Evan Rosier had fucking rotten luck when it came to love. The first time he’d realised this was at fifteen, when Cynthia Belmont had moved to the other side of the country before he could work up the nerve to ask her out. The second was at eighteen, when he lost his virginity to Clare Montague the summer before leaving for university, a choice born out of promises and declarations of teenage love that turned to ash when he’d made the trip from Edinburgh to Brighton to visit her, only to find out she’d moved on without having the decency to let him know. The third, final and most detrimental was at twenty—with Barty Crouch. Unrequited love was survivable. Painful, sure, but manageable. But being in love with your best friend while he was hopelessly, disastrously in love with one of your other best friends? That was the kind of cruel irony that turned men to drink.
Now, at almost twenty-five, the bitterness had burned down to something quieter, like the last embers of a fire long left untended. It still ached, still burned him from the inside out, but he’d gotten so used to it by now that the pain had become part of him. If he’d loved either of them less, he might’ve walked away. No one wants to be the extra limb in someone else’s love story. But Barty wasn’t just some boy; he was Evan’s best friend. And Reg? Well, he was family, the kind Evan actually liked.
How could Evan begrudge Reg for falling in love with Barty? He knew better than anyone how easy it was to love Barty Crouch. So he swallowed it down, let it settle into his bones, made peace with being quietly, perpetually miserable. Dating was a fucking farce. Everyone he fucked, every half-hearted attempt at something real—he measured against Barty. And eventually, against Reg, too—because the two of them together, messy as they were, made a kind of sense no one else ever could. They were nothing short of beautiful. It wasn’t just that Evan wanted Barty. No, it was worse than that: he wanted what Barty and Reg had, craved it in the same way a man craves a cigarette in the cold—something to warm him from the inside out, even if it kills him slowly.
Which was why Brian had been an absolute waste of a night. Brian. What a fucking insult of a name. A man called Brian was never going to give him what he wanted, never going to ruin him emotionally, never going to claw his way into his fucking bones and love him the way Evan wanted to be loved. Not a fucking chance.
Investment banking. Dull as dust. Couldn’t even work up enough intrigue to be worth fucking. Evan hiked his bike up onto his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time as he lamented the waste of a good show. Of course Brian hadn’t appreciated it, but then again, Evan had known he wouldn’t, so he supposed he couldn’t really fault the guy for that. The flat was quiet, save for the faint hum of voices from the bathroom, a sliver of golden light spilling from under the door.
Plato twined around his legs as he lifted his bike up onto the wall mount in the hall. The cat let out a long, manipulative meow. Evan bent, scratching him behind his ears.
“You’ve already been fed, haven’t you?”
Another meow, even louder. Pathological liar.
Evan sighed, pushed off his shoes, padded towards the bathroom and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
“You two fucking?”
Reg’s voice. “No, come in.”
Evan pushed open the door and almost wished they were fucking—it might have stung less. Instead, he was greeted with a scene straight out of a fucking film, something black and white and probably French, some indie celebration of queer love and obscure poetry. Reg, in the bath looking like a Renaissance painting, all sharp cheekbones and smoke curling from his fingers, head tilted against the porcelain, eyes closed. Barty shirtless on the closed toilet lid. A new tattoo visible on his chest—three stark letters, R.A.B.—etched over his heart, the skin still pink, not yet healed. Long legs stretched out before him, feet resting on the edge of the tub. A half-empty bottle of red on the sink. No glasses. Of course not. That would imply a level of moderation neither of them possessed.
Evan leant against the doorframe. “Has anyone fed the Lord of the house?”
Barty looked up from the book in his hand. “Aye, he’s had plenty. Dinnae let the wee bastard tell you otherwise.”
“Figured.”
Reg tapped ash into the bathwater, opened one eye to look at Evan. “How was the show?”
Evan let his head fall back against the doorframe. “Fucking great. One man, one microphone, one rubber duck and an hour-long existential breakdown about capitalism.”
Barty snorted. “Fuckin’ Fringe. Gets weirder every year.”
“Indeed,” agreed Evan.
“Better or worse than the man wi’ the spoons?” asked Barty.
Evan grinned at him. “A close second.”
“And the date?” prompted Reg.
“Boring. Talked about crypto for forty-five minutes straight. No appreciation for art.”
Barty chuckled, low and warm, like the rasp of a needle finding the groove on an old vinyl, something imperfect but rich, full of static and soul.
“You don’t say.”
