Chapter Text
Evan was not blind. He had noticed the looks, the smiles, he had noticed.
He had noticed when Barty started spending his nights with Evan- and he noticed when he stopped- he had noticed that Barty held him closer- and he noticed when he pulled away- he noticed the way Barty talked, like the boy started to use a filter.
He noticed Barty stop making the jokes, and he noticed the flirting directed towards another boy.
Evan was not dumb. He knew he was hot, and he knew that was all he had to offer.
So he couldn't blame Barty, he couldn't blame him at all. But it still hurt, it hurt when Barty didn't laugh as hard or when Barty would ditch him.
He knew he shouldn't be bothered by it, he knew why but he was bothered. Why couldn't Barty spend all his time with Evan instead? Evan wasn't ever an option.
He wasn't the person who you picked out of a room full of people. He was the person you saw in the hallway who you thought was a loser.
He was good enough until there were options. But there hadn't been options, Barty had always chosen Evan?
So yes, it did hurt when for once- he didn't.
What did Pettigrew have that he didn't? They were both blond, and they both had blue eyes- well not exactly but close enough. Evan was skinny, he was tall, he looked fake. Pettigrew looked soft, real, he understood.
So Evan saw it, he really did. Pettigrew was smart, he was sly, he was funny, and he was attractive. Evan was simply not. Pettigrew was the type of person you could trust.
Evan was alone. Not in the way that everyone had left, he was actually surrounded by people. But he was alone.
He liked to sit outside Hogwarts with the plants no one had cared for. He watched the spiders pass, and the ants trying to make a living. He just wanted to live.
He sat by the stones, they had seen so many things. Girls bringing other girls to love each other in secret, boys meeting boys to be able to look at each other and smile- the people who had lived, he wanted to know what the stones had seen.
How many cigarettes smoked, how many bottles thrown, how many of his own lighters.
He was alone, but he was surrounded. Memories that weren't even his own, they lived around him. People who broke down where he was sitting, people who laughed, people who kissed, people who found out how cruel humanity can be.
Stories he'd never know existed with the spiders, plants, and stone. Ten years later, someone would sit where he was and wonder who sat before them.
So Evan did what he did every night. It was a thought that had come to him when he was high, he had had a paper with him and a thought.
So he wrote, he wrote thoughts and what had happened to him. He did it the next day as well. He didn't want it to be a diary, he wanted every person who sat by the stone to see a paper and pen and write their own stories. Write about a cute girl they saw, or write about an experience they can't stop thinking about, confessions.
He wrote his own. He made his own charm to protect it even, it was in a box- a dark green box that had nothing in particular about it covered by the bushes of flowers. Maybe it was dumb and he would die and the flowers would wilt and the notebook would be stolen but he hoped one person saw it and smiled. He hoped at least one person would look at the words and know who he was.
He had told Regulus, the night after Regulus told him about Sirius. Evan told him about the paper.
When Evan went to the stone the next day, he saw a single word scratched out in handwriting that was unmistakably Regulus'. He knew Regulus would never be able to write it down but the fact he even thought to was enough. it was enough.
He had never told Barty, the amount of times he had written Barty's name was much too embarrassing.
He hoped he'd be able to reread what he wrote, when he was old and dying, rotting and wilted, and laugh and remember what did happen rather than cry and remember what could've been.
He hoped future him was happy, he would try and do that now but he didn't think it was possible.
He can't do that though, he needed to start when he could rather than wait but he spent his life waiting, and he would always wait. It was a family thing, they avoided and waited.
"Oh-" He looked up.
There was a boy there, and he frowned. The boy could've left without saying anything, or he could've ran away at the surprise but the boy didn't- he gasped in such a way that begged for attention.
The boy had wanted Evan to notice them. Curious.
"Uh I wanted to go to the greenhouse-" Smart it was, an introduction. He probably wanted Evan to ask him why or to humor him in conversation but Evan waited.
If the boy wanted to be known so bad, Evan didn't want him to cheat.
"Yeah," The strange boy nodded and spun around to walk away, "Uh sorry!"
"It's alright Pettigrew." He sighed and didn't bother to look up from the paper, he already knew what look he would get. He wasn't new to surprise.
"See you later, Rosier." This time he did look up. He watched the boy walk off and he frowned.
That was awkward. He looked back down at the flowers by his feet and wondered if someone would be able to sit where he was and think the same.
So he wrote the experience down and found it good enough. Then ended the night with a walk back to the dungeons. Bored.
He had planned to spend the night by the stone but he didn’t want to knowing there was a boy right there watching.
Was it just him to find it weird? Maybe some people wouldn’t care and they wouldn’t think about it so much. They wouldn’t get up as if trying to avoid their life playing out like a movie. That had to be a selfish thought.
He thought about the smirk the boy had given him.
Peter Pettigrew, Gryffindor. Year 6. Friends with Black, Potter, Lupin. He seemed closer to Macdonald, Evans, and Vance whatever it was. Pettigrew was a sort of eye candy.
