It feels surprisingly good, to see the blood leak between his fingers, to see it pool in the grooves of his fingers and stain his skin.
He thought that he'd be sickened by the stark contrast of the scarlet liquid to his tawny skin, but it was- comforting? The warmth of the blood was something confusing. He was cold (his father's study was always cold), but his heart was beating so wildly that it felt like it was trying to escape his chest. It warmed him from the inside out.
Barty pulls himself onto the desk, knocking off whatever papers remain on the wood. There's blood coating his palms, all the way up to his elbows. He notices this with a hum, pulling a half-empty carton of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He lights it shakily- when had he started shaking?- and takes a few drags before he simply sits there. Waiting.
He doesn't mourn, and why would he? Barty never loved his father, and his father never wanted him. It was a mutual hatred, and he always knew one would kill the other in the end. Either his father would drain the life from him, with imperious curses and his incessant, horrible need to control every aspect of Barty’s life. Or Barty would take things into his own hands, kill him instead, take away the life he never deserved. What man like his father deserved the wealth and comfort he’d gotten?
With the slow death his father had sentenced him to, his breaks at Hogwarts were the best thing he ever could’ve wished for, up until now.
Until he had his father under him, begging and screaming and threatening Barty to stop.
Barty didn't stop.
He swung the baseball bat down, over and over, into his father's head until his skull shattered. He kept bringing it down until he could barely tell what part was supposed to be his face and had turned into a mush of bone and brain and blood. It was disgusting, honestly, but Barty couldn’t find it in himself to care. He just grinned to himself, lifting his blood-covered fingers that held the cigarette up to his lips.
His father hated the smell of cigarettes, so this seemed like the perfect final fuck you.
He heard hurried footsteps down the hall and adjusted himself, stubbing out the fag on the desk. His mother burst into the room, face pale, and it only drained of color more as she took in the mess of Bartemius Senior’s study.
He knew his mother must have loved his father. It must’ve been the only reason she stayed, not taken the pair far away from this house and him and everything he stood for. If she didn’t love him, why else would they still be here? Why would Barty have suffered at the hands of his fathers for years if it weren’t for his mother’s love?
He can’t discern the look on her face, though, and that worries him. He doesn’t like not knowing his mother’s feelings. She’d been his only escape during his childhood, and he’d learned to pick up on every hint of her emotions. But now, it’s one of the odd times he can’t figure it out. Her face is pinched, drained of color. Her hands are folded against her chest, and she doesn’t look the least bit terrified of her son that had just murdered his father, her husband, in cold blood.
“You need to go,” is all she says. She takes one last look around the room, eyes lingering on the mushed up form of his ‘father’, and leaves swiftly.
Being kicked out was the least of what he expected, so he supposed he couldn’t be too upset. She isn’t turning him in at least. He doesn’t even bother packing up his things, because there’s not much to pack. All that really matters to him is exactly where he’s going.
He apparates to the Rosier’s door, and Evan drags him inside quickly, taking the time to shut the door quietly and sneak Barty up the stairs as silently as possible. The moment they’re in Evan’s room, all Barty wants to do is forget. Forget his father, forget his mother, forget how his childhood had just felt like a show more for others' entertainment rather than an actual child’s upbringing. He just wants to lose himself in the feel of Evan, in the warmth of his hands and the press of his lips.
Evan dodges his kiss, however, and brings Barty to his bathroom. He forces Barty to sit on the closed toilet lid while he runs a bath, glancing over at him a few times. He doesn’t seem scared, or worried, or mad. He seems like Evan.
When it's full and Barty can’t avoid getting in, Evan just gently peels his blood-soaked clothes from his body, setting them aside to probably be burned. He lets Barty climb into the tub, quietly refuses when Barty tries to coax him in, and points out the few bottles of soap along the edge before leaving the bathroom. If Regulus saw how little Evan used on his hair, he’d have a conniption fit. The thought makes him laugh a bit, just as Evan comes back in the room with what looks like a sweater and joggers.
He sets them aside, however, sitting on the edge of the tub. He gives Barty a gentle smile and pulls him towards him. Barty’s confused for all of ten seconds before Evan starts wetting his hair for him, lathering his hands in shampoo, and starting to wash his hair. It feels nice, and Barty relaxes into it, sinking against the side of the tub. He tries his best to let things go, to focus only on the soft tugs at his scalp and Evan’s soothing voice. It works, and he feels himself floating away, little by little, until he’s nothing but soft putty in Evan’s hands for him to mold.
He trusts Evan more than his father. Evan wouldn’t take him and turn him into something malicious, something hurt. If anything, he does the opposite.
By the time he fully comes back to himself, Evan is helping him out of the porcelain, wrapping a towel around his shoulders and trying to dry him off. Ten minutes later Evan has dried and dressed him, and Barty couldn’t do anything but stand there and let him. It felt good to not need to think for a moment, to not need to think about everything he’d done in the last few hours and stuck to. All he thinks about are Evan’s hands, Evan’s clothes, Evan’s distinct smell (it reminds him of Quidditch and blueberries and pine and so many things that clash but somehow just makes him him), and nothing else. He lets Evan completely take over, leading him into his bed, laying Barty down, and curling around him as if nothing else mattered.
He doesn’t cry until tucked against Evan’s chest, his hands cradling his face. Barty doesn't cry for his father, because a father didn’t do what his did. He doesn't cry for his mother, because she’d never done anything to say he deserved different. He cries because he can, because all of this was simply too much for a barely seventeen-year-old boy to handle.
He cries because Evan lets him, pretending he wasn’t, even. And he’ll never have to cry for Evan, he thinks, while a tear is wiped from his chin and a kissed was placed to his temple.