DIE 4 U

by roadsidehorror

Summary:

Unfortunate that Barty is not a better man and that all of this, everything he’s just accomplished, is not real. It’s unfortunate that Barty is weird about someone else using his coffee cups and no one needs to drink coffee at four in the morning. It’s disheartening that Barty’s gotten the message loud and clear one too many times, that coffee at four in the morning means the head nod he gets is meant to be taken as I’m going to go fuck your best friend some more.

They’re not in a room alone together, but the fear in the man’s eyes, well, they might as well be. It's the look of a man that’s lost.

A fucking loser.

“Fuck you,” he spits.

Notes:

i've had this idea for a while now, and for some reason decided it was finally time to bring it to life and then wrote all of this in three days. i know so much about medieval warfare now.

 

everyone raise your glass to barty and his perilous quest to save the princess. he's a loser no more, now he's a knight.

Chapter 1: DIE

“Dude,” Barty starts, rolling his head to look at Evan across from him. “Love you, but I didn’t ask.”

“You did ask.”

Barty did, yeah, but now he’s figured out he really doesn’t care to hear any of this. “Sure, but I didn’t need to know the details.”

Evan purses his lips. He does that infuriating thing where he digs his tongue into his cheek like he’s got a cock shoved in his mouth and Barty rolls his eyes. He imagines that might be one of the only times Evan’s tempted to not give lip, and though the sight is alluring, it only proves to piss him off further.

What a sight that must be—Evan, silent.

Barty turns back to the movie. The prick on the other end of the couch picked it out, and that was fine up until now. Barty has no one but himself to blame, but that feels wrong and like punishment after a long day, so he’s blaming Evan.

Evan started all of this.

All of it. He wholeheartedly means that.

The moving in together, the friends with benefits—not Barty, no. Barty is not the benefiting friend, and maybe it really started years ago. When they were playing in sandboxes or whatever they did as children that neither of them can remember, that’s probably when all of this started. The irritation. The bad choices and having to hear all about them.

The Evan wearing Barty’s clothes, and their food touching in the fridge. The I’ll pay for this if you pay for that.

The synchronicity.

Barty’s restless tonight. He should have gone out instead of staying in, and he knows Evan is only watching a movie with him so he’s within earshot of the door. It’s a pity watch, which almost hurts as much as a pity fuck would, he can only imagine. Damn near the same thing, too, in Barty’s book.

The benefitting friend is late, possibly a no-show, and Barty should have ended that small argument they just had with why can’t you ever go over to his place? Why does he have to come here? I’m tired of seeing his face digging in my fridge.

Evan’s not even watching the movie. He’s staring at his phone, instead.

Barty sighs. “You want to watch something else?”

“No.”

He gives up and rolls his eyes again. Evan rolls his as well, which is befitting of the cock in mouth cheeky gesture from before, and Barty’s jaw clenches.

This is all a new development.

The attitude and the sharp responses. The thought of, admittedly, Barty’s cock in Evan’s mouth is not as new, but those ideas are a lot more persistent nowadays. The feeling like Evan’s ass is not fully sat on the couch next to him is a fresh wound and the benefits.

Oh, the benefits. The friends.

Friday nights and Saturday nights. Sometimes Sunday, too, if Evan doesn’t have to be at work until the afternoon, but with the benefits comes a lack of regard for Barty’s sanity and the thin walls they pay too much for. Comes a lot of noise and awkward meetings in the living room and kitchen. Comes Barty wanting to rip his hair out and violently slam his head through his bedroom door.

Barty doesn’t really hate the guy, honest. He just thinks it best if they never end up alone in a room together or something like that.

He tosses Evan the remote and it ends up uselessly sitting between them for another hour and a half.

The movie ends and their front door has stayed shut and Evan’s ass is now fully on the couch because he’s asleep. He’s slumped over, out like a light, and Barty thinks he’ll hate himself in the morning, but he’s going to sleep on the couch, too. The credits roll. He uses that time to flick off the lamps and lock the door. Turning off the outside light so everyone knows their home is closed for the evening and if anyone happens to show up past two in the morning like they’ve done in the past, they know they’re not welcome and fucking rude.

Leave.

Go the fuck away and never come back, man.

He shucks his pants in the bathroom after brushing his teeth and pissing. Returning to the couch, the next movie starts as Barty’s back hits the pillows and he watches the opening credits roll through lidded eyes with his knuckles pressing against his teeth through his cheek.

A cheek full of smoke in the end. It curls in front of him after Barty fumbles for a lighter in the dark and clouds the screen. He’s started smoking inside now, and that’s also an issue. He knows.

Barty wakes up again around three, Evan still asleep next to him, and after tossing a blanket over his back and downing a glass of water, he passes out again.

His eyes open a moment later, a pit in his stomach like he’d just choked and caught his breath.

It’s cold.

There’s hair whipping in his face, his mouth, and the wind robs Barty of his balance. It bites at his skin as he falters. His cheeks feel like they’re being cut with something blunt and his next breath comes out as shock. Alarm. Fright. Confusion mixed with a disbelief rooted so deep in his bones, Barty closes his eyes like a child.

He squeezes them shut so hard he has a headache. He counts to three.

He opens them again when the wind does not die and he feels more terror at seeing nothing.

Barty spits out the strands of hair caught between his teeth. He can only see silhouettes and shapes of the vast, sprawling field like a painting. It’s breathtakingly beautiful though his eyes are squinted and watering, and he remembers he has feet. Barty trips and turns in a circle. He spins around, but the field he’s found himself in is never-ending. Dark, bottomless green that looks like oil to his heavy sight. Rolling for miles as a sea that spans as far as the eye can see.

It’s night. It’s late, and the grass looks like a pitch-black pit, swallowing everything but the light from the stars above him.

Which upon further inspection looks like they might be waning soon. On his third stumble through the smooth grass and ground below him, Barty can just make out purple beyond the horizon. A hint of yellow like a bruise. Peeking over what looks like mountains and trees, the colors are the size of dismissed smatters on a canvas. Like the world is thinking about waking up, but is asking for a few more minutes.

A couple of hours, if he had to guess.

“What the fuck?” Barty pants and his voice is robbed by the air around him. “W–What the fuck.”

He had just been at home. In his kitchen. Standing there in front of the sink, staring at a lump in a bad mood on his couch as he drank a glass of water before bed. He had just spoken to Evan not four hours ago, maybe five. Barty starts and pats his pockets down, but he swears, finding he has pants on again, yeah, but they’re empty. Not even a spot of lint.

His jeans had been on the bathroom counter, where he had placed them what seemed like just moments ago.

It’s cold. It’s stale, the air, but in a clean way. Never been touched before. Pristine. It’s hard to swallow as Barty steps forward. It smells so sterile it burns. His chest aches but confusion leads his feet, bewilderment making the intrigue in his mind churn with the fantasy of it all. The utterly unimaginable, it must be, so he walks. One foot in front of another.

It’s beautiful, there’s no denying it. Barty puts himself above magnificence in a world so careless, but the world is vast and unimaginable beyond what his beliefs had been only moments ago and he is unsure, so he picks one direction. A sudden, surely false, true north.

Barty starts to make his way through the field.

Aimlessly. Haphazardly. Hoping he does not get swallowed up by the plunging pit beneath his feet. Shielding his eyes, he watches as another mountain rises in the foreground. The grass sways with the wind and he can feel it through his jeans. Almost up to his thighs in denser spots. It pecks at his legs like it’s sentient and it moves as if it is.

It, everything around him, knows where this is, but Barty is near tears confused.

