Chapter Text
Like it's actually important, but he lied 'cause I sure did watch him
Showing up wearing black, and he knows that
Evan doesn't know whose house this is. It's always someone’s house. Probably someone whose parents are always in Milan or rehab, someone whose fridge is full of alcohol and nothing else, someone who has never heard the word no. The kind of house Barty Crouch Jr. always finds his way into. And where he goes, Evan follows.
The house is all red solo cups and LED lights that make everyone’s skin look radioactive. There’s a bassline shaking the floorboards and a haze of cigarette smoke clinging to the ceiling like ghosts who never learned how to leave. The music is too loud and the song playing makes you feel like you're in someone else's dream.
Evan stands near the kitchen, back pressed to the counter, drink untouched in his hand. He doesn’t like parties, never really was a party person. But he always comes to these — just in case Barty shows up. And he always does, eventually. Always on his own time.
When the door swings open, Evan knows before he sees him.
He feels it first. Then the smell of cigarette smoke and gasoline, that cheap aftershave Barty must steal from corner stores and chain convenience marts. And then: there he is.
Barty moves like he owns the place. Camo jacket off one shoulder, lip split in the corner, knuckles bruised like they’ve been kissed by concrete. His eyes flick over the crowd like he’s looking for a fight or someone to ruin and sometimes, with him, they’re the same thing. He doesn’t see Evan right away, well, he never does, and Evan tells himself that it shouldn’t matter, that he’s better than this, but then Barty does see him, and it’s like the world locks into place. Like something sacred and sick blooming in Evan’s chest all at once.
By the time Barty makes it to him, Evan’s heart is beating like it’s trying to break through his ribs.
He wants to play it cool, but there’s never been anything cool about the way he wants Barty.
Like God got bored and made him crave something that would kill him slowly.
Barty leans in, voice low and amused. “Look at you. Waiting like a good little bitch.”
Evan rolls his eyes, but it’s weak. “You’re late.”
Barty snorts. “I’m always late. You know that.”
And he is. Barty’s late to everything; class, detention, probation meetings. He’s late like it’s a performance, like showing up early would ruin the act. But Evan waits anyway, because when Barty shows, the whole world tilts on its axis, just enough to feel it in your teeth.
“Anything good here? You drunk yet?” Barty asks, already reaching for Evan’s cup.
“Not enough,” Evan murmurs.
Barty takes a sip, grimaces. “This is shit.”
“So are you.”
That earns him a grin; wide, wolfish, all teeth and danger. “Still showing up for me though.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
But Barty leans in, awfully close that he can feel his heartbeart, his breath warm against Evan’s ear. “Why not? You love me.” Evan doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. They both know it’s true.
Not the way people mean it when they say love; not... flowers and hand-holding and whispered dreams. No, Evan loves Barty like an infection, bruises blooming beneath the skin, like something parasitic and permanent.
But Barty doesn’t love people. He uses them instead; Collects them like cigarette butts and vinyl records and burns through them, leaving them empty. But Evan? Evan would let him. He wants to let him.
“Come on,” Barty says suddenly, grabbing Evan’s wrist, tugging him toward the back door. He doesn't need to ask where they are going, it doesn't really matter, not anyway, Evan will follow anyway.
—
Can you read my mind? I've been watching you
(You know it, you know it, you know it's true)
Outside, the air was colder than Evan expected. The party’s heat clung to the back of his neck like sweat, but out here it was so cold that it'd make his teeth hurt if he was to breathe too deep.
They walked past overturned bins and broken bottles glinting in the dirt. The night was stitched together with faraway traffic and the low throb of music still bleeding through the house’s cracked windows.
They reach the car, if you can even call it one: a beat-up gray Mercury with one headlight busted and cigarette burns in the seats. Barty stole it, obviously. Evan knows that, everyone does; It’s got plates from a different county and the keys are hotwired, the dash torn open like a wound. But Barty calls it his, and Evan lets him.