Evan would be lying to say he wasn’t jealous.
He was jealous of Pettigrew’s friends, of the attention he got, of the perks he got, at the attention Barty gave him.
He would sell his bones for Barty to look at him like he did Pettigrew.
It made him sick. It made him want to die. To sink into the soil and let the worms find a place in his skin, let the plants wrap around his body. He wanted to rot into the earth.
But he didn’t. He wondered if it was possible without magic, he wondered if he could do it.
"Evan?"
Evan wasn’t a light sleeper, it was always better to pretend to not hear the noises than wake up. So he wasn’t a light sleeper but Barty whispering was enough to wake him up.
He couldn't help the smile when Barty walked over- he was so loud- and settled in next to Evan. His arms wrapping around the boy. His body didn't work around Barty, controlled by strings that only Barty could hold. How pathetic was that?
In another life he would've cried at the moment, it was all he had ever wanted. Barty, all he had ever wanted was Barty.
And he had him, he fucking had him and he didn't. A part of Evan knew he was losing Barty but it didn't matter he needed this more than water, more than food. He needed Barty to breathe, and it was so selfish of him.
He was selfish.
"Want to talk about it, love?" He turned so he was able to face Barty, thumb wiping away the tears that hadn't even fully fallen yet- in another world he would've kissed them.
He would've cherished Barty and Barty would be his, they would be each other's.
But that was not the world they lived in.
"Not really." Barty whispered, tucking himself into Evan. Evan loved it, he needed it, Evan needed this more than anything and he hated himself for it.
"You burnt it right?" He felt the second Barty tensed and it shattered him.
"Whatever your father says is wrong. You're not a failure, you're not a disappointment, you're perfect, you're beautiful, baby."
And Evan needed self control, he needed something to stop him, he needed to erase that moment he needed to fix it.
But Barty had looked so beautiful and he couldn't help himself- he had always been so selfish.
So he kissed him. He kissed him. He kissed Barty.
Everything was screaming no and everything was screaming yes, and he hated himself for it. He hated the way Barty had kissed back- it lacked enjoyment it was just lust- he hated the way Barty got on top of him, he hated that night so much.
And when Barty had fallen asleep, Evan allowed himself to cry.
He hated himself. He hated himself. He hated himself. He was horrible. He was so selfish. He wanted to die.
A moment he had wanted since he met the boy, the moment he wanted to be special- it was lust. Lust. Lust. Lust. It would only be lust.
And he tried so hard not to be ashamed. And he failed. He failed. He failed. He failed. He failed. He failed.
He was such a waste.
He was such a joke.
And he loved it.
Evan would do anything for Barty, and it would be love.
But Barty was lust- it was never love. Never love. He would always be the second choice.
He needed to rip his skin off, to cut out his bones, to take his very veins and carve them out. Oh wouldn't the world like him better if he was perfect? Perfect like Pettigrew, perfect white smile, perfect hair, perfect clothes, and a perfect mind? But his mind was dirty, it was twisted, and he was rotten.
He was rotting away, the mold growing on his skin and he was rotting. He was dying, he would die. He would die. He would die. He would die. He would die.
Make sure I have a good funeral.
He couldn't breathe, no breathing. His lungs were collapsing, his throat was being ripped apart, his ribs shattering. His bones breaking, he was breaking, he was breaking, he was breaking, he was breaking-
Play good music, won't you?
He was broken.
-
If Barty could redo any moment he would redo September 16th. He would erase it, it didn't need to happen.
If you asked Evan, he'd answer the same.
Barty loved sex. The idea of attention, for something so natural. Well, sex wasn't natural- it was simply said as so. But that could count as the same couldn't it?
But Barty was a freak, he loved the touch and the words- he loved the lies. They were such pretty lies. He was such a pretty lie.
He wondered often if he could be another's pretty little lie? He wanted to be loved, he needed love but he was unlovable. It didn't bother him anymore. Except sometimes it really did. And the bullet shot through his head and the gun reloaded. The blood was all he could taste and he accepted the taste, it was a familiar taste. He took it as a reminder, he was ugly.
He was blood, guts, and bones covered with skin that didn't seem to fit him correctly.
He wondered if he was even complete. God had to have just forgotten to finish him. He had to be a draft, an outline.
Maybe God had a plan for him, a good pretty plan, if so he wanted to know what it was.
He didn't want this to be the plan. He had spent every second on his knees, ignoring the marks the floor left.
He prayed for death, he prayed for things his father would've hit him for. Selfish things, he just wanted God to know him. Did God forget about him? Was he a mistake? He hoped not. He didn't want this to be his life.
He would give anything for a message, he wanted God to remember him. He didn't think it worked like that however. Perhaps he was the one who needed to remember.
He didn't know God, but he hoped God loved him. One day he'd ask Him. Unless it was too late. He was a sinner, that much was clear, he just didn't know if God could forgive him for it. Confession was supposed to do that- well repenting didn't work if you planned on doing the sin again so maybe it was pointless.