Barty’s calves ache when he looks back and squints, noting he’s walked uphill. He turns back, glances before him, and his hand falls slowly from his face. He’s been speechless in his life very few times, but words truly fail him in this moment. They die in his throat.

The mountains before him are on fire.

They’re not on fire, no. Actually, it’s light. It’s not a mountain at all, he realizes, as Barty’s shoulders fall and his mind tries to understand where it’s sunk to. The most realistic dream, possibly nightmare, one could imagine. Between the pages of a book, behind the yellow, red, and blue of a screen.

Fantasy. Fiction that is beauty and daydream combined and twisted into something otherwordly. Juvenile.

One can only imagine.

A castle is before him, hiding amongst the mountains.

The only thing distinguishing the massive forge being the shapes made in shadows. The way it looks to be partly carved from the rock surrounding it. Hiding away, in the dark it is concealed well. The high arches and peaks give it away, though. The towers that are on fire, real fire, which he can smell on the wind now that he’s seeing it.

No lights. The scene before him is cast in a yellow glow and it’s frightening.

Massive.

Otherworldly.

And there’s chatter coming towards him on the breeze as well as the smell of ash and smoke. Wet earth and the strong scent of grass from below him. Flowers, maybe. There are now subtle signs of life that make Barty’s footsteps that much more hesitant as he continues forward.

This world is alive.

Real.

He comes upon the castle.

Barty immediately understands it’s not a castle; it’s some sort of fort. Built for defense and strength. To fight. His mind supplies images of broken, bloodied bodies. Arrows in knees and he wonders if the earth below him has ever experienced such a massacre. The structure before him was built to be large and imposing to enemies should they ever try to breach the walls he’s found himself standing before.

It’s unbelievably overwhelming once Barty begins to get closer and his heart is in his throat.

Passing his first person, someone comes up behind him on horseback. They ignore his person beyond a few words Barty doesn’t catch in assumed warning and continue on. He follows the clatter of hooves, the figure on the horse as they disappear. Barty’s fingers are shaky as he fights with the wind again, cursing his empty pockets and not having something to pull his hair back with.

Barty holds his breath, but the guards in the high towers don’t give him a second glance. They do not notice the way his feet falter or the way he seems to not be where he’s meant to be.

His knees ache for the first time as he approaches the gatehouse, heavy iron spokes held above his head as he walks under the enormous entrance. The large wooden doors are open, and his hearing comes back. Barty isn’t sure when it had gone, but it's loud.

The courtyard he finds himself in is filled with people. Horses.

The smell of wet dirt and all of Barty’s senses hit him at once. There’s the high tinny ring of metal, of metal hitting steel. Of hooves in dirt that’s muddy and sinking under his feet, and someone rides past him. Barty seizes in panic. Everything is drab grey. Everything is archaic in a way that the world has not been in so, very long.

He’s lost his fucking mind.

Barty’s lost his fucking mind and he’s full-on panicking now. The sounds get louder as he realizes he’s lightheaded. Spiraling. His breaths are not coming at all anymore, he cannot find them. There’s too much around him, none of it familiar and all of it reminiscent of something not of this world. This—all of this—was ages ago. Was on the TV screen before he fell asleep. Was on the cards he played with when he was younger. This is video games and fantasy tales and this is not what he had ever imagined while pretending to be knights as a child on the playground.

“Take heed!”

Barty spins and trips. He narrowly misses getting pummeled by a horse, and he takes a step back. Another. Two more and then another before he’s fully stumbling over himself. Falling, sprinting to try to get out of the way. Wet mud sinks between his knuckles and streaks his jeans as he runs to the first dark corner he can find. Like a child again. Barty finds his breath off to the side, hidden in a narrow entryway.

The brick he’s surrounded by smells like rot and earth and it’s cold when his fingers smear against it. His nails dig into the stone and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“This is not happening,” he pants. “You’re fine. I–It’s a dream, and you’re f–fi–fuck.” He sounds half past his mind. “Fuck.”

You’re fine because this is a dream.

This is not real. None of it is, and you’re fine. Okay. You’re okay, you’re just having the most insane, realistic dream ever.

Barty opens his eyes and slowly takes a breath. It takes him a moment, but he manages a single, unsteady inhale. He catalogs. Barty takes note of the horses. The stables, yes. Guards are walking about, more high towers he can see now that he’s inside the fortress. They have weapons, some men are carrying bows. There are arrows and there are swords littered about. Baskets of food and water are being passed around. There are fucking catapults and siege towers.

Barty whimpers.

He spots two men across the way who seem to be sharpening their blades, the whetstone in front of them bleeding into the ground below.

"The sky’s dark,” the younger man says. “The sun doesn’t want to rise.”

His armor is old and muddied. Links are missing in the chainmail that’s hanging heavy over his head. He looks worn beyond years though, and only the concern and weariness written from age on the other man’s face gives away the fact that this might be his first fight.

A man’s optimism can be his downfall.

The older man sets down his sword but not before it catches the light. Barty swallows. “Storm’s comin’, or perhaps it's the gods' wrath."

"Mark my words, we’ll be drinkin’ with the gods come nightfall,” is what he gets in response and Barty’s stomach drops at the way the older man laughs at what seem like silly, foolish words. A hearty, old laugh.

He tosses the younger man a smaller dagger. “One way or another, son.”

Barty’s going to die.

He’s going to die and he smoked too much or smoked something bad. Laced. He’s not going to die, or at least not here, because this is not happening, and he just needs to wait and wake up. He’s stuck in a dream. Evan will wake up eventually because if they fall asleep on the couch, he usually shakes Barty awake on his way to bed. Barty will wake up and tell Evan about all of this, and they’ll laugh.

He’ll never smoke again.

He’s been cared fucking straight.

"The enemy’s upon us—where’s your plate, soldier? Where’s your armor?”

Barty jumps out of his skin at the voice behind him. The fear in his eyes goes unnoticed when he turns and is almost taken down by a massive hunk of metal being thrown at him. Hitting him in his chest, stealing that breath he had just talked himself into.

It’s armor, and it’s fucking heavy.

The man, someone important if the way the men he had been watching talk bow, passes him by. Barty does not know what to do, so he does what he assumes he’s meant to do. He is guided by clammy hands and trembling fingers. He is guided by I am not waking up now and What if something bad happens if I am found here?

I think….god, I think I’m meant to fight.

A lifetime of video games has given him a pretty decent idea of how to put on a suit of armor.

Barty keeps his head down but weaves through the gathering, looking for what he’s missing. Dragging his chest plate behind him, he finds a bag of water. This is absurd. He pockets a small loaf of bread from a basket someone walks by carrying, and upon the first bite, he spits it out. Okay, right. Preservatives and flavor have not been invented yet. Barty shakes his head and tries again, gagging down the driest shit he’s ever eaten in his life.

He finds and loots a heavy-looking coat from where it’s draped over a bale of hay. He knows that goes on first. He laces the rough buckles and winces, watching the other half of his loaf roll into the dirt. Chainmail is heavier than you could ever imagine, which makes sense as he drapes it over his shoulders next.

Then comes the real armor.

It weighs him down like he’d sink the the bottom of the river.

It’s the real deal that Barty fumbles with, but no one gives him a second glance. No one seems to notice that he has absolutely no fucking idea what he’s really doing. He’s gone unnoticed, just another grunt in the sea of everyone preparing to ride to their death come first light.

The chest piece fits perfectly, if not a bit restrictive. The straps cut into his ribs, but feel secure. The pauldrons make the chainmail dig into his collar, and he feels like he’s swimming above water a bit, but Barty’s breath quickly adjusts to the weight. He finds it all kind of fun if he squeezes his eyes and fights past the I’m going to pass out feeling building in his lungs. He’s hot now. Barty’s starting to sweat.

