Chapter Text
I. James Fleamont Potter
Saturday, November 4th, 2017
To be honest, James isn’t surprised to wake up to a text from Regulus.
[r.a.b.]: so studio six tmr?
It was sent the night before at five after one in the morning. Reasonable people would text someone when they know they will be up. At least if they want an answer. Most people want answers to the questions they ask.
Regulus Black is not most people. James can tell that Regulus was waiting for him to text first. He can tell that he wasn’t supposed to give in so easily. He was ready to wait James out. But that didn’t quite work out. James was fast asleep by eleven last night, and he hadn’t had a single thought about his plans for Saturday morning, afternoon, or evening.
To be honest, James didn’t expect Regulus to text him. He wasn’t surprised, but he sure as hell wasn't holding his breath. He sort of hoped that Regulus would text him a few days ago or talk to him in person sometime this week. But he didn’t. Regulus said very few words during practices and avoided eye contact with James at all costs.
He could be upset with Regulus. He fucking has been for the past week, but James woke up today on the right side of the bed. He feels fucking fantastic. He isn’t sore, his hair already looks perfect, he knows what he’s going to wear, and he doesn’t feel sick. This is a perfect morning so far. Regulus Black couldn’t possibly change that.
At least James hopes not. He’ll probably try to ignore it and continue with his perfect day, but sometimes Regulus seems to peel up his skin and use it as his blanket. Like last weekend. He dug deep, staying tucked away every single day since. Maybe he’s still there, or maybe he left when he sent that text last night.
[prongspotter]: If u mean today in like 2 hours sure
Immediately after he hits send, Regulus views it. It was probably an accident, but now James has seen it. So Regulus is stuck. He has to say something or at the very least, he has to like the message. It's the point of no return, Regulus has to acknowledge him.
[r.a.b.]: okay c u
But that doesn’t mean that James has to return the favour.
- - -
James likes his routines. He doesn’t follow them all of the time, but they’re nice to fall back on if he doesn’t know what to do or if he feels lost. Routines are like his backup plan in case everything else falls through.
Except for his morning routine. His getting ready routine. Same difference. This routine, it just seems to stick with him. It makes him feel awake and alive and ready for the day no matter what kind of day it ends up being. Sometimes, he differs from this routine if he has something more important to do or if he feels super lazy, but usually, he can bring himself around to doing it.
It starts with the bathroom. James wakes up before the rest of his roommates, so it’s easy for him to get the bathroom all to himself. He uses the toilet, splashes cold water onto his face, brushes his teeth, applies deodorant, and shaves. Specifically in this order. It makes the most sense in his head so that’s how he does it.
He gets dressed. Then he runs. It isn’t long. Just a twenty-minute run in the neighbourhood. This part wakes him up. The wind. The air is as fresh as it comes in London. The feeling of his feet on the ground over and over. It grounds him for the day, starts him off right.
When it comes time for the bathroom (round two), James touches up his deodorant like girls touch up their makeup, light and quick. He then washes his face with the face wash that Lily gave him, then moisturises with his mum’s regular face cream. It keeps him soft.
Then he skips breakfast and changes out of his running clothes and into his regular clothes. Anything after that isn’t routine, it just happens to follow through that way. Usually, he does homework or sits on his phone. Maybe he’ll pick up the dorm a little. Probably not.
He’s supposed to meet Regulus now, and he has no idea how to act, how to think, or what to say. He’s nervous. He isn’t even scared, it’s just bad butterflies in his stomach. They’re upset and they won’t stop fluttering. James can’t tell if they’re worried or angry. He doesn’t know how he's supposed to feel about kissing his best friend’s brother and ignoring it for a week. No one knows. The only person he can talk to about it is Regulus.
- - -
“I’m so fucking sorry, James.”
It takes James a solid forty seconds that Regulus is already in the studio and he’s been waiting for James. It takes another couple of seconds to process that he’s sitting on the floor with his bag still on his shoulder. It takes another couple of seconds to realise he's standing up. And just a few more to process that he has said anything at all.
“What?” James says. He just wants to make sure he’s heard Regulus correctly. That he’s the one apologising. That he thinks he has something to apologise for. That Regulus Black can say sorry and sound like he means it so very unlike his older brother.
“I’m sorry. For ignoring you. I thought you’d say something, and you didn’t, so I assumed you didn’t want to hear from me.” Regulus looks so young. So innocent and unknowing like he hasn’t even had a taste of life.
“That’s because I didn’t.”
He looks at Regulus, trying to look him straight in the eyes. Those sort of grayish eyes. They’re glossy and sometimes they look blue, sometimes green, but most consistently grey. Regulus squirms under his gaze, keeping his mouth shut. He won’t meet James’ eyes.
“But I was just upset. It doesn’t mean I’ll ignore you forever. I mean, I did reply to you when I saw your message. So…” James tries. He doesn’t like Regulus looking so alone? Regretful? Guilty?
“I just didn’t mean to mess everything up. I don’t want it to be like that. I like what we have, and we’re good at what we do. I don’t want to mess things up especially with the production coming up,” Regulus explains, still not looking James in the eye. He speaks with his hands. They move when he can’t think of the world (at least in English) or when he doesn’t know what to say next.
James likes that. It helps him understand everything so much better. Sirius speaks with his hands, but only when he’s happy, never when he’s upset which is when James needs it the most. Regulus is the opposite. Most of his regular conversations lack the lustre of his hand movements. They’re bored and quiet. Usually, when one speaks to Regulus, they feel like he has no investment in the conversation; however, when he needs to get something across, there’s no getting away from it.
“I’m sorry that I left without saying anything and pretended it didn’t happen. But also what the fuck was that James?” Regulus’ eyes are starting to fill with frustration. “You knew that could’ve messed everything up. I could’ve stopped speaking with you all together. Someone could have seen and told anyone. Rumours could’ve started, my mum could’ve found out. Sirius could have found out.”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was so fucking drunk that I made a potentially life-ruining mistake. But it wasn’t. Was it?” James asks. His voice is sharp. It doesn’t feel like his own.
It feels better.
“Stop that.”
“What Regulus? I’m not doing anything.”
Regulus starts putting on ballet slippers, taking off a couple of layers and warming up. “There’s nothing here, Potter. There never will be. There never can be. Sirius is your best friend. He would be upset and put all of his shit onto you and I don’t want that to happen to you because of me. Besides, my mother would… be herself and that would fucking suck for me.”
