Archive of Our Own ^beta

12:37 AM

“Alright, al–alright, okay. Okay, okay, I’m going, you don’t have to.” There’s a yelp from down the hall. The scuffle of shoes. “—don’t have to push. I’m going.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Yes, sir.”

And then he’s shoved inside the cell, across the hall from where Evan is sitting.

In a cell as well.

The guy growls. Evan can hear handcuffs jingling, and iron bars can be heard next. Muttering to himself, Evan thinks the best course of action for the evening is to mind his own damn business. It’s best to keep to oneself given his current situation, but he’s so, so nosy, and Evan thinks what he might see could be funny.

Humorous, even, to laugh at another’s bad luck.

This whole situation is less than funny, so Evan could use a laugh. He’s quite stressed.

And the guy’s really whispering to himself, speaking hushed to the cop. Lanky arms and legs. Evan first thinks he’s down bad. Both of them. He’s unlucky enough to get stuck with a muttering stranger in front of him ‘til morning, and the poor guy looks drenched. Evan guesses it finally started raining after they’d been warning them all week that the roads were going to flood.

Hunched over himself, their respective cells face each other. With a small hallway between them, the officers like to walk through every hour or so. Just to check on them in the drunk tank. That smells like stale air and body sweat. Damp concrete and the tang of metal everywhere. Aged cleaner, Evan doesn’t know when the last time where he sat was cleaned.

That’s okay.

He’s only been there for a little over two hours, so within the next twenty minutes, they’ll know the routine they’re about to endure for the evening. It’s been a lot of picking at his fingernails and thanking god Evan doesn’t have parents to worry about finding out where he’s found himself.

But this guy—hunched over. Talking to himself.

Looks about Evan’s age, a bit shorter. Dark hair and his knuckles are tattooed. A bit scrawny, really. Extra scrawny looking, drowned like a rat, and acting strange. Wet boots squeaking against the muddied and worn tile. He’s got to be cold.

The cell slams shut, and it’s locked. The echoing footsteps fade.

Evan winces and scoots back. He’s sat on a little bench. They’ve provided him a room equipped with a seat built into the wall and an extra nice pot to piss in across the way that Evan has not even looked at. A toilet from the nineteenth century seemingly…and nothing else.

The flattened vinyl mattress on the floor looks older than Evan and does not count as a bed.

He’s been settled in the corner of his room for a while now. His ass is going numb, bones aching. He’s sweaty with dry sweat. They took Evan’s cuffs off when they tossed him in here, but this unfortunate soul before him—his are still cuffed behind his back, and his hair is in his face.

Stuck to his face, his arms are bare except for an old t-shirt. Some black jeans, dirty and muddy as well. He looks not great, but he seems a bit out of place. He looks like he had a few stints in county jail once in a blue moon in high school; that’s what Evan decides.

That this man is trouble, he looks messy. Like he gets into a lot of fights, like he fucks around, and leaves right after, not even in the morning. Slamming the door on his way out, Evan frowns.

He looks like he ended up cuffed as a teenager for fucking around in the car in the movie theater parking lot, pissing behind the dumpster outside the bar. Pulled over, and there’s weed in the car. Evan narrows his eyes and wonders if that’s it. An overgrown kid, maybe he lives in his mom's basement. He really fits the type.

But no one without money has that many nice, well-done tattoos. Evan would know.

The seemingly rich delinquent before Evan finally manages to recline far enough back on his little bench to pull his knees up. Sliding down, it looks like an incredibly painful position, and Evan pities the guy. He really does. What an evening they’ve found themselves in.

And then the guy turns.

Lets out a heavy breath before his head drops. And then jerks back up, and their eyes meet.

He’s got a split lip.

A nasty one that had been bleeding heavily at some point, if the blood on his chin is anything to go by. It’s on his neck, looking like the rain made it run. A once-broken nose, too, if Evan can guess. It would explain the nasally breathing and the blood that’s turned his septum piercing bright red. Caked around his nose, Evan wishes they would have just cleaned the guy up a bit before tossing him in there. He’s quite pretty.

Evan can hear how wet it is when he tries to breathe.

They could have at least tossed him a wet rag or something. The way he’s out of breath lets Evan know he must have very recently gotten his shit rocked, and Evan thinks he might be the other guy in the old saying, you should see the other guy.

“Hey.”

Evan blinks, and yes, he’s being spoken to.

He swallows. “Sup?”

And the guy is handsome.

He’s also high as hell.

The fluorescents are doing a number on his eyes, and Evan knows it's cold. He’s shivering, and Evan finds himself frowning. He’s been cold, and he can only assume the guy’s face stings like a bitch. Wet, sad rat. Not even a courtesy clean-up, Evan winces. Laments his own situation but wagers it could be just as bad, and he could be this guy.

“Do you know what time it is?” Evan asks, clearing his throat. Ducking to try and meet the guy’s face behind his hair.

“Last I checked, it was a bit past midnight.”

“Thanks, ah—” Evan leaves the word in the air before,

“Barty.”

“Barty.”

Barty nods, and Evan offers up, “Evan.”

“Evan.”

“Mhm.”

“Well, Evan.”

And that seems to be it.

Nothing follows that, and Evan thinks Barty might have fallen asleep. He’s curled in on himself in a really strange way, like a wet gumdrop. Face hidden and resting against his knees, the rise and fall of his back is the only movement in the still, silent room.

It’s a bit early, and the night is long and Evan’s good enough at talking to strangers. He thought maybe, at some point, someone else would get thrown in here, and perhaps they’d talk until they both could leave. He could hear some entertaining stories, chop it up with some stranger, and walk away with a good story to tell.

Assuming things went well, and Evan isn’t really sure where he stands at the moment, but another thirty minutes pass if his guess is correct. A round is made, Evan is hardly spared a glance, and then they’re alone again. Footsteps fading.

One in the morning.

Kind of alone. He can still hear the silence from the station broken up by a phone call or a general beep every once in a while, but it’s only him, the thrum of the fluorescents above, and Barty. They’re too far from the city for noise to bleed through the walls, and if Evan strains, he can’t tell if he’s imagining the sound of heavy rain outside or if it really is pouring.

Barty wakes up about ten minutes later with a groan.

“Fuck.”

“Hm?” Evan hums. More without thinking, he’s been picking at his nails. Biting at them. There’s nothing to do. What else is he meant to do? When put in time out, you’re meant to reflect on your wrongdoings, but Evan feels no regret or remorse, and there’s no more skin to pick at on his fingers. He’s already run through his work schedule, who to call first, and what time he needs to be at lunch this weekend.

He’s made lists in his head, his fingers hurt from the picking.

Barty looks over and squints. Stands. Spins in a small circle before walking over to the toilet in his cell and kicking it. Evan glances at Barty’s arms and looks away. Glances again, tilting over a bit to see around the bars, then sits back. There’s a spiderweb in the corner of his cell.

Barty leans down an acceptable distance and scrutinizes the toilet before laughing.

“Like fuck, I rather piss myself.” He turns to Evan then. “This is much less exciting than I thought it would be.”

And Barty is just…fine now.

Barty seems fine now and Evan’s brows draw together as he watches him wipe at his nose with his shoulder. Sniffing and groaning, hands still cuffed behind his back, Evan winces when fresh blood gets on the fabric, and Barty curses. Presses his nose to the shirt and peeks up at Evan.

He mumbles, “I didn’t close out my tab at the bar.”

“Shit,” Evan laughs. “That’s not exciting. What were you expecting?”

“More raging testosterone,” he mutters, leaning back now that the bleeding has stemmed. “More fighting. I watch a lot of crime shows, right?”

“You gonna win the next fight?”

Barty pauses. Opens his mouth and then closes it. Frowns, and his cuffs jingle when his hands fall behind his back. “I can fight.”

Blood trickles down his nose.

“Sure.”

Barty scoffs. “You should see the other guy.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

Silence and then, “No.”

Evan is nosy.

“Why then?”

Silence. Finally, he looks up, and Barty is studying the lights. Pursing his lips and fidgeting with the cuffs behind his back. He looks like an overgrown child, and sure, stone-cold murderers can look like anyone, but if you ask Evan, he’s sure the guy is innocent. Just look at him.