The gauntlets fit like a glove and he huffs. It’s almost a laugh. More a disbelieving chuckle born of something almost psychotic. He’s lost his mind. He’s going to die. Barty has not a fucking clue what he’s doing but he’s doing it.

He flexes his fingers, and it’s not too bad. It’s nowhere near ideal, and if he doesn’t stand up straight, he might just faceplant, but he’s got decent enough movement and range, and the metal shines like he’s somehow found a new suit. It’s engraved with intricacies, which, upon further inspection, are, of course, done by hand. He can see the handcrafted grooves and welds, and the way it’s constructed seems expensive. Costly.

Barty finds a helmet across the way.

It’s the heaviest of all, and he weighs it in his hands. Feeling the way the metal bounces off that wrapped around his fingers and knuckles. It’s an aged, tarnished color. Heavy in the joints, where the front of it flips up so he’ll be able to see. Spikes are coming off the top of it. Long, protruding and they’d cut Barty if he ran his fingers over them too quickly. The spikes travel down the back of the helmet as well, as if anyone who might get close enough could get hurt. Will get hurt, hopefully.

It’s like an animal’s natural self-defense, adorned with a heavy cross carved into the middle of the forehead.

“Fucking sick,” he whispers, picking it up. “Holy shit, dude.”

If he lives, Evan’s never going to hear the end of how cool this is about to be. No one is going to ever fucking hear the end of it.

The whole suit really boosts his morale, and Evan has clearly not woken him up from his spot on the couch, so Barty straightens. He takes the deepest breath he’s been able to manage so far. This is not real, he reminds himself. This is like the final boss fight. This is just max level, and you’ve been on the couch for too long. Barty takes his helmet and turns. Keeping his head down just in case, he moves to find what else he needs.

A sword.

If he’s expected to ride into battle, he needs a fucking sword.

"We’ll be upon 'em at first light. Keep ‘yer eyes on the field!"

A man standing on what looks to be a carriage starts to yell from across the way. He’s got no face, it’s all covered in black, monotonous drapery and steel. He’s fully suited up as well, tossing supplies down to those below him as he yells. Barty changes directions and catches a cloak as it’s thrown down, slipping between a few men and ducking into a different alcove.

“Sorry, ‘scuse me,” he mumbles when he almost runs into a pair of men, but they pass by and keep on. Words fading as their heavy footsteps do:

"I’d march to the gates of Hell itself to save her.” Barty raises a brow. “The heart of the kingdom is not theirs to take so carelessly.”

He yanks the cloak on and raises the hood. Barty follows them.

“If harm comes to her, well, I will not let that stain my soul!”

“We shall not fail her.”

Her.

Oh, a princess? Someone has been captured, and they’re about to fight to get her back. Barty nods to himself like that makes sense. It does. He’s done this a million times, actually. Like Zelda, really, and he’s played every Zelda game twice over in the past year alone. He knows how this goes.

“There will be no peace until she is freed once again.”

He comes to a sudden halt, almost running into the backs of the two men. They’re all assembled in the yard again. Hundreds of them, packed in like small sardines waiting to be eaten, and Barty is nervous. That’s putting it lightly—he’s lost. He’s confused and still does not have a fucking sword.

There are whispers amongst the crowd he’s found himself in, like another ocean that is about to eat him up.

"Aye, the banners are raised. The enemy's within sight!"

"The princess will be free before the sun sets, mark my words!"

“Men!” Barty hears, a booming voice and he glances around, noticing the horses being pulled from their stables. Men are flocking to them. Angry, noble steeds, restlessly kicking and huffing into the air. Whining as if they can tell what’s to come and that is their imminent death.

Barty makes a split-second decision and runs.

He shoves his way through the sea of armor and grabs a pair of reigns as the waves of men finally swallow him. He’s another nameless, hidden face amongst hundreds now. His eyes catch to his right, and he lunges for the spare sword.

"Lords and knights, hear me now!” The crowd cheers, deep satisfaction at being called to battle once again. “The first light of dawn breaks upon us, but this is no ordinary morning, for today we ride not for glory, nor riches, but for the heart of our kingdom!”

They wail and raise their weapons to the sky.

“When death may come, let him know that the might of our swords is as certain as the rise of the sun. We ride to face the enemy, not as men, but as protectors of honor and the heart of this realm.” Barty can’t hear a thing. The roar is deafening and the sound of war is blinding. “Her captivity is a stain upon the kingdom, and we shall not rest until she is returned to her rightful place among us!"

Barty’s going to die.

There’s a ringing in his ears as he swallows down this truth.

Barty somehow manages to get onto his horse. He takes one breath after the next, but the panic in his chest is growing. Manifesting. This is fine, this is a game. The adrenaline reaches his fingers, and he still cannot hear anything other than what sounds like a deafening war cry from those surrounding him. He follows everyone else but stays silent.

I will just do as everyone else does.

He thinks maybe this might hurt but this is not real.

This is still not real, no matter how lifelike it all feels, and it’s like ego death. A gallant, heroic ego death to humble him back down to earth.

They flood out the front gates, and Barty’s back is going to break.

The sky has chosen to rise, finally. The stars are gone, and there are so many of them. Barty’s never been on a horse but the way the heavy ride cracks at his spine, the way he’s completely helpless to follow the animal following the others who are all following instinct, is a tad awe-inspiring.

The earth is no longer a black pit but thriving and bright green. Even further beyond the reaches of his vision now that it’s come day, he sees where they’re all being led. The horses beat up early morning mud beneath them, and the air is seized. It’s what Barty feels in his fingertips and it’s what steals his breath away when he comes to a sudden stop.

His horse is neighing, restless, and pounding the grass down. Chunks fly around Barty as the earth comes to a standstill.

Barty flips up his helmet, squinting at what is before him.

Thousands of men across the field he had only a few hours ago stood in the middle of.

Thousands of lances held high with honor. Dotting the horizon with what looks like hundreds of stakes of death. They catch the light and create a stronghold of their own. The bannermen flanking their sides sit high atop their horses, silent as they size up their opponents. Swords are drawn and ready.

Barty looks down at his own.

“Oh, fuck.”

It’s solid steel, hanging heavy off the side of his horse. Barty tentatively raises his arm, bringing the blade in front of him. Watching the honed, razor-sharp edges of the steel hit the morning light. The metal is purple now, then a warm yellow. Shifting as he turns it to and fro. It’s ice cold and utterly deadly, the guard even sharp. Metal carved and shaped into something somehow so beautiful, it reminds Barty of flowers. Petals. Cool to the touch and dense, deadly flowers. A hilt that his hand wraps perfectly around.

He adjusts to the weight in his palm and thinks not too bad.

I think we can work with this.

Barty slowly looks up again and watches as his men begin to raise their weapons. And then those behind them, and so on until they’re facing down the enemy, swords and maces and death raised high. Like a swell just as it crests. A heavy, roaring voice again, heard over the dark breeze but no less chilling.

“Day shall come again!”

It happens so fast, Barty’s lucky luck is on his side.

He’s swept up in the swarm of horses charging into battle. Moved forward by the fear and adrenaline of the animal he’s on, Barty has no choice but to go. Hooves cleave at dirt, it’s in the air and it’s down the throat of every man around him screaming. Yelling. A wailing, massive battle cry accompanies the other, and Barty hears the first men die.

He hears the armor strike steel and hears the cries of the horses.

The sound of death. Of dying. Of brutal, cruel violence that takes down what he can only hope is an equal measure of both of their men. Screams litter the air and there might be more of the opponent, but he’s ready. Barty is prepared and his heart is in his throat but the time finally comes and it’s his turn.

