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I don't want to live
I don't want to give you nothing
'Cause you never give me nothing back
Why can't you be good for something?
Not one shirt off your back
Why can't you be good for something?
Evan's jaw drops at the bouquet of flowers that his best friend was currently holding. But he swallows it back, having to say something first so it won't be weird or anything. So Barty wouldn't think that Evan thinks this is so much more than Barty probably means for it to be.
"Oh, nice flowers," Evan says sarcastically, not even trying to make it look believable. Barty already caught him in the act, anyway. Despite it, he grins, looking at the flowers Barty was holding, Barty who was wearing a t-shirt that said 'The Cure', and paired it with baggy denim pants.
"Who're they for?" He asks, despite the joke already long gone. His heart whips and lashes at him when he finally absorbs the sappy, genuine and literal thought that Barty got flowers for him on a random day. Barty looks at him in disbelief at the question, scoffing playfully.
"Oh, just for a girl," Barty murmurs back jokingly, feigning casually.
He grins at the joke, before shaking his head. "I can't accept these," he pushes the gift towards Barty's chest.
Barty smiles warmly, then. His smile, oh god. His smile. A mole is on the side of his mouth, and oh gosh. It makes Evan's insides flip. His heart is beating at a fast pace, like it wants to get out and be free from all this.
He wants to flee away, he'll just sow what he reaps. But no, he can't. His consciousness doesn't want to, and for once, he'll let it take over.
Evan smiles once more,
"Fine," he oh-so reluctantly gets the bouquet from him.
Barty beams at this, hugging his best friend harshly. And suddenly, but Evan isn't surprised. Barty isn't touch-averse at all. He's the opposite, more likely.
Evan's body freezes, feeling a sense of familiar heat spread through his face. He hopes that Barty doesn't notice it, because he probably looks ridiculous, being all flushed like this when Barty was like this.
He embraces the longing grip, succumbing to it; seeping in. He feels like they're both the only people living on this planet. He wants to keep feeling that way, it's a way of how he copes with his delusional feelings.
It's unhealthy, really. Knowing that Barty won't even reciprocate these unhinged feelings. It feels ironic, in a way. He hates it. He wants it banished, away from his pale, freakish mind. He wants it to disintegrate, to dissolve out of his useless, pathetic brain that he apparently has to use to feel this.
But maybe, just maybe.
He'll let all of his problems fade away. For now.
With only his thought swarming in his entire body. Practically living in it.
It sinks into his flesh, his bones, every little atom. And he's fine with it. As long as it means never ending this embrace that he craves for. Starves for.
However, it doesn't last long, for Barty doesn't encourage it no more. His face visibly saddens,
"I've got to go now. Dog problems, you know?" he laughs rather forcefully. It sounded sheepish. Evan wonders if he's okay. He doesn't let his mind wander for long, though.
Evan nods awkwardly, "Yeah okay, yeah. Right. Well.." he slithers his hand into Barty's and squeezes it. "Want to meet some time again?"
He looks down at the ground, "like old times," he looks up at Barty and he feels a grin crawling up his ridiculous face.
Barty smiles back, but it quickly fades. "Yeah. Like old times."
They're both still holding hands, Evan realizes. And before he could relish in it, Barty gives it a quick squeeze, then walking ahead. But not before looking at Evan for the last time, with Evan looking back. It felt like hours, with that singular glance.
Barty manages to wave at Evan before eventually going to a corner.
Evan feels like he's gonna burst at any moment now. Like a bomb with it's fuse at the verge of blowing up. He still felt the slight burn of Barty's touch against his. It was weird. He never really felt like this for anyone at all, nonetheless get attached to them. But Barty clung onto him back in highschool and Evan couldn't ever find a single reason to be bothered about it. And their friendship stayed at was.
But his heart raced a little, still.
Why'd Barty give him flowers? Why would Barty Crouch Jr. give Evan boring Rosier flowers?
It Isn't even February. The month passed by a lot already. And, the flowers were roses.
Nonetheless, he was internally—and shamelessly jumping up and down, punching the air. It was probably just a gift of affirmation, but he doesn't care. He got fucking flowers.
It is something that he should honestly celebrate, and he is, right now.
Evan knows Barty doesn't even probably feel that way like he does with him. But it's okay. It's gonna be. It always will.
The chances of it being alright are slim, but they are certainly working. Really.
Okay maybe.