Evan glances at his arms again before he prods.

“Hm?”

“It’s lame.”

“Mhm,” Evan nods.

“Some beefhead was fucking with this girl in line at the bar, and she was really nice, and I owed her because I kind of cut in line. I wasn’t even trying to fight him—” He curses, wiping at the blood. “Didn’t mean to cut in line either.”

“Sure,” Evan says, faux sympathy, and Barty’s eyes narrow.

“I won,” he spits. “And then I went out back to smoke, and a cop pulled up.”

“You—”

“I was high. He walked up behind me and scared me.”

Evan is a tad speechless. Feels extra bad for the guy now; poor thing.

Lost a fight and then got thrown in the slammer for the night for trying to surely chill out after. And it’s endearing in a strange way. A real Robinhood, such a knight in shining armor, Evan knows a handful of guys who wouldn’t have said a thing to beefhead. He knows even less who would, and Barty’s missing quite a bit of muscle before he’s also tossed into beefhead territory, so it’s a sweet tale.

Tells Evan quite a lot about the guy, and he thinks Barty might be blushing, too.

“See, you’re laughing.”

1:22 AM

“I had a Gameboy Color.”

“No way.”

Barty nods, looking smug. “I still have it too. It’s bright green.”

Evan turns to look at the wall across from him again. The paint is almost blue-grey. Sterile but dirty. He’s only looking at Barty when he speaks. Time has started to move a lot slower now that they’ve become so acquainted, and they’re both sitting closer. Leaning in. Just talking.

What a concept, getting to know someone.

Evan hums. “PlayStation, when it came out. Played a lot of Metal Gear Solid.”

“Love Castlevania.”

Evan purses his lips. Cocks his head, and his brows draw together as he struggles to find where to file that information away in the folder he now has in his mind titled: Barty.

He’s a strange, strange guy.

Evan is absolutely enthralled.

Enamored by his companion across the way. He feels a bit star-struck. Like he’s not staring at a man facing a possible possession charge (although Barty did let him know he managed to drop everything he had on his person, so he might be able to get out of this one). Evan’s skeptical and has dodged all of Barty’s own questions for why he’s in here himself. Evan just wants to have his little crush. It’s not like anything will come of it, and besides, Barty is locked in his cell, and Evan is here.

And he is only allowing himself to look when he’s replying. Carefully thought-out answers are delivered as he eyes Barty’s arms. They’re wet, and he’s hot. His hair falls in his eyes, and Evan wants to bang his head against the bars when he glances away after answering.

But it’s just fun to have someone to talk to who seems interested in what you have to say.

And he hasn’t been able to guess what’s going to come out of Barty’s mouth next.

So far, he’s learned that Barty is three months older than him. He hates going out on this side of town. There’s always so many cops, and one time, Barty stole a cop’s handcuffs when he was in high school. Barty was brought to the station in them when he was younger but somehow managed to make off with them. They’re hanging on his bed frame. Evan’s mind fills in the rest about this man he’s just met.

He works at a dying movie rental chain store.

Stocking movies on the weekends, so, of course, he’d like to go out. Barty hates kids and thinks they’re annoying and their parents are even worse. He’s lactose intolerant, and beer makes him sick. It’s not Barty’s fault he’s got to stick to mixed drinks. He really didn’t close out his tab, and he has kind enough friends who might just do it for him if they happen to remember.

No, he doesn’t have money for bail. No, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. His friend is a lawyer, though, and Barty says if he happens to figure out where I am before he wakes up with a hangover, he might just help.

He makes too much eye contact for Evan’s liking, though. That’s what's dragging down time to something slower. Evan can’t quite do that; eye contact is strange, but Barty seems unable to look away. Cheek pressed against one of the bars where he’s still sitting on the bench. His arms must be aching and a tad numb now, still in the cuffs.

“You can still feel your arms?”

Barty laughs.

“Oh, no, my shoulders are fucked.” A pause, and he coughs. It’s nasty, and Evan thinks he might end up sick, sitting in wet clothes. Barty’s eyes go wide, and then he spits. Coughs again, and that spit ends up on the floor, and it’s a bloody, wet mess.

“Yikes.”

Barty rubs at it with his foot, glancing around wearily.

“You okay?”

“Honestly, I bit my tongue when the guy hit me.”

Evan frowns. At Barty and the soft spot, he’s somehow quickly conjured up for him.

“You gonna be okay?”

A scoff. “I’ve been worse.” Another pause, and then Evan is screwed. Backwards and sideways, Barty tosses out some puppy dog eyes and asks, “Tell me—why are you here? C’mon, I’ve spilled all my secrets.”

“Not all, I'm sure.”

Barty grins.

Alarm bells go off. Evan can’t tell if he’s alarmed at himself or the man before him, but he thinks the bars he’s behind embolden him just a bit. Not to confess, as that will do no good for his already bad situation, but Evan can speculate along with the cops who managed to catch him out running an errand tonight.

“Breaking and entering.”

Barty deflates, frowns, and looks disappointed. “Wha—”

“Grand theft auto, larceny-theft, burglary.”

“Oh my—”

“And speeding,” Evan tacks on, biting his tongue at the look on Barty’s face.

“Speeding.”

Evan nods slowly, and he’s making it seem a lot better (worse) than it really is. That list does not sound good to his ears, but he has faith and, honestly—worth it. Evan is no better than Barty, really, with the cool points. He was almost a knight in shining armor himself. They’re both a bit lame, maybe Barty is thinking the same thing of Evan.

So he explains.

“I, ah—broke into someone’s house. Took something back that wasn’t theirs. I fell through the window and triggered the alarm.” Evan glances down the hallway. “Took something else that wasn’t theirs, and then the cops showed up, and I fled,” he paused, picking at his nail. “Made it back home, though, before they caught me.”

Barty is speechless, clearly.

Evan grimaces.

“Allegedly. I don’t think it was me.”

“No, no, surely it wasn’t you.”

“Probably a few other charges, as well,” Evan laments, mind going back to sitting in his kitchen at the bar, laptop opening googling such a thing, and what happens if he was caught. “For whoever did it, not me.”

“Wow.”

“Allegedly.”

“I didn’t see you do it. Also that would be really lame if it was you,” Barty dismisses him with a wave before peeking back up. Grinning. “Falling through a window and all that.”

“Mm.”

“Would you have fallen through the window before or after stealing the car?”

Evan purses his lips. “Before.”

“Is it safe to assume evading arrest was also slipped in there somewhere?”

“At least I wasn’t so high I didn’t realize I was getting arrested.”

“Ah, no, you see. I did realize, just a tad too late.”

2:47 PM

A new face shows up eventually. Breaking up this strange pseudo-flirting exchange Evan and Barty have going on.

It’s kicked up a lot in the past thirty minutes, and Evan’s neck feels hot. He’s in disbelief, really.

At himself and the world. Where he’s found himself and how. Evan regrets nothing and everything, he laments. So much. This man before him and what could have been. He’s been through nineteen stages of mourning.

He’s too aware it smells damp and stale where he is, and he’s trying to imagine Barty’s words spoken less in jail and more…anywhere else. Trying to take the jail out of the equation is infuriating. Evan finds he likes the guy even more and that it doesn’t matter all that much to him.

At least, Evan’s pretty sure it’s flirting, and Barty became even more interested in him after he let it slip why his ass was sitting in a tank in the middle of nowhere for the evening. Where there’s not a gas station for ten miles, and town is two towns over. There are stars in the boy’s eyes, though. It's very cute. Evan feels ten feet tall, real cool, which he is not, but he’s down to play the bad boy for the evening. He sinks back and settles against the wall again.

He can indulge just a tad to make it through the night.

But when God gives, he takes as well.

Evan now has a cute, inconvenient crush, but the bars that separated them and gave Evan those extra inches are gone.

But the new guy is, in Barty’s own words, a beefhead.

The guy is belligerent, Barty gets moved to Evan’s cell, and his cuffs are finally removed.

“Sorry, must have forgot.”

“Oh, for sure,” Barty says, nodding and rubbing at his wrists. “Water under the bridge, my man.”

