Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September 1979
Somewhere in Texas

Starring as the Sluts:

Barty Crouch Jr. as the Driver
Evan Rosier as the Hitchhiker

The road goes on forever. Dead straight. Endless. 

A wide highway and the midday sun beats down mercilessly on its cracked asphalt. It stretches out like an infinite black ribbon in front of Barty, dividing the barren landscape in two. On either side, nothing but scrub and dirt. 

The occasional scattered telephone pole or sign, bleached by the sun, are the only things whipping past his car on these long, deserted stretches of road. The car purrs deeply, the engine humming in a steady rhythm. Barty drives fast, always five miles above the speed limit at least.

Out here, time somehow passes more slowly. No cities, no people.

Maybe that's why he feels so uneasy.

He passed through the last town about twenty minutes ago.

Well, town is generous... just a couple farmhouses, a gas station and the obligatory church. But fuck southwestern religious guilt and his tank is still a quarter full, so no, no reason to stop yet.

The road remains almost empty. It is a rather isolated stretch of Texas highway. Now and then, a truck roars past in the opposite direction, but then again, nothing. No cars. No cops. No signs of life. Just the open road.

There's a pack of cigarettes on the passenger seat. Barty reaches for it, takes one out, puts it between his lips to light it. He inhales the smoke long and deep, it burns pleasantly in his lungs, and the nicotine instantly calms his nerves. 

It's already early September, but the heat hasn't let up. It's oppressive, dry, and relentless. All the windows are rolled down completely. His left arm rests on the door frame. Ashes flutter away and get caught by the wind.

In the distance, mirages flicker over the asphalt. The same nowhere stretching into even more nowhere. Barty doesn't mind the emptiness. But if it continues like this, he'll probably be bored to death. 

And wouldn't that be a shame?

Perhaps in another life Barty would have been a cowboy, an outlaw riding through the Southwest on horseback, wielding a gun, robbing banks and trains.

Barty smiles to himself. Yes, he would have liked that. However, he is no cowboy. He was born about a hundred years too late, is twenty-four years old, drives a 1969 Dodge Charger in mint condition, wears expensive clothes and designer sunglasses. After all, at least he has a gun and drives one-handed, the other hanging casually out the open window, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. He thinks that's pretty badass, too.

He passes another junction, again, nothing but gravel and scrub. He is just starting to get a little impatient — a nasty habit — when something flickers in the distance on the side of the road and catches his attention. A figure.

Interstate 10 is usually a good spot to pick up hitchhikers. Most of them are headed west, California dreaming. But once you pass San Antonio, tough luck meeting anyone. Most people, even if they're not from here, aren't stupid enough to trek across Texas on foot.

Must be another mirage…

Barty eases his foot off the gas. 

The closer he gets, the slower he goes. He takes another drag from his cigarette and exhales slowly.  The smoke drifts past his face and escapes through the open window.

No, it’s a person. 

Tall. Broad shoulders. A man. His light hair shines like an incandescent crown of blond curls in the sun.

He doesn’t turn around, not even when Barty is so close, that he can definitely hear the engine’s roar coming up behind him. He only raises his left arm, smooth, almost lazy, his thumb stuck out.

Yes!

Exactly what Barty was hoping for.

He drives past and brakes to pull over. Not too quickly though; Barty doesn't want to seem desperate. It's more like the guy was an afterthought, a last-minute decision. He comes to a halt a few hundred feet ahead.

Barty lowers his sunglasses a notch and watches the other man approach in the rearview mirror, impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the song that’s playing on the radio.

Welcome to my nightmare
I think you're gonna like it
I think you're gonna feel you belong
We sweat and laugh and scream here
'Cause life is just a dream here
You know inside you feel right at home here

The guy doesn't rush. He doesn't run like he's afraid Barty might change his mind and drive off. 

They usually do run... It's a little strange, but not enough for Barty to care right now, because what's much more important is the fine-looking man who is slowly approaching his vehicle.

He’s wearing faded jeans, light blue and ripped at the knees. A white tank that clings to his chest, a worn oversized button-up thrown over it, the sleeves are cut off. He carries an old, canvas military-backpack slung over one shoulder, it’s sun-bleached and stained from the dirt. His face is covered with a mustard-yellow bandana. 

The closer he gets, the more Barty realizes how tall he really is. Must be taller than Barty. That annoys him a little. Barty is just under six feet and tends to get a little self-conscious about his height. 

We sweat and laugh and scream here
'Cause life is just a dream here
You know inside you feel right at home here

He takes one last drag from his cigarette before flicking the stub out of the window and then he turns off the radio.

When he has reached the car the man leans into the open passenger window. His face — the part Barty can see, is flushed from the sun and dusted with freckles. He’s got bright green eyes. His blond hair is long and so light, it’s almost white and messily tousled.

But he’s young. Probably around Barty’s age.

Then he pulls down the bandana that covers his nose and mouth.

And fuck. 

He also has an handsome face, quite beautiful even, with a certain edge to it. His face is angular, with high cheekbones. His nose is straight and narrow, almost aristocratic. His prominent jawline is covered with just enough stubble to make him look a little rugged. His mouth is nicely shaped, his lips are full and curled upward into a friendly smile.

God dammit. If Barty had a type, this guy would be it. (But he doesn't, and even if he did, he wouldn't admit it, of course.)

“Hey, thanks for stopping. Where're you headed?” asks the man. He has a slight accent, but Barty can't quite place it. Definitely not Texan. Not even American.

For a second, Barty doesn't know what to say. Well, where is he actually going? Barty isn't sure. Right now, he's heading west. So he replies, “Phoenix,” and adds, “Where are you going?” 

“West,” the man replies. “Would you give me a ride, all the way to Phoenix? How far is that, anyway?”

Barty looks ahead. He bites the inside of his lip because, damn, this is going to be interesting. Then he tilts his head slightly and looks back at the blond man leaning casually against his passenger door.

Beads of sweat gather in his prominent collarbones. His neck is tanned, kissed by the Southwest sun. Fine golden hair glistens along his forearms. His eyes are cheerful, but there is something intense about them. And he is still smiling at Barty.  

“I'd say Phoenix is about eight hundred miles from here,” Barty informs him. “That's a twelve-hour drive.”

And then, to his own surprise, Barty smiles back.

“Half a day?” the blond man asks. He straightens up and stretches lazily like a cat, raising his arms above his head.

His tank top rides up, his jeans hang low and loose on his hips. His stomach is slim and toned, a fine line of a golden happy trail disappears beneath the waistband of his boxer shorts. His belt is made of wide, brown leather, the silver buckle coils like a snake in the blazing sun.

Barty can feel his cock showing interest in what he sees.

“Get in.” he grunts, his voice low and husky, and jerks his chin to the side.

The blond guy doesn't need to be told twice. He opens the door and slides into the passenger seat with a broad grin. He turns around to throw his backpack onto the back seat and his arm brushes against Barty's. His skin feels hot, warmed by the sun, and slick with sweat. A thin layer of desert dust clings to him.

He smells like smoke and something sweet. Barty feels his stomach tighten again — a brief rush of something between disgust and arousal curses through him in equal parts.

“Damn, thanks, man. My name is Evan, by the way,” Evan says, smiling like he means it.

Barty shifts into gear, smoothly presses his foot down on the gas pedal, and pulls back onto the road. Gravel and dirt spit up in a cloud behind them. 

“Barty,” he replies without looking at him. “You're not local. Where are you from?”

The question is a bit unnecessary, Barty knows that. Hitchhikers are rarely from around here, almost never, but it's always a good conversation starter.

Evan doesn't answer right away. Instead, he starts to unbutton his shirt and takes it off. Barty watches as the faded linen slides down in one languid motion, revealing a muscular neck and strong upper arms. The tops of his shoulders are also covered in freckles and slightly sunburnt.

“What are you doing?” Barty demands, unable to suppress the urgent tone in his voice.

​​“Sorry, man, I have to take this off. I'm completely drenched.” 

With a single smooth movement, Evan pulls his tanktop over his head. Then he crumples it up to wipe off the sweat — once along the back of his neck, then across his chest, and finally down his stomach.

Barty watches out of the corner of his eye — like in slow motion — how the muscles in his arms and chest flex, how his stomach tightens, how new sweat beads between his pecs.

Then, just as quickly, the moment is over, and the crumpled tank top unceremoniously ends up in the back seat. 

Barty has to fight the sudden urge to reach back so he can bury his face in the filthy piece of clothing, to smell and taste the other man's sweat. 

Or better yet, bury his face in that filthy piece of a man, sitting right next to him and lick him all over, but Evan is already putting his shirt back on, not bothering to fasten the last few top buttons. 

So Barty decides not to do that right now. Maybe later.

“Fuck,” Evan groans, adjusting in his seat. The sound of his voice alone does something to Barty. “That’s much better. I was soaking wet. God. Is it always this bloody hot out here?” 

Oh great. A chatty one.

“Yeah, it’s always hot out here. It’s Texas, you know.”

Barty focuses on the road. Let's face it, he likes the chatty ones. Makes it more interesting. More fun to watch them getting comfortable. And Evan here is obviously already halfway there.

“Sorry,” Evan says, glancing over. “What did you ask?”

“I said you're not from around here.” It's not even a question anymore. 

“Non.” Evan says and reaches into his jeans to pull out a crumpled blue pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke?” 

Gauloises? Who the fuck smokes Gauloises? 

Barty shakes his head to say no, he doesn’t mind. 

“You’re French?”

“Yes.”

“Mhm,” Evan hums as he lights his cigarette. He takes a slow drag, exhales through his nose, then sinks deeper into his seat and smirks. “Quel petit malin, toi.”

Barty doesn't speak French, but he understands enough to realize that it must indeed be Evans' mother tongue and that he is currently making fun of him.

Evan shifts further sideways, his back is now pressed against the door, his left leg is lazily bent on the seat. He watches Barty with his head tilted to one side, his face a mixture of curiosity and mischief, and takes another drag on his cigarette. His long fingers are adorned with mismatched silver rings.

After a moment, he turns away from Barty again and lets his gaze wander, running his hand over the leather seats and polished wooden dashboard. Then he whistles and nods, visibly impressed. “Damn fine car. Much better than the filthy back of the pickup truck I spent my morning on.”

“Thanks.” 

“How does one get a car like that?” he asks.

Barty grips the steering wheel tighter and presses down on the gas. In response, the Charger roars up loudly beneath them. “You buy it.”

That elicits a laugh from Evan, much to Barty's satisfaction. “No shit. How much?”

“Five grand.”

Evan chuckles again and nods. “Yeah, you look it.”

Wait, is Evan mocking him? 

“I look like what?” Barty hisses. 

“Well, like someone who can afford a car like this.” Barty can feel his gaze wander over his sunglasses, down to his clothes and the way he holds the steering wheel. The delicate golden bracelet dangling lightly from his wrist catches the light. 

Barty suddenly realizes how all this must look to Evan. And then another thought hits him: Is Evan trying to figure him out? 

Oh, that's cute.

“What do you do for a living?” Evan asks.

“I'm a student,” Barty replies, because that's the closest thing to the truth.

The brief pause tells him that Evan doesn't buy it. The short laugh that follows confirms his suspicion. Though, it doesn't sound cruel this time, just amused. “So, rich parents?”

“Something like that.”

Barty doesn't feel like talking about his parents to someone like Evan. That's the last thing he wants to discuss today. Instead, he wonders what Evan would do if Barty took his hand off the steering wheel and let it slide onto his lap. He wonders how long it would take Evan to unzip — or punch him, if that's not what he's into. But Barty is rarely wrong about these kinds of things.

“And what's a rich, handsome boy like you doing out here in this dusty-ass-wasteland, Hollywood?”

Barty's eyebrows shoot up. Dangerous ground calling him handsome, but not wrong.  Barty is damn good-looking. Lean. Well-groomed. Pretty. He’s got high cheekbones, a sharp jawline and blue eyes like storm clouds. 

Oh, Barty knows exactly what he looks like.

At least on the outside. Barty presents himself as charming, well-groomed, even elegant when the occasion calls for it. He has spent years mastering how to make himself look desirable. Just enough smiles, just the right kind of laugh at the right time. It's a whole act — so that no one ever sees the rot on the inside.

He knows what it takes to look good, and he knows how to weaponize it. If he made a move, Evan would fold in seconds. He's pretty sure of that now. Besides, it kind of confirms his initial instinct.

“Hollywood?” he repeats slowly, feigning innocence, as if he doesn't know what Evan is talking about.

Evan just shrugs, exhales a thin trail of smoke, and then gestures loosely toward Barty's head. “Well, because of the hair thing,” he says. “You look like... what's his name again?” He squints his eyes and takes another drag. “The guy from The Godfather... Robert De Niro!”

Barty blinks once. “De Niro wasn't in The Godfather.” 

“Yes, he was,” Evan insists, flicking the ash out the window. “He had his hair all slicked back, just like you.”

“You’re talking about Al Pacino.”

“No. I’m pretty fucking sure it was Robert De Niro.”

“I’m telling you, he wasn’t in it. Al Pacino was.”

Evan grins. “I'm just saying, you've got that whole De Niro vibe going on. The brooding eyebrows. The hair. You even look a bit like him. The chiseled jaw and those cheekbones. Don't you think so, Don Corleone?” 

Barty snorts. “Bullshit. I don't look anything like Pacino.”

Evan leans over the center console and whispers very slowly: “I said De Niro.” Then he slumps back into his seat leaning his head back. “Whatever. Same guy anyway.”

“Not even remotely.”

“Okay, maybe not, but like… kind of close.”

“Are you high?”

Evan leans forward again, as if genuinely surprised. “Aren't you?”

Barty laughs, not because he genuinely finds it funny, but because he's slowly but surely getting a little irritated by this guy. Instead of trying to lecture Evan any longer, he tightens his grip on the steering wheel and keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Evan reclining a little — clearly enjoying himself, that motherfucker.

“Dude, you're completely missing the point. Trust me, you really do look just like him. I'm telling you. Except for the ...” He puts a finger to his upper lip. “... mustache, of course.” He silently regards Barty for a moment. “'Though I actually think it would suit you.” He lazily taps off the ash on the doorframe. “Have you ever thought about growing one?” he asks. “Y’know... for the full effect.”

“What?”

“A mustache?”

“Fuck no. No way. I'd rather kill myself than look like my father.”

Evan raises an eyebrow. “He looks like Robert De Niro?”  

Barty clenches his jaw. “For the last time,” he says slowly, “Robert De Niro was not in the fucking Godfather.”

“Yes, he was, in the second one.” 

“Oh my fucking God, that’s not the same fucking thing.”

Evan shrugs. “It’s still The Godfather, dude.” 

“That's a completely different movie.” Barty groans. Then he adds dryly, “And for your information, I grew up here. This is what I do here in this dusty-ass-wasteland.”  

“Like here here?” Evan makes a dismissive gesture at the dirt drifting past them and smirks. “You really come from a place like this?” 

“I said I grew up in Texas. Not that I was born in a fucking ditch.” Barty is now really starting to get frustrated with this guy. “I’m from Austin.”

“Austin,” Evan repeats, as if savoring the word.

“Further east,” Barty explains, unable to suppress the annoyed tone in his voice.

“Right, I see. And what's taking you to Phoenix? Apart from collecting desert sand in your ass crack along the way?”

Barty snorts and reaches for his own pack of cigarettes — Marlboro, of course, like a true American. “You ask too many questions, Frenchie.”

“Sorry, man. Just trying to make conversation.” Evan reaches out his hand to offer Barty the flame of his lighter. “You’re saying it's a twelve-hour drive to Phoenix? Then I guess we should get to know each other a little better. Not that I accidentally got in the car with some serial killer. Or worse, we wouldn't want you to think I was one.”

Barty inhales the smoke, watches a mirage writhing in front of them on the road, and reflexively taps the ash out the open window. He urgently needs to steer this conversation in a different direction. “Okay, tell me, what's a French guy doing in the middle of butt-fuck Texas?” 

“That sounds like the beginning of a really bad joke,” Evan says, amused. 

“I’m not trying to be funny. So?” Barty prompts him again.

“I'm visiting my sister.”

“In Phoenix?”

“Nope, California.”

“Los Angeles?”

“San Francisco.”

Barty grimaces. “Hang on, wait a minute, if you wanted to go to San Francisco in the first place, why didn’t you just fly there directly?”

Evan just shrugs. “I just took the first available flight to the US and landed in Atlanta. Since then, I’ve been hitchhiking west.”

“Then you’ve got a long way to go, buddy.”

“I know.” Evan nods and flicks the butt of his cigarette out of the window. The embers scatter across the asphalt and vanish behind them in a blur of heat. “I figured I’d see the country while I’m here.”

Barty grins wryly. “And how’s that going so far?” 

Evan snorts. “Well... my back hurts like a bitch because I slept on the back of a pickup truck. But hey, I’ve crossed three states and covered about a thousand miles in three days. Now I just need to get out of this damn desert and find someone in Phoenix to take me the rest of the way to California.”

For some reason, Barty doesn't like the idea of them going their separate ways again. But he won't tell Evan that. Instead, he says, “This isn't even a real desert.”

Evan turns to look out the open window, jaw clenched, staring at the passing landscape. The sun-scorched ground stretches out before them into vast plains, barren and empty. “It sure as hell looks like a real fucking desert to me.” he mutters.

“Have you ever been to one? This is ranch country. Let me guess — that pickup truck belonged to some hillbilly from Sonora?” 

“Maybe, I don't know...”

“Well, there's a technical difference—” 

“Whatever, man. Looks like a desert and feels like one too, I'm sweating my balls off.” 

Barty can't shake the feeling that this guy might be a little thick. 

“Yeah, okay, see, this is scrubland. Plains. We’re getting closer, but the real desert doesn’t start until like two hundred miles further west.”

“Another two hundred miles of this?”

“Yes. And then proper desert, the big empty, nothing but sand and cacti all the way to Phoenix.”

“No shit?”

“Yes. But we’ll cover most of it after sunset — it’s more pleasant driving at night.”

“Well, fuck me.” Evan groans.

“You got lucky...” Barty smirks. 

“I did?” Evan whirls his head around. 

“Yes. Riding with me is as comfortable as it gets,” Barty whispers softly, with a smile on his face, waiting for a response, but Evan says nothing more.

Terrific, now he's shutting up. 

Did Barty spook him? Freak him out? He does tend to be a bit of a dick sometimes. Maybe he went too far. Damn, that wasn't the plan.

Shit. Normally, Barty is in control in situations like this. He's the one steering these kinds of encounters. He decides where the conversation goes, how much he reveals about himself, when, and why. But there's something about Evan. Something that slips past his defenses and coaxes Barty into saying things he normally wouldn't reveal.

He should be more careful.

He reaches for the volume control to turn up the radio, making sure it's tuned to some backwoods station that plays nothing but music.

The mountain is high, the valley is low
And you're confused on which way to go

Barty knows guys like Evan. Carefree. Naïve. Typical. They act cool and talk as if the world owes them sunshine.

The sunnyboy type. California bound, no doubt. Most of them are too young or too confident to know any better, often both. Barty sees right through them. Just another pretty face with a soft mouth and a jawline made for trouble. Handsome — but painfully predictable. They get boring fast, but better than nothing, Barty tells himself.

So I've come here to give you a hand
And lead you into the promised land, so
come on and sit here by my side
Ooh, ooh come on and take a free ride

Evan smiles lazily, sweat glinting above his perfectly shaped cupid’s bow and along his collarbone. His blond hair curls messily at the nape of his tanned neck, it’s almost down to his shoulders — in that way that’s in style right now. Sweat trails down from his hairline to his spine, vanishing beneath the collar of his white shirt.

There’s a delicate silver chain around Evan’s neck — it looks expensive, not the sort of thing you’d expect on someone in ripped jeans and a backpack that’s seen a thousand miles of asphalt and dirt, apparently.

All over the country, I'm seeing it the same
Nobody's winning at this kind of game

He's seen a dozen like him. Fucked plenty. Quickly got rid of them afterwards, all in the same way. Barty isn't even sure if Evan is actually interested, or just naturally that open. But it doesn't matter either way.

He got into Barty's car without hesitation, dropped into the passenger seat, made himself comfortable, and lit a cigarette as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sweet, somehow. What a fucking shame.

Still, Barty can't shake the feeling that something about Evan is off. Not wrong, just... different.

His clothes are worn, sure. Dusty and faded from the sun, like any other hitchhiker Barty has picked up before. But his face. Evan's features are beautiful, delicate and too well-groomed, even under all that sweat and dust, for someone who apparently lives out of a backpack. His posture and the way he carries himself with confidence. That only comes from old money or real power. 

Barty would know.

So, Barty decides, Evan is just too pretty to be standing on the side of the road like that. And Barty has a preference for pretty things. So he wonders, almost idly, what that pretty face will look like after he ruins it.

He simply has to keep Evan for himself. He's the kind of boy people stop for because they think he's lonely or lost. The kind of boy they think they can take care of. Or fuck. Or ruin.

And that can't happen, because Barty is planning to do all of the above.

Which is why, after a brief moment of frantic overthinking, he finally decides to play along.

“Your English is good,” he says, “for a Frenchman.”

“Merci. Yours too... for a cowboy.”

Barty snorts and glances over at him, but Evan still won't meet his eyes, he just keeps staring out the open window at the barren landscape. But Barty catches the smile  tugging at the corners of his lips.

Oh, okay. So no — he's not spooked. Just... relaxed?

“So,” he says in a casual voice. “What's France like?”

“Fantastic.”

“Really? Where exactly?”

“Bordeaux.”

“Oh, good wine?”

“Mhm,” Evan purrs. "Long, golden summers amongst endless rows of vines, evenings spent getting drunk on too much wine by the riverbanks. I actually grew up in a château on a vineyard." 

Barty raises an eyebrow. “Oh? A château? So you're a fancy boy, huh?” 

Evan grins. “Have you ever been?” 

“To France? No.” 

“I figured as much.” He chuckles softly. “Yeah, sure, call it fancy — if you ignore all the aristocratic codes of crap and the fact that the place is basically falling apart. Just like the family, to be honest.”

Barty knows family baggage better than anyone, but hearing it from Evan makes something in his stomach twist. He lifts his chin. “So your sister's the one who got away?”

Evan looks down, absentmindedly twisting the silver signet ring on his right little finger. The crest is engraved with a snake coiled tightly around a skull. Barty can't help but stare at it, wondering if it's just a piece of jewelry or if it has some kind of significance to Evan. 

“Yeah, she got away...,” Evan says quietly, and then, “Have you ever been outside the US at all?” he asks cheerfully, his tone changing abruptly, like a switch had been flipped.

Barty exhales the smoke through his nose and considers for a moment whether to reciprocate. “Yes, actually, most of my entire youth. My father sent me away to the best Catholic all-boys boarding school Britain had to offer — mainly so I would be as far away from him as possible and he wouldn’t have to take care of me himself.”

“Well, who would have thought?’” Evan slides forward in his seat, causing the leather to creak. “Who's the fancy-pants now, huh?” His mouth twists into a wicked grin as he slips into a near-perfect British accent. “Boarding school. Very posh.” Then, more quietly: “Private tutors for me. I grew up bilingual. French at home and English was drilled into me and my sister by some crusty old bastard.”

Barty feels Evan's gaze darting toward him, sizing him up. The sensation sends a pleasant tingle down Barty's spine. “So tell me, what does dear old Papa do that he buys Junior fast cars and sends him abroad to receive the finest international education?”

Junior.

At that, Barty flinches — not visibly, but internally, it’s sharp and instant, and he can feel a hot flush rising up in his cheeks. Evan's eyes flash, and Barty feels it again — that loss of control, like a slap wrapped in velvet.

Evan can't possibly know that. 

He'll never forgive that bastard for daring to name him after himself. As a child, Barty could hardly stand it. And even today, he still hates his own name.

Bartemius Crouch Junior. Fucking hell.

His right hand tightens around the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turn white. He takes an irritated drag on his cigarette, realizing too late that it has already burned down to the filter. With gritted teeth, he flicks the butt out the window. 

This is not how it was supposed to go. 

“He's a politician,” Barty says brusquely.

This seems to catch Evan’s attention, because he abruptly sits up straighter.

Chapter Text

Evan had nearly died on that godforsaken, sun-scorched stretch of highway, if not from heatstroke, then from boredom. He was sweaty and tired from walking, because since that last guy had dropped him off, no one else had stopped.

Can you imagine? Huh… Evan certainly can't fathom it.

Well, to be fair, not many cars had passed by at all. Maybe one or two trucks in the entire half hour he had been walking. (It sure did feel longer than that…)

And then, out of nowhere, a pretty guy in a muscle car stops and offers him a ride?

Who would have thought? Huh… Evan can hardly believe his luck. 

And the guy — Barty, is getting more and more interesting by the second. Evan can feel his gaze on him right now. In fact, he has been feeling it non-stop ever since he got into his car.

He probably likes him, and honestly who can blame him? 

Evan can't deny that he felt it too, he was instantly drawn to him. From the very first moment, as he leaned down into the open passenger window and saw that face. Pretty mouth, sharp jaw, high cheekbones, faded freckles across his nose and something mean underneath it all. 

Barty has the kind of face that has probably never heard the word ‘no’. Or rather, has never accepted it. 

His black t-shirt is neatly tucked into his dark jeans. His cowboy boots are immaculate, and the leather was definitely expensive. His slender fingers rest somewhat tensely on the steering wheel. A delicate golden bracelet dangles from his right wrist. 

He's got rich boy hands. Evan bets he's never fixed a single thing in his life. 

All in all, Barty is a little too well-groomed for Evan’s taste, but that can be changed once Evan is done messing with him. He is so fucked. (Yes, please.)

So Evan plays along, puts on the act, pretending to be a curious, flirty, somewhat dumb hitchhiker. Just a regular sunny boy on his way to California to visit his sister.

As it turns out, he's pretty good at it. He’s getting a kick out of riling Barty up simply by playing dumb.

Alright, maybe the thing with the tank top was a bit over the top. But it got the reaction he wanted. Didn't it? 

Now that he's thinking about it, maybe it wasn't even necessary after all. Anyway, Evan's pretty sure Barty's into him. Or at least curious. Either way... 

Once again, Evan can hardly believe his luck.

“He's a politician,” Barty says.

“A politician?” Evan asks, sitting up straighter. “Like Kennedy?”

“No.” Barty snorts, shaking his head. “No, not even close. More like Nixon and just local politics in Austin. He was a judge before he went into politics.” 

Oh, the son of a judge? Shit, that might be a problem. 

But Barty doesn’t exactly seem to be rather fond of dear old dad all that much. Maybe the feeling is mutual. Evan sure hopes so, anyway.

“So, what’s the deal with you and him?”

“We don't get along...” 

“Oh, really? So, hypothetically speaking, if I lit up a jay in your car right now... would you snitch on me to your daddy?” Evan deliberately slurs the word to test the waters.

Barty blinks once, tilts his head to the side like a dog and runs his tongue briefly over his lower lip before biting down on it. It's full, he has that natural arrogant pout going on, without even trying. 

Evan wants to sink his teeth into it.

“In that case, I’m required to inform you that the possession and consumption of cannabis is illegal in the state of Texas, punishable by a fine of one thousand dollars and up to one hundred eighty days in jail.” 

“Is that right? Did daddy tell you that?”

The wind from the open window doesn't move Barty's hair. He does it himself — runs his fingers through it like he wants it to look tousled. 

Evan wants to tug on it. Mess it up. He's so fucking fine. 

“Nope. That I learned in law school. My dearest father beat the shit out of me when he caught me smoking at fourteen.” Barty flashes him a wide grin. And when he does, his chin juts forward slightly and his head tilts down a little. The skin over his cheekbones creases, forming fine lines. Evan had already noticed this before, catalogued it and stored it away permanently in his memory.

He wants to lick it.

“And that's why I expect you to share,” Barty says, and his smirk widens. That alone is enough to drive Evan insane. But the words — and the way he says them — make him downright feral. 

He wants him. Right now.

Evan hopes that Barty will finally take off those ridiculous sunglasses. He hasn't taken them off once since Evan got into the car. He wonders if Barty's eyes narrow when he grins like that, if the skin around them pulls tight and makes him look mean.

He hopes it does.

He bets Barty's eyes are beautiful too. Hazel, maybe. Or blue. He definitely has long eyelashes, Evan can tell, just from his side profile.

Damn it, Ev, get a grip. 

“You got it.” Evan says and tears his gaze away, reaches into his pocket to grab the pot and his papers to start rolling a joint. “So, a law student, huh?”

In his head, Evan quietly revises the image he has had of Barty up until now: pretty boy, closeted (gay maybe bi), with daddy issues who thinks he's mysterious (potentially rich). 

“Well, I'm studying…” he pauses to correct himself, “I studied law. Dropped out a few days ago.” 

“Dropped out?" 

A dropout? Evan didn't expect that. Especially not law school... “Why? Too hard?” 

“No,” Barty hisses, as if Evan had just offended him in the worst possible way. “I was top of my class in all courses, if you must know.”

“Oh, really?”

Add ‘smart’ to the list. Or ‘show-off’… Possibly both…

“It just… wasn’t the right thing for me. My father was the one who had me study law in the first place. To follow in his footsteps. And then I realized… I have free will and I no longer take orders from him.”

“Good for you.” Evan mock-salutes and then proceeds to roll the joint.

“I’d rather burn my life to the fucking ground than live his,” Barty mutters and Evan isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear that. He doesn't comment. Instead, he gently rolls the paper between his fingers to spread the grass. 

He's amazing at rolling joints, so he's been told, among other things, that he's particularly skilled with his fingers. 

When his tongue flicks out to wet the paper, he catches the faintest shift of Barty’s head in his direction out of the corner of his eye.

Oh, baby, you want a show? I'll give you a show. 

So Evan slows down — deliberately drags the tip of his tongue along the edge of the paper, very sloooowly, almost a little obscene. And to his satisfaction he hears a soft but sharp gasp from his left. 

Smug, he closes up the edge and places the finished joint between his lips. Before he can even reach in his pocket for his lighter, Barty leans over and flicks open a golden Zippo with one smooth, practiced motion. 

Evan stares at him through the flame just a moment longer than necessary, before leaning forward to meet him halfway, and lights the joint on the offered flame. 

He takes a long drag, holds the smoke in his lungs until his chest aches, then lets it seep out through parted lips. The pot slides through him like honey, slow and sticky. Wraps him up, all warm and cozy, like the desert heat itself is crawling right under his skin and into his bones, until they feel heavy and loose all at once.

When he passes the joint to Barty, their fingers brush briefly. Evan shifts and melts deeper into his seat, his head lolls slightly to one side, his eyelids feel heavy. 

With his eyes half-closed he watches as Barty places the joint between his lips. They touch the very same spot Evan's have just touched seconds ago.

It feels horribly intimate. Warmth pools low in his gut, the kind that makes him want to lean back, close his eyes and touch himself.

Involuntarily, Evan's knees fall open. He sprawls out a little further. Just to see if Barty is watching, and then he realizes he’s half-hard in his jeans.

Oh... Whatever.

He doesn’t bother hiding it. Not even a little. Instead, he drags his hand over his thigh, and takes his sweet time adjusting himself inside his boxers, while stealing furtive glances at Barty, daring him to notice, the look on Evan's face says: What are you gonna do about it?

The instant his eyes catch Barty’s, Evan’s smirk widens, wicked.

Good.

Barty exhales the smoke through his nose, it seeps out in two thin streams. And he simply lets the joint rest on his lip. 

Evan's limbs feel boneless and warm, his skin tingles just beneath the surface. He smirks, lazy and mean, and lets his gaze roam over Barty like he’s nothing but some expensive little boy toy to be played with. (Which he is, let’s be for fucking real.) 

Then, without warning, Evan leans forward and plucks the joint right from Barty's mouth. 

He leans back again, tips his head back toward the ceiling, and inhales deep. Keeps the smoke inside again, until it burns. When he exhales, he watches the smoke drift above him in a lazy cloud above him.

He’s about to ask Barty if he's as thirsty as he is when— THUMP! 

A loud, nasty crack from under the wheels makes Evan flinch in his seat. “Shit. What the hell was that?” He throws his head back to look out the rear window, but he can't make out anything.

Barty, on the other hand, doesn't even bat an eyelash. He doesn't slow down either. “Flat. Whatever it was,” he says casually. “Maybe a rat. Or a possum.” 

“A possum?” 

“They’re like giant rats, only with anxiety and anger issues,” Barty mumbles. 

Evan wrinkles his nose. “Uh-huh… Poor thing.”

And Barty quietly adds, “I just hope it wasn't a raccoon, though.” 

Evan turns to him and frowns. “What? If it had been a raccoon, you'd feel bad now?”

Barty doesn't answer, just stares intently at the road. Evan leans back, still glancing in the rearview mirror. “It sounded like you ran over a fucking rock or something.”

Barty shrugs. “Oh. Well, probably just an armadillo then.”  

Evan blinks. “Armadillo? What the hell even is that?” 

Barty glances at him, raising an eyebrow. “You seriously don’t know what an armadillo is?”

“No? Sounds fake.”

Barty laughs — sharp and mean. And oh, Evan does enjoy the sound of that.

“No, they're real. They're like freaky little tanks.”

“You're talking about a turtle.”

“No, not a turtle. They look like rabbits in armor. And they roll up into a ball when they're scared.”

Evan gives him a long, skeptical side-eye. “Okay. Now you're just making shit up.”

“I’m not! Armadillo literally means ‘little armored one’. It's Spanish, look it up.” 

“No. No, you're fucking with me. That's not a real animal.”

“Swear to God,” Barty says, crossing his heart but he's smiling. “You hit one, it sounds like you're running over a fucking helmet.”

From the way Barty is grinning, Evan can't tell if he's really serious or not. “You're lying,” Evan decides, handing him the joint. 

“Why the fuck would I lie about that?” he asks and takes another hit.

“Because you’re an asshole?” 

“Oh, well, thank you very much. That's nice to hear as the guy who was generous enough to offer a ride to some random asshole like you.”

Evan lets that hang for a moment. “I don’t know, man. For fun? You seem like the type.”

Barty just keeps grinning and exhales thick, white smoke through his nose.

Evan leans in slightly, rests one elbow on the center console, absentmindedly taps a knuckle against the wood. “Okay, but for real — why do you feel bad if it was a raccoon and not, say… a dog?”

Resting his head against the seat, Evan watches Barty’s profile. He notices the way Barty's jaw ticks slightly before he replies, “A stray? Or someone's pet?”

“Stray.”

“Coyote, then.”

Evan blinks. “Excuse me?”

“They're like wolf-dog hybrids. Mean little fuckers. Roam the South.” Barty shrugs. “No collar, no problem.”