Those before him have either died, are left to carry forward on their own, or have lost their horses and are fighting on the ground.

It’s clear death either comes quickly or lingers painfully here. From what Barty can see, hundreds of men die instantly.

It’s everywhere he looks as he hangs on to the reigns of his horse. His knuckles burn, he’s sweating, and to his right, a body flies off a horse. An arrow. The force of it is what kills the man, leading to his limp, heavy, armored person being trampled and left behind in an instant. Hundreds of pounds of steel, crushed and caved in before Barty can even blink.

Bodies pass everywhere he looks. He makes it halfway through the field and meets the chaos in the middle before his horse is taken out.

Barty hits the ground with the weight of three of him. It knocks the wind from his chest and it’s luck that somehow manages to get him up. He hears the pained cries of the animal he’d just been on top of, but his horse is lost in the mess around him. The rough landing keeps his mind from doing the infuriating thing it sometimes does where it just shuts down. Freezes. When you stop and you’re immobile and prone to, usually, something much less deadly than death, but Barty hits the ground and grips his sword tighter.

He kills his first man to the backtrack of a thousand deaths.

Straight to the throat. Into the throat. Barty stumbles to unsteady feet, turns, and the blade of his sword finds that sweet, soft, vulnerable underside of this man’s chin and Barty’s got blood in his mouth. He evades a body that sways into his vision, watching the man fall. Not a threat.

Dead.

There’s blood all over him, his armor and grip slippery now, and it splatters when he yanks his weapon free.

When Barty moves on.

When he passes too many deaths. Death himself is working overtime, stepping between them and ducking under the heavy weight of maces and arrows flying through the air to collect his spoils of war. Death somehow avoids blunt force trauma to the head, sharp points, everlasting sleep, and his own brain being scrambled before bleeding from his ears, as he picks up soul after soul.

Seemingly immune to the screaming. To the way Barty is fighting for his life. With wet breaths and the taste of iron in his throat, he cuts down any enemy he comes across. Though his skill may not be instinctual, the drive is.

Barty’s knuckles ache. Blood is rushing through his ears and his heart is about to beat through his chest. He collides with someone. Barty uses his sword and gets up under the man’s armor. After fighting him back, putting enough space between them, he finds that spot under the joints, right between the ribs, and aims.

Barty kicks the body off his sword, crying out, watching as the man falls and his helmet clatters to the ground. He chokes on his blood as Barty steps over him.

Another. Another.

Barty shouts when he’s suddenly knocked down, the horses mainly gone or fled to their own safety.

He falls to the ground and narrowly misses an axe. It lands in the grass next to him, right by his head. Raining down dirt when it’s lifted again, but Barty continues. He kicks the man down and yanks their helmet off. Barty rolls, making an advantage, and brings the hilt of his sword down between his eyes. Once and then twice, an erratic, shrill noise in the back of his own throat. He doesn’t look the man in the eyes until then, as blood spurts, bones are crushed, and Barty stands before slitting his throat.

Gritting his teeth so hard they might break, he aims for another and then another.

Barty slips into something simple. Continue to fight or you will die. The definition of adrenaline. Fight or flight and life or death and Barty is still standing. He’s somehow made it this far. He does not know how, but he will count his blessings when he can breathe and think. If he stops now, not only will he die, but he might just pass out, too.

Barty’s choking. He’s out of breath completely. He can’t feel a thing, and he’s stealing back his blade from someone’s chest when he hears the cry.

“The princess is mine! Bow before me, for I will be king!”

Barty observes in horror as those stupid enough turn to watch the scene before them unfold. He curses, ducking and narrowly missing decapitation before he’s running. Towards the princess, towards the daunting figure further down the way. Cloaked in all black, looking like Master Death himself. Looking like the scary, foreboding castle in the fairytales where you enter but never leave. His suit of armor is dark and dangerous. A weapon itself, and his helmet looks like the devil.

He’s holding a limp body, crumpled in on itself in one of his arms. Cradled as if it is something precious, something coveted, yet brought to this battle. There is a bag over their head, with arms and legs tied, as this man boasts. Screaming for everyone still standing to bow down. To submit and give up. Standing taller than everyone around him, Barty knows immediately that he is the target.

That is the evil king who stole the princess.

He tramples and runs over bodies, ducking around arrows broken in the ground and weapons left the be pilfered later. Barty makes his way toward the king, weaving as he kills anyone who stands in his way. It’s now less about cutting down the enemy and more about clearing a path to the target. One more and then two more and he gets the honor of being someone’s last feeble attempt. Barty puts the enemy out of its misery, kicking their helmet away and piercing his throat before continuing.

Luck has gotten him much, much farther than he thought it would.

Barty’s luck runs out only a stone's throw from the king.

It leaves from his left, in the form of his knees giving out. Someone kicks him or hits him, it doesn’t matter because, like the swift, quick death of their horses and the men with too much faith, it happens in the blink of an eye. Everything moves too fast on the battlefield.

Barty hits the ground and falls hard. His sword skids from his grip and Barty gasps.

“Fuck!”

He desperately feels the ground for anything. Something. Life is flashing before his eyes and he doesn’t know what to focus on. What to think about when surrounded by so much strange. The man’s mace is heavy in the air, Barty watches in horror as his arms draw it back before it flies through the air. Towards him. But he rolls at the last minute. Barty can’t get up because of the steel covering his body, but it comes in handy. The man’s mace hits Barty square in the back and knocks him forward again. He bites his tongue from the blow. There are tears in his eyes from the sudden pain.

Pure adrenaline tastes like copper.

Barty crawls. He feels a hand around his ankle and feels the impact of the mace again. The spikes pierce his armor this time. He coughs and something is broken. He spits blood back into his face. Barty’s body is busted and he is dying and he hears the roar of men around him warping and wooshing.

He swallows thick spit, trying to clear his thoughts and throat, but catches a glimpse of white hair when he desperately looks up.

When he goes to spin around after kicking the hand off, evading death once again.

Evan.

Barty’s helmet flies off his face, the mace clips the armor and lands in the dirt next to him. His fingers wrap around something and it’s not his sword, his sword is long gone, but he cries out and dodges the head of the mace.

Barty lunges and grabs it. Gets all five of his fingers wrapped around the hilt. He yanks it from the dead man’s hand and deals a very final, fear-induced, and horrific blow. Blindly, with any ounce of luck he has left.

The man that had been hell-bent on killing him’s face caves in, and Barty’s running.

At first, it’s instinctual.

No matter how mean Barty feels, no matter how put out he might be on any given day. No matter how many men he’s killed now and how well he can wield a sword. No matter how war-torn and lifeless life can be sometimes, familiar faces are familiar.

He sees Evan, so he runs towards Evan.

Dragging behind him the heavy sword he’d found. A cry on his lips because after instinct comes understanding and that’s Evan. Evan is here, limp in the arms of some king that has stolen him and he looks lifeless. He looks dead. Time slows and Barty screams. He yells out of desperation and the aching, seemingly never-ending need to fight even harder. To spill more blood. To see this to the end, whatever that may be.

His throat is raw and torn. He’s lost his helmet and is using another man’s sword.

Another and then another fall. Blood in his mouth and sticky on his person. Mixing with dirt and carnage, those still fighting are fighting where they stand, and Barty uses this to his advantage. Swinging around the back of where the king is standing, Barty comes up behind him. He watches Evan’s hair fall in the morning sun and Barty only sees red.

It’s adrenaline and rage and it’s a high he might just chase for the rest of his life.

“Evan!” he cries, and the king turns. He chokes. “Fuck.”

