort of t-shirt that always hugged his figure while still being baggy. Barty never understood how that could even happen.
He always smelled the same too; cedarwood and cigarette smoke. The lake of a marijuana smell always confused Barty, especially given how often the two got high together.
He sighed, moving through the kitchen and to the living room, jumping up so he stood on one of the armchairs and stared at Evan for what seemed like an eternity. The floor, which had once been carpeted, was now like molten lava. Barty wasn't sure how that had even happened or how Evan was somehow managing to stand on it without bursting into flames or melting away into the floor, but to Barty, this armchair was his island. His only safety outside of Evan’s arms.
“How are you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“That.”
Evan looked confused—why was he confused? “Barty, I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes you are! How are you doing it? Why won't you tell me?” Barty bellowed from his island.
“Barty, chérie, I’m not doing anything.”
Barty shook his head again. He didn't understand what was happening, why everything and everyone was against him; why his Rosie was against him now as well.
“I—I don’t understand.”
Evan walked over to him and extended his hand to Barty, “come down off the chair.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, yes you can,” and with that Barty was pulled off of the chair by Evan and the floor was normal again.
“What’s happening?”
Evan shook his head slightly, not speaking.
“What's happening? Did—did I drink too much? Is this not happening? Am I losing touch, Rosie? Tell me please, please.” Barty begged, searching Evan’s face for answers and finding nothing, his face was blank. “What's happening to me?”
“Chérie, you need to let me go,” Evan whispered.
“What? What—no!” Barty pleaded, closing his eyes tightly.
When he opened them Evan was gone, without a trace of him ever having been there this night.
“Evan?” Barty called out, “Evan? Rosie? Evan come back!”
Nothing.
“Evan!”
Still nothing.
And—oh.
Everything suddenly started flooding back to him as he sunk to the floor, his head in his hands, curled up in a ball.
Evan was gone.