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“He’s been moping for ages,” Barty grumbles as Evan collapses onto the couch next to him.
“Who?” Evan asks. He takes a swig of mystery liquid from a cup in his hand before offering it to Barty.
Barty declines it with a shake of his head; he’s never quite trusted drinks at parties after James Potter and his friends had famously spiked all the drinks at the Slytherin Quidditch afterparty with Alihotsy Draught back in fourth year, leaving them all laughing hysterically for hours. Ultimately harmless, but still nothing he’d like to revisit.
“Regulus,” he hisses in response, nodding his head towards the boy sat on the opposite side of the room. The party has been raging on for hours at this point, and Regulus has spent the entirety of it staring despondently into space, glass of alcohol that Barty had brought him earlier completely untouched.
“Oh.” Evan frowns. “Well, not much we can do about that.”
Barty sighs. “Yeah, I guess.”
“What’s he so caught up over anyway?”
He hesitates. It’s pretty obvious to the eye what Regulus is moping about, but telling still seems a bit like a betrayal of trust. But then again, this is Evan, and well, he’s never been that good at saying no to Evan. He knows the other boy will keep his mouth shut anyway.
“Potter,” he says finally.
Evan blinks once. Twice. Barty really wishes he’d stop doing that because all it does is make him stare at the fluttering of his dark lashes.
“Um, like—”
“In a very gay manner, yes,” Barty finishes for him. “Regulus likes James.”
James Potter as a matter of fact, had been the one to invite them to the party held in the Gryffindor common room. It was… somebody’s birthday—one of those parties where everyone just went for the alcohol and flirting. Regulus had scowled, saying it was simply a courtesy, seeing as he’d moved into James’ house over the break along with Sirius, and James probably felt some sort of obligation to include him in these things. Regulus apparently either felt an obligation to attend, or simply couldn’t say no to James—just like Barty with Evan.
“Oh.” Evan sips at his drink again. Barty waits for the potentially homophobic comment. Instead, he says, “Not a bad looking bloke—can’t blame him. A bit of wanker sometimes, though.”
“Eh. He’s alright.”
They sit in a comfortable silence, watching partygoers laugh and twirl with the pounding music.
“Why’re you so caught up over him?” Evan asks.
Barty chokes on his own spit, and he’s not even the one doing the drinking.
“What?” he asks.
“Regulus. Likes, he’s acting sad, so you gotta be sad? You jealous or something?”
“No!” he says. “He’s my friend—of course I’m concerned about him.” The thing is, he’s not even lying.
It’s funny though, because yes, once upon a time he’d had a crush on Regulus. Back in third year when he’d accidentally walked in on Regulus changing in the bathrooms, catching sight of his bare chest and angled hipbones—that’d been enough to give thirteen-year-old Barty a hard on. Looking back, Regulus was far from Barty’s queer awakening (that’d been some dashing model he’d seen in his mother’s copy of Witch Weekly as a mere ten-year-old), but Regulus was certainly the first real person he’d caught himself drooling over. But he’d moved on after a few months, drifting to and fro between hallway crushes until one day in fourth year, he’d made some obnoxious joke about Mulciber’s haircut to Evan during class. Evan had laughed, all dimples and crinkled eyes, and that’d been it. Hook, line, and sinker—Barty was done for.
Evan does that same laugh now, and something twists in Barty’s gut.
“Give me some of that,” he says, reaching over Evan’s lap to grab whatever (hopefully alcoholic) beverage he has in his hand. The other boy lets him take it with a smirk playing across his lips. Barty pauses, holding it before his lips; “Not spiked?” he questions, glancing at Evan for reassurance.
Evan spreads his arms. “I’m fine. Could be a delayed reaction, though.”
Barty figures it’s highly unlikely that Potter would spike his own housemates with anything, so he downs a mouthful, swallowing it with a sour expression on his face as it hits his tastebuds.
“Ew. What is that?”
“Daisyroot?” Evan guesses. “A very watered-down Daisyroot,” he adds. Sounds about right.
Barty wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s the point of drinking if it’s not even strong?” he complains.
Evan grins wildly. “D’you just wanna get blackout and forget about Regulus?” he teases. “I’ll grab you some Simison Steaming Stout for that, mate,” Evan says. He throws an arm over Barty’s shoulders, hand coming to rest against his collarbone.