“So you wouldn't feel sorry?”

“Oh, I'd feel sorry for myself and check the bumper for damages.” Barty says matter-of-factly. “If the fur’s matted and it's foaming at the mouth? No guilt. If it's wearing a collar, at least I can sue the owner for repairs.”

“Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you?” He pauses. “Alright, what about a bunny? They are cute.” 

Barty snorts. “And fast. Hard to hit. If you do get one, it’s kinda impressive.” 

Evan grimaces. “You're a menace.” 

“Thanks, it's true though,” Barty says, flicking ash out the window. “Have you ever seen a jackrabbit up close? Nervous little freaks. A cat, on the other hand—” 

“Okay, wait, so that's where we draw the line? A cat?”

“It depends.” Barty's tone drops a notch, becoming almost thoughtful. “Did it look at you first?”

“What?” Evan stares at him. “Why does that matter?”

“It matters.”

“We're talking about a purely hypothetical scenario.”

Barty shrugs. “Look, if you kill a cat and it looked at you first — locked eyes with you? Then yeah. You’re cursed. Nine lives of bad luck. That’s a fact.” 

“Damn,” Evan says, mock-somber. “But hey — it’s a cat. It gets to reincarnate, right?”

Barty doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look at Evan either.

“Look, it's simple,” Barty says. “You run over a cat? Your soul is haunted. You run over a deer? That's just property damage.”

Evan squints at the road ahead. “What? Don't you mean... a bison or some shit like that?”

“Jesus Christ, Frenchy, have you been watching too many Westerns? Bison are almost extinct. They only live in conservation areas now. Deer, on the other hand — those assholes are everywhere around here.” Barty pauses. “Idiots, though. Jump right into the headlights like it's opening night on Broadway.”  

Evan raises an eyebrow. “So it's their own fault?”

“Obviously. Majestic, sure, but dumb as a brick.”

Evan can't stifle a loud laugh at how much Barty seems to hate deer. “So you wouldn't feel guilty?”

Barty looks at him and smirks. “Nah. It’d piss me off. Those fuckers wreck your car. It’s their own damn fault anyway. Always crossing the street at the worst possible times. As if they wanted to die. Pure of heart, no brains. Suicidal Bambis.”

Evan shoots him a sidelong glance. “Wow,” he mutters. “You’re so full of shit.” Then he grins. “So is it like… a size thing, then?”

Barty raises a brow at him. “What?”

“I mean…” Evan gestures vaguely. “The bigger it is, the worse it feels?”

“Nah. Other way around. And size doesn’t matter.”

Evan doesn't say anything, just turns toward him, smug smile plastered on his face, waiting for Barty to catch on.

It takes a moment before Barty glares at him sharply. “Don’t.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Evan says, raising his hands in mock surrender — then points at him, smirking. “You paused.”

“You are imagining things.”

Evan shakes his head, grinning. “Nope. You totally paused.”

Barty exhales sharply through his nose. “You were thinking it, though.”

“That's rich, coming from the guy who paused.” Evan rolls his eyes at him. “So where's the line, then?” he asks. “Like — to you it's morally acceptable to run over an entire petting zoo, but tragic if it is a raccoon?”

“Yes,” Barty says, entirely serious. “Raccoons cross the line.” 

Evan laughs. “But why?”

“They have hands.”

”Bullshit. So do rats.” 

“Yeah, but those are tiny — and gross. Besides, rats are assholes. Raccoons are smart. They can pick locks.” 

“No, they can’t.” 

“They could if they wanted to. They have enough criminal energy. Plus, they wash their food. That takes class.”

Evan cocks his head and gives Barty a quizzical look. “Oh. So now it's a class thing?”

“It's a vibes thing. Rats have prison energy. Raccoons are like… persistent little bastards. You kill one, that’s borderline murder.”

“Still. I’d feel sorry for them.” Evan looks out the window at the passing landscape, voice drifting. “Even the silly-looking ones. They’re all just trying to get somewhere, you know?”

“This is a highway,” Barty says, pointing at the road ahead. “Not a crosswalk.”

Evan snorts. “They don’t know that. They’re animals.”

“So are we.”

“You really are completely insane, aren’t you?” Evan says, and it’s not even a question. This new realization about Barty makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside his chest.

“And yet you're here,” Barty replies. “Besides, you're not far off yourself, don't you think?” 

Barty hands him the joint back over the center console and Evan takes it. He holds it in his hand for a moment before lighting it again and taking a deep drag. Then he asks casually, as if the thought had just occurred to him: “So why did you stop?” He exhales the smoke out the window. “Quite a few cars have already passed before you.

“Passed but didn’t stop?”

“Some of them did,” Evan lies, “but they weren’t going far enough in my direction.”

Barty doesn’t answer right away. Either he's caught Evan's lie, or he's actually looking for an answer to his question. 

“You looked interesting,” he finally says after a while.

Evan lets out a quiet, stoned laugh, his eyes half closed. “What? That's all it takes?”

“Sometimes.”

Evan smiles, but a dull feeling of disappointment spreads through his gut — deep and sharp. He doesn't quite understand why it stings like jealousy. It doesn't make any sense.

Sometimes. Does that mean he does this often? Evan is nothing special? 

“Huh, was it the boots? The sweaty shirt?” He blows on the embers before taking another hit and flicking the ashes out the window. “My fine ass in these fucked-up jeans?” 

Barty lets out a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. Maybe I was just being nice?”

“Nah, I don't think you're all that nice.” 

Barty doesn’t answer and silence settles in for a moment.

He keeps on driving without saying another word, one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the gearshift. The tires hum over the asphalt, but the sound seems strangely distant. 

High as he is, Evan loses track of time — it could’ve been minutes, perhaps it was only a few seconds. Doesn’t matter.

He yawns, stretching long and lazy, then folds himself sideways on the seat. He hooks one knee up onto the seat, sprawls the other leg out, turning so he’s facing Barty. His back presses to the door, the sun burns his neck, but the wind feels nice.

“Seriously?” he asks. “You saw me standing there, on the side of the road, in these sweaty, dirty clothes, with my thumb out, and you just thought what? ‘Yeah, he looks like the guy I should let into my shiny car’?”

“Maybe I felt like gambling,” Barty replies with a shrug, unfazed. He holds out his hand.

“With your life?” Evan asks as he passes the joint, this time he lets his fingers brush deliberately against Barty’s.

“You saying I made a mistake?”

A short pause, then Evan laughs. “No.”

“See? You just didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would slit my throat and rob me.”

“Oh, and how do I strike you, exactly?”

Once again, Barty doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he simply takes a drag. Unbothered, he exhales and lets the thick smoke billow around his face as it slowly wafts from his open mouth before escaping out through the window. 

“You strike me as...” Barty says, the smoke making his voice rough and deep, as he passes the joint back to Evan and then he finally reaches up to remove his sunglasses to look Evan dead in the eye.

Evan doesn't even hear what he says. His stomach flips, in the best possible way. 

There they are — Barty's eyes. Blue, fucking blue. Like the sky after a storm. They don't blink. They stare. Piercing in a way that doesn't feel fair. They are wide awake. Watching Evan. Daring him. 

Evan feels like Barty just ran him over. He's going to be the death of him.

Is it hot in here? Evan wonders. He can't tell if it's the pot or Barty that's suddenly getting to him. How embarrassing.

Then Barty's mouth twists into a grin like a blade — sharp and mischievous. 

That should be illegal.

Evan was right, tough. When Barty smiles like that, he does it with his whole face. It reaches his eyes. They narrow, just as Evan had hoped.

Evan forgets about the rest of the joint burning down between his fingers. He just stares at something brewing beneath those features, quiet and slow and hopefully dangerous.

He swallows hard, but his mouth is dry.  

“Cat got your tongue, Blondie?” 

Oh, they like him. Like him a lot.  

Evan wonders what would happen if he decided to climb onto Barty's lap right now, mid-drive and kiss him stupid. Rut against him like a feral fucking animal.

They would crash and die like roadkill. That's exactly what would happen. Oh, well, that's fine. Things like that happen. Tragic, sure, but sacrifices must be made.

Still, he decides against it. 

So fucking reasonable, Evan Rosier, you deserve a shiny gold star for being such a good boy. I'm proud of you.

Evan laughs once, a soft exhale. “No. I'm just debating whether you deserve to hear what I’m thinking.”

Barty's eyebrows shoot up and he bites his lower lip. “And what's that, Blondie?”  

Evan flicks the butt out the window, stretches out his leg, the other foot pressed flat on the dashboard. Barty doesn't comment. 

Evan hasn't slept much in the last few days, and when he's high on top of that, he always feels a little floaty. Detached.

“I'm thinking that, maybe, if you keep talking like that, I might consider letting you choke on it.”

He's not quite sure if he said that out loud or not. He just laughs. Laughs, shakes his head, and turns up the radio. 

And everything was made for you and me
All of it was made for you and me
'Cause it just belongs to you and me
So let's take a ride and see what's mine

He continues to watch as the landscape passes them by. Long stretches of nothingness and mirages on the horizon, distorted by the heat. He hums along to the music. It all feels surreal. 

This. Them. Barty. 

Something's off about this guy. He's too polished, too composed in the wrong moments. As if he's able to crash this car at ninety miles per hour without so much as batting an eyelid. 

But also, he's calm and collected in all the right moments. Usually, when Evan says shit like that, people react one of two ways. They're either horrified or fascinated. Either way, Evan gets what he wants. Barty, however, lets it pass. As if nothing happened. Evan doesn't know how to react to this... not yet. 

He'll think of something. He always does.

Evan closes his eyes for a moment, the song on the radio changes and his thoughts involuntarily drift to the girl who smiled at him when he walked into that diner in Louisiana in the middle of the night, last night. 

It was the kind of smile that wavered a little, somewhere between curiosity and caution.

She worked there as a waitress. Her light gray uniform hugged her shoulders awkwardly tight, but was too loose around the waist. That was probably why she had tied her apron so tightly. Her hair was thick and curly, piled into a messy bun on top of her head, with wild strands falling out of a mustard-colored scarf she had tied around the nape of her neck. 

Her name tag read ‘Mary-Lou’.

She brought him coffee. It was hot and strong and just what he needed. She called him ‘baby’ and asked if he was traveling alone. 

“Yes,” he replied, smiling at her, winking, and then telling her she looked like his sister.

That was a lie, of course. She didn’t look anything like Pandora. Sure, they both had curls, but Mary’s were darker and thicker. Pandora’s hair was soft, long and flowing in loose waves. And lighter, much, much lighter, so light that it was almost white when the sun hit it just right.

Still, Evan had lied with a smile on his face, because that's what people liked to hear. A lonesome man is creepy. A man who is on the way to visit his sister is endearing. Mary had smiled back as if his story meant something to her.

He ate, even though American diner food is truly inedible, and drank his coffee. She refilled his cup once more before her shift ended in the early hours of the morning.

They stood outside in the twilight, behind the diner, leaning against the wall next to the staff entrance, smoking a cigarette together. 

She talked. A lot. 

Asked where he was from (‘Ohh, France, how romantic,’ she gushed) and where he was going. “California,” he replied, and she sighed and explained that she had always dreamed of California. Told him she wanted to be an actress. Asked if he thought she could be a star.

“Yes,” Evan replied, and he couldn't have cared less.

Then she told him how much she hated the swamp. Said she wanted out. That she was soooo sick and tired of always smelling like fryer grease and gross truckers who constantly tried to grab her ass.

“You're nice,” she had said, twirling a curl around her finger, while looking shyly at the floor. She had this voice that Evan didn't like, too loud and kind of annoying. As if everything was incredibly exciting or dramatic.

“Why don't you come with me?” he had asked, leaning down to her, watching as her eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning.

She packed a bag, left a note and went with him. Just like that. They took her mother's car. 

He remembers exactly how sweetly her lips trembled when she finally understood what was happening. And that little surprised gasp. As if it had simply never occurred to her that someone like Evan could be capable of doing such a thing. 

In retrospect she was, honestly, kind of stupid.

Or maybe she was just too trusting.

Stupid, stupid girl. 

But Evan can't stand stupid. Stupid doesn't last long.

Pandora hadn't been stupid. Pandora had been sharp and fierce. 

Just like a ghost you've been a-hauntin' my dreams
But now I know
You're not what you seem
Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little boy like you

That's exactly why Evan decides he likes Barty. Barty seems smart enough. And he's…

Evan’s head snaps around.

Barty isn’t looking at him anymore. His gaze is locked on the road ahead. 

Evan frowns and studies his side profile. Barty’s jaw is clenched, his eyebrows are drawn together and his knuckles are pale on the wheel. He wonders what Barty would look like when he snaps. Evan wants to push his buttons, just to see what happens.

What are you hiding under all that poise? I wanna see it. I wanna see you. Make you come undone.

Most of all, he wants him to be looking.  

Take your eyes off the road. Look at me. Look. 

Evan tilts his head ever so slightly to watch Barty drive and how his fingers flex around the steering wheel. He leans his head back, blinks slowly, and grins as his eyes flutter shut. He imagines how Barty’s fingers would feel wrapped around his cock. 

No.

He doesn’t want to fuck him—

Okay, yes he does. God, he needs to fuck his brains out so fucking badly. 

But not just yet…

Evan laughs, just to hear the sound of it. It's deep and rumbles in his chest. 

This is the best high he’s had in days.

Chapter Text

This is the worst high Barty has ever had in his entire life.

Barty hasn’t touched a joint in weeks. Fucking weeks. Like some kind of saint. (Yeah, let that sink in.)

So when Evan first pulled out the pot, Barty was pretty sure he must be some kind of archangel. Sent to him straight from heaven. Some kind of divine intervention, wrapped up in dirty jeans, with a face like sin itself and drugs on him.

Fuck.

Barty has no idea what he did to deserve this.

The thing is, grass usually calms him down, makes him slow and sluggish and a little horny too, if he’s being honest.

Right now he’s trying very hard to push that part down. Which just makes him feel... kinda tense. Wired. Suddenly everything feels too much and not enough at the same time. Like everything’s a little warped. Almost paranoid.

Wait. Is he paranoid?

For a second, it feels like he’s watching himself from the outside. Just some guy in a car with a random hitchhiker — a total stranger. Evan could be anyone. Maybe he’s not even real. 

But then Evan laughs beside him— loud and sudden and it slams Barty back into the reality of his own body. 

He jerks his head around, so quickly, something snaps painfully. 

Wincing, he observes Evan. His head is tipped back, eyes closed, hand dragging through those sun-bleached strands of hair and it takes everything in Barty not to stare. He wants to reach over and touch him. Clutch those golden curls in his fist and tug. Just to see if Evan’s real and to see what he would do.

Has Evan noticed something?

Fuck.

Barty’s eyes snap back to the road.

God, he hopes not. He didn’t respond to Barty calling him Blondie at all. First that made him feel rather smug, the fact that he’s able to fluster Evan like that. That's cute. Now, he’s anxiously contemplating if he overstepped and crossed a line…

Barty desperately tries to keep a straight face, his eyes fixed on the road and his hands steady on the steering wheel. As if nothing's going on.

Because nothing is going on.

Except it totally is. The fact that it's not a relaxed high like usual, not the gentle, floating kind he knows and loves, makes him anxious. Makes him want to move. Or bite. Or maybe fuck.

Fuck, what was in that pot?

His groin feels uncomfortably tight, so in order not to focus on that, he intently stares at his hands. They are clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles turn white, making them look strange, wrong, too bony, like a skeleton’s.

His gaze wanders to the fuel gauge and he notices that the tank is almost empty. Licking his lips, he realizes his mouth is bone dry, too.

His gaze immediately shoots upward where it catches on a road sign in the far distance. At first, it's blurry, but then it slowly comes into focus as they get closer. It takes forever, like it's moving toward them in slow motion, making Barty nervous.

After what feels like an eternity, he can finally make out the faded lettering: GAS. FOOD. COLD DRINKS.

Perfect!

“WE NEED GAS,” he announces suddenly and way louder than intended. 

Evan snorts in surprise.

“We’ll take the next exit.” 

“Okay, cool. I’m dying of thirst anyway,” Evan says smirking.

*

They stop at a rundown, vacant rest stop and gas station combo with two half-rusted gas pumps, in front of it.

Barty gets out and stretches, his back cracking; hardly surprising, considering he's been sitting in the Charger for about five hours without a break. He almost regrets not taking his father's Fleetwood Brougham. That would have been a lot more comfortable, and he wouldn't have felt every damn pothole west of Austin in his ass.

He walks around the car, unscrews the gas cap, grabs the nozzle, starts pumping gas into the tank and lets his gaze wander. The afternoon heat weighs heavily on the asphalt, distorting the air like in a fever dream. 

The building looks ramshackle, to say the least. Its old wooden boards are warped and faded by the sun’s harsh heat and the desert winds. A hand-painted sign hangs crooked above the door, the words ‘COLD BEER’ barely readable under layers of peeling paint. Several papers, yellowed with age, are taped to the door. They flutter lazily in the wind, looking as if they were put there years ago and no one has bothered to take them down. The awning sags, but a neon ‘OPEN’ sign flickers dimly behind a dusty window. There is only one other car in the otherwise empty parking lot, looking just as rundown as the rest of the place.

He watches as Evan climbs out too, arms stretched above his head, slow and deliberate, his vertebrae pop one by one. His shirt rides up, flashing a lean, wiry stomach. 

“Over there’s a payphone,” Barty says and is suddenly very aware of how dry his mouth is again, as he swallows nothing. 

“Huh?” Evan tilts his head. 

“A paaay-phone?” Barty repeats slowly. “Thought you might wanna call your sister. Y’know, tell her where you’re at. So she doesn't think you've been mugged or something.”

“Oh. Nah, it's fine." 

"I've got change, if you need any."

“No, no, it's not that. I don't even know her number,” Evan shrugs.

“You don't know her number? But she does know you're going to visit, right?”

“‘Course she does. She's looking forward to seeing me.” Evan flashes him a bright smile, turns around, and then saunters over to the entrance. 

Barty arches an eyebrow but leaves it at that. “All right. If you say so,” he mutters.

It takes a while until the tank is full, Barty hangs up the nozzle, screws the cap back on, slams the flap shut, and follows Evan inside the gas station.

Music crackles from a scratchy radio, barely audible above the loud hum of the refrigerators and the rattling of the fan in the corner, which does nothing but push hot air from one end of the room to the other.

The kid behind the counter looks like he's halfway between a coma and quitting. Late teens, greasy face, even greasier hair under a trucker cap that doesn't quite fit on his fat head. Something about him makes Barty's skin crawl.

He spots Evan by the coolers, bent over, reaching for a six-pack of beer. His shirt rides up in the back, flashing a strip of his lower back. (Seriously, can’t that man get clothes that actually fit that ridiculously hot body!?)

Barty just comes to terms with the thought — hell, the epiphany — that Evan might actually be the death of him, right as he catches the clerk staring too. He draws in a deep breath through his nose, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. Can’t help it.

Evan strolls over to the cash register, sets down the beer, and then leans over the ice cream freezer. And the damn clerk still has the audacity to shamelessly fucking stare. He's downright gawking, his beady, little piggy eyes are glued to Evan's ass.

As Barty watches him stare, something sharp tugs low in his stomach. There it is — that unsettling mix of fascination and irritation.

Greed is a nasty little habit that stuck with him since childhood. After all, he grew up an only child. Nothing he can do about it. Barty sure as hell never learned to share his toys. Especially not when they are still brand new and pretty.

He hates how hooked he is — that wasn't the fucking plan, damn it. His hand brushes the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. It lingers there for a second, before he decides to be sensible.

Rather than making a huge scene, he turns and heads down the narrow aisle, past the humming beverage coolers and into the guest restroom. It smells of bleach and piss. Only one of the ceiling lights automatically flickers to life with a soft electrical buzz.

He locks the door behind him, rolls his shoulders, unzips his jeans and tries to pee. It takes a moment because he has a massive hard-on. 

“Jesus fucking Christ. What a day.” He tilts his head back toward the ceiling with a long sigh, dragging a hand down his face. Then he stops, as if the thought has only just struck him, and fumbles into his back pocket until a small plastic baggie slips into his palm.

He fishes it out, opens it and shakes the powder onto the metal paper-towel dispenser. His hand trembles slightly as he drags a finger through it, carving two fat white lines.

Leaning down, he snorts them both in quick succession, the burn lights him up instantly.

A sharp, searing pain. Hurts like a fuckin’ bitch. But it's bright, almost holy. And God, he loves it. He feels it creeping up behind his eyes, leans his head back and moans softly, relishing how the bitter drip slides down his throat like battery acid.

His mouth opens, he inhales deeply, and it feels like he is finally able to breathe again properly.

When the coke hits, it snaps him back into focus. Like someone flipped a switch and the world clicked back into place. The haze vanishes, everything’s clear now, loud and sharp and Barty’s back, baby. 

He does what he originally came in here to do, then slowly and thoroughly washes his hands with ice cold water. He catches himself in the dirty bathroom mirror, watches as his own reflection stares back at him. 

The guy in the mirror looks wrecked. He licks his teeth, his lips are too red, his pupils too wide. His skin is glistening, his hair is slightly out of place and he clenches his jaw too tightly.

Barty rolls his neck, runs his wet fingers through his hair, and wipes his nose with his thumb and index finger once and smiles at himself. It’s wide and mean, splits his face in half. He looks like a young god. Or demon. Depends.

Smug motherfucker. He looks fucking beautiful.

As he turns to leave, he notices the crackling radio from outside. The volume is low, but the words are clear enough to get under his skin.

"...two bodies were discovered early Monday morning in their Austin estate.”

Barty freezes. Suddenly, he is hyper-focused on the news report.

“The Texas Attorney General and former district judge Bartemius Crouch Sr. and his wife were pronounced dead at the scene. According to authorities, the incident appears to be the result of a violent breaking and entering.”

For a second, the floor doesn’t feel real under his boots. 

“The couple's only son, reportedly currently residing in Europe, has—”

He can’t breathe. 

The door slams open so hard that it hits the wall with a loud crack and a bit of plaster crumbles off and trickles onto the floor. 

He zeroes in on Evan, who’s still by the freezers, bent over, reaching for something inside, while happily chatting to the kid behind the counter. His voice is smooth, soft-edged and Barty is unable to think straight, so the first thing that comes to mind is whether this fucking scumbag is flirting with Evan. And Evan is clearly oblivious to the fact. He just smiles nicely and keeps chatting. Too fucking naïve. Barty's chest tightens like a vice.

All of a sudden Barty is standing right by his side. “Go wait by the car,” he snarls, his voice low and clipped.

Evan straightens and raises his eyebrows, all while pushing a cherry popsicle back and forth between his lips. “What's up? Everything okay?” 

Barty tears his gaze away from him and it falls on the clerk behind Evan's shoulder, who clearly isn't having it, looking uncomfortable, avoiding Barty's eyes. 

Figures, caught red-handed, that son of a bitch.

“I’ll pay for everything. Go.”

Evan hesitates, looks at him with wide eyes and absentmindedly runs the popsicle over his lower lip and paints it red. 

Red. 

Red.

“I said, I’ll pay. Just— go!”

There must be something in Barty's tone that makes Evan smirk, grab the beer and stroll lazily toward the exit, without pushing any further. 

And this fucking clerk still has the nerve to watch him leave. He stares after him for far too long for Barty's liking, and looks irritated. Who can blame him? After all, Barty just ruined his tour. 

Unfortunately for him, Barty is now really on the verge of losing his temper. “What are you staring at, huh?” he snaps, running an agitated hand through his hair. His joints pop as he rolls his shoulders again.

The kid doesn't respond, just turns toward the register and mumbles something under his breath. Real quiet, but not quiet enough — Barty knows it before even hearing it.

Again, he doesn't even remember moving.

One moment he is standing in front of the counter, the next he already lunged over it, his fist tangled in sweaty polyester, dragging the kid against the cigarette rack behind him.

“What did you just say, you little rat?”

The sudden panic is written all over the clerk's face, his body goes limp in Barty's grip. “N-nothing! I didn't mean—” he stammers, which only pisses Barty off even more.

“I didn't ask if you meant it.” Barty presses the barrel of his gun against the clerk's jaw. His eyes bulge ridiculously, like they're about to pop out of his thick head any second now and a violent tremor runs through his entire body.

Huh, strange. Barty also doesn’t remember pulling his gun.

“I asked what you said.”

“Nothing— please don’t—”

“No, I don't think that's what you said. Or are you implying that I have bad hearing?”

He slams the kid against the shelf behind him again, so hard, it rattles and a few packs of cigarettes fall off and land on the floor.

“N-N-No, sir,” his entire body is shaking.

“Then repeat what you fucking said,” he grits out between his teeth.

“I’m sorry—”

The butt of Barty's gun cracks across his jaw with a nasty sound. The kid yelps and blood pours from his mouth. Gross. He stumbles backward, but his back just hits the shelf again and another row of cigarette packs topples over and falls to the floor.

“One last chance,” Barty says, calm and collected. “What the fuck did you just call him?”

“...faggot,” the clerk whimpers.

“Louder. I can’t fucking hear you.” Barty croons.

“Faggot, sir. I said he looks like a faggot.”

A bright smile blooms across Barty's face, soft and sweet as honeysuckle, as he pats him on his chubby, pimpled cheek with the barrel.

“See, was that so hard?” he asks, lowering his gun. The kid doesn’t answer. Avoiding Barty’s gaze, he just shakes his head and exhales deeply, as if a weight has been lifted from his chest.

“Now,” Barty ponders, cocking his head to one side, “two packs of Marlboro Reds,” and then he even says “please,” because after all, he’s not some damn hillbilly without manners.

The clerk hurries to obey and snatches the cigarettes from the shelf with trembling hands. He drops a pack in the process, but is quick to bend down and pick it up. When he hands them over, Barty says “Thanks,” then hops back onto the counter, swings his legs over the cash register, and slides down on the other side before strolling toward the door.  

“Sir?” the kid stammers. “Uh— you haven’t paid yet.”

“Oh! Silly me.” Barty stops, then slowly turns around. “Say, do you really think he’d suck my dick?” he asks, tipping his head to the side again, lazily gesturing toward the parking lot with his gun, where Evan is leaning against his car, waiting.

“Uh… I… I don’t know, sir…”

The shot pierces the clerk’s cheekbone, instantaneously blowing off half his face. His body slumps to the floor, twitches once, before dying a miserable death. 

Barty chuckles and lowers his weapon, shaking his head. Would you believe that? First he gets his hopes up about Evan, and now this.

What a jerk.

Barty looks around. All kinds of gory shit — blood, bone, and brain matter exploded and splattered onto the cigarette rack behind the counter. 

Huh, what a mess.

He tucks the gun into the waistband of his jeans, pulls his shirt over it, and walks out.

Outside, the sun already hangs low over the horizon, casting long shadows. Evan is leaning against the hood of the car, licking the popsicle. He’s put on a dumb cowboy hat that sits crooked on his head. 

Where the fuck did he get a fucking cowboy hat? He looks ridiculous. (He looks damn fine, motherfucker.)

“What took you so long?” he asks, grinning up at Barty as he approaches.

And Barty stops dead in his tracks, because that fucking cherry popsicle is already half-melted, dripping down Evan’s hand, his wrist, trailing sticky red lines all the way down his forearm. 

He attempts to catch the dripping mess with his mouth and sloppily licks across his hand, but fails. It slides down his chin in broad, red trails, catches on his collarbone before it slips further down toward his chest. 

It looks an awful lot like blood and he doesn’t wipe it off. Instead, he lifts his hand and drags his tongue across his knuckles, looking like the embodiment of a bloody temptation.

“Had to eat yours too,” he pouts. “Or it would’ve melted…” Still holding Barty’s gaze, Evan raises his arm and licks a thin trail that runs from his forearm, up to his wrist. Tongue pressed flat against his own skin. 

Barty blinks.

“Yeah… I see… the plan obviously worked out great…” he says taking great care about sounding annoyed. 

“What were you doing in there for so long?” 

It’s smeared everywhere now. Red and wet and wrong. 

And right. 

Oh so fucking right. 

Barty can feel himself getting hard again. Fucking hell.

“You’re not getting back into my car all sticky like that.”

“Alright, alright,” Evan says. “Hang on a sec, I’m just gonna hit the bathroom real quick and clean myself up.” He pushes off from the hood and turns toward the gas station building.

The bathroom…

In the gas station…

Oh no. The clerk. The blood. That’ll scare him for sure—

“No— wait!” Barty catches Evan’s wrist mid-step. Not rough, but sudden enough that Evan stumbles and staggers back half a step, right into Barty’s chest.

Up close like this, standing tall, Barty realizes Evan is actually taller. Half a head at least, maybe more. Especially with that stupid fucking cowboy hat sitting lopsided over his curls, the height difference feels even bigger.

“What the…?” Evan blinks, then glances down to where Barty is still holding him, not letting go, but also, Evan is not pulling away.

Barty’s mind blanks. He doesn't know what to say. He can hardly explain the whole situation. He's still clutching Evan's wrist tightly and it's starting to get uncomfortable. So he does the first thing that comes to mind to avoid getting himself into an even more awkward situation. 

He lifts Evan’s sticky hand and brings it to his mouth. 

He looks up — catches the way Evan’s pupils blow wide under the brim of the hat, two black holes swallowing all the green like a vortex. He can feel Evan’s pulse pounding under his fingers, hard and fast.

He savors the moment for a second longer and then slowly drags his tongue across Evan's palm, from the heel up along the side to his little finger, collecting all the sweet, artificial cherry flavor layered over salt, sweat and Evan’s spit. His own eyes go dark and his mouth lingers for just a second too long. 

“Greedy fucker,” he growls. “That’s what you get for stealing my popsicle.”

Evan jerks his wrist free from Barty’s grip, but instead of pulling away, he presses his fore and middle finger against Barty's lips. “Open up,” he says, voice rough, almost strangled. “You missed a spot.” 

And Barty obeys, parts his lips to open his mouth, and swallows Evan's fingers down. Takes them in deep, without hesitation, tongue curling, throat working, gaze locked on Evan’s.

“Fuck…” Evan breathes, dazed, before yanking his hand back as quickly as he shoved it in, like the touch burned him.

Barty wants to kiss him, fuck him, tear him apart, stitch him back together, make him his and his alone. He wants to hear Evan beg, wants to see him bleed, wants to know exactly where his breaking point is — and then push past it. 

Saliva slips down his chin, he wipes it away with the back of his hand. 

God, the worst part is he actually wants to keep Evan around, drag this out, hold him close, to see just how far it can go. So no, no kissing, no fucking, and worst of all no killing — not yet. A little restraint is in order.

“Get in,” he mutters. “We’re going.”

He tosses the cigarettes onto the passenger seat and slides behind the steering wheel. He doesn't wait to see if Evan follows — he doesn't have to, the passenger door slams shut just as Barty turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, and they roll out of the parking lot in a cloud of dust, the gravel crunching under the tires.

That was fucking close, but it worked — Evan didn't suspect anything. 

Barty lights a cigarette and exhales a thin trail of smoke. Already feeling a little more relaxed, he points between Evan’s legs, where the six-pack of beer is lying. “Give me one of those.”

Without saying a word, Evan hands him a bottle. Their fingers touching again for just a second too long. Barty lets it slide and opens the bottle on the edge of the steering wheel to take a swig. The beer is cold and bitter and goes down like water. He hadn't even noticed how thirsty he still was. He briefly mourns the fading taste of Evan's skin in his mouth before taking another mouthful. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Evan reach behind him to grab the dirty tank top — the one he had taken off earlier. He wipes it over his bare chest and arm, removing the remaining cherry mess still clinging to his skin.

Barty swallows hard. With his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead, he takes another deep drag on his cigarette and another sip of beer. 

After he finishes cleaning himself up, Evan opens a beer for himself too, sinks deeper into his seat and props his feet up on the dashboard again. He hums quietly to himself, but the tune does not sound familiar to Barty. Nevertheless, he begins to relax a little further. The feeling, that rush, that pure violence triggers in him — all of that just got a little easier to manage now.

But then Evan casually reaches for the radio’s volume knob and turns it up. At first, only static, then a low, jittery melody bleeds through the speakers — an eerie bassline and chaotic chords strumming faintly underneath.

Grinning, Evan taps his boot against the dashboard in time with the stuttering beat, his fingers drumming along as the song unravels in murmured echoes and strange bursts of sound. 

And all I see is little dots
Some are smeared and some are spots

Barty leans forward and snaps it off again. “No radio.”

“Hey!” Evan protests, switching it right back on. “I like this one.”

It’ll be over in a minute or two
I’m charged up, don’t put me down

“You’ll survive,” Barty mutters through clenched teeth, reaching across to turn the volume down. The truth is he likes the song too — its twitchy unease matches something in him — and a little noise wouldn’t be bad. “The radio stays off,” he says flatly, leaving no room for argument.

Evan turns to look at him, slightly tilting his head and narrowing his eyes beneath the brim of the stupid cowboy hat. His lips are stained faintly pink from the popsicle, and his smile has a sharp edge to it. 

“Why?” 

Yeah, why? 

Obviously, he can’t say what’s really on his mind. He doesn’t say: ‘I can’t risk you hearing what they’re saying about them. What they’ll say about me. That’ll ruin everything.’

Barty has to come up with something — quick. And it has to be a good reason, because he doesn't want Evan to think he's picking a fight for no reason. 

He inhales smoke, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Because I wanna talk to you.” 

Nice one, Crouch. Well played.

“Oh… Okay.” Evan says, low and amused and sinks deeper into his seat. “What do you want to talk about?”

Barty exhales slowly, eyes still on the road.

Shit. How about we talk about how badly I want to fuck you? Ruin you? Eat you alive? Would you like that? I bet you would. I think you're a bit of a freak.

He chews on his bottom lip, for a second, Barty’s tempted, considers ending it right then and there, so they can get down and dirty, dragging Evan under and finding out how far he bends. 

But no, the thing is, he’s still figuring him out.  There’s something reckless about him, cocky, confident, no doubt, something worth watching. Barty’s curiosity wins. So he says the first civil thing that comes to mind: “Where’d you get that hat?”

“Oh… This?” Evan taps the cream-colored leather like he forgot it was even there, then he smiles. “Some girl from Mississippi gave it to me couple days ago.”

Barty feels it like a punch to the gut. Not because of the girl, or the stupid fucking cowboy hat she gave him. (Though the fact he kept it, still wears it, doesn’t help.) No, that's not it, — not really. It’s the way Evan says it, all soft and slow, as if she actually matters to him.

“She pick you up?”

“She sure did. Rode in her car all the way to Louisiana.”

Barty’s grip on the wheel tightens until his knuckles go white. Something wells up inside him — it flares, sharp and electric, like a live wire sparking in his gut.

