Written for the Last Ship Sailing competition.
Pairing: Barty/Regulus
Prompts: 1. AU: circus!AU, 3. word: candlelight, 6. dialogue: "Well, to be fair, you are pretty reckless", 7. color: navy, 8. idiom: on cloud nine
Bonus Prompts: 1. "I thought I saw something in the window", 2. lazy, 3. nervous habit, 4. yellow, 5. centaur
Words: 2275

Thank you to Rachel for betaing!

"One day," Barty lisped excitedly, pointing to the tightrope walker, "that's going to be me!"

"You're six," eight-year-old Regulus said derisively. "This is the third time this hour you've changed your mind about what you want to be."

"Well, now I'm sure," Barty pouted as only a child could. "And I know that's going to be me. You just wait, Reg Black. You're going to be boring, but that's going to be me."

Regulus rolled his eyes and looked at his brother, sitting several seats away with his own friends. It wasn't Sirius's fault that he was stuck minding a baby, of course, but it would be much better if his brother looked a bit less happy.

"Look!" Barty pulled at his sleeve. "She's taken her wire thing off!"

That, Regulus had to agree as the woman proceeded to somersault across the tightrope without insurance, was pretty cool.

The next time Barty Crouch, Jr., is going to attempt this, Regulus thought angrily, will be the death of me.

The boy was currently attempting to walk across the small but deep pond in the grounds of the Black Family Mansion, balanced on a two-inch piece of wood. His promise to Regulus, three years prior, motivated the action. And although Regulus would never admit it, the boy had gotten rather good at balancing.

"Look at me, Reg!" Barty called. When Regulus didn't immediately turn from his book, he stamped his foot. "Come on, Reg Black, look at me!"

Regulus looked up just in time to see that the board supporting Barty was wobbling. As it fell, it took the boy with it.

Did Barty even know how to swim?

Regulus was taking his shoes off and running to the water before he could even finish the question, because no—Barty did not know how to swim.

What had he been thinking, letting a child put himself into such a situation? There was a reason Barty needed constant minding, and it wasn't because he was nine years old. The boy had no concept of personal danger, or even of injury. Why hadn't Regulus asked if he could swim?

But Regulus himself could swim. And Barty wasn't so far offshore that he couldn't reach him quickly; the pond was on the smaller side, even if it got deep too soon for Regulus's comfort.

Barty was half-on a piece of wood, having gotten lucky. Regulus knew, as only a savior would, that if Barty hadn't fallen onto it, he would have sunk. As it was, the boy was unconscious but breathing. He'd obviously gone underwater at some point, as his blonde hair was dark yellow and his sky blue shirt had turned navy.

Using the wood to support Barty, Regulus managed to swim to shore with both of them intact. The short journey had been enough to rouse Barty, who smiled up at Regulus as he was pulled out of the water.

"Did'ja see me, Reg?" he asked hoarsely when he finished coughing up pond water. "Did'ja, Reg? 'Cause I don't think I can do that again right now if you missed it."

By the time Barty learned how to swim, he had improved his balance as well. Aged thirteen and able to scramble up the tallest oak on the Black Family Mansion grounds, he put the bravest of village boys to shame. His mother worried endlessly, but his father didn't bat an eye. Barty ignored the fact that this was because his father looked the other way.

Bartemius Crouch, Sr., was the only person who looked the other way. Mrs. Black was all too happy to donate her grounds to Barty; her oldest son was at a boarding school and her youngest despised the outdoors.

"I can do it, you know," Mrs. Black heard Barty say to Regulus one morning over breakfast.

"Do what?" Regulus replied without interest.

"Join the circus, of course!" Barty laughed. "Really, you say the strangest things, Reg! 'Do what?'"

"You're still on that?"

"If only to prove you wrong."

Mrs. Black remembered Regulus at that age. He hadn't been so defiant, so fiery. He still wasn't, possessing a calmer and colder nature than his young friend. She saw her soon incline his head slightly and smirk; he had accepted the challenge.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Regulus called from the ground.