No.
Yes.
Absolutely.
Definitely not.
Okay maybe.
Anyhow, he doesn't even know what he's doing. He's been procrastinating ever since Barty had gotten a tongue piercing back when they were teens. It was still there, by the way. But maybe, Evan was just too busy looking at Barty's eyes that were just his favourite shade of a color he won't know the literal name of.
He probably won't even ever say it either way. So what's the point of feeling? It'll fade away. If it does not, hypothetically speaking, he'll find a way for it to.
But he doesn't want the feeling gone. It's suctioned to his body. Bones and all.
He can't remove it, although he isn't trying to.
He'll feel just fine, though. He'll ignore everything and focus on meeting Barty some time again—whenever that is, he doesn't know. He'll get over his strange feelings for a man who won't ever reciprocate it and give all his thought about him in a glass platter.
But now that's he thinking about it, he doesn't really remember a situation that he got fully recovered from. Not ever since his mother passed away. That, he didn't recover from ever. He doesn't entertain the concept of leaving the fact that she's dead and not mourning every once in a while.
But this one's dreading him. Making him purposefully fall onto the never-ending black hole. But the thing is, he was the one who dug it. So he's only got himself to blame.
He doesn't know if he blames himself. It's really just his consciousness taking over.
He sighs, and that makes him fall out of his trance. He realizes that he still didn't close the door.
Oh.
Well, that's just embarrassing.
He closes it, and heads to bed.
***
He sleeps for an hour or two before he wakes up.
He suddenly cannot sleep. It exasperates him, and he's aware of that. And, now that he's built up this whole messed up thing, he's the one paying for price now.
It's really, really messed up.
It makes him feel absurd things. Absurd things that he doesn't want to feel. But he cannot help himself. It's a trigger. And he's the one pulling on it, cocking it at his heart, and it feels like a drug.
One that he can't seemingly escape from.
A bullet through, and he feels nothing. One more. Two more. Still nothing.
Five more.
Okay, that's got a little kick, he admits.
He tunes all of that out, and now he notices that it's raining, splattering slightly against his windows.
Now he's got an idea. It's a bad one, but he's going to trust the process. It's possibly not going to work out. But he has faith. Hope.
He puts on a sweater, and then a jacket. He almost forgets to bring an umbrella, but he remembers anyway.
And he runs. Like actually runs. He doesn't care if rain gets splattered on his pants, it doesn't really matter anymore.
He's almost close to his designated destination, just one more corner.
And there it is, in front of him.
Barty's house.
Now that he's excessively thinking about it, it is really a bad idea. But it's now or never. Intrusive thoughts linger on him, and he mostly avoids them. But this one just scratches his head in a good way, so he does the opposite of avoiding; indulging.
He knocks on it. No answer. He knocks again, three times. Still no answer.
He gets worried now. He thinks for a moment, thinking for anything. Just anything that can help him get away with this problem.
He turns his head to the right, and he sees a window. This is absolutely insane, but when was he ever normal anyway?—Has anyone ever been normal? Now that the thought is crossing his mind.
He shakes his head, going up to the window. And no, it's locked. He groans, going to the other. And to his benevolent surprise, it's not locked.
It's like the gods have blessed him—if there were any in the first place.
He opens the window slowly, and makes it through. No lights are opened. Everything is dark. Evan makes it through the darkness, only falling once. He's been here a few times already.
He clicks on the lights, and the place brightens up. He notices that it's quite messy.
No, not quite, very.
He's getting more worried now. That's not usual. Barty's place is always tidy and clean. He also sets up a few plants every now and then, but they're gone.
His eyebrows furrow, and his face turns anguished.
Barty isn't anywhere though. So he heads upstairs. He's been through two rooms before he hears a creak. He goes to where that sound comes from, and it's none other than his bedroom. Barty's bedroom.
Evan takes a deep breath before taking a step and slowly turning the door knob. He was looking at the ground. There's a deep Aubrey stain. Red. Thick blood.
He feels tears prickling on his eyes. He doesn't want to look up. But he looks on the ground, and it's a pool of blood. He sees Barty's feet sticking out from the corner of the view.
Oh.
He looks up, and he sees Barty. Or rather Barty's now dead and soulless body, head tied with a rope. He falls to the ground, tears falling shamelessly. He feels pathetic. He feels pathetic for ever believing.
