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Historians will call them anything but.
Barty finds the presence of Evan a company that he wishes to relish in forever, fingers gently scarring his skin as they left a trail of warmth beneath. Evan lets a breath out, the air foaming a reaction of the coldness evaporating away, and a tongue presses itself against Evan’s cheek. “Barty,” he whispers, a silent plea of his own privacy, and Barty watches him as he shifts by his seat, eyes shifting to locate the windows and the fading brightness associated with the Sun. “I…”
“Evan, what is it?” Barty finds a smile on his face, and all he can do is watch as Evan fumbles with his fingers, a caress of doubt lingering as he lifts his head to stare at Barty. His eyes are bright, cautious as drops of rain begin to cloud, and there is a speculation that Barty wishes so deeply to be true. He dreams of it. “Barty, I love you.”
He does find it feeling like a dream, a wash of waves crashing against each other as a decision erupts into flames, and he hardly is able to control the way his lips tilt upwards and his eyes widen into a likening of happiness. “I love you, I love you,” he whispers, so quietly, and he takes Barty’s offered hand to press his lips against, skin breaking apart beneath his kiss as they become magnets eloped in an affair of unexplainable science. Magic.
Barty’s lips crack apart, spread so that white flashes between the bursts of red of his mouth, the colours that vividly remind Evan of his attraction; the romance for the one person who claims a closeness to him that no other does. “Can I kiss you, then? Can I dry your tears?” asks Barty, thumb twisting to touch Evan’s chin, nail too long as it dips into his skin. Evan leans forward, a slight movement as they fall into Barty’s chair with little grace, and they fumble as they press a moment of love into each other’s eyes.
A firework show, of flashes of dreams, of a wish that is suddenly a reality. Then they kiss, a powerful flash of radiant chemistry striking them, Evan moving his legs over to relax against the comfort of Barty’s body. They rest, silent, and the commencing of their conversations only return as they pull apart, Evan pressing his face into the crook of Barty’s neck, fingers gripping onto the way his tie loosens beneath the threads fading apart.
“I love you very much,” Barty whispers into the open air, and he thuds as he awakes with a tear slashed across his cheek. He can still feel the scars that has ripped him across his body, the don of malnourishment kicking at his fragile bones and his broken heart, and he nearly falls over as he forces himself to stand from his bed. The mirror, resting by the palm of his wall, sights him out, and he barely registers the way he looks older. He knows, after years, that he is older.
He still knows, that after all these years, he continues to love and yearn after his rose. His Evan. His rose that has thorns in his hand, the only person who allowed him to bleed but with a purpose that was beautiful enough. He feels the way his wand is tightened his grip in his hand, a reaction he has grown accustomed to as he awakes dreadful at night from memories that feel like dreams. From memories that should still remain as dreams.
Until he claimed them as nightmares, from the way he would wander sleepless, confused, aching to demise so that he can return to the way that it is; him, Regulus, his friends, his companions.
His Evan, his rose. His own very reason why they remained as dreams for such a long time, because he would awake as they coursed through him, and he would wish upon the magic he owned that at least he could join them all. Join him. But he finds himself a sinner, he knows he does not deserve it, so he steals the killer of his lover’s skin and he wears it as he lets him suffer without much care. Barty wishes that someone would catch him, be merciful enough to kill him.
So he does not have to suffer anymore.
But then is he still loyal to the Dark Lord? Barty lets the scar of the way his wand bleeds into his skin, cutting along lacerations that would heal a way his broken heart would, and he drops his breath as he leans against the wall. He finds himself unable to continue standing as he struggles to let himself breathe, the urge to fall into an arousal of dismay and death striking him thickly. “Death Eater,” he lets out, an attempt at humour. But it feels dry, like lead, as it shivers down his spine. “Evan was only a Death Eater because he didn’t want to lose us.”
There is a tear that settles beneath his eye, wet and discomforting, and he harshly wipes at it as he drags his back along the wall, knees pressed against his chest. “And I became a Death Eater because I was scared I was going to lose him.”
This dream he says, he talks about late at night, the one he crumbles in and stays awake to replay at the back of his eyelids. His dream, the one so fragile, so tiresome as he forces himself to sleep without dreams sometimes. They became too loud, too quiet, too raw – he felt them become nightmares to more he realises.
He presses his fingers into his hair, and he feels the texture melt with an unsettling amount of tough and dirty knots. “Evan’s hair was nice and soft,” he finds himself whispering, and he knocks his head against the wall as he leans backwards. “His eyes were always so beautiful. What colour were his eyes, again?” And he pauses, alarmed as he thinks, as he rushes into a deep of panic. But he calms when he finds himself remembering what Evan smelt like, the way he could settle into his grip, the way they would share a bed when the nights were scary or when the dorms were empty.
He remembers it all.
“Evan, I still love you. I love you, love you, rose, and thorns, and please just let me go with you.”
He does remember the moment he found Evan offering a hand to him, and he feels the way his lips meet his warm skin and he kisses it, because finally, he has escaped his nightmares. Finally, he has found a dream.
But history hates lovers.