Chapter Text
Barty is having a hell of a fucking day.
It’s a Sunday, which means it’s his day off. Off days are reserved for waking-and-baking, eating fruit roll-ups for breakfast and watching Love Island in his underwear. Off days are not reserved for being called into the office at eight in the morning because his assistant, Lily, is on her honeymoon in Turks and Caicos, and her substitute is an evil, incompetent hag who scheduled a meeting for him on the one day he’s allowed respite from the hellscape that is his father’s firm.
And because apparently, the universe decided it hadn’t fucked Barty over enough today, his favorite café is closed, so now he’s drinking the sludge that the office cafeteria deems coffee in a styrofoam takeaway cup, cursing at the traffic from morning commuters and when he finally, fucking finally, hands his keys to the valet and his doorman lets him into the foyer of his apartment complex, he runs straight into an exiting stranger, sending watery, burnt coffee all over the front of his suit, onto the MacBook tucked under his arm. Thanks, universe.
“Holy motherfucking fuck,” Barty curses as he tries, to no avail, to wipe the cover of his laptop on his equally drenched sleeve, fully ready to curse the man in front of him into next Sunday.
He readies himself, eyes blazing, gets through the first half of “Watch where you’re fucking going, cocksucker,” when—
Huh.
Thanks, universe.
Standing in front of him, with startled blue eyes and an apologetic twitch of his lips is an honest-to-God, literal angel.
Tussled, blonde hair, high cheekbones, milky skin dotted with freckles and Barty truly owes the cosmos an apology, sends his regards to a God he doesn’t believe him because he's been gifted with a trust fund, a big dick and the stranger he is sure is the love of his fucking life, all at nine AM on a Sunday.
“Shit, sorry.” The hot stranger—possibly Barty’s one true love—grimaces, sheepishly running a hand through his hair.
Barty pauses. He’s suddenly painstakingly aware that he hasn’t showered, is covered in brown, vaguely coffee-ish gunk and wearing the black-rimmed reading glasses he claims he doesn’t need, but really, can barely make out the screen of his laptop without. Briefly, he wonders how socially acceptable it would be to pull his ruined shirt up, like, Wait, hot stranger, I might look like I sleep in a sewage canal but look! Six-pack!
Instead, he shakes his head, vaguely registering Arthur, the doorman, hurrying over with a roll of paper towels and a mop.
“Don’t worry about it,” He says, with a grin he hopes is genuinely charming, but more likely comes off as slightly unhinged. Vaguely maniacal. “You okay, sweetheart?”
The stranger’s eyebrows shoot up and Barty curses himself internally. Aside from the fact that that was an objectively creepy thing to say, probably on par with leering at him from a construction site, shouting, “Give me a smile, darling”, there’s also a good chance that the very hot, very put-off stranger is also very straight and very horrified by the endearment.
Although—Barty’s eyes rake up his figure. Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, a white tee cut off right above the jut of hipbones and Lord have fucking mercy, the unmistakeable outline of a silver piercing through his navel.
Definitely not straight. And Barty would know. His gaydar is legendary. Hell, he knew Lily was a lesbian even when she was still dating that dolt, James, from Legal. He knew his best friend, Regulus, was gay even before Regulus started dating that dolt, James, from Legal. Before his mind can spiral into the one-sided feud he has with the dolt, James, from Legal, the stranger’s lips quirk up in a smile.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” He says. “Uh, if you don’t mind, I need to—” He points at the door and Barty’s head swivels towards the moving van parked outside the door.
“Oh,” Barty says dumbly. “Sorry. You movin' out?”
The stranger shakes his head. “Moving in, actually.”
Halle-fucking-lujah. It's Christmas, his birthday and Halloween—objectively the best holiday, shut up—all in one. On a Sunday. Which is, in itself, a freak of nature. A miracle, if you will. Nothing ever happens on Sundays.
“Well,” Barty tucks his laptop—which is unsalvageable now, not that Barty gives a single shit anymore—back under his arm. “Guess that means we’re neighbours. I’m Barty.”
“Evan,” The stranger—Evan—responds. Lips quirk up in a careful little smile. Polite. “Nice to meet you.”