The king turns and carelessly tosses Evan to the side. Barty watches in horror as his body hits the ground, but has to swerve a moment later. The devil’s eyes now set on him, advancing with a sword much bigger than Bartys. Much deadlier, much scarier. This is the boss and Barty’s on his own.

He thinks he has one more, final fight left in him.

Sporting a few broken ribs and a mouthful of blood. He lost his horse, he’s lost his helmet. Barty cannot see the face that advances towards him, but the steps are calculated and mean and heavy like they’ve got all night. As if this is going to be enjoyable. As if this man has never been bested in battle before.

But the princess was captured and Barty is going to save Evan or die trying.

He understands immediately that he’s going to have to be strategic. He cannot win this fight on luck alone. Their swords meet and Barty narrowly misses losing his head. He falls and rolls. He’s back on his feet, swaying as their steel spark and Barty’s being fought uphill. Back. Towards where the king stands and he’s being corralled onto uneven ground. A disadvantage. Their swords tangle and snag and carve out chunks of mud under them. Barty cannot breathe as the adrenaline goes into overdrive. Torn between ducking, dodging, and trying his hardest to stand his ground. Trying his hardest to clear his vision, to level his head, and stop the ringing that’s creeping up his spine.

He takes the king’s massive sword to the leg and the armor saves him but he falls. He skids to the edge of the small hill they’re on. Spitting out dirt, Barty almost impales himself with his sword. He glances behind him and spits out the blood in his throat, growling deep in his throat.

“You–You’re not fucking keeping him,” Barty shouts. “Fuck off!”

He throws himself off the cliff. Barty hits the ground a moment later and deals significant damage. The cry he lets out is silent, the pain everywhere. He falls amongst the sea of dead bodies and slain comrades. He lies there, praying the chaos of the battlefield works in his favor but as he stares up at the cliff’s edge, no masked death peeks down at him.

Barty gets up.

He spits, feeling like his teeth are swimming in his mouth, and climbs.

Piercing the earth with his sword, blinding pain turning hot then cold then cooling him down as he scales the cliff. Barty is sobbing out breaths when he finally throws an arm over the edge. He spots Evan off to the side, on his back and one might think him dead, one might think him out cold, but Barty knows him better than anyone.

That’s his best friend. The princess he’s about to fucking save.

Barty finds luck and picks it up casually as he stands. He toys with it in his hand as he sways, finding his balance and catching his sword in the dirt below him. It lazily draws patterns as he advances again.

He watches the king fling a lifeless man off his sword, and Barty glances at Evan one more time before he runs.

Hit him from behind—win with the element of surprise.

Go for the weapon first—Barty knocks the king’s sword from his grip.

Gripping the blade in his hand and yanking it the rest of the way when he’s met with resistance, Barty growls. The adrenaline has turned thick and it escapes however it can. Barty watches the king’s sword fly into the sea of other steel.

Get him down—Barty goes for the back of the knees.

His sword slices clean through the gaps in the armor after a well-placed duck and slash of steel. The smallest disadvantage they all have, no matter king or just another grunt. In that way, they are all equal, and Barty can’t help but laugh. His voice is raw and sounds horrified to his own ears. Animal. It sounds like utter disbelief in the moment that he strikes the first blow. Not killing, but closer.

The king falls to his knees.

Barty grips the king’s chin and yanks his head back. Prone like a bitch on his knees before his death, Barty has become Master Death.

He tears the helmet off and tosses it to the side.

And there are very few people Barty cares to see in life.

He could do without seeing his parents and his extended family goes without saying. The teachers he hated in high school, he never wants to see them again and surely shouldn't have to. He feels like everyone must feel that way. He doesn’t care to see that one cashier at the gas station by his house, and anyone presently working at the DMV.

He also doesn’t care to ever fucking see Evan’s benefitting friend.

They’ve drawn a crowd.

If the lack of rampant and rapid death is anything to go by, let alone the king brought to his knees, Barty might just be about to win. He might just be able to bring home the crown for the whole damn kingdom.

It starts like a sea.

One man notices and then another. Someone speaks their disbelief and another is inspired. It goes like that until it’s a roaring crowd again, cheering and screaming. Men standing tall amongst a new type of field made of blood and bones and bodies. Determination and mastery. Those still alive yell out in anticipation of victory.

“The king is no more!”

“Feed the ground with his blood!”

“Take his head!”

Barty pants, staring down at the man that’s been fucking Evan through his mattress every Friday and Saturday and sometimes Sundays if Evan doesn’t have work ‘til late on Monday for the past four and a half months.

Unfortunate, really, how things turn out.

Unfortunate that Barty is not a better man and that all of this, everything he’s just accomplished, is not real. It’s unfortunate that Barty is weird about someone else using his coffee cups and no one needs to drink coffee at four in the morning. It’s disheartening that Barty’s gotten the message loud and clear one too many times, that coffee at four in the morning means the head nod he gets is meant to be taken as I’m going to go fuck your best friend some more.

This is good coffee, thanks.

See you later, man.

They’re not in a room alone together, but the fear in the man’s eyes, well, they might as well be. It's the look of a man that’s lost.

A fucking loser.

“Fuck you,” he spits.

Barty slits his throat and the crowd cheers.

Deafening, hot, and rich cheers cry out when Barty takes the king's life. When he wins. When he kills the boss, the chants around him, for him, inspire his own cry. Deep and gruff and what you’d expect after defeating a death that put up a valiant fight. Sword in his other hand, thrust into the air as one last warning that death did come and he has collected.

Barty pants, open-mouthed and light-headed when he turns to the men below him and holds the king's head up in offering.

He gives the gruesome sight one last look, offers the dead man the curl of his lip, before tossing the head down to the sea of hungry animals below.

Barty loses his gauntlets first, gasping as his fingers hit the air. His sword clatters to the dirt and his hot, angry knuckles as red as the blood they’re covered in, make him hiss. Barty looks around and there are stragglers. The errant cry for demise and not victory, but he supposes men who lose might beg for scraps in the end, always late even to their own death, and they’re begging now.

No mercy.

Barty’s eye catches and he runs over to Evan.

“H–Hey,” he pants, falling to his knees and hurriedly tossing off his chest armor. It rolls away as he grabs Evan by the shoulder and shakes him. “Evan. Fuck, hey. Wake up.” He shakes again, harder this time, quickly undoing his bindings. “Rosie. Dude, wake up. Fuck—I–I won.”

Barty spits and his dirty, aching fingers turn Evan over. Brushing the hair away from his sweaty face.

“Wake up,” Barty yells, and then he feels Evan stir in his arms. Hears him make a discontent noise, much like the one Barty hears all the time, and that must be why his heart aches just a bit. Sure. He misses home, or whatever. “Evan?”

“Hmmngh?”

“Dude,” Barty sighs, head finally falling, and he drops. He loses every ounce of fight and it’s the moment he knows he really won. His surroundings are not serene or peaceful, but compared to what they had just been, this is the peace they fought for.

“Holy fuck,” he pants. “Holy shit.”

Yes, he killed the evil king, but Barty also saved the princess.

His ears are ringing, now. Evan is trying to sit up, but Barty feels like he should be dead. All of his injuries flood his system. Everything strains and aches, so hot-cold that he’s searing now. Barty’s chest feels like it’s being pierced every time he inhales. His head is pounding and his mouth tastes like dying and he’s covered in a filth he’s never known.

He watches Evan sit up slowly, brushing the hair away from his eyes. He blinks, and Barty does not think this is his Evan. This is not the same Evan who is asleep on their couch right now. This Evan seems to have a speck of recognition in his eyes, but it’s lost. It’s wandering as he moves his eyes over Barty’s face. Over his bloodied hands and death-ravaged person.