They get about ten minutes of peace. The man in the other cell is sitting with his head between his knees. Evan tries to think back and remember if he sat like that when he first got here, but he can’t remember. But maybe that’s just the pose. Barty had his moment as well. He glances at Barty, and he’s gawing on his thumbnail, spaced out.

Maybe a foot of space between them. The cells really are quite large.

“You think he’s asleep?” Evan whispers.

Barty whips his head around and leans forward, so very obvious with his nosy. He hums.

“Think so.”

“I have to piss.”

Barty glances at Evan, grimacing with a bit of fear in his eyes. They both turn to look at the pot in the corner. Barty scoots a bit closer to Evan—peeking.

He’s not one for personal space, Evan doesn’t think. He usually hates that, but while Barty smells wet and bad and still looks bloody and beat up, Evan can tell that he usually smells nice. He’s nice to be close to, and he’s so damn handsome now, Evan is glad he’s not seeing him cleaned up and smelling good.

Infuriating. Fantastic.

Barty leans over Evan’s shoulder and whistles, eyeing the toilet.

“That’s all you.”

Evan gnaws at his lip. “I’m about to piss myself.”

“Okay, then go piss,” Barty shakes his head. “Or if you’re going to choose to piss yourself instead, just let me know so I can scoot over a bit more.”

“I’m not going to piss on you.”

Barty mumbles around his nail, “I wasn’t saying that.”

Evan never really thought about what he’d do in such a situation. In a cell with a mildly looking attractive man next to him that he’s kind of far too into for having met him in jail, and now he’s about to piss his pants, and he can’t stand to piss. Evan can’t sit. He’s not weird about germs, but you don’t sit and piss in the jail toilet. He doesn’t know that, but he knows that.

Unfortunate, as always—not having a cock.

He curses, Barty looks up, and then Evan asks,

“Can you do me a favor?”

Barty squints. He seems like a nice enough, chill guy.

He says, “Maybe.”

“Yes or no.”

“Maybe.”

“I need you to stand in front of me while I go.”

“While you go.”

Evan sneers, “You know what I—”

And usually, Evan would explain a bit more, but he’s at risk of pissing himself trying to get his jeans unbuttoned, and Barty is confused, but Evan grabs his hand and hobbles them over to the toilet. It’s unfortunate because Evan cannot sit on that thing. He cannot bring himself to do it but even if he did, just no. It’s a bit humiliating. It makes him roll his eyes. Just one of those things, and he curses both his parents and god.

Looks around. At least two walls are solid. Barty’s not wide; if the guy across the way wakes up, then—

“Ah!” Barty exclaims, both hands quickly covering his eyes, and Evan grumbles. His jeans are still on, not even skin showing, just the button undone. This man is not a prude; he refuses to believe it, so Barty must be joking, and that’s good, right?

“That’s fine, just stand there and don’t move.”

“Why am I standing here in the first place?”

“Just don’t talk,” Evan snaps.

“Now you’re asking two things of me.”

“One more—turn around.”

Barty goes to object and then seems to think the same thing: why hadn’t he turned around already?

Evan gets a bit lightheaded. He doesn't know if he’s ever had to piss so bad, and it’s just—it’s a horrible time, really. Top ten worst moments of his life, how fucking deafening that large coke he had however many hours ago is against dirty, filthy metal.

Barty laughs.

Evan groans, “Oh my god, shut the fuck up.”

He laughs even harder, snickering into his palm. Facing away, but his shoulders shake with it, and Evan thinks he’s got a nice smile. He can see it from the side now as Barty tries to turn.

“No,” Evan snaps.

His smile is a little evil-looking, however that makes sense. It does, though, and there’s his front little tooth with a chip in it. Barty lets his hands fall, but true to his word, his eyes are squeezed shut when he turns back to face Evan. His nose scrunched, and a strange mix of emotions run through Evan. Just as odd as having them while air drying in the county jail on a Friday night.

“Fourteen seconds.”

“You did fucking not—” Evan starts and then shoves him back. Barty isn’t expecting it. He stumbles and chuckles again while Evan buttons up his jeans. “Shh, you’re going to wake our friend,” he says, nodding to Mr. Beef across the way.

“You think he’s going to throw up?”

Evan is silent before saying, “I hope not.”

And then it’s back to whatever they were doing earlier.

Evan feels a lot like he’s in trouble and is not meant to be having anything close to an ounce of fun, but it’s not too bad. Especially now that Barty is in his house, and they have a little cell and Barty knows the meaning of companionable silence, broken up every once in a while by whatever random question his mind takes him towards.

Barty asks, “You like tea?”

“Like hot tea?”

“Sure.”

“I guess so.”

“Hm.”

Or, a few minutes later, in quick succession:

“What’s your favorite movie? Favorite candy?”

Evan purses his lips and picks at the eyelet of his shoe. “I don’t have one, and I think I like sour candy most,” he glances over at Barty, “Like sour ropes, maybe?”

They’re sitting in matching positions, and Evan is trying not to think about sucking this dude’s dick.

“I like milk duds.”

Evan hums. A strange man, indeed.

“Movie?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“I—” Evan starts, then pauses. Turns to face Barty. “The day after tomorrow?”

Barty shrugs. “Yeah, it’s a cool movie.”

“What’s like,” Evan thinks. “What’s the worst end of the world scenario, you think?”

“Like zombies or something?”

“Yeah.”

And he really thinks about it. Evan gives him time and takes the time to study the way his nose scrunches. The way he’s still bloody, but it seems a bit too much to offer to wipe the blood off with his sleeve. It looks uncomfortable, though, and Evan could at least offer to look at the nose. Make sure it’s not still broken.

“Do—”

“Kaiju,” Barty states very confidently. “Godzilla, or like—war of the worlds type of alien coming down or out of the ocean.”

Evan thinks it's actually a wonderful, well thought out answer.

“Zombies,” he says before Barty can ask. And then, “Do you want me to, like, look at your nose, man?”

“Hm?”

“You broke your nose.”

“Ah. No, thank you, though.”

Evan is nosy and a liar when the time is right. He also doesn’t like that answer because Barty sat down a bit further away from him, and he’s fearful there might be stars in his own eyes now, but it’s cold, and Barty is running a little hot. He wants to touch him, and this is why Evan avoids cute-looking bad boys and feelings in general.

His head is a mess, he thinks Barty might whine when he comes.

Evan says, “I think it might be broken. Let me see.”

“Well, if you insist. I've had many less-hot nurses check me out in my life.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Sure.”

It is broken.

Evan only knows because he broke his nose once when he was younger.

He fell, and he was afraid to get in trouble for staining his new white shirt red, so he devised an elaborate plan to fix his nose back into place, clean it up, and say he was helping someone else who had a bloody nose. That’s how it got on his shirt.

Only it was a nasty one, and his face swelled. Then he was in trouble for ruining his new shirt and lying.

Never did he learn his lesson.

“You trust me?” he asks.

“I mean,” Barty pauses, Evan’s fingers on his jaw. Tilting him to and fro for no reason other than to just look. To watch the way Barty’s lashes flutter as he tries to keep his eyes closed and still while someone assesses him so. He has nice skin. There are really faint freckles if he’s seeing correctly.

“I guess I trust you more than beefhead over there.”

“That’ll have to do, don’t move.”

Evan needs to remove his septum piercing. It's a big, thick gauge, and he knows it’s going to kick everything back up as soon as he pulls it out. He can’t fix the nose with it in, so Evan takes a breath, thinks once again, what a night, and slides it out.

It goes easy with the way the blood starts flowing again. Onto Evan’s shirt, as soon as the jewelry is out, Evan grabs Barty’s nose. Quick as a flash, he feels where it’s crooked, and he thinks Barty’s nose might not ever be straight again right before he snaps the bone back into place.

Barty cries out, sags forward onto Evan, and there’s blood on him again now.

“Fuck.”

“Sorry, sorry, I know.”

“Face of an angel, o-oh, you’re so mean,” Barty sneers. Sucking up the spit pooling in his mouth, his forehead is against Evan’s shoulder, and then his shoulder is cold as Barty draws back. He shudders, “It feels so bad.”

