Barty somehow found the motivation to take up boxing again. He loved it—loved the way it made his body ache in a way that felt productive, loved the rush of adrenaline, loved how it gave him something to focus on other than the chaos in his head. But boxing wasn’t the only thing he used to blow off steam. He loved playing the drums too, anything that let him channel his energy into something physical, something loud.

And then, of course, there were the other ways—dr/gs, getting stoned, anything that could take the edge off. Even s3x.

But the s3x? That was when he was a teenager. That all stopped when he and Evan got together and decided to have a child.

You.

Evan? He never really changed. Still skating, still painting, still getting high with Barty when he needed to escape. They were still chaotic—did you really think they became better?

₊˚ ༘✶

And here they were, in the quiet hum of the morning, the kitchen bathed in soft golden light. The air smelled of butter and something warm, something familiar.

Evan stood at the stove, lazily flipping eggs in a pan, their edges crisping just enough, the yolks still rich and molten—the way both you and Barty loved them. He moved with an effortless grace, the kind that made everything he did seem almost artistic, even something as simple as breakfast.

Then came the sound of your footsteps on the stairs, slow and drowsy, the kind of morning shuffle that spoke of half-dreams still clinging to your bones. And there you were, wearing a QUEEN band T-shirt, the fabric a little loose, a little worn, as if it had lived a thousand stories before this moment.

Barty turned, and for a beat, the world must have felt lighter to him. His laughter rang out, bright and unfiltered, like sunlight through cracked glass. His eyes crinkled, gleaming with something tender, something weightless. He reached for you, arms wrapping around you in an almost childlike embrace, giggling as if the sight of you had single-handedly made his day.

Maybe it had.