He climbs into the passenger seat, watching Barty light a cigarette like he’s in a movie. Wrist cocked just so, mouth around the filter like he’s trying to ruin someone with it.
The radio doesn’t work, so Barty keeps a little tape deck in the glovebox. Evan watches as he pulls out a cassette, the label smeared, case cracked. He pops it in and a warbled track starts; slow, sultry, ruined-sounding. Slowdive, of course. Barty only plays shit that sounds like it’s bleeding through his soul.
Evan sinks into the seat, legs kicked up on the dash. His thigh brushes Barty’s gearshift hand and neither of them move.
“I can’t believe this thing still runs,” Evan said, reaching for the seat belt even though he knew Barty never wore his. Barty just smirked, lit out the cigarette and started driving.
The gas station sat like a dying star at the edge of town; flickering signs, half-lit windows, a place people forgot existed until they needed cigarettes or a piss break. The parking lot was cracked concrete, weeds splitting the seams, and the only car in the lot was a rusted-out Civic that looked like it hadn’t moved in weeks.
Barty parked the car crooked, half in a spot, half on the curb, didn’t say anything as he killed the engine. Just leaned over Evan and popped the glove box open. Inside there was a switchblade, roll of singles, a stolen joint wrapped in a bus ticket stub. And a ski mask. Shit.
“You’re kidding,” Evan said, staring at it.
Barty didn’t smile. “They’re not even armed. It’s a high school kid and some dropout who microwaves burritos all night.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You coming or not?”
There it was again, that look in Barty’s eyes. Like fire behind glass. Like nothing mattered unless Evan said yes. And the sickest part?
“Yeah. Of course I am.”
—
Couldn't fight to save your life, but you look so cool
Camo jacket, robbing corner stores
Inside, the gas station was dead quiet. The overhead lights buzzed. Somewhere in the back, a radio played a song Evan didn’t recognize, soft and syrupy. The air smelled like burnt coffee and sour mop water.
Barty kept his hood up. Walked straight to the counter like he was asking for change. Evan hung back near the snack aisle, heart kicking against his ribs. He didn’t know if he was scared or excited. Maybe both. Maybe it didn’t matter.
It happened fast.
One second Barty was asking about smokes. The next, he was halfway over the counter, voice low and vicious: “Open the fucking register.”
The kid behind the counter froze. Couldn’t have been older than them, maybe working two jobs, maybe scared out of his mind. Evan watched his hands shake as he fumbled with the keys.
“B,” Evan hissed.
Barty didn’t turn around. “We’re fine.”
“You’re not even wearing the fucking mask.”
“Doesn’t matter. The Jackass won’t even remember my face.”
“I will,” the cashier said, panicked and quickly.
Barty turned then, slowly. He didn’t say anything. Just looked at him for a second too long — long enough to mean something.
The drawer popped open.
Barty grabbed the bills, quick and practiced. Stuffed them into his jacket pocket. Then he reached for the cigarettes on the wall like he had all the time in the world.
“Go,” Evan said, already backing toward the door. The cashier lunged forward, maybe trying to stop them, maybe just trying to feel brave.
Barty didn’t hesitate. Shoved him hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. “Stay down,” he snapped. They ran out the door, back into the cold. Evan’s breath hitched in his throat as they dove into the car, Barty already laughing, wild and breathless, like he hadn’t just pulled a fucking felony.
The tires screamed as they peeled out of the lot. Evan looked back once and saw the cashier stumbling out the doors, phone in hand, face pale and furious.
“You’re insane.”
“I know.” Barty grinned, eyes wild. “Isn’t it great?”
—
I only want him if he says it first to me
I wanna, uh, him in the back of his mom's Mercury
He looks like he works with his hands, and smells like Marlboro Reds
It makes me so, uh, and I can't get enough of it
They drove for miles, taking back roads and alleys, skipping red lights like they didn’t exist. The wind poured in through the broken passenger window. They didn’t stop until they hit the empty skate park, shadowed under floodlights, with half the ramps coated in graffiti and beer bottles. Barty parked crooked again, engine still running, both of them breathing hard.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. And then Barty laughed. It started low in his chest, rough from smoke and adrenaline, and Evan felt it before he heard it. “Jesus Christ,” Barty said, tipping his head back against the seat. “Did you see his face?”