Barty’s eyes are watering, and there’s blood between his teeth. Looks like his lip split open again from the sudden scream. Evan thinks he looks just pitiful. Needs to be cleaned up and tucked into bed, and he’s so into this guy that he doesn’t even care. Would so tell everyone he met him in jail.

“I know, but it will feel better.”

Barty grumbles. “It’s swelling.”

He smiles just a bit. “It’s going to do that.”

“Evan,” Barty whines, and it’s a total knockout.

Evan sighs.

Really wants to figure out a way to see this guy outside of jail. Needs a game plan. It’s not a maybe now; it’s a yes. Evan’s never loved his name, but Barty says it like it’s new and fresh but also something that has always been, and he’s just real cute. He’s too charming in a strange, backward, too-loud way. He does not want to share this man ever again, and he is being entirely impractical and delusional.

Evan opens his mouth, and he’s never experienced anything like it.

This total fuck to the wires in his brain, his last thought being what comes out of his mouth next rather than more casual conversation. Something normal, not alarming, or out of pocket.

“Are you single?”

Barty’s fingers stop. His eyes find Evan first, side-eyeing him before slowly turning.

“Well, who’s asking?”

Evan narrows an eye. “Me,” he says slowly.

2:59 AM

He doesn’t get an answer.

Somehow, Barty worms his way out of an answer before Evan realizes they’re too far past the question to bring it up again. That would make him desperate, and he is, actually, even more so as time passes, but he cannot let that show.

It makes Evan purse his lips when he realizes. Listening to Barty talk about his co-worker and how she’s sleeping with the boss of another movie rental place. He’s so damn attractive no matter what comes out of his mouth, and yet, Evan kind of wants to clock him. For not answering his question, going a step further and asking a question for clarification and then never getting an answer and—

“Hey, you.”

Both of their heads whip up.

Beefhead is awake and standing up.

Very unsteady on his feet, white-knuckling the bars, but Evan lets out a breath when he realizes he is not addressing either of them. He watches Barty settle where he had been about to get up. Their fingers brush, Evan wants to die.

The man is trying to get the cop’s attention, and Evan is appalled by how clear his words had been the first time he spoke. Now, they’re a sloppy mess of drunk consonants that no one can understand, and the cop all the way down the hall definitely cannot hear.

Beefhead finally turns, Barty silent next to Evan, and sneers, almost decipherable,

“What are you looking at?”

But again, a lot is happening, and the guy staggers right after he asks them a question, managing to trip and bang a knee on the bench before landing on the floor with a loud groan. His blood-alcohol content must be insane. It’s deafening when he’s out. Barty is next to him. Beefhead is still. Barty and Evan are silent.

Both are very glad not to be sharing a cell with that guy, he’s sure.

Beefhead doesn’t speak again, and the cop doesn’t come around, but Evan knows it’s been long enough. It feels like they’ve been here for hours, and now that he’s talked himself into a rut over the man next to him and his possible feelings for his cellmate, Evan wants to go home. Needs to go by Pandora’s. Needs milk for breakfast and has work the day after tomorrow. A big piece, too, that he hasn’t started.

Evan should not be thinking about kissing. He should be worried about getting out of here.

Everything is a whole lot less fun now. Not that it ever was to begin with, really.

Evan glances at Barty, and he’s squinting off at something in the distance, one knee up to his chest. Evan looks away right as Barty catches his eye. Resting his chin on his knee, Evan wishes he wouldn’t do that. It’s cruel. Barty has to know he’s got this devilishly handsome thing going on, and he’s probably used to people fawning over him. Evan might actually be bothering him—that’s a sobering thought.

His eyes fall to the mattress but then back to Barty, and he’s smirking.

Nods towards the mattress and winks.

Maybe if he had answered Evan’s question earlier, it would have been cheeky. Cute. But Evan finds he knows this man enough to be cross with him, and he feels stupid all over again for trying to figure out a plan to see this man outside of jail as if that is even remotely a good idea or as if Evan has any idea the kind of person Barty really is.

He probably has people fawning over him all the time, telling him how cool he is, and touching his arms. He probably has hot girls to shower with, and Evan fell through a window earlier and doesn’t even need to test his pride.

And then Barty falls asleep.

He kind of tumps over onto Evan’s shoulder, and he looks down and sees his eyes closed and face bloody.

Evan sighs.

3:31 AM

Barty wakes with a start that scares Evan, even though a loud man is saying his name.

His hand shoots out and grips Evan.

On the arm. Barty’s grip is tight and warm, and he has nice hands, and Evan had almost, almost talked himself through this little issue. Had nearly let go of the man sleeping against him; how humiliating it is to have to let go of a stranger. Evan had almost put the last puzzle piece in place of what was going to be a gorgeous picture of YOU’RE BEING WILDLY, DISGUSTINGLY DELUSIONAL.

You’re not in love with a man you met in jail.

“Bartemius Crouch Junior.”

Barty stands quickly before remembering his surroundings and coughing. He glances back at Evan, and he can tell he’s sleepy. The bags under Barty’s eyes are dark, and his nose is swollen. The dried blood is black and flaking. He’s bitten his tongue. Evan lets his head hang and wants to physically wipe away the lewd thoughts.

He’s so horrible.

Barty nods, walks towards the bars as the man opens them, and steps out.

“Me,” Barty offers weakly. “I’m Barty.”

“Bail has been posted. Someone is here to pick you up out front.”

“N-No—nonono,” Barty begs, grabbing at Regulus’ arm. He’s acting like a child, and he’s fine with that. “You don’t understand, please. I’ll never ask anything of you again.”

“We both know that is not true.”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah,” Regulus scoffs. “Me too.”

Well, that’s not—

“I don’t ever ask for anything from you,” Barty argues, standing tall. “That hurts my feelings.”

“Reg, he really—” James starts, but Regulus slowly turns to look at him.

He’s still in his club clothes. Only two buttons are hanging on still, Regulus’ shirt barely holding up. The rest are unbuttoned, and his hair is a wreck. Barty knows he’s asking a lot, he does, but he grits his teeth, needing Regulus to understand he’s serious.

Dead serious. This might just be it.

“I will pay you back,” he offers up weakly. Glancing at James, who nods, on Barty’s side, hopefully. “I’ll—I’ll help you. I can fucking sweep the floors or be your assistant. I’ll,” Barty glances back at James. “James? C’mon, I’m not fucking about—”

“I don’t need—” Regulus starts.

“Dude, I’d offer to suck your dick, but your boyfriend is right there,” Barty sighs, jabbing a thumb toward James. “He’ll suck your dick for me, right man?”

James nods. “I will, of course.”

The night is quiet this far from town. The station they were in looks like it hasn’t been updated since the eighties. All angular, it weirdly reminds Barty of high school, and he frowns. Rubs at his eye because he’s tired, too. He had the same night, except he got arrested while his friends had fun and didn’t notice he was gone for hours. While his friends got to keep pounding back shots and dancing, and Barty likes to dance, but next time, he would like to dance all up on Evan, and he cannot do that if—

The heaviest sigh.

From behind him, the type only Regulus can manage, before he says, “Fine.”

They’re sat at a small diner down the road.

Barty does not know how Regulus managed to do it, but Barty asked him, and he should know why Regulus is his best friend by now. Sitting there looking half past exhausted, scrolling through his phone as a pancake plate is seated in front of him. James is sucking down the too-hot diner coffee, and he’s silent.

Actually, James looks asleep. Barty thinks he might be, still somehow holding his coffee, though. He knows Regulus dragged him out tonight. It was last-minute plans on a Friday after a long week. They always go wrong, Murphy’s Law, and all that.

But Regulus doesn’t fuck around. About anything. Be that his job, those he loves (Barty), and he doesn’t break a promise. Ever.

And he didn’t even promise Barty he could make this work.

“—he has a sister. Sister has a boyfriend that he doesn’t like,” Regulus says, eyes locked on his phone. He purses his lips, “She doesn’t like him much either, more of an ex,” Regulus hmphs. “No one likes him—let's go with that. Boyfriend kept his sister’s cat and car,” he sets his phone down and clasps his hands. Regulus looks at Barty, James peeking one eye between them. “Evan went to get both of them back.”

“Did he?” Barty asks.