“Was she pretty?” he asks, because that matters, he needs to know. He waits for an answer, but the silence drags on and Evan says nothing.

“Hey.” his voice cuts harsher now. “You listening? I asked if the bitch was pretty.”

This time Evan seems to consider it for a moment and then he just asks, “What’s pretty?”

“You tell me.” Barty snaps. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t help it.

Evan reaches for the brim and nods his head forward slightly and shrugs. “I guess… she was… kinda pretty.”

“How pretty is kinda pretty?”

The corners of Evan’s mouth twist into a grin, there's something mean about it. "Red hair. Wide smile. Huge tits. Sharon-Tate-kind-of-pretty."

Ouch! That's an awful lot of pretty. Even by Barty's standards.

“You into redheads?”

“I’m not picky. But she was smart — and funny…”

That’s worse. Actually worse.

There it is again. That fucked-up gnawing in his chest. It’s been simmering ever since Evan climbed into the car and smiled at him like that. Like he’s doing right now, it makes it spike again — hot, unbearable.

“She had beautiful eyes. Green, like mine,” Evan adds, leaning over the console, to reach for Barty’s lighter.

Evan does have really beautiful green eyes. Even more so now that they are red and heavy-lidded from his high. They’d be devastating if they ever brimmed with tears — swollen red, glassy, begging…

Fucking hell, Crouch, get it together. What are you, a fucking schoolgirl fawning over the quarterback?

Well… Evan could be a quarterback… he’s got the built…

“Told me I looked too pretty to be hitchhikin’.”

True again. Christ, fucking fuck, he’s right, the girl’s smart. 

Barty hates it. But he knows what it is now. The feeling, he can tell, because this is the moment, right before it overtakes him. When curiosity turns to obsession. When someone stops being just a pretty face on the side of the road and becomes something real. Something he needs to keep for himself, forever.

So, he simply has to know: “You fuck her?”

Chapter Text

France, July 1964

“Pas plus loin que la fontaine!”

Grand-mère always warned them to stay close to the house, but Pandora wanted to play cache-cache in the vineyard, and when she wanted something, Evan usually wanted it too.

She pressed her small palm against his cheek laughed, “Tu es le chercheur!” and ran.

Evan sighed, leaned his head against a fence post, closed his eyes, and began to count. 

“Un… deux… trois… Je cherche mes copains…” 

The post smelled of old wood and resin. It was hot that day, the sun was beating down on the dry ground, warm and cracked beneath his bare feet. 

At ten, he cheated — just a little bit — cracked one eye open, but all he saw was a wall of green and glaring sunlight.

That time of year, the vines all looked the same — thick, twisted arms of gnarled wood, heavy with dense green leaves. The grapes were still hard, already changing color, but still covered with bluish dust. 

“…vingt! Moi, j’arrive!” he called, spinning around with a grin, because he knew exactly where his sister liked to hide.

Rosier estate was old, perched on a hill in the French countryside, surrounded by vineyards, and Evan knew all the best hiding places like the back of his hand. 

Naturally, that’s where he went and checked first: in the barrel tucked away in the shade of the old wine press; behind the low garden wall where they would go to catch lizards; by the pond under the branches of the weeping willow that Pandora claimed was a castle.

Only… she wasn’t there.

He pushed into the rows of vines, green walls rising taller than his head, the leaves whispering against his bare arms, the branches scratching his skin when he slipped by too close. Always searching for the shimmer of her blonde hair between the foliage, but he saw nothing.

Nothing. 

“Pan? Où t’es?” he called, closed his eyes and tried to listen carefully. No answer — all he could hear was the constant high buzz of cicadas around him. They were so loud that summer, it felt like the air itself was vibrating. 

He told himself the tingling under his skin was excitement, because she was simply better at hiding this time.

He kept running and searching until his sides hurt and fear began to creep in. It was stupid, he knew that. Pandora was clever, and much braver than he was; she was the one who always found the good hiding spots first.

And yet he couldn’t shake the thought — what if something had happened to her? What if she’d wandered down to the river, where the reeds grew thick and the water looked shallow, but the current was strong — and slipped?

Although she was a few hours older than him, it had been made very clear to him that he was the one responsible. It was expected of him, his father had said as much. A boy was supposed to look after his sister, to make sure nothing ever happened to her. If anything ever did, he’d live to regret it.

She was precious, and he... he had to comply.

His chest tightened, heart pounding faster as he ran down the hill toward the river.

“Pan!” he called again, sharper this time.

He took a path he’d never taken before and found himself in a part of the vineyard he didn’t know. Each row looked like a copy of the next. Old vines, so tall that the sun no longer touched the ground between them. Everything was shrouded in shadow, and the soil beneath his feet felt cold, and Evan suddenly felt very small.

His eyes prickled, his throat burned and tightened, and, gasping for air, he cried out, “Pan, s’il te plaît—”

But then he heard it.

At first he thought it was only the cicadas or the wind in the leaves, but the humming strung itself into a melody.

“Votre âme est un paysage choisi.” A soft, thin thread of sound he knew by heart. Grand-mére had insisted they learn to play it as a duet on the piano.

“Que vont charmant masques.…” Her voice wasn’t loud, but the wind carried her to him like sunlight breaking through clouds: bright, warm, and alive. He stood very still, closed his eyes, and turned his head to listen.

“…dansant et quasi tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.” The melody wavered, sometimes quieter, sometimes louder. It dipped and rose with the wind, not enough to hear every word, but still enough for him to follow.

He found her crouched in a hollow at the base of a high stone wall, at the far end of the vineyard, almost all the way down by the river. Her small frame was half-hidden behind a tall oleander. She had her knees tucked to her chest, a wreath of tiny purple flowers sitting crooked in her blonde curls, humming to herself as she picked at a grape leaf, twisted it into a ring.

“Pan? Je t'ai trouvé...” Evan said quietly as he approached, but she didn’t leap up to meet him, didn’t throw herself into his arms giggling. No — instead, she only said, “Tu es lent.” You’re slow, without looking up.

“That's not fair!” he blurted out, his voice too harsh, because it hurt that she was being like that, and because it was true — it wasn’t fair of her to hide that far from the house. “You can't do that! You can't just hide like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, looked up slowly, innocently tipping her head to one side, wild curls spilling across her shoulders. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds, and her smile so wide Evan could see the small gap behind her canine where a baby tooth had fallen out just a couple of days ago.

“Like… like gone,” he spat, hot tears brimming. “Espèce d’idiot!” He angrily scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, furious at himself for crying and at her for scaring him like that.

“I was worried,” he muttered, his throat aching, but he didn’t care. She wasn’t supposed to go this far without him. “Tu ne dois pas me laisser seul, Pan.”

“Sorry...” Her smile softened, but she kept worrying the leaf between her fingers and murmured, “For a moment I thought… you’d forgotten to look for me…”

Never. 

“Jamais!” he said fiercely, the word seared in him like an oath. He shook his head so violently, his curls whipped across his wet cheeks where they got stuck.

Her features gentled, she shifted and patted the grass beside her. “Viens.”

He sank down by her side, leaning his back against the rough stone wall, their bare arms touching. Her skin was cold against his and she smelled like soap and thyme. 

It was nice and her presence grounded him instantly, as if all nervous energy suddenly drained right out.

“Écoute,” she whispered.

“I’m listening,” he said, nodding, pretending he knew what she meant.

“Non, écoute bien.” She laughed and nudged him with her elbow and closed her eyes. He copied her and tried to listen through the noise. Beyond buzzing cicadas and rustling leaves, he heard a faint clatter from the village, a door slamming, a dog barking, a stern voice scolding — but beneath it all was a soft murmur like a whisper. 

The river, Garonne, was sluggish in summer, the water moved slow but steady, it sounded like silk being drawn across stones.

He opened his eyes and smiled, she was looking at him smiling too, because she knew he understood.

“Tonight we’ll sneak out,” Pandora whispered conspiratorially. “When it’s dark, we’ll go down to the river, hide by the jetty and watch the vairons, when the bats come out and—”

“Pandora, no. That’s dangerous.”

“Oh, come on, no one will even know we’re gone.”

“No!” he said automatically. “Papa will know, he’ll find us, and he’ll punish me for it,”

“Evvy, no one can find us,” she corrected. “Not if we don’t want to be found.”

Evan’s stomach buzzed like a handful of cicadas was trapped inside.

He looked at her face — his mirror image. Same hair, same eyes, same freckles scattered like constellations across the same nose. Grand-mère sometimes called them l’amphisbène, the two-headed serpent. Evan thought that sounded about right.

Pandora picked up a ladybug that had landed on her knee and let it crawl across her fingers. “Tu vois?” she said, holding it up to his face. “Elle va où elle veut.” She goes wherever she wants. “Comme nous.” Like us.

“Comme nous,” Evan echoed, but thought Like you, because he never felt as free and brave as she did, only when she was with him he felt it too.

She rested her head against his. “Tu as eu peur?” she asked, not teasing but curious, concerned she’d actually scared him.

A gust of wind blew through the vines, shaking them like a sigh, and Evan shuddered.

“Non,” he lied. 

She looked at him knowingly, then laced her fingers through his and gave them one firm squeeze.

“Maybe,” he muttered. “Whenever you’re not with me… je n’aime pas ça.”

It’s wrong.

“J’avais peur aussi,” she admitted quietly, as if making a confession, but she sounded hurt. “Que tu ne me trouves pas…”

The thought that she’d been afraid he wouldn’t come looking for her churned in his stomach and made him clasp her hand tighter. “Je te chercherai toujours. Quoi qu’il arrive, je te retrouverai toujours.” I will always look for you. No matter what happens, I will always find you.

“Je n’irai nulle part,” she whispered. I’m not going anywhere. Her voice was gentle; she was never angry with him for long, and neither was he with her. “Je ne te laisserai jamais,” she said very quietly. I will never leave you. “Promis.”

“Promis,” he repeated, holding out his pinky. “Promis, juré, craché.”

Grinning, she hooked hers around his, solemn as a queen, then spat on the ground like a peasant. He snorted, the fear finally lifted.

He leaned his head against her shoulder, and she slid the braided leaf ring onto his thumb; the sap stained the skin green. Then she solemnly lowered her voice and pointed at him with a twig as if it was a sword and announced: “Evan Rosier, Chevalier des Vignes.”

He puffed out his chest, pretending to be a brave knight, then bowed low. “Et Pandora, la chanteuse merveilleuse.”

She laughed — that soft, bright sound that made the sun seem brighter.

“Continue?” he asked.

“What?”

“Chanter?”

And she did. But this time she sang a cheerful song he knew from the village fair, clapping her hands so he would join in. He laughed and clapped along, feeling silly and giddy. It was the happiest he remembered being as a child.

Back then, Evan didn’t know how far a promise could bend and stretch — how thin and twisted it would become without breaking.

*

"Hey? You listening? I asked if the bitch was pretty."

She was, indeed, very pretty, but that doesn’t really matter right now, does it? Because Evan thinks Barty is the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. (Change his mind, I dare you.)

He looked utterly wrecked when he stormed out of the gas station restroom. Evan has no idea what he was doing in there, but his eyes were huge — blown wide, alert, wild and hungry. His skin was glistening with a sheen of sweat, making him look like he was glowing, his jaw was clenched so tightly that Evan could see the muscles twitch beneath his cheekbone. His black shirt clung to his skin in places where it didn't before, the collar loose and askew. His hair was slightly damp and pushed back, as if he had run his wet fingers through it, a few strands falling messily across his forehead in that casual, defiant way, which, Evan decided, suits him much better. 

So, naturally, when Barty snapped at him to ‘Go wait by the car’, all bitchy and bossy. Evan found himself somewhere between startled and docile. Like fuck, it wasn’t what he said, but the way he said it and the way he looked. It sparked something in Evan's chest.

When he turned to leave, he could feel the clerk watching him. 

Might as well let Barty see it too.

Evan had clocked the clerk’s discomfort the second he leaned against the counter and let his voice drop just above a whisper. The kid was maybe nineteen, twenty? Awkward, acne across his jaw and a twitchy little eye that wouldn’t stop glancing down every time Evan licked his lips. 

Evan wasn’t actually interested, but watching the kid squirm had been the most fun he’d had all afternoon. 

Honestly, can’t a guy have a little fun? 

He’d been trying so fucking hard to get under Barty’s skin and nothing. 

Nothing!

Honestly, the guy’s a real challenge. 

Evan loves it, though, but that’s beside the point, see, it does something to his ego, the fact that Barty plays hard to get, so he had to examine whether the problem was him or Barty.

All it took was leaning forward just a bit too far, arching his back, biting his lip. And that clerk was squirming like a schoolgirl — real cute.

Turns out Evan’s still got it.

Evan had just asked the clerk if his favorite popsicle flavor was cherry or grape (because who the fuck likes orange?), when the door behind them slammed open hard enough to rattle the bottles in the fridges.

And then there was Barty, coming out of the restroom, all disheveled and frantic. He seriously looked that good, drop-dead gorgeous, a fucking incubus, like sin incarnate. Evan thought he might be in love or whatever the fuck.

And by the time Barty had licked him, Evan was done for. 

He was so turned on that he felt dizzy, which is nuts considering Evan had totally hoped for it to happen. He thought they'd do it right there on the hood, but Barty seems to be more of a prude than Evan thought.

“What’s pretty?”

“You tell me.”

“I guess…” Evan shrugs, reaches up to adjust the brim of the hat, casual, like he doesn’t already know what game they’re playing.

He remembers her. She wore a pair of high-waisted bell-bottom denims, a pale blue flannel tucked in neatly and the cream-colored cowboy hat that now sits atop his head.

“She was… kinda pretty.”

She was genuinely kind, smiled when she spoke and asked if he wanted to listen to music during the drive. Her name was Lilith. Or was it Lillian? Or maybe that was a name on a road sign he passed. 

Evan can’t remember. It doesn't really matter anyway. 

“How pretty is kinda pretty?”

He grins a little to himself. "Red hair. Wide smile. Huge tits. Sharon-Tate-kind-of-pretty."

“You into redheads?”

“I'm not picky,” he says, and it's true. He isn't. Not really. They all blur together after a while anyway.

By the time they arrived at her destination, it was already late, and she offered to take him out for a drink, wanting to show him her favorite spot. She said it was the best place to watch the sunset, although by the time they got there, it was already too dark to see all that much.

She had bought a bottle of cheap wine that tasted like vinegar. They shared it anyway, laying down on a blanket she had spread out in the tall grass. They talked a lot, her voice was soft, she told him that she was going to college to study medicine to become a doctor.

“But she was smart.”

She said she didn't care about the money, she wanted to work with children. ‘With the broken ones,’ she said and smiled as if it was a joke, so Evan laughed, but she didn't.

“And funny…” Evan adds, almost to himself.

It was her eyes that did it. That specific shade — Pandora’s eyes.

“She had beautiful eyes. Green, like mine,” he says, then leans over the console reaching for Barty’s lighter.

She had left the car radio on and started to dance. And Evan danced with her, well, of course he did. They had been taught how to dance properly — his grandmother had made sure of that.

But she was drunk and clumsy, she scolded him for laughing when she tripped over her own toes. He did anyway and she laughed too and leaned against his chest.

“Told me I looked too pretty to be hitchhikin’.”

Barty huffs contemptuously. “You fuck her?” he asks.

What a silly question. 

Why the hell would he want to fuck a girl? Let alone his sister?

Evan just hums and flicks the lighter open, the flame catches and he stares into it. “Told her she reminded me of someone else.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean? That a yes or a no?” Barty presses.

He remembers asking her if she had dyed her hair. She’d laughed and said no, assuring him that it was all completely natural — insisted on it. Told him that, usually, guys really liked it. Her voice had dropped then, soft and sultry, as if she was offering something.

That wasn’t right. 

“Would you?”

“I asked if you fucked her.”

“What’s it to you, huh?”

To be honest, she didn’t really look like Pandora. Not at all, actually. But her eyes, that crooked little smile and the way she talked back at him, that all reminded him of her, a little at least. 

Still, red was wrong. 

The hair, the mouth, the whole thing.

She kissed him first. 

She did, she leaned in, soft lips, warm and oh so trusting. Her mouth was curious and tasted like wine. And her lips were stained burgundy.

That wasn’t right either.

“Answer the question.”

Evan lights his cigarette, inhales deep, exhales slowly, lets the smoke curl from his lips. “I don’t fuck girls,” he says, voice thick with smoke and smooth like velvet. 

Then he props his boots up on the dash again remembering how her head tilted back. So graceful, he liked that. She dropped the bottle, it broke and the wine spilled fast and warm onto the blanket. Its shade was deeper than her hair, darker, like Merlot or — melted cherry popsicle.

He takes a deep breath and a sip of his beer.

Evan had said sorry afterward. Real quiet.

At least, that’s how Evan remembers it.

Absentmindedly he takes a drag from his cigarette. Maybe he said too much? Maybe… or not enough? He wants to keep Barty close for as long as possible. 

*

“Hey,” Evan says after a while, lighting another cigarette because the other one is long gone. “Say… do you believe in fate?” 

He passes Barty the cigarette pack across the center console. “No,” Barty replies curtly, but takes a cigarette anyway without looking over.

Evan lights it for him. “Oh…” A brief flicker of disappointment crosses his face. “Why not?”

"It’s bullshit."

“Bullshit? Oh no, that’s boring, come on, give me a real reason.” 

Barty, in fact, does not give him a reason, instead he just asks: “Do you?” 

“Maybe,” Evan admits but does not elaborate. 

They both smoke in silence. Around them, the landscape slowly but surely changes. The desert spreads out — vast and desolate. The sun has set low above the horizon, bathing everything in shades of rust and gold, casting long shadows.

*

Evan can feel Barty’s eyes on him every now and then, but he keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, where the darkening sky bleeds into the dirt. His jaw aches from clenching it too tightly to keep himself from saying something stupid. He exhales, blowing smoke rings into the air, watches his cigarette burn down between his fingers, a small orange glow in the dark.

“I’m bored,” he says after a long while. “Can’t we put the music back on?”

“No.”

Evan rolls his eyes and stubs out the cigarette butt on the dashboard with his thumb.

“Why not? Don’t you like music?”

“I like music.”

“Then why aren’t we listening to any?”

“Christ, you’re annoying.” Barty groans.

You’re annoying.

Evan smirks sideways. “Want me to get out?”

“No.”

“Ok, good.”

“Fine.”

“Whatever.” Evan groans. 

Oh wow, apparently Barty can be a real bitch. 

“Look, man, you’re the one who said you wanted to talk. All you’ve done is grill me about some random chick.” He leans over the console, right into Barty’s space. “And you dodged the part where we talk about how fate threw us together.”

“Get off me,” Barty mutters, elbowing him, though there’s a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Your turn. Come on, entertain me.”

Barty’s jaw flexes. “Alright then. How about we play a game?”

Evan tilts his head with interest. “Oh yeah? What are the rules?”

“We're playing against fate, the objective is to survive and the first one to look away loses.” 

“Didn’t you say you don’t believe in fate?”

“I don’t.” Barty inclines his head and floors the gas, the engine roaring as he steers the car into the middle of the road. Evan feels a tingle in his gut.

And then Barty slowly tilts his head, looks Evan straight in the eye without even glancing back at the road, while the speedometer continues to climb. Evan hears the roar of the car getting louder, feels the vibration through the floor climbing up his limbs.

“Makes it more fun, doesn’t it?”

Jesus Christ.

Evan’s mouth quirks. “You’re not gonna look?”

“Nope.”

There’s a faint sound in the distance ahead.

Barty doesn’t flinch. Instead he leans in, close enough for Evan to smell the mix of smoke, sweat, and beer off him in the small space between them.

The noise grows louder — a truck barreling straight toward them.

“Have you ever felt the urge to just—”

“Let go of the steering wheel and see what happens?” Barty's tone is so calm, almost bored, but his eyes are wild. “Yeah, like, all the time.”

Headlights flash, flooding the car with harsh white light, lighting up the blue in his eyes. That does something to Evan, rattles him, deep in his bones. 

He bites his lip and whispers “Do it.” under his breath. 

The horn blares, furious, closing in. Evan’s face twitches ever so slightly, but Barty catches it and lets out a mean laugh. “Thought you believed in fate,” he whispers, voice almost cracking.

“I do.” Evan's eyes dart back and forth between Barty's. “You know, if we survive this, it means we're meant to be.”

A grin curls at the corner of Barty’s mouth, catching on a sharp canine. “And what if we die?”

They are so close that Evan can feel Barty's breath on his lips.

He slides his hand onto Barty's right thigh and presses down hard on his knee, the engine howls a second time. “Then we'll die, if that's what fate has in store for us,” Evan whispers. “For both of us.”

The horn screams, so loud his ears ring. Harsh headlights swallow the car, catching every sharp line of Barty’s pretty face. Adrenaline shoots through Evan like fire, all nerves on edge. But the grip on Barty's leg remains firm, and he doesn’t avert his gaze from those eyes, he couldn't, even if he tried.

So close, just one tiny move forward and they’d be kissing. And wouldn't that be a lovely way to go?

And then suddenly Barty’s face is drenched in darkness.

The truck swerves at the last possible second and lands in the ditch, gravel flying up and clattering against the car. Something shatters and breaks with a loud crunch. Evan hears the screech of metal before something explodes, but Barty is already speeding off, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust behind them.

Evan is the first one to break eye contact, throwing his head back, laughing out loud and wild. “You're fucking crazy!” he gasps, wheezing with laughter. His heart pounds wildly in his chest. “That was fun!” He pats Barty on the thigh, squeezes, and then lets go.

“So I’ve been told,” Barty says, deadpan, reaching for the cigarette pack and lighting another.

Evan wipes over his eyes, still unable to regain his composure. “That trucker is probably dead.”

“He should’ve pulled over.”

“…Fair.”

“You said you were bored,” Barty shrugs. “Problem solved.”

Evan huffs out a laugh, still a little breathless. “Is this your idea of having fun?”

Barty exhales smoke. “Amongst other things, yes.”

The adrenaline takes a while to wear off, except it doesn’t really. His pulse won’t calm, his mouth is dry, and his cock is rock hard in his jeans, throbbing a little every time he thinks about how close they came to kissing. 

(How close they came to dying.)

Barty doesn’t seem freaked out either — on the contrary, he smiles contentedly, smoke curling from his lips like nothing happened. And Evan thinks, not for the first time, that something is seriously wrong with the guy.

That’s exactly why Evan wants him so badly.

*

To Evan, it all really does feel like fate. Like, somehow, he was meant to meet Barty this very day, in this god-forsaken place, on this stretch of empty road, after everything he’s been through.

“Hey, what’s your star sign?” Evan asks eventually.

“Uhm, nooo fucking idea?” Barty frowns, side-eyeing him. “Please don’t tell me you believe in all that astronomy crap.” 

“Astrology.”

“What?”

“It’s astrology, not astronomy. You said astronomy.”

“Whatever. What are you? Some kind of esoteric hippie?”

“No— I mean, not really. My sister’s the one who’s really into that stuff. She’s got all these books, charts, star constellation maps and shit like that. I just… kind of picked up on it.”

“Your sister, sure...” 

Excuse me? 

The way Barty says it doesn’t really sound like he believes him.

“And?” Evan presses.

“And what?” 

“When's your birthday?”

Barty hesitates for a moment, just briefly, but then, to Evan’s surprise he replies, “Twenty-eighth of November.”

Evan's mouth twitches. 

Oh, that makes perfect sense. 

“Sagittarius,” he says, slowly, knowingly, and smiles. “That’s interesting.” A flicker of satisfaction in his voice — he just can't hide it, as if something just fell right into place.

Barty frowns. “What the hell is interesting about that?”

Evan shrugs, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, pretending like he’s not invested now, like none of this is incredibly exciting to him. “It just suits you.” 

With deliberate nonchalance, he flicks the ash out of the open window and begins: “Sagittarius are wild, reckless… and you, my friend — you definitely have that fire sign energy. Has anyone ever told you that before, hm?”

Barty says nothing, just frowns more, so Evan continues. 

“They are bold and impulsive, as if waiting for anything would slowly kill them.”

Again, nothing, except that Barty's grip on the steering wheel tightens ever so slightly. If Evan hadn't been paying attention, he wouldn't have noticed. 

But he did, so he continues: “They get agitated easily.” He tilts his head slightly as he continues to study Barty. “And restless, like you. Right now. You've been nervously tapping your thumb on the steering wheel for at least five minutes.”

Barty's movement freezes up immediately. 

“Oh! And they hate being given orders. If you tell them what to do and not to do, they'd rather burn everything to the ground than obey. They need freedom like other people need air to breathe.”

He glances over at Barty, whose face is flawless, unreadable, blank as polished stone.

“I can tell by the way you drive, like you're running away from something. Or maybe chasing it? Hard to tell which one it is.” Evan smiles weakly. “You take risks. That little stunt you pulled back there?” He jerks his thumb behind them, the truck long gone. “That obviously wasn’t your first time, was it? You try that on all the guys you pick up? Scare them a little?”

He pauses, tilting his head just enough to study Barty. His jaw twitches — subtle, but Evan catches it. He lets his voice drop, velvet-soft and warm. “You like danger, don’t you, Barty? Makes you feel something. Does it make you feel… real?”

Evan laughs under his breath and lights another cigarette, dragging slowly before blowing smoke out the window, flicking ash into the night. “Pandora always said Sagittarius burns too fast — bright and hot. A true fire sign is unstoppable once it gets going.”

He looks back at Barty, who doesn't return his gaze, keeps staring straight ahead instead. 

Evan lets a moment pass, before his smile turns sharper, wicked. “Were you trying to scare me, Barty? It takes more than that... You know what air does to fire?”

Barty shakes his head and rolls his eyes, Evan knows it without having to see it. “You talk the most unbelievable bullshit.”

“Maybe,” Evan says, laughing, his eyes half closed. “But you're cocky and I think that's hot.” He leans forward a little, resting his elbow on the center console, and his voice gets even quieter. Darker. Slower. “Has it ever occurred to you that, maybe, we're meant for each other? That you stopped for a reason? That, maybe, I was waiting for you on that godforsaken stretch of road? That we're both part of something… bigger?”

“No.”

“Cosmic alignment?”

“I think you're full of shit.”

Evan grins. “Not even a little bit?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t that be romantic, though?”

Barty snorts, effectively breaking the spell of the moment. “That makes it worse.”

Evan leans back. “You're no fun.” he mumbles, exhaling to let the smoke curl languidly toward the windshield.

“What do you want me to say, huh?” Barty hisses. “That I saw you on the side of the road and suddenly… something just… clicked? Like kismet?”

Evan shrugs. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

“Tough luck. It wasn't like that.”

Evan laughs, deep in his throat. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I'm not lying.” 

A moment passes. Evan opens another beer bottle and carelessly drops the cap on the floor. He leans forward again — just enough that their shoulders almost touch.

“Have you ever done anything you can't undo?” His voice is soft, baiting.

Barty’s right hand rests on the gear shift, his eyes fixed on the road. “Like, for example, picking you up?”

Evan chuckles. “Cute.”

“You don't wanna hear the answer.”

“Actually, I do. That’s why I asked.” Evan's voice drops. “Come on, try me. I might like it.”

Barty doesn't answer right away, as if he's considering it, but then he says, “No, you wouldn't.”

Evan takes the last sip of his beer and a sleepy grin crosses his lips. “Cheers to fate, then.”

“I told you. I don't believe in fate.”

Evan flicks ash out the window. “You don't have to — she believes in you.”

Barty ignores that, goes quiet, fingers drumming on the wheel again.

“You know…” Barty begins, his voice suddenly sounds colder. “When I was little, my father told me that people who believe in fate are merely lazy. Blaming God for their own bullshit and calling it fate. Too cowardly to bear the consequences of their own actions.”

“Oh yeah? He sounds like a lovely man, your father.” Evan tilts his head, voice dripping with sarcasm. “This is the third time you’ve mentioned him. You guys must be like super close, huh?”

“He’s dead,” Barty says flatly.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” 

“Don't be.”

“Good, I’m not really either. Did he at least have to suffer the consequences of his own actions?”

The corners of Barty's mouth twitch upward — almost a smile. “Something like that.”

Chapter Text

Barty turns his head, studies Evan as he stares out at the passing landscape, barely visible now in the dusk. The cigarette in Barty’s hand has burned down to the filter without him noticing. He tosses the butt out the window before rolling it up. 

He feels Evan watching him every now and then — like he’s trying to see past Barty’s façade. 

(As if he didn’t already.)

Astrology. Star signs. What a joke. Bored housewife bullshit.

Stars, moon phases, retrogrades — like any of that actually determines how people turn out.

Fucking Sagittarius…

Weak minds need patterns to explain failure. He can practically hear his father’s stern voice. Barty would agree for once. But the thing is… Everything Evan said was true. 

Not kind of. 

Not just coincidentally close. 

No lucky guess. 

All of it. Dead on, to a fucking T.

The nervous tics, the recklessness, simply the way he drives — as if something, or someone was on his heels, as if was on the run. (Because he is.) Headlong into the chaos, because standing still would only kill him faster, tearing down everything and everyone in his path.

Yep, that's Barty for you.

He hadn’t even noticed his own thumb tapping on the wheel until Evan called it out.

And that line about being told what to do?

​​Barty clenches his jaw until it hurts. As a child, he used to get nosebleeds because of how hard he ground his teeth, locked away in that fucking room, while his father lectured him about duty and discipline and what a disgrace Barty was.

He should have set the whole damn house on fire, would have watched it burn with a smile, and then pissed on the ashes.

But he didn’t and Evan doesn’t know that. He can’t.

Unless he does.

Does he?

Maybe the astrology bit was a trick. Maybe Evan overheard something at the gas station after all and now he’s messing with him? 

That thought drops cold in Barty’s gut. 

Because if not, and Evan really could read him that easily, then either the astrology bullshit is real, or Evan somehow managed to figure him out.

Either way, something in Barty’s chest tightens. Not panic, exactly. Just pressure.

He glances sideways, just briefly. Evan’s got his head leaned back, eyes closed, like he doesn’t have a thought in his pretty little head. Like he didn’t just pull Barty apart without even trying.

You like danger, don’t you, Barty? Makes you feel something. Does it make you feel… real?

The words landed like a match to a dry field and the way Evan smirked at him still burns in Barty’s memory.

Were you trying to scare me, Barty? It takes more than that... You know what air does to fire?

Fuck!

What does that even mean?

He hates that Evan got to his head and now he’s thinking about it. Hates it even more how Evan sees him for what he is.

Well, fire needs air to survive. Otherwise, it dies out. More air just makes the fire burn faster and brighter, until it eventually dies. 

Doesn’t make any fucking sense.  

What also doesn’t make any sense is that they almost kissed. They almost died. 

Fuck again. Barty got this close to losing it this time. Usually, the other guys laughed at first, but then they started to panic, begging Barty to look back at the road and Barty won. Every. Single. Time.

But Evan didn't even bat an eyelid. Is he insane? Is he actually insane? 

Fuck, if that's the case, Barty needs Evan even more. 

He needs Evan to take him apart. Make it hurt, let him feel everything, make it real and then put him back together again, make him whole again. So his mind stops racing at a hundred-fucking-thousand miles per hour. Please, please.

Eventually, Evan lights another joint and offers it to Barty, but he just shakes his head. Evan exhales, smoke languidly curls from his lips like something unholy. 

No, can't afford to get anxious and lose his grip around Evan. Not again. Not when it’s already slipping. He'd rather have another line. Or, hell, something stronger, if he had it.

*

They drive through the growing darkness in silence for a long stretch. Barty can't tell if Evan is just high or if he occasionally drifts off to sleep, his head lolling against the door. At least he took that stupid fucking hat off.

It’s been about thirty minutes since they passed El Paso when Evan suddenly stirs and says, “I love you.”

Barty startles, nearly crashes the car into the ditch. “What?”

“I said I love this.”

He didn’t. 

Barty is almost sure he didn’t. 

He risks a glance, but Evan’s grinning at the windshield.

“W- What do you mean?”

“This. Us. Driving through the night in comfortable silence.” Evan flashes him a crooked grin. “I think we’re going to be really good friends, don’t you?”

Friends? 

That’s not what Barty wants. He definitely doesn't want to be just friends.

“That’s how you know you’ve found someone you click with,” Evan continues undeterred. “When you can shut up for a moment and enjoy the silence without it getting awkward. Some of these people I’ve hitched rides with just kept talking, and talking, wouldn’t stop, going on about all this total bullshit in their lives, it was unbearable. Couldn’t stand it.”

Barty can’t tell if Evan’s fucking with him, and decides not to dwell. He clears his throat. “Hey, uhm, you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“I’m sure we can find a diner still open.”

“Ugh. American Diner food is the worst. You’re all gonna drop dead at forty from heart failure with all that fat and sugar you shovel into your bodies every day.”

“Oh, excuse me. Would Monsieur prefer some snails? Maybe we can find some frog legs ‘round here?”

“Fuck you.”

“Later, maybe.” Barty smirks, taking the next exit. “We’re close to Mexico anyway, so most places here serve something with beans and rice, too. You’ll find something. Besides, you don’t seriously think I’ll live to forty, do you? Not with the way I drive. Or if I keep letting guys like you climb into my car…”

*

Gravel crunches under the tires as Barty pulls into the unpaved lot of a diner on the outskirts of Las Cruces. 

He kills the engine, pushes the door open, and steps out into the evening air. The heat finally eased into something almost pleasant. Overhead, the sky has settled into a deep navy, so that the neon sign above the entrance shines brightly in yellow letters: Minnie’s Diner. Its glow bathes the parking lot in a faint golden veil.

“If I have to eat pancakes for dinner, I'll kill myself and drag you down to hell with me,” Evan groans, trailing in after Barty.

“Sounds like someone's getting cranky when he's hungry?” 

A few truckers hunch at the far end of the counter, sleeves rolled high to expose faded tattoos, caps tugged low, faces half-hidden as they nurse their coffees. They barely glance up when the bell over the door jingles as Barty and Evan enter.

The air inside is thick, as if the smell of old fryer oil and the bitter tang of burnt coffee have been seeping into the walls for decades. Music hums softly, and for half a second Barty tenses, then he spots the dusty jukebox in the back corner — not a radio.

Anyway, its sound is swallowed by the constant metallic clatter of pans and the hiss of something frying in the kitchen. Behind the pass, a heavyset cook with a red face and a shine of sweat on his upper lip flips burgers one-handed while a cigarette, smoked down to the filter, droops from his mouth.

The whole place feels like it’s been left behind somewhere in the fucking fifties, with rows of red vinyl booths running along the windowed wall and low-hanging lamps drenching the tables in hazy yellow light.