Evan’s blood hadn’t stopped buzzing, his thighs ached from running and his mouth still tasted like guilt. “You’re going to get us killed.”
“I won’t let them hurt you”
“What about you?”
“What about me, Rosie? You worried?” Barty mocked him and tangled his fingers in the boy’s hair to bring him closer, “You're cute when you worry, baby.”
Evan’s back hit the passenger door with a dull, hollow thud. Barty was on him before he could say anything back.
No warning. No space. Just heat. Hands on his hips, mouth crashing into his like violence. It didn't feel romantic, but when was anything with them ever?
Their legs tangled over the center console, one of Barty’s knees wedged between Evan’s thighs, the other braced against the dashboard. Jeans yanked down halfway, zippers catching, belts clinking urgently.
Barty’s hand was under Evan’s shirt, fingers rough and shaking, mapping every rib like he was counting them, like he needed proof Evan was real. His grip was bruising. Like he was scared. Like he was claiming.
Barty kissed him again, biting this time, open-mouthed and angry. Evan kissed back like he wanted to bruise them both. His hands slipped under Barty’s shirt, nails dragging up his spine, blunt and mean. He didn’t want soft. He didn’t deserve soft. Not tonight. Not ever.
“I mean it,” Barty whispered. “You’re mine.”
“Say it first to me.” Barty pulled back just long enough to look at him; flushed cheeks, pupils blown wide, hair damp with sweat. He looked wild . Not beautiful. Not boyish. Wild.
“I’m yours, baby,” Barty said before he could stop himself. Evan made a noise like it was the only thing that had ever mattered. He reached between them, hand hot, firm, possessive and Evan arched into the touch before he even knew what he was doing. The seat creaked under them. The car rocked, windows fogged up so thick the world outside disappeared. There was nothing but this. Nothing but skin and teeth and sound. The slap of hips, the stutter of breath, the way Evan’s head tipped back and hit the glass hard enough to leave a mark. The way Barty mouthed at his neck like he was starved.
Everything between them was violent with need; it was “ I hate you ” and “ don’t leave me ” all tangled in one grip-tight moment. Evan came with Barty’s name like broken glass between his teeth, gasping it into the hollow of his throat. He didn’t mean to, he never meant to and Barty followed a second later, hand in Evan’s hair, forehead against his shoulder, muttering fuck, fuck, fuck like it was the only prayer he knew.
After, they stayed like that, half-naked, half-wrecked, breathing into the same pocket of air like they couldn’t afford to be apart even for a second. The windshield dripped with condensation, the engine ticked and somewhere in the distance, a siren howled.
“Let’s never go back there,” Barty said, quieter now. Evan turned his face to Barty’s, still so close their foreheads nearly touched. His eyes were dark, ringed with want and ruin, his mouth parted with fisbelief. Evan laughed, breathless and wrecked, then, softer than a threat but sharper than a confession, he said, “You’re fucking crazy.”
Barty grinned like that was the whole point.
—
Maybe I'll just be crazy (I'll be crazy)
And piss him off 'til he hates me
The motel room looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Cold War. Dim yellow light leaked from a cracked overhead fixture, casting long shadows over a stained carpet and warped nightstand. The bedspread was stiff and ugly; some floral patterns faded into bruised purples and rust-reds, and the air tasted faintly of mildew and burnt coffee. Outside, the neon VACANCY sign blinked its desperate SOS into the dead night.
Evan kicked the door shut behind them, shoulder pressed to the frame like he needed a second before the walls closed in. Barty didn’t say a word. He stalked across the room, dumped his jacket on the table, and sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled around his jawline and made him look even more like a ghost. Evan watched him for a second, the way he dragged in deep and held it and then crossed to the other bed, dropping down with a grunt.
“Place is a fucking grave,” he muttered.