"Just because you're too lazy to do anything fun," Barty called back, "doesn't mean I can't!"

"You're on an electrical wire!"

"And?"

"And you're an idiot, that's what," Regulus picked at the nail on the ring finger of his right hand. It was a nervous habit he'd acquired recently, and he knew exactly who to blame for it. "Fun does not translate to suicide!"

"It's nothing bad," the defense was weak at best, as was Barty's tone of voice. "It's not like it'll electrocute me, right? Reg . . . right?"

"You're sixteen, you should know this!" Regulus hoped his friend had a plan to get down; he had no desire to get the ladder.

Barty looked down. "You mean I'll get electrocuted?"

"Just stay put," he sighed. "I'll get the ladder."

"D'you think centaurs are real?"

Regulus rolled his eyes. He didn't need to look at the clock to know that it was the middle of the night, and he didn't need to be a parent to be irritated at being woken up in the middle of the night by a child.

"Did you hit your head when you climbed the bannister?" he returned. "Barty, I'm sleeping."

"Not now, you're not," Barty flicked his lighter to illuminate the candle he kept by his bed. "Now, come on: d'you think centaurs are real?"

"I think you hit your head."

Barty pouted. "Reg Black, don't ignore me . . . I'm your friend . . . aren't I?"

"That's emotional blackmail," Regulus got out of bed and blew out the flame. Barty's smile, visible in the candlelight, disappeared. "But, yes. I am your friend."

"But—"

Regulus pushed Barty back into a lying position and covered him with his blanket. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. "Go to bed."

"But—"

"If you dream about centaurs tonight, then they're real," he offered. He stood up. "Goodnight, Barty."

It was Barty's birthday. Aged eighteen, he would be able to apprentice at a circus. He'd leave the Black Family Manor and balance on an actual tightrope. Regulus silently toasted to him, downing his champagne flute.

Barty's father, who Regulus had seen a total of eighteen times, was talking to his son. Barty was frowning and gripping his glass to the point that his fingers were white. Mr. Crouch, Sr., looked more composed, but a vein stood out on his temple and he was controlling the shaking of his hands.

Barty shook his head. His father stared at him before slamming his drink into Barty's hand and walking away.

Regulus's gaze followed him out the door.

He arrived to Barty's side just in time to see him gulp down his drink.

"I see you're having as much fun as I am," he started lightly. "Want to tell me what that was about?"

"No."

"Alright."

Regulus worried the nail of the ring finger on his right hand. Barty signaled a waiter to refill his glass. Mr. Crouch, Sr., drove away. Regulus raised his empty flute to toast the fading sound of the engine.

"He doesn't have a son anymore," Barty said hollowly.

"Did he ever?"

"I don't know," his shoulders sagged. "But he made it clear that I would go into his business or be disowned. And we still have my promise to consider, Reg."

"You'll sacrifice that for a dream?"

Barty clicked their glasses together and smiled. There was something different about this smile, Regulus noticed, and began to worry. But no, the smile was real enough; for the first time in a long time, it was unburdened.

Mrs. Black poured a cup of tea for her friend. They were on an ornate couch in one of the Black Family Mansion sitting rooms. Mrs. Crouch smiled at her and took the cup, resting it in her lap.

"Barty's off to London in the morning, is he?" Mrs. Black asked.

"Oh, yes," the other nodded. "He's terribly excited about it."

"He's been excited about it for twelve years!"

They laughed. Mrs. Black thought about the vow she'd seen the boy make to her son. He had succeeded.

"Where is he, do you know?" Mrs. Crouch wondered. She never stopped worrying, even now that Barty was an adult.

"He and Regulus are outside, I believe," she waved a hand in the general direction of the grounds. "For old time's sake, you know. Saying goodbye."

"This is where I fell and broke my arm," Barty pointed to a pine tree that he'd attempted to climb when he was seven.