Evan straightens his back, peering past Barty’s shoulder at the door. With a start, Barty realises Evan, and Barty’s chances of ever finding love, are about to slip through his fingers, right through the sliding glass doors of the foyer. And yeah, Barty could wait until he sees Evan around the building again, but the apartment complex has fourty floors, and Barty happens to live in the penthouse, so the odds he will ever see this truly stunning, drop-dead gorgeous man again are depressingly low .
So.
“Do you need help?” Barty blurts out. “Like, with your boxes and shit.”
Evan pauses. He bites down on his lip, thoughtful, then looks over Barty assessingly. Barty gulps. Finally, he nods.
“Yeah, that’d be great, actually.”
Barty can’t control the grin that spreads, slow and crinkled and warm.
“Perfect.”
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚｡˚ ⋆
And that’s how Barty finds himself stepping into an apartment on the twenty-first floor, dropping the final cardboard box onto the glossy, hardwood floor.
Evan runs a hand through slightly sweaty, mussed-up hair, leaning against the kitchen counter with a pleased sound. “That’s the last one, then."
Barty nods, taking the moment to take in the apartment. It’s light and airy, modern, with marble countertops in the kitchen. Tastefully furnished. Evan had explained in the elevator that the movers had already set up his furniture last week, the bed, closets, shelves: there’s a fuzzy pink carpet in front of the sleek, white sofa, a glass coffee table and gauzy, cream-colored curtains opened to reveal a sloping view of the city beneath.
Knowing rent prices in Manhattan, Barty knows the place is far from affordable. Which begs the question—what does Evan do?
Evan gave mostly cryptic responses to Barty’s questions in the elevator: He's a model, vaguely IG famous because hello, this is New York. Everyone's a model and vaguely IG famous, but more enticingly, had off-handedly mentioned, I guess I do this and that, whatever the fuck that means, and he’d had a cardboard box he refused to let Barty touch labelled Work .
He’s not dealing drugs (Barty asked. If anything, it'd have been convenient to have a plug living ten floors beneath him. And would have given him a plethora of reasons to get Evan's number), not living off of his parents (unlike Barty), not working a stuffy office job (also unlike Barty). Regardless of how he makes what must be eye-watering amounts of money, he’s a mystery. And Barty’s never been good with those.
He can’t help but want to learn, discover, know . Wants to coax every single one of Evan’s secrets out, wants to bottle up and savour the little pieces Evan has already revealed, that he’s twenty-three, two years younger than Barty, that he has a twin sister who lives in Soho, that he wants to adopt a cat once he’s settled in. From a shelter. Because Evan's just that kind of person.
Now, Evan is perched on the counter, legs swinging as he blows out little puffs of smoke from a dispo. Barty steps in between his legs, plucking the vape from his fingers.
“What are we unpacking first?” He asks, eyeing the stack of boxes surrounding them.
Evan shrugs. “Probably kitchen stuff. You don’t need to stay, though. I’m sure you’re busy.”
Barty shakes his head. Never one to take a hint, he is. “Nah, I got all day. Should I start with the plates?”
So, they rifle and sort through box after box. Barty organizes plates, cutlery in the kitchen and books, trinkets in the living room. Evan disappears into the master bedroom with his clothes—which make up at least half the boxes—and the elusive Work box. Eventually, Barty returns to his own apartment to change into jeans and a t-shirt, then returns with a bottle of rosé which they pour into Evan’s freshly unpacked wine glasses, clinking them together and as Barty cleans up a droplet of spilled wine with a kitchen towel he’d unpacked earlier—sage green, dotted with little yellow ducks—he marvels at the way Evan’s skin glows, milky and pale under the warm light, blonde strands falling into his eyes and sends a silent prayer up to Sundays, crappy assistants and even crappier cafeteria coffee.
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚｡˚ ⋆
And so, Barty’s not in the least surprised when he finds himself drowning in the vast ocean, sinking in the cloying quicksand, burning in the all-encompassing fire that is Evan Rosier.
Whatever they’re doing, it’s verging into dangerous territory, though Evan gives him no sign whether he even wants it to go that direction and well, truthfully, Barty doesn’t really care, doesn’t stop to listen to the resounding, deafening voices telling him to slow the fuck down before he gets drowned, dragged, burned. Because frankly, Barty’d get married to him tomorrow if Evan so much as insinuated. He'd sink to his knees, breathe a prayer to Evan Rosier and all that is holy, worship at his altar. He’d pine for him for the remainder of his life, be it so. ‘Til death do us part.