Barty gave a short laugh. “Fitting.”
Evan didn’t answer, leaned forward instead, his elbows on his knees, letting the silence settle like ash. His hands were still shaking, just enough to notice. Enough to remember the gas station, the scream of tires, the look on the cashier’s face when Barty pointed the gun. That stupid, reckless grin he wore like a second skin. He heard the creak of the mattress as Barty laid back, boots still on, eyes fixed to the ceiling. Smoke pooled in the low light. The room smelled like cheap soap and adrenaline, but so did he probably.
“You good?” Barty asked.
Evan snorted. “Do I look good?”
“You look like you haven’t slept in a month.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Barty didn’t push, just smoked in silence.
“You ever think about quitting?” Evan asked suddenly. His voice was low, like he didn’t want to startle the question out of existence.
Barty tilted his head, one brow raised. “Quitting what? Crime?”
“Everything.”
Barty let the smoke leak out of his nose. “Quitting only works if you want something else more.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t think I know how to want something that isn’t this.”
Evan stared at the floor, jaw tight. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
Evan rubbed a hand down his face. He felt raw, stripped down to nerve endings. He didn’t know how to feel normal anymore. Not with the world moving the way it did around Barty.
“You ever scared?” he asked finally.
“All the time.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
Evan nodded, lips pressed tight. “What are you scared of?”
Barty stubbed the cigarette out in a cracked ashtray. He sat up, leaning forward, forearms on his knees. The motion made his shirt stretch across his shoulders, threadbare and damp from sweat.
“Being caught,” he said. “Being left. Turning into my father. Pick one.”
That last part slipped out too easily. Barty didn’t flinch, but Evan caught the twitch in his jaw.
“You hate him?”
“I don’t think about him. Not enough to hate.”
“That’s a lie.”
Barty looked up sharply, but Evan held his gaze. “You wouldn’t be running this hard if you didn’t hate something.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Barty laughed harshly, shaking his head like he was disappointed. “You think too much.”
“Someone has to.”
Barty leaned back, stretching his legs out. “You know what your problem is?”
Evan raised an eyebrow. “Please. Enlighten me.”
“You’re trying to find meaning in a car crash. Some things just happen, Evan. There’s no why. There’s no fucking poetry.”
Evan didn’t flinch. “Then why do you always look like you’re writing your last line?”
That shut Barty up.
One breath, then another and he hit Evan. It wasn’t clean, not like in the fights they’d had outside under street lamps and sirens. This was raw. Close-quarters. A sharp, open-palmed crack across Evan’s cheek, so fast it seemed to cut the air itself. The sound of it echoed too loud in the stale motel air.
Evan reeled but didn’t fall. His eyes went glassy, shocked for a second, not because Barty hit him, but because of what it meant that he had. Then he lunged back.
Harder, a fist to the mouth, knuckles splitting skin, enough to draw blood and maybe something deeper. Barty staggered with the impact, head snapping to the side, and blood bloomed red and fast across his teeth. For a moment, neither of them moved. They stood there, wild-breathed and locked in a stare that burned through the layers of anger and heat and everything else they were too fucked up to name.
Then Barty grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.
Their teeth clashed, mouths slick with spit and blood and something too old to be called longing. Evan didn’t know whose blood he tasted, but he didn’t care. The only thing he could think about now was Barty. Barty, Barty Barty. Stupid, beautiful Barty. His Barty. He kissed back like it was the only way to make the world shut up. Then he shoved Barty off, hard, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted through fire, and Barty stumbled a half-step with a madman’s grin, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
“Fucking psycho,” Evan muttered, voice wrecked and raw.
He turned and stormed into the bathroom, snatching a towel from the rack. He ran the water until it hissed and spat against the basin, the cheap faucet whining in protest. He pressed the towel to his own cheek first, wincing at the sting. Then he stalked back into the room and threw it at Barty’s chest. “Clean your damn face.”
