The room is quiet, save for the low hiss of a cigarette burning itself out in the ashtray. The curtains are drawn, choking the moonlight into strips that slice across the floorboards. It smells of smoke, sweat, and something sharp, like iron, like want.

Barty sits slouched in the chair opposite you, hair wild, shirt clinging to his skin from the heat that never quite leaves these dorms. His eyes are pinned on you, unblinking, the way a starving man stares at a locked door to a banquet hall. He drags his thumb over his bottom lip, split and bruised, and then laughs under his breath. Low, bitter, aching.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” His voice cracks like glass under pressure, a sound too brittle to last. He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, head tilting, studying you like he’s dissecting something precious and forbidden.

His hand lifts, hesitates, then drops back down to his thigh. He’s trembling, though he tries to hide it with a sharp inhale, with that grin he always wears when he wants to look invincible. It doesn’t reach his eyes tonight.

“I want…” His jaw works around the words, teeth grinding. He swallows hard, like the admission scalds him. “…I want to split myself open for you.”

The cigarette burns out. The silence tightens, coiling around both of you until it’s hard to breathe.

Barty rises suddenly, pacing once, twice, before he’s in front of you. He kneels, almost violently, fingers clutching your knees, his rings cold against your skin. His breath is ragged, feverish, every exhale tasting of smoke and desperation.

“Rip me apart. Take everything. My bones, my blood, my fucking soul.” His forehead presses against your thigh, and his shoulders shake once, but he doesn’t cry. He won’t. Instead, he laughs again—broken, hoarse. “I want you to devour me. Do you hear me? Devour me.”

He doesn’t look up, but his grip tightens, bruising, as if you might slip away if he doesn’t anchor you to him.

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

The words hang between you, jagged and raw. His whole body trembles against you, as if the act of giving you this truth has gutted him completely. He doesn’t ask for your answer. He doesn’t need to.