“Honestly, I was surprised,” Evan deadpanned. “I thought the bits about neoliberalism devouring the human soul would really speak to him. Guess I was wrong.”
Reg hummed, amusement curling the edges of his mouth. “Take it you’re not seeing him again, then?”
“My quest for love continues.”
Barty grinned, not at Evan but at Reg, all wicked and sharp. “Love’s paradox—too much of it, you suffocate; too little, you starve. And being fucked up the arse by it is just part of the human condition.”
Evan rolled his eyes.
But it made Reg smile, a look that was part amused affection and part something else distinctly more private.
“I don’t recall Kierkegaard ever saying anything about being fucked up the arse,” he said, attention fixed on Barty.
“It’s my interpretation,” came Barty’s response.
Evan took that as his cue to leave, shutting the door softly behind him, the familiar ache of being on the outside and looking in echoing through his chest. Fucking Brian and his complete inability to be even remotely interesting. He should’ve known by now, known not to be disappointed. It happened every time, after all. Every time Reg visited, he felt some need to go chase after the impossible, as if he’d ever find even a shadow of what they had with some sorry sod off fucking Tinder. Pathetic.
Evan scooped Plato into his arms, the warm, purring weight stretching lazily against his chest. The cat’s claws kneaded into Evan’s shirt as he pushed open his bedroom door with a shoulder, the room beyond dim, the city bleeding light through the half-closed curtains. He dropped Plato onto the bed, flicked on the bedside lamp and pulled off his jeans to collapse onto the mattress beside the cat.
It had been just over a month since they’d brought Reg back from The Marauders’ gig in Glasgow, a month in which Evan had gone on three shit dates, a month since Reg had slotted into their flat like he always did, like the walls had been waiting for him all along. A month of Barty humming ’80s pop hits while he cooked breakfast, something he only ever did when he was happy. It had been good, better than good. No fights, no slammed doors, no stretched silences that curdled into something mean and jagged. But it was August now. The inevitable loomed. Reg would leave soon, return to London, back to his brother, back to his band, back out of Barty’s reach. And Barty—who had been asking Regulus to stay with everything but words since the minute he arrived—would crumble. Soon Barty would start picking fights, throwing barbs like knives, trying to make Reg mad enough that he wouldn’t go. It wouldn’t work. It never did—Reg would go cold, the way he always did, retreat into himself, into silence, until he became something distant, untouchable. It was a pattern Evan had watched play out a hundred times before, as inevitable as the seasons, and as fucking predictable as a cigarette burning down to the filter.
He wanted to shake them, both of them, wanted to rip the script from their hands and set fire to it. Because he didn’t understand; Barty had fallen for Reg within twenty-four hours of meeting him. Evan had seen it happen before his eyes, gritting his teeth as his last hopes of him and Barty being anything other than friends were dashed against the wall. Reg was slower, took longer, but he got there. Evan knew he loved Barty, saw it in the way he looked at him, in the way they spoke in a language no one else could quite translate, some bizarre amalgamation of philosophy and poetry that only they understood. And yet, he knew Reg still hadn’t told his band or his friends—not even Sirius. Four years they’d been on and off, dancing around each other, neither of them able to look at anyone else, and yet Reg still hadn’t told anyone. Evan knew it was killing Barty. And it wasn’t that Evan didn’t get it; he did. He had just as much to lose as Reg did, more, in fact. The difference was, he didn’t give a shit.
If he had what they had, he’d have torn his world apart for it. Would parade Barty through the streets, would take the fallout with a grin and his middle finger raised. Fuck his family, fuck his money, fuck his title—he’d never wanted any of those things, hated all of it. Hated the injustice of what life had handed him, the unfairness of it, would’ve burnt it all to the ground if he could. In fact, he planned to. When he could. Because everything Evan had inherited in life came with rules. Rules Evan had never cared for. But Reg did. Still, despite everything, some part of him cared what they—his family, the world—thought of him. Reg might say he was protecting Barty, keeping him safe. Shielding him from the inevitable wreckage of the world he, Evan and Sirius came from. But really, Reg was keeping himself safe, keeping Barty hidden, locking him away in the shadows even from the people who mattered—that wasn’t protection. That was abandonment. That was leaving him stranded, waiting, watching, caught in the crossfire of a love story that only existed behind closed doors.
Plato purred beside Evan, the smug little bastard. Evan stared at the ceiling, realising with grim clarity that his Friday night had come down to this—alone in bed, snuggling a cat that wasn’t even really his. A tragic fucking indictment of his love life. He exhaled, long and slow, and then flicked off the light.