"That was when I was appointed your babysitter," Regulus added. He had been homeschooled, unlike his brother, and free to do so. "Drove me mad, you know."

"I know."

"You scared me half to death most of the time."

"Did I?" Barty smiled brightly and faced Regulus curiously. "I always told you where I was going. I never got lost and I always tried to include you. How'd I scare you?"

"Your exploits," Regulus reminded him. "You know, like that time you almost drowned."

"Oh," Barty gave an embarrassed grin. "I didn't mean to."

"Well, to be fair, you are pretty reckless. You'll fit right in, I suppose. There'll be lion tamers, and magicians, and gymnasts, and all sorts of interesting people."

Barty nodded. Then, making sure that Regulus could see him, said, "You're interesting, too."

Regulus laughed. Here he was, talking to a funambulist who insisted that he was interesting. He wasn't interesting. He had the patience of a saint, to be sure, to deal with said funambulist, but that was where his powers ended.

"I'm serious, Reg Black," Barty took his hand. "You're extraordinary."

It was quiet after Barty left.

Mrs. Crouch came over for tea most days. After a month of that, she joined Regulus and his mother for dinner, having been abandoned by her husband for supporting her son. The two women left Regulus to himself, as was their habit, but he soon found that he had nothing to do; there was no one to pull from trees or to put to bed.

Not that it was all he did with Barty. They'd played, talked, and eaten together, and done a lot of other things that Regulus couldn't think of but couldn't help missing.

"And what do you want to do, dear?" his mother asked him at dinner once. The women were discussing his career (that he didn't actually have).

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I'll get to it later, I just—"

"Yes, dear?" Mrs. Crouch looked worried, just like she always did. Without Barty to coddle, she's redirected the instinct at Regulus.

"Nothing," he blamed his instincts; years of practice had made them sensitive to even the slightest of disturbances. "I thought I saw something in the window."

It was just a bird, but for a second, he'd thought it to be his friend. Barty had always liked to scale the walls of the Manor to climb onto the roof. In the second he'd seen it, it had been so easy to mistake the sparrow for a falling man.

"Oh, I'm so excited," Mrs. Crouch whispered into Mrs. Black's ear.

"I am, too," Regulus heard his mother whisper back.

Really, the women talked way too loudly. He was sure the people several rows behind them could hear them. He rolled his eyes at them. Yes, they had every right to be excited, but did everyone in the audience need to know that?

"Are you excited, Regulus?" Mrs. Black asked.

He nodded shortly.

"Of course he is," Mrs. Crouch smiled. "It's our Barty."

"I'm so proud of him."

"His work paid off, didn't it?"

"Oh, yes, incredibly."

Regulus drowned out their voices to focus on his own excitement, his own pride. He had every right to be proud of Barty, didn't he? At the very least, as the person who'd saved him from dying several times over during his balance practices. Barty didn't need him anymore, now, obviously, but the past was still the past.

"Please, take your seats, ladies and gentlemen!" the Ringmaster announced, silencing Regulus's companions. "And welcome . . . in an annual London performance . . . our artists!"

Regulus half-watched the gymnasts, magicians, and lion tamers. They were interesting, but they weren't interesting to him. There was only one thing he wanted to see in the circus—not actually liking circuses that much—and it was—

"Mr. Barty Crouch!" came the announcement. A light focused on Barty, standing on a platform at the top of the circus tent.

Barty had done it. Aged twenty, he performed in front of a full audience, and was now drowning in hugs from his mother and Mrs. Black. Regulus stood off to the side, smiling in sympathy at the coddling.

But Barty didn't care about the hugs, not then.

The women left to let him change.

"You did it," Regulus said then.

Barty nodded. He'd been on cloud nine—literally as well as figuratively, given the height he'd performed his act at—and now felt himself ascend to cloud ten. Regulus was proud, and he could count on less than ten fingers how many times Regulus had let him know that.

"I did it," he whispered into Regulus's neck when they finally embraced. "Reg Black, I did it."