Rabid. Fucking. Dog.
“Well that’s sweet.” What kind of idiot says something like that?
It’s a fucked response.
What the fuck.
Fuck.
Fuckkkk….
Fuck!
He was so fucked.
Like fucked with a capital F.
He needed to be put down like some rabid dog whose owner knew the animal was fucked because it kept fucking biting but they were attached to the stupid pet and now it has gone and probably fucking killed some-fucking-one.
That was him.
Except he hadn’t bit or killed anyone, no he is pretty sure he’s about to kiss his best friend.
Which is far fucking worse.
His male best friend at that.
Whoever let him make decision.
He was pathetic. Truly and completely pathetic.
Merlin, dear Merlin save him. Come rescue him before he can make any more idiotic decisions.
Like taking a step closer.
Actually, fuck Merlin! No, who he need right now was Pandora.
Pandora help! Merlin he really needs twin telepathy to be a real thing right now!
These are all the current thoughts pounding in Evan Rosier head.
“I am rather sweet, Rosie,” Barty swallows, which is really not doing anything to help Evan’s self-induced panic.
He needs something to say. Merlin let him say anything.
He hears himself say, “You really aren’t, you can be on fair occasion, there is a difference.”
He wants to curl into a ball and die.
Someone fucking avaada kadava him right bloody now.
He asking anyone. He will do it himself if he has too.
He’s about a millimetre away from praying to the muggle gods.
All his thoughts are sliced into submissive silence the moment he hears the small ‘Mm’ sound that escapes Barty’s lips.
And that the moment he knows something is rotten inside of his, so beautiful decomposing.
Any tether of his sanity is shredded like ribbons.
He realises that there could be blood dripping from Barty’s mouth, coated crimson between each tooth, and no matter who’s blood it is, he thinks it would still taste sweet if it meant he was kissing Barty.
Rabid. Fucking. Dog.
His eyes flicker down the Barty’s mouth, he is perfect. Not picturesque, nor unflawed. Just perfect.
He thinks he doesn’t need someone to kill him, this might do it.
Don’t look at his lips, noted.
He snaps his gaze back to Barty’s eyes. He can’t remember what colour they are, even though he has every single crease and hair memorised on this boy’s body. He is staring and staring and can’t quite see any colour like there’s this blockage in the part of his brain that collects information. Because even now as he stares, like a starved man, he can’t see a colour.
All he can see is hunger.
All he can feel is hunger.
He can only hear each breathe Barty inhales and exhales. He can feel the gentle heat and the small gasping noise he is making.
He has never seen Barty like this before, he doesn’t think anyone has. He is hungry, a boy who has anyone he wants is hungry.
And Evan knows it all his doing.
There’s a new feeling swelling within him and its over powering the desire, the love and want. Its pride.
Evan is a Rosier, he knows hunger can only be overpowered by one thing…
The desire to win.
He won’t bite.
He isn’t a rabid dog, because he won’t bite.
He has complete control and knowing that sends something better than lust or desire through his body. It rivets across his bones and shakes his soul.
Evan makes precise eye contact and slowly, but surely similes, “you alright, Crouch?”
Barty swallows again, and nods. Not a single word leaving his tightly sealed lips.
“You not going to use your words?” Evan asks, he knows he is taunting him but he has been so deeply wounded by his love for the boy in front of him. Before he had thought of it as weakness.
Know he knows it to be powerful.
Like him.
Barty is looking at him and Evan sees a twitch as he begins to open his mouth, “I can use my words.”
“Can you?” Evan gently says.
“Yes” Barty says, but its less a phonetic word and more so a sound.
“Good.” It’s a statement but Evan knows how it rings through Barty.
“Good,” repeats Barty like a wounded prey, submissive.
“Yes good,” confirms Evan, like a primitive hunter.
Barty’s perfect mouth hangs slightly open, his eyes even wider, “Fuck”, he whispers, like breath on the wind. He seemed to be saying it to no one in particular, like the word escaped him.
Evan needs to stop this. Before he gets hurt.
Before Barty can move any closer, while Evan may have control, he never said he had any self-preservation.
“Should we go to breakfast?” Evan asks innocently.
“That’s what you want to do?” Barty asks blinking.
“Yes, don’t you? Why wouldn’t we?”
Barty slowly starts nodding, “go ahead I need to grab some stuff… like books for potions and stuff you know?”
“Okay, B, I’ll go find Reg and Cas, yeah?” Evan says, watching as Barty steps back slightly.
“Yeah.”
Evan steps out of the door way and slowly walks down the corridor which will lead him to the common room.
As soon as he is sure Barty can’t see him anymore, he dips into the boy’s communal bathrooms. Its empty, thankfully. No one uses these as they had en-suites in their dorms but clearly in some cases they are useful.
He walks over to the basin, blindly and shakily starts running the cold-water tap.
As he collects the frosted water in his cupped hands, he looks into the mirror, there are small, winding, porcelain snakes weaving up the frame.
There’s a slight flush over his dark skin and his pupils are wider than usual. It’s a look he has never seen on himself before, and all he can do is stare.
He feels normal.
So bloody normal, like everyone else.
He was a Rosier, and as his father had told him, they weren’t like anyone else. They were the picture of beauty and temptation. They were a sacred rose in a meadow of poppies.
He was supposed to be the very description of lust and desire. He was supposed to be put together by the very hands of Aphrodite herself. He was careful clay in the hands of beauty and grace.
That’s all he was supposed to be. So, imagine his innate disappointment and disgust when he realised, he wasn’t.
He was supposed to be Eros.
But he was Hephaestus. Broken.
He craved not sex, just touch.
Just love, and even that he couldn’t get.
What’s the point of being crafted by the hands of the goddess of love and sex, if you can’t do either? He is too rabid for love and too broken for sex. All that his beauty could serve him was to look pretty on a canvas hung above the mantel.
Yet as the water poured over his frozen hands, he realised wasn’t broken. He was just like everyone else, he had wanted, needed, desired, craved. He had been hungry for it, all of it.
Evan wasn’t as fragmented when he was with Barty.
He knew he wouldn’t love him, but Barty had wanted him. Barty had never gone for love, never much believed in its existed, except platonically. Evan had never heard him talk poetry about a girl he had liked. Barty had never said he loved anyone but his friends, as far as Evan was aware.
And while Evan was beautiful and handsome, he knew he wouldn’t change that.
He splashed the water over his face.
For a boy who for the most part only wanted love, there was something ironic and yet beautiful that he fell for a boy who only chased lust.