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?”