“So you’ve thought about it,” James states, gathering Regulus’ attention again. James sets down his bag and Regulus trips over himself a little. He only sees it out of the corner of his eye and doesn’t say anything. The younger boy would burn up from embarrassment.
“Yeah. I have. And I’ve concluded that it can’t happen. Drop it. I assure you that I’m not worth the fuss.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He ignores the second part of Regulus’ speech. He’s not ready for the other boy to spiral into a fit of self-loathing. It doesn’t suit him well, and it makes everything awkward for James.
“Both.”
James starts to warm up too. He holds the bar as he does various exercises. He mostly copies whatever Regulus is doing. He can’t think of anything. Not when he’s facing the other boy. The tops of his cheeks are blooming pink and he won’t look James in the eye.
“Regulus, why don’t you let yourself have anything? Ever?”
“I have priorities and values. What’s the point of making a fuss over something that won’t work out?”
“You’re saying I’d get in your way?”
“You’re already in my way, Potter. Since the moment we were partnered up, you have been shoving yourself in my way.”
“Really?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t.”
James considers this. Is this really what he’s been trying to do? Or has he just been trying to become Regulus’ friend and this is the result? He likes to believe that he hasn’t been disturbing or disrupting Regulus’ life but rather adding some fun. Something new.
Regulus has stopped moving. He has taken to the floor again, stretching out his legs. Or at least he would be if he could focus on the task at hand. James follows his lead once again. Except he’s trying to have a conversation, and he isn’t going to pretend like it's small talk.
“Are you going to try and convince me that you haven't?” the boy asks, cocking his head. The attempted stretching continues.
He just has the urge to make Regulus like him back. Not in the regular people-pleasing way that usually happens, but in a core urge that Regulus’ opinion matters to him. Like it really matters. James hates it. But a gut feeling is a gut feeling, so he may as well go with it.
“No. I suppose I have been getting in your way. But it’s just because I want to know you. I want to get to know you, Reg.”
“Regu–”
“Regulus. Regulus. I want to get to know you better, Regulus.”
Regulus gives him a hurt look, but it only lasts for a moment before it flickers back to his bored, annoyed resting face. “You don’t want that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t, James.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll get bored.”
“Why do you say that?” James can’t keep the ache off of his tongue. He finds himself hurting for Regulus far too often. He doesn’t deserve his empathy sometimes, but there are other times when James can’t help it, and Regulus deserves it all. “Why would– how could anyone get bored of someone as mysterious as you? There’s so much to uncover,” he adds, teasing just a bit.
Regulus smiles. It’s self-deprecating, but it is soft. “Everyone is a mystery until you get to know them, James. Then, there’s no mystery left. Just a shitty person uncovered. I’m not a charity case like my brother was. I’m just someone who doesn’t want or care to know you.”
James’ jaw hangs for a minute. Most people love getting to know James Potter. They think he’s funny, nice, interesting, smart, charming or literally anything besides charitable. “That’s not–”
“I don’t care if you don’t like it. It’s just the truth.” His voice turns colder with every word. He’s doing this on purpose, trying to get James riled up. Trying to get James to hate him. James can feel it.
“You’re a bad liar,” James says, and from the look on Regulus’ face, no one has had the nerve to tell him that before. Or at least not lately. “And a bad manipulator. Unless you just haven’t been trying since you figured I wasn’t smart enough to catch on. But I doubt that. I sort of figured you’d be a master manipulator, but you’re smart enough to know that I’m smart enough to realise what you’re doing.”
Regulus stares. Something fills up his eyes, taking over the glacier, fighting to be released. “Why can’t you ever just fuck off and mind your own business, Potter?” It’s heat. Fire, burning passion, something of the sort is leaping from Regulus’ eyes.
“Why do you want me to leave you alone so badly? At this point wouldn’t it be easier to have a nice conversation with me? To put a little effort into being nice rather than becoming all fired up and angry? I’m sure that arguing with me every time we interact rather than just admitting that you like me or at least find me charming is a lot of energy wasted on me. If you really don’t think I should spend time on you and invest my energy into you, then why do you spend so much time and energy trying to convince me not to? It would be so much easier just to wave at me and make small talk. Would it not?”
Regulus is back on his feet, messing around with little moves, obviously distracting himself or focusing on something else to avoid freaking out.
“Just admit that you like me!” James says, following him around the studio.
Regulus doesn’t reply.
“I felt the way you kissed me back, Regulus. I was there. You can stop lying to–”
After it happens, James doesn’t even know that it has happened. His body is tingling, and he will remember this kiss a lot better than the drunk kiss. He feels ignited. He could do anything. But instead, he just kisses Regulus again. His hands fill the hollows of the boy’s cheeks. His thumb traces the beauty mark on the pale skin.
They’re such a contrast, the two of them. Regulus is so light, and delicate. He’s thin and fragile. He looks like he is made out of porcelain, too valuable to touch. And his eyes contain no colour. They’re just grey. James is more muscly than toned. He’s bronzed and has rougher skin that’s almost catching on Regulus’. He has a brighter smile, and his brown eyes are flecked with gold. Polar opposites.
It feels like time stopped when Regulus’ lips hit his. And now time is starting up again as Regulus pulls away from James completely. The boy crosses his arms, his irritated lips form an instinctive scowl.
“You ruin me. You take my focus away. You make me fucking daydream and wonder. And I hate it because I hardly know you, James,” he swallows. “Trust me. I wish I could kiss you like that for hours everyday, but I have priorities. School, family, reputation, performance. I need to be my best, and I can’t do that when I’m focusing on the way that you’re staring at my lips.”
“You wish that you could kiss me all day?”
Regulus’ jaw drops and his eyes squeeze shut. “That’s all you got from that? I didn’t even say all day, James. I said hours .”
“Same difference,” James shrugs. “I just think that you should kiss me again.”
Regulus gives James a blank stare, so obviously furious with James that it makes James smile at him. He can’t contain his smile which makes Regulus even more angry. He is really not good at hiding his emotions. It must be the French in him, the French seem to feel with their whole bodies.
“Or, you know, I could kiss you. I just think that we should be snogging right now.”
Regulus huffs out a breath, but quickly puts his mouth back on James. He puts his hands flat on James’ chest, grabbing at James’ shirt. James can’t keep his hands away, they fly straight back up to Regulus’ face.