Behind the counter stands a waitress who looks like she’s from the same decade as the place. Her face is lined, mouth turned downward, looking unimpressed, her hair is teased into a stiff beehive and a crooked name tag clings stubbornly to the lapel of her faded, old-fashioned uniform: Minnie.

“Sit wherever you want. I’ll get to ya when I get to ya,” Minnie calls, not bothering to look up.

Barty slides into the last booth in the corner and Evan drops down beside him. He leans sideways and Barty is acutely aware of their shoulders brushing as Evan reaches into his back pocket for his cigarettes and wallet before settling fully into the seat. 

“I’m gonna take a piss,” he announces, already pushing up from the booth and heading toward the bathroom.

Barty watches Evan go, eyes tracking the sway of his ass until it’s lost behind a swinging door in the back. The warmth of that brief touch lingers far longer than it should. 

His gaze shifts to the men at the bar. One of them leans over to his buddy and quietly mutters something, which makes them both glance over at Barty with a chuckle. Barty catches just enough to piss him off already.

He briefly considers how quickly he could get to the car if things turned ugly and the whole situation got out of hand. But he decides to let it go and grabs Evan’s cigarettes instead, lights one up, the flame from his lighter flaring in his cupped hand.

He leans back into the booth and exhales a thin stream of smoke toward the water-stained ceiling.

His gaze drops to the wallet Evan left behind.

For a second, he only looks at it. Fine brown leather, soft, worn edges. Then he reaches for it, runs his finger along the side, flips it open, casual, with one hand — like he’s absolutely not crossing a line right now.

A yellow paper document sits tucked into the clear plastic slot, Carte d’Identité. Must be Evan’s ID. It looks official, clean. He slides it free.

Rosier, Evan. Né le 20 juin 1954 à Bordeaux, France.

Rosier… Barty likes the sound of that.

Legit French citizenship. So he hadn’t lied about where he was from.

Barty takes a drag from his cigarette. Evan is only little over a year older than himself.

Taille 1m93… fucking metric system. 

Barty guesses Evan’s at least three inches taller, if not more.

The photo, however, shows a different version of the man Barty picked up. Well-groomed, elegant, crisp white shirt, collar buttoned, hair short and combed back neatly. His face is stern and clean-shaven.

Barty almost doesn’t recognize him.

Behind the ID, something else peeks out — an old photograph, folded and tucked away like it holds meaning. Barty slides it free with two fingers and unfolds it.

It’s black and white, the paper has gone soft at the corners. It shows two kids. A girl and a boy, both with light hair, smiling at the camera. She’s a bit taller, her arm looped around his shoulder. He’s missing a tooth.

Barty turns it over.

‘Pandora et Evan, 10e anniversaire, 1964’ is written on the back with pencil in looping cursive.

Barty flips the photo around again. The girl must be Evan’s sister. So he hadn’t lied about her either. He stares at the image longer than he means to before carefully sliding it back into place.

The large compartment contains a considerable amount of cash — US dollars mixed with French francs — and another folded sheet of paper. Barty almost overlooked it, but curiosity gets the better of him. He slips it free and to unfold a handwritten letter.

Cher Evan, 

Le jour est venu et je sais que tu comprendras, mais je dois partir.
Tu te souviens quand on jouait à cache-cache?

Tu es le chercheur.

Je t'aime de tout mon cœur,
Pandora.

PS:  N'oublie pas ta promesse. Tu me rejoindras là-bas?

Barty takes another long drag from the cigarette, staring at the words. He can’t make out their meaning. Except that it’s obviously written by Evan’s sister and je t’aime — that much he knows. 

He's heard that lie often enough, whenever Regulus said it to him.

*

By the time Evan returns, Barty has finished the cigarette, the filter crushed in the ashtray next to the ketchup and mustard. This time, Evan slides into the booth across from him.

The waitress, Minnie, shows up with a pot of coffee in one hand and menus in the other. “Welcome to Minnie’s, I’m Minnie, coffee?” Her gray-green eyes peer over a pair of narrow, red-rimmed glasses. “You boys want food too, or just lookin’ pretty?”

Evan lights up like fucking sunshine. “Yes, please.”

She slaps two laminated menus down on the table. “Sticky,” she warns, popping her gum. “Don’t ask why.”

Barty snorts and grabs one anyway (it is disgustingly sticky) while she tops off their cups with coffee.

He scans the menu. Surprisingly, the place offers more choices than a joint like this ought to have — pancakes, burgers, the usual plates and even some Mexican and Southwestern specials. And, although it's a diner, they seem to serve alcohol. That's unusual. But judging by its looks, the place doesn't seem to be particularly well regulated.

“Tonight’s special’s grilled chicken or tamale plate,” Minnie recites, popping her gum again.

“What’s tamale?” Evan asks.

“You're not from around here, are ya?” she asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Corn mush in a leaf with meat,” Barty cuts in without looking up from his menu. “You won’t like it.”

Evan snorts. “How do you know what I like?”

“Yes, how do you know? Besides, calling masa corn mush,” she clicks her tongue contemptuously, “Show some respect, boy.”

“Because I know,” Barty mutters, rolling his eyes. “Choose something else.”

She turns toward Evan, clicking her pen and holding her notepad up. “You can pick whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“Oh, okay… uh, chicken, then, please.” Evan says, all polite, like he’s trying to charm her.

“Grilled or fried?” she asks.

“Grilled. Uh…” He hesitates. “Does that come with a side?”

She sighs. “Comes with green beans and gravy. You can choose between fries, tots or mash.”

“Fries, please. And a beer.”

Minnie scribbles it all down in a terrible shorthand probably only she can read, then flicks her eyes to Barty. One brow arched as she shifts her gum from one cheek to the other with her tongue. “You eatin’ too, or just broodin’, sugar?”

“Green Chile Cheeseburger, bloody. Extra bacon. Onion rings on the side. And a Lone Star.”

“That it?”

“Two Whiskey."

“All right then. I’ll be back right back with your drinks.” She nods and turns away, already hollering the order at the cook.

Barty stares out the window, jaw tight. He takes a sip of his coffee. It’s hot, bitter and disgustingly burnt.

Evan lights a cigarette, catches his gaze, and lifts one perfect eyebrow. “You alright?”

“Yes, I’m alright,” Barty grits out — which is as good as saying he’s not. He’s too acutely aware of the men at the counter; he can see the reflections of their backs in the glass — how they shift whenever they glance over their shoulders, every time Evan talks.

“Then why be a rude fucking prick to her? She only did her job taking our orders.”

“I wasn’t rude. I simply gave her my order.”

“You were rude. Saying please and thank you doesn’t hurt, you know… so what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Clearly, he isn’t.

Evan rolls his eyes. “You don’t seem fine.”

Something sharp curls in Barty's gut. He leans across the table. “Well, maybe I would be, if those assholes over there would stop staring at you,” he hisses, voice so low that only Evan can hear him, nodding his head toward the bar, knowing full well how childish it sounds, but he’s unable to help himself.

Evan turns with zero subtlety and lays his stare on them, steady and unblinking. (Seriously, how can he be so stupidly conspicuous?) Alas, the truckers flinch and turn to look away almost instantly.

“So what? Let them stare.” Evan shrugs, stretching out, arms behind his head, shirt riding up just enough to expose bare skin. “What’s the worst that could happen? You think I’ll ditch you and run off with the next guy who smiles at me?”

“They don’t smile at you.”

“Bet I could make them.” Evan grins around his cigarette, smoke curling from his mouth as he leans back, one arm draped over the booth like he owns the place.

Fucking tease.

Barty doesn’t know whether to laugh or punch him in the face. Maybe both. (Quite possibly a secret third option — lunge across the table and kiss him senseless.) That would suit Evan’s level of stupid, but Barty isn't ready to stoop that low just yet, and Minnie comes back with their beers and whiskey before he can do anything overly stupid anyway.

She sets the glasses down and Barty does that thing where his lips quirk up in a half-smile and he gives the littlest half-nod people use in place of actually saying thanks. 

He slides the whiskey across to Evan and raises his own glass. “Don’t test me,” he growls under his breath, clinking against Evan’s, who only smiles at him like the fucking cat who got the cream, and they both throw the shots back in one go, holding each other’s gaze the whole time.

The alcohol burns down his throat — it’s some cheap bourbon. Here’s the thing. Secretly, Barty really enjoys Evan pushing his limits. Every sideways glance, every joke at his expense, every flirtatious smile thrown at a stranger — that kind of shit keeps Barty on edge, makes his blood run hot.

He knows, sometimes he tends to see things where there aren’t any. The gas station clerk earlier barely said a word, but Barty noticed the way Evan’s eyes lingered a second too long. Probably nothing. Still, his fists had clenched, mind spinning on the fantasy of dragging Evan out by the collar, staking his claim in front of the whole damn world.

He’s been accused of all kinds of shit before, manipulative, off-kilter, unhinged, insane, even worse — he doesn’t care. The thought of someone else touching what’s his sets fire to his chest. To hell if Evan thinks about them differently.

Barty would never admit it out loud, but Evan’s games are the only thing that kept him from going numb today. Barty enjoys the jealousy. He needs it. It’s the one thing that proves Evan’s his, proves he’s still capable of feeling anything at all.

Barty decides the most civil thing to do is to light another cigarette and not throw a fit. So he does exactly that, flicking ash into the tray, forcing his gaze out the window because if he keeps staring at Evan like that, someone’s bound to notice. 

When Minnie comes back with their plates and sets them down, Barty digs in right away, realising he hasn’t really eaten anything all day — maybe that’s why everything feels so raw.

“This is good,” Evan says after a bite of his chicken. “How’s yours?”

“It’s alright. The bacon’s fresh.”

“Well, good. You’re gonna keel over from cardiac arrest, but at least you’ve had a nice last meal. Been nice knowing you.”

“You wanna try? It really is good.”

Evan scrunches his nose as Barty pulls a strip of bacon out of his burger and passes it across the table. Their knees bump under the table as he leans forward.

“Get that greasy shit out of my face.”

“It’s just pork, for Christ’s sake. You eat pork, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but that looks disgusting. Ugh, it’s dripping all over the place.”

“Go on, take a bite. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.”

This time Evan doesn’t hesitate. He leans in and bites it straight from Barty’s hand, teeth grazing his fingers, eyes flashing as he pulls back. “Fuck me. Not bad,” he admits around a grin.

“Not bad?” Barty barks a laugh. “Fucking French taste buds…”

From the counter, one of the truckers coughs so loud enough that it is unmistakably directed at them.

“I’m just used to different things.” Evan shrugs, picking at his green beans.

Barty smirks around a mouthful of burger. “Oh, trust me, I’m used to other food too. That’s why I enjoy this junk so much.” He doesn’t say it out loud, but after weeks without a proper meal, a plate like this feels like a goddamn feast.

Evan steals an onion ring off Barty’s plate, twirling it around his finger. “I’ve never had one of these.”

“You've never eaten an onion ring?”

“Never,” He tries it, chews once and grimaces. “Fuck, that's nasty. How do people eat this? Soggy as the devil’s ass." He wipes his fingers on a napkin and reaches for his beer to wash down the taste.

Barty has to admit he’s right — these taste like they’ve been sitting under a heat lamp in the kitchen too long. “They’re usually better than this,” he mutters.

In retaliation, he takes a few of Evan’s fries — they’re actually a little better, fresh and still hot, if a little under-salted. Better than the rings, but he won’t give Evan the satisfaction of saying so.

They keep eating and Evan complains that American beer tastes like piss, so they order more whiskey. Occasionally, Barty catches himself staring at Evan’s mouth. Evan notices. Smirks. But doesn’t comment.

“Hey, how big are you, anyway?” Barty blurts once he’s finished his plate, wiping his mouth on a napkin and lighting another cigarette. He’s starting to feel a warm buzz after their third whiskey.

“What?” Evan frowns, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he looks at him over the rim of his glass. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing. I mean, how tall are you?”

“In feet? Not sure. About six-one, maybe.”

“No, I’m six foot. You’re taller than that.”

“Fine. Six-two, then.” He smirks, sets his glass down. “Bigger than you,” he says, almost purring it, and leans in, letting his hand brush Barty’s arm resting beside the ashtray — innocent, almost too innocent — while under the table Barty feels the edge of Evan’s boot slowly trailing up his calf.

Barty’s skin prickles under the touch, nerves sparking like static. His fingers twitch around the cigarette, ash trembling loose into the tray. 

Barty snorts. “Are you drunk?”

“No.” 

Evan smirks again. “Should we get drunk?” he asks, letting his fingertips keep sliding up and down Barty’s wrist, featherlight. 

Barty narrows his eyes. “You’re one to talk. Can’t even handle your liquor.”

“Oh, I can handle plenty,” Evan says low, a flicker of a grin curling his mouth. He plucks the cigarette from between Barty’s fingers and leans back, stretching out like he owns the booth. “Question is… can you?”

Barty doesn’t even hear the clatter from the kitchen anymore. His brain is pure white noise, blood rushing south, his cock throbs hot and heavy between his legs. 

This is stupid. Dangerous. He can’t stop it.

“You’re all talk.”

“Am I?” Evan’s boot shifts under the table until it presses against Barty’s thigh, it makes his muscles lock tight, but he doesn’t pull back. “Don’t look so nervous. They can’t see what I’m doing.”

“I’m not nervous.” But he feels heat rising up his neck and a tingling sensation running down his spine as Evan slides his boot higher and higher, as if testing how far he can push.

“Sure.” Evan smirks, lifts the cigarette and takes a slow drag. 

But heat climbs his neck, his pulse hammers at his throat, and there’s a tingling sensation running down his spine as Evan pushes higher and higher, like he’s testing how far he can go. Barty’s knee jerks once, just a twitch betraying him.

“Then why are you getting all red in the face?”

“Because you’re pissing me off.”

“Oh, but you love it.” Evan’s voice drops low, almost sensual, and it wraps itself around whatever remaining nerves Barty still has left. “Do you want me to stop?”

He's testing me, Barty suddenly realizes. 

It's another game, and Barty won't be the one to chicken out.

His hands tremble as he gets up and pushes out of the booth abruptly, voice low. “Come on.”

Evan raises an eyebrow, stubs the cigarette in the ashtray, unhurried. For a second Barty expects him to laugh it off, but he doesn’t. He slides out and follows — easy, like he’s been waiting for it all along.

*

The door closes shut behind them. For a split second, they just stare at each other — Barty’s breathing hard, chest tight, the world narrowing to Evan in this ugly tiled, harshly lit bathroom.

It’s small two urinals, a stall and a sink.

Goddamn it, he shouldn’t be doing any of this. Not in here. 

And then Evan’s grinning at him, like he’d planned every second of this, like star signs and constellations or whatever the fuck align, like everything is unfolding exactly how he wanted. Like a fucking asshole, so annoying, so hot, like sex incarnate. Like Barty’s finally begging for what he so desperately wants.

Fuck, Barty wants him so bad, he’s going insane.

But, see, he’s weak for this man, and he simply can’t deny it any longer.

So he grabs Evan by the collar and crushes their mouths together. Hard and entirely too desperate, it would almost be embarrassing, if it weren’t so damn hot. Because Evan’s lips are on his now and Evan’s hand slides up his neck, anchoring Barty to him and they’re kissing and — wow, his lips are really soft and he’s a fucking good kisser.

Fuck. No. 

They really shouldn’t be doing this in here, but Barty can’t bring himself to care anymore, not even a little bit. Especially not when Evan leans in, moans into the kiss and pushes his hips forward to walk Barty back until he is pinned against the stall behind him.

“Ngh, fuck, Evan.” he groans, nearly whimpers a little and his mouth opens just enough for Evan’s tongue to push in.

Barty reaches up, his hand finds the back of Evan’s neck, fingers sliding up into his hair, it’s ridiculously soft and a little damp with sweat along the nape of his neck.

He needs to lick it, needs the taste of him on his tongue again. 

He shouldn’t want to, but he does. 

He should be disgusted, but he isn't.

He breaks the kiss and does exactly that, runs his tongue up the side of Evan’s neck, coaxing a deliciously rough moan out of him. He grins against Evan’s skin, before sucking it between his teeth, wanting to leave a mark, so he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh, hard enough to bruise. Evan’s head falls back and he groans, loud and unrestrained.

Oh, fuck, oh goddamn. 

Okay, we’re doing this.

Kissing Regulus had been entirely different.

Evan is all sharp teeth and searing heat and rough edges.

Regulus was soft, always careful, worried about rules and marks and who might see. Barty had liked that — the thrill of it all and how easy it was to push him beyond his own limits, how fast he’d blush, how his voice would stutter when Barty got too close. 

He remembers the first time, when they were just stupid boys, sitting on his bed after lights-out. “You’ve never kissed a girl?” Barty had asked, and Regulus had gone very still. His brows knitted, chewing the inside of his cheek and his ears had flushed so very pink, and at first Barty had only wanted to mess with him to see how far he could go.

“Are you—”

“Fuck off, Crouch.” Regulus had snapped, that little shit, but his voice had cracked, betrayed him, halfway through it, and Barty had grinned, wicked and mean. 

He could’ve stopped then, should have let it go, but he didn’t.

“I’d kiss you,” he’d said instead.

Regulus had blinked, wide-eyed, like he’d misheard. “You— what?”

“I said I wouldn’t mind kissing you.” He repeated, slower and reached for Regulus’s wrist, his pulse fluttered under Barty’s fingers like a trapped bird. 

He still remembers the little jolt that ran through him, the second Barty leaned in and their knees brushed. Regulus’s gaze had flicked down to Barty’s mouth for only a second and that was all it took for Barty to close the distance between them and press their lips together. 

At first Regulus froze, but Barty kissed him soft and slow, and then Regulus started to kiss back, unsure at first, and a little clumsy, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, until Barty showed him.

He put a hand on the back of Regulus’s neck, feeling him melt into it with a sigh. 

The sound of him buried itself deep in Barty’s brain. 

That was most likely the moment when something finally clicked, when Barty realized how good it felt to simply take what he wanted. To feel someone give in to him. 

He’d thought about that feeling for days after.

Years later, he never really kissed any of the other guys. They weren’t Regulus — and with them, it was just about the sex, not love. Never love. And everything else was more, let’s say, one-sided.

Evan bites down on his lip, and the sting of it pulls Barty right back to the moment. He jerks back, and the back of his head hits the wall with a hard thud.

“You think too much,” Evan growls.

Barty feels heat rising into his cheeks and his pulse hammering between his legs, but Evan isn’t giving him a second to think about that, because his mouth is already on him again, and he’s nothing like any of them. 

He tastes like smoke and beer and blood. 

It’s dizzying. 

Oh, lord.

Being pinned down, manhandled, claimed.

Only, this time, Barty is not the one doing the taking; he’s the one being taken.

And fuck… that’s a first. 

Looks like Barty’s just discovered something new about himself. But he doesn’t get the chance to dwell on it either, because Evan’s tongue pushes back into his mouth, curling around his own, hungry and relentless. 

Evan’s everything Barty has imagined and so much fucking better. He’s hot, messy, filthy— 

Somewhere in the mess of it, Barty thinks, he needs more, reaches for the oddly shaped snake-buckle on Evan’s belt with the hand that isn’t still firmly buried in Evan’s hair, fingers fumbling to undo it—

“You want me?” Evan utters in a rough rasp against his mouth. Not a question, more like a statement.

“Yeah, obviously.” 

Evan's eyes glint dark. 

“I saw the way you kept looking at me. From the moment I got into your car. You're not exactly subtle.” He presses their foreheads together and his thumb roughly strokes Barty's cheek.

“Good job, finally noticing, but I don't give a shit.” Barty gasps, panting, because he’s about three seconds away from completely losing his fucking mind if Evan doesn’t shut up and kiss him again so they can finally fu—

“You wanna fuck?”

“Yes— Fuck, yes, and now shut up and—”

Evan smacks him across the cheek and Barty blanks. 

It wasn’t even hard enough to really hurt, but enough to send a shiver of want down his spine, because no none of them ever dared to—

“Since when?”

Barty ignores him, because he’s got no time for this and his fingers are already fumbling with Evan's zipper. 

“Since when?” Evan repeats.

He’s so turned on he feels dizzy, blood rushing through his veins of his starved body like lava, but at the same time he's so fucking irritated: Why the fuck are they still talking? Why isn't his cock in Barty's mouth yet?

“Damn it, Rosie...” he growls warningly, almost whimpering at the same time.

Evan catches his wrists, tight. “How do you know my name?” he hisses.

Oh fuck. 

Evan looks seriously annoyed. His brows are drawn together, and he's glaring at Barty. And he should be intimidated, but Evan is really hot right now.

Well, no point lying now, is there? 

“I looked at your ID while you were pissing.”

“And?”

“Had to make sure I didn’t pick up a liar, didn’t I?”

“And?”

Barty shrugs. “Didn’t see anything I didn’t like.”

“Alright,” Evan says with a vicious smirk, pressing himself against Barty, who can feel everything. Evan is thick and hard against his hip bone, and the tiny bit of friction against his own cock isn’t nearly enough. 

“Then tell me. How long have you wanted to fuck me?” Evan utters into his mouth, twisting Barty’s wrists until pain sparks up his arms and he whines, his cock twitching pathetically, it’s so fucking embarrassing.

“Since your laughable attempt to suck off that fucking popsicle in front of me,” Barty lies, it's calculated and vile, he wants to be.

Evan laughs, all wicked and mean. “You’re a terrible liar.” 

“Stop calling me a liar,” he hisses and snaps at Evan's lip, but he leans back enough and Barty's teeth clack onto thin air.

“I will, if you start being a good boy and tell me the truth,” Evan says and continues twisting Barty’s wrists tighter until he groans out in pain, eyelids fluttering, unable to break free from Evan's grasp, so his hips buck forward involuntarily, seeking contact.

“Fuuuck! Since I saw you on the side of the fucking road,” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “Since every goddamn second you’ve been in my car, idiot.”

Evan leans in close, breath hot on his throat. “That so?”

Barty opens his eyes and catches their reflection in the mirror — Evans' back, broad shoulders, strong arms, that cage him in and press him against the wall, Barty looks utterly ruined already. “I’m not lying,” he whimpers, too turned on to care anymore. 

He wants to beg for more, but Evan is already kissing him again, sucking his lower lip between his teeth and biting down this time. Barty wishes he'd draw blood. But Evan urges him further against the wall and shoves himself between his legs with one thick, muscular thigh. The friction glorious, denim on denim, his cock straining up against the rough fabric, desperate for more.

Then, before Barty knows what’s happening, Evan flips him, slams him face-first into the tiles. He wants to lash out at the sudden loss of touch, it’s only a second but the absence is driving him half-mad. But then Evan’s nose brushes along his cheek, hot mouth on his neck, kissing and licking and biting down on that sensitive spot right beneath his ear, causing a shiver to run down Barty’s entire back. 

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

Barty feels Evan’s cock press against his ass, the bulge is massive, so instinct wins — he pushes back, grinding against him shamelessly. 

He tells the little vicious voice in his head that calls him a whore to shut the fuck up and that he's still in control of what they're doing.

(He's not. That's a lie. He's so fucking done for. He is a whore for Evan.)

Evan’s hand snakes around Barty’s neck from behind and tilts his chin back. His breath is ragged against Barty's ear — a small sign that he, too, is not untouchable.

Barty grins smugly and grinds back even harder against him.

“Such a needy slut,” Evan growls, half a moan, low in his throat. But then he wraps his hand around Barty’s waist, slides it under his T-shirt, and slowly shoves his fingertips down the waistband of his pants.

Yes. Yes yes yes fuck yes.

Evan reaches around with the other hand to open Barty’s belt buckle, unzips him and pulls his pants down around his thighs. At this point, Barty doesn’t care who fucks whom anymore, he just needs Evan, now. 

His head tips back, eyes half-closed, he feels lightheaded, every single drop of blood gone south, so much so, he barely registers the door crashing open and people bursting in.

“What the hell do you faggots think you’re doing?”

Barty eyes snap open, he jerks around, while hastily pulling up his pants, then shoves Evan away, who’s still staring at him — not the group of men pushing through the door — him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Evan growls, voice low, deadly. 

Barty can see fury simmer under those features, too calm, too steady, like a fuse burning slow. The grin is gone, but his eyes never leave Barty’s, like a predator guarding its prey.

“You cocksuckers from outta town?”

“We don’t need your kind here,” a burly trucker growls.

For a split second, Barty almost feels sorry for them. His hand drifts to the small of his back, his fingers curling around the handle of his gun.

But then Evan grabs his wrist, which still hurts a little. “Let’s get out of here.” he says and his voice is frighteningly calm all of a sudden, almost casual. He straightens up as he says it, seeming to grow taller somehow, radiating an authority Barty hasn't noticed before.

Barty just nods once and lets himself be pulled along. Evan shoulders through the men blocking the door while they spit more vile shit at them. But somehow Evan is impossibly taller, broader, meaner — so they back away. 

They cross the floor of the diner and Evan tosses a few bills onto the counter, more than enough to cover for their food and drinks, and flicks Minnie a lazy wave goodbye. She doesn’t even look up. Just pops her gum and tops off some regular’s cup of coffee like nothing happened.

*

They step outside, and Barty has to take a deep breath. The night air is warm and dry. Behind them, the neon light shines bright, casting warped shadows on the cracked asphalt in front of them as they walk away.

Barty feels tense, pulse hammering in his throat, cock straining uncomfortably in his pants, nerves completely raw. 

“Jesus Christ.” His voice comes out rough.

“What?” Evan glances at him, that small, conspiratorial smile tugging at his mouth. “You scared?”

What?

“No.” Barty shakes his head, trying to steady his breathing. He almost confesses something stupid, but swallows it down. 

Evan laughs “Well, that was fun.”

Holy fucking shit. 

The whole affair had really only been another game to Evan. Barty’s such a fucking idiot. He really needs to be more careful around this man; can’t keep letting him get under his skin like that.

He’s too wired to drive, too wound up to even think straight. If he gets back behind the wheel right now, he’ll end up doing something really stupid. He rather wants to slam Evan against the wall again — kiss him, hit him, fuck him raw. 

That’s the problem.

After this, the tension between them could be cut with a knife. The car would be suffocating; the silence between them, worse. 

Comfortable silence, my ass. 

Every nerve in Barty’s body is on fire, and if he stays this close much longer, he’ll explode. He needs movement, noise, a place to bleed off the static crawling under his skin. 

Besides, Evan’s the kind of trouble that festers in the dark. Better to keep him somewhere crowded, where people can see, where Barty can pretend he’s not still shaking from what they just almost did.

He needs another drink, that’s what he needs.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he mutters. “There’s a bar down the street.”

“Lead the way,” Evan says, shrugging, like nothing happened.

They take a shortcut through a poorly lit alley that reeks of garbage and urine. The backs of the buildings here are covered in graffiti. 

Walking, moving, that’s good. That eases his nerves a bit, but Barty’s walk is still a little shaky. And Evan, on the other hand, strolls alongside him, hands in his pockets, relaxed, unimpressed.

Motherfucker.

They reach the bar after a short walk. It’s merely a squat block with stucco walls painted in a faded sand color, crouched between two shuttered stores. It’s quiet here except for the low music that seeps out. A dying neon sign, spelling out ‘La Forja’, flickers above the door, casting a sickly green haze onto the street.

Inside, it’s even darker, the only light coming from countless neon signs for various beer brands and sports teams above the bar, as well as random strings of Christmas lights which have been draped across the ceiling beams, bathing everything in a dim glow. 

The place is actually quite crowded, the air is thick with cigarette smoke, alcohol, and sweat and a jukebox is playing loud, moody, bass-heavy rock music. 

At least that's something.

I've been searching for the daughter of the devil himself
I've been searching for an angel in white
I've been waiting for a woman who's a little of both
And I can feel her, but she's nowhere in sight

The counter looks damp and sticky, so Barty is careful not to lean on it. The bartender, a grim-looking middle-aged man in a denim vest with long sideburns, barely looks up as they sit down at the bar.

“Tequila. Double,” Barty orders in a monotone voice. 

“Make it two,” Evan chimes in.

Shelves with various alcohol bottles and a fogged-up mirror stretch across the entire length of the bar. Barty's own reflection stares back at him in the dim light — with dead eyes, sweat on his neck, and tousled hair. He looks completely fucked and they haven't even gotten to that point.

His gaze wanders through the dark and smoky place. Two Mexicans sit at the far end, discussing something in rapid Spanish that Barty can’t follow. 

In the back, near the jukebox, people crowd around two pool tables, some of them dancing, chalk dust floating through the light hanging low over the tables. 

A few other drunks sit hunched over their pints in the booths, smoke billowing above their heads. 

No one pays Barty and Evan any attention. Good.

Luckily, the booze comes fast, too. The bartender wipes over the counter once before sliding two shot glasses across and pouring generously.

Evan lifts his shot, watching Barty over the rim with that same annoying half-smile. Probably expecting a toast but Barty ignores him and just throws it back.

The tequila tastes dry, scorches its way down his throat and leaves heat blooming low in his chest — rough and mean, it’s the good stuff from across the border, exactly what he needs. Maybe if he drinks enough, it’ll burn Evan right out of his system. 

Comin' right behind you
Swear I'm gonna find you
Get you, baby, one of these nights

Evan leans in, invading his space, he says something unintelligible so Barty just shakes his head.

“Are we going to dance, cowboy?” Evan repeats, louder and right into his ear.

“I don’t dance,” Barty says, not looking at him.

A hint of a smile tugs at Evan’s mouth, he leans in again but lowers his voice this time. “I can teach you…”

It sends a shiver down Barty’s neck. “I said I don’t dance — not that I can’t.”

“How would you know?”

Barty frowns. “What?”

“How would you know whether you’re good at dancing if you never dance?”

“Listen,” Barty growls, tapping the glass on the counter, “I’m not dancing with you in some fucking backwater dive bar, you get me?” He lifts the glass slightly toward the bartender. “Another one.”

The bartender limps to the shelf behind him, reaches for a new bottle of tequila, and refills both their shot glasses to the brim before setting a Schlitz down in front of Evan. Only now does Barty notice the man’s leg — stiff, dragging — and the way one eye stares fixedly ahead, unmoving glass.

Well, shit. 

They’d sent the poor bastard into the jungle to fight for his country — or God knows what — and this is how they thanked him: wasting away in some desert bar, serving other drunken ghosts from that same war. 

Goddamn it.

At least Barty had managed to dodge the draft, by being born too late and all. If he was being honest, he probably would’ve liked the killing, though.

“I didn’t order a beer,” Evan says, frowning.

Barty’s head snaps around. 

Right — he hadn’t.

“From the guy over there,” the bartender grunts, nodding toward the other side of the bar without looking up from the glass he’s been drying since they sat down.

Barty turns.

A guy’s watching them — long black hair, leather jacket, a beautiful face with sharp cheekbones and bright eyes. He doesn’t look away when their eyes meet. Instead, he lifts his glass and smiles, slow and mischievous.

Evan raises his beer in return, lips quirking, almost gracious.

On any other day…

Barty rolls his eyes and knocks back his second tequila, fishing for his cigarettes.

The guy tilts his head and Evan’s grin spreads, slow and inviting.

Jesus. Might as well send him a fucking love letter.

It turns out the guy doesn't need one; in fact, he strolls over with easy swagger, a drink in his hand and Evan turns to him, open as always — idiot. 

Barty leans back just enough to watch him, cigarette hanging loosely off his lip.

“Hey,” the guy says, his voice is deep and smooth like velvet. “I noticed you from back over there. You looked thirsty.”

“Thanks. You shouldn’t have.”

“You don’t like beer?”

“I've never tried this one before.” Evan examines the label before taking a sip and wrinkles his nose. “Like I thought, tastes like American piss.” he says, smiling wide.

The guy barks a laugh — harsh, too loud, a grating sound in Barty’s ears like a damn coyote’s howl. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he says, tilting his head, a strand of hair falling across his stupidly beautiful face. There’s something familiar about him, though Barty can’t quite place it.

Barty wants to spit something sharp back, tell him to fuck off, but Evan beats him to it, all easy charm. He chuckles low, raises his bottle and says “Touché.”

The guy studies him for a beat, then leans in slightly, dropping his voice, almost intimate. “Est-ce que j’entends un accent français?”

Evan laughs under his breath, soft and private. “Ouais. Je suis Français.”

The guy lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree — all excited and giddy — and Barty suppresses the urge to gag. 

“Pas possible! Moi aussi! Le monde est petit!” 

Pa po pee! Ma mo mee! Le mo mee! Barty rolls his eyes and lights his cigarette.

The guy slides onto the stool beside Evan, eyes catching on something behind him. “J’aime ton foulard. Est-ce que cela signifie ce que je pense?”

Evan glances over his shoulder, brow furrowing slightly. “Oh, je l'ai reçu d'un ami. Que pensez-vous que cela signifie?”

“C’est un code. Pour la croisière? Jaune moutarde…” the guy says, lowering his voice. He rests his head on his hand, with a conspiratorial smile as if he's testing the waters and continues. “Cela signifie que vous êtes…” His eyes drift down Evan’s body slowly, before they snap back up. “…bien équipé.” he says grinning and his eyebrows jump up.

Evan blinks once, then smirks, grin turning slow and wicked. “Eh bien... que dire? Comment le savez-vous?”

The French bastard — that’s what Barty decides to call him in his head — looks downright delighted, beams at Evan and bites his lower lip. 

Barty waves to the bartender over to top up his shot one more time.

“Ouais, beau gosse, je cherche juste une aventure. Regarde—” He gestures toward something behind him, which Barty can’t see, because Evan’s in the way, blocking his view. “Celui-ci veut dire que j’aime me faire baiser.”

For a moment, Evan just stares, then bursts out laughing, sharp and surprised, head tipping back. “Ah bon?” He leans in, grin curling slow, voice dropping low enough that even Barty can feel the heat in it. “Tu voulais voir si j’étais partant?”

Barty can’t follow the words, but the whole exchange sets him on edge — he hears the shift in Evan’s tone: lighter and smoother, the way Evan’s laughing, the way the guy leans closer, intimate in a way that makes Barty’s blood boil. Like he’s being left out on an inside joke.

The French fucker — he just earned himself an upgrade in the nickname department — laughs again, then glances at Barty before turning back to Evan, a sly smirk curling at his mouth. “Si tu me laisses faire. Et si ton bel ami… ton petit ami? N’y voit pas d’inconvénient…”

Evan turns and looks at Barty, eyes sparkling with mischief and his mouth quirks up when he says “Ce n’est pas mon petit ami, mais il aimerait bien l’être.”

Something in Barty snaps taut. He finishes his tequila in one swallow and the glass hits the counter too hard when he sets it down. “It’s getting late. We’re going,” he hisses, sharp, staring at Evan.