“Seems so.” Regulus picks at a bite of toast on James’ plate. “Nothing was taken that was not hers. Luckily, there was a co-sign, and well,” he chuckles. “The cat is a cat, and apparently, Evan was able to toss it out of the car before the cops saw. They didn’t know about that, but he technically didn’t steal the car.”

Barty is—

“He did, however,” Regulus fixes him with a look. “Evade arrest and was speeding quite a bit.” After another bite of toast, he hands it to James instead of setting it on the plate. Dabs at the corner of his mouth. “A hundred and fourteen in a seventy-five.”

Barty thinks he needs to go to Evan right now.

Like a movie, he needs to sweep him off his feet and carry him to the nearest courthouse. Or his apartment. He needs to tell Evan how pretty he is, how much Barty likes him, and how much he wants to kiss him, and that he wants to go out. And take him on a date, and they can have sleepovers and be in love, and Evan doesn’t have a car at the moment, technically, but Barty does at the moment. Parked out front, shiny and nice and fast, too.

He can drive fast, but he can also sit really well in the seat of a car when told to, and Evan could drive and—

Back to the issue at hand.

“So.” Regulus settles him with a pointed look. “Eight thousand, three hundred and thirty-three dollars.”

Barty swallows, his eyes don’t bulge, though. Regulus nudges James.

How they found him, Barty does not know.

Regulus stands, and throws some bills on the table. Grabs one more bite of toast as James slides out of the booth, smearing jelly that falls off with his finger. Popping that in his mouth, sucking his thumb clean, Regulus speaks around a mouthful of toast and makes Barty’s dreams come true.

“We’ll call it even,” he says.

Barty blinks.

Thinks bailing out a man Barty just met but is insisting he’s in love with after a night in jail for eight grand sounds insane, and Regulus is very calculated. Level-headed, and even Barty can understand how that sounds insane. This is not something Regulus would ever agree to, was he not serious, and James does not look surprised in the least. More proud, ready to go home as he swats at Regulus’ hip to let him out of the booth.

Barty’s brain jumpstarts. “No, no, I can’t—”

“Well, call it even,” Regulus narrows his eyes. “You don’t have the money to pay me. I have the money. Just please—” He sighs. “Let’s not do this again.”

6:47 AM

Evan’s head lifts when he hears keys jingling.

Keys to his cell, the other empty and open, and he does not regret what he did, but boy, he'd rather this just all be over. Even more, now that Barty has been gone, and he fell asleep. Evan dreams of his bed, the first thing he’s going to do when he’s home.

Take a shower, piss in the peace of his own bathroom, too.

He woke up eventually, and the beefhead was gone, too, somehow.

The tick of the clock is noticeable now, and Evan doesn’t know what to do with so much time. Feels silly, but the anxiety started around four and didn’t go away when he woke back up. His nails are almost picked raw, he was passing the time while daydreaming. But Barty is on the do not touch shelf now, and Evan will never see him again. Has no way to find him, doesn’t know anything about him useful other than his name.

Evan will be googling him when he gets home.

And the man opening his cell is not the one from before, he does not speak, and Evan isn’t even sure what happens next. He’s not sure what he’s meant to do. Thinks maybe he should know; he’s grown, but Evan doesn’t, and Barty does, somewhere in the world, and he feels quite alone. Wishes he had his parents, but they wouldn’t help anyway, so he was doomed from the start, it seems.

“Evan Rosier.”

He stands.

The man says, “You’ve posted bail. You’re free to go.”

Evan blinks.

Blinks.

Does not question it, does not have time to question it. Evan slowly, like the man might laugh and say sike, walks past him. Taking a left and leaving the way he was brought in. It’s not quite daylight, it’s still night, but you can see hints of the new day outside as he walks down the oddly-lit hallway.

And then, there’s Barty.

Standing there looking entirely too smug.

Evan blinks again.

“Evan Rosier,” he grins. “Rosie—you like that? I’ll call you that.”

“What are you doing here?” Evan breathes.

Evan turns, and he signs some things.

Can feel the fatigue slowing down the already jumbled thoughts. He scribbles when asked and nods when prompted. Evan has questions but does not know where to start. Evan doesn’t know if he’s ever been so many emotions at once, piled on top of him and weighing him down.

He’s told about the trial, all of that, and it doesn’t hit Evan until he’s out the door that a) he doesn’t have a car and b) he did not pay his own bail, and he knows Pandora doesn’t have that money. Hell, Evan doesn’t even have that kind of money. No one fucking does.

He knew that when he set out yesterday night, but Barty grumbles and tugs at Evan’s hand. Acting like a petulant child, Evan stumbles along, turning back to look behind him as the doors to the station swing shut.

“What—”

And then there’s another two people in front of him. One sticks out his hand, stiff as a board at six in the morning.

“Regulus Black, I bailed you out.”

“I—” Evan starts but pauses. The name—

Oh my god.

“Oh, fuck, you’re—”

“Barty is a childhood friend. He was very insistent that I ‘save you’ because you are,” Regulus glances at Barty. “Direct quote: very pretty and very innocent.”

“I—” Evan starts.

“I’m tired. I was drunk three hours ago. I’m still drunk. Charges are dropped, I got the whole story. I spoke to your sister, you’re stuck with evading and speeding, both of which have been taken care of for now.” Regulus is a mean one, Evan can tell. “So,” he says pointedly. “I will be taking James here home and don’t call me for a week.”

He directs the last part to Barty before turning and dragging James away. Who waves and looks like he’s dreading the drive home that’s about to feel like it takes ages. Barty has very attractive friends. They were very clearly out earlier in the evening, dressed to the nines, covered in exhaustion.

Evan doesn’t even want to guess what he looks like at the moment. He’s also never been more grateful in his life and does not know what to do. He goes to speak but is stopped before he can.

“You can thank me by dealing with him from now on,” Regulus calls back. “Goodnight.”

And suddenly, when Regulus and James round the corner and they are alone, all the thoughts slip into place and he’s no longer exhausted. The events of the evening come crashing down, as they were always going to.

Evan spins around.

“You did not have to do that—what the fuck,” he hisses. “How much—”

Barty grins and licks over his teeth, and Evan’s words falter.

Barty sure looks a lot like an animal that was in a cage, and now he’s not, and something about the night air has him looking at Evan like maybe he does not know this man, and he and his friends are fucking crazy. Hot, as well, but insane.

This is too much, Evan needs to go home and back to normal thoughts with no disruptions.

But Evan’s so into it.

Barty leans forward, knocking Evan’s shoulder with his. “You need a ride home?”

He’s so hot Evan could gag, actually.

Feels like he’s going to, sitting in Barty’s car. Looking out the window, watching the world blur into colors. It’s a nice car, an older car. Evan doesn’t know a thing about cars, that’s all Pandora, but he knows his ass is sitting on a nice seat and Barty looks good driving. Looks like he just spent the night in jail, but he wears it well. He’s strange.

They’re going to Barty’s house.

Because when Barty asked where Evan lived, he hadn’t given him his address like he should have. Instead, he grimaced and said shit, it’s pretty far, which gave Barty the perfect opening to offer up, you can just stay at mine tonight? It’s close.

Evan thinks it’s about the same distance by the time they pull up, but he supposes it doesn’t matter now.

“I'm sorry,” Barty says as he opens Evan’s car door. “I went the speed limit, speed racer. It's best not to try our luck.”

“Shut up.”

Barty whistles his appreciation as Evan steps around him and out of the car. “One fourteen is impressive, Rosie doll.”

It’s a cute little house in a nice little neighborhood in a sweet part of town, and there’s flowers in Barty’s flower bed. Pink ones, and maybe those are blue. The nickname he’s given Evan is making his stomach twist. The house is yellow. With white shutters, it looks like an old grandmother’s home. The driveway is worn and cracked but there’s so much charm, and Barty looks like that, and Evan’s mind, once again, cannot understand.

He follows Barty up the porch, and before he can ask,

“The house was my grandmother’s.”

Evan smiles. “It’s cute.”

“I want to paint it. The yellow reminds me too much of her.”

And he winces.