Regulus bites his lip a little, causing a noise from James. He moves his hands off Regulus’ face, down through his thick, curly hair, down onto his neck and farther, moving to his shoulders.
He tries to memorise every slight curve, the shape of Regulus’ collarbone, every muscle. Every twitch. Not only does he move his hands, but he drops his mouth onto Regulus’ neck. He sucks hard. He doesn’t mean to at first. But he can feel himself becoming addicted to the sound of Regulus.
James reaches Regulus’ waist. He pulls Regulus closer, so the hands leave his chest, spreading out to his shoulders. James can feel him shudder underneath his hands. Fuck if they get caught, this feeling has to be worth it.
“James,” Regulus says. But it isn’t how James is expecting it. He expected a bit of a moan. At least a groan, if he's honest, but no. Regulus has no emotion. Well, he is sort of impatient but has no passion. No heat. It’s like it completely melted, and now it’s being frozen over.
James stops. He pulls his mouth and hands away, leaving the tips of his fingers on Regulus’ forearm if he needs any support. He probably doesn’t, but James leaves his fingers there anyway. “What? What did I do? Did I do something?”
Regulus draws his arms up and crosses them. “No. You didn’t– it isn’t you. It’s me.”
“Fucking hell.”
“What else am I supposed to say? It is me. It isn’t you. At all.”
“You can make your own decisions. You can have things and do things that you want. Your mother and brother shouldn’t influence your every thought.”
“James–” his voice cracks. “James. You deserve more than someone pretending that they don’t like you. That’s what it would be. A web of secrets. You’d have to lie to people. To your best friends. You shouldn’t have to do that just because I’m scared of it.”
Regulus picks up his bag and throws the rest of his layers on. “I’ll see you–”
“What if I could keep the secrets? What if I can handle the lies? Because I think that I can do that. I want to be able to do that. Plus, we don’t even know if it will be anything serious.”
Of course, it will be serious. James doesn’t do shit half-assed. It will be one hundred per cent effort, but he doesn’t really know yet. He can convince himself of that. It isn’t one hundred per cent. It may not even be serious. James can handle nonchalance.
“I’ll think about it. You should think harder about it. I can’t promise anything.”
“I’m not the only fragile one.”
Regulus looks a little sad, but mostly just bored. “See you later, James.”
James Potter has the feeling that someone in that boy’s life told him that shit was his fault. And James thinks that feeling responsible for something that isn’t your fault, sucks.
- - -
II. Evan Noah Rosier
Tuesday, November 7th, 2017
“Hey, Evan, hey,” Dorcas snaps her fingers in his face. She has obviously been trying to get a reply out of him for a couple of minutes now. Pandora’s brow is furrowed. They both stare at him.
“Hey, sorry, just zoned out. I guess,” Evan says, putting his pencil down to give his sister and friend his full attention. They don’t look very happy with him. Not in a “we’re angry with you” way, but definitely a “please, explain what’s going on in your head” way. Evan sort of wishes it was the first option.
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve been doing this all day,” Pandora says, sweeping the hair off of his face. “You can talk to us. We’re both worried. You’ve been so… melancholic.”
“Melancholic?”
“What she’s trying to say is that you’ve looked sad as fuck and won’t tell us what’s wrong. Usually, you would have already poured your heart out to us. Multiple times. I mean, we’d have probably had a sleepover or gone out. Literally anything,” Dorcas explains. She closes her textbooks, turning this into a therapy session.
Evan laughs. “I’ll give you one guess.”
The corners of Pandora’s mouth turn downwards. “You and Barty have been fighting.”
He holds up a finger. “Ding, Ding… almost. We had one fight. On the night of the Halloween parties.”
“How has that been?” Dorcas grimaces.
To be totally honest, Evan has no idea. It’s the only thing on his mind, yet he hasn’t thought about it. It hurts to think about it, so it’s just easier to ignore fixing it. If he leaves them paused in motion, why does he have to deal with it?
Max has told him over and over again how unhealthy it is, but Evan can’t bring himself to change his ways. Max is always looking out for him, trying to get him to work things out. Be better. Do better. He wants the best for him, but the best thing for Evan– and Barty –isn’t easy.
Dorcas and Pandora want the exact same.
“He ghosted me. I guess that I ghosted him back. We haven’t spoken at all.” It’s sort of pathetic. He’s known Barty forever, and they can’t talk about their problems together. This time just feels extra different. It wasn’t just a disagreement, it was torture. And Evan has been tortured since he walked out that night.
After the fight, Regulus and Evan sat in Evan’s car and chain-smoked cigarettes while Evan cried. They stayed parked there for around three hours, and Evan went through every level of emotion. He wrote a few texts to Barty that he didn’t send. He wrote a text to Pandora that he didn’t send, and he wrote one for Cas, too.
It may seem odd that Regulus is the one Evan ran to. He’s the one that Evan is supposedly jealous of, but Reg is Evan’s favourite. His day one best friend. The person who reads him like he’s an open book. Plus, Regulus is his favourite cousin, and he always has been.
Regulus will always feel safe to Evan. Sometimes it feels shitty, but it will always be true.
“Why haven’t you tried talking to him?” Pandora sighs. She knows how closed-off Evan can get. She knows how it has never aided a single situation. She’s always the first to try to get Evan to use his words, even if she won’t use hers.
“Because I don’t want to talk to him. I love him, but he fucking kills me every time.”
Dorcas tilts her nose up. “I love Barty, I do. He’s one of my best friends. But, Ev, is he ever toxic? Like truly toxic, Evan. I wouldn’t be able to deal with his shit. He just treats people like shit when he loves them because he can’t be wrong. But it isn’t an excuse.”
“I know. He’s a fucking dick,” Evan huffs.
Pandora bats his finger from his hair. “You can’t let him treat you like you aren’t worth it. I swear to God, I should kill him for how he treats you.”
“I’m not any better than him.”
“Bullshit,” Dorcas snorts. “Barty is a piece of shit when it comes to love.”
“It’s not all so one-sided,” he tries to defend Barty. “I’m an ass, too. It’s a joint effort.”
Pandora sighs. “Yeah, but you’re my brother, so I get to pretend that you’re an angel. Barty has treated you like his last option for years. I love him, but I want to rip his head off whenever I think about you two. He isn’t a good boyfriend. Especially when he makes you feel like you have to be a secret. I hate that.”
