A/N: For the Ultimate OTP Competition (round one, prompt: anxious). For Michy.
You light another cigarette, trying to calm your nerves. Barty doesn't help matters. His quiet mutterings and the way he constantly shifts and wrings his hands like he's about to jump out of his own skin bleed into you. You find yourself mirroring his twitches, his anxiety infectious.
"Barty," you groan.
He stops, and you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows dryly. "It's just really real now, isn't it?"
You laugh, but the sound is too heavy, too dry. You've dreamt of this moment, of finally taking the Dark Mark, but now it's nearly terrifying. "It's always been real," you say, trying to regain your composure, to be the calm, apathetic Regulus you've always been.
Color creeps into his cheeks. "I know," he mutters defensively, his Ravenclaw pride undoubtedly wounded by your literalism. "I just mean..."
He trails off, and you're grateful for the silence. If he continues, his worries will only increase yours until you're both a couple wrecks with trembling limbs and stuttering words.
You inhale the smoke deeply, letting the nicotine snake its way through your system. Your eyes close as you exhale, and you think that maybe you can do this. It's not like turning back is really an option now.
The door opens, and you quickly snuff out your cigarette.
"The Dark Lord is ready for you," Bellatrix announces, offering you a dangerous, shark-like smile before disappearing through the door once again in a blur of darkness.
"Well?" you say, turning to Barty.
He takes your hand, and his skin upon yours works a magic that no calming draught or cigarette could ever manage. "Together," he whispers with a shy kiss to the corner of your lips.
"Together," you echo, and you find yourself thinking that if you have to burn, it is better to burn with him.