Now, Evan feels like maybe that's a line you wouldn’t normally hear before hooking up with someone. Honest, family matters tend to be avoided. There’s usually a whole lot less talking than what they’ve done. Less talking, less clothes. This is not hooking up, Evan is trying to think positive thoughts.

Trying to slip into something cool and collected. Cool guy Evan—that’s him.

Barty looks back and offers up a smile as he shoves at the door with his shoulder. It opens, and the first thing Evan notices is he keeps the house cold. Fucking freezing, his heart drops, and maybe Barty is insane.

And that smile on Barty’s face makes Evan think he might have a shot.

He curses and skirts around the couch, almost tripping, making for the wall, and fiddling with the thermostat. “Sorry, I was so hot trying to sleep last night.”

Evan winces again, but this time, it’s to try and cleanse that image from his mind.

Sweaty Barty sweating in bed, where his sheets are sweaty. Maybe naked if he was so hot. After a shower to try and cool off, towel smelling good, and hair wet, too. Back in bed, lying there prone and the fan on and—

“You want a drink?”

“Sure,” Evan nods. “Yeah, thanks.”

It’s not that he’s incapable of hooking up with someone, it’s just he never has. Why on earth would he do something so anxiety-inducing when he could just…not?

But as he looks around, taking in the couch and very normal boy home that screams a lack of care that might play in his favor, Evan slings his sweatshirt over the back of the sofa and slips his shoes off. Kicking them in a pile with Barty’s boots.

Barty hands him a beer, and Evan takes a long sip.

“You want to shower?”

Evan eyes a pack of cigarettes on the kitchen table. Some headphones, a stack of bills.

“Sure.”

“Ah,” Barty grins, eyeing him before taking a sip. “With me?’

Barty’s room is strange.

He’s hot, endearing, and his home is yellow, and he is actually kind of lame, and Barty’s bedroom is strange. Endearing as well—Evan’s going in circles. He feels giddy, like he doesn’t want to touch anything, only wants to look. Like Barty’s the hot football player and Evan is just Evan.

“Oh, yeah,” Barty says, coming back out of the closet and tossing a pile of clothes on the bed. “I play a lot of Magic.”

Evan nods sagely. He does, clearly, and there’s cards all over the place.

He’s eyeing a whole lot of things that make him think Barty is the man of his dreams and also might be a sick lay.

The house is small, just the right size for a grandma. A living room that goes into a kitchen. With white cabinets and a tiny sink, Barty looks funny in this home. A little hallway, a bathroom between two rooms, both of which have a bed. There’s not a lot of decoration going on, but it’s tidy. Very spare but in a neat way, and anything hung on the wall clearly holds importance.

There’s a few frames of old flash, yes, but also a lot of Magic The Gathering cards.

There’s a desk in the corner and some books. Everything seems important; maybe Evan is reading into it, but it’s comfortable in a way that is honest. That’s the only way he can describe it.

“That’s cool,” Evan supplies, going to peek at the cards. “I’ve never played.”

Barty hums. “We’ll see to it.” He swipes up the pile of clothes, passing Evan. He turns back and nods towards the bathroom, “C’mon, then.”

Evan’s about to fuck this guy.

Actually, this man is about to fuck Evan, and he’s about to see him wet in the shower, and Evan bets the shower is small. Probably not sized for two. So, probably, they’re gonna be pressed up against one another, and then it’s going to be hot. Sweaty hot but wet, and Evan hears the shower start, and he starts when Barty takes his shirt off.

He just—whips it off, and Evan chokes, and Barty grins.

“Oh, you flatter me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Evan must really be boosting his ego by acting like a virgin over here because he’s not a beefhead, no, but Barty’s just got this look about him. Evan takes a deep breath and—

“You want me to turn around again and close my eyes?”

“No,” Evan hisses, the image of Barty shirtless with his tattoos fresh in his mind even as he blinks.

Not fair, not fair.

Barty frowns. “I was genuinely asking, you can also shower alone. I was not trying to assume, I just thought, ya know—”

“Oh my god,” Evan huffs. Trust him to be this noble now. “Move.”

Evan’s shirt goes first, and he throws it at Barty as he shoves past him.

Barty laughs and catches it. Appraises it, smells it, then tosses it in the hallway toward his bedroom. Jeans next, Evan struggles. The bathroom is small. Grandma sized. With a hand on the counter, Evan finally manages to drag his last leg out, saving them a step and trashing them as well.

He’s very aware he’s basically naked, and it’s silent except for the shower, and the tiles in the bathroom are pink and white.

It’s awkward. A bit comfortable, somehow, like the awkwardness is less stifling and more funny.

And then Barty’s knuckle nudges at Evan’s chin, tilting it up. Their eyes meet. It reminds Evan of hours ago, and he almost smiles to himself. Goes to lean into the touch, but Barty turns, and he doesn’t even look when Evan takes off his underwear. He instead turns around, getting in the shower.

“I am single, by the way,” Barty shouts, muffled by the water. “Only if it’s Rosie asking, though,” he adds, peeking his head past the curtain. “C’mon, I’d like to shower so we can fuck. I’ve just sat my ass in jail for a million hours, and my sheets are clean, and I’ll let you watch whatever you want to fall asleep.”

“I was there for even longer than you!”

“Yeah,” Barty grins. “So hurry up, damn.”

Rosie—Evan climbs into the shower, and he’s so into it.

And clean sheets and this odd sense of too much normalcy for someone who he did not know this morning. Pandora is going to kill him; he has to call her before anyone gets into any bed.

Barty’s arm wraps around his waist as soon as he’s in the shower. Not even wet yet, but Barty is burning up from the temperature and Evan’s suddenly dead weight. So comfortable. Barty is not wide but he’s firm and slick and half-hard, pressed against Evan’s lower back. Neither of them mention it. This is not a hook-up.

Evan sighs.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he mumbles. Does not care. There’s no fight left; he really hopes the criminal behind him ends up his boyfriend. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Oh, I’m fucking beat,” Barty groans, and then it’s his chin on Evan’s shoulder. “I feel horrible, Rosie.”

They shower.

It’s not a major affair, but it eases Evan’s mind and muscles and ass from the harsh concrete he sat on, and Barty gets soap in his eye just a bit, and he wails about that, and Evan shoves him to the other end of the shower. Watching him peek his head out to wipe at his eye as Evan washes off. His back is tattooed as well. A massive piece.

He watches Barty whine. Moan and complain about the soap, and Evan watches him bat around the shower curtain, dropping the towel. Trying to find it as soap remains, and finally Evan can’t help it. He’s laughing. It sounds tired to his own ears, but it’s very, very genuine.

Barty giggles, too. Tosses his head back and hugs Evan.

“We match, see?” Barty says when he hops in bed.

Evan looks down at his pajamas—sweatpants and a t-shirt—and yes, they do match. Barty even gave them socks, and he eyes them. They’re striped, opposite stripes. It’s really, really cute but Barty sobers as Evan eyes them. His face gave something away.

“Oh, no. They’ll come off before sex. Promise you.”

“Oh, I keep mine on,” Evan says. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Don’t be weird.”

It’s just funny and endearing enough to get Evan to crawl into bed. Trying not to grin as Barty scoots over to make more room. Barty reaches out for Evan.

“I don’t fuck criminals,” he says, slinging a leg over Barty’s lap, and he gets to watch his face twist in surprise. It’s cute, he makes a nice chair. Is real nice to sit on, half hard cock pushing against Evan’s ass, and he’s easy too.

Evan tuts.

“Oh, but I'm innocent,” Barty says. “I don’t know where you heard all this criminal business, but it’s just not true.”

Evan studies him.

“You’re innocent?”

Barty arches a brow. “Basically a saint, Rosie doll. I would never lie to you.”

“Who really won the fight?” he asks, thumbing at the split on Barty’s lip, red and angry after the hot shower. He leans down to kiss but pauses. Waits. There’s no bars separating them now, but Evan is looking down at Barty, and he’s so lame. Evan’s so into it, and he’s never hooked up with someone, but that’s not really what they’re doing, is it? And Evan does know how to take a cock, so he waits. Makes Barty answer,

He swallows and hangs his head. “Most would probably say him.”

Evan laughs. Like Barty had in the shower and at Barty’s own expense, his eyes light up. He asks, “And you?”