“I know you do.” He smiles sadly. She won’t meet his eyes.
“So,” Dorcas says. “What are you going to do?”
- - -
Evan camps out in the dorm room to wait for Barty to return.
He manages to finish four assignments and get in two hours of studying, totalling about four hours of school work. Evan hates homework. He always has. He has to keep his mind busy, otherwise, he’ll plan out their entire conversation.
Evan will run through every possibility before Barty stumbles in the door. He’ll turn it into an argument, and then a fight, and the truth is that none of these possibilities will play out because Evan never knows what Barty’s going to say. He isn’t predictable enough. Even for Evan after all of these years.
Sometimes he is.
Lately, Evan can’t tell as well as he used too .
The sounds of keys catch Evan’s attention. Barty’s back. Fucking finally. It’s been a pain waiting this long. Anxiety starts to pump through his veins, and he tries his best to let it go. He can deal with Barty. They’ve gotten into fights like this before. Over and over. He can make it work. They’ll sort it out.
The body enters the room.
“Regulus?” Evan sputters. It isn’t Barty. Evan is set back to wait.
Regulus opens his mouth, closes it, and finally speaks. “I’m home. Were you expecting someone else? Max? Dora? Cas?” he laughs. It isn’t funny, and Regulus doesn’t usually laugh unless something is hilarious. Unless he’s trying to avoid something. Which happens a lot.
“No. Just Barty,” Evans says, closing his books.
“Oh, are you two speaking finally?”
“Not yet.”
“Have you two spoken at all about Halloween?”
“No, we haven’t spoken since then besides minimal conversation during class.”
Regulus sighs. “Dick move.”
Evan doesn’t try to tell Reg that it’s completely two-sided. It didn’t work with the girls earlier. And Regulus is far more stubborn. He also knows how two-sided it is. He witnesses the screaming matches first-hand. He witnesses them both icing each other out whenever something happens. He knows that they only want to hurt each other. He knows that that is what “love” is.
“I’m hoping to speak to him once he’s back.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Er– have you seen him? Or do you know when he’s coming back?” Evan asks. A feeling grows in the pit of his stomach. Both about talking to Barty, facing him, and about the way Regulus is speaking right now. Like he has something to say, but he doesn’t want to. Or he can’t.
Regulus pulls a can from the little fridge and opens it, downing quite a bit of it before speaking. Lemonade. Diet. “Saw him earlier. Briefly. Maybe two hours ago now? I want to say he went to the library to study. Or maybe he went on a drive? He didn’t really say much.”
“Ah. Okay.”
Regulus takes off his jacket before picking up his bags to hide in his room all night. Evan notices a few marks on his neck where his collar was just covering. The boy doesn’t know that they’re there, or at least he doesn’t care if Evan sees them.
“Oh, Reg.”
Regulus turns around, running his hand through his hair as he does, taking his Black family genes and running with them. “Hm?”
Evan points to his own neck in the places where hickeys cover Regulus’. “Where have you been?”
This sends Regulus into an immediate flush. His hand shoots straight up to his neck. His mouth is open, but he doesn’t say a word. He has his calculating face on. For most people, this is a nervous or shocked look, but when Reg does it, he’s calculating what he can say. Which parts he can tell.
“Reg? I won’t say anything… but I sort of have you caught, haven’t I?” Evan chuckles.
He stumbles over his words. It’s weird seeing Regulus like this. He’s so composed most of the time. “Well, I– it’s, um, it’s, er–”
“Any year now.”
Regulus closes his eyes and lets out a breath. “It’s a secret.”
“Haha. For real, who were you with?” Evan’s mostly asking out of curiosity, but also there’s the itch in him that wonders if it’s Barty. Because Barty would do that. But he also doesn’t think Regulus would get so worked up over that. He’s stuttering for God’s sake. Barty doesn’t have that effect on Regulus anymore.
“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret. I’m making him keep it a secret, so… I’m keeping up my end. If things go well– if things go, then I’ll tell you. But I don’t think they’re going to go. Either way, I’ll tell you when it ends or if things lift off. I just can’t tell anyone right now,” Regulus explains. He looks frustrated with himself for setting these limitations or initiating a new web of lies.
Evan feels his body at ease. He didn’t even realise he was tensed up, waiting for Regulus to say it was Barty. Not that he would, but he would make something stupid up that Evan could read past. But Regulus is being completely vulnerable when telling Evan this big, huge thing.
“Okay. Hurry it up, you’ve got me on the edge of my seat,” he chuckles.
Regulus’ bored look returns. “You’re so funny, aren’t you?”
“You love it.”
“Whatever.”
Regulus turns back to go into his bedroom, and Evan is left with his own thoughts. His mind is racing, returning to every possible situation that his talk with Barty will bring. But he doesn’t have to wait all that long. When he comes back from being in his own head, the door is opening again.
He looks up, head resting on his hand. Barty looks back at him. For a few seconds. Then he kicks off his shoes and heads for his room. Evan can hear his breath, it’s shallow. For a second, he thinks Barty might just turn around and talk to him first.
But, of course, that isn’t the case. “Barty,” Evan calls, having to initiate the first break.
Barty hangs his head, supporting himself with his arm against the frame of his door. “I don’t want to fight, Evan.”
“Why does everything need to be a fight?”
To be honest, Evan wasn’t looking for a fight. He isn’t in the mood either, but Barty saying that adds a bit of a bite behind his words. Why does he always assume it will be a fight between them? Why is he always searching for something to yell at? Why does Barty always turn it into a screaming match? He might not raise his voice first, but he always sparks that fire in Evan long before.
“It doesn’t. You just can’t express your emotions without yelling them at me.”
The blame. It’s always Evan’s fault. All of their fights, their conversations, their pain. Always Evan starting things. His fault. Evan knows that it was Barty’s father who started this cycle in him; not being able to take any responsibility. But it’s not an excuse he can just use.
“Right, it’s all my fault.”
Barty goes into his room quickly, putting down all of his things and taking off a couple of layers. When he comes back out he just looks sad. “No. It isn’t. But I’d like to talk to you without you yelling at me. Even if you have every right to yell at me and I deserve it. I just want to have a civilised conversation. Please.”
“Okay.”
Barty bites his lip a little bit. “My dad…”
“I know,” Evan says, firmly, but quietly.
