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“Tell me we are thinking the same thing.”
They are standing in front of the window, eyes glued down at the parked car in the street down below where Regulus leans against the hood, phone against his ear as he chats on with someone presumably from work and looking far too good for a man who has just survived a dinner rush. He’s like an angel, haloed by the lantern’s dim lightning, descended from the heavenly kingdom that is the Three Broomsticks.
Barty needs him. Bad. Couldn’t care less about the fact that Regulus most probably, without a shadow of a doubt, smells like a mise-en-place station and is, instead, more invested in the thought of licking every crevice of the latter’s body to confirm his suspicions—whether that is a hint of star anise in the crook of his elbow or residues of mint in the gaps between his fingers.
“Depends,” Evan answers, his voice drawing Barty from his R-rated Regulus fantasies. “I was thinking sprawled but now I want to go with bent over. Think you can get into the CCTV after we’re done?”
There’s a pained groan dragged from the depths of Barty’s chest as he rests his forehead against the glass, eyes zeroed in on the sliver of pale skin that taunts him from underneath Regulus’ shirt. “Those jeans, Rosie. They’re so low on his hips, it drives me insane.”
“That fucking oversized shirt of yours he sleeps in?” Evan mentions and Barty hits his forehead against the window frame for good measure. “I hate you for giving it to him.”
Deadly, really. Because Regulus wears it to bed and pads through the house, still wearing it, in the morning, misty-eyed with sleep as the collar half hangs off his shoulder. A perfect, freckled slope of skin that just demands teeth to be sunk into. The first time Barty had seen him like that, roughly two weeks after his return, their entire kitchen had ended up covered in full-fat milk and protein powder gunk because Barty, unfocused due to the obvious, had pressed the blend button without putting the lid on.
Regulus, drenched in the ingredients of an eight a.m. protein shake, had given him an earful. It had not helped with the tent growing in his pants. Especially not because rivulets of white had cascaded down Regulus’ face and gathered in the hollow between his clavicles – like a porcelain sink for a dog like Barty to lap from.
“What the fuck, Barty?!” Something something about him being careless and needing to be beaten with the instructor manual until it was properly drilled in. Barty is into drilling, alright.
“How the fuck was I supposed to know that mister silver spoon has rejected satin pajamas and now looks like an absolute wet dream at five fucking thirty? His hair’s longer too. Fuck me.”
Evan nods like it’s words of wisdom they’re exchanging and most definitely not all sorts of filth about their childhood friend. “That French air really turned him into a supermodel alright. He’s got back dimples. Since when has he had back dimples?”
“The sleep deprivation only makes him look hotter,” Barty supplies, intently studying how the denim hugs the slim swell of Regulus’ ass.
A hum of approval from his side.
They stand in silence as they keep looking through the window, eyes unflinchingly locked on Regulus below. He keeps talking, yet his attention flits capriciously between the conversation and idle scrutiny of his cuticles like the entire call, undoubtedly holding some degree of significance to be keeping him up, is not one that interests him per se.
He stirs after a moment, gaze lifting like he at long last sensed their presence. Barty watches how his dark brows knit in confusion because they are sort of standing and leering at him like sleep-paralysis demons. But Regulus' perplexity washes away to be replaced by a wholly unimpressed look, accompanied by a customary roll of his eyes, before he brings his full focus back to the call, their silent and eerie vigil casually dismissed.
“That’s new too,” Evan points out with a finger. “He didn’t use to touch his hair that much before he left.”
Like on purpose, Regulus does it again.
This prompts a delicious thought because Barty asks, “You think he likes having it pulled?”
Regulus has long, slim fingers, adorned with jewels only when he isn't working, which the days are few of. Barty is convinced that in another life, Regulus would have been a pianist rather than a cook. His fingers are dainty yet firm, particularly when gripping his most prized possession: the Yoshimi Echizen knife. Even then, they are no less beautiful and are every bit as intimidating.
“He’d prefer to do the pulling.”
They both sigh dreamily.
The glass underneath his nose fogs with every exhale and Barty occasionally has to wipe at it so as not to lose the clear-cut view of Regulus’ profile. He’s got a set jaw like it’s perpetually clenched with annoyance and high jutting cheekbones that could cut gemstones in half. Dark, smooth ringlets frame his face and it’s only recently Barty discovered they had maintained their softness in the time he had been unable to touch them.