Of course, Evan would bring the conversation right back to what Barty is trying to avoid. The thing is, he wouldn’t even mind disclosing his long gone crush on Regulus; it’s just that he’s afraid of where the conversation would drift after that.
“For the last time,” Barty manages, “I don’t like Regulus. Swear on my life and everything.”
Evan studies his face for a second. Then he glances across the room to look at Regulus, still sulking in the corner of the room, and Barty knows exactly what he’s doing. Merlin, how can one person be so insistent? And wrong at that, too.
“Reg!” Evan yells, earsplittingly loud and confident as always, lifting his arm from Barty’s shoulders to wave the other boy over. “Come sit with us, would you?”
It takes a moment, but soon Regulus is sauntering across the room to join them. He glances awkwardly at the couch, waiting for something.
“Move over, you wanker,” Evan snorts, prodding Barty in the knee with his finger.
Oh. That would be it.
There’s about one inch of room between his and Evan’s thighs, and he’d very much like to keep it that way, but with Regulus stood expectantly, he can’t really say no, so Barty shuffles over until his thigh is pressed right against Evan’s, their knees knocking.
“Want a drink?” he asks, offering the Daisyroot to Regulus as an attempt to distract himself from Evan’s proximity.
“Nuh uh,” Evan says, snatching the cup away from Barty’s grasp before Regulus can even react. “Yours and mine only, mate. Get your own, Reg.”
Barty blinks in confusion. Meanwhile, Regulus just sighs.
“Didn’t want any, anyway.”
Evan’s jaw drops. “Regulus Arcturus Black doesn’t want a drink?” he says incredulously. “Unbelievable. Do you want something stronger? I was just talking to Barty about getting some Simison, if you’d like. You two could get drunk together,” he adds with a wink in Barty’s direction.
“I’m good,” Regulus says.
“What do you want then?” Evan asks in disbelief.
Barty hears Regulus say something that sounds suspiciously like ‘Potter’s dick’. He elects to keep silent on that one.
After a brief silence, Regulus groans, resting his head back on the couch. “I’m not in the drinking mood,” he grumbles. “Or the talking mood.” He closes his eyes, as if he could just fall asleep amongst the chatter and thudding of music.
Evan shrugs, and looks back at Barty. “Suit yourself.” Then he cups his hand around Barty’s ear to whisper, “You’re definitely moping over Regulus. You’ve been tense as fuck ever since he sat down here.”
His breath is warm against his skin. Barty wonders if Evan realises that the tip of his tongue flicked against the shell of his ear as he spoke, or that his fingers are brushing his temple. He has many reasons to be tense, and none of them are to do with Regulus.
“I don’t like Regulus,” Barty hisses, pulling back to stare Evan in the eye. Maybe he didn’t pull back far enough; they’re way too fucking close, he realises.
Evan’s eyes flicker down to Barty’s lips—or maybe he’s just imagining it. Then Evan pulls away entirely, tipping his head back to take another swig of the Daisyroot still held in his other hand.
“Leave some of that for me,” Barty demands.
Evan responds by fully tipping the cup back, emptying the rest of its contents into his mouth. There’s apparently way more left in the cup than the other boy had bargained for, because some splashes down onto his shirt, as well as spilling out the corners of his mouth and down his neck. He swallows, hard, and Barty watches the beads of alcohol trickle onto his chest—perfectly visible, thanks to the sinful opening of his unbuttoned shirt.
“Shame,” Evan says breathlessly, tilting the now empty cup towards Barty as if proving a point. “There might be some left on me though.”
Barty looks up at him and Evan looks right back, unwavering. That’s when Barty realises the bloody teaser has known all along.
That’s all it takes: Barty lunges at him, fisting the other boy’s shirt in his hands, crashing his lips against his. The cup drops to the ground, forgotten. He tastes like Daisyroot which Barty ordinarily finds fucking disgusting, but on Evan’s tongue, it’s the best shit he’s ever tasted.
When Barty finally can’t stand it any longer, he pushes Evan away, gasping for breath. Evan closes his eyes, chest heaving, before tilting his head up to expose his neck, wet with both the Daisyroot and sweat:
"You missed some.”