“If I had a choice, you know that I’d never do that to you again. And it doesn’t have to be that bad again, I just– I don’t know what to say to him. I tried to convince him that nobody cares, and he just is so caught up in the perfect picture,” Barty says. His voice is calming and caring… like how you’d speak to a baby or a dog.
He sighs. “You do have a choice, though. You can tell him ‘no’.”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“I know.”
“He just needs this perfect image.”
“I know.”
“It’s just his work and everything.”
“I know.”
“We could make it work, Evan.”
“I know.”
Barty breaks a little. “Can you please stop fucking saying ‘I know’?”
“Okay.”
“What do you think?”
“Does it really matter what I think?” Evan only asks out of politeness. He knows it doesn't matter what he thinks on the subject, it’s just the way it has to be. It won’t even be that long, his campaign only runs for a certain amount of time, and then it doesn’t matter again for two or so years. Whenever Barty’s father needs to start campaigning again or whatever it is that he does.
“Yes. I want to know. I need to know if we can do it, Ev,” his voice cracks. Evan doesn’t know why Barty does that. Sometimes he’s so cold his voice doesn’t change. Sometimes he acts like it’s all a joke. And sometimes he gets all sad and worried. It’s confusing, really.
“What do you want?”
Barty sighs and then his eyes are back on Evan. “I want to be with you.”
“Do you really think it could work?” he asks out of no wonder.
He’s already made up his mind. He isn’t a secret. He won’t pretend to be. He won’t stand by and watch all day long and then hold Barty all night. He doesn’t want to watch Barty have any dates or take any girl to one of his father’s events. Even if it’s just Dorcas. Or his own sister.
He doesn’t want to pretend to be the hand Barty holds as he walks from class to class. He doesn’t want to watch him. He wants to have him. Always. No time limits, no audience to remember, and no consideration of Barty’s father. He just wants to have him. Not just at night, out of sight.
“We can, Ev. We have and we will,” Barty affirms, more to himself than to Evan.
Evan looks at him with sad eyes. Anger drips out of him and through the floor. Maybe Barty will soak some up. He’ll want to use some by the time this conversation ends.
“I don’t want it to be like this, you know that, right?” Barty urges. Trying to get anything from Evan.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I love you, Evan,” he says, taking Evan’s face into his hands for a minute.
“I know, but I can’t. Not again. I love you, Barty, but I also love myself enough to not let this happen to me again.”
He doesn’t want to hurt Barty. He doesn’t want to break his heart, even if it’s just temporary.
A sound escapes Barty’s throat. “It’s just a bit of sacrifice. It won’t last forever, Evan. And– and then it will be back to just us. All the time. I swear, Ev. Please.”
“You know me best. You always will. I just can’t. It will only hurt us both,” he says. If his voice was thick before, it definitely is now. His face is wet with tears. Almost a mirror of Barty’s.
“Evan, please.”
Evan gets up from his seat. He wraps his arms around Barty, and it feels like everything is turning into slow motion. The other boy buries his face into Evan’s neck. He can feel the tears absorbing into his shirt. Barty squeezes his body tightly, not wanting to let go. Evan knows this because he also can’t bear to let him go.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I have to do this for myself.”
That pulls another sob out of Barty’s chest. “I don’t want to do anything without knowing I have you.” Evan can hardly hear him, his voice is quiet, muffled, rough, and his breathing is strangled.
“You still have me. I’m still here. I just don’t want to be a secret.”
“You’re not,” Barty says, pulling out of the embrace.
“I would be. I can’t do it.”
Not again. If Evan can stand up to his own father and fight his own battles and take responsibility for who he is, so can Barty. It’s all up to choice. Being honest takes courage, but it isn’t fucking hard. It isn’t a war.
“It won’t be like that forever.”
Evan sighs. “Let me know when that part is over.”
Barty slams the door frame with a closed fist before shutting himself away in his room for the next week.
- - -
III. Dorcas Nya Meadowes
Wednesday, November 8th, 2017
There have been only two things on Dorcas’ mind for months; making the lead in the Nutcracker and Marlene fucking McKinnon.
Everyone agrees that the parts and dances for Lucius Malfoy’s “special” version of the production should have already been announced to give all the dancers adequate time to practise their parts, but Lucius seems to have other plans, and he is waiting to announce everything until mid-November.
This bothers Dorcas for a handful of reasons. First, she needs to know what she’s even doing. Will she be stressed? Will it be an easy set? Who will she be dancing with? All of these questions have been keeping her up at night. “She shouldn’t be worried yet,” says who? She’s a dancer. It’s a part of her life to be worried about the largest production of the season.
She also needs to know whether or not her parents need to fly out and make a big fuss over making it to her performance. They always love to see Dorcas dance, but there’s always competition season and the spring or summer production. Plus, the Nutcracker will probably be done in her final year at Hogwarts, so if it’s inconvenient for her parents, they can always make it the next time around.
Also the question of if she’ll end up as someone’s understudy. There’s no time for dancers to be missing. There are always backups And even if Dorcas doesn’t get her big role, she might have to live up to someone else’s expectations on a whim.
Now, as for Marlene McKinnon, she lives in Dorcas’ thoughts rent-free. She’s also been practically living in Dorcas’ dorm rent-free.
Marlene is over at least two or three nights a week. And she sleeps over. Pandora thinks that it’s sweet and that Dorcas should just ask Marlene out. Dorcas, however, believes that this growing attachment between them might not play out too well.
She’s the one who set the “no relationship” boundary, right? Dorcas is slowly starting to feel as if she might break that rule.
[m.mckinnon]: i feel like i should hv ur number by now…
It’s like every time Dorcas is thinking of Marlene, she somehow pops up right in front of her. She’ll text or just somehow show up. Pass by her in the hallway or flood her notifications.
[sk8tr..b0y..cas]: r u really asking me for my number right now?
[m.mckinnon]: is that ur way of saying no?
[sk8tr..b0y..cas]: no
[m.mckinnon]: then yes
Dorcas catches herself smiling down at her phone. Fucking pathetic. She makes fun of Evan for doing this shit.
Or at least when he used to do that.
Dorcas feels sort of guilty about what she and Pandora told Evan before Evan and Barty broke up. She feels a bit responsible. Fuck, she was the one who started calling Barty toxic, but Evan already knew that. It’s not her fault, but what if it was? What if Evan was just going to let that happen to him?
