The Crouchs have...a reputation. Sort of. Rather tainted too.
Nobody ever truly sat Barty down and told him that his family has organised crime links. That they ran a cartel. No one cared to do any of that; instead, they preferred to abandon him to crawl in the dark on his own.
It was ultimately Barty who noticed the minor nuances, and he was left to wander around seeking for clues, rummaging around his gloomy abode.
It was rather simple to piece together, and by the time Barty was eleven, he had already deduced the truth from the bits he had gathered along the way. All the indicators pointed there; first and foremost, they were filthy rich. They owned vacation homes all across Europe and went skiing in the winter. He slept in silk and awoke in velvet, bathed in satin roses, and had everything he desired before he even knew that he desired it.
Then there was the matter of secrecy.
The tight air hovers over his house all the time, trapping them in stillness and unfathomable evils.
He recalls feeling cut off by his father, who would close doors in his face when visitors came to see him.
They'd go to his father's study and drink and smoke, and Barty would loiter around outside the door until one of them ordered him to fuck off.
He was never permitted in his father's office. He never gave it any importance until he sneaked in one day when he was ten.
The office, like the rest of the mansion, was stunning. Dark leather and mahogany emanated class. A magnificent antique desk with stunning carvings and intricately carved wood panelling. His father's antique green leather chair was turned towards the window, as it frequently is once he's finished smoking, and the dark, thick drapes opened, offering a wonderful view of the mountains. Books lined his walls and carpets covered the floors.
From what Barty could see at naked eye, there was no significant hint on his desk, but then again, no decent clue is.
The navy cigar box with the family insignia, as usual, stood between the golden inkwell and the polished brass lamp. However, following closer inquiry, there was another on the other side of the desk that Barty had overlooked. He paused for a bit before making his decision and opening it to display a gleaming black revolver.
That was the point of no return.
Everything his family did or said after that felt suspect to him.
He was anxious every time they looked at each other for too long, if visitors came to visit, he was on alert, ears sharply aware of every whispered voice, and when his parents were at odds, he couldn't sleep the whole night. The picture of the gun on his father's desk flickered behind his eyelids.
The discovery that they were associated with the cartel was not as devastating. Finding out they had adversaries and rivals on the other side who were just as deadly as they were was a whole different story.
*
At the age of twenty-two, Barty was well-versed in all aspects of the Crouch business.
He was formally introduced to it on his eighteenth birthday, as was customary.
When he was thirteen, they stopped pretending his father was just a banker and his mother was merely a lawyer. Barty believes the secrecy was imposed by his father because he did not want his son compromising him by accident, as kids often do. He also tells himself that whatever he didn't know couldn't damage him; at least not then.
But, in a way, it did.
The secrets and isolation, as well as the loneliness, all hurt him. So when he turned eighteen and his father promised to drop all inhibitions and trust him, Barty couldn't say no. As much as it pained him to acknowledge it, he was desperate and in need. He craved it all so much. It was thrilling to know that he belonged to something, that he could assist and contribute, and that his father could need him or be interested in his ideas in any way shape or form. It felt fulfilling.
He said yes without hesitation.
Years later, when the sparkling new job had lost its lustre and turned into a pain, he regretted having said yes so readily.
After years of seeking his father's attention, he wished he had the strength to look him in the eyes and just deny him. But he couldn’t. He was a famished man who couldn't say no to fresh, warm bread.
For as long as Barty had been a part of the business, everything had gone relatively well. However, the last several months have been a little unstable.
And, of course, Evan Rosier was keen in the midst of all the squabbles between him and his father.
The Rosiers and his family have been at odds with each other from the dawn of time.
They clashed in everything from their wildly profitable tobacco firm to their illicit cocaine shipments. Which brings us to Barty's present issue.
He should have known to avoid Rosier the instant he laid eyes on him, but he was careless about how his actions would effect his life at the time.
When Barty first encountered Evan Rosier, he was severely drunk and incredibly bored, which was a lethal combination if you knew Barty.
He'd been sitting alone in a leather booth at the back of a packed pub when he felt someone slide into the seat next to him. They were strangers at the time, when life was easy.
Barty had never seen this man before, but whether he liked it or not, he couldn't take his gaze away from him.
Barty's steely eyes hooked onto Evan's across the dimly lit room the instant he stepped inside, the same place where shadows whispered secrets and fatal alliances were made. In the smoky haze, Evan's presence was as brazen as it was unnerving. He'd seen him speak loudly to his peers, laugh hysterically and drink more than he should. He'd seen the man swing and dance before collapsing onto the nearest seat like a puppet with its strings severed.
He didn't see him walk towards Barty, though.