Evan’s eyebrows rise up. “What are you talking about? We just got here. Let’s have some fun.”

French fucker shrugs, amused. “Tu devrais y aller avec lui.”

Evan tilts his head, grin deepening, while he holds Barty’s gaze who is still glaring daggers at him. “Non. J’préfère l’emmerder encore un peu, c’est plus drôle.”

“D’accord. Qu’est-ce que t’as en tête?”

"Having fun." Evan grabs the fucker’s wrist, pulls him off the stool. He makes a startled ‘oh’ sound but doesn’t resist, just lets Evan drag him toward the glow of the jukebox in the back.

Donna Summer’s ‘Hot Stuff’ blares through the speakers.

Lookin' for my hot stuff baby, this evenin′
I need some hot stuff, baby tonight

(Please don’t. Barty hates disco.)

Gonna have some hot stuff baby, this evenin′
I want some hot stuff baby tonight, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Barty almost can’t believe his eyes — Evan can actually dance. He moves like someone who knows exactly what his body can do. Loose hips, rolls them lazily to the beat, makes it look indecent without even trying.

The other guy’s not bad either…

(Well, fuck, you know what they say about the ones who are good at dancing...)

Evan laughs, spins the guy around once, then pulls him back in, an arm hooked over his shoulders.

They’re close. Too close.

The kind of close that, to anyone else, might just look silly, like two drunk men messing around in a crowd of other moving bodies — but to Barty, it’s the kind of close that draws attention. The kind that gets a man killed in a place like this.

He drains Evan's shot and stares at the empty glass for a moment. Warmth floods his stomach, low, heavy and mean. He tells himself it’s the alcohol, but he knows it’s not. It’s watching Evan play his little tricks on him again.

He drums his fingers against the counter, trying not to look. Tries to convince himself he doesn’t care.

No, no way, he's not falling for Evan’s fucked-up mind games again. Not this time. 

Then the music shifts, louder, an aggressive guitar slices through the noise and Barty’s chair scrapes back roughly.

Finished with my woman 'cause
She couldn't help me with my mind
People think I'm insane because
I am frowning all the time

“Hey!” Barty’s voice cuts through the noise as he crosses the room in a few long strides. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I said we’re leaving.”

Evan barely glances back. Sweat shines along his neck, catches the light. “You're making a scene,” he says with cruelty in his voice turns away again.

All day long I think of things
But nothing seems to satisfy
Think I'll lose my mind
If I don't find something to pacify

The humiliation burns hotter than the booze. Barty bites the inside of his lip until he tastes blood. “Fine,” he spits and turns on his heel.

Can you help me
Occupy my brain?
Oh yeah

Chapter Text

This is already the second dive bar Evan has walked into in the four days he has been in the States, and the song that is currently playing sounds vaguely familiar somehow.

Didn't I make you feel
Like you were the only man

He is certain he has heard it somewhere recently.

Yeah, didn't I give you nearly everything
That a woman possibly can?

Strangely enough, it feels like déjà vu.

Honey, you know I did!

It hits him. 

Of course. 

It was three days ago, that feisty blonde had given him a ride in her rusty pickup truck and somehow they ended up in some dingy bar in the middle of butt-fuck Alabama late at night. 

Evan smiles to himself. He liked her. She was fun.

Barty, however, is no fun right now. 

He's been acting like a little bitch ever since those assholes kicked them out of the diner bathroom. 

Evan would have gutted them one by one, but that would have made a mess and most likely scared Barty away.

And he was ready to fuck Barty against the wall of the bathroom stall, or take him right there on the table in the diner, let everyone see, or even better, bent over the hood of his car and fucked raw. But no. 

Instead, Barty drags him in here just to get drunk? The nerve of him, cockblocking Evan like that. And now he doesn’t even want to dance? What the hell?

Alabama girl was a lot more fun.

Well… at first. 

Somehow she reminded him more of Edwige Belmore, her hair was bleached and cut short, she wore cut-off Levis from the men's section, a cropped t-shirt, heavy boots caked with dried mud, she had piercings in her nose and in her ears, and her fingers were stacked with mismatched silver rings, and Evan thought she looked like a total badass.

“Cool shirt,” Evan said after getting into the passenger seat.

“Thanks. You know Stevie Nicks?”

“She a singer?”

“Poet. Prophet. Witch. Take your pick. Bottom line — she’s amazing. You oughta check her out, man.”

“Oh yeah, Fleetwood Mac, right? My sister’s really into them. You look a bit like her, actually.”

“Like your sister?”

“Yeah, and that Stevie chick. Only your hair’s—”

“Shorter?” She laughed. “Yeah…”

“You cut it yourself?”

“Sure did.”

“Looks sharp.”

“Would look sick on you too.”

“You think so?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Nah, I wanna grow it out more. Had it buzzed for years.”

She had a joint tucked behind her ear, and when she didn't feel like driving anymore, she let Evan take the wheel while she smoked. He smiled at her as she lit up, and she smiled back and passed the joint over.

She told him she was on her way back home after a weekend at the lake with friends and that she didn't mind the company. Her nose and the tops of her shoulders were slightly sunburned.

She drummed her fingers on the dash to the beat of the loud music and sang along even louder, as if she meant every single word. It was the same angry Janis Joplin song that Pandora would have loved. 

But each time I tell myself that I
Well I can't stand the pain
But when you hold me in your arms
I'll sing it once again

It was powerful and raw, and she poured all her whole heart into singing it, even though she had absolutely zero talent whatsoever.

I'll say come on, come on
Come on, come on
And take it!
Take another little piece of my heart now, baby

They drove high for a couple hours, listening to music and laughing. 

Evan liked her — really liked her. What a shame, truly.

It was well after midnight when they pulled into that small, dark dive bar. She ordered a whiskey neat, and so did Evan. The drinks were cheap, and one quickly blurred into many. Some guys were playing pool, which Evan eventually joined in on at some point. She danced with strangers near the jukebox, shoved a guy who got too handsy, and then grabbed Evan’s hand as if they’d been friends for years and dragged him onto the dancefloor.

She was the kind of girl who could outsmoke him, outdrink him, beat him in a game of pool, darts, and probably arm wrestling too, and still feel the right to tell him off, exactly like Pandora.

“Don't go falling in love with me,” she teased in a low, drunken voice when they slow-danced, her breath hot against his ear, heavy with whiskey and smoke. “I'm not for the boys.”

“I won't,” he promised, laughed, and spun her around, but something tugged painfully at his heart.

In the early hours of the morning, they stumbled out of the bar, drunk and tired, her arm looped loosely around his.

Even though Evan’s ears rang from the loud music and everything was hazy from the alcohol, he didn’t miss the sound of more footsteps dragging behind them. Evan remembers the sound because it set him on edge, even before the man started slurring crude insults after her.

“Whore!” he barked, stumbling up behind them, drunken and clumsy. “You think you can treat me like that, you little bitch?”

She huffed, rolled her eyes. “Oh, fuck off!”

When the guy didn’t fuck off, Evan turned on his heel and swung. A clean hit, right to his jaw. The man staggered, fell back and his head hit the curb with a sickening thud.

Silence.

She stared at the man on the ground, blinking, blinking—

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Is he—?”

“He’s fine.”

“No. You fucking killed him!”

“No, I did not.” Evan said, his voice flat, distant.

She dropped to her knees beside the man, shaking him, frantic. “He’s not fucking breathing! Fuck!” Her voice climbed, shrill with panic — annoying in a way that truly grated on Evan’s nerves. “He’s not— he’s dead— oh my god, you—”

“For fucks sake, will you shut the fuck up?” Evan snapped.

She pushed up from the ground and staggered backward, eyes wide and wild. “You’re not even sorry. You don’t even care—”

“Yeah? So? No reason to be fucking hysterical.” He just looked at her, expression blank. “Be cool.”

“Be cool?? Fuck you!” Her voice was all fury and terror, barely holding together. “You fucking psycho. I should’ve never picked you up—”

He stared at her. She was shaking now, stumbling further backwards. Evan reached out, tried to steady her, but she lurched away, avoiding his touch and tripped over her boots and fell, scraping her hands and knees. And when she hastily got up again and turned to run away, that was a big mistake

*

Barty storms off.

So fucking dramatic…

And the French guy (Evan hasn't bothered to ask his name — why should he?) watches him go, amusement sparkling in his eyes, then leans back and whispers in French, “Oh, he looked pissed.”

Evan hums. “Yeah,” he says, letting the word drag. 

Unfortunately, that’s how I like ’em.

The guy shifts closer, the low light catching on his face — those ridiculous cheekbones, that smirk. “What do you say? You wanna get out of here too? I’ve got my bike parked outside.” His tone is casual, but his pale blue eyes are asking for permission.

Evan watches him for a beat, amused. On any other day, they’d already be fucking.

He takes a slow sip of beer, rolls the bottle between his palms. “You’re beautiful,” he says — because he is — “really.” Then comes the small shrug that says he could, but he won’t tonight. “...I’d be down any other day, but I’ve got this thing going with him.”

The guy chuckles — he’s easy, not offended. “Yeah, I figured.”

Evan leans in, conspiratorial. “You do this a lot? Approaching strangers to see if they’re down to fuck?”

The guy shrugs, grinning faintly. “Depends who walks into the bar. Sometimes I’m just bored, or lonely, or I need the money.” He lowers his voice. “My boyfriend works nights, and I work when I feel like it. He doesn’t mind.”

“Isn’t that dangerous in a place like this?”

The guy shrugs again. “You learn to read the signs. And obviously you don’t do anything out in the open, but no one here understands a word of French, so we’re safe. That’s why I like this place — nobody pays attention.”

“Yeah… that checks out.”

He taps the dark blue kerchief tucked into his right back pocket. “Anyway, I thought you were flagging. And what can I say, you looked really hot. You and him, both.” His smile widens for a moment, teasing and a little daring, the kind that makes his bright blue eyes light up. “I’m not against a ménage à trois, by the way, if that changes your mind.” 

He says it like a dare, and the French makes it sound even more charming.

Oh, he’s a flirt. Evan loves a flirt. His head tips back and he groans. “Fuuuck.”

“I just wanna find out if you can keep your promise.” the guy adds, still smiling.

Evan laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. I don’t think he’d be able to handle both of us.” He sets the empty bottle down with a soft clang. Then he smiles, but it barely reaches his eyes, and leans in real close. His breath is hot against the stranger's ear when he speaks, his voice a low rasp. “And he’s all mine.”

The guy leans back and flashes him a grin. There’s something half-sincere in it. “Well, fuck me, then. Good luck, stranger.” He brushes Evan’s arm and his fingers linger for a second. “But, if you ever change your mind you know where to find me…”

Evan chuckles watching the guy walk away.

*

When the door closes shut behind Evan, it immediately muffles the loud music from inside the bar. He reaches into his pocket for his pack and lights a cigarette, inhaling the sharp smoke.

Well, I don't know why I came here tonight
I got the feeling that something ain't right

The way back through the alley is real quiet, no people around. Evan feels a pleasant buzz in his gut from the alcohol, still hears the faint music spilling from the bar mixed with the distant hum of traffic carried on the warm desert wind. He takes a slow drag, really hoping Barty hasn’t left without him already.

Yes, I'm stuck in the middle with you
And I'm wondering what it is I should do

The further he walks, the more the music fades to a muffled beat, barely audible. Then something cuts through the dark — indistinct, drunken shouting. Evan stops dead in his tracks and goes very still, hyper-focused, until there’s only his own shallow breathing and the slurred, hateful threats.

“We oughta beat the faggot outta you,” a deep voice sneers. Other voices join in, laughing, and it’s not the kind that means joy. “You sick fuck—” and then an unmistakable sound, the sickening crack of skin on skin, cuts through the alley like a whip.

Evan falls into a fast, silent stride, he rounds the corner, and the scene hits him: three shadows force another figure against the brick wall. One of them is unmistakably the burly motherfucker from the diner bathroom, the others must be his buddies and the person pressed up against the wall is— 

Barty.

They’ve got him shoved to the wall, two of them have his arms pinned uselessly at his sides. His head is bowed, blood dripping from his nose in a red smear across his mouth.

“When we’re done with you,” one of them says, “you won’t be so pretty no more.” The others laugh again, drunk and ugly, and that’s all Evan needs to hear.

It's so hard to keep this smile from my face
Losing control, yeah, I'm all over the place

Something sharp and cold clicks into place. It’s the kind of searing rage that steadies him, that sharpens his focus, that makes everything narrow into a tunnel, bright and pulsing around the edges.

He exhales once, slow. Then smiles — wide, but it doesn’t reach his eyes — and moves without thinking, a sudden, silent shift of weight, stepping out of the darkness into the flicker of the streetlamp.

“Hey, assholes,” he growls, flat, stripped of humor or warning, just noise to get their attention.

The men’s postures harden before they slowly turn toward him. For a moment, the alley holds its breath. And then something shifts and one of them lunges right at him. The first swing is wide and clumsy — too much beer, too arrogant.

Clowns to the left of me
Jokers to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle with you

Evan ducks, his hand automatically reaching for his boot. His fingers find the familiar weight of cold steel. The muscles in his calves tense. He turns in one fluid movement and comes back up hard. His knife flashes silver in the low light. A deep grunt attests the painful impact.

The man’s eyes go ridiculously wide. 

Evan knows exactly where to drive it into the soft flesh, where it will pierce vital organs and major arteries. The blade finds his gut twice more before the others even register what’s happening. The man clutches at blood that wasn’t there a second ago, gasps once, and dies before Evan pulls the knife out of his body and steps back.

“Which one of you clowns is next?” he says, a manic grin plastered across his face as he spins the knife in his hand. Well, fuck — looks like this is going to be the most fun Evan’s had in days.

The second one, the burly fucker, swears and stumbles back, with Evan closing in, fumbling for his gun.

“Too slow.” Evan clicks his tongue. Next thing he knows is pure, rapid motion; it’s an automatic reflex. There’s no thinking, no room for that.

He grabs the man's wrist, slams it against the wall — bone giving way with a dull crack, and the gun clatters useless to the ground. Evan kicks it out of reach before driving his knee into the man’s gut; he feels something snap beneath the impact.

He flips the knife and the next backhanded strike drives the blade up fast under the man’s chin. He screams but Evan twists and yanks the blade free. A hot spray of blood bursts from the gaping wound in his throat and the body slumps to the ground.

The third guy freezes — good instinct, bad timing.

Evan straightens. Warm blood slowly runs down his wrist, dripping down the blade onto the ground in a soft patter. His chest heaves, he slows his breathing to a deliberate, cold rhythm. There is only the solid response of his moving muscles, the cold steel in his grip, the thick metallic tang in the air, and the intoxicating rush of the kill. It's instinct. Adrenaline courses through his body; he feels charged and utterly untouchable.

He uses the moment and glances over at Barty, just for a second—

Big mistake.

Barty’s still there. The same man who just bailed in a fit of jealousy and pride is now staring back at him, watching him kill, wide-eyed, flushed, lips parted. 

Gorgeous. Fucking beautiful.

Nothing matters except the rush that Barty’s gaze triggers — raw, complicated, edged with something that looks dangerously close to… shock?!

Fuck.

The adrenaline cuts out cold. It’s as if the world jerks to a sudden halt — the music cuts, like a record scratch. Like someone slammed on the brakes too hard; a brutal crash-stop, the kind that knocks the air out of your lungs. 

The muffled city noises and the drum in his ears crash back in and drown him like a tidal wave and Evan becomes acutely aware of the blood on his knuckles, splattered across his face, and the metallic taste in his mouth. 

And no… no, no, no — fuck! 

Barty opens his mouth to say something, but the third guy (oh, right, he’s still there, too) beats him to it.

“Fucking bastard,” he spits. “Should string you up for that.”

He turns to run, but Evan is quicker — he throws the knife before his brain can even catch up with what his muscles have already decided for him. The blade hits square in the man’s back before he can take a third step. It buries itself deep, just below the shoulder blade. He tumbles forward and hits the pavement face-first.

Evan walks over stiffly, kneels down, yanks the knife free. He wipes the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt, slides it into the holster hidden in his boot, then straightens up.

He takes a deep breath before turning and looking back. Barty is still just standing there, on the other side of the dimly lit alley, staring at him intently.

Evan smiles back at him, lopsided, the sound of his ragged breathing caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.

He hadn’t expected him to still be there at all — any sane man would’ve run. But Barty stayed. Watched it all. Doesn’t look away now. Doesn’t flinch.

Evan expects fear, disgust, panic, anything. Barty should be horrified, repulsed. Instead, he looks at him like he’s seeing something… holy. Pure, raw awe.

And fuck, it hits like a high — makes Evan feel like a god.

Barty takes a step away from the wall, his eyes darting briefly from one lifeless body to the next before finally settling on Evan again as he slowly moves toward him, like a wildcat caging in his prey. Only, Evan is a fucking predator too, and now Barty knows.

“What a fucking mess,” he sighs. His voice sounds calm, bordering on slightly bored, but nothing more.

Evan winces and exhales a deep breath he didn't even realize he had been holding. But hearing Barty's voice calms him instantly. “It's their own fault,” he explains. “They shouldn't have threatened you.”

“You didn’t have to kill them for it.” There’s no anger in Barty’s voice, no accusation — he simply states it as if he were commenting on the color of the sky.

Oh, fucker.

“Excuse me, but did I miss something? I didn’t see you trying to stop me.” Evan pauses.

Oh.

“Look at you...” he says, stepping closer, a faint grin spreading as he studies Barty. “You're trembling. And now I can’t tell if it’s from fear... or something else.”

Barty comes even closer, close enough that Evan can feel his breath on his skin. “I’m not scared,” he whispers, then leans up and his tongue darts out to lick a trail of blood from Evan’s face.

The action is primal; slick tongue slides across his heated cheek, gathering up cold blood. Blood that isn’t sweet, sticky cherry. Evan faintly remembers it’s not even his and that it probably is damn stupid if it weren’t so hot. It must be the filthiest thing he’s ever experienced, so fucked up it sends a rush of pure, overwhelming lust straight to his groin.

His breath hitches, eyes slamming shut for a moment before he manages to regain his composure. “I’m not only good at killing people, you know,” he whispers back.

Barty hums, steps back, looks up at him skeptically — one eyebrow arched. “You’re disturbed in a very special way, aren’t you?” he says, nodding once, face expressionless, then turns and walks back toward the parking lot.

“Hey, wait! You think I’m special?” Evan calls playfully and then hurries to catch up with him.

*

By the time they reach the car, Evan plants himself against the driver’s door before Barty can reach it, deliberately blocking him from unlocking it. “Say please.” 

He means it — waits, just to see what Barty will do.

(Hopefully something stupid.)

Barty stares him down, teeth clenched, a low sound rumbling in his chest. “Move.” And then he shoves Evan against the car, hard. He glares at him beneath dark eyebrows with fire in his eyes.

It’s not real anger, not really; Evan can see it in the way a crooked smile tugs at the corners of Barty’s mouth. His nose has stopped bleeding and the dried blood is smeared on his upper lip, but his lower lip is split open and is oozing fresh blood.

“Sorry about the blood on your face…” Evan reaches up — unable to help himself and drags his thumb across Barty’s mouth, smearing red.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Barty murmurs, suddenly pliant, his eyes fluttering as he leans into the touch.

A warm wave of satisfaction floods Evan.

He wants to taste Barty. Skin, sweat, spit, cum, blood.

Everything. All of him. Whatever he’s willing to give.

“Military school,” Evan replies curtly. Dropping his voice, quiet and dangerous. “Want me to show you how easy it is to slit a man’s throat?”

Barty smiles, stormcloud eyes glinting dark. “Maybe.”

Evan tilts his head, smiling too. “What if I want you to beg for it first?”

Barty's eyebrows knit together and he tilts his head away again, out of Evan's reach. “Then why don't you make your French fuckboy beg for it instead?”

“Do you really think I'd rather fuck him than you?” Evan tsks. “That's cute.” And then he sticks his tongue out flat, runs his thumb over it and licks it all up, Barty's blood, nice and clean. His eyes roll back, he grins menacingly, can’t suppress it. Can’t suppress the moan that escapes from the depths of his throat either, a dark sound of pure, consuming satisfaction.

Barty tastes like sweet summer wine, a cherry fucking popsicle and a straight shot of pure herion to Evan's veins. 

He leans in. “You have no idea what I'm gonna do to you. I'll eat you alive. I'll never let you go. Don't you dare think you're anything other than mine, understand?”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moves.

It’s one of those moments again where Evan isn’t sure if Barty’s about to punch him or kiss him.

But then Barty crashes their mouths together in a desperate, violent claim that feels less like a kiss and more like an attempt to destroy them both. 

A hand clamps around Barty's neck, the other locks around his waist, pulling him tight. 

Barty’s tongue plunges deep and hungry. Fingers claw into Evan’s hair, his other hand, initially braced against Evan's chest, slides up and knots hard into the collar of Evan's shirt.

Evan's graze the split skin on his lip as he licks into Barty’s mouth, tasting the sharp burn of tequila and the coppery richness of blood all mixed up in Barty’s spit.

It’s rage and hunger. It’s so hot and messy, all twisted in one single fucked-up kiss. Barty is the most perfect, most insane thing Evan has ever experienced.

He’s everything. 

When they finally break apart, both of them are panting. Their breathing is ragged and harsh, the only sound cutting through the dead silence of the empty parking lot.

Evan grins and finally moves away from the door. “See? You do know how to play nice.”

“Don’t you ever do that again.” Barty growls, eyes dark, a smear of red on his lips.

“Or what?” Evan asks, playfully pretending to snap at Barty's lip with his teeth.

“You’re not getting back in the car like that.”

Evan bursts out laughing and a broad grin flashes across his face.

Using the kerchief, he wipes most of the blood from his arms, hands, and face. The piece of cloth is filthy now — no longer mustard-yellow but stained dark red. He crumples it up and shoves it back into his pocket before climbing into the passenger seat.

Barty starts the car and pulls back onto the interstate heading west.

*

After a while Evan leans over nudging Barty’s arm with his elbow. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

“Liked what?” Barty glances over, eyes flat. “Making out with you?”

Evan shakes his head, lips quirking, he feels quite smug about the whole ordeal. “That too, obviously. But I saw the way you looked at me back there. And I think you liked seeing what I’ll do for you. How far I’d go. I bet you’d let me gut anyone who looks at you sideways — and you’d do the same for me.”

Barty shrugs, no sign of remorse. “Maybe. I don’t like sharing.”

Evan’s grin goes lazy. “Jealous much?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Barty says flatly. “And you shouldn’t tempt me.”

“Tempt you?” Evan snorts, a short bark. “I saved you.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” Barty snaps, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not — you were completely defenseless and those assholes would’ve fucked you up real good if it wasn’t for me.”

Barty clicks his tongue. “I had it under control.”

“Sure,” Evan drawls, nodding. “You tell yourself that.”

Barty abruptly grabs Evan by the neck and pulls him close. Fingers pressing the pulse point beside Evan’s jaw. “Listen, if you ever so much as flirt with anyone else ever again, I’ll make sure they regret it — and you too.”

“Or what?” Evan presses himself into Barty’s grip. “You’ll kill someone for me too?”

Barty’s eyes go cold for a flash and he lets go. “If I have to.”

“And you lecture me about temptations?” Evan jabs a finger at him, grinning. “Don’t worry your pretty little head — jealousy suits you, cowboy.”

“I should’ve killed that French cunt, just for looking at you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he wanted to fuck you. Just like that pig at the gas station.”

“Well, he wanted to fuck me — hence the look. But the gas station guy? What did he do?”

“Nothing…” Barty groans. “He just was an asshole.”

Evan cocks his head to the side. “You kill him?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know…” Barty just shakes his head, wiping a smear of dried blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb in a pathetic attempt to hide the grin tugging at his lips. 

Evan sees it, of course. And he'd die to know. But he’d rather have Barty tell him on his own terms, so he doesn’t press. Besides, he’s still pissed about Barty’s incredibly stupid recklessness. “You really need to learn how to protect yourself. I can’t have my pretty boy wander around a place like that, looking all fancy and shit, only to get assaulted by a group of thugs.”

“There’s a gun in the glove compartment,” Barty says, matter-of-factly.

Evan squints, turns and pops it open. Sure enough — there’s a gun and next to it, a pair of delicate black leather gloves. Who the hell actually keeps gloves in their glove compartment?

Of course, Barty does.

“Oh sure, leave it in the glove box — perfect, for when you’re nowhere near your car and some pervert jumps you in a dark alley and tries to smash your fucking brains in, or worse, tries to grab your ass.”

Evan takes out the gun — a Colt, made of dark metal with a polished wooden handle — it feels heavy in his hand. He aims it toward the street, then swings it to point at Barty's head.

“What would you do if I pulled the trigger?”

Barty chuckles as if it's the dumbest question he's ever heard. “I'd die on the spot,” he says without batting an eyelid. “And then the car would crash at a hundred miles an hour and you'd die too.”

Evan chuckles too, then releases the safety catch on the gun with a sharp mechanical click. “So what? What if I don’t care if I die? If we both die? I could kill you right now if I wanted to.”

“Do you want to?”

Evan leans in, closing the distance between them and lowers his voice. “I can tell that you actually like it when I get other people’s attention. It makes you want to prove that you’re the only thing I want. Makes you want to prove that I’m yours, too.” He reaches out, wipes the rest of dried blood from Barty’s cheekbone with his thumb. His voice is merely a low, abrasive whisper, his breath hot against Barty’s ear. “Makes me wonder… what else you’d do for me?”

“Why don’t you go ahead and find out? Do it, shoot me, I won't stop you.” Barty's voice drops, deep and dangerous, and it sends a shiver down Evan's spine.

“You are one crazy bastard, I’ll give you that,” Evan says quietly, almost affectionately. And for a second he considers not doing it, because he feels this little thing between them has become something very special; but he's growing more and more possessive over Barty, and that might end up being a problem.

He pulls the trigger.

Click.

Evan throws his head back, laughing as if it were the funniest fucking thing he'd heard all week. Barty just grins and keeps driving, unimpressed.

“Who the fuck keeps an unloaded gun in their glovebox?”

“Someone who thinks it’s very cute that you’d think I wasn’t in charge of the situation. Someone who...” Barty says very slowly and slyly, allowing Evan’s gaze to flit down briefly, where he spots the heavy steel barrel of another gun pointed directly at him, loosely in Barty's lap. “...always carries the loaded one.”

Evan smirks, lowering the useless Colt. “You gonna kill me now, cowboy?”

This motherfucker actually considers it for a moment; Evan can tell by the way his eyes narrow without looking away from the road.

“You took them from me. And I don’t like when someone takes away my toys. Not gonna lie, it was hot watching you kill, I’ll give you that, but there’s nothing like the rush when you’re the person wielding the power over someone else's life and death, don’t you think?”

“How fucked up are you really, Barty? Does murder turn you on?”

“Would that scare you?” Barty’s smile sharpens and his hand shoots out, gripping Evan’s chin just long enough to make the point. “Right now I can’t decide if I want to kill you or keep you around to fuck.”

Evan's pulse quickens and he can't suppress his smile; his anxiety mixes with arousal, and heat swells in his chest. Barty feels like a drug hitting his veins, this is what he lives for. The thought that this might be the last good time he'll ever have.

“So,” Barty murmurs, voice low, almost amused, “why don’t you stop talking and put that pretty little mouth of yours to work? Maybe that’ll increase your chances of survival.” He braces the steering wheel with his knee and starts to unbuckle his belt with his free hand.

Oh, he’s going to love this. 

“You do realize you just admitted that you think I’m hot and that I have a pretty mouth?” Evan purrs.

“God, you're so annoying. Shut up.”

“Make me.”

With a soft click, Barty releases the safety catch on his gun, which is still pointed at Evan. “You really need to talk less and get to work,” Barty says in a low, threatening voice.

Evan doesn't argue. Instead, his fingers brush Barty’s hand away, taking over the task of unbuckling the belt. He pops the button and pulls the zipper down with excruciating slowness, it gives way with a soft rasp. Beneath the denim, his fingertips drag against the thin fabric of Barty’s boxers, tracing the unmistakable, straining outline of his cock already hard and desperate against the soft cotton.

All the while, Evan’s eyes never leave Barty’s face. He watches the slight flush climb on those ridiculous cheekbones, the pupils blown wide and dark in the low neon glow of the dashboard. Barty’s breath hitches, a faint sound lost in the hum of the car, but Evan feels it, a tremor in the air between them.

When Evan’s gaze finally drops down, there is undeniable evidence of Barty's impatience: a dark, sticky wet spot blooming on the cotton, where the head presses tight against the seam, precum already soaking through.

“Fuck— you’re already soaked, baby.”

Eager now, almost desperate to prove himself, Evan leans in, his breath a warm whisper as he kisses the heated skin just above the waistband of Barty’s boxers. Barty’s throat works, and a deep, guttural groan rumbles in his chest, a sound that makes Evan's own blood sing.

“Wanna taste it.” Evan’s voice is a low, husky murmur against Barty’s skin, and he feels the shudder that ripples through Barty on his lips.

And then, without another word, his mouth is on Barty again. He licks and sucks over the wet patch, slow and hungry, drawing the salty sweetness onto his tongue. It’s fucking filthy, makes Evan’s head spin and the taste ignites a feral pleasure in him.

Barty’s cock twitches up, hardening even more against Evan’s lips and he shudders again, his breath hitching in a desperate gasp. “God, look at you,” he exhales, a low, ragged sound. “You like how I taste?”

Evan hums a low, guttural sound in his throat. “Yeah, like it.” His fingers curl around Barty’s straining length through the boxers. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else.” he promises, his voice a velvet menace as he presses the heel of his palm over Barty’s engorged shaft through the fabric, grinding slowly, deliberately, until a low, broken moan tears itself from Barty’s throat.

He slips his hand beneath the waistband, dragging his fingers through coarse hair before tugging the boxers down in one smooth motion.

Barty’s cock springs free — thick and flushed — slapping against his abdomen with a soft, wet sound and Evan stares. His eyes are wide, dazed, spellbound by the sight that is Barty.

“Oh, fuck.” Evan’s voice is a reverent whisper, thick with awe. “You’re so fucking sexy.”

His cock stands hard and heavy between his thighs. Not as big as Evan (hardly anyone ever is), but perfectly straight throbbing with raw want, every vein lit up, angry and desperate for contact.

Precum beads from the flushed, swollen tip and slowly drips down the shaft, along its entire length, silently begging to be touched.

"How long has it been since you—?" Evan breathes out, his voice a mere thread of sound.

"A while..." Barty confesses, his voice sounds strained.

“Fuck, baby, gonna make you feel so good.” Evan promises, his hand wrapping around him fully, encompassing the heat and hardness. He gives a few deliberate strokes, each one a carefully calculated caress.

Barty makes a shaky, choked noise as Evan drags his thumb over the tip, smearing the slick — making it wet and shiny and insanely sensitive. Barty trembles all over, and Evan revels in it, watching him come undone with nothing but his touch.

Fucking gorgeous, unfairly so, the sight makes Evan’s mouth water.

“Ngh— feels good.”

“Yeah? I’m gonna suck you off so good, you’ll wanna fuck my mouth forever, make you lose your mind,” Evan murmurs, his voice rough with want. “So you better not crash the car when I make you come down my throat.”

The choked, desperate sound Barty makes in response goes straight to Evan’s own cock, already straining, aching uncomfortably tight against the denim of his jeans.

Then, without warning, Evan leans down and takes him into his mouth. Whole, all the way — a rush of slick heat and sudden, engulfing pressure that makes Barty moan loudly, a shout of pure sensation. The car veers off the road just a little before Barty regains control and jerks the steering wheel back. It makes Evan’s stomach jolt a little.

Evan pulls back slowly, deliberately teasing, his lips flushed and wet. One hand wrapped tight around the base, he suckles the head which sits heavy and pulsing on his tongue before releasing it with a wet plop.

And then cold metal kisses his temple — the barrel of the gun, pressed hard to his skin. It’s exhilarating.

Fuck. 

Evan shudders, a rush of pure adrenaline curses through him as he continues to place gentle kisses and delicate licks on the head. Coaxing all kinds of pretty noises out of Barty.

“F-fuck— Didn’t know… fuck— You’re really good at this.”

The whole situation is quite insane; imagine sucking someone off so good they crash and you both die, but Evan is too far gone to give a shit, he’s enjoying himself and Barty’s cock in his mouth way too much right now.

Would be even better if Barty would grab his hair, shove him down, hold him there. Let him choke. Let him take it. Let him prove himself how good he will be for him. But Barty doesn't, so Evan sucks once more and then pulls off completely again.

“No— don’t stop. Fuck—” Barty’s voice is a desperate croak.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Evan tuts. “I’ll give you more, baby, but I need to hear your voice. I want you to keep talking while I suck you off, so you don’t worry your pretty little head too much and focus only on me.”

Evan licks the tip slowly, drawing out the slickness, making Barty whimper, a high, fucking delectable sound.

“You sound so hot, baby. Makes my dick hard as fuck.”

He grazes his front teeth along Barty’s engorged length — not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to make him feel the razor-edge of sensation and to see what it does to him. Barty responds with a visceral reaction, hisses, a sound sharp and low, like steam escaping a pressure valve.

“Tell me, who was the last guy who sucked you off like this?” Evan murmurs against the velvet skin. “Did he even come close to making you feel this good?” 

Barty moans, a deep, frustrated sound in his throat, but his cock betrays him and throbs violently against Evan’s lips.

“Come on, sweetheart, use your words or I’ll stop and then you’d have to pull the trigger, and you don’t want that, do you, now?” Evan's voice is a silken threat.

“No,” Barty breathes, his voice ragged with strain. “No. Don’t want that—”

“Did you pick him up too?”

“N-nothing like that. Aah—”

Barty shifts deeper into the seat, his thighs tensing hard against the leather, and Evan hums around him, his mouth hot and relentless, bobbing his head, urging him on without words.

“It was a guy I went to school with—”

He suckles the tip, drawing a tight vacuum, then sinks down again, deeper this time, rocking back and forth with a growing, insistent rhythm.

“Boarding school,” Barty grits out, the word barely audible.

Evan pulls off slowly, letting spit trail down from his open mouth over the leaking tip. It mixes with the precum, slick and shiny as it runs down Barty’s length, wet and obscene, making such a beautiful mess.

“We shared a room. Ngh— We shared a lot of things.”

He licks up the entire underside of Barty’s cock, right along that pulsing vein, and gathers it all back in his mouth, then wraps his lips tight around the tip and sucks harder now, hollowing his cheeks..

“He was my— my first kiss. My first blowjob—”

Evan uses his tongue in slow, deliberate circles, an exquisite form of torture, then adds the teeth again — just a scrape, just enough to make Barty’s legs twitch violently.