She’s glad she said something for Evan’s sake, but Barty’s about to suck. He’ll be grouchy and tired and sad. Dorcas will comfort him knowing that she might have influenced Evan’s decision.
But Dorcas and Marlene aren’t in a relationship, so it’s not even close.
Dorcas replies with her number and immediately, Marlene texts her.
Text from: Unknown: i was slick with that one wasn’t i??? :)
She giggles a bit to herself. Dorcas should probably be practising her pointe since there’s that optional class right now, but instead, she’s texting and admiring Marlene.
Dorcas Meadowes: wtv helps u sleep at night
marls: admit it!! it was good. made me feel like a frat boy or smth
Dorcas Meadowes: you watch too much american tv
marls: no such thing i heart shitty american high school movies
Dorcas Meadowes: if you say so
Marlene is the type of girl to carry out two separate conversations on two different platforms with one person simultaneously. She continues the text conversation as she starts to talk about random American series that she thinks are just hilarious. Meanwhile, on Instagram, she starts making plans with Dorcas.
[m.mckinnon]: what r u doing tdy?
[sk8tr..b0y..cas]: absolutely nothing
[m.mckinnon]: why???
[sk8tr..b0y..cas]: too tired
[m.mckinnon]: 2 tired even for me?
No, not really. Subconsciously, Dorcas probably cleared her day in hopes of hanging out with Marlene. Maybe even consciously. It doesn’t matter now, does it? She has already cleared her day.
[m.mckinnon]: we should get some food
[sk8tr..b0y..cas]: like a date?
[m.mckinnon]: doesn’t have 2 b
[sk8tr..b0y..cas]: u sure?
[m.mckinnon]: baby just let me take you out
So, she does.
Dorcas puts her phone down to make herself look presentable. She doesn’t know where Marlene’s taking her (that’s if they even get there, Marlene’s driving skills are atrocious), but she wants to look nice. She always wants to look nice for Marlene. She craves the girl's affection. Looking good isn’t the only way, but it’s one of them.
God, she hates how she craves her attention and love. Marlene McKinnon is supposed to be a fling. Someone to keep her warm all winter, nothing more. But Dorcas can’t help but wonder if it will be more. Winter turns into spring, spring into summer.
“Where are you going, all fancy like that?” Pandora says when Dorcas walks out of her room. She looks like she just got back from that optional practice. Still in her dance clothes and has a shine of sweat.
“To see Marlene,” Dorcas says. She’s dressed in a dark purple dress, nothing “fancy”, but it’s pretty. She wears Marlene’s jacket on top. The heels are probably a little much, but besides those, Dorcas would wear this on any day out. She might’ve even worn it to class before.
“Yeah, but where are you going?” she inquires, undoing her tight hair and stripping down to her leotard. “You’re too done up to just be going to her room.”
Dorcas sighs. The Rosier twins are always so damn nosey. “She’s taking me out.”
“I thought you weren’t dating…”
“We’re not. We’re just getting food and probably coming back here, I think.”
“Sounds like a date.”
“It’s not like you haven’t done that with Xeno before, right? You two aren’t dating,” Dorcas says, trying to plead her case.
Pandora smiles. “Oh, Cas. Xeno hasn’t taken me out anywhere. I’ve been with him strictly in his dorm.”
“I’ve seen you at multiple parties.”
“Parties never count,” the girl says sweetly.
That hits Dorcas a little. She used to tell Pandora that when she was scared of kissing people at parties. It’s also how she and Marlene sparked. That shouldn’t hit her. They aren’t really anything. She’s also sick of telling herself that.
“You’re right. Or, I guess, I’m right,” she laughs
“I mean, if you want them to count, then go for it. They can count, Cas. It doesn’t have to be so black and white.”
Maybe they should count.
- - -
“You can’t blame me if I speed, swerve, or do any bad driving tonight.”
“You’re the one in the driver’s seat. I’m fairly certain that I can blame you for all of that,” Dorcas says, trying to hide the grin that always seems to come out in Marlene’s presence.
“I’m pretty sure that you can’t. You’re the distraction in the car, so really, it’s all your fault,” Marlene says as she opens the passenger's side door for Dorcas. Okay, so, Marlene may or may not be under the impression that this is completely and utterly one hundred per cent a date.
Dorcas didn’t do that, though. Marlene’s mind runs wild. If she brings up the fact that they’re on a date, Dorcas will simply shut it down. It won’t be that hard. If anyone else says anything about it being a date, she’ll knock them out. So really, there’s only one hard thing to do here, and she’ll only let Marlene down slowly if it comes to it.
- - -
“I really like your outfit. Bodycon dress for the win,” Marlene smirks. “I also like it because it goes with the dress code… mostly. You might have to leave my jacket in the car.”
Dorcas can feel her jaw drop. A dress code? “A dress code?” she asks, appalled. Marlene McKinnon isn’t the type to go to restaurants with dress codes. And you don’t bring people on dates to restaurants with dress codes unless it’s a date. An anniversary even. Somewhere to propose?
A date. Fuck. It is so a date.
“Don’t look so surprised, Meadowes. I do have some class.”
A date. Fuck.
“I mean, you didn’t even want to go out. I had to make a good impression.”
On a first date. Fuck.
“I know what you’re worrying about. ‘A date!’ No, if we were on a date, we would probably be eating pre packaged sushi at a park.”
Not a date. Thank God. Praise Jesus. All her praying has paid off.
“Then why take me somewhere so fancy?”
Marlene grins like this is her cue. “Because you’re the girl I’m not dating. Even if I’m head over heels for her. That’s never happened to me before, so I’m taking a different route. I can’t just fall back on my usual tricks because we’re unusual.”
Dorcas feels like she’s gawking at the girl even though her mouth is shut and her eyes aren’t any larger than usual. She appears cool, calm, and collected, but she feels anything but that. And she’s scared to ask anything further.
She’s grateful that the other girl somehow carries a conversation on her own.
“Plus, I feel like branching out. Trying something new, you know? It just feels right. You’re special, and I want you to feel like you’re special. So, we’re going to a fancy restaurant and we’ll split both dessert and the bill,” she smiles, taking Dorcas’ hand in hers, leading them to the entrance.
- - -
“I’d like the half-size grilled chicken Caesar salad, thank you,” Dorcas says politely to their server. She isn’t all that hungry. If she were with one of her friends, she’d probably get something even simpler. She doesn’t want to make Marlene feel like she didn’t want to be here, though. The blonde is already giving her an odd look.
