11 but make it bickering for bartylus
i think i perhaps misunderstood the assignment, but here u go <33 (602 words)
“Wow, you look… amazing,” Barty says, gaze dragging over Regulus like a touch. He’s standing in the foyer, like he has so many times before. Waiting for Regulus, like he has so many times before.
Regulus rolls his eyes, fingers still fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt. “Could you sound any more sarcastic?”
“Probably,” Barty shrugs. “Want me to give it a try?”
His words sound stilted and distant, like he’s reading the lines from a script for a play he doesn’t want to be in. Regulus supposes that’s fair. He doesn’t want to be here either.
“Barty…” He sighs. He takes half a step closer, trying his best to not let Barty’s familiar scent linger in his lungs like it lingers in the clothes he wore last night. The clothes he tossed in the hamper as soon as he got home and then dug out again a second later, pressing his nose against the collar.
“Don’t—” Barty says. He lifts his hand in front of him as if to ward off Regulus’ very presence. “We can just pretend it never happened and we can focus on your ugly robes.”
“I—” Regulus closes his eyes, steeling himself. “I don’t think my robes are the ugly ones here,” he says.
Both of their robes look atrocious. Regulus’ is a traditional thing, the collar too tight and the fabric gaudy. Fitting for the new heir of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The wand holster strapped to his upper arm is cinched too tight, cutting off the blood flow to the tips of his fingers. The holster isn’t even practical — it’s just to show off the wand, rare and powerful.
Barty winces, trying and failing to loosen his own collar. His robes are more modern, made to show off the prominence of the Ministry, his family’s rise to power. “Shut up, I already feel like a monkey in this thing. I can’t believe Senior wears these every day.”
Barty kind of looks like his father in the robes, the shades of charcoal softening his sharper edges and cutting him into mirror images.
“Regulus.” Walburga’s voice is sharp, his name crackling like a whip. He flinches as if struck. “Stop playing with your little friend. She’s here.”
She turns again before he gets the chance to reply. It’s just as well. She’s never been interested in what he has to say, anyway.
“Almost sounds like she’s telling you to stop touching yours—” A half-smile tugs at Barty’s mouth. Regulus knows what that smile feels like under his own lips, but he forces the thought away.
Still, he can’t quite resist the urge to reach out and touch. He raises a trembling hand, blames it on the too-tight holster, and barely grazes the knot of the tie that sits around Barty’s throat.
Regulus watches as Barty swallows harshly. He holds his breath, waiting for Barty to speak or move or do something, but Barty just stands there, frozen.
“Sorry,” Regulus murmurs eventually. “Your tie was crooked.”
He backs out of the foyer hastily, nearly tripping over the hem of his robes. They’re too long because Walburga had had them tailored to fit Sirius. Regulus is thankful he at least gets to wear his own shoes. Sirius’ are too big to fit him.
Regulus sits at the dinner table, his fiancée right across from him. She's pretty, he supposes.
But she's not Barty.
Regulus doesn’t eat. The words he said to Barty last night still linger in his mouth, sitting in the back of his throat like ash. They taste remarkably like regret.