“Stop touching my hair.”
“Don’t want to.”
“St– why are you smelling it?”
“He flirts now, by the way.”
Barty snorts, staring down at the man who could only engage in banter if it meant denigrating someone six ways from Sunday. “You’re joking.”
“Caught him ogling me when I was fresh out of the shower this morning. Asked him if he’d like to touch since he couldn’t stop looking.”
“Really? What’d he say?”
“Said I must’ve gotten uncharacteristically shy if it’s only touching that’s allowed.”
This time, Barty does look away. His jaw drops, nearly unhinging itself from the rest of his skull as he gapes at Evan, waiting for him to withdraw his words and admit it to be another gag to gain his attention. He does no such thing, only smirks as he keeps looking down at Regulus with a look full of pride.
Barty throws back his head in roaring laughter.
Because Regulus doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t convey interest, even if in the guise of sharp, rough-edged remarks that cut more than they stir interest. Because in the years that Barty and Evan have flirted with Regulus, he either disregarded all of their measly attempts or entertained them with barely a huff of air. Because the love of Regulus’ life is eggs, butter, and flour combined, and he isn’t in the least interested in someone to prove to him they can be just as sweet as treacle tart.
“You lie! You’re fucking with me!”
Evan grins like a man besotten and draws a heart into the fogged glass. “I didn’t stand a chance, Barty, he came straight for my jugular.”
“Got outdone by someone whose sentences are about as long as the Twitter character limit. Don’t think you can redeem yourself this time, Rosie.”
“I’ll take those losses. Can you say one Regulus Arcturus has ever flirted with you?”
No, Barty can’t. Suddenly, he finds himself very annoyed about this particular fact. Evan seems to be aware of his chagrin – mainly since Barty expresses it quite freely – and leans against the window with a self-satisfied smile.
“Well, I was his first kiss, so sod off.” This doesn’t make for a very compelling argument since Evan was Regulus’ second kiss.
Evan teasingly bumps their hips and only chuckles when Barty bites his jaw in retaliation before returning to look at Regulus, who is still on the fucking phone. What could be discussed at almost eleven, seriously?
“What the fuck is this call about?” he starts.
“–you think he got laid in France?” Evan asks.
Hold up.
Okay, the thing is that Regulus isn’t his. Or Evan’s. Not in the romantic sense, per se. And, well, not in the sexual sense either. But Barty can’t help but frown at the prospect of Regulus getting intimate with someone he’s arbitrarily picked off the bar because he was a tad touch-deprived as he often got. All of them made bad life decisions that came with a taste of freedom and although they stayed in touch, there was no telling what Regulus got up to in Paris.
Fine, they might have done a little bit of stalking, maybe more than a bit, called in a favor, and gained access to the security cameras in Beauxbatons, the restaurant Regulus had worked at for a little over two years and scored those stellar three stars at. Just out of precaution, of course. Tom Riddle gone or not, Barty could barely sleep knowing Regulus was all the way over in France with zero protection and the mental fortitude of a traumatized man.
He shrugs. “I don’t think so. If he did, it was bad enough to send him back here.”
Evan’s face breaks into another grin and they chuckle until they don’t.
Silence. Quiet. The stillness only broken by the sound of cogs working in their brains.
“If he is up for it…” Barty starts, catching up to a very high-risk high-reward idea they’re subliminally exchanging.
“Well, it’d definitely be good enough to keep him here,” Evan adds.
“‘Good enough’?” Barty scoffs like it’s a personal hit to his dignity. “Rosie, we would fuck him so well he would try and deshell a mango two a.m. on a Tuesday fucking morning.”
Evan laughs a sweet, idyllic sound before winding an arm around Barty and pressing himself closer against him. “Yeah, are you saying you want to fuck Regulus stupid, Abeille?”
Barty makes a bzzzz sound that’s cut off sharp by a hard smack against Evan’s rear. “Until he can’t tell his left from his right.”
Oh, how he loves this man. The display of sharp, pearly white teeth, peeking from underneath his upturned lips. Barty knows that look, has been on the receiving end of it numerous times, and can precisely tell when Evan makes use of all his scheming.
