Chapter Text
Chapter One
"The voices died with me."
—Hozier, Arsonist’s Lullaby
- art by @astronomyth_
ⵜ barty ⵜ
Every story has an ending.
Barty knows that his own is no different.
One day he will slip into nothingness, and there’s comfort in that certainty. But until the hounds of hell shred his skin with their teeth, Barty wants whatever version of life is raw, and uncut. Wants to feel every burn upon his skin. Wants to hold the matches in his grasp, unafraid to set fire to anything.
Even himself.
It’d be a sweet mercy—death. Sweeter than living.
At least, that’s what Barty tells himself. What he’s always told himself—even before the poisonous mundanity seeped into his skin. Even before he took the only antidote he knew: walking away from the life his father had forced upon him.
Death has always been at his heels.
And he isn't sure how much longer he can run.
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It's only when Barty slows to a walk that he realizes just how disheveled he is.
He flattens his torn shirt (useless) with shaky hands, and shoots a dirty look at a woman who glares as they pass each other on the sidewalk. Her eyes linger on the crimson stained cotton and Barty does his bed to ignore the blood, even though he knows he shouldn’t.
It's not as if he's dying. Though if he were, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it?
When he pats the pockets of his jeans he realizes that he definitely lost his cigarettes and lighter, which is somehow worse than realizing he's lacking his wallet. He presses his fists to his eyes as he releases a trapped sigh, uneven and unsteady.
He knows he looks insane right now. Every passerby shoots him a look as if he's about to commit a misdemeanor and he doesn't blame them. With blood streaked clothes, erratic adrenaline fueled jumpyness, and no shoes—he certainly looks like a degenerate.
Unfortunately, it makes his heart ache with shame.
He shouldn't care, he doesn't have the capacity to care, and yet…
The only saving grace is the stiff presence of his phone in his front pocket. With every step it presses into his bruised thighs and he's never been so grateful for discomfort.
Headlights blind him as cars blare past on the busy road and the people nearby quicken their step as they near him. He wraps his arms around his middle, biting his bottom lip until he tastes copper against his tongue. He knows he's fucked. No where to go. Injured. High—
His vision shakes as if reminding him of the fact. Every bit of movement makes him leap out of his skin. Every sound a threat that's come to eliminate him.
Fuck.
He knows he needs to get off the streets. He knows he needs to find somewhere safe. But that's the catch, isn't it? Barty isn't sure if he'd recognize safe if it held him up by his throat. He doesn't know where to start. And worst of all, he doesn't know where he is. Maps would tell him quick enough but the little “10 %” at the top of his phone mocks him like a neon sign that reads;
You’re fucked.
He grits his teeth as he attempts to formulate a plan, fruitlessly. His mind whirls and races, moving too fast for him to catch up and he’s suddenly wondering what it was he snorted. Coke? Right. That’s what he said it was, but Barty wouldn't be surprised to find out he lied, especially with the speed at which his heart is attempting to escape his ribcage.
His arteries feel like they might burst inside his skin, his eyes swallowing all light that exists.
The thought is enough to send him in a panic. But he doesn't have time for panic. He swallows it whole—thick over the lump in his throat and tries to focus. To no avail.
Even his racing steps aren't enough to ward off the flashbacks and fear. He can practically feel the hands on his skin again, the fists, the voice like ice in his ear.
He physically rubs his eyes. An attempt to push the relentless flashbacks away.
Now isn't the time to panic. Barty has had plenty of practice learning to bury his panic.
He swings his head around. An urgent need to stop moving is aching in his bones.
A nearby bench calls his name and he practically falls on it, burying his face in his hands, curling in on himself as he hunches over his knees. It’s not ideal, but at least he can catch his breath. Make a plan. Maybe.
His knee shakes as he rapidly taps his foot to the beat of his pounding heart. A lurch in his stomach tells him that he could be sick at any moment, and the city around him has never felt so suffocating, sucking his breath from his lungs. He trains his eyes on the ground between his knees, attempting to remember how to breath. His feet are shoeless—he hadn't even noticed. Crimson stains his white socks. Must have stepped on something sharp. Fear crawls ever further up his spine when his thoughts wander to the other injuries he's ignoring.