“And you?” the waitress asks her, smiling the way that high-end restaurant servers who come home with hundreds in tips each night do.
Marlene lets out a nervous laugh. “I’ll just get the lemon garlic shrimp pasta, please.”
Oh, god. Dorcas didn’t mean to do that. Of fucking course, she just made Marlene self-conscious about her food. You don’t order a salad unless you’re worried about what you’re eating. She didn’t even consider it.
All of her friends order salads. Whether or not they care about what they’re eating. She just comes from a group of salad lovers. Or a group with eating disorders. But whichever it is. It’s normal to her.
You don’t order a salad on a date. Especially the first.
And here it is again. Not a date.
“I love shrimp.” It’s all she can think to say.
Marlene lets her smile reappear. “Want to share?”
Maybe she didn’t ruin it all. Maybe she won’t ruin it all.
- - -
IV. Adrian Bartemius Crouch
Friday, November 10th, 2017
People give Barty too much credit.
The people around him expect he’s over Evan before they’ve even started again.
They think that Evan’s the one who waits night after night for Barty to creep into his bedroom. They think that Evan is the one who needs the coddling. The care. The security. And they think this because it’s always Barty’s fault.
And it is. Usually. Don’t get it twisted, Barty is the one who continually fucks up every aspect of his entire life. His relationship with his father. The way his mother is treated. The nature of his and Regulus’ friendship. Evan.
Always Evan.
So his friends leave him. Even if they don’t mean it. They always take Evan’s side subconsciously.
“I’m sick of everyone leaving me.”
His voice is thick. He isn’t sure if all his words make it to the other end of the phone. Maybe they don’t need to. Maybe it would be better if they got lost in the distance. He wouldn’t have to face them.
“ It won’t last forever, kid. You live with them. You’ve been friends practically your whole life. Hell, I’m still close with my friends from high school. Friendships like that don’t just disappear ,” the man’s voice comes out gruff. He’s using the landline. There are phones all over the house connected to the line, but the one in his home office is the only one ever used.
There’s no point now that they all have cell phones.
“Yeah, but it’s shit right now, Dad.”
“ At least you got it out of the way. I know you weren’t looking forward to telling the Rosier boy –”
“Evan.”
“ Evan. I know you weren’t happy about it. But I’m proud of you for getting it done in time for the Christmas show. I should be able to make it to that, by the way .”
Barty wants to scream at his father. This is all your fault! he thinks. It is. All his father’s fault. In his mind. It was his only reason to hurt Evan. His father is the only reason he’s alone in his room and not out with his friends. His father is the only reason he feels like shit right now.
The root.
The problem.
When his father realises that Barty isn’t replying to him, he continues, changes the subject. “ You still like women, right? Not just Rosi– Evan? ” the man asks. Like Evan’s the problem. Like Evan is the reason Barty likes to kiss boys. Regulus would probably be the problem if his dad knew about them. The root.
“Yeah. I like girls.”
“ Good! You should get back out there. Go on a date. Find a pretty girl. ”
“Dad–”
“ You’ve always been a charmer, Adrian. It won’t be hard .”
“It’s only been a couple of days,” he tries to argue. He doesn’t want to do that. Not now. Not because his father is suggesting it. He likes to think he wouldn’t do that. At least, he thinks he doesn’t want to.
“ Exactly. You need something to pull you out of this slump, Ad .”
“I’m not sure if pointless sex is the way to do that.”
“ Why not? ”
To be fair, that’s how his father deals with things. To be fairer, it’s the way he usually deals with things, too. Sex. It’s how he deals with emotions. How he was taught to. His parents fought, and an hour later, their bedroom door was locked.
He’s heard his father’s friends talk about it in the den. ‘I hate those fucking Liberals. They’re always trying to fuck with us,’ then they’d all agree and eventually one of them laughs. ‘At least, the wife will be pleased tonight,’ he’d say.
When his dad gave him “the talk”, he explained sex as a way to blow off steam. The best way to blow off steam. Deal with your emotions. Or at least put them on the back burner for the night.
He thinks that he finally accepted this way of coping when he went to his uncle’s stag party. He was maybe twelve? Sometime around there. His dad got his brother a stripper for the night. And the night after the party. His uncle had a smile on his face. ‘God knows when I’ll be able to do this again with the new misses around,’ he had said.
So then, even happy emotions were dealt with by finding the closest woman available and having a couple of rounds.
“It’s too soon.”
“ The longer you wait the more it’ll hurt .”
Of course. Of course, that’s his advice. The man who has never fully loved anyone. The man who can’t even love his wife. Or his son. The man who has never been in a queer relationship. Fuck, the man who grimaces at the word “queer”.
“You don’t get it.”
“ I’ve had lots of girlfriends in my day, Adrian. I’ve been through my fair share of heartbreaks .”
“It’s not the same.”
“ What’s it those people say? Love is love? It’s all the same, isn’t it? ”
No. It’s not the same, not with Evan. It’s not the same for an emotionally stunted man and a heartbroken teenager either. He won’t ever be able to understand any of it. Ever.
“This is all your fault, Dad.”
“ Don’t give me all the credit. You must have fucked up somewhere to let him hurt you this badly ,” his father’s words cut him. Bleeding him dry alone in his room. Fucking alone. He’ll bleed all night tonight, all day tomorrow, and repeat the cycle. Until he fixes it all.
He has to be able to fix this all.
He will fix it. He has to.
He has to.
He hangs up the phone.
It’s pathetic that the only person he can talk to is his fucking father. He hates his dad so much. He’s not a good man. He’s an even worse dad. He never makes the right decisions. He never accepts anything new. And yet, he always seems to be right.
At the bottom of his stomach, Barty can feel his father’s right.
Deep in his bones, Barty can feel that he’ll take his father’s advice.
In his heart, Barty can feel he isn’t any better than the man who raised him.
- - -
Evan went to the Eagles’ party with everyone else. And there’s only one other party happening. Lions. So, he’s stuck. Stay in and contemplate death, or leave and get so high he can’t feel his toes.
Well, there’s a third; get so drunk all he can feel is his dick.
So he puts on his shoes and a hoodie and a spritz of cologne.