Now that he knows the man more than he would like, Evan Rosier is an enigma wrapped in arrogance. A perpetual tease with a flair for the dramatic who danced through life carelessly and without concern for consequences, brushing off the gravity of their shared world with a nonchalant smile that hid thousands of secrets.
But not back then. No. To the Barty in that bar two years ago, Evan exuded an effortless charm that grated on his disciplined sensibilities.
To the untrained eye, Evan was just another dumb rich kid with too much time and money to spend. He was way too bubbly and way too loud. And while those things may be true, Barty knew better than that now. He understood that Evan’s every move was calculated, a carefully choreographed performance designed to keep everyone at arm's length. It infuriated Barty, who thrived on order and control, to see Evan flirt through life with the careless grace of a daredevil.
At that time, with six tequila shots, god knows how many martinis and a shitty day, Evan drew Barty’s eye in ways he dared not admit.
A sinewy figure that moved with predatory grace, Evan's dark eyes held a glint of mischief that set Barty's nerves on edge. The way he spoke, a honeyed venom disguised as charm, made Barty acutely aware of the danger that lurked beneath the surface.
“Hey” He said, arm wrapped over the seat, legs crossed. The languid image of what the Barty should have known would be too much trouble to be worth this one night.
“Hello,” Barty had responded and with that one word he had doomed himself in less than a second.
The day after he had treated the affair as any other, though he knew Evan would be a bit more difficult to forget. But not impossible, he thought then. Well, it turns out Evan was hard to get rid off.
Barty had been an idiot also, not to ask Evan's full name. If only he would have known he was a Rosier, none of this would've happened.
They planned to meet again after that initial encounter.
Barty was still blissfully oblivious that he was on the opposite side of the cartel.
When he was sober, Barty had noticed Evan's particular charm. Quick jabs morphed into banter that made him curiously delighted. His wit, like a blade hit with accuracy, made him appreciate the verbal sparring unwillingly. Barty had no idea it was only the opening gambit in a game where the stakes were higher than expected.
Their encounters became a frequent occurrence. Each discussion brings them closer to the verge of a cliff.
Evan's sarcastic words and irreverent laughter resonated in the darkness, punctuating their world's ominous quiet. Despite his best efforts to adopt a neutral demeanour, he couldn't deny the pull of his humour. They didn't talk about their lives, and they didn't know anything about each other, nor their ages, nor their complete names, and not even their occupations. That was the best part: when he was in his company, Barty could be an entirely different person.
After a year of these covert interactions, Barty realised he shouldn't be doing it. Their paths kept intersecting in remote places, between uttered secrets.
The air was still packed with tension, and their eyes were constantly locked with a magnetic force that drew them together. The line between hatred and desire blurred in those snatched seconds. Their illegal affairs lasted for another two months. As time passed, Barty couldn't shake the feeling that the distinctions between their positions had been irreparably blurred. Evan's presence was a continual interruption to the cool, calculating environment he had painstakingly constructed.
Evan whined about everything because, well, he was Evan. He was snobby, unpleasant, and relished needling others to the point of drawing guns on him.
He had a filthy mouth and was always shamelessly, smugly self-satisfied.
Barty knew this wasn’t for them, they couldn’t have it. So instead of love the kisses intensified, became a bit more hurtful, leaving Barty feeling manic on the way back home. Something underneath his skin jolting.
Nothing made a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it and the moment Barty wished Evan was in every room he happened to be in, he knew he had to end it. He knew it had never been a question of if he would need it but rather when. So, three months later, after one year and five months of harsh kisses, bite marks and scathing remarks, he met up with Evan with the intention cutting whatever this was off.
It had gone badly.
They had agreed to rendezvous at one of Barty's estates, a locale shrouded in mystery as Evan remained unaware of the purpose behind their meeting. This particular residence stood as one of the many "forgive me" offerings from Barty's father, a peace offering after making him toil on his birthday the previous year.
Upon Evan's arrival, an immediate attempt at a kiss ensued, only to be met with a gentle pushback from Barty. "Oh, come on, I missed you, you know?" Evan asserted, to which Barty responded with an eye roll and a sigh.
Seated in one of his elegant armchairs, Barty lit a cigarette and offered another to Evan.
Crossing his legs, he grinned up at Barty, one of those smirks that had become characteristic. "You know, in French, we don't say 'I miss you,' we say 'tu me manques,' which means 'you are missing from me.' I like that better."
This interaction, however, was emblematic of the very reasons they needed to put an end to their connection. Evan's impulsive declarations and expectations of reciprocal sentiments had reached a tipping point. "Oh, bite me, Rosier," Barty retorted.