Did he disappoint him too much? Please, no. Barty was desperate. He wanted to have a worth, he wanted to have value. But he was worth nothing. Barty was nothing.
He knew he couldn't be saved, he was messed up so much. He just wanted someone to care, a true honest person to care.
But he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve any of it. If only his life was a movie, if it was he'd get a happy ending. A happy ending was a dream, and each day he'd have to wake up. Was it too much of a stretch to be happy? He could dream all night long but that was all it was. At the end of the day, he was the same pathetic coward.
He could pretend though. He could smile, but it was nothing compared to when he screamed. He would yell and hit and claw and he wouldn't show weakness, he couldn't afford being weak in this economy.
He sometimes thought of himself like a dog, one that was too wild for a muzzle. He was raised to fight so he did fight- he fought and he bled. It didn't matter that his coat was soaked and his skin was ripped he would be free. It’d be okay.
He had met Evan Rosier when he was six. His father had told him there was a new neighbor, and told him he needed to meet them.
Barty had gone and the one thing he thought was the neighbor was very pretty. He visited the boy daily, and soon enough they grew attached to each other.
Then Evan introduced Barty to Regulus who introduced them to Sirius. Barty and Sirius had been everything.
Sirius had been the first person he had come out to. Sirius understood, he was nice and he understood. Sirius cut his hair and dressed him in his old clothes. Evan and Regulus found out soon enough. And then his father did.
He still had a scar; sometimes Barty thought his dad left scars as warnings instead of punishments. They had made a deal, his father let Barty transition if he took his name- a status thing apparently. Barty took it.
That was one line his friends never crossed, he was not his father.
Until he was. He was 14 and Sirius had yelled at him, "I don't even know who you are anymore. You're a monster. You've become your father, Bartemius. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Bartemius. You've become your-
father
father
he was his.
bartem
he became
his
ius
bartemius.
.father
Barty didn't actually know what was wrong with him.
He was a mistake. He really was. And he couldn't blame it on his father nor his mother.
That was on him. His mind worked too slow, and every opinion and every thought had evidence behind it. Google shaped his mind, that wasn't normal.
He couldn't experience anything original. All thoughts, all actions, all games, everything had been done before. Like a repetition.
One, and one, and one, and one, doomed to always repeat it; two, then two, then two again, doomed to always see it.
Being made to see something happen while knowing how it will end is torture. It's lazy and it's boring. It fit Barty perfectly.
Barty lied too much he thought. He wasn't boring, he was safe.
He loved adventure, he loved thrill, he loved risks but he calculated everything. There was a 66% percent chance of dying, 77% for that and this and he took the knowledge and took it in, he didn't care.
Well he did care, that was his thing. He cared too much. Some people told him it was a good thing but he didn't believe them at all.
He became obsessed with things, he wanted everything while deserving absolutely nothing. He was so selfish. He wanted love while giving hate, he wanted kisses and he threw punches. He wanted coffee and he wanted tea.
He couldn't handle it. It was making him crumble. His ribs were cracked and his bones had mold growing out of them, maggots curled in his skin and flies gathered around his head.
And then they weren't. A snap and he was fine. A snap and he was everything he had ever wanted. A voice at the back of his head taunted him but he didn't care enough to let it speak. He forgot his own name but that didn't matter. He didn't need his identity, he didn't even need a body, right? That was how it worked, right?
"I love you." His mind had accepted it, who couldn't love him. He was great at everything, he could give people correct answers, he could give people whatever they wanted.
He was fine with being used, happy. He had to be happy, if he wasn't he was weak and fuck he hated being weak.
Manipulation, that made him strong. Surviving or doing he had yet to figure out.
He could no longer recognize his reflection in his mirror but he was fine with that. His mind was slowly deteriorating but he survived?
He was alive, his heart was beating and his lungs were working. His DNA chained him to this and he knew it. So, he was alive. He was living. He was alive and yet he was dying.
He was dying. Every breath he took was one step closer to death and every breath he skipped was another. A death where two at most mourned.
He had loved, and people loved him. He had had so many people, but he was sure they had enough sex toys to make up for it.
He wasn't normal, he thought. He wanted love, but he didn't want to love. He wanted attention and never wanted to give it.
He was a doll, yes, that was all he could be. He would do whatever somebody wanted, and he'd smile and look pretty. He'd lose his brain if it made them happy. He hoped people were happy with him. A dream.
"I love you." He didn't believe it this time. he had had the sex, he didn't do anything more than one night, he grew too attached. And yet.
He heard it in his ear, a whisper with a choked sob and he pretended to sleep.
He didn't want to upset Evan, he never did. Evan was the line he couldn't cross.
He found himself so sick, he laid in Evan's bed, holding Evan and he thought of Peter. Barty thought of Peter while in Evan's arms. And he hated himself for it.
He hated himself for a lot of things, self realization.
I love you.