Sirius sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. His bandages still itched, tight and bulky around his wrists, but he left them alone. Across the room, Barty lay on his stomach, his feet kicking lazily in the air as he scribbled furiously in his crayon filled notebook.
āHey,ā Sirius said softly.
Barty didnāt look up. āHey, hey, hey.ā
Sirius hesitated. āThey gave me more labels today."
That got Bartyās attention. He turned his head, expression unreadable. āLabels? Like soup cans? Or the kind they stick on your back when youāre not looking?ā
āThe second one, probably.ā
Barty rolled onto his side. āWhat flavor are you, then?ā
āBipolar. Borderline.ā Sirius shrugged. āIām apparently a human mood swing with abandonment issues.ā
Barty stared at him. āThatās a very dramatic soup. Bit spicy.ā
Sirius snorted in spite of himself.
āThey said Iām emotionally unstable. That I feel too much. That I panic when people leave me. And itās all true. But it still hurts, hearing it out loud.ā
Barty slowly sat up, letting his journal fall shut. āThey said I have schizophrenia. Did you know that? Voices, visions, wild things. They think Iām bonkers. I am, probably. But theyāre not wrong.ā
He leaned forward, oddly serious. āBut you? Youāre justā¦ a cracked glass. Still sharp. Still beautiful. Just fragile in places.ā
Sirius blinked at him. āThatās weirdly poetic.ā
āIām an artist,ā Barty said simply, picking up his red crayon again. āAll of us are just shattered things trying not to cut each other.ā
Sirius lay back on his pillow, exhausted. āI hate how much that makes sense.ā
Barty began to draw again, humming softly under his breath. After a while, he said, āIām glad youāre still here.ā
āMe too,ā Sirius whispered.
And for a moment, the silence between them was almost comforting.
It was late, the ward quiet except for the irritating buzz of the hallway lights and the occasional soft shuffle of staff rounds. Sirius lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, sleep eluding him again. Barty sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing against the side of his own bed with a crayon, the paper pressed to his knee.
āYour boyfriend came again today,ā Barty said quietly.
Sirius turned his head, his voice rough. āYeah. He did.ā
Barty didnāt look up. āHe always comes. Brings you coffee. Talks to the nurses. Smiles like itās not hurting him inside.ā
Sirius blinked slowly, throat tight.
āYouāre lucky,ā Barty said. His voice cracked a little, soft but trembling at the edges. āMy boyfriend used to visit. He brought me sweets once. He said heād wait.ā
Sirius didnāt say anything.
āBut he doesnāt come anymore.ā Bartyās hand stopped moving, the crayon stilled mid-line. āHeās dead. They told me he died.ā
āI still see him, though,ā Barty murmured. āSometimes heās in the corner. Sometimes outside the window. I draw him, so I donāt forget.ā
He lifted the journal and turned it toward Sirius, revealing a sketch... delicate, almost angelic, of a boy with wild eyes and a soft smile. āHis name was Evan.ā
āI donāt think he knows heās dead,ā Barty whispered. āI donāt think I do, either. Not really.ā
Sirius pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Quietly, he walked across the room and sat beside Barty. He didnāt touch him, didnāt say anything. Just sat with him.
Barty turned another page and began to draw again. This time, he used blue.
āI think Evan wouldāve liked your boyfriend,ā he said. āRemus seems gentle.ā
Sirius closed his eyes. āHe is.ā
And they sat together in the soft light, one broken soul beside another, while Barty drew the people they missed most in colors they could still see.
They sat there in silence for a little while longer, the soft scratching of Bartyās crayon filling the room.
Sirius glanced at the journal, then at Bartyās profile, pale in the dim light, eyes distant but focused on the page.
He spoke gently. āDo you know how Evan died?ā
Barty paused. The crayon stilled in his hand. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something Sirius couldnāt hear. He was quiet for so long that Sirius almost didnāt expect an answer.
Finally, Barty said, āNo.ā His voice was soft. āI donāt.ā
He kept staring at the page. āI think I used to. I think it was loud. Or maybe quiet. Maybe it was both. Maybe I watched. Maybe I didnāt.ā
He pressed the crayon to the page again, drawing harder now. āEvery time I try to remember, itās likeā¦ someoneās holding a hand over my eyes.ā
āI wish I knew,ā Barty added, barely audible. āBut I thinkā¦ I think if I did, I might break.ā
Sirius reached out, just barely brushing Bartyās shoulder.
āYouāre not broken,ā he said.
Barty let out a dry, breathless laugh. āOh, Sirius. Iām so broken. But thatās okay. Evan was too. We were beautiful that way.ā
And then he kept drawing, as if the memory might someday come back in red and blue and black lines.
The overhead lights dimmed with a low hum, then cut out completely, leaving the room bathed in the soft, blue glow of the hallwayās night lighting.
Barty didnāt move from the floor. He just kept scratching faintly at the paper, the sound barely audible, like the flutter of moth wings. Eventually, the crayon stilled. He whispered something as he stood, maybe a name, maybe nothing, and rolled onto his bed.
Sirius lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was too dark to see much, but he could still make out the faint outlines, the vent overhead, the seam of the ceiling tiles, the shadow of the window frame across the wall.
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