Barty curses. “Shit—I’d say it doesn’t really matter.”

Evan can feel how angry and red that split lip is when they kiss.

The skin is hot, raised against Evan’s own. Barty tastes like a shower, and his skin is so soft. His clothes are worn cotton, the sheets are clean, and he smells good. Barty smells like Evan smells, and he tastes like the same toothpaste Evan used as well. He kisses hungry. With a lot of urgency, that drops like lead in Evan’s stomach the first time he swallows a mouthful of Evan’s spit.

Barty kisses how he looks, however one might interpret that.

With a lot of teeth, and they’re smooth except for that chip, and the way it catches on Evan’s lip when Barty bites makes him want to come now. Just to break the ice. Barty chews a moan out of Evan that slips between them. He manages to break away, eventually. Out of breath, it’s caught in his throat, and everything is distracting. Barty’s fingers are all over his skin, indecisive but greedy.

Under the back of Evan’s shirt, fingers dipping under the back of his sweats. Each notch of his spine getting a moment of attention, Evan makes a noise of protest when Barty pulls away.

“What—”

“Sh,” Barty hushes him. “I’m just trying to—fuck.”

The sweatpants were a strategic choice, Evan can tell.

“You’re hard,” he blurts out.

Barty scoffs. Manages to get his sweatpants off, only boxers now, as he steals another kiss, and Evan’s gone.

“Of course I am, you’ve been on my mind all night.”

Said with a tinge of annoyance, like Barty is over talking and it does not matter, and Evan agrees. He does. He really, really does, but that’s sweet, and the way Barty is looking at him, Glancing him over, is not sweet. It makes him think maybe Evan really has been on Barty’s mind all night, and if that’s the case, they’re in the same state.

Evan yelps when Barty starts trying to get his sweats off. Getting frustrated, unable to stop kissing, Evan helps. Wraps his around Barty’s shoulders, dragging them together again. Barty’s septum snags, and he pants,

“Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

But there’s a lack of genuineness in Barty’s apology that’s got Evan wet between the thighs.

Barty isn’t smooth, but he’s eager, and he’s out of it. Single-minded on getting Evan naked, and he’s never been so flattered in his life. Eyes blown wide, Barty kisses like a mess. His fingers are cold, his lips wet with spit and too much tongue. Evan can feel his jaw cold and damp.

“Sorry, I just—” Barty curses and moans when Evan slides a thigh between his legs. Pressing against his leaking cock, Barty makes a choked noise like Evan slapped him real nasty. “I really like you, that’s crazy, but I do.”

“I like you too.”

“Okay cool,” Barty says, his eyes are glassy. He’s so pretty, and then Barty’s brain seems to register what Evan said and that smile—like the cat’s got the cream. “I’m being so lame right now.”

“You are,” Evan agrees.

“Okay, gonna have sex now.”

Evan almost laughs. He’s reigning it in, can’t let Barty know how gone he already is.

“Awesome, looking forward to it.”

And Barty smiles, but it’s different this time. Just is.

A bit softer.

“Oh, I’m gonna love you.”

Evan sounds like a whore the first time Barty’s tongue touches his cunt.

He’s instantly jealous.

It’s an odd feeling, one that had not floated to the top quite yet in regards to the man between his thighs, making Evan cry out as he pushes a finger in alongside his tongue and grips Evan’s thighs so hard it hurts. But he lifts into Barty’s mouth, feels his wet tongue circle his clit, and it’s better.

The best. He’ll unpack the jealousy later.

Evan can feel the messy. Can feel the way Barty groans when he pushes another finger in, and he can feel how wet he is. Can feel and hear how much of a mess Barty’s made of him when Evan feels spit on his cunt. How easy he takes it. How eager he is, how both of them have set the teasing aside in favor of blown-wide eyes and heavy breaths.

“Fuck,” Barty swears.

“Another,” Evan begs. Bary’s hair is so soft, he yanks Barty’s face closer to his cunt.

Barty drags the same finger out before another presses in with it, and Evan melts into the bed. His eyes flutter. But he catches Barty draw back quick enough to suck his fingers clean before Evan gasps and twists. Bows and Barty groans, glancing up at the sight. Aiming. Precise, and it goes straight to Evan’s heart and his cunt. Goes further, deeper, and Evan cries out when Barty’s fingers hit just right.

“Ha,” Barty gasps, looking up at him. Strung out, and oh, yeah. He looks a little evil, and Evan moans when Barty grits his teeth. Fucks Evan with his fingers faster. Harder where it hurts, and Evan is trying to get away, and Barty is biting at his lip. Eyes burning, staring down, and Evan is going to come. It’s too much. It would be for anyone, but Evan feels on fire.

Feels way, way too much.

He’s trying to be still, but it’s hard. Barty’s helping a lot, though. Sweetest torture, holding Evan down, with tears in his eyes, pitiful gasps, and garbled attempts at begging drowned out by the slick sound of Evan’s cunt around Barty’s tongue. Overstimulated, floating in the in between and watching Barty. The dull ache of the bruising he hopes stays for a long, long time.

“You know your cunt tastes sweet, Rosie?” he asks, out of breath. Words cut off with a kiss, Barty pulls his fingers out, and Evan reaches for him. “Fuck.”

“I–” he starts.

“I’ve never had such a pretty thing in my bed.”

Still, through the fog of feeling like fucking god, Evan narrows his eyes. He bats at Barty’s hand.

“So you do this a lot?”

Barty’s mouth drops open. He cocks his head and settles back on his haunches. Fingers wet. He assesses Evan for a joke, but this is no joke. “What? No, no—not at all, Rosie.”

Evan narrows his eyes. “How do you eat pussy so good?”

Barty clearly does not know how to answer. “I mean,” he starts, going to run his hands through his hair but thinking better. Evan’s slick between his knuckles. “Well, first, thank you.”

And then a devilish grin.

Evan slaps at his shoulder. “I’m being serious.”

“Oh my god, I don’t know.”

“Really?”

The smile does not disappear, but Barty slowly moves towards Evan again, caging him in with a grin—not a smile. Evan thumbs at the chip in his tooth, and his bedsheets are green. Care was put into how they match.

Evan asks, “What happened here?”

Barty licks over his tooth and Evan’s finger. “Fell off my skateboard—you’re jealous.”

“Am not.”

“Ah,” Barty says, granting Evan a quick peck. Running his hand down Evan’s side, it’s soothing and makes him stifle a moan. “It looks good on you, though.”

Evan sinks into the pillows, Barty’s breathes ragged as he lines his cock up. Bites at his lip again, Evan can’t stand it. He cannot fucking stand it. He catches Barty in a kiss, one he does not intend to break—ever—and his fingers twist in the bedsheets when Barty slides into him.

All at once. Too fast.

Evan could come right now.

The way Evan keens and his body begs for more, he sounds like a whore, but Barty looks like a slut.

“You look like a slut,” Evan gasps, and Barty’s lashes flutter where he’s hovering. Close, lips touching. Still a kiss.

He gives a strung-out laugh. A grin. “And you sound like one, such a whiny boy, huh?”

“F–fuck yo—hngh.”

Well, Barty sounds like one, fucks like one, too. The jealousy is turning to possession with nothing to hang on top. Something, maybe. If the way Barty hangs his head and seeks out the side of Evan’s neck is anything. Breathing out shaky when his hips draw back. Evan can feel it all, the way his cock slips out like torture.

One of Evan’s arms falls over his face, and he muffles a choked gasp when Barty fucks back into him.

“Nope,” Barty snaps. Grabbing Evan’s wrist and pinning it to the bed. “None of that,” he shakes his head, the tip of his cock catching on Evan’s clit before he’s full again. Too full, Evan fights against Barty’s hold. Who looks entirely pleased and strung out at the same time.

He’s so hot.

Seriously. Evan’s knees fall further open.

And the tattoos look so stark in contrast to the flush of his cheeks, the way Barty’s septum catches on Evan’s next kiss.

“Please—fuck me,” he blurts. The first thing he manages to say, and that’s not what—

“Oh, faster?” Barty grins against his mouth. Snapping his hips faster. His fingers find Evan’s hip, and he’s held down. Dragged onto Barty’s cock. Being used, Evan does not care, but he nods frantically, around a cry, when Barty asks, “Harder?”

