nonny this is a lovely prompt, however i don't think either of them would ever ask the other for help this easily so instead you get something a little more heated
for @stagpdf and @sixlane and everyone that's as insane about them as i am
1114 words
The breeze outside is ruffling Barty’s short hair where he’s propped on one of the lunch tables alone, pocket knife in hand and finishing the apple he nicked from the cafeteria, James stupidly persistent cologne drifting over to him every now and then with the wind where he’s standing with his usual group, the older Black, Lupin and Pettigrew, throwing and catching a ball back and forth like the pretentious High School cliches that they are.
Barty doesn’t let himself look up, all he’d see of James would be the expanse of his wide shoulder and strong back and frankly freakishly huge ass anyways, so.
James knows he’s there though. Barty knows James knows he’s there.
His friends are currently talking him up, metaphorically patting him on the back and praising him, as if that inflated ego of his needed any more stroking and when the fundraiser comes up for the millionth god damn time Barty can’t help himself anymore. It’s a miracle he’s held out this long honestly.
Barty snorts.
Out of the corner of his eyes he sees James’ tense back finally turning, “Is there a problem here, Crouch?”
Barty pockets his knife, turning his attention away from the carving he did on the tabletop while eavesdropping. He puts on his most unsettling grin, all teeth, sharp edges and eyes wide, “Me? No, no.” He waits until they’ve all turned their attention away before he continues, like an afterthought, “Y’know, I just find it funny that James wasn’t able to secure a single award or accolade despite his obvious charm and ingeniousness as you’ve so well described it. Unlike the other house representatives that were attending.”
Barty’s tongue makes its way into the pocket of his cheek, giddy with the execution of his blow as he watches James’ fists curl at his sides, chest heaving unevenly and expression so hard it would send any lesser man to his knees. Barty knows he’s struck a nerve, as was his intention, and he keeps himself propped up lazily on his elbows as he watches the other boy closely, as he feels the pulsing waves of James’ resentment wash over him like the most relaxing bubble bath.
“Leave it, Prongs, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Sirius spits, putting a hand on James’ shoulder.
Which James shrugs off immediately, making a twisted sort of satisfaction pool deep in Barty’s gut, warming him from the inside.
He doesn’t lie to himself, he knows he likes James’ attention on him like this with nobody but Barty getting to him, focused so intensely it’s almost sick. It’s the one time Barty feels evenly matched.
“No, someone ought to put him in his place and with the way he can’t seem to get off my dick right now I’m not averse to volunteering for the task myself,” James hisses, eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Oh?” Barty can’t help the hysterical laugh that slips from his throat, “Oh, this is phenomenal. You think you can teach me how to fight? Show me how to throw a proper punch, huh, Potter?” He doesn’t miss the way James’ upper lip twitches with the urge to sneer at the use of his last name and Barty lifts from his slouch against the bench to stand, opening his arms invitingly, “C’mon then, golden boy, show me what you got.”
There’s a ticking in James’ jaw and Barty can see his eyes attempt to dart over his shoulder where his pack of idiotic friends are still standing before he zeros back in on him, “Walk away, Crouch.”
“Aww, what?” Barty coos, skin already buzzing, “You afraid you’re gonna get your shit rocked? Afraid you’re gonna lose?”
The words reverberate back in Barty’s head, his own voice, same sentence but tone decidedly more playful but mean all the same. Bent over a table of pool, cue in hand and blinking up at James standing in the doorway in his stupidly tight shirt and plaid pajama pants.
“Afraid you’re gonna lose?”
James had tilted his head with a cocky smirk. “Not with the way you’re holding that cue I’m not,” he’d answered. His eyes had flitted to the uncapped bottle of vodka on the sideboard Barty had stolen from his father’s cabinet and brought onto the trip. “You’re aware of the fact we’re gonna be up pretty early tomorrow, yes?”
Their heads of houses had chosen them to represent their school on this stupid fundraiser Gala slash genius competition with a bunch of rich old guys and other schools. Slughorn has this weird obsession with Barty’s intelligence and with Lily getting sick last minute McGonagall was subjected to instead pick no other than Headboy himself, obviously.
Which was evidently trying to ruin Barty’s entire fun.
“Oh my god,” Barty had groaned, “Yes, mom. God, you’re worse than fucking Evans.”
James had bristled at the comment, “Watch your mouth.”
And Barty doesn’t really remember what he’d said after that, something lewd and inappropriate and agitating probably but he knows how it had ended. With James and him passed out on the plush sofa in the room, half a bottle of vodka divided between the two of them, knocking them right on their asses after they’d played round and round after pool, drinking every time they’d made a mistake, bickering over what counted as a mistake until their mouths were dry only to repeat and repeat again—it was a devil’s circle, evidently.
Waking up was hell.
Barty had felt gross, sweaty and dizzy and too warm for his skin especially with the way Mister human furnace was plastered to his chest, an arm slung tightly around Barty’s midriff and messy hair tickling the side of his face, glasses digging uncomfortably into Barty’s collarbone. And, what with a christian father that doesn’t like you an inch more than he likes a speck of mud on his pristine shoes, Barty had always known he’d end up in these fiery pits. Obviously he could do without the pounding headache but Barty had to say he thinks he could get used to someone like James sticking to his side like that.
So Barty knows how it had started and he knows how it’d ended and just how it had worked the first time it works a second time as well.
And like a fucking charm it does.
James huffs an irritated breath and pushes the ball into Pettigrew’s chest before walking closer to where Barty is standing.
“You don’t know your limits,” he growls.
Barty makes sure to pitch his voice into something sultry when he answers, “How about you show me then, Bambi?”
James growls again and then he’s already swinging for Barty.