For a moment, the room was nothing but their breath and the buzz of the light overhead. Barty stood up, pacing. He dragged a hand through his hair, restless like a wolf in a cage. His shoulders twitched with the effort of staying still, like he was holding back a scream or a laugh or knowing him, probably both.
“You really think we make it out of this?”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to.”
He laughed, “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all night.”
Evan looked up at him, slowly, “You’re fucking crazy.”
Barty crouched down, resting his hands on Evan’s knees. The look in his eyes was fire and ruin and something terrifyingly alive.
“Yeah,” he said. “But so are you. That’s why you’re still here.”
He got up and started peeling his shirt over his head, the fabric sticking where sweat had dried into salt across his back.
“I need a fucking shower,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, over his shoulder: “You coming or not?”
Evan didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, eyes trailing the curve of Barty’s spine, the fading bruises like ink blots across his ribs. He rose slowly, every joint stiff, aching. The bathroom door groaned as Barty pushed it open, steam already curling around the cracked tiles from the shower he'd turned on.
Inside, the light was dim and jaundiced. The mirror above the sink was half-fogged, splitting their reflections down the middle. Barty stepped under the spray, head tilted back, water sluicing through his hair and over the lean lines of his shoulders. Evan hesitated at the edge of the stall. Not out of modesty, nothing between them had ever been innocent, but because something in the air had shifted. Less heat, more... weight.
“Don’t just stand there like you’ve never seen me naked.” Barty called without looking back.
Evan huffed a laugh, then pulled off his clothes and stepped in. The water was too hot, scalding almost, but he didn’t flinch. Just let it burn the night off his skin.
They didn’t talk at first. Just stood there, steam ghosting around them, the small space making them more aware of every breath, every shift. Evan grabbed a bar of soap and started working it into his chest, fingers moving slowly over a purpling bruise. Barty watched, leaning into the tile, one eye half-lidded.
“What about after?” Evan asked, voice barely louder than the water.
“After what?”
“This.” Evan gestured vaguely, soap still in his hand. “The running. The stealing. The—” He stopped short of naming what they did in the car. “All of it.”
Barty was quiet for a beat. “You mean like, settling down? Getting a fucking job at some shitty diner? Picking up night shifts and pretending I know how to smile at people? Getting married and having children? Continuing my legacy?”
Evan snorted. “That’s not what I meant.”
Barty pushed off the wall, stepped closer. Water streaked between them, warm and fast. “Then what?”
“I don’t know. Just… not dying like bloody animals.”
“Evan, baby.” Barty’s voice was flat, serious now. “You think we’re anything else?”
Evan stared at him. “I think maybe I..We could be. If we wanted it bad enough.” There was a silence that settled between them like a loaded gun. Barty looked at Evan like he was seeing a stranger or maybe like he was seeing someone too familiar.
“You really believe that?”
“I want to,” Evan said. “I want to believe we’re not dead already.”
Barty leaned in, fingers brushing Evan’s jaw. “That’s dangerous shit, Ev. Believing.”
“Yeah, well,” Evan muttered, “so is loving you.”
For a second, neither of them moved. Then Barty let out a sharp breath, not quite a laugh, not quite anything else and kissed him softly, for the first time ever. They stood like that under the water until their skin wrinkled and the steam began to thin. The world beyond the walls felt far off, like it couldn’t touch them here.
Until, distant at first, came a sound. Low. Rising. Not from the pipes, not from the wind. A wail. Sharp. Mechanical. Sirens .
Barty’s eyes snapped open. Evan felt it too, that instant electric jolt through his gut. “Fuck,” Barty whispered.
Evan shut off the water. The air suddenly felt colder. Realer. They grabbed their clothes off the floor. Still damp, no time to dry. Outside, the sirens grew louder, no longer just passing. They were close.
Barty pulled his jeans on, still dripping. “How the fuck did they find us this fast?”
Evan didn’t answer. He was already moving, shirt halfway over his head, heart in his throat.
They burst back into the room, the sound of their breath loud against the sirens now screaming through the thin motel walls.
“Back door,” Barty barked. “There’s always a back door.”
They ran for it.