Dangerous fuckin’ territory.
Because Barty doesn’t do relationships, never has. Has no fucking clue if Evan does. His love life—if you can call it one—can mostly be condensed into boarding school handjobs in broom cupboards, the bisexual crisis of sophomore year™, then on-and-off hook-ups with various aspiring models, hedge fund analysts, interns at Vogue, all of which ended with cardboard boxes overflowing with lacy bras or Diptyque candles or citrusy cologne leaving the penthouse, It’s not you, it’s me, ‘cept it always was Barty. Because Cerci’s cheeks were streaked with tears as Barty stared back at her blankly, Why won’t you make time for me? and I feel like you don't even care anymore and finally, I don’t think this is working out . Because Emmeline smashed Barty’s favorite shot glasses—the crap ones he and Regulus bought in Miami with bikini-clad tits—when he went on a three-day bender and missed dinner with her parents, blazing high on his kitchen floor in soiled boxers and a fresh piercing in his left lobe. Because Benjy sat him down and said, gently, his hand cupping Barty’s jaw, You’re a fuckin’ mess, man. I can’t get your shit together for you.
So. He doesn't really do relationships. Flirts with mean girls with too many tattoos and blows pretty boys with too many rings in club bathrooms, wakes up one too many times tangled in too many limbs.
But Evan. Fucking Evan.
Makes Barty’s stomach flip at the goddamn sight of him, the way his mouth twitches before he laughs, the dimple over the right corner of his mouth crinkling, that fucking bellybutton piercing. Little silver studs and dangling hearts. Makes Barty want to kick his legs in the air, giggling while he writes Evan’s name circled with little hearts, mushy, lovesick, besotted. Makes Barty clean his apartment for the first time in months, vacuums and mops and uses fucking fabric softener. Promptly finds a housekeeper on Craigslist because, shit, he’s never doing that again.
They exchange numbers out of neighbourly spirit, though they both know it’s a lie. Barty stops by more often than he should, bringing wine and takeout and they sit on Evan’s shaggy, pink carpet, trying not to spill sauvignon blanc and orange chicken. Evan tells him about growing up in Brooklyn over Pad Thai and The Office in Barty’s penthouse, the transition, only son of a single mother and when his breath catches, hitches on the mention of his father, Barty shrugs and says “Dads are fucking overrated, anyways. Mine’s a self-absorbed toerag that named me after himself. I mean, who the fuck does that?” and Evan giggles and settles his feet in Barty’s lap.
Barty knows you’re not supposed to say people are good and bad, that there’s grey areas, complexities, layers. He’d say he’s smack-dab in the middle of grey, himself. He votes. Takes his trash down on Thursdays. Quit coke when he was nineteen, but sometimes, after a rough fucking week, sometimes finds himself rubbing white powder onto his gums, nose blocked and dripping, shining with crystal. Wouldn’t, like, drop-kick a child on the street.
But Evan, Evan is good.
Not, like, Virgin Mary, holier-than-thou, Saint Evan good. He’s got bite, a mean little smirk. Gets testy, bitches and snaps when he hasn’t had coffee in the mornings or when his vape is under Barty’s ass, and he won’t move, Barty, goddamnit. But past the petty jibes is the kind of person who calls his mom every Sunday, coos at strangers’ dogs, never asks the local bodega owner for change. He’s shimmery, golden goodness, the kind of person who emits more light into the world than he absorbs.
Evan’s starlight, fleeting and bright, and suppose that makes Barty a black hole, meant to consume, engulf.
It’s not so far off, really. Barty takes, always has. Spoiled, the only child to a negligent father and a frivolous mother on the Upper East Side. Wants and takes, designer clothes, the thrill of popping pills. So, he might not be familiar with love, but he damn well knows how to want.
And want, he does.
When he learns that Evan speaks French, fluent and with a melodic Occitan lilt to it, he balls it up, tucks it underneath his pillows, lulls himself to sleep with it. Barty discovers that Evan hates to cook—hates chopping onions and the way blood leaks from red meat—but loves to bake, so he finds himself bringing tupperwares of vanilla cupcakes, chocolate eclairs, colorful macarons to work and dreams of licking raspberry frosting from Evan’s plush lips, from the smooth expanse of his neck, from muscled thighs.