Time turned chaotic, slipping through the cracks of August in the way it did every year. The Fringe melted away all structure and sanity—turning the month into one giant altar dedicated to chaos and mayhem. Edinburgh cracked open, its hidden chambers and cavernous underbelly exposed to the glow of stage lights, turning the city into something alive, sleepless, endless—an overfed beast gorging on excess, its body tripling in size as artists and tourists flooded its streets.
Evan knew the locals hated it. He’d heard the complaints since moving to the city—the groaning about packed streets and overpriced pints, the desperate longing for the quiet October would bring. But Evan loved it. Had loved it since the first summer he spent in Edinburgh, since the first time he let himself get lost in the chaos of the festival. In the month of wild possibility, of performances in basements and strangers who felt like best friends, of theatre, and comedy and music, the good, the bad and the fucking weird all wrapped up in four glorious, messy weeks.
It was during the last two days of the Fringe, with the city buzzed on its final dregs of madness, that the fighting started. Barty’s voice, sharp and frayed, leaking through the walls of the flat, anger curling around every syllable like smoke. The fights started, and they didn’t stop until the end of the first week of September.
Barty’s voice echoed through the flat, anger concealing the hurt beneath.
“The guy is arse over tits in love with you and you’ve done fuck all tae discourage him.”
It was the same fight they’d been having all summer—the same fight they’d been having while Reg was on tour. The fight about James Potter. And honestly, Evan couldn’t blame Barty for being angry; he probably would’ve felt the same in Barty’s position. Evan probably would’ve held a grudge too, if James had looked at his boyfriend the way he looked at Reg—like he couldn’t help himself, like Reg was his centre of gravity and everything else was just background noise. It was obvious. And it was enough to make anyone insecure. James was the kind of person you looked at and just knew he was attractive. Tall, dark, all abs and ink bleeding into his dark skin, and that million-pound smile. Didn’t matter that it was a little too polished, a little too perfect—like someone had designed him for a high-end fashion shoot rather than let him be born messy and real. Didn’t matter that Evan had always felt like the guy was missing something. No sharp edges, no weirdness, nothing to make him truly unique. The kind of guy everyone agreed was hot, and a good guy, but no one ever had an interesting story about. Didn’t matter that to Evan there was no competition. Not when Barty was right there. Not in Evan’s eyes—none of that mattered because Evan wasn’t a part of this fight.
Besides, the fight wasn’t really about James, not at its core. No, this was about Barty knowing Reg would leave. That he would always leave. And Reg, refusing to see the fear behind Barty’s anger, the desperation behind the accusations. It was the same fight, over and over, a fight that, in actuality, predated James by years.
Reg’s responses were resigned, always the same. “James is my friend. That’s all. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Evan closed his door—tried not to listen to the details of this particular fight, but he heard them anyway.
“Aye, sure.” Barty, anger rising. “Because friends fuckin’ look at each other like that.”
Reg’s voice. Cold and frustrated. “Like what, exactly, Barty? How is it that you imagine he looks at me?”
“Like he’d carve your name into his very ribs if he thought it’d make you his!”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? ’Cause it seems tae me like ye like it. Like ye like bein’ wanted by him. Like ye don’t mind lettin’ him think he’s got a chance wi’ you even when ye’re here in my bed ’ery night.”
Evan could picture it perfectly—the way Regulus, in the next room, would pinch the bridge of his nose, the flick of his wrist as he stubbed out a cigarette, calculated, controlled with his comeback.
“That’s not fair and you know it.”
This was usually the point where Barty backed down, or stormed out. Evan waited for the telltale sound of a door slamming, but it didn’t come. No, this time he pushed back.
“Fair? Fair’s no’ keepin’ me a secret. Fair’s no’ lettin’ your brother think ye’re alone when ye’re no’—fair’s no’ makin’ me watch ye walk away at the end of every fuckin’ summer.”
“You know why—”
“Aye, I ken,” Barty cut in. “What I dinnae ken is what the fuck it is ye actually get up tae when yer no here. An’ I’m at the end of my fuckin’ tether, Reggie. I’m tired of waitin’ fer ye tae decide if you want me. Ye love me? Well, fuckin’ prove it because I’m ’bout ready tae give up.”
Evan stared blankly at the wall dividing his bedroom from the living room. This had never happened before. Barty never gave up—he always relented at the last minute. But not this time. This time he meant it. Evan could hear the finality in his voice.
Barty was done. Finally, done.