“The first guy I— Ah! I ever fucked,” Barty goes on, his voice strained, nearly broken.

Evan lets out a low, dark laugh, muffled around Barty’s cock, his tongue teasing the narrow slit on the tip. Barty groans deep in his throat, his head falling back against the headrest with a desperate thud.

Evan pulls off to look up. 

Barty looks gorgeous, mouth slack, sweat beading on his long pale neck, beautifully bare in the low passing lights.

“Are you still in love with him?” Evan asks, before he buries Barty’s entire length down his throat again without waiting for an answer.

“He’s— we—” Barty stammers, the sound strangled, catching in his throat.

Oh.

Evan doesn’t pause, but it hits something deep inside. Love. The feeling in his chest is somewhere between pathetic and dangerous.

Is Barty still in love with him? He must be.

Well, in that case, Evan will make Barty forget him. Forget everyone else too. He will make him forget his own name and the color of the sky once he’s done with him.

He wants to make it so good for him. He wants to give him everything he needs, but is too scared to ask for. 

He desperately wants Barty to come down his throat with his fucking gun pressed against Evan’s head. It’s vile. It’s disgusting. It's, it's… completely messed up and oh-so-fucking-good.

Evan hears the soft, metallic click of the gun’s safety being flipped off. Then the dull thud of metal as Barty places it beside him, against the door.

And then finally, finally — Barty’s hand sinks into Evan’s hair and yanks.

Evan releases him with a loud, wet pop. “You gonna fuck my pretty mouth now, or what?”

He spits, and it’s filthy and deliberate, and takes him even deeper this time as Barty shoves him down — swallowing him whole. He lets the throbbing length slide down his throat until his nose is buried in coarse, dark hair, the tip pressing painfully against the back of his throat. Then he swallows hard.

Barty moans — a loud, desperate, guttural sound. His grip tightens, fingers tangled deep in Evan’s hair, the skin tugging taut as his cock throbs against his tongue.

“You want that?” he growls, his voice raw and thick. “Want me to fuck you? Use you?”

Yes— fuck, yes.

Evan is wild for it. Desperate to be used. To be wanted. He’s in love.

Oh.

He doesn’t say it. Luckily, he can’t. He’s unable, with Barty’s hot, hard dick nudging the back of his throat. He just nods once, a slight, frantic movement, and stays right where he is. Jaw slackened, waiting obediently for the next command.

And that’s all the permission Barty needs.

He feels Barty’s fingers tighten to a rough, commanding grip in his hair. He jerks his hips up, sharp and sudden, and forces Evan further down onto his cock. The movement causes Evan to choke, a low, pathetic moan escaping his throat like a fucking bitch, and the sound of it only spurs Barty on, his thrusts getting more erratic and punishing by the second.

The noises they make are so fucking obscene it makes Evan’s head spin — a high-pitched whine of pleasure mixed with the thick, wet sound of pounding flesh. He loves it. He stays there, throat tight and straining around him, swallowing him whole.

Barty thrusts up again, slower this time but deeper, forcing a hold. He holds Evan pinned there, watching him take it. All of it.

“Fuck, Evan, you’re so fucking hot. I swear to God — I’m so close,” Barty mutters, barely audible, his voice sounding so fucking ruined, utterly wrecked with pleasure.

“So good for me, Rosie— Ngh— fuckkk!” Barty is reduced to a babbling mess. He jerks his hand up, so his cock slides out of Evan’s mouth and forces him to look up. His eyes are dark and intense, he’s gasping for air; Evan is wrecking him.

He tilts his head back, eyes heavy-lidded so Barty can see everything. Drool drips from his mouth, slipping down his chin; his lips feel swollen from the abuse, his throat aches, and he knows he looks like a goddamn vision.

“Oh my— fuck, look at you— Jesus, fucking hell.” Barty’s voice cracks, thick with something between lust, disbelief, and reverence.

Evan grins. “Evan is fine, Rosie, if you’re being a good boy, but sure, I can be Jesus too, if that’s what you’re into.”

There’s that annoyed little flinch in Barty’s face before he gets a hold of Evan’s hair again, but Evan is already sinking back down onto Barty’s cock on his own accord. His hips buck up, fucking himself into Evan’s mouth, while firmly locking him in place.

Evan can tell how close he is, by the way his cock is frantically throbbing on his tongue.

“Evan, wait. Evan! I’m… I’m going to come." Barty’s hips stutter, his breath catches— 

“Fuuuuuuccckkk—” he’s gasping, and then he comes with a strangled, violent groan, his head thrown back against the headrest with a heavy thud. His hand is locked in Evan’s hair like a lifeline, keeping him firmly in place. He spills down Evan’s throat. Hot, thick, endless. It’s so much, but Evan takes every drop.

Evan doesn’t pull away. He just stays there, swallows every salty offering Barty is willing to give, like worship. He lets Barty tremble and curse, riding out his orgasm with shaky breaths and slack limbs.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Rosie,” Barty curses again, his voice raw and ragged with aftershock.

When Barty has calmed down, Evan slowly eases back. He releases him with a wet plop and tucks Barty’s already softening cock back into his boxers.

“That’s it, good boy,” Evan whispers, and Barty inhales sharply.

Evan’s lips feel swollen and tender, his cheeks are slick and damp. He must look wrecked. A mix of spit and cum slides down his chin, and he wipes it away with the back of his thumb.

Evan looks up at him and grins, his hand lingering in front of his mouth. Barty’s pupils are blown wide and black, he stares at Evan like he’s something unreal, some kind of terrifying vision. “You were fucking made for this, weren’t you, Rosie?” he murmurs. “Made just for me.”

Then Barty grabs Evan’s wrist and pulls his thumb into his mouth. Sucks it clean, slowly and purposefully, tasting himself on Evan’s skin.

It’s fucking obscene.

So filthy, Evan feels his spine arch as a white-hot current runs from his skull all the way down to his tailbone.

It’s glorious.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, voice low and breathless. “Is that how you always get guys to suck your cock?” His grin widens, his voice hoarse from the effort. “Gun to their head and then you tell ‘em about your tragic first love?”

Barty’s eyes flash. “Where’d you learn to suck dick like that? Military school, too?”

Evan tilts his head. “Actually, yeah.” He grins dumbly like he’s high. Then he leans back in his seat, exhaling slow. He’s still rock hard. Painfully so. His cock strains against the rough denim, aching, leaking. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself with a sharp breath through his teeth.

He could touch himself right here.

Jerk off, get some relief, right next to Barty.

He'd be able to come within seconds, embarrassingly fast.

But he doesn’t.

Not like this. Not yet. He can be patient.

He decides it’s best to smoke some more, to calm down. So he starts to roll another joint, the grass almost gone now, just a few crumbs at the bottom of the crumpled bag. He’d taken it from the girl, after he loaded her onto the bed of her truck, and took one of her rings too, because, well… they looked cool and he wanted something to remember her by — it fit on his ring finger next to his pinky, where he wore Pandora's signet ring, since the same finger on his other hand was already occupied by the other new ring.

It was over quick.

He drove south on the interstate for a few miles, listening to some of her cassettes, solid stuff. Evan abandoned the pickup on a secluded dirt road and simply walked away.

He was efficient about it. He’d been proud of it, until he wasn’t.

She looked peaceful there in the early dawn, dappled sunlight across her face, almost like she was sleeping — except for the dirt in her hair and the blood smeared across her nose and lips.

He lights the joint and takes a deep hit, and when Barty looks at him, he holds it out to share. To Evan’s delight, Barty takes it and even turns the radio back on.

*

Evan met Pandora down by the river after slipping out of another of their father’s endless soirées. The place had been crawling with his associates, old men in suits, their wives and their preening sons and bored daughters, the air thick with cigar smoke and wine. All performance and politics.

Evan slipped out once the sun went down, like they always used to as children.

They didn’t need to plan it. He knew exactly where she’d be — sitting on the edge of the jetty, her bare feet dangling above the dark water, she was wearing a nice dress and had a stolen bottle of wine in her hand. 

The cicadas hummed in the vines behind them, and the night air clung warm to his skin, a freedom that felt almost illicit after hours of stiff collars and polite smiles.

They didn’t really get the chance to talk during the event and Evan hadn’t seen her since last Christmas. And yet when she turned her head and grinned at him, bottle raised in salute, it was as if no time had passed at all.

A few months after their grand-mère had died, their father sent her off to that preppy finishing school for girls in the Alps to make a fine lady of her — teach her the social graces, the upper-class rites and all that other bullshit a young woman should know as preparation for her entry into society. 

She’d written all about it. Letters full of complaints and homesick jokes about France and how much she missed him. 

And he missed her too.

Evan was shipped to a military prep school in Bavaria instead. (Because they had a reputation for being more brutal than the French equivalents.) Discipline and masculinity would be drilled into him via proper beatings, his father had explained, so he would forget all the soft bullshit grand-mére had taught him.

This has worked to the extent that Evan has mastered the art of hiding who he is and suppressing his feelings. 

Sensitivity is weakness. Discipline is survival.

But not around her. Never with her.

He sat down beside her, lit a cigarette. 

She leaned her head against his arm, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder now.

“Jeez, Ev, where are you planning on going? Space?”

“I’m not that tall.”

“Yeah, you are. Did you grow again?”

He was — especially next to her petite frame. She used to be taller than him when they were kids, and around fourteen Evan had started to shoot up like a beanpole, hasn’t stopped growing since, while she’d barely grown since.

“I think so… I’m taller than most of the other boys in school now.”

“And they make you wear that uniform all the time?”

“Yeah, but it’s better than the suits Papa used to make me wear to these types of shindigs.”

She leaned in and scratched her nails across his scalp, sending a shiver down his spine. She had to reach up — he really was about a head taller than her now.

“And what the fuck did they do to your hair again, huh?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.

He shrugged, taking another drag. “Buzzcut. Military rules.”

“I hate it. You look bald.”

For a moment it felt like being kids again — her swinging her legs, him sulking just enough to make her laugh.

“Fuck you, sis,” he said, grinning. He didn’t mean it; he loved her for her honesty, loved her for not lying, for never pretending. 

“Feels nice, though.”

“Yeah. I’ll grow it out again when I’m outta there.”

“Yeah, you should.”

At the time, he was just seventeen and didn't know that this — the uniforms, the buzzed hair, constantly missing her — would be his life for many more years to come.

He thanked her for her letters. She shrugged like it was nothing, but he meant it. His own had been pathetic — censored, meaningless. 

Dear sister, I am doing fine. Bullshit. 

Every word checked by the school. He made the mistake of telling her in his first letter how awful everything was there, and as a result he spent a week without food in a tiny cell. He didn't make that mistake twice and bottled everything up instead.

He studied her in the dim light. During their time apart, she’d sharpened, too. She was a woman now, no longer a child — all gracious and poise and practiced smiles at the right moments. The kind of lady their father wanted to parade, because he needed alliances. She was dazzling, but it wasn’t her.

“You look like a doll.” he teased.

“Ugh, I know. I can’t feel my scalp from my hair being pinned back so tightly, I can’t breathe in this corsage and my feet hurt from wearing heels all night. I tossed them in the water before you got here.”

Evan chuckled softly. He loved her so much that it made his heart ache. He only ever felt whole when he was around her. But that happened less and less as they got older.

And he wasn’t himself anymore either. His father’s plan had worked after all. They managed to break him. He was wearing his uniform, but it sat too snug around his shoulders and the pant legs were a bit too short, because he was still growing and his shoulders got wider and arms thicker.

They both had become everything their father wanted them to be — at least on the outside — and the very thought of it twisted something hot and ugly inside Evan.

“To surviving,” she said, drinking directly from the bottle before passing it over to him. She stole his cigarette too and took a drag like she’s been smoking for years. He didn’t know she picked up smoking, but he didn’t comment on it either.

The wine was nice. Evan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned his head on her shoulder. 

They traded silence and wine until he sighed. “I hated every second of that.” he said and lit another cigarette for himself.

“I know.” She perched on the edge of the jetty, swinging her feet like she was still ten. She sighed. “All those boys lining up like vultures, looking at me like I was some prize on display.” 

“They touch you?” he growled.

“I mean…” she rolled her eyes, exhaling smoke. “Yes, the obligatory, a kiss on the hand here, two on each cheek there…”

“I’ll kill every single one of them,” Evan snapped before he could stop himself. It came out sharper than he meant.

She smacked him on the back of the neck. “Don’t say shit like that.” She lowered her eyebrows warningly. Then she huffed, smirked, and shook her head. “Relax, frère. Nothing to worry about. Truth is, I don’t even like boys.”

Evan blinked. “What?”

“I like girls, Evy.”

“Oh…” Something shifted in him, sharp and startling. “Girls,” he echoed.

“Mm.” She sipped the wine. “You know, the ones that smell real nice, soft skin… tits?”

“Fuck off! I know what girls are…” he laughed.

“You’ve ever been with one?”

“There are no girls at my school.”

“Yeah, I know that, but they allow you to leave school, don’t they?”

“We have Ausgang on Saturdays once a month…”

Pandora hummed knowingly. “I bet those German girls are all over you then. So?”

Evan rolled the cigarette between his fingers. “Uhm…no.”

“Okay, if you don't wanna tell me, then keep playing coy, I'll start.” She shrugged, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Sometimes at school, some of the other girls and I would kiss. Just to practice, in secret. Only... for me, it was never only that. It made me...” She touched her stomach lightly. “...feel things. You understand that, right?

“No…” he answered, biting his lip, frowning.

But her words lodged inside him, bright and sharp. It didn’t make any sense. What she had said made something crack open inside of him. 

“You’re not gonna tell Papa, are you?”

“No, I—”

A thought so simple it should have occurred to him sooner, but it only just landed then, sharp as glass: I want that too. The kissing, the feelings. Only… not with girls, not in the way the boys wanted her either — but he wanted them. He wanted the closeness, the longing. A boy. A boy’s mouth. A boy’s hands. A boy’s—

“Oh…”

The realization made his skin prickle, hot all over. Maybe that’s why the rage always burned in him when the boys stared at her too long. It wasn’t just to protect her, it was jealousy. Because none of them ever looked at him that way.

Pandora’s smile faded when she saw his face. “Evy? What are you thinking? Tell me.”

His throat locked, his chest heaving like something feral was tearing loose inside. “I don’t want to go back,” he blurted. The words cracked, ugly and wet. “I don’t wanna leave you again. I don’t wanna go to that stupid school.” His hand trembled. “I can’t— Pan, I can’t.”

The wine he had all evening only made it worse, loosening his edges, breaking him further, until everything spilled. His face contorted.

“I thought maybe the reason I… thought about boys… was just… you. Your influence. But if you don’t even like boys, that means—”

“Oh Evy—” her face shattered.

“Papa always said grand-mére and your influence, the two of you, made me soft. Made me want to sing, and dance and read poetry and—”

“Oh, Ev. No, listen to me. That’s all you.”

It hit him like glass shattering. His face burned. He couldn’t breathe. Evan’s throat closed. His heart slammed against his ribs, and suddenly everything stopped to make sense. 

She must have noticed. She softened immediately, set the bottle down, and slid off the wall, and wrapped her arms around him.

“It is?”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s okay?”

“Of course it is.” She laughed softly, never cruel. “It’s beautiful. And I love you, no matter what, you never forget that, alright?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Seems like things have gotten a little messed up between us, huh?” she whispered.

Her embrace made him tremble. She smelled of lavender and wine, like home. Ashamed of his tears, he buried his face deeper into her shoulder and swallowed hard, but the ache wouldn’t go away.

“Hm… is it because we’re both Gemini?” 

She laughed. “No stupid, I think it’s because we’re both queer.”

He grinned. “So you really have never thought about kissing boys?” he asked, leaning his forehead against hers.

“No, never,” She replied, shaking her head.

“You’ve never wondered what it would feel like to have a guy’s dick in your mouth and—”

“Ugh! Gross, stop it!” she playfully pushed him away.

“Is it okay that I did?” he whispered.  

“Of course it’s okay.” Her voice was soft but fierce, unyielding. “Always. Just… don't tell me about the details.”

He had to laugh, but the tears were still streaming down his cheeks. He hated himself for crying. She was the one being dressed up and shown off. She should be the one crying. He should be strong for her. But she was the one stroking his hair, whispering, “Shh, je suis là, Evy. Je suis toujours là.”

He remembered the military drills, belts across his back and his father’s lectures about weakness every time he started crying. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t be the one crying.”

“Don’t be silly.” she murmured fiercely, one hand anchoring his neck in place while the other stroked his back. “Don’t you believe him. You’re stronger than he’ll ever be. All that shit he put you through? And look at you.”

She went quiet for a moment, absentmindedly stroking his temple with her thumb and letting her gaze wander over the dark water. After a long pause, the corners of her mouth twisted. “You know that one day Papa will eventually sell me off like cattle to the highest bidder, don’t you?” she said bitterly.

“Pan, stop...”

“No, listen to me, Ev, this is important. That's why he's sending me away, to tame me or whatever the fuck, and I'm willing to play along with this little game of his for as long as I have to. But when the day comes, I'm going to run away. I'm going to hide. He'll have to find me first.”

“Where?” Evan choked.

“As far away as possible.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “California? San Francisco maybe?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’d like that.”

“We won’t tell him. We must never tell him.” she said fiercely. She leaned back and hooked her little finger out, eyes flashing. “Promis?”

He curled his around hers. “Promis.”

And then he embraced her again. “I don’t want to leave you behind again.” he confessed and the words tumbled out, messy, boyish, desperate. His voice cracked, and he hated it. He was supposed to be strong, her protector, but his eyes burned hot and his throat hurt.

“He’ll never tear us apart,” she promised. “Not really.”

He clung to her tighter, desperate. “Jamais. Je ne t’oublierai jamais.” he whispered fiercely.

Chapter Text

Well, well, well...

Look at that! 

Evan fights like someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, kills like it’s in his blood and sucks cock like a whore. And here’s Barty thinking Evan was all bark.

Just watching him made Barty hard, aching. And when Evan locked eyes with him, just for a second, covered in another man’s blood, Barty’s breath stuttered, so turned on he could have died on the spot.

He shifts in his seat, fingers tightening on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. He’s still a bit dizzy from his high.

He steals a glance at him.

Evan is leaning back in his seat, playing with the unloaded gun, casually smoking a joint like nothing happened. Smug bastard; like he didn’t just suck Barty off with a kind of passion that should be illegal; like it’s his goddamn calling; like Barty isn’t still vibrating from it, skin too tight for his body, blood too loud in his ears.

It’s past midnight and about five minutes ago, New Mexico turned to Arizona and Barty almost missed the ‘The Grand Canyon State’ sign.

Barty exhales slowly through his nose. The pot makes him anxious again. He needs to think. He needs a line. And most of all, he really needs Evan horizontally. Needs to fuck him into a mattress until he forgets his own name. Or the other way around, both work.

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to steady himself, pretending not to notice how it’s shaking a little from lack of sleep or anticipation.

“I’m tired,” Barty says, his voice sounds strained, because he really is tired and it’s been a fucking long day. “Let’s find a place to crash for the night.”

Evan turns to him, one eyebrow raised. “Did I tire you out already, old man?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Barty mutters, eyes on the road.

Evan stretches, feet up on the dash, grinning sideways. “I can take over the wheel and drive, if you wanna take a nap.”

Barty snorts. “I won’t let you drive my car.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to. Besides, do you even have a driver's license?”

“Does it matter? I can drive.”

“So you don’t have a license.”

Evan rolls his eyes. “I do have a license. Happy now?”

“Yeah, but it's a French one.” Barty glances at him, his eyebrows furrowed mockingly. “Is a French license even valid in the US?”

“Yes it is.”

Barty narrows his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“What does that matter? I can drive a car. I can drive a truck. Fuck, I could even drive a tank if you needed me to.”

“Why the fuck would I need you to drive a fucking tank?”

Evan shrugs. “I don’t know, but I can.”

“Bullshit. You don’t know how to drive a tank.”

“I do.”

“Why? How?”

“Because I was taught.”

“By who??"

“I told you… military school.”

“Wait— I thought you were shittin’ me back there?”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“You actually went to military school?”

“Sorry, Mister Law-School-Dropout, does that surprise you?”

“I— you just don’t seem like the type, is all.”

“I don’t look like Lieutenant Rosier to you?”

Oh, fuck — the way Evan pronounces his own name, with that French accent, sounds so fucking hot. It actually sounds more like Rosie than how Barty would pronounce Rosier in English. (Not to mention the title...) 

“Lieutenant?” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

“Nah. You’re shittin’ me.” Barty decides, shaking his head.

“Have I lied to you?”

“What?”

“I asked if I’ve lied to you once today.”

He hasn’t — nothing Barty’s caught, anyway. “How— How would I know?”

“You wouldn’t, but I didn’t.” Evan grins before he groans, the look on Barty’s face must tell him he still doesn’t believe a single word. “Fine. I got sent to military prep when I was fifteen, then Saint-Cyr, then served two years in the infantry. I commanded a platoon — thirty men under me who did whatever I said. You saw me in close combat; tell me, did that look like I learned that from a Bruce Lee movie?”

Involuntarily, an image forms in Barty's mind — Evan in uniform, giving orders — fuck, even if it's not true, it hits him harder than it should, and will haunt Barty for all eternity.

Lieutenant…

He is torn between awe and exasperation.

Wait. Hold up. What the fuck is happening? Evan can’t be for real. No, he’s playing with him again.

“Barty? Are we seriously debating license validity and my military career right now? There’s a gas pedal, a clutch, and a brake.” Evan tilts his head. “Just let me drive the fucking car. You think I can’t handle a stick shift? Didn’t I just prove I’m more than capable?”

The only coherent thought Barty’s mind supplies him with right now is the fact that he just had his dick sucked by a Lieutenant (allegedly).

Fucking hell, he’s rock-hard again. He should probably decipher what that means, but he'd rather not. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just check if there are any free rooms at the next place we pass.”

“Why?”

He looks over, meets Evan’s gaze — God, now that he thinks about it, there really is something authoritarian about him, something stern, not to mention he looks damn fine in the shitty, dim light of the dashboard. “Jesus, Lieutenant Rosie, are you really that dense? I just want to get you somewhere with a bed so we can finally fuck.”

Evan throws his head back, laughing loudly. (Well, when he laughs like that, he doesn't exactly seem like a soldier.)

“Why didn’t you say so from the start? I’d be fine being bent over the hood — Jeez, I would’ve fucked you in the dirt on the side of the road, but okay, motel bed works too I guess.”

Barty lets his head fall back against the headrest and sinks deeper into his seat with a heavy sigh.

Evan is going to be the death of him.

*

Twenty minutes later, they pull into the parking lot of a dingy motel. The lot is mostly empty, just a few cars parked at the far end. Barty figures their chances of finding a free room are pretty good.

Barty kills the engine. "Wait here," he tells Evan curtly as he steps out and before he can argue, slams the driver’s door shut behind him. He adjusts himself, zipping his fly and buckling his belt.

The only sounds are the soft tick of the engine cooling, bugs clicking against a lone streetlamp, and the motel sign buzzing, casting a dirty orange glow across the cracked asphalt.

The motel is a typical L-shaped, two-story building with the doors to the rooms facing the lot. The office is tucked beneath the stairs, the light inside still on.

Behind the counter, a man in his thirties sits with his boots up on the desk, not looking up from his dog-eared paperback, as Barty steps inside and the bell above his head jingles softly. The stitching on his tan shirt says ‘J. Lobo’ in faded red thread.

“Good evening, sir. I’m Juan. How can I help you?” Juan asks, already reaching for the pegboard behind him where brass keys hang from plastic tags, still not looking up.

“One room,” Barty says curtly. “Just for one night.”

Juan finally glances up, his eyes meeting Barty's for a beat before drifting past his shoulder, through the dirty window. Barty instinctively follows the gaze and sees Evan, who did not wait in the car, but leans against the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette, looking exactly like the trouble he is. Barty stifles a surge of frustration and turns his gaze back to Juan, who already scrutinizes him, one of his eyebrows arches slightly. He scans Barty and the window again, a slow, knowing look. Barty feels a hot, defensive wave crawl up the back of his neck.

“I only got single-bed rooms left.”

“It’s not going to be a problem,” Barty states, clipped and flat.

Juan holds Barty’s gaze a second too long, then gives a slow, deliberate shrug. “Not. A. Problem,” he mutters, slowly nodding, turning back to the keys. “Top or bottom?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Sorry— what?” Barty nearly chokes on his own spit, thrown off by the implication.

Juan groans. “I asked which floor you prefer. Never mind, second floor it is.” he says and plucks a key from the top row of the board.

“Yeah— sorry, I— yeah, that’s fine.” Barty nods quickly, fumbling for his lighter. He sparks a cigarette, just to do something with his hands.

Juan slides the key across the counter. “Pay upfront. Twelve dollars a night. Cash only.”

Barty fishes a few bills from his wallet, slides them over the counter, and grabs the key. It dangles from a heavy, faded pink plastic tag, the room number printed in worn gold: 208.

“Up the stairs, last room on the right,” Juan says, nudging a chained pen and a slim logbook toward him. “Print name and plate number.”

Barty leans down and scrawls a name — something short, common, not his own — and a license plate number that might belong to someone in Nevada. Juan doesn’t seem to care, he’s already focused entirely on his book again.

Barty turns on his heel and steps out of the office without another word.

Evan’s sprawled across the hood of the car, cigarette hanging from his lips, all lazy posture and bad intentions.

That motherfucker is in no way, shape or form a military man.

“We’re on the second floor,” Barty says. “Come on.”

Evan exhales a thin cloud of smoke, eyes catching the pink key tag between Barty’s fingers. He slides off the hood and crushes the butt of the cigarette under his boot.

“Could’ve had me right here,” he says, strolling past Barty toward the stairs — snatching the key from his hand as he goes.

Barty follows him up the stairs, boots thudding on the concrete steps. His eyes catch on the mustard-yellow bandana — now blood-stained — stuffed into Evan’s back pocket. He’s been thinking about it ever since that French fucker at the bar pointed it out, but hasn’t dared to ask. Not until now.

“Does it mean anything?” he asks.

Evan throws a glance over his shoulder. “What does?”

“The handkerchief.” Barty nods toward Evan’s ass to make it clear.

Evan pauses halfway up, hand on the rail. He glances down, then reaches back, tugging it from his left pocket.

“This?”

“That.”

He turns around fully, bites his lower lip and reaches for Barty, hooks a finger into his shirt collar, tugging it just enough so that Barty has to take a step up to stand directly beneath him. “Are you asking if I’m flagging, cowboy?”

Barty blinks, not following.

“I’m asking why that French fucker seemed so interested in it,” he says flatly, voice low, full of challenge, not backing down.

Evan hums low in his throat, then shrugs. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Barty smirks — slow, dangerous. “You’re not gonna tell me? I know what black means…”

That’s a bluff. He doesn’t — not really. He’s always been curious, but he never tried anything like that with anyone.

“Well,” Evan grins wide, teeth flashing, “I guess it’s a good thing it’s not black then." He steps closer, down one step so that they are now on the same level —h e is so close that Barty can feel the heat between them — and then he reaches around Barty’s back and tucks the bandana into Barty’s right back pocket. “Now you are.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Guess you’ll have to find out.” Evan plucks the cigarette from Barty’s lips and turns toward the door to unlock it. He kicks it open with the edge of his boot, it creaks as it swings inward. Barty peers over his shoulder into the dimly lit room.

It’s exactly what you’d expect from some shithole motel in the middle of nowhere, where you pay cash up front, no questions asked. Looks like it hasn’t been renovated since the Eisenhower administration.

He follows Evan inside and locks the door behind him.

The room is small and the air inside is stale. It smells faintly of mildew, old cigarettes, and something chemical, Barty hopes is cleaner or bleach. He figures it hasn’t been properly aired out in days — maybe weeks. (Probably months.)

The overhead lighting seems to be broken. There’s no bulb in the fixture. The only light source is a weak lamp on a heavy wooden dresser, bathing everything in a dull yellow glow, its shade hanging crooked.

There’s only one window, right beside the door, but cheap-looking curtains are drawn shut, so that not even the neon light from outside comes in either. The room’s walls are covered with faux dark wood paneling, swallowing whatever little light is left.

A small desk sits in the corner with a rotary phone that probably doesn’t work and an ashtray, half-cleaned at best. A single vinyl chair with chrome legs and a crack down the backrest, is tucked underneath.

The single queen-sized bed takes up most of the space. It’s covered with a paisley spread in dull turquoise and tangerine — scratchy-looking polyester, probably unwashed.

Two wooden nightstands, one on either side. A built-in plastic clock-radio unit is mounted on one, its display relentlessly blinking red double zeros. A worn Bible with a cracked spine on the other.

Barty sits down on the chair, leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching Evan drift through the room.

Evan opens the bathroom door just enough for a strip of garish fluorescent light to spill across the carpet, the bed, the door, splitting everything in half like a blade — greenish and sterile against the amber-colored room. He closes it again, turns around and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Look at this,” he says, laughing, and grabs the Bible from the nightstand. “You really have one of these in every single room, in every motel and hotel across the entire country?”

Barty jerks his chin toward him. “You do know that’s just propaganda bullshit, right?”

Evan looks up, eyes sharp with amusement, before swinging his legs over the mattress and crossing his ankles. The cigarette hangs between his lips, smoke curling lazily from his mouth as he flips through the pages like it’s some cheap paperback.

“Ecclesiastes 3:19,” he says, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, his voice slipping into a mock-sermon cadence. “For what happens to the sons of men also happens to beasts: as one dies, so dies the other; they all share the same breath. Man has no advantage over the beast. For all is vanity.” He grins, flicks ash onto the floor, and looks over. “Guess that makes us nothing but roadkill.”

“Wow. Poetic,” Barty says flatly, fishing for his own pack of cigarettes in his pocket only to find it empty. He crushes the carton in his fist and tosses it onto the table. “Let me guess — the next page says God loves us anyway?”

Evan turns the page with an exaggerated flick of his wrist and scans it. “Hmm… not quite.” He lowers his voice again, as if he were sermonizing, reading slower this time, savoring it.

“Ecclesiastes 8:8: No man has power over the spirit to retain it, nor power over the day of his death. There is no discharge in that war.” He pauses theatrically to look at Barty. “And wickedness shall not save the wicked.”

Barty snorts. “What a load of bullshit.” He slouches back in the chair, arms folded across his chest. “Fuck that shit.”

“Speak for yourself.” Evan shrugs, shuts the Bible, and takes a slow, indulgent drag. “I don’t plan on dying like some damn animal.”

“No? Well, then I hope you plan on fucking like one. And that quoting scripture is just some kind of weird foreplay to you.” He shakes his head. “Now, give me one of your cigarettes, you took my last one.”

“So you don’t believe in God?”

“No.” Barty makes a grabbing motion with his hand. “Cigarette.”

“And you don’t believe in fate either.”

Barty groans. “Oh, so you do pay attention. Give me a fucking smoke, man.”

Evan ignores him. “So you don’t believe in God or fate…” He studies Barty for a long, quiet moment — as if he could actually see through his façade. The intensity of his gaze alone sends a tingle up Barty’s spine. “Then, what do you believe in, Barty?”

Barty’s jaw ticks. He’s not in the mood for this shit. Not now. Especially not with Evan. “You gonna stop with the stupid questions and hand me a fucking smoke?" His hand stays outstretched, fingers twitching. “Please?”

But Evan only takes another slow drag. “No, really,” he murmurs. “I’m curious. I wanna know. But you deflect and get angry. Why is that?”

Barty groans, slouching forward in his chair. “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.”

“No,” Evan says softly. “Not just now. I mean always. You’re pissed off all the time.”

“Wanna play shrink again? Got more of that cosmic star-sign-crap for me?” Barty mocks. “I thought you wanted to fuck, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t you worry, we will.” Evan exhales a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling, head tipped back, not even looking at him. “I just want to get to know you better before I fuck your brains out.” Barty watches the movement of Evan’s throat as he speaks, the bob of his Adam’s apple. “I’ll make sure you believe in something when I’m done with you,” Evan adds, voice low. “I just don’t buy that you randomly stopped believing.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” Barty growls.

“Sure I do,” Evan says. “I think something — or someone — really fucked you up. And you’re starving for someone to look at you long enough to see the rot. It’s pretty obvious, actually.”

Barty stares at him, trying to read what’s behind that calm expression, trying to understand what the hell this game is. The silence lands heavy. Suffocating, before Evan speaks again.

“Let me guess,” Evan says finally, meeting his eyes. “Daddy dearest told you God doesn’t make mistakes — only people who disobey?”

Something snaps inside Barty. Those weren’t his exact words, but close enough. “You think you’re pretty damn clever, huh?” He’s on his feet before he even realizes he moved.

“No,” Evan says, still calmly propped on his elbows. “I think I’m watching you squirm. You don’t want me to see who you really are, do you?”

Barty steps closer. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Evan says, rising to his feet as well. “You were the mistake. The shame. The faggot son. That’s it, isn’t it?” He meets Barty’s gaze head-on — steady, almost gentle.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Barty hisses and Evan hums.

“Did he use God as a leash and the Bible as a whip?” Evan asks as takes a long stride toward him. “And now you can’t even look at a church without tasting blood?”

Barty’s breath stutters — rage, shame, arousal, confusion all tangled up in a tight knot in his chest.

“Did you pray, asking God to stop wanting what you want?” Evan murmurs, voice dropping low. “He made you hate what you are, didn’t he?”

That does it.

Barty moves, fast and sudden he closes the space between them, fisting Evan’s collar, yanking him close. “You think you’ve got me figured out? You wanna see the real me?” he snarls.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Go on,” Evan murmurs, smiling. He backs Barty up against the wall after barely two steps. “But I think you'd rather want to show it to me.”

They’re chest to chest, the air between them charged to the point of snapping. Barty’s fist clenches. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Rosie.”

“Yeah,” Evan whispers, leaning in until hot breath hits Barty’s neck. “But I think the only one in danger here is you. And you like it. You look at me like you need me, desperately.”

Barty’s whole body feels tight, vibrating. “You don’t know fucking shit. I don’t need your bullshit—”

“Oh, really? I know desperation when I see it.”

“I’m not desperate.”

“No,” Evan says and leans back, narrowing his eyes. “You’re ashamed. That’s worse—”

The punch lands before Barty even thinks. A sharp crack of knuckles against Evan’s jaw. His head snaps sideways; he reels back slightly, but doesn’t go down. 

“Fuck!” Barty curses, holding his aching hand. He didn’t realize how much it hurts to punch someone in the face.

Blood blooms instantly from the open cut on Evan’s lip. He lazily wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, looks at the smear of red, and smiles.

Not mocking.

Not cruel.