He’s halfway to the Lions’ common room, and he turns around. It’s a quick turn, straight back to his dorm. He can’t wear a fucking hoodie to a party. He throws the heavy piece of clothing onto his bed. If he was with everyone else, he’d already be dressed. He wouldn’t worry about walking out of the dorm dressed like shit. Someone would stop him at the fucking door.
He grabs a button-up. Short-sleeved. White. He doesn’t button it up, leaving it showing his entire chest and abdomen. His cross necklace is displayed mid-chest. And he sprays some more cologne before wandering back out of the dorm.
He doesn’t expect to see anyone, let alone a stumbling, likely drunk, Evan Rosier.
The closer he gets, the drunker he appears. His face is flushed and his breath smells like vodka. Well, Barty isn’t quite close enough to smell his breath, so maybe he just spilt it on himself earlier. It reeks.
“Barty?”
“Are you okay?” he replies before knowing the words left his mouth. Instinct.
Evan giggles his drunk laugh. “I can smell you,” he says, falling a little closer to Barty. He catches Evan’s arm.
“What? What do I smell like?” Because it doesn’t really make sense.
“You smell like you. It’s the stuff. From Japan,” he explains in sentence fragments, none of his words lacing together.
Ah. Japan. It is the cologne Evan bought him in Japan. From a couple of summers ago. Before their dancing mattered all that much. Before all of his father’s press bullshit. When they were whole.
“Yeah,” he says, not sure what to say. He can smell Evan’s breath now. Vodka, as he thought. “Are you going to bed?”
“Fancied a walk,” he says, smiling. Beaming, in fact. His face is so naturally happy right now. He only lets that happen when he’s not sober. Barty’s hand is still on his arm.
“D’you want to go to bed? I’ll let you in…” he pulls his keys from his pocket. “Here.”
Evan just looks at him for a few too many seconds. Barty feels like crying. And screaming. At Evan, at his dad, at the world, he feels like screaming. He feels like fighting.
“Are you coming in?”
Barty looks at him. Evan doesn’t want this right now. He’ll curse himself when he wakes up, when he realises. “No, I’m going out.”
Evan groans. “I hate that. You. Why can’t you be easier to hate? Ugh. I want to… do you have anything to eat?”
“Inside there’s food,” he suggests, he wants Evan to get inside. He wants him to eat and sleep and feel better and get his head straight. Barty is easy to hate. Everyone hates him. He’s charming, but he’s so easy to despise.
Evan is just too good of a person. Too good of a heart. A soul.
“Inside. Inside. You’ve been inside all night?”
“Yeah, but I’m leaving now.”
“No.”
“No?” his eyebrow raises.
“No. You have to come inside. Make me… get me some food. I want to watch a movie– oh! Bee, here,” he says, handing Barty his phone. “Keep this safe from my drunken fingers.”
Bee. It takes everything in Barty for him to keep smiling. If you can even call it that. His face is just sort of light, slightly upturned mouth, he thinks that it’ll keep Evan smiling. “Okay. Get inside. I’ll make you some food.”
“You’re great. You always care even if you’re mad. Most of the time. It’s one of your best qualities. Bestest. Best? Better.”
They go inside. Barty does his best to ignore Evan’s words. He’s too fucking wasted to know anything that he’s saying to Barty right now. Barty can’t hold on to any of those words. Evan sits on the couch.
Barty’s in the kitchen. “What would you like, Ev? We have… crisps… cereal… raspberries… or bread? Does any of that sound good? I could make you something else.”
They’re so close. And so far. Like they usually are.
“Sandwich, please,” he says, drawing his “s” out. “Crisps. Do we have ice cream?”
Barty laughs a little. “Yeah, we do. Uh, what kind of sandwich? There’s cheese. Um, I think that’s turkey. Maybe chicken. Tomatoes? Lettuce?”
“Peanut butter and jam. Strawberry jam. Do we have strawberry jam?” Evan asks, he looks so scared that they won’t have the jam.
Barty can’t help smiling at Evan in this state. He soaks in the short period of joy because he knows tomorrow will be screaming or silence. “We do.”
He takes the bread and makes the sandwich. He cuts it in quarters on the diagonal. Evan likes triangles better than squares. He puts it on a plate, adding some plain crisps beside it. And he scoops some strawberry ice cream into a little bowl. He pours a glass of water.
Barty brings it over to Evan who watches the television screen intently. “Here, Ev. Drink some of this,” he says, handing him the water. He watches as the blond drinks half the glass. “Not too quickly, you don’t want to be sick.”
“No, I don’t want to be sick.”
“Here’s your food.”
Evan looks up at him, his eyes unable to focus. “You have to sit.”
“I have to go,” he pleads. It feels like he’s pleading, begging Evan to let him go. Begging Evan to let him let go.
“No, sit with me.”
“Evan.”
“You can leave after… I eat then after, you go.”
Barty takes it, sitting close to the boy, arm on the couch behind him. Evan’s talking about things. Barty can’t really hear him. He’s just looking.
Looking.
“Here, you have this,” he says, it’s childish, offering Barty the last triangle of his sandwich. It’s more childish that Barty takes it, and he lets it fill his heart up.
“Cheers.”
“You know,” God, does Barty ever, “you’re still my favourite… person even when I try to hate you. Even when I want to– want to hate you. You are my favourite and my least favourite, but just my favourite. Just in the end.”
Barty’s eyes are wet, and Evan doesn’t really seem to realise what he’s saying. “You should go to sleep.”
“Carry me. I can’t move.”
So he does. He listens. He obeys the drunken orders that the boy will wreck himself over if he remembers them the next morning. He takes Evan to his room. He takes off his socks and his jeans. He hates wearing socks to sleep. He hates wearing anything but his boxers.
Barty pulls the blanket over Evan, tucking him in, listening to him mumble. Once he’s set to sleep, he goes to leave. He needs to fucking get out of here. “Night, Ev.”
“Bee?”
“Yeah?” his voice is thick.
“Stay.”
“No.”
“With me.”
“ No .”
“Barty?”
“You’re drunk.”
“Stayyyy,” he drags his word.
“You are drunk.”
Evan lets out a huffy breath, his eyes already closed. “You’re the worst.”
It knocks the wind out of Barty. “I know. Sweet dreams, love.”
It will take him less than five minutes to get into that party. He should’ve been there thirty minutes ago.
If he drinks as much as Evan has, hopefully, neither of them will remember this tomorrow.