With every breath, he's reminded that he's fucked.
He doesn't know where he is.
Has nowhere to go.
And, has no one to call.
The sun is setting rapidly. And with it the sliver of heat from the day. A breeze ruffles his dark hair and he does his best to ignore how fucking cold it is despite the drugs rolling through his veins.
He fumbles for his phone. The little “8%” in the corner screams at him. Every name in his contacts list is just as unlikely to pick up as the next. They’re either clients, people he no longer talks to, or a small handful of ‘friends’ who wouldn't even answer.
His thumb lingers over his father’s name, but only for a moment. He wonders if it’s worth it…
Though…
Going back to his father might be better than this. An ache on his side, the blooming of a massive bruise, tells him that he should give in. But even as moments pass he finds that he physically cannot bring himself to hit that green button. It would be admitting defeat. Admitting failure.
He thinks it would be better to sleep on this bench than hear the disappointed growl of his father’s voice. That’s when the first rain drop hits his forehead.
Fuck.
His gaze turns to the sky, chest rattling with anxiety.
Within moments, rain slams into the city.
His furrowed brows deepen over his eyes and he drops his gaze. He holds his phone closer to his stomach to keep it dry, his bouncing knee increasing its pace.
6%
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Then his eyes catch a name in the contacts list. A name that makes him do a double take.
He goes still. Even forgetting to breathe.
The name brings a tiny flutter of hope. His old best friend. The one person who understood his home life, who understood what he went through. The one person he used to rely on. Perhaps… he could still rely on him. It had been years since they'd spoken—before Barty's messages went dark. He wondered if it was worth a try. If it was even fair to ask.
Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that, and Barty knows him well enough to know that if he doesn’t want to pick up, he won’t.
5%
The phone darkens to conserve battery.
His thumb hovers over the green button, his fingertips go numb and he wonders if he’s even capable of this. There’s a shake in his limbs, a tremor in his chest. Rain hits the back of his neck, inducing shivers down his spine as it drips beneath his shirt. He swallows…
Then he taps his phone and holds it to his ear. Cars pass, their headlights blinding, speakers blaring—the noise an incessant ring in his ear. It makes him dizzy, makes the world spin. People walk by and stare at him, his bleeding lip, his torn shirt and bruised face. Their eyes bear into him like lasers, cutting him open and revealing every secret beneath his skin. With every ring, Barty's heart sinks deeper into his chest. A cavern of empty hopes that will leave him wandering the city at night, cold, bleeding, high. It's rung too many times.
4%
And on the last, he pulls his phone away, a choked sob rising in his throat when—
When he hears a voice on the other end.
His heart jerks from his chest, finally freeing itself from its boney cage.
“Barty?”
“Regulus?” Barty’s voice cracks, slamming his phone back against his ear so hard it nearly slips from his shaking fingers.
“Yeah,” Regulus pauses. “You okay, B?”
Barty stares at the daisies growing through the cracks of the sidewalk. His eye twitches. The world spins, and he melts from hearing Regulus’ voice.
He’s momentarily brought back to his younger years, so full of hope. He had a plan. Funny how plans never pan out the way we think. All the decisions and moments that seem so unimportant, all the doors we walk through not realizing they slammed shut behind us. Barty clutches his hand to his chest, resisting the stinging in his eyes, resisting the tight curl in his chest. His heart cries for a home he doesn’t have. A place buried deep that brings him back to the smell of home cooking, the feel of soft blankets upon his unblemished skin, and the sound of his mother’s voice.
He bites back a sob as he inhales a shaky breath. “Reg, I need help.”
“Text me your location.”
Barty does just as his phone falls to 1%.
Relief comes in a choked sob that finally cracks his resolve. And for the time between this moment and Regulus’ arrival, he does nothing to hide it.
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