Peripheral movement from the corner of his eye draws Barty’s attention back down to the street again where Regulus is fumbling with the car’s door, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. It opens and he leans in, patting around, looking for something before reaching over and bending across–
They groan in unison.
“Mon Dieu. Bent. Definitely bent.”
~♥️~
Working at a well-known restaurant means reduced cooking hours and the luxury of two whole days of, forty-eight hours Regulus has been eagerly looking forward to. He can already envision it: lounging in bed till noon, free from the evening's service concerns while contemplating whether to treat himself to a delivered meal or simply toss a frozen pizza into the oven.
But painting this picture is difficult when something else, quite hard, is pressed against his hip.
It’s considerably harder when there’s a weight crushing him like there is almost every other morning. Not to miss the tousled mop of blonde tickling the side of his face, sleep-slow puffs of breaths fanning against his neck. It’s become somewhat of a routine to disturb Regulus in his mornings before a calm weekend.
“Barty,” he groans, trying to push him off. Unsurprisingly, to no avail.
Barty continues snoring lightly, face buried in the other side of his neck.
Patting around to his right, Regulus swats Evan with a flailing arm.
“Evan, get your boyfriend and his stiffy off me.”
Evan, now awake, peeks open his eyes, and stretches like a long, lazy cat, before scooting closer and burying his face into Regulus' hair, sleepily mumbling something he doesn’t quite catch.
“What? I’m serious.”
“Deal with it for me, Reg.”
Regulus freezes. “You– huh?”
“You heard me. Deal with it for me.”
Regulus must have heard wrong. There’s no way. He’s still sleeping. This is all a dream and he will wake up, right?— “What? You’re together. Are you hearing yourself?”
“I know we’re together. You’re the one who made that happen, in case you forgot.”
That’s not something that can be easily forgotten. Not when it took them years to finally admit their feelings to each other, with him as their mediator, and also act upon it. They actually put a label to their relationship briefly before Regulus left for France and in the last three years, it has stuck.
Now, they aren’t ordinary people, meaning neither their friendship nor the relationship between Barty and Evan is. They have always been more handsy with each other than what society might brand as ‘proper’ or ‘strictly platonic’. Because even though feelings had never been involved, not romantic at least, the three of them had always engaged in activities most friends would not.
Apparently, not much had changed in the almost three years that passed. Just last week during a house party all three of them attended, Regulus had somehow ended up sandwiched between them in the kitchen when going for a refill. None of them had been drunk, maybe just a little bit buzzed, so there is nothing or no one other than himself who can account for the way he had made out not only with Barty but Evan as well.
Made out. With tongue. And hands that were roaming off to places that should generally be off-limits to anyone else but a partner.
But the two of them had encouraged him. And sure, they had kissed plenty of times, and none of it was new. Regulus had assumed it to be just a one-time thing, spurred on by under-the-influence whims. But this, freshly awoken and a full seven hours of sleep? This is conscious.
“Evan,” Regulus starts, only to be cut off when there’s a lazy roll of hips against his own. Barty shifts in place, dragging himself just a little bit so their centers are aligned, and this time, Regulus can feel just how hard he really is.
“Mornin’ Reg…” Barty’s words are sleep-slurred, mumbled into the warm skin of his neck that only heats up at the insinuation of Evan’s words.
Evan lays his head on the pillow next to Regulus and gently noses his cheek. “We talked about it. To be honest, we have been wanting to do this before we even got together but with everything that happened, we never got the chance.”
“And Barty?” But no words of reassurance are needed because Barty rocks against him in response.
Regulus hisses at the friction and Evan props up onto his elbows, allowing the duvet to slide off his shoulders and come to drape across his hips. He cards his fingers through Regulus’ curls, brushing them away from in front of his eyes. “But, only if you want to.”
The attraction is irrefutable. It’s always been there. Ever since they were teenagers. The stolen glances. The kisses. Secret touches. But that between Evan and Barty always transcended what Regulus had, was willing to give.
This, however, the warm press of their bodies and building tension, this he could do.
So, Regulus grinds up, sharply breathing in when Barty shudders out against his neck, stifling a groan.
They fall into an easy rhythm to which the bed responds with every creak of its old, rusty springs, playing to the tune of their labored breaths at every brush of clothed erections.