Barty finally speaks. “Are you—”

He swallows a cry when his back hits the ground again with the force of Evan.

Who tackles him to the ground, seemingly fine. Seemingly untouched and unharmed and saved and when Barty first opened his eyes in this unfamiliar land, he was terrified. He was terrified as he suited up and got ready to ride to his death, he was terrified when he killed his first man. He knows a terror so vast and deep now that it slips away. It becomes a part of you and it’s only noticeable when you realize you’re still fighting and why.

Barty had no idea that the reward for saving the princess would be a kiss.

Evan’s clean, pristine fingers find the sides of Barty’s face. They stick to the grime on his skin and draw him in for a chaste peck. A press of their lips. Very respectable and more of a thank you than anything. For freeing him from the shackles of evil, surely. From liberating him from the hand of his ill-timed demise, probably.

Honestly, after all that, a chaste, cute kiss is not going to fucking cut it.

Not in Barty’s fairytales.

Ignoring his screaming muscles, Barty’s hand finds the back of Evan’s head and pulls him close. It’s not the kiss he’d always dreamed of, it’s actually a whole lot better. Fucking sick as hell, kissing one Evan Rosier on the battlefield after fighting for his life. It’s a valiant knight's kiss. It’s the heroic ending to a movie that everyone wishes they could be in but Barty’s lived it, and he’s reaping the benefits.

Evan sighs into the kiss and lets Barty lick into his mouth. It’s disgusting. Barty feels like he could never shower off his skin well enough, but Evan smells sweet and he’s warm under his fingers. He tastes like clean and like he doesn’t care what it took Barty to win, he’s just grateful. He’s enamored, maybe. Evan’s fallen in love, perhaps, if there’s any luck left strewn about.

He gasps and Barty moans in response.

Heaven.

Evan steals his breath from the force with which he’s kissing Barty. Rolling in the dirt—finally. The warm slip of his tongue. The warm feeling of Evan’s fingers sweeping through his hair. The way his hips are winding up and the soft sounds he makes, ignorant to there’s a time and place.

Barty’s shaky fingers work up the back of Evan’s shirt, drawing him to settle in his lap.

“You saved me,” Evan moans, shoving at Barty’s chin, teeth intent on finding his jaw. “You saved me,” he sighs.

“O–Of course, Rosie.”

Barty feels the smile, what might be a bit more recognition, right before he passes out.

His eyes open a moment later, a burning in his stomach like he’s choking on his own blood.

He sits up abruptly and collides with something hard and not immovable but heavy and he blames whatever the fuck that had just been for the way he body slams Evan. Barty fights, even as he registers familiar walls and the sound of a TV in the back and he takes both him and Evan down.

He takes down their coffee table as well.

He breaks it, just—flat-out breaks the coffee table with the way he flies up off the couch and tackles his best friend.

“W–What the fuck—” Evan shouts. Screams, really. His words warped from the way he hits the coffee table. Flat on his back. Barty lands on top of Evan and the table splits right down the middle. “Barty!”

Barty doesn’t say anything because that is the worst possible way he could have woken up.

Lying on top of Evan, his reflexes are still sharp. After a moment of watching their ceiling fan whirl round and round, he scrambles up and stumbles back, nearly climbing on the couch to get away. To put some distance between himself and the switch between chaos and then familiar chaos. Evan’s face.

Not lying on a bloodied field, tied up, and almost dead.

Not a princess to be saved. Not a princess to be rescued from evil clutches and then kissed back to life.

Evan is staring at Barty like he’s lost his fucking mind, dusting off bits of their table from his pajamas and hesitantly stepping towards his best friend like yeah, he lost his mind but maybe we can find it. He looks equally as terrified.

Barty is not sure they can find his mind.

His eyes are wide, and Barty is trying to calm down, he is trying to even his breaths, but his chest is hammering like a drum and he’s shaking. Barty doesn’t even know where to begin, but he starts with a trembling breath.

“I–I had the fucking…fuck,” he hangs his head, rubbing at his eyes. “I had the craziest dream, dude.”

Chapter 2: 4

“F–Fuck,” Barty groans.

He opens his eyes and that is not his ceiling.

Barty’s in a bed, but it’s not his bed. The smell around him is familiar, but it’s not a smell he’s too familiar with. It’s from a distant past dream, and, after looking around a bit more, he is pleasantly surprised to see his surroundings are quiet. Peaceful. Barty can assume where he’s woken up and with assuming, he can also gather that there seems to be no immediate threat to his person.

Amazing. He’s off to a much better start this time around.

Why he’s here again is another question altogether. Given the last time and what happened, Barty’s safety is not ensured, but the room around him, after his eyes take in a bit more of the moonlight streaming in through the glass panes he’s surrounded by, is grand.

Vast. Rich. Opulent in ways he has never seen and will surely never see in his waking life. Ceilings high and disappearing into nothing. The air damp and heavy on his bare arms when Barty runs a hand over his face.

He’s fucked to find himself in this world again, but at least there are curtains everywhere.

Deep, dark crimson curtains that lie in billows and folds, softly swaying because there is a window open across the way. Past what seems like a sitting area and a large table, things indiscernible in the dark but nonetheless there. Upon a deep, grounding inhale, Barty can smell something in the air—spice or maybe something more sweet. The moonlight paints the rich, unlit jewel tones he’s surrounded by almost black and there’s a large fireplace tapering down a small kindle next to him.

It looks every bit royalty, down to the slim handmade candles half-burnt on the small table next to his bed and the way gold and silver glint when the breeze sways through the castle.

There’s not a sound in the air.

This is not somewhere he’s meant to be. This is not where a knight is surely meant to lay his head and rest.

Barty’s just about to peel the blankets back and stand when he loses his breath. It catches in his throat and he’s conscious of his body for the first time and how badly it’s broken. His nerves kick up and suddenly the heavy blanket he’s under is scratching at his sensitive skin. Barty feels stuck under a thousand pounds of bricks. He went to sleep in his own time fine, to wake up in such agony burns like breathing down knives and then being forced to cough them up.

The single door in the room creaks open at the same time he moves to stand.

Barty comes face to face with Evan.

Not Evan, once again. Not his Evan, at least, but that’s Evan, and a familiar, comforting face, nonetheless.

“O-Oh, you’re awake,” he mumbles. Evan’s eyes go wide and he rushes over, stopping only to shut the door softly. “Don’t! Don’t move.”

But Barty is already up by the time Evan gets to his bedside, though he stills from the worry so unlike anything he’s ever seen on his face before.

Evan’s face…his face is the same, yes, but he’s looking at Barty with a concern so foreign. Not that Evan does not worry over Barty in his own way, but it just simply has never looked like that. It’s always been less worry and more stress, perhaps. It’s always been with a sigh and a jump of his jaw.

Evan has never had eyes this soft for Barty. It’s startling.

He looks like Evan from a different age. He looks like a princess, of course, he does. Evan looks soft and careful if that could be such a thing. He looks like the most beautiful creature from some strange fantasy world you might dream of one random, shameless night. This Evan, from a distant time and life, is an Evan without his Barty and it makes his chest pang for a split moment.

Barty’s voice is hoarse when he tries to speak, broken bits stuck in his throat. “Wh–What—”

Those broken bits wound him and the pang is a homesickness. A this is fun but much too strange for my liking now.

“You’ve been asleep for three days,” he says softly, and thats not what Barty had been going to ask, but he nods. Evan pauses. He goes to sit on Barty’s bedside, but rethinks. Turning to bring over a stool. “I have—”

“You can sit—”

“I’ve been coming here at night,” he looks sheepish, barrelling over Barty’s offer. “I hope you do not mind, but someone needed to tend to your wounds.”

