Where Evan fucks and Barty is high
TW : mentions of homophobia and homophobic assaults.
1920s - Shanghai, China
Evan's POV
- "What's that, please?"
- "That?" The barman, a short but thick guy with a grassy bun and a three days-old beard, leaned on the alcohol menu. "That's baijiu, sir. A traditional chinese alcohol."
- "Hmm." The man muttered, playing thoughtfully with one of his silver ring. "I'll taste it, please."
The barman quickly nodded, before going back to bar to prepare his order. The other man sighed, passing a hand his his short, curly pale blonde hair.
The man's name was Evan Rosier, a French-Algerian poker player. Player...more of a cheater. But isn't a cheater an advanced player? Anyway, he was there in Shanghai only for the night, and he clearly wanted to take what China had to offer him - including, of course, those rice alcohol he had heard about, men and women, and casino player.
Soon after, the barman came with his drink.
Evan started sipping it, tasting the unfamiliar taste of it.
A man, from across the room, was staring at him, a light, cocky smile on the lips. Evan had noticed him from the corner of his eyes, so he wasn't so surprised when he came to him. The man even took the seat next to him, quickly followed by a female house elf, more dressed than he had ever seen.
"Good night, sir." The man said, slightly leaning onto the table.
"Good night." Evan replied looking at his glass with passion.
He did not engage the discussion, which made the other man laugh slightly. He was, for sure, driven by some kind of ego the male genre is characteristic of. He had a black buzz cut with intricate patterns shaved on the sides, and he had put his sunglasses - who the fuck wears sunglasses at midnight?- on the top of his head. Evan had to admit : he was hot.
"What's your name?" He asked, still so cocky and proud. His voice was marqued by his thick Chinese accent.
"Rosier."
"Ya french?"
"Half." Evan replied mechanically. He looked up from his glass with his pale blue eyes, which contrasted with his dark skin.
The house elf kept playing with her dry hands, visibly anxious by the place, which was loud, full, and dark.
"Wanna know my name, half-frenchman?"
No, I do not. Evan thought. Yet, he was too polite to say that.
"What is it?"
"Hao Tian." He passed a hand in his short hand, aand then, with the other, he patted on the table: - -./.-/-.- - .
g.a.y, in morse code.
Evan smiled. This Hao Tian was at least direct in his intentions.
He looked at him, again. As if the first time. Hao Tian was younger. A year or two. His behaviour was dangerous. What if, just because he wanted to, or by digust for his own kind, Evan decided to beat him up because of his homosexuality? In this club full of men, it would've been so easy.
Evan drank his glass, without breaking the eye contact.
He patted : - -/.//-/- - -/- - - .
m.e t.o.o.
Hao Tian smiled, and his gaze was now filled with something new : lust.
He quickly got up.
"Rosier," he said, "may I lead you back to your hotel?"
Direct. Too direct. He would get in trouble for that, one day. But not with Evan, who nodded. He paid the bill.
Together, they left the club at 1AM.
At 3AM, Evan went, alone, to the airport, in his way to Dakar, with Hao Tian's moans still in the ear and the softness of his skin still on the hands.
1920s - Buenos Aires, Argentina
Barty's POV
"¡Fuera de ahí, hijo de puta!" A man shouted, throwing someone out of his bar.
The someone was a young guy named Bartemius Crouch Junior, but let's call him Barty.
This Barty didn't speak a word of spanish, but he didn't need it to understand that the man wasn't a huge fan of his presence.
He sighed and walked hardly to a nearly bench. He was absolutly drunk, and very likely to be high.
This night was hot, and Barty took his shirt off before laying on the bench in a sigh.
You may ask yourself : why was he threw out of this bar? Because Barty had kissed a man in the bar, in front of everyone, and when another man started to yell and insult him for that, he kissedhim with the tongue. And he was also discovered with a bottle of some random alcohol he had previously stole.
Yeah. Barty Crouch Junior is an idiot. And a manwhore, as well. But mainly an idiot.
"Damn shit, my head hurts man..." Barty mumbled in a raspy voice.
He weakly got up on his elbow. He should probably leave. He had no reasons to stay in Buenos Aires anymore. He only came here because his father was currently at the other side of the world, and he wanted to go as far as possible from him. Plus, he had always wanted to see some tango.
He licked his dry lips, trying to remember the taste of the dancer he had previously kissed, but he could only feel the taste of the other.
Barty tried to get up, but the alcohol in his blood quickly said 'nuh-uh'. He looked up at the wall and its posters. Local concerts or shows, nothing interesting.
Until one.
'Beginning of the new poker season : first games in Dakar, Senegal, [...], price to win : 20 000$'
Now, that's interesting.
Barty smirked.
- "Senegal, uh? I've always wanted to go in Africa. Seems like I have now a reason."