The hold Barty has on his hip is steel, crushing like iron, holding him in place and abusing the angle until Regulus grows dizzy with the friction. All the while Evan has his cheek cupped and latched onto the skin of Regulus’ throat with a hungry mouth, licking and sucking with ravenous abandon.
“Ev…” Regulus tries and breathe out his name, only for it to hitch in the back of his throat.
“Yes?” Evan asks as he continues dragging his tongue down to Regulus’ shoulder. “Does it feel good? Is he making you feel good?”
Barty presses down, hard, and Regulus moans. It’s loud and not a sound he’s ever imagined himself making, but it tears out of him unbidden and fills the space of his tiny bedroom.
“That’s right,” Barty hisses into his ear, voice raspy and still sleep-laden, but gravelly with sheer want all the same. “Don't you get shy on me, Reg,” another thrust that drags out just what Barty’s looking for, “I quite like it when you get this vocal.”
“Shit–” Regulus digs his nails into Barty’s skin, deep, to which he only laughs and grinds down harder, faster, sets on a relentless pace that has Regulus’ mind blank out and only be able to focus on the building pressure low in his spine. “This is only a taste of what I want to do to you. Fuck–”
Because he hasn’t done this. Ever. Only had meager, orgasm-less sexual encounters that made him swear off intimacy altogether. But this? The mouths on his neck, shoulder, and jaw, cold fingers rubbing onto his nipples and rolling them until they’re red, puffy stiffened peaks. The growing dampness in the front of his briefs, aiding with the smooth slide of their covered cocks. Rubbing and rubbing and rubbing until it coils, gathers down, down, and pulls taut, promising oh-so-sweet relief–
Regulus isn’t going to last.
“Barty–” he gasps out, no longer able to meet his thrusts. “I’m– Shit– Close.”
“Already? Shit, anyone made you come before, Reg, or is it just my lucky day?”
Regulus shakes his head. Because no, although one had come close, the honor is just about to be entirely theirs.
He’s close. So close. The muscles of his thighs are straining, and the edges of his vision leaking white. Jaw slack, letting loose a litany of moans as he finally nears the crest.
But then Barty sits up and Regulus groans at the loss of contact, his voiced complaints morphing into a shuddering gasp when something hot and wet envelops his cock instead.
“Merde!” Regulus’ hips buck off the mattress, only to be pinned down by Barty’s hands. “Fuck, Barty, warn me before y–”
He is swallowed down to the root and chokes on his spit. Evan chuckles above him, enjoying the view that is a writhing Regulus and his boyfriend blowing him.
“Ever had your dick sucked this well, Reg?”
Don’t fucking ask him anything–
“Oh, you better answer or I might just tell Barty to stop. We wouldn’t want that, do we?”
Regulus glares fucking daggers at him and Evan grins, out for blood, but before he can even think of instructing Barty to stop, Regulus relents. “No,” he stammers out. “I haven’t.”
“Are you going to come for me?” Evan coos, peppering kisses all around his face.
Because Barty sucks him off like a man starved. Hollows out his cheeks and swirls the swollen tip of his cock with a wet, warm tongue that eagerly laps up what he’s already spilling. Takes him in deep until Regulus can feel himself press against the back of his throat, holding him captive there.
“Oui,” he cries out. “Yes, I am, Barty— Fuck, don’t stop. Do not—”
And Barty doesn’t. Pins him down and takes him down into his throat again and again. Encourages his hips to arc off the sheets and push down his throat, fuck it until he’s soaring to the precipice, closer to the edge and–
The strand snaps loose and Regulus comes in Barty’s mouth with a choked noise. Spills down his throat, and moans into Evan’s neck as his hips undulate and stutter with every pulse when the mouth around him swallows every drop. Regulus is shuddering, still held so tightly by Barty that he feels himself tethered to the grip, preventing his soul from leaving.
His cock is relieved from the wet, warm cavern that is Barty’s mouth and comes to rest against his stomach, spent as he is. Barty plants a kiss against the inside of his thigh for a final measure, the imprint of his grin wicked against the skin, and comes to hover over Regulus’ weakened frame. With a gentle hand, he guides Regulus’ face away from where it’s cozily nestled against Evan’s neck.
“Good?” he asks, though the smug smile says plenty about Barty’s confidence in his dick-sucking skills. “Was that satisfactory, chef?”
Evan laughs and Regulus groans, pushing both their faces away with limp arms.