“Are there no doctors?”

Evan hums, ignoring the question, and leans over reaching for a glass. “Here.”

Barty takes the water and drinks, not missing the side eye Evan gives him as he inspects it first. It tastes wrong, like dirt and too clean but he watches Evan’s eyes over the rim of the glass, drinking it all. He coughs, almost hacks up a lung from his dry throat being wet for the first time in who knows how long, and by the time Barty's done hacking, he feels like he might as well die here and now.

“My ribs,” he wheezes. “W-What—”

“Do not worry, the doctors did tend to you first,” Evan says softly. “Two are broken and your back was hurt badly.” He looks away, setting the glass of water down gently. “They are saying it is a miracle you are alive, so I must thank—”

“No!” he shouts and Evan leans away, his eyes wide. Barty swallows and shakes his head in apology. “No, please. No need to thank me, really.”

Evan’s gaze narrows and Barty lowers the hand that had reached out and he’s found such a fondness for this Evan. Immediately. Without reason or cause. Undeniably, Barty is smitten and taken thoroughly. Evan should not be thanking anyone for saving him, for he’s…he’s the princess. Barty takes a breath. “You are the princess, of course, I saved you.”

“Many men died thinking that same way.” Evan smooths his hand over the wrinkles in the throw falling over the edge of the bed. “You talk strange, my savior.”

“My name is Barty,” he says softly, not missing the bit of teasing in Evan’s endearment.

“Do you have a last name, Barty?”

His name on Evan’s lips sounds so alien, but in this life, he wants to just be himself.

Barty shakes his head no.

Evan nods as if he’s a bit disappointed and that makes Barty frown. Every few seconds he’s having to wonder what this is all about, wonder why he’s frowning. The dream last time was something else, but he was alone, really, there until the end. Now, sitting in a bed so lavish, surrounded by old stones even older than he could ever hope to be, golds and reds and deep, deep shadows, and his own, secret Evan just for himself, well.

Barty’s always coveted Evan just for himself.

He knows that’s impractical. He knows that’s wrong and mean and he would never even entertain such an idea, but the bed under him feels real, and he’s here. Barty does not know how to leave, he is subject to the stolen moments in front of him until something shifts in his waking life. At this moment, despite where the other half of him lies somewhere years and years, centuries away, he is awake.

Alive and breathing and sweat-warm under the blankets he’s been covered in.

Evan reaches out of sight, the heavy sound of him dragging over a small backset is loud in a world so silent and still.

“Will you let me tend to you, still?”

Between one look and the next Barty’s swallows turn thick. “Sure, yeah.”

“Sure, yeah,” he mimics before smirking. Evan smirks. This Evan smirks and something breathes in Barty and it sounds silly. Barty can tell he knows too, by the way his nose scrunches. “I’m sorry, you will need to take off your shirt.”

Maybe every Evan in every universe is still Evan and Barty hasn’t seen his stomach without tattoos on it since he was a teenager.

The shirt he had been put into clings to his back with sweat and he wonders who changed him. Wonders what the doctor’s name was that tended to him and how extensive this world might be. How deep it all goes or if everything is just a figment of Barty’s imagination, fading out into licks and whisps of an earth and lore where Barty’s pages will never reach as Evan’s fingers barely brush against his skin.

“Are you cold?” Evan asks as his shirt hits the bed. Eyes dart to the low fireplace and open window but Barty shakes his head, reaching for Evan’s arm to pull him back to sit.

“I’m not cold.”

“I told the housemaid to leave them closed, but she insisted it would help.”

“I don’t mind being a little cold,” Barty assures, and Evan blushes.

He blushes and Barty could just die, really. This is torture. He wishes he had died in battle.

Barty tries his hardest to suck down the pain when Evan starts poking at him. He wants to ask what there is to poke at, how that could possibly be making anything better. He really wants to have all his ribs in one piece, but hurt here is only temporary and he does not want worry to cross the lines of this Evan’s fresh face. He couldn’t bear it.

Barty lets his mind wander, tracing shapes on the ceiling as soft fingers prod at his bruised back. They run over the hot skin and he breathes in when asked, picking up on the scent of fire finally burning out and Evan. Who smells like…Barty bites his lip. His breath catches. His shoulders sag and Evan’s fingers stop on the back of his neck.

Barty feels weird. A way he never really has before.

Evan smells like roses. Their eyes meet when he leans forward to look at Barty’s ribs. “You are lucky to be alive.”

“Is that what the doctor said?”

He glances up through his lashes. “No, that is what I am saying.”

“How many,” Barty swallows and winces down something ice cold when Evan moves to stretch his side into the light. “How many men died?”

“I have heard talk of thousands.”

Barty hums and nods, peeking for anything left burning in the fireplace. He looks down at Evan’s hair, soft and white and shining in the low light in contrast. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands or how to be cared for. He does not think he’s ever been touched so gently.

“You’re unsure?”

Evan finally lifts, motioning for Barty to lie back down. He turns and picks up a small pot from the bedside. “They do not tend to find those things important enough to tell me.” The smell of something minty hits the air. “I have my ways, though.”

“Sneaky thing.” Barty grins. “And I’m sure you’re meant to be somewhere else right now?”

“If you tell—”

“Oh, I’d never. You have my word, Princess.” Evan narrows his eyes. Barty fights to lean closer. “I swear on my honor.”

“And you’re very honorable and just, no doubt.” Evan punctuates the bit of attitude with a slight glance. Barty bites his lip. Evan turns to grab something else. “You have thousands of men left looking to you, so must you still pretend to act like this does not hurt? Drink this.”

Barty takes a small bottle from him, Evan’s face giving him no way out.

He doesn’t smell it. He doesn’t think. He takes it like a shot and about throws it up the same way. Before he can gag after it’s down, Barty sees white as Evan’s fingers find their way to the sensitive broken side of his ribs. Something cold smears against his skin, the strong smell medicinal, strong, and potent.

“It must be rubbed into the skin.”

Barty’s spit is thick, his head cold. “Of course it d—fuck!”

Once the white pain bleeds from his eyes and ears, Barty can feel another touch. Evan’s hand on his hip. Holding him down, trying to keep him from moving. Barty pants, wincing through the strokes of Evan’s fingers against his ribs. He finally glances down, sees the skin when Evan leans to grab more, and it’s mottled and disgusting looking. Swollen and stiff to the touch when Barty pokes at it himself.

Evan bats his hand away, giving him a reproachful look. “Let me.”

“It hurts.”

“It is necess—”

Barty sees Evan freeze.

He hears the way the stool scrapes when he stands suddenly, ducking to try and quiet it. To still it and stop it from toppling over. Evan’s eyes go wide as Barty hears footsteps from somewhere below. Getting closer. Evan suddenly looks very like Barty’s Evan, panicked and running late on his way to work or dinner. It’s in the eyes, Barty realizes a moment before Evan rushes to the other side of the bed, tossing back the covers and hurling a few pillows over his body once he is hidden.

Barty is motionless.

“Should I pretend to be asleep?”

“Yes, yes,” Evan whispers quickly. “Blow out that candle. Hurry!”

Barty blows out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. This is like the most sudden, horrifying game of hide and seek, and he feels Evan’s bare leg brush against his as he tries to flatten himself under the blankets. He’s wiggling too much while the footsteps get closer.

Barty pats down the blanket, finds Evan’s back, and places his hand on it. He finally stops moving. “You’re being too loud.”

“Sorry,” Evan’s muffled voice is small from under the layers of thick blanket.