It’s filthy, his mind supplies, the sounds Barty drags out of his mouth and his cunt when his cock is replaced with his fingers quicker than Evan can realize. He watches again, jaw dropped, as Barty sucks his fingers clean. He catches Evan’s eye as he slams back into him, both of them groaning, another kiss.

Harder this time. Slowly, but Barty’s got a thin layer of sweat on his brow, and Evan wants to touch. Reaches out when Barty hits too deep. Too hard and just right, taking Evan’s fingers into his mouth, and Evan realizes he’s going to come. His fingers are tangled in Barty’s hair, and his cunt aches from how hard he’s getting fucked. It’s almost embarrassing the way he’s taking Barty so willingly. Begging for more and sounding the way he does.

Evan is going to come.

Barty drags Evan closer, further down the bed, and then decides that’s not good enough.

Evan whines when Barty’s cock leaves him, feeling the lack of stretch and needing it back immediately, and he clenches around nothing. Too wet, panting, and beginning to fall. Then he’s flat on his stomach, and Barty’s sliding back into him.

And opens his fucking mouth.

“Rosie,” Barty pants. “Fuck, god—you’re, hng, god. Fuck, that’s a pretty sight.”

Evan can only see pillow. Everything else is tenfold, and Barty’s hips are bruising, and it hurts. It aches so good, and Evan cannot think beyond more. He’s greedy. Wants Barty to split him down the middle, then use his cock to sew him back up, however that would work.

“I-I, ah, B-Barty, please, I need—”

“Tell me.”

Evan’s words disappear, and he gasps. Punched out ah ah ahs from him, matching the way Barty’s lips are moving against the back of his neck, fuck fuck fucks. Evan’s bruised. His cunt is going to ache for days, and he wants it to. He feels fucked open and raw, Barty’s cock too deep, too hard, for too long, rolling into something like continuous too much. Pleasure and ache.

“I’m going t-to come.”

Barty hums, “You’ve got the prettiest fucking cunt too. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“N-No,” Evan moans, feeling Barty's hands on his ass, spreading him open. “Ngh, I—”

“I’ll tell you every day, then,” Barty pants, and then he whines. He does, and he says, “Tight little thing, fuck, can I fill you up?”

Evan comes.

Knows he begs as he does. Does not remember those few precious seconds and might never. Words tumble from his lips as his knees fall even further open Lips find Barty’s, twisted around one another. A mass of pleasure fucked into the mattress. It hurts, and it hurts so good, and Barty talks so much and fucks like a porn star.

Evan finds heaven.

“Oh, fuck, you’re a mess.”

His spine cracks. Splits down the middle.

“So pink and sweet, Rosie.”

It’s visceral, and Evan’s never come so hard in his life. It hits him over the head, stuffed full and crowded, and Barty’s lips against his neck. He feels it in his skull and Barty’s tongue on his teeth, and it’s divine.

Barty comes. In Evan’s sweet and pink and messy, pretty cunt.

Mutters something as he does, lashes fluttering. Their noses brushing, Evan swallows down the sounds. Feels Barty bottom out and come. Takes the moans and whimpers for himself, lands back on earth, and it aches. He’s ruined, and Barty grinds his hips. Does fill him up. To the brim and then some, and Evan doesn’t know what to do without this feeling. Does not know how he’s meant to go on after being so thoroughly fucked.

Sound comes back, and Evan’s floating. High off the dopamine and the way Barty looks when he comes. Muscles tight and whining. Fucking hell.

“Fuck—take it,” he pants one last time, punctuated with one last thrust that makes Evan see stars. The shape of bliss, filled and fucked and probably no longer single.

There’s nowhere else for his cock to go. Evan doesn’t want him to pull out.

But eventually he does, after a heavy few moments of breathing, and a whimper slips out of Evan once or twice. Barty groans in response; Evan can feel his cunt still stuffed. He’s been made a mess of. Barty gives a satisfied him. He’s hit with a lack so strong that when Barty’s cock disappears, he could cry.

Sticky and sweet sounding, Evan slaps a hand over the back of Barty’s head. Landing in a pile together, both on their side. His hair is sweaty at his nape. He runs his fingers through it, damp and cold.

“Your eyes are two different colors,” Barty mumbles eventually. His eyes are shut, he looks precious, head resting on his hands on the pillow, naked and sweaty, and Evan, yes, really likes fucking this guy, but he also really wants Barty to teach him how to play Magic.

He’s already devising another ten-step plan he thinks might not even be necessary.

“They are, yeah.”

“I never noticed.”

“Well,” Evan starts, Opening his mouth, closing it, then deciding on, “We’ve really only known each other for, like, maybe twelve hours.”

“Not even,” Barty scoffs, but it lacks a fight that has Evan brushing the strands of hair away from his face.

“How is your nose?”

“Pussy fixed it.”

Evan snorts.

“Kiss fixed the tongue, too,” Barty adds. “Don’t worry, but I could use another…probably.”

Then he rolls his sweaty limbs on top of Evan, chin digging into his chest. Right between his ribs, Evan can feel the mess between his thighs. Barty doesn’t seem to care too much now about his clean sheets or his come slipping out of Evan’s cunt.

“No, but I really want to take you on a date.”

Evan studies him.

In the honest morning light, he cannot seem to find a single reason why that sounds anything other than the best idea ever.

So, “Okay.”

“Also, I think you’re really cool.”

Evan laughs this time. “Okay.”

“And if you want I have food we can eat in there, but not right now,” he mumbles. “Sleepy, but I promise I will bring you some cereal.”

Cheek pressed against Evan’s stomach, he reaches out, thumbs at the split that is probably going to scar now. It’s angry, and Barty’s lips are swollen. He looks flushed and sweaty, already asleep and at peace. Like he’d just fucked Evan’s lights out, and he almost did. Barty deserves a treat; Evan smirks. Hums in appreciation and tugs at his hair a bit.

“Do you think I’m cool?” Barty asks.

“You’re pretty cool.”

Barty nods, head bobbing a bit of a pout on his face. “Cool, cool.”

Evan laughs and feels Barty grin against his skin.

“Sick.”

Evan hears the backdoor open behind him.

He’s sitting on the back patio. A little thing, screened in, and there’s only a table and chairs. An old coffee cup filled with cigarette butts, an old beer. Evan listens to his phone ring and takes another drag of Barty’s cigarette. Crosses his legs in the chair and scoots his bowl of cereal away from the smoke.

Barty sighs and plops himself in the chair right as Pandora answers the phone.

“You fucking idiot.”

“I’m fine.”

Evan blows the smoke out of his nose, and it burns. He’s still hot from the second shower. High, too. Not in jail and it seems like the night has been six days long. His cunt aches. The shower was brutal. His legs hurt, and his back is fucked worse than his cunt. The sun is very much up, but the patio is in the shade.

It’s nice, early morning. Barty hitches a knee to his chest in the chair and lights his own cigarette.

“Hello?” Evan hears and curses. Snubbing out his cigarette.

“Sorry, sorry—I’m fine, I promise.”

“No,” she insists. “You fucking idiot—what were you thinking?”

Evan glances up at Barty and mumbles, “You missed Meowy, and you didn’t have a ride to—”

“Oh my god,” she groans, and this conversation is pointless. “I know.”

They’ll need to have it in person. Pandora sounds tired. Evan apologizes for that, but not what he did, and she isn’t expecting one. He did what she asked, and Pandora had asked in all seriousness. He can only light another cigarette, a bit woozy and high off that joint, and no sleep. A rush cooling into something mellow, he mumbles,

“I met someone.”

“In…jail?”

“Yeah.”

Pandora is silent and then, “Okay.”

It hangs in the air like a question, and Barty’s so nosy.

Listening into half the conversation. Evan giggles, and Pandora starts, and Evan pokes the bear. Barty smiles at him like they’ve got a secret. Evan watches as he leans over him to snuff out his cigarette and flicks the tip of Evan’s nose before he gets up and walks back inside. To bed, where the news is playing and waiting for them to fall asleep.

“His name is Barty.”