And on a Wednesday night, July air sticky with warmth, he lets himself into Evan’s apartment with the spare keys, shrugs his suit jacket off and loosens his tie as he makes his way to the kitchen.
“Honey, I’m home!” He singsongs and Evan lets out a breathy little laugh as Barty catches him by the waist, thumb dipping over Evan’s tattoo, a small rose over his hipbone.
Only then does he notice the girl perched on the barstool opposite him, waist-length, white-blonde curls and raised eyebrows.
“Oh,” The girl says slowly, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “You’re Barty.”
“Uh,” Barty says. “Yes?”
“That’s my sister, Pandora. Pandora, Barty.” Evan explains, gingerly plucking the takeout bag from between Barty’s fingers. He does it constantly, slim fingers wrapping around the cigarette in Barty’s hand or the TV remote or the last slice of pizza and it drives Barty fucking crazy.
Well, just about as crazy as everything Evan does.
Pandora waves at him over the counter, and Barty grins back, reaching over Evan to open the cupboards. He takes out three plates, picks out forks from the mishmash of cutlery in the drawers and sets them on the marble countertop.
“How was work?” Evan asks as he opens the fridge, placing a beer and two sodas next to the plates.
Barty groans. “Lily’s back, thank God, so I don’t have to deal with that witch, Rita, anymore, but James—”
“The dolt from Legal?”
“That’s right, hon, he sent me, like, three hundred contracts I need to sign for the upcoming acquisition, and I don’t understand any of them, so I sent Reg down there to get it explained, ‘cept when I went down to see what was taking so long, I got a fucking eyeful . Fucking James.”
Evan shakes his head mock-disapprovingly. “Be better, James.”
Pandora looks as if she’s stifling a laugh, then looks over to Evan with a shit-eating grin. “Ev, how was your day?”
“Same as always,” Evan shrugs. “You know.”
“I don’t.” Barty interjects, trying not to sound too bitter. Failing miserably, by the looks of it.
“You didn’t tell him what you do?” Pandora asks, sounding scandalized, and Evan glares. Barty watches as the two stare at each other over the table, engaged in one of those telepathic conversations only siblings seem to be capable of, until Pandora appears to relent, instead giving Evan a knowing shake of her head.
“Hi,” Barty says. “Feeling really left out here. Anyone wanna fill me in?”
Evan pats his cheek, patronizing, slipping past to sit on the stool next to Pandora. “I’ll tell you one day. Until then, I’m a mystery," Then, "Sweetheart.”
“That you are.” Barty mutters, and his heart does not do a cramping, fluttery thing as he sits down on Pandora’s other side, cracking the beer can open.
Evan opens the takeout bag, plastic crinkling between his fingers and they share steaming basmati rice and Evan and Pandora fight over who gets to finish the butter chicken while Barty snatches the garlic naan right from under their noses. Pandora tells them about her job, working some boho-chic store on Madison Avenue, gushes about the guy she met at some speakeasy—some artsy, hipster novelist who sends extravagant bouquets: orchids, calla lilies, birds of paradise to her apartment.
Barty lets Pandora in on his ongoing—still tragically one-sided—feud with James, who’s most recent offence was celebrating his and Regulus’ one-year anniversary on the night Barty wanted to go clubbing and accepts her input on what she thinks his next tattoo should be (a tramp stamp—Barty politely declines).
Evan practices his bartending skills and makes them gin and tonics. They get into a heated argument over basketball until they all agree that sports are inherently stupid but men in jerseys are hot, fuck Trae Young, and the Knicks need to get their shit together, which morphs into a debate on the finer points of Rupaul's Drag Race which turns into Barty choking into his glass as Evan off-handedly mentions he still has a skirt tucked away in his closet.
And as Pandora makes sloppy kissing sounds while Evan hugs him goodbye, deft fingers brushing the back of Barty’s neck, Barty realises with a start he’s gotten used to this—the easy rhythm, the domesticity of it all—so stark in contrast to his previous life. That night, he dreams of short skirts, the backs of pale thighs and bottomless blue eyes and he’s so, so fucked.