He was sitting alone, at first, clutching his head in his hands, always too large for the rest of his body, too rough from all those nights playing the guitar, among other things, and the callouses that covered their surface never would tell those tales. His hair was mussed, his clothes unwashed, even though he had only to give them up to the house elves. But then, he wouldn't give them up, because they had her blood on them, and she, as always, was the root of the problem.
When Bobby walked into the room, Casey didn't even bother to look up, and that was what broke him.
"Don't be a git. You can't stay in here forever," he gestured to the disheveled common room, messed and mussed as his friends once glossy, aerodynamic hair, "The first years are complaining."
"Why?" Casey choked out, and even though Bobby knew he wasn't inquiring about what he had said, he answered.
"Have you smelled this place? It hasn't been cleaned since you locked yourself up here…I almost can't stand to live in this dump."
With a pitiful half smile, Casey mumbled, "Neatnik," then returned to his sulking.
It was okay, for a while. He managed to finish studying for the Potions exam Professor Esquiline had announced, and the Transfiguration project he'd been putting off for days. But by and by, his eyes fell on his friend once more, and he wanted to do the things he'd thought about since second year, because Casey was Casey, and no one could resist a Hargrove anyway. Back then he couldn't, because Bobby liked girls, not boys, and Casey definitely liked girls too much, and anyways, she was still there, still inhaling and exhaling and all those things she couldn't do now because she was dead. Dead, dead, dead.
Never impulsive by nature, always the relaxed one, that's me, Bobby reminded himself, but went for the other boy anyway, putting his hands firmly on his shoulders, heart breaking when his eyes met Casey's, waning to empty, filling to the brim with tears. Boys don't cry, Bobby said, but not out loud, because when the tears won't fall the soul breaks, shatters worse than the heart. A heart can be repaired, but a soul never can be, and more than anything, Bobby wanted to keep Casey's spirit around for a while, for when he needed to be protected and comforted, someday in the future, when the roles were reversed and all this was forgotten.
If only.
If only.
If only.
The blonde pulled the redhead hard, by the collar, so that his body was firmly pressed against Casey's. He could feel the hot tears rolling down Casey's cheeks stream into the small crevices where their chests didn't quite fit together, although for all means and purposes their anatomy was tightly entwined. We need this, Bobby thought, even as his tongue delved into Casey's mouth, lips ruthlessly crushing roughly together, even as his hands started to roam on their own, we need this. And he, of all people, knew what it was like to need, rather than desire, with all it's 'wanting' connotations. Pure, raw need.
Melancholy boy, he thought of Casey, sweet, bitter, agonized, scraped bare. The way his fumbling hands trembled, every so often, as though to say 'this isn't the way it should be'. But the way it should be wasn't the way Bobby wanted, and so the blonde suffered on, under the weight of his guilt, because the way it was now was the only way he ever needed it to be. If he would never be able to have Prue, and Casey was no longer able to have Prue, then he would take Casey, cut his losses before the game was out.
Not that there was anything wrong with Casey. No, he was Casey Hargrove, and he was special, and Bobby had known that from the very first time he laid eyes on the other boy, in first year, the sorting hat lopsided on his head, grinning from ear to ear. The grin had faded, like every other scar, and now there was just him, scared and panting, sacred in his fear.
Bobby wanted to devour him whole.