Barty curses lowly. Glancing between the door and the very obvious swell in the mattress next to him, as the footsteps stop outside the door, he grits his teeth and rolls over, shielding Evan’s little lump of a form from the door. Evan stops moving with a final breath, Barty does as well, and the door opens.

It creaks again, there’s silence, and more silence, and Barty doesn’t dare move an inch until Evan does. He does not know why they’re hiding, but Barty is doing his best to help. The Evan lump is breathing in his arms but shallow. Slowly and shakily, even. Clearly, he is not meant to be here, and Barty…well.

He’s not much. Barty’s never really gotten to help Evan, to protect his Evan, because his Evan does not need help. Or protection, and fuck, some days it seems like he doesn’t even need Barty. As if he’d be fine never seeing him again and Barty feels guilty about that, sure. He knows that’s not true but right now…he’s not him and Evan is not Evan.

He’s simply protecting Princess Evan. It’s kind of his job. In this life and any other.

So he stays still, counts both of their breaths, and the seconds between the door opening and closing. Steadying the rise and fall of his back as he fights off the pains and aches of his skin and bones so much as moving. Finally, they hear the door shlick closed again.

Footsteps retreat.

Barty waits for Evan to breathe, and then his head pokes out from under the blankets, hair a mess and cautiously looking over Barty’s shoulder.

“Gone?”

“You’re meant to be in bed?”

“I’m meant to be where I please,” Evan snaps. He huffs and pushes the mess of his hair out of his face. Straightening his clothes, Barty can’t help but chuckle. “Everyone in the castle just seems to think I am meant to be where they see more fit.”

“I see.”

“Conflicting opinions.”

“They’re worried about you getting captured again?”

“No,” Evan cuts his eyes at Barty. “That was different.

Medieval politics. Barty is enthralled, no less confused. Either way, he wants Evan to keep talking. No more tending to Barty, getting to see this Evan come to life, a light in his eyes from this angle on the bed, is making him feel better already.

“You wanted to be captured?”

Evan looks horrified. “They were meant to kill me.”

“I’m sorry, princess. I am just trying—” Barty hisses, trying to shift to see Evan better as he comes out from his hiding space. He looks guiltily at Evan’s face. “Help me?”

He nods quickly, scooting closer on his knees and slowly helping Barty to roll back over to lie down. His fingers are warm and cautious and Barty’s found misery in heaven. There’s no hope for him in waking life. He smells so good and he’s just everywhere.

With the candle blown out, their whispers sound even louder. Evan is somewhere above him. To the left and too close.

“You should not have done that.”

Earnestly, “I told you that you have my word, princess.”

Evan stills, and the feeling of his body reads of contemplation. The way his fingers twitch, the way his breathing is low, sounds like hesitance. Barty cannot see what look crosses over his own face, but Evan moves to scoot that much closer, sitting by Barty’s hip, leaning in.

“On what?” he asks softly.

“What?”

The shadows part on Evan’s face and his eyes shine. “I’ve been granted your word on what?”

“A–Anything you want,” Barty stutters, feeling fingers against the side of his face. Slipping into another side of this Evan of which Barty has fallen for. He feels traitorous, it’s just—

“Take me as your bride.”

Barty inhales sharply.

He says nothing, because what is there to say? What on earth does one say to that? Being asked by such a thing as the one almost in his lap? Looking at him like he wholeheartedly means to ask such a thing and really, really wants Barty to say yes.

To take him as his bride.

Barty’s eye twitches. “C–Can I do that?”

“I am all they have left,” Evan says lowly. “They lost their king fighting for me. I do not think your men would go against the wishes of the heart of the kingdom, do you?”

Barty’s mind races. It snags.

“M–My men.”

“I’ve heard whispers of praise.” Evan’s lips brush Barty’s ear as he lifts a leg, settling on Barty’s middle. It shifts everything, and Barty groans, but the feelings of lips, how gentle Evan’s weight is, fizzles out when he whispers, “I’ve gotten word that the world already knows of this Kingslayer and his men that speak so highly of him.”

This must be the wildest two-part wet dream he’s ever had. Barty’s brain fries and that’s the conclusion he comes to.

Kingslayer.

“And this Kingslayer's valiant fight in battle,” Evan’s lips trail down, over Barty’s bare shoulder. “They know about that, too.”

“W–Who?”

“Everyone,” Evan says softly. “Tales of the way he tore through his enemies and stopped at no cost? Everyone’s whispering them.”

Barty groans when he feels the sharp, blunt edge of Evan’s teeth. Catching on his collarbone, Evan’s hair brushes against his face, and Barty’s hand hangs in mid-air. Unsure as his breathing speeds. He feels the softest lips against his skin and Barty holds his breath for the memory.

“Some have even begun to speculate of an affair.” Evan’s lips stop at the base of his neck again. He looks up, Barty catches his eye, and this is not the same Evan who had shyly shuffled into this room only a bit ago. “Some say they saw the princess kiss him after he took the king’s head, but I’m not so sure of that.”

Barty swallows. “No?”

“Such an honorable knight, as I’ve been told this Kingslayer is, would surely never claim the princess for himself only minutes after murdering his own king in battle.”

“I didn’t—”

Evan hums dismissively. He sits up and sighs.

Barty picks at another snag in his brain. He clears his throat, watching Evan seemingly lose interest in the surely beautiful and stunning mess he was making of Barty’s neck. He’s hot all over. “Cl–Claim him?”

“I’m sorry?”

Barty sits up, watching Evan’s facade break as he frowns and tries to stop him. “I didn’t kill the king. I–I…” Barty trails off, trying to remember, but he can only shake his head. He doesn’t remember.

“Whose to say?” Evan mutters, seemingly not caring a bit about the atrocity Barty might have committed. Treason, actually. That’s treason and cause for death, right? Evan purses those pretty lips. “Some even speculate if this Kingslayer killed the evil king and my father to save me, isn’t that such a fantasy?”

Barty can only nod slowly.

“But don’t worry,” Evan leans in again and Barty breathes a sigh of relief. “When asked about this, I have said nothing.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he starts, and that’s when Barty feels his fingers again, sending a chill up his spine as they walk the length of his arm. With a destination, this time, it seems. “I don’t remember much,” Evan pouts. “I remember the knight that saved me…hmm,” he hums. “He was very handsome, of course.”

Barty swallows when Evan’s fingers slip into his hair, brushing it back and away from his face. His shoulders fall and Barty’s neck is bared with a sigh. At this angle, he can see better and is captivated by the color of Evan’s eyes. Almost bottomless, but so, so warm.

“So brave,” he whispers against Barty’s lips and he’s done for. Barty missed the starting gun and he’s about to lose whatever race they’re about to run. He can already feel his cock twitching, his stomach muscles aching in restraint. Evan, in that sweet, sweet voice, is his undoing.

So brave.

“Strong, too.” Punctuated with Evan leaning further into Barty’s space. Clouding him over with the low tone of his voice. “And maybe I could remember who it was if only I could kiss my brave savior again.”

Barty is stuck in a cloud of rose facades and sweet, hushed dreams.

“But that’s between just us,” Evan whispers. “I spoke nothing of what happened.”

Finally, he finds his voice, “I–I saved you.”

It sounds pitiful. It sounds like a child pleading their pitiful, meaningless case.

“Then allow me to thank you properly,” Evan whispers against his lips, and “Please,” he pants into Barty’s open and waiting mouth. “Please,” he begs falling into, arms wrapping around his neck, and Barty doesn’t even register the pain. He can do without it.

“What?”

“Take me,” he says softly. Pleading. Evan’s hair, so soft. Evan’s fingers, so gentle, burning like a scrape when they run over Barty’s chest. “Take me as your bri—”

Notes:

xx greenie