Just… satisfied, like he’s been waiting for this moment all night.

“There he is,” he says softly. “Knew you had it in you, B.”

Motherfucker.

Barty shoves him, both hands hard to his shoulders. ​ Evan stumbles backwards into bed. The frame rattles under the impact. He doesn’t even bother to hold his ground.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Barty snaps.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he purrs. “We can play kill the faggot if that’s what gets you off. Hit me again. You want to. I can fucking see it.”

Fine. If that’s how he fucking wants it.

Evan steps back a couple paces — creating distance between them — and Barty’s not having that. He stalks after him like a hungry wolf and shoves him again — flat palms against a solid chest — and Evan crashes into the dresser with a dull thud. 

Again, he doesn’t even fight back. How fucking annoying.

Barty is so angry, so furious, his vision begins to blur and he shoves Evan again, harder, and again Evan’s back just hits the dresser once more without resistance. 

“And here I am thinking they taught you how to fight in the military.”

Evan’s lips curl. “Why do you want me to hit you so bad, hm?” His voice drops, a teasing murmur. “You need my hands on you that badly?”

“Yes, fuck! Show me what you’ve got, Lieutenant. Hit me.”

But Evan doesn’t move. He just watches him, long enough that Barty forgets what air is. 

Then, suddenly, Evan does move. It startles Barty because he hadn’t expected him to go through with it, but he does. 

He slaps him. A flat hand across his cheek.

But it’s… it’s all wrong. It stings, but not sharp enough. Not nearly hard enough.

Pathetic.

Barty laughs, cruel, teeth bared, grinning through the sting like a maniac. “That’s it? What kind of bitch slap was that? Come on, big boy. Hit me for real. Or is that all you’ve got?”

“You want to use me to hurt you, to beat the shame out of you.” Evan says. “I’m not gonna do that.”

Barty grabs him by the neck, yanks their foreheads together.

“Why not, huh?” he spits. Breath ragged. “Afraid you’ll break me? What if that’s exactly what I want. Are you scared you’ll like it?”

For a second the air between them is on fire. Their breath mingles, the tension sharp enough to cut. For a moment Barty thinks: maybe he’ll kiss me. Maybe this time Barty won’t be the one to cave first.

But Evan doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

Just waits.

Somehow that’s worse.

The waiting becomes unbearable and Barty is the one who breaks — again. He shoves Evan away and staggers back, shaking with adrenaline. “Fucking pussy!” he spits. “I bet your cunt of a sister hits harder than that!”

*

“Leviticus 18:22 — Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.”

The air in the room was thick with July heat — the kind that made everything feel sticky on your skin.

The plate in front of Barty sat untouched. He never ate during these 'sessions'. But not because the smell of incense made him nauseous.

The priest — a fat, old man with sweat beading on the wrinkled skin above his collar — sat across from Barty at the dining table, holding up a leather-bound Bible. He leaned forward and began to rattle off another sermon, his voice dripping with the same false concern.

He flipped a page. “Leviticus 20:13 — If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.”

Barty didn’t look at him. He knew the verse.

He knew all of them.

Sometimes he wondered why the priest still needed to read them from the book. Barty had memorized every one after the first few weeks — could’ve recited them back to him with the same oily cadence.

The ones about fire and hell and strange flesh.

He knew them better than his own reflection. Sometimes he thought about those words when he fucked Regulus — they made him feel bad.

Not bad in a bad way, though. Bad in the kind of way that made him feel alive.

“Bartemius? Are you listening?”

“Uh-huh.”

Father Horace sighed. “God loves you, son. He does. But His love is not without condition.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes trying to pierce through Barty like he tried to see the devil inside.

All Barty could focus on was the disgusting white spittle gathering in the corners of the man’s mouth, and the heavy stink of cheap alcohol and sweat clinging to his cassock.

“You must turn away from your sin. You must reject this sickness in you. Or God will turn away from you.” He sighed again, turned his gaze back to the pages and continued his sermon.

“Romans 1:27 — For this cause God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature.”

Barty’s hand closed around the fork beside his plate.

Another year of this bullshit.

Every week. The scripture. The shame.

The priest’s sweaty hands on his shoulders, thumb brushing the skin of his neck, lingering just a little too long for comfort every single time.

“And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men—”

Barty vaulted across the table, and the fork plunged into the soft hollow beneath the priest’s jaw before Barty even knew he was moving. The chair toppled backward, crashing against the floor, and Barty landed on top of him. The priest’s eyes went wide. A startled grunt escaped his throat — wet and gurgling — as his hand flew to his neck.

“Being filled with all unrighteousness…” Barty continued and his breathing came fast and hard with a rush of adrenaline. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he yanked the fork free, a spray of warmth splattering across his wrist, and everything went still.

The tines were dull, but he knew they’d go in again if he forced them hard enough.

“…fornication, wickedness…”

He drove the fork in again.

“…covetousness, maliciousness…”

Again, harder.

“…full of envy, murder, debate…”

Again, until the tines bent.

“…deceit, malignity, whisperers.”

Over and over and over.

Father Horace tried to speak, but the words came out as bubbling red froth. It looked almost ridiculous — like a sprinkler, pulsing in time with the slowing beat of the man’s dying heart. Hot arterial spray hit the tiles, the table, Barty’s shirt, his forearms. Blood spattered across Barty’s cheek — it felt warm, tasted metallic in his mouth.

The priest’s hands scrabbled weakly at Barty’s arm. He leaned in close — so close their foreheads nearly touched.

“Backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things… disobedient to parents.”

Another stab.

“Without understanding, covenantbreakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful.”

Barty placed a kiss on his sweaty forehead before the fork sank in deep again.

“Tell me, Father,” he murmured, “am I not being merciful, right now?”

He twisted his wrist, feeling the sinew give and the flesh tear wetly around the silver. 

He snarled the rest of the verse through his teeth, right into the priest’s flushed, sweating face. “Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them.”

When Barty got up, the priest’s dead body slumped sideways, eyes glassing over. Barty stared down at him for a long moment. His chest heaved, but his hands were steady.

His blood dripped from the table onto the polished tiles below in thick, lazy drops.

He felt no guilt. No regret. Only the sharp, quiet thrill of satisfaction.

Barty was only sixteen and that was the first time he took a man’s life.

And nothing had been normal since. He just became more methodical about it, at least until the most recent events.

*

When the wind blows and the rain feels cold
With a head full of snow, with a head full of snow

There’s a sound coming from somewhere far away. It’s warped and distorted and— 

Barty frowns. Why the fuck does his head hurt?

In the window, there's a face you know
Don't the nights pass slow, don't the nights pass slow

Oh, it’s music.

His skull pounds. His jaw hurts like a son of a bitch. His mouth is dry, tasting faintly metallic.

He opens his eyes — slightly disoriented — before he realizes he’s still in the motel room and on the bed. Evan is lying next to him, shirt off, shoes off, legs crossed, reading that goddamn Bible again.

Seems like he finally figured out the radio-clock contraption, because it’s playing music now, real quiet.

The sound of strangers sending nothing to my mind
Just another mad, mad day on the road
I am just living to be lying by your side
But I'm just about a moonlight mile on down the road

Barty slowly sits up. A wet towel slides off his forehead and drops on the pillow beside him. He leans back against the headboard, pulls one knee up, blinking slowly. Evan must’ve taken off his boots too, and his gun lies on the nightstand. Barty rubs his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, which hurts like hell and feels slightly out of place.

“You’re finally awake, sleepyhead?” Evan asks without looking up, taking a sip from a can of beer.

“What happened?”

“Knocked you out for calling my sister a cunt.”

“Oh— sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry... Didn't think you were such a lightweight.”

“Shut up! How long was I gone?”

“Not long. A couple of minutes.”

Barty squints at him. “Long enough for you to get comfortable and grab a beer, though.”

Evan reaches beside the bed and lifts another can. “You want one?”

“Nah. Maybe later.” He props his head up with his hand, resting his elbow on his bent knee. “You know, I couldn’t help but notice you keep complaining it tastes like piss, but you’re drinking it like water.”

“What else was I supposed to do when you were knocked out?”

Barty tilts his head, eyebrow raised, eyes drifting over Evan’s bare chest.

“Jeez, Barty,” Evan sighs. “I’m not that weird. I bought a few from the guy at the front desk when I went down to get ice for your head.”

“Ice?”

Barty’s gaze drops to the towel.

Oh.

Evan looks up, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Alright. Maybe you were out for almost an hour.”

“Fuck,” Barty groans and swings his legs off the bed — too fast, stupid mistake — the whole room tilts sideways. So Barty waits a long moment, bracing himself with both hands on the edge of the bed before he gets up and says, “I’m going to take a shower.”

Evan just grunts in agreement. “Don't slip.”

Barty gets up, pushes through the bathroom door, wincing at the harsh fluorescent light above the mirror. It hums and flickers too bright, drilling straight into his already pounding skull.

The bathroom is lined with pale green tiles, several of them cracked. There’s a scratched-up sink with separate taps for hot and cold water; a toilet and a leaky tub-shower combo behind a discolored pink curtain, stiff along the hem. A single thin towel hangs limp over the rack next to the sink.

Functional.

Barty closes the door behind him, the latch clicking shut, and stares at his reflection in the mirror. It’s cracked in the top corner, held together with duct tape — like someone punched it once, and no one ever bothered to fix it properly. His reflection stares back at him, he also looks as if someone punched him and didn't bother to fix him properly. In short, Barty looks like hell. Evan got him real good. There’s dried blood crusted under his nose, a streak on his chin, and more stains down the front of his shirt. He pulls it off over his head and lets it drop carelessly to the tile floor.

His fingers brush the tattoo over his heart — the only one he has ever bothered to get. His skin feels tacky beneath his fingertips: salt, sweat, dirt, desert dust, all the grime that has accumulated during the drive.

He turns on the cold tap, lets the water run a moment, and splashes some into his hand to wash his face. He snorts once, twice, pinching each nostril shut until the dried blood breaks loose and lands in the sink with a dull splatter before the water washes it away, running pink for a moment. He sniffs hard, feels the rest of it slide down his throat, metallic and bitter and spits it out.

He turns off the tap and starts to unbuckle his belt, but then remembers. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out the small plastic bag, and moves over to the toilet. He flips the lid down, kneels, and dumps out what little cocaine’s left onto the seat.

Using his little finger, he spreads the powder as best he can, dividing it into a few thin lines. It’s highly unsanitary — the toilet seat probably hasn’t been cleaned properly in years— so filthy it makes his skin crawl. But Barty tries not to think about it too much.

He leans down, inhales sharply and the burn instantly tears through his sinuses sharper than usual. There’s definitely something fucked inside his nose, but he couldn’t care less when the coke hits exactly like it should.

A violent jolt shoots through him as the chemical taste slides down his throat, and for a moment everything sharpens. His head stops buzzing, his teeth ache and his heartbeat roars in his ears.

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, stands, and finishes unbuckling his belt. His jeans hit the floor, followed by his socks and boxershorts. He steps into the tub, pulls the curtain half-closed, and twists the knob. The water sputters, surprisingly, it comes out hot, but he forces it cold — he likes it that way.

He tilts his head into the stream, lets the water crash down over him. It washes away the sweat, the blood, the dust; all the grime of a whole day's driving, turning it brownish-gray. It spirals down the drain in slow, dirty swirls in the tub.

He closes his eyes and just stands there, focusing on his breathing as the cold slams into his skin like steel needles, it feels like penance. Like he deserves it. And for a second, he truly feels stripped clean of the sins and the shame that cling to him like the dirt.

And then — the bathroom door creaks open.

“Mind if I jo— ooh.”

Barty turns his head sharply. Evan’s already inside, but he’s not looking at him, he’s looking at the toilet. (That’s a bit disappointing.)

“What’s that?” he asks, one hand planted on his hip, the other gesturing lazily toward the last streak of white powder across the seat and the empty bag beside it. He tilts his head to one side and lets his gaze wander over Barty's body. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re not gonna share that?”

Barty just shrugs. “Knock yourself out.” Then he turns back into the water. He can still feel Evan’s gaze on him, knows he’s being watched. He enjoys the attention. There’s nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to being naked in front of anyone — least of all Evan.

After all, he looks killer naked — not that he doesn’t look stunning dressed, too — but now it’s all right there on display: lean muscle, narrow hips, that sharp curve down his back, and a fine ass — let’s be for fucking real here.

There’s the quiet sound of movement behind him — the soft shuffle of bare feet against tile. Barty cracks one eye open, turns his head just enough to see Evan kneeling by the toilet.

He leans down and snorts a line straight off the porcelain. When he straightens, his head tips back, throat exposed, the strands of his hair falling across his face and shoulders. His Adam’s apple bobs once as he swallows.

Yeah — Evan’s definitely done this before.

Barty feels the pulse low in his stomach, he’s getting hard again, despite the cold water. It’s ridiculous. Infuriating, really — the effect this man has on him. His entire body is buzzing, he feels lightheaded from how much he wants him.

If that mustard-yellow handkerchief means what he thinks it does, then Barty is going to be a very, very happy man tonight.

He reaches for the tap and turns it off, steps out of the tub and runs his fingers through his wet hair, watching the water drip down his forearms. 

“Mind handing me that towel?”

At first, Evan doesn't move, he just lets his gaze wander from Barty's face down to his chest and lower, lower, lower, before he reaches for the towel and holds it out to Barty. His gaze travels back up again slowly and deliberately until it meets Barty's. The grin spreading across his face is lazy and mean. “Do you really think that'll cover much right now?”

Heat creeps up Barty’s neck, blooming hot across his cheeks.

“You know what? I think I do mind. I think…” Evan’s voice drops low, almost thoughtful, as he steps closer and lets the towel fall uselessly between them. “I prefer you like this.”

Barty feels the cold water run over his temple and down the back of his neck, dripping between his shoulder blades. Evan just stands there, watching him, not touching. He’s close enough that Barty can smell the coke on his breath, and the faint sweetness of beer beneath it.

A shiver runs through him — maybe from the cold, or maybe from the way Evan’s eyes roam over him, slow, like he’s savoring it.

Barty’s pulse is hammering; he squirms restlessly, and that’s when Evan finally moves. He pins him against the wall, so hard, that Barty has to brace both hands against Evan’s bare chest to keep from slipping on the wet tiles. His skin feels burning hot under Barty's palms.

Evan’s mouth immediately finds his neck, kissing him slow and open-mouthed, then sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

Good. Barty wants it to bruise.

Then Evan bites down, like he read his mind, and Barty’s breath hitches, knees threatening to buckle.

His own mouth hovers over Evan’s collarbone, lips slightly parted. He smells the mix of sweat, smoke, and blood. It’s dizzying. His tongue darts out; he tastes salt on his skin, and every nerve sparks alive, his whole body lights up with need.

Fuck.

He hates it — hates how much he likes being pinned, the heat coiling low in his gut, the way his body betrays him. How desperate he is for Evan.

Fuckkk!

Evan’s hand comes up, thumb dragging slow across Barty’s cheek before gripping his chin hard, forcing his head up. The motion is rough enough to make his jaw ache again.

Barty meets his gaze—

And again, fuck.

Evan looks coked-out and feral, pupils blown wide, lips parted, flushed, slightly swollen.

Barty wants to kiss them. He doesn’t care anymore, came to terms with the fact that apparently he’s the needy one, the one who caves first. (Blame it on the concussion he probably suffered when Evan knocked him out…) 

He needs to kiss him. Now. Needs it like air. He leans in—

But Evan stops him.

The shove comes abrupt, sharp and with so much force the back of Barty’s skull cracks against the tiled wall. Pain flashes white behind his eyes, bright enough to make him want to snarl, shove back and bite — anything to claw back the control he just almost lost again.

But Evan’s look freezes him cold.

“On your knees,” he growls, he doesn’t even raise his voice — he doesn’t have to. It hits Barty like a shot of heroin to the vein. 

Oh, bliss.

Barty blankly stares at him for a second or two. His pulse thunders loud in his ears and his mind moves before his body does — Evan’s cock heavy on his tongue, one hand braced on that solid thigh, the other working himself, desperate, shameless.

Yes. Fuck, yes!

He wants that. Needs that. The image is so vivid, his knees buckle, and before he can think about it, he obeys and sinks to the floor.

It’s inevitable, really — like gravity pulling him down. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be on his knees for this divine being that is Evan Rosier.

“Atta boy.” Evan says, stroking his hair. “See… you insulted me earlier. I told you I went to military school — you didn’t believe me. I told you I am a Lieutenant — still, you didn’t believe me. So you really leave me no choice but to prove it to you. Don’t you think?”

Barty’s palms slide up Evan’s thighs; he can feel heat bleeding through the denim. His breath comes hard and ragged. “Let me—”

“What was that?”

Evan’s hand leaves Barty’s hair, he stops touching him, doesn’t move, just watches. There’s a cruel flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he’s savoring every twitch of Barty’s impatience — like Barty’s need is a show put on purely for his amusement.

Fuck. Maybe it really is.

After all, Barty’s the one on his knees, nearly drooling for this man. His entire body feels like it’s burning up and his cock is hard, untouched and aching.

How the hell does Evan do that? Maybe he drugged him while he was out. (The concussion theory still stands; that’s gotta be it — he’s lost his goddamn mind.)

Whatever.

Barty swallows against the dryness in his throat and brushes his nose against the massive bulge in Evan’s jeans, because — well, he just can’t help himself.

“Yes,” he slurs.

A fist tangles in his hair, yanking his head back so sudden he almost loses his balance. Pain flashes through his scalp and a startled sound catches in his throat — too close to an awfully embarrassing moan.

“Yes what?” Evan snarls.

Barty looks up with defiance. Evan’s hair falls into his face; the muscles in his arms and chest flex, forearms taut from holding him still. He’s so incredibly fucking beautiful it hurts.

“Yes… sir.” It slips out before he can stop it.

Evan holds him there, forcing him to look up, their gazes locked. He exhales a low laugh. “Desperate already?” His words are dark, mocking. “Let me hear how much you want it.”

“Wannit—” Barty whimpers. 

“Go ahead,” Evan murmurs. “Take it off.”

The grip in Barty’s hair stays tight, but when he starts to move Evan doesn’t stop him. He just keeps that fist locked, eyes steady. And Barty doesn’t look away either — knows he’s not allowed to.

He gets the belt undone, pops the button, drags the zipper down, teeth clenched like it’s the only thing keeping him from trembling. The denim slides down in one fluid motion, along with his underwear, while Barty holds Evan's gaze.

When he finally lets himself to look, the air leaves his chest in a sharp exhale, like he’s been punched. He tries not to stare, but he does, quite blatantly.

Evan looms over him, lazy as sin, his cock hangs heavy, thick — like a fucking baseball bat. It’s obscene. It’s fucking perfect. The kind of thing you can’t see without imagining it in your mouth, your throat, your gut. Barty’s eyes drag over it like they’re stuck there.

It’s even better than he expected.

He decides that he wants to be nowhere but on his knees. He knows it’s supposed to be wrong, dirty, a trespass — but it feels like prayer, the thought of worshipping Evan’s massive cock.

Evan says something — Barty doesn’t catch it. The sight is too much, and the rush in his ears is too loud. His fingers twitch, desperate to touch, to feel the weight of him in his hand.

He wants to choke on it. Wants to lose his breath, go lightheaded, stop thinking altogether.

Oh, what a way to go.

He licks his lips, exhales a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I’m gonna suck you off so good,” he mutters, voice slurred, almost reverent. “You’ll never want anyone else again, Rosie.”

The hand in his hair tightens. Sharp pain tears across his scalp, jerking his head back. Brings him right back to reality and the noise that escapes him is humiliating — half gasp, half moan.

“Are you done?” Evan’s eyes are fixed on him, there’s something intense in his gaze, unrelenting, it pins Barty just as easily as the grip in his hair.

It only makes Barty want him even more.

“What exactly makes you think I’ll give it to you just like that?” Evan’s voice drops, almost gentle — but it’s not kindness. “I said I want to hear you beg.”

“I am begging.” The words scrape out of him, rough, raw, almost breaking.

Evan’s mouth curls into a tired smile. “Well, you’re shit at it. You don’t get to suck my cock until I say you can.”

Barty swallows, the movement tight in his throat. “Just let me fucking suck your fucking cock.” he hisses, but his voice cracks, humiliatingly needy. He wants to snarl and bite and lash out.

Evan hums low in his chest, like he’s actually considering it. “Look at you,” he says, thumb brushing Barty’s lip, pressing in just enough to part his mouth. “Do you even hear yourself? Who’s the needy slut for cock now?”

“Yes,” Barty whispers, breathless.

Evan’s eyes flick down to his mouth, then back to his eyes. He laughs quietly, amused.

“Pathetic,” he says, almost cruel. “Why?”

“Fuck, Rosie, you’re so big—”

“Say it.”

Barty freezes. His throat works, but the words won’t come.

Oh.

He gets it now. Evan just wants him to beg for it — to humiliate himself, to make it ugly, to make it torture before he gives him anything.

Fuck it. He’ll say anything. Be anything. He doesn’t care anymore. Just—

“Please,” Barty gasps, low and broken. “I want it. I need it— need you—” That’s the worst part — admitting that he really does.

Barty’s the one unraveling, and there’s nothing he can do about it to stop it. His cock throbs, leaking precum against his stomach, aching and neglected. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare touch himself.

He knows he won't be allowed to without Evan’s permission.

Evan laughs, sharp and bright. “You’re gonna come just from this? Christ, no, too easy.” He tilts his head, deciding. “You want it too much. Makes me not wanna give it to you at all.”

“No—” A fucking whine rips out of Barty, high and broken and he stumbles forward. Pathetic.

Jesus fucking Christ, Crouch. Listen to yourself. Pitiful. Weak. Begging like some needy, little whore.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Evan says, completely unbothered. “And you stay right where you are. On your knees. Hands behind your back. If you dare to touch yourself, you’re never gonna get it. You want my cock? You earn it. Understand?”

Barty clenches his jaw, glaring up at him, brows drawn together angrily. “Fuck you,” he hisses.

Damn it. He didn’t mean that. He wants to be good for Evan.

But, see, Barty’s just a little bitch, after all — impatient when he doesn’t get what he wants. Can’t help himself. Truth is, he doesn’t care. He’d do anything at this point. Tear himself apart if that’s what Evan wants.

The slap cracks through the small room and hits Barty blindsided. It’s sharp, clean, and it lands perfectly. It’s good. So fucking delicious. Evan got it right this time — the sting burns and ignites something deep in Barty’s gut. His cock twitches pathetically, and a broken moan escapes his throat before he can choke it down.

“What did you just say, slut?” Evan’s voice drops lower now, a deep growl. He leans in, fingers digging into Barty’s face, pinching his cheeks until his lips part. Barty’s eyes cross; his head spins. He feels dizzy. He’s going to pass out again, he thinks — if not from the searing pain, then from all the blood that left his head and went south.

His thoughts fracture. He whimpers something, it must be unintelligible, because Evan’s eyebrows draw together.

“Use your words, pretty slut,” Evan murmurs, his voice sounds kind on the surface, but with something dangerous underneath. “I asked if you understood. Or are you a little slow?”

Did he understand? What? Aren’t they supposed to fuck?

No—

“No,” Barty breathes, too quiet, too fast — not even sure what he’s answering, just trying to say something.

“No what?” Evan says slow, green eyes staring straight into Barty’s soul.

Barty grins up at him, defiant — which isn’t easy with Evan’s fingers still digging deep into the muscles in his cheeks. Maybe he’s going to hit him again, but there’s a brief moment where something complex flickers across Evan’s face. His gaze drops to Barty’s mouth for just a second. He must look like a fucking mess; judging by the metallic tang blooming on his tongue, there’s definitely blood smeared on his teeth.

So Barty spits — a streak of red and pink lands across Evan’s face.

Evan lets go of his face. Barty thinks he’ll definitely hit him again now, braces himself, expecting the sharp flare of pain, half-wanting it. But Evan doesn’t. Instead, he drags his thumb through the spit and blood, slow, and then brings it to his mouth.

“Thank you.” he says and sucks it clean.

He’s insane. He’s fucking disgusting. He’s Barty’s goddamn redemption.

Heat crawls up Barty’s throat, humiliation and arousal wound together so tightly he can’t tell them apart. “No, sir, not slow. I understand.”

Evan snorts, steps back, picks up his jeans, and pulls the belt free from its loops. “You understand what?”

Barty folds his arms behind his back, obedient now, shivering naked on the tiles. His knees ache, but he couldn't care less. His cock presses hard against his stomach, throbbing, leaking. “I understand,” Barty whispers, voice trembling, flat and hollow. “I have to be good. A good slut for Daddy.”

The word tastes wrong. Forbidden. He wants to rip it back the second it leaves his mouth, wants to claw his own tongue out for saying it — but he can’t. He loves the effect it seems to have on Evan. 

Pathetic little freak. 

It’s a slippery fucking slope, and Barty slipped up, and now it’s out there, hanging in the air between them, and Evan looks at him with that look and leans down and—

The kiss is nothing like before. Not hungry, not rough and yet it still catches Barty completely off guard. Just lips, soft and deliberate and a whisper against Barty’s mouth:

“Good boy.”

That’s it. It’s enough. It’s like a reward and utter ruin in the same damn breath.

Barty wants him to hurt him again, to strike him, to make him feel something — anything — for making a fool of himself. Make him feel like a worthless slut, because he is—

“I'm sure you'll be good, baby,” Evan says quietly, almost amused. Hot tears well up in Barty's eyes as Evan reaches behind him, ties his wrists with the belt. The buckle bites into the soft skin — sharp, grounding. That’s better. That’s something to focus on. “But I have to make sure, right?”

And just like that, Evan turns away, steps into the shower like he’s got all the time in the world. He tilts his head under the spray, water sheeting over his shoulders, tracing every hard line of muscle as he rinses the sweat, grit, and blood from his skin.

Evan’s hands slide over his arms, his chest, slow and methodical, down the ridges of his stomach. Water beads and runs down in rivulets between his shoulder blades, over the curve of his lower back, down his ass, over the strong lines of his thighs.

Barty silently mourns the taste of his skin as he follows every movement, watches him, dizzy with humiliation and hunger.

Evan runs both hands through his hair, tilts his face up, eyes closed. Water streams down his jaw, his throat. The low, soft sound that escapes him — almost a sigh, almost a moan — makes Barty’s breath catch.

Barty tries to focus on anything else. Through the closed door, he can still hear soft music coming from the radio in the other room.

I'll be yours to have and to hold
Darling you've got full control of your puppet

But when Evan’s hand moves lower, wrapping around himself for a few slow, lazy strokes, Barty almost comes untouched — almost. Unfortunately, he can’t control the noise that slips out of him — a pathetic, broken whimper, so needy it’s fucking embarrassing, fucking humiliating as it leaves his throat.

He hopes Evan didn't hear him because of the sound of the running water, but Evan turns his head. He looks right at him.

I'm a walking, talking, living, loving puppet, and I love you

Chapter Text

Evan turns, and to his surprise, Barty is still kneeling exactly where he left him — naked with his hands tied behind his back. The belt had been a damn good idea. Barty seems to really enjoy the restraint. His cock stands hard, straining urgently against the flat plane of his stomach, the tip flushed, beads of precum drip down from the slit onto lean muscle, seeping into the dark curls that trail down his abdomen.

Evan steps out of the shower. Rivulets of water run down his body, collecting in small puddles at his feet. He grabs the towel, wrapping it loosely around his hips, then reaches down for his jeans. He scoops them off the floor and slips a hand into the back pocket, his fingers closing around the small, plastic pill bottle.

He twists the cap off as he crosses the room, closing the distance between them in two long strides. “Since you were kind enough to share yours…”

He tips one pill into his palm and swallows it dry. Then he takes another, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “Open up.”

Barty hesitates for half a second, then obeys, opening his mouth and sticking his tongue out. Evan places the pill onto it. “Makes you feel more,” he says softly. “Makes everything sharp and honest. Like you can finally see straight.”

He watches Barty swallow.

“They called it Adam,” Evan says lightly. “Used to give it to us before the sessions.”

Confusion flickers across Barty’s face, quick and unguarded. Up close, he reminds Evan of one of those ancient Greek marble statues — achingly beautiful, in a way that’s tragic and timeless. There’s something stoic about his face that feels both distant and strangely intimate. Too damn perfect to be made of flesh and blood.

Evan smiles and reaches out, brushing his thumb along Barty’s lower lip as if wiping something away, but he simply needs to make sure he’s really there.

“It makes it all real,” Evan murmurs. “And I need you right here with me for this. But it takes a few minutes to hit, so…” He leans back, takes a deep breath, towering over Barty. “Four days ago, I met this girl,” he begins casually, running a hand through his wet hair. “On the plane, on my flight over here. I think she was from… Atlanta? She was coming back from her little European adventure. We sat next to each other the whole flight and just talked. About wine, art museums, staying in hostels, kissing strangers… She told me she hitchhiked half the time. Huh…” Evan pauses. “Guess that’s where I got the idea. She was quite beautiful too…”

I liked her…

Barty’s eyes dart away.

Evan roughly grabs his jaw, hard, forcing him to lift his head and meet his gaze. And despite everything those storm-blue eyes, wide and glassy, on the verge of breaking, are the most captivating thing Evan has ever seen. A sight that twists something deep in his chest.

“You learn a lot about someone when there’s no way out,” he says softly. “Don’t you think?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Barty’s voice cracks, thin and sharp, but his face remains defiant, arrogant.

He’s so fucking precious.

Evan wants to see how far he can push it.

“She took me home. That very same night.” His tone is playful, almost cheerful. 

Barty grimaces. “Why the hell are you telling me this now? You think I care about a girl you fucked? While I’m down here, on my fucking knees like some goddamn dog?” 

Evan clicks his tongue in disapproval. “I told you, I don’t fuck girls.”

“Oh yeah?” Barty pants. “Funny, you sure talk about them a lot.”

It's rather annoying that he keeps bringing it up, isn't it?

Evan’s thumb slowly slides across his cheek, tracing the outline of his cheekbone. Barty looks completely wrecked. The harsh bathroom light washes every bit of color from his face, leaving him pale, almost sickly. The freckles on his face appear darker against his pale skin, pupils blown wide from the drugs and adrenaline, dried blood on his lip, stripped naked. God, he’s truly beautiful. It’s almost terrifying how much. Evan has no idea what he’s done to deserve this man kneeling before him like this.

“The belt — I got that from her. You like it?”

Evan can see the battle that is happening behind Barty’s eyes.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” he whispers hoarsely, desperate.

Evan’s smile slowly bends. “Fuck me?” he mocks. “You really think this is about you, baby?”

Barty's beautiful features contort with rage. “Then fucking make it about me,” he spits. „We’re here to fuck.“ He bites the inside of his cheek, it looks like it hurts.

“Oh, we will,” Evan says quietly.

Yes, Evan finally gets to fuck this beautiful man, but he'll take his sweet time to slowly take him apart. There's no reason to rush now. He wants to push Barty right toward the edge and watch him shatter. Over and over. He wants to break him. Forever. Make him never forget this night.

Evan’s smile spreads dangerously wide across his face as his eyes land on Barty’s cock. “Look at you — already dripping, leaking all over yourself, so fucking wet and needy for me, huh?”

Pathetic.

As a matter of fact, Evan had barely managed to control himself up until this point. In the shower, he had to give himself a few strokes just to take the edge off. “So wrecked,” he murmurs more to himself than at Barty.

“You don’t think I’m pretty anymore?” Barty’s voice is rough, brittle, sounding almost hurt.

“No,” Evan says, because it’s the truth. And then his eyes snap up just in time to witness something break in Barty's face. 

He’s trembling. 

Evan is too. 

It feels like something inside him is burning, splinters, tears apart — all at once. Like an electric current is flowing through his veins, overloading him, threatening to blow the fuse, but not quite.

“I think you’re so fucking beautiful.” Evan says and means it. “T'es beau à en crever, putain, et t'es tout à moi.”

He is. Goddammit, he really is.

Barty's lip twitches, but he says nothing, just makes a sound that rumbles deep in his chest. His eyebrows are drawn together, causing the bridge of his nose to wrinkle.

“Get up.” Evan says and slides his hands under Barty’s arms, helping him to his feet. ​​His skin feels cold and clammy. He proceeds to slowly loosens the belt around Barty’s wrists, letting it fall to the floor with a dull clatter. Barty flinches, leaning against Evan, his legs are shaking ever so slightly — they must have gone numb from kneeling on the hard tile.

Evan’s heart hammers against his ribs so violently, Barty must hear it, Evan thinks, because it’s loud as a fucking sledgehammer. And if not, Evan will cut it out himself, place it in Barty’s hand — just to prove it to him.

It already belongs to him anyway.

“She was really beautiful too, her skin was so soft,” Evan murmurs, tracing Barty's jawline with his mouth. His skin is smooth too, no stubble, clean-shaven. He shivers under the feather-light touch of Evan’s lips, but he doesn’t dare to touch him. “She looked like a doll, like she was asleep — her mouth was slightly open. And her eyes—”

Barty jerks back. 

Fuck, Ev, did you just say that out loud? 

Barty's eyes are wide open, his jaw lax, his breathing is heavy and uneven. “Y-you killed her?” he asks.

Evan hums softly, nestling into the crook of Barty’s neck. “Her eyes wouldn’t close either.”

Barty squirms under his touch. “Are you going to kill me too?” he gasps, so quiet it’s barely audible. Though, he doesn’t sound scared at all. Quite the opposite, if Evan is not mistaken.

“No.” Evan says and a second later his hand claws at Barty’s neck, the other is planted on his waist, slamming him unceremoniously back against the wall. His hips follow — instinct and desire finally taking over. He shoves a thigh between Barty's legs, thrusts upward, and Barty moans at the friction Evan is granting his neglected cock.

“Shit—”

Evan is not giving him room to talk, think, or process. He crashes their lips together and Barty urgently pushes his tongue into Evan's open mouth, teeth bite lips, fingers claw at skin. Neither of them is gentle — they devour each other. It feels more like a fight than sex. Maybe it has been like that from the beginning, and neither of them really knows the difference.

Whatever this is, Evan loves it. It’s exhilarating. He didn’t have something like this, or someone like Barty, in a long time — maybe ever.

Together they stumble out of the bathroom, tangled up in each other. Neither of them lets go, as if breaking the kiss apart might shatter the moment, until the backs of Evan’s legs hit the edge of the bed and he falls back onto the mattress, dragging Barty down with him, the worn mattress groans under their weight. 

Barty crawls up over him, straddling his hips. He leans down, bracing his arms on either side of Evan’s face, and starts covering his neck with open mouthed kisses. 