"If you ask nicely," Evan teased.
Sighing, Barty braced himself for the impending conversation. Evan's penchant for drama contrasted sharply with Barty's struggle with expressing emotions. "Listen, Evan, I called you today because, after learning about your Rosier lineage, I pondered ending this. I thought it best to tell you sooner rather than later. This can't continue. It's not just about our families, our lives, or our enmity. It's because I've unfortunately become attached."
However, trying to convey such sentiments to Evan proved challenging; the latter tended to hear only what he wanted. "So, what I'm hearing is, you're afraid you're falling in love with me," Evan quipped.
"Listen, Rosier, we're both walking red flags. This was destined to end in flames. I thought we both knew that," Barty asserted.
"We don't have red flags, we have fun facts," Evan countered, attempting to lighten the mood.
"Rosier, take this seriously, please," Barty implored.
Observing Evan take a drag of his cigarette, he continued, "On the condition that you admit you do love me."
"You have no evidence I love you, so why would you ever assume that?" Barty questioned.
Rolling his eyes dramatically, Evan responded, "The absence of evidence isn't the absence of absence."
Surprised by Evan's sudden verbosity, Barty quipped, "When did you become so smart, Rosier?"
"I need you to admit it so that I can at least move on in peace. So please, say it," Evan pleaded.
Sighing heavily, Barty acquiesced, a concession he wouldn't have made for anyone else. "Love isn't enough, Evan. It just isn't. It never was." As he uttered those words, they felt like cotton leaving his mouth.
Departing from Evan wasn't like parting from anyone else. It was a unique agony, akin to a knife sliding gently between the vertebrae, quick and clean. The pain arrived suddenly, ripping the breath from his lungs. Leaving Evan was sobbing on the bathroom floor, arms wrapped around his knees, biting down on a towel to muffle screams.
Yet, despite the turmoil, Barty maintained his cool demeanour.
Contrary to expectations, Evan didn't scream; his silence cut deeper. He left without a backward glance, leaving Barty alone with the weight of his decision.
*
After that they stopped talking abruptly. He pretended he never thought about Evan but he couldn't help drinking about him all the time.
Meanwhile, his family continued their business as always.
A while ago they had set out to perform their biggest shipment yet.
Dealing with drugs in general was a crucial part of the Crouch family affairs but cocaine was their specialty and where most of their money and reputation came from. It was no new thing for them to set out ships filled with the white powder that proved as valuable as powdered gold but this time they had a bit of a draw back.
A few weeks ago the Rosiers has started dealing cocaine as well.
This would not matter except the Crouch family and the Rosiers had been rivals since forever and had set out a few rules between them to maintain the peace between them and keep business afloat. One of those rules was that while the Rosier exported mainly heroine (as was their trademark and what they were known for), the Crouch family dealt cocaine. They had agreed not to interfere with each other in that matter, each family free to deal what they knew best without any competitors. Except the Rosiers were bitches and back stabbing snakes that obeyed no rules.
Despite their agreement, word got to Barty’s father that they had received payment for a big shipment of cocaine at the boarders of Ukraine.
This, his father said, was a declaration of war. He had called a family reunion that very day to discuss strategy. That meeting had been like a war council but with doughnuts and too much wine.
His father leaned back in his leather chair at the head of the table, surveying the opulent office that had served as command center within the heart of the Crouch Cartel for many years now. The room exuded an air of power and control and most of it began and ended where his father sat. Shrewd and calculating, his was well known for his ruthlessness in the world of illicit affairs and especially so for his punishments when someone betrayed him.
“As many of you already know, the Rosiers have once again proven to be so very French," He said with disgust. "And have betrayed our trust. Not only have they sold our trademark without consult or consent but they have stolen from us. I knew no one would pay that big a sum for anything that came from the Rosiers so I did a bit of digging and found out that, indeed, that cocaine was not theirs. It was ours. They have stolen from us and they will pay for it.”
Barty’s bones chilled, his blood had calcificated in his veins.
It all began when whispers reached Crouch's ears about a missing shipment, a cargo of high-value goods that had seemingly vanished into thin air. The Crouch Cartel prided itself on its efficiency and secrecy, and any breach was a direct challenge to his father's authority. Determined to get to the bottom of the matter, he meticulously investigated the disappearance.
Crouch's network of informants was vast, but it was the subtle nuances that caught his attention. A name, Evan, kept surfacing in the shadowy corners of the underworld. Intrigued, Crouch delved deeper into the background of this elusive figure, searching for connections that might lead him to the missing shipment.