No. He won't believe this. Believing has never gave him any benefits anyway. But he could cry, sulk, brood, even if that wouldn't do anything, really. But there was that one inaudible voice in his head saying,
No, no, no. Why—why? Not him. No. Why would he do that to his self?
He did that because he hated you. Not everything's about you, Evan. They said.
He was sobbing loudly now. His shoes were touching his friend's blood. Barty's blood. But he didn't even care if it stained now. He just killed himself. His best friend just killed himself, and what is he supposed to other than be deeply saddened and sorry? His sorrows are nothing more than his own feelings that he does. Warily or not.
From the left side of his vision, he could see a note sat on the bed.
He used all his strength to pull himself up off his maddening agony. His vision was quite foggy from all the crying, not that he stopped crying. He wouldn't, ever.
In the letter was,
'Evan, if you are reading this, I am sorry. I am sorry for not being there all the time. All I'm dealing with, it's just too much. I wanted it to stop for a long time now, and I currently have. I hope that after I die, it's all going to be okay now.
By the way, I love you. I've loved you for a long time now. Not platonically, romantically. I don't know why I put that, actually. Isn't that fucking bollocks?
Just, if I knew you reciprocated it back, I think I'd still kill myself. Love isn't what all people say it is, but I'd love to spend time with you in every other universe. If there are any—haha, makes me squirm my insides and spit it like my pills.
Find me in the afterlife. Or anywhere, if you believe in reincarnation. I don't think I've ever asked you that, but I should have before planning this. I could be anyone and everyone.
What you do for pleasure, it's all without insanity and finite.
Okay that was stupid. Pretend that I didn't write that just now.
Love,
Barty
P.S: evannnn I think I'm a poet, omg I think all the poetry reading i've been doing in secret 4 you has finally paid off muahahahahaha
P.P.S: if you cried, I got you! It's okay, you'll survive. Like my mother.
Barty's mother had just died a week ago.
The letter had two dried tear stains when he opened it. He was thinking if Barty was crying while writing this. The last part is unnecessary, really, but Barty has always been like that. Not serious. Smart as fuck, though. Made him think twice if he loved Barty or liked Barty. He thinks both. The irony between two fucked up boys that both have shit, tosspot dads.
He was crying violently now. He was perched on his dead friend's bed, crying. Barty loved him, too, though? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Well, Evan could have said that too to him if he had just waited a little longer, but well, ten years is a lot, so.
Someone give him his life and crush it between life and the rules of mediocre leisure. Maybe - maybe, if he could just join Barty right now, end it right here, he'd see him again. Just him. Him and Barty. Evan and him. Barty's ugly, not really taken care for, tousled black hair.
This feels stupid. Really fucking stupid. Maybe Barty was on something there in his letter.
He stares at the dead body, blood dripping hurriedly. He doesn't know if that's Barty anymore. Is that just his lifeless body that used to be a living atom, or one of his consciousnesses divided into a hexagon of mistakes, choices, decisions, and your truths and lies?
He hopes that this is a dream. Because he wants to escape it now.
________
"Hey, Evan," Barty asks, and Evan hums in acknowledgement, following his gaze which was just the roof of the Astronomy Tower.
"Yeah?" He answers in response, looking mindlessly at Barty. Barty doesn't notice it, but something in Evan wants him to, so he could understand a hindrance about his feelings for him. It's a foolish idea that he won't encourage, though.
Then, he sees Barty swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing. He suddenly looks like he's more nervous about this, fidgeting with his sleeve and all. Evan doesn't ask about it, not wanting to ruin anything.
"Do you have a flower that you like, specifically?" Barty asks, avoiding his gaze.
Evan blinks, having not expected that whatsoever, but he thinks about it. It's not that hard, actually. And it's pretty much obvious, considering that everyone keeps botching up his last name into the flower's name.
"Roses," he answers, certain about it. And then, he finds himself spitting words out to clarify, "It's not because of my last name—just so know. It's a basic cliché thing, but I just do. Out of the boring romantic meaning it has, I like it because it's pretty, and does a lot for something that's supposed to be blunt and dull. Reading a poem with the flower in it made me love it, too."
He can't see Barty's reaction before the prefect's see them and immediately tell them to go back to their dorms because it was already past curfew, and it was very dark, save for the stars that shone above.
Then, on the next day, Evan Rosier had woke up to a rose suddenly on his nightstand.