Ooh, it's a killing machine
It's got everything
Like a driving power
Big fat tires and everything

“So fucking beautiful for me,” Evan sighs, as Barty continues to lick and suck. Barty rolls his hips down, rubbing their straining cocks against each other. And fuck— yeah, that might work. The towel must have gotten tossed aside during the process of moving to the bedroom, so now they are both naked, hard and slick.

Barty wantonly ruts against him, his fingers frantically twist into Evan’s hair, greedily searching for something to hold on to. “Fuck me,” he murmurs against Evan's skin. “Make me scream your name so loud they hear it three rooms over.”

“Mmm...” Evan moans, “Whatever you want, baby.”

“Want you to fucking ruin me. Want you to make me forget my fucking name,” Barty slurs his words, his voice is husky and his mouth is everywhere, ravishing Evan's skin, brutal and hungry, as if being demanding will somehow get him what he wants faster.

“You want that?”

“Yeah,” Barty sighs. “Want it. Need you.” he says together with a filthy moan.

Holy shit.

“Fuck—” Evan hisses, gripping Barty’s waist and dragging him back. “I’ll fuck you so good, it’ll drive you mad, you’ll beg for more.” Evan says before Barty’s teeth sink into his lower lip — hard enough to break skin. Evan tastes the blood but he doesn’t even feel the sting. He's too fucking high on Barty (and drugs) to care. All he knows is the tell-tale tang of iron, lust, and Barty. 

Fucking Barty.

Fucking Barty.

Holy fucking shit.

“Show me how bad you want it,” Evan gasps, before their mouths crash together again.

I love it and I need it
I bleed it
Yeah, it's a wild hurricane
Alright, hold tight
I'm a highway star

Barty’s hips urgently grind down, desperately rubbing himself on Evan’s straining cock. “Been thinking about this all day,” he mutters, rolling his hips again, to prove his point.

And fuck. It does feel incredible, fucking glorious, but Evan firmly plants his hands on Barty’s hips, they are slick with sweat, lets him keep riding, but slows down the pace, guiding the motion of his hips, forcing a slow rhythm over Barty’s greedy movements. His grip is so hard Evan is sure it will leave bruises.

Good.

He is so fucking desperate.

So greedy.

He really is. 

Evan decides that enough is enough.

With one sudden movement he flips them both and Barty’s back hits the mattress with a dull thud. An audible, startled gasp escapes his lungs and Evan rolls on top of him. Chest to chest, his hips holding Barty in place, pressing him down into the mattress. One hand pins both of Barty’s arms above his head by the wrists. Barty tries to writhe beneath him, tries to somehow to find friction again, but Evan is heavier and stronger and simply won’t let him.

He looks up at him, wide-eyed. Evan leans in, his nose brushing along Barty’s cheek, and presses his free forearm firmly against Barty’s throat. “You done?” He tries to keep his voice steady and dangerously calm.

“Fuck you,” Barty grits out, his eyes furious.

Evan clicks his tongue. “Sorry, what was that?”

Barty falls silent. Evan isn’t quite sure if it’s what he said, how he said it, or the pressure against his windpipe that makes him stop.

“Repeat that, please?”

Barty grinds his teeth, he’s trembling with rage (or lust; Evan isn’t quite sure, maybe both). 

“Fuck you!” he spits again.

A dark enjoyment curses through Evan. “Once more. Slower this time, I wanna hear you.”

“Fuuuck youuu,” Barty repeats slowly, defiantly drawing out the vowels.

A deep sound of approval vibrates through Evan’s chest. “Yeah. That’s the plan.”

Evan shifts, releases the pressure from Barty’s throat, and grabs his jaw instead, studying him. Barty doesn’t fight back, he just gasps for air and stares back. His eyes wide and dark, his pupils blown so freaking wide, like bottomless pits, waiting.

Waiting — to see what Evan will do with him next.

Oh, wow.

Evan gaze drops to Barty’s parted mouth — there’s fresh blood on his lip — he swipes his thumb across it and smears it downward, leaving a red streak across his chin.

He could give Barty exactly what he has been begging for — let him suck his dick for a bit and fuck him good and deep until he comes screaming Evan’s name — or he could play with him a just a little bit longer.

Evan lets go of Barty’s wrists and slides his palms down his chest, over firm pectorals, down to his stomach and lower, lower, marking Barty inhale sharply and a needy, broken sound escapes his throat. Evan lets his hand travel back up, which causes Barty to groan in agony. God he’s so vocal, Evan loves it. He follows the line of hard muscle on Barty’s torso up until his fingers catch on the tattoo on his left pec, right over Barty’s heart.

He lingers there, tracing the ink with his fingertips. Goosebumps rise on Barty's skin, and his nipple hardens under the touch and he makes a whimpering, desperate sound.

“What’s RAB?” Evan asks and feels how Barty tenses up.

“Doesn’t matter,” he answers curtly.

“Hmm. Must have mattered once.” Evan massages his thumb over the letters in slow, circular movements and tries again. “Who’s RAB?”

Something flickers behind Barty's eyes, just for a split second, but Evan sees it and knows he's on the right track. “You don’t just wear a name under your skin for nothing,” he says, rolling Barty's nipple between his thumb and forefinger, causing his breath to catch.

Evan is certain that it must be this boyfriend from school. The one Barty told him about when Evan sucked him off in the car. 

The one he was in love with.

His mouth brushes Barty’s other nipple, making him groan as if he’s been hurt. “Did he break your pretty little heart?” 

“Stop.”

“Ah, he did, didn’t he?” 

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Barty averts his gaze, and Evan takes the opportunity, mouth moving to his throat. He licks along the skin, kisses, bites, sucks hard enough that the pale flesh blooms with red and purple marks almost instantly.

Evan leans back with a smile, admiring his work. 

So fucking pretty.

“Did he fuck you like I do?”

“Fuck you.”

Evan’s gaze sharpens. “Did he make you beg?”

“I don’t beg, asshole.”

“Liar.” Evan draws the word out like smoke. “You beg so beautifully without even realizing it,” he says, pinching the nipple he’s still been teasing between his fingers. „You should hear yourself. You sound like a whore.“

Barty’s face contracts, his mouth opens, but no sound comes out and his back arches off the bed, making his cock rub against Evan’s hip.

Evan grins. „See?“

Barty snorts.

“What then? Did he touch you gently?” Evan’s hand slides up around Barty’s throat. “Did he tell you that he loved you?”

Barty grins, wide and cruel. “Why? Are you jealous?”

Evan laughs once. “Should I be?”

“No… It wasn’t—” Barty breathes out, but the sentence dies in his throat, because Evan tightens his grip.

“Answer me.”

Barty’s brows knit together, his eyes squeeze shut and a shudder runs through his whole body, Evan can feel it.

“He wasn’t like you,” Barty murmurs, barely audible. “Like us.”

“What happened to him, huh?” Evan tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Did you break his heart?”

Barty tries to speak, but only a hoarse breath comes out. It’s not because of Evan’s hand on his throat, he's not even squeezing particularly hard, but this guy seems to upset him more than Evan likes. And somehow it makes him even more possessive over Barty.

Evan laughs again quietly and without real warmth. “Yeah. Just what I thought…”

Barty jerks beneath him, from anger, or in a desperate attempt to get more air into his lungs. His jaw clenches, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes down his cheeks. “Then make me fucking forget him,” he hisses hoarsly.

“Oh, I will.” Evan freezes briefly before he leans in, his breath hot against Barty’s ear. “But first, you’ll tell me.” Then his voice drops, almost disarmingly quiet, a whisper against Barty’s jaw: “What happened to him?”

“Stop talking about him.”

“Why?” Evan taunts, and something in Barty breaks, a raw, choked sob rips from his throat.

Evan loosens his hand and Barty inhales sharply, gasping, “Because he’s fucking dead!” he cries and for a moment, Evan just stares — then his mouth curls into a slow, satisfied grin, before he pulls him into another kiss, swallowing Barty’s gasps, which taste salty.

Dead.

Oh.

It almost makes him laugh — the fact that some ghost has been haunting Barty, fucked him up this bad. 

How ridiculous.

That’s good, right?

Yeah.

Evan knows how to fix that. He’ll burn every trace of that name out of Barty’s head and skin, fuck the bastard right out of him, make him forget until there’s nothing left but Evan. Evan’s hands, Evan’s voice, Evan’s cock driving him past reason. He’ll make him lose his mind for real, and when he’s done, there won’t be room for anyone else.

Evan breaks their kiss and pushes two fingers past Barty’s lips and he sucks them in like second nature, slow, purposeful. Motherfucker, that alone already feels so good that Evan has to close his eyes for a split second, inhaling one sharp breath through his teeth. He briefly considers the possibility of letting Barty suck his cock instead, but decides against it.

“You sound desperate,” Barty mumbles around his fingers.

“I’ll show you desperate,” Evan tilts his head and adds a third one, roughly pushing them deeper inside. “Now suck like you mean it.”

Barty doesn't flinch, doesn't even gag, just sucks Evan's fingers deep into his mouth with tears still streaming down his cheeks. His tongue presses up against the underside while he continues to stare at Evan unwaveringly. There's something arrogant in his gaze that says: This could be your cock.

I know, sweetheart…

Evan smirks. “Such a dirty whore, aren’t you?”

He slides his fingers out of Barty's mouth. They come free with a wet plop, slippery with a mixture of saliva, tears and remnants of Evan’s blood.

Barty rolls his eyes. “Nothing you say sounds even remotely sexy.”

Evan’s lips twitch, his eyes locked on Barty. “Oh, I am not trying to sound sexy,” he murmurs. He shifts his weight to straddle Barty's hips and reaches behind himself. His hand slides down his own back, reaching low and out of sight.

Barty swallows hard, hes brows draw together and Evan can watch the panic rising behind his eyes. “Wait, w-what are you doing?”

Evan’s grin widens, wicked and feral. “Fuck me?”

“What? No, wait—”

“No, I recall that’s exactly what you demanded,” Evan cuts him off, the smile turning predatory. Barty visibly startles. “Fuck you. Remember? I made you repeat it twice. That was a request, wasn't it?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Ohh, did you think I’d simply fuck you?” Evan tuts. “So greedy, baby.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Barty whispers breathlessly. He bites his lower lip to hide a smile that Evan sees regardless, and watches transfixed as Evan begins to circle his own tight ring of muscle with his fingers.

“You fucking love it.” Evan’s voice is low and venom-sweet. He leans back, bracing himself on Barty’s thigh. He adjusts his hand and with a broken, harsh sigh, he slowly pushes inside and begins to fuck himself on his own fingers, meticulously ensuring Barty can see every wet drag, every slow thrust, and the tight twitching of his abs as Evan opens himself up for him.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to— ngh… fuck.” Evan moans, his eyes locked on Barty’s face, observing the way his eyes go wide, his mouth falls open. Barty’s fingers dig deep, bruising divots into Evan’s thighs.

“I’m gonna fuck myself, nice and slow, on your pretty cock.” Evan explains, so calmly and deliberately that his voice sounds borderline cruel. He leans forward, bracing himself with one hand flat on Barty’s chest, feeling the frantic thump of Barty's heart pounding against his ribs, covering the tattoo. He takes his time, sinking back down on two fingers, and a languid, shameless sigh rolls out of him. “And you’re going to be a good boy. You won’t come until I say you can.”

Barty’s eyes are dark, filled with desire as he tracks the way Evan’s fingers slide in and out, watching Evan‘s cock twitch and bob with every move, the tip leaking precum. His tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip, once more. 

“Yes?” Evan prompts, because Barty doesn’t look like he paid attention to anything Evan just said.

“Yes, sir.”

Evan rewards him with a wide smile and impatiently decides it’s enough with the teasing; he needs Barty inside now, or he’s going to lose his fucking mind.

He slides a hand under Barty’s chin, forcing his head up. “Spit,” he orders and watches, satisfied, as Barty glares up at him, lips curling into a smirk before he opens his mouth, sticks his tongue out, and lets his spit drool into Evan’s waiting palm without having to be asked twice.

“Good boy,” Evan purrs, the sound low and pleased. He spits into his own hand before wrapping his fingers around Barty’s cock, stroking lazily — just enough to make it slippery and slick, leaving Barty twitching under his touch.

Evan pulls his fingers out of himself, lines Barty up and then he sinks down in one long, steady push, exhaling slowly through his nose, eyes locked with Barty’s.

“Hgn— holy fuck, Evan— wait. Slow down.”

It’s fucking messy and utterly perfect. His head spins from it.

Oh fuck.

“Oh fuck.”

They both let out a shattered moan as Evan sinks all the way down. He’s been thinking about this all day. It’s even better than his imagination.

The stretch — fucking hell, the stretch is perfect — hits like a drug. His own fingers were barely enough to prepare him for this, and he’s glad. He needs the raw pain, wants to feel himself being split open as his body slowly takes Barty’s cock. It’s been a long while since he bottomed for anyone, but Barty is something different entirely — and too much fun to mess around with.

“Fuck, look at you, Rosie…” Barty gasps. His hands glide up Evan’s abs and down his side until they roughly grab onto his thighs, patiently waiting for Evan to adjust and start moving. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

So good for him. So polite.

“Like what you see?” Evan asks with a chuckle, languidly rolling his hips down. “Gonna ride you ‘til you beg me to come.”

“Then shut the fuck up and get going,” Barty pants, letting out another moan through gritted teeth as he carefully starts to move his hips in sync with Evan’s movements, but Evan is the one who decides how far Barty gets to go. He sets the pace; uses his weight to control every inch of depth, speed, and rhythm. His hands pin Barty’s chest, pushing him deeper into the mattress.

“If that’s all you've got, you'll have to try harder to get me off,” Barty says, but the look on his face — the furrowed brow, the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek — tells Evan he’d kill him if he dared to stop.

Evan smirks, wondering if he can push it any further. He deliberately drops his pace to an agonizingly slow crawl, grinding his hips down in a torturous motion. He leans forward, his voice a growl in Barty's face. “Why don’t you try to shut up?”

Then he licks a long, wet streak along Barty's cheek, which causes him to throw his head back into the pillow — partly to get away and partly because the touch seems to drive him mad — it grants Evan exquisite access to attack his throat next. He sucks and bites the sensitive skin, finally beginning to pick up the pace and riding Barty in earnest.

He pulls up almost all the way and thrusts back down; hard enough to make Barty's back arch and to extract every small tremor and delicious sound Barty has to offer along with a string of vulgar curses that tear from his throat.

And fuck, Evan can’t deny the way Barty feels inside him — the pressure and the way Barty’s pulsing cock fills him so well and so deep, hitting his prostate just right every time he sinks down. It makes his own dick impossibly harder. It’s begging to get some attention, aching so good he could come untouched, if he keeps this up, but he forces himself to change the angle, it’s almost unbearable, but Evan is a sucker for pain, so this is actually quite perfect.

I can’t believe this is actually happening.

The air is humid and thick from the shower, the broken AC does nothing so the room becomes a sauna quickly leaving them both drenched in sweat. It runs down Evan’s back, their skin sticking together wherever they touch. Despite the stifling heat and cramped space, Evan is completely captivated by the intensity in Barty's gaze — those turbulent blue eyes locking onto him, watching him with such awe, the way he holds onto Evan like a lifeline.

Every time Barty gets close, Evan doesn't just see it the way his face scrunches up; he feels him getting there. It makes him almost lose it himself, reminding himself to slow the fuck down, Rosier, not yet, not like this.

Oh God, please. How much longer?

Just a little bit…

In order not come, Evan has to still completely which leaves Barty panting and staring daggers at him — so fucking precious when he gets angry like that — Evan pulls him into a messy kiss, swallowing Barty's moan. 

The distraction successfully drags them both back from the edge.

When Evan starts moving again, Barty’s eyes flutter shut, rolling back into his skull. Evan’s hand shoots up, grabbing his jaw with brutal force. He yanks Barty’s head forward, demanding attention. “Look at me,” he commands.

“Make me,” Barty snarls back, a wicked smile spreading across his face.

Fucker.

Evan leans in and moves his hand down to Barty’s throat, wrapping his fingers and applying just enough pressure to make his breathing shallow and irregular.

Barty deliberately lets his gaze drift away again, because, let's face it, he’s a defiant little shit. (Fuck, Evan adores him for it.) His hand tightens, increasing the pressure on the sides, leaning in close enough to feel the heat of Barty’s hot, ragged breath on his face.

“I said, fucking look at me while I fuck you.”

Evan pushes up onto his knees, rising slowly, all the way, almost pulling off completely. The stretch and the exquisite sensation of being so full threaten to vanish, so Barty’s eyes snap open and lock with Evan’s. He looks like a feral cat that could sink its claws into his skin at any moment. Evan watches how his pupils dilate further as he balances them both right on that edge, making sure Barty feels exactly who’s in charge.

Barty’s fist tangles roughly in Evan’s hair, yanking him down further. His teeth scrape along his collarbone and up Evan’s neck. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls and bites down, it’s not even a threat — more like a reward.

A scream rips out of Evan's chest, rough and ragged, as Barty thrusts his hips upward and plunges back into him, chasing friction, so damn eager, so desperate to fuck that it truly feels like he's on the verge of dying for Evan. 

Evan sits up and runs both hands through his hair, letting his head fall back so that Barty can't see his stupid grin.

Barty’s breathing stutters. “You enjoy torturing me like this.” It’s less of a question and more of a realization that Barty likely didn’t intend to say out loud.

Evan looks down and grins. “A little, maybe.”

“Holy shit, you're so hot. Why are you so hot? This is all so wrong.” His eyes burn with intensity as they stare up at him through dark, wet lashes. “Fuck me harder, please?” he begs. 

He fucking begs.

Christ, Evan feels it inside him: the twitching tip, every desperate throb, the way Barty's nails threaten to carve through his skin just to keep him close.

This is the exact moment when their little game stops being fun and starts turning Barty feral. He realizes Evan won't continue, Barty shoves him back hard and spits. "Go fuck yourself! I’m done with you. Get fucking off of me."

The way Barty is so unpredictable is what keeps Evan going; he drinks in his frustration, the anger that rolls off of Barty like heat. It's perfect. He’s already so turned on, but his fury turns Evan on even more. He smirks, closing his hand around Barty’s throat again for another warning squeeze. “Stay.”

The steady pressure is barely enough to restrict his breathing, just enough to keep him pinned, his gaze locked on Evan’s eyes. He holds him there, uses his pain as a reminder of what’s real. It makes it strangely, violently intimate. 

It's insane to Evan that someone like Barty would let him wield that kind of power. To own him. He wonders if Barty feels the same way about him.

“Go ahead, take what you need.” Evan grabs Barty’s shoulders, giving him the cue to take the lead. “Fuck me.”

„Okay…yeah.“ Barty’s eyes go dark, filled with urgent desire, and he immediately shoves his hips up, hard and fast, driving himself deep into Evan. For a moment, Evan lets go of control and gives in to Barty's pure, destructive need.

He enjoys watching Barty unravel, indulging himself in the intense feeling and the sight below him. All of Barty’s smugness turns into desperation, breaks and crumbles into senseless curses that fall from bared teeth like he might actually punch and bite. (Evan wouldn’t mind.) “If you stop again,” Barty growls, his voice shredded, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

“No. You wouldn’t.” Evan bites down on his neck, hard enough to make him listen. “And I don’t remember giving you permission to come yet.”

Barty growls but somehow, he does force himself to slow down, shifting his hips to change the drag before stilling completely — buried to the hilt inside of Evan. Evan takes back the lead and grinds down just enough to make them both shake with want. The need twists across Barty’s face, raw and furious, his breath catching, his chest straining up toward him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Evan wonders whether Barty is so far gone and willing to go so far as to do anything for him if he orders him to.

You would. I know you would.

“Such a good boy. You’re doing so well for Daddy. Go ahead, fuck me and make yourself come inside me.”

“Fuck yes,” Barty grunts, his hands flying up to grip Evan’s ass, helping him find the angle, demanding a faster pace and hard thrusts. Barty's breathing becomes shallow and broken as he falls into a frantic, violent rhythm, gasping obscenities. 

“Fuck, Ev! So good. So tight. Feels fucking amazing.”

Evan holds onto the headboard as Barty frantically pistons into him. He is so close, so desperate for his release. His body strains, his back arches, his beautiful face scrunches up. His thrusts become uneven, his hips tense up and a cry visibly begins to rise in his throat. 

With a loud moan, Evan throws his head back and a wave of horror washes over him as he realizes his own climax is dangerously close. He moves up so quickly, Barty's grip isn't enough to hold him down, his skin is too slippery from all the sweat, so his cock glides out completely and slaps onto his stomach.

Barty screams — not from pleasure, but because of the raw betrayal and sudden, sharp agony. “You fucking bastard!” 

The slap hits Evan the very same second — Barty’s palm whips across his cheek like a gunshot. His vision whites out for a second, and static buzzes in his ears, before Evan can even register what happened. 

Fuck. 

Right there. Here we go…

Evan groans, eyes fluttering as the pain shoots through him like molten lava, landing precisely where it shouldn't: His cock, impossibly hard, twitches, throbs, and desperately drips precum onto Barty’s stomach.

“Hit me again,” Evan pants, grabbing his cock and squeezing hard at the base.

Oh this is such a bad idea.

Barty’s eyes flick down to Evan's hand and then back up. The look he gives him is even better: it’s murderous, like Barty has just discovered something really, really important.

He drags in a sharp breath, before his arm snaps up. His fist swings lower this time and his knuckles crash hard across Evan’s jaw.

This time it feels like hot, white fire is exploding in Evan’s skull. A raw, breathless moan tears out of him before he can stop it — deep and broken, nothing but pleasure disguised as pain.

It rewires Evan completely.

“Do you like that, Daddy?” Barty gasps huskily. Evan can only hear the surprised tone in his voice. His field of vision is filled with little white stars. 

"Y—yeah," Evan practically purrs, dizzy from the ache in his jaw. He’s reeling, bracing himself on Barty’s chest with both hands. His vision returns and he’s unable to focus on anything except the man in front of him—this perfect apparition with tears streaming down his cheeks, his chin streaked with spit and blood.

The corners of his mouth do something funny and curve upward. He must be smiling really stupidly right now, but he can’t help it. 

Barty props himself up on his elbows and leans in to licks at Evan's lips.

The soft touch only makes the sting sharper, sweeter. (Did Evan just make that whiny sound or are his ears still ringing?) Barty pulls back, head tilted to the side, mouth open, tongue out and Evan sees it’s wet and red with his own blood. 

Christ, he didn’t even notice he was bleeding again.

It takes everything in Evan not to come right then and there, to hold himself together even as his cock begs to give in. He doesn’t know what the hell this is anymore, but he knows one thing: he never wants it to stop, ever.

This is fucked up. 

Evan knows as much, but… 

Their next kiss is fever-hot and consuming, trading Evan’s blood on their tongues.

“Daddy fucking loves it,” he growls against Barty’s lips, pushing his tongue back into his mouth. Barty has to be the most delectable thing in the entire world.

Evan is madly in love with Barty.

This is not love. But it is mad.

He pulls back and gently strokes Barty’s cheek with the pad of his thumb and lightly slaps his cheek — not hard, just enough to demand attention. “Open up,” he murmurs.

Barty turns his head instantly, catching Evan’s thumb between his lips, licking greedily along the skin. Evan allows it for a moment, then pulls away to replace the thumb with his index and middle finger, pushing them past Barty's lips and tongue and into his hot, wet mouth.

Evan slides back down, settling between Barty's legs, then hauls one of them up and hooks it over his shoulder.

He pulls his spit slicked fingers out of Barty's mouth and reaches down to circle the tight, twitching ring of muscle, coating it with spit, until Barty hisses, bucking his hips up to meet the touch. That's Evan’s cue to push a finger inside — just one — to the first knuckle, slowly stretching him. 

Evan has to pull himself together and regain his composure somehow, so he asks the one question that has been on his mind all day: “What happened in the gas station.”

“What do you mean?” Barty raises his eyebrows innocently.

Evan pushes in further, to the last knuckle and curls his finger to drag the tip over the sensitive bundle of nerves buried deep inside, causing Barty’s back to arch off the mattress, a strangled noise tearing from his throat. “Ugh— fuuuck.”

Evan’s mouth curves into something dark, almost cruel and his voice drops, low and dangerous. “Stay the fuck down.” He holds his finger still inside him. “And tell me what happened.”

“Jesus, why the fuck do you have this weird need to chat while fucking? Can’t you just shut the fuck up and fuck me already?”

“No. I need you to relax first.”

“You think fucking talking will relax me?”

“No,” Evan huffs a laugh. “But it distracts you, and I need to prepare you. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Maybe I want you to.”

Evan laughs rolling his eyes. “I know you want me to, but by now you should have caught up with the fact that I’m not giving you what you want, shithead. I’m giving you what you need, and half the time you don’t even fucking know what that is.” 

Evan sits up abruptly, sliding his finger out completely.

The loss of fullness must be sudden and jarring, because Barty winces, and panic flashes in his eyes. “You fucking asshole!” he whines — he actually whines, sounding truly desperate.

 “So tell me, what happened? Why were you so worked up? Talk to me, if you want me to keep going,” Evan purrs, circling his wet fingers over Barty’s hole, teasing the rim, slicking it further, but refusing to push back in.

Barty throws an arm over his face and groans like a petulant child. “Lots of things.”

“Alright.” Evan rewards his willingness to cooperate by sliding his finger back inside, deep, all the way to the last knuckle. Barty sighs contentedly, his eyes rolling back. 

“Start with the restroom.”

“I did coke, so what?”

“Good boy.” Evan pushes a second finger inside, stretching him wider.

“Oh fuck, yeah, like that.” Barty gasps, and squirms, his legs shuddering.

Evan begins to move his fingers slowly, in and out, twisting his wrist to drag his knuckles over that sweet spot that makes Barty writhe and moan. 

“More,” Barty gasps. “Need you—” His back arches violently off the bed again, his thighs falling open and trembling. The sight drives Evan crazy. It’s almost impossible to hold a civil conversation when Barty is this breathtakingly sexy. He grits his teeth and forces himself to keep talking.

“What do you need?”

“More? Your cock? Please?”

Evan ignores him and keeps rubbing with two fingers in slow, maddening come hither motions against his prostate. Barty’s twitching cock rests hard and neglected against his stomach, relentlessly leaking precum, he’s making such a mess, because he still doesn't dare to touch himself — Evan hasn't allowed it.

Huh, wow.

“And you sent me to the car because…?”

“Because I didn’t like the way that fucking fre— aah…” Barty groans, his knuckles turning white where he grips the sheets. “That freak behind the counter was looking at you.”

Barty must be completely out of his mind by now. Evan wonders how he is still able to speak in semi-full sentences.

“Like what?” he demands.

Barty snorts in frustration. “I said more.” 

“How did he look at me?” Evan sharply twists his wrist.

“Like he wanted you.” Barty groans, his voice broken and needy. 

“And why does that bother you?”

“Because you’re mine, you fucking asshole.” Barty spits and starts rocking back against Evan’s hand, desperate to chase the friction Evan is rationing. 

Impatient, greedy little fucker.

“Is that true?” Evan leans over Barty, his weight pinning him down. He kisses him deep and slow before pressing in with a third finger, just to feel that telltale sharp intake of breath against his lips.

“I am yours?” he asks, as he continues to work at opening him up. 

“Yes,” Barty gasps. 

“And you’re mine?” Evan whispers in his ear. 

“Yes,” Barty’s voice is a husky, broken whimper. 

“Did you tell him that too?” Evan asks and begins to move his hand with hard thrusts.

“Ohh fuck! Yes!!” Barty closes his eyes and groans, taking a deep breath through his nose. “I mean— No. I didn’t — oh fuck, Jesus Christ — didn’t ’ell ’im.” 

Evan gives Barty a moment to catch his breath and twists his wrist as he continues to slowly push it in and out. Barty’s tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, he lifts his head, his mouth hovering near Evan’s ear. “I killed him.”

Oh.

Evan drops his head to Barty’s shoulder and chuckles. 

Oh no.

Oh fuck, that’s hot.

Jesus Christ…

That confession ignites something inside Evan beyond belief; it hits him harder than any drug. Barty is so fucking precious and monstrous all at once. And he’s Evan’s to keep forever.

Maybe it’s love.

It isn’t love, stupid.

Yes, Evan knows that.

It’s lust — raw and ugly. 

Just two awful people recognizing how fucked-up they truly are in the heat of it all. But Evan couldn’t care less about what’s right or wrong; he’s been spiraling for days. Fuck — all he wants is lose himself in this man, he wants them to crash and burn together. 

He’s not going back. He’ll rot in hell, for sure, that’s the cost for his sins. But now he’s certain he can drag Barty down with him, he’ll find him there so they can fuck for all eternity.

You’re insane.

Barty pulls back, grabbing Evan’s jaw, squeezing tight. “Ey! Listen up. I need you to come back from wherever the fuck your mind just wandered off to, stop talking, and fuck me. Right fucking now! Get it?”

“Y—yeah. I need to that too, baby,” Evan breathes, his voice ragged, dazed. He doesn't need to be told twice. Already moving, he shoves Barty back against the pillows, and his free hand wraps around Barty’s cock, stroking fast and rough, matching the frantic pace Barty had set moments before.

“Woah, okay, alright— oh fuuuck!”

“Fuck you’re so hot. You can come now. Come on, make a mess for me,” Evan commands, twisting his fingers inside Barty while jerking him off. “And then I’m gonna fuck you until you scream and make you come all over yourself again.”

“Holy fuck!” Barty has that same look he had during the fight in the alley — the one that made Evan’s heart skip a little. It’s the same feral energy. It doesn’t take long until Barty’s muscles seize and he cries out, arching violently off the mattress.

“Come for me, B,” Evan says and Barty comes violently hard, in long, hot bursts, screaming and collapsing in a broken heap. His cum covering Evan’s hand, his stomach, chest and even his neck.

Barty’s chest heaves, breath hissing hard through his nose, eyes glassy, sweat rolling off his temple.

Fucking hell.

“Fuck, you're so damn gorgeous like that,” Evan pants.

It’s true; seeing Barty like this — wholly blissed out, flushed, covered in his own cum, ruined only for him — it’s affecting Evan. He slowly pulls his fingers out of Barty’s loose, twitching hole.

He leans back to adjust Barty's leg and drags the blunt head of his cock over Barty's hole, letting it catch on the rim, smearing precum, making it sloppy. “I’m gonna to fuck you now.”

Barty’s grin flashes, wicked and feral, and he’s… he’s still hard. “Fucking promise?” 

Insatiable bastard. 

Evan looks down at him. He feels powerful, possessive, and cannot hide his stupid grin. “Yeah, baby. Promise.” He leans forward, kisses him once, scoops up a puddle of cum from Barty’s chest to coat his fingers and his cock with it, then flips Barty onto his stomach and presses him face-down onto the bed. Barty growls low, but he doesn’t fight it. Evan’s hand is pressed firmly between Barty’s shoulder blades, the other hand on his own cock.

“I wanna hear you scream my name, when I fuck you.”

In response, Barty’s arches his back, presenting his ass to Evan.

Needy.

Jesus Christ.

Evan’s hand cracks across the curve of Barty’s ass, leaving a stinging red print. “Fuck,” Evan mutters, his brain short-circuits and French slips out.“T'es tellement chaud, putain, ça me tue.”

Evan leans down and spits right onto Barty’s hole. He works the makeshift lubricant of spit and cum into the tight muscle, then pushes one finger in, slipping inside, to ensure he's slick enough, causing Barty to impatiently moan into the mattress.

“Say you wanted this.” Evan hisses, relentlessly moving his finger in and out.

“Ffffuck— yes—” Barty whines.

Every sound Barty makes — the breathless moans, the guttural curses — vibrates straight through the mattress and up Evan’s spine, making his cock twitch, demanding attention.

“Let me hear you, baby. Show me what type of boy you are. So tough and bad, huh? But what you really want is to be used.”

“Wanted this. Was thinking about you fucking me the moment I picked you up.”

Christ. This guy really is going to be the death of him.

“Is it how you imagined it?”

Evan pulls his fingers out, Barty groans into the pillow. “Fuck, Rosie.” He turns to watch over his shoulder as Evan strokes himself lazily and lines himself up. “You’re not gonna fit.”

Evan raises his eyebrows in surprise. “What? Are you saying no now?”

Barty bites his lips, glancing up. “I’m saying try me.”

Evan leans over him until their mouths almost touch, his smile sharp. “You’re a freak.”

“Perfect match then,” Barty grins.

And then Evan finally pushes in. Slowly, steady, because the stretch is brutal.

“Oh God.” Barty hisses, clawing at the sheets. Evan’s fingers were barely enough to prepare him for the girth of his cock, but he’s getting what he begged for, and he takes it so fucking well. So good for him.

And then Barty jerks back greedily, taking Evan deeper. Evan gasps for air, because goddammit, Barty feels insanely good and Evan just feels insane. 

“Fuck me!” Barty’s demands and his voice cracks, half growl, half moan. It almost sounds like he’s in pain; he might be too high and full of adrenaline to notice it. “Fill me up, come on, I can take it.”

Freaks, both of you. 

Shut up, he’s perfect.

“God, you’re insane,” Evan growls, slamming the rest of the way in until he bottoms out. Barty’s wet heat grips him so tight, his eyes cross for a second and he nearly loses control. He takes another deep breath through his nose, presses his lips together and runs one hand slowly, almost tenderly, down Barty’s spine — then shoves him back down roughly between his shoulder blades. “Stay. The fuck. Down.”

Barty yelps into the pillow, but the sound is muffled. Another string of obscene encouragements follows. The wet pressure around Evan tightens impossibly more — molten, greedy, pulling at Evan with every shallow thrust. It’s unbearable and highly addictive, the way Barty clenches and pulses around him like he’s trying to keep Evan buried inside him like a vice of wet heat.

“Fuck, you’re so tight for me, like you’re choking my cock.”

“If you wanna fuck, quit teasing and fucking do it,” Barty spits, voice ragged.

And Evan fucking loves it. Loves that this wreck of a man is still begging for more, while clawing at the sheets, threatening to tear them to shreds.

“This is what you wanted, huh? You wanted me to ruin you?” Evan forces the words out with every thrust he relentlessly drives himself into Barty, so hard the bed frame rattles and the springs groan.  Every thrust tears more filth from Barty’s mouth.

Blowin' and burnin', blinded by thirst
They didn't see the stop sign, took a turn for the worst

Everything tangles into a single overwhelming feeling deep and low in Evan’s core.

Damn, Ev, you're not going to come before you've even started, are you? 

No. I'm gonna fuck his brains out. I won’t come after the first few thrusts. 

Ce serait ridicule.

Comme tu veux…

They went rushin' down that freeway, messed around and got lost
They didn't care, they were just dyin' to get off and it was
Life in the fast lane, surely make you lose your mind