As he pieced together the puzzle, Crouch discovered that Evan had been quietly amassing influence within the cartel, forming alliances and subtly undermining Crouch's authority. It became evident that Evan wasn't merely a pawn; he was a rival, a cunning adversary playing a dangerous game.
The breakthrough came when his father uncovered a series of coded messages exchanged among cartel members. The language was subtle, the references cryptic, but Crouch's keen intellect deciphered the hidden meanings. The messages pointed to Evan's involvement in the heist, revealing a web of betrayal that extended deep into the organization.
He had not heard Evan’s name in a while. Hearing it was jarring. This felt like something that burrows, that makes a home inside his ribcage to never leave. Something that excavates flesh and blood to give itself more room to breathe. Evan himself felt like a tumor inside of one of his cavities but Barty had never felt this betrayed before, not by someone he cares about.
He debated whether to meet up with him or not. He knew seeing Evan after so much time can only end badly for the both of them. He doubted he had the restraint in him to confront him without killing him…or kissing him.
After much back and forth with himself, he decided this could not be left unsettled so he had to see Evan, had to ask him why. Is this what people do when they break up? Hurt each other? Barty told Evan they had to stop seeing each other because he didn’t want them to hurt each other, it seems Evan had heard whatever he wanted yet again and decided to just do whatever he wanted to do.
They met up at Barty’s estate again, it seemed only right.
He sat down and poured himself a generous drink. Tension hung thick in the air between them. He should have known they would end up here, as enemies. They faced off, accusing each other of a theft that had strained their relationship to the breaking point. The atmosphere crackled with animosity.
At first it was just Barty, telling Evan in a calm voice that he knew about what happened but when he tried to deny it, Barty lost it. With a furrowed brow and clenched fists, accused him of swindling out of a substantial sum of money, stealing from him, taking what was his and worse of all betraying him. He was armed with evidence and determination, he laid bare the extent of Evan's betrayal.
Evan had simply narrowed his eyes with disdain, vehemently denying it until Barty couldn’t believe him anymore. Barty had been dismantling all his lies with surgical precision. The coded messages, the illicit alliances, the intricate web of deceit—it was all laid bare before Evan and yet he still denied it all.
“How can you stand there and lie to my face like that? How can you pretend this is okay? I thought we agreed to leave things off peacefully!”
Evan huffed in disbelief. “Peacefully, huh? Were you there? Cause it didn’t seem peaceful to me. It seemed like you didn’t care about me enough to fight for me. You didn’t love me enough to stay.”
“I did love you.”
“Not enough.”
“Oh, come on!”
“You know Barty, you really consider lightening up once in a while. Taking things less seriously. Smiling from time to time. It’s good for the soul, they say.”
“Oh forgive me if I don’t find joy when the people that I care for steal from me in order to hurt me!”
Evan looked at him like he’d just stabbed him. “Someone you care for, is that what you call me now?”
“You’ve stolen from me, won’t you admit it?”
Evan rolls his eyes and smirks like the bastard he is. “Alright, fine. Guilty as charged. But you have to admit, it adds a bit of excitement to our relationship. Or whatever is left of it.”
As the argument reached its crescendo, a strange shift occurred. Amid the heated exchange, a moment of vulnerability flickered in their eyes. The intensity of their emotions gave way to a sudden realization of the futility of their ongoing feud. Perhaps it was the fatigue from the relentless bickering or a shared history that could not be easily discarded.
In an unexpected turn of events, their faces softened, and the charged atmosphere transformed into something altogether different. A palpable connection sparked between them, and without warning, they found themselves drawn together in an unexpected embrace. The anger and hatred that had fueled their dispute gave way to a moment of unexpected intimacy.
In the midst of this surreal reconciliation, their lips met in a lingering kiss—a symbolic truce that transcended the stolen money and bitter arguments. The room, once filled with hostility, became a space where animosity dissolved into an unexpected, complex blend of conflicting emotions. As they pulled away from each other, a shared understanding lingered, leaving them both questioning the boundaries between love and hate.
“I can’t do this, Evan.”
“Now, why not? Isn’t fun? The way I get on your nerves, the way you have no self control around me.”
And isn’t that a compelling argument? “My father is planning on killing you, you know that?”
“I expected nothing less from Mr. Crouch.”
“Take this seriously Evan, I am not kidding.”
Barty wasn’t supposed to get this invested. Not with Evan Rosier, at least, who is always distant except when Evan is on his lap, except when their lips are locked and he has a hand buried in Evan’s hair. Barty, who the minute their little excursions were over, walks away unaffected, as though it was just another part of his day. This was supposed to be a convenient arrangement but now it’s… this. Whatever this is. now he cares whether or not his father sends someone to shoot him dead in some dark alley.
“You need to leave the country.”
“And leave you behind? You know I could never do that.”
“Evan, he will kill you without even blinking. I can’t protect you from him.”
“I don't need your protection, I need you to want me to stay.”
“I want you to stay alive.”
For all the irritation and distrust, there was an undeniable allure that Evan wielded like a weapon. Barty found himself begrudgingly fascinated, unable to fully sever the thread that bound them in their clandestine world. The dance between them, filled with tension and conflicting emotions, mirrored the delicate balance of power within their dark, twisted universe.
Even though he wanted to deny it, he did love Evan Rosier.
“Leave the country Evan.”
“Fuck off.”
“Leave.”
“Or what?”
And what was Barty to do but kiss him again.
In his defence, he didn’t think this was going to happen to him. Never in his life has he woken up feeling like his enemy would become the person he loves yet here he is.
A few agonising minutes later, Evan comes kisses him back in, and thank fuck he does because Barty was about to kill him himself if not.
When he looks down he finds out why Evan hesitated: he had liked the kiss a little too much and was now suffering from what the lower end calls a boner.
Evan grins out of the side of his mouth. “Like what you see?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Barty grumbles, but the redness travelling up his ears betrays him.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’re desperate.”
“And you’re blushing.”
Barty closes his eyes, turning his head to the side. He hates Evan so much right now. He looks into his eyes and can’t help but smile but that action soon proves to have been a mistake, because the urge to push Evan against the table and take him right then and there is almost too strong to bear. He knows he should make him leave but stepping away from Evan is, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do. It feels like losing something very dear to his heart, like waking up from a dream that was a little too good to be true and finding himself empty-handed. He knows that feeling all too well.
Barty's eyes open, and he realises he's almost buried his face in Evan's neck, but as he draws back, Evan's eyes are fearless. There's something evil in there, something Barty remembers from before.
When Barty opens his lips again, the words rush through his teeth before he can stop them. "I've never wanted to fuck you as much as I want to fuck you right now," he says in a raspy voice.
Evan, on the other hand, says nothing. Instead, he slumps his shoulders in mute surrender and takes Barty in for a bruising kiss, and oh, yes, this is exactly what Barty wanted, needed, and craved for the longest time.
Evan's lips taste like coffee and something else sweet that Barty doesn't recognise, and his teeth are sharp as they dig into Barty's lip and tug hungrily at it.
Evan's glasses are removed off his face and tossed to the side as Barty pushes him against the table to kiss him even harder. But it is still insufficient. It's far from adequate. He wants more. On the spur of the moment, he grabs Evan by the back of his thighs and places him on the table.
The space between his legs seems so inviting, as if it was built specifically for Barty's hips. So he asserts.
Evan moans when Barty presses himself against him, throwing his head back to expose the pale column of his throat that is just begging to be squeezed.
Barty’s fingers move on their own to wrap around it. “Can I?” he murmurs against Evan’s lips, but he’s barely finished pronouncing those two short words when Evan lets out a frantic, “please.”
None of this is delicate, and none of their touches are romantic, but Barty doesn't care, and it doesn't appear like Evan does either.
Barty doesn't need delicacy or romanticism to show Evan how much he's always meant to him; choking him hard enough to turn his face scarlet and a smile blossom over his bitten-red lips is enough. And Evan understands him, understands that his violence right now comes from a place of love. Or something like that.
“Tell me when to stop,” Barty tells him.
Evan’s grin grows with malice. “Never.”
So Barty doesn’t and he wishes he could never move from here, from this.
*
He wakes up without Evan by his side but a letter by his head in it's stead.
Barty
I trust this letter finds you amidst the shadows and intrigues that shape our clandestine world. As the ink meets paper, I am acutely aware that the words I pen may be our last exchange in this world of secrecy and deception.
You, with your sharp intellect and icy demeanor, have been both my adversary and my confidante. In the twisted corridors of the Rosier Cartel, where alliances are fickle and loyalties are as fragile as glass, I have found myself entangled in a dance with a partner unlike any other. I apologise for having betrayed your trust and for having denied having done that very same thing. But this can not go on as you have very icily told me yourself.
It is with a heavy heart and a mind burdened by the weight of our shared secrets that I pen this missive. We have masqueraded as foes, our exchanges a symphony of barbed words and veiled threats. Yet, as the days have unfolded, it has become impossible to ignore the undercurrents of something more profound—a connection that transcends the boundaries of our supposed enmity.
Barty, I cannot deny the truth any longer. The lines between our roles have blurred, and the masquerade we perform has become too complex for my heart to bear. I find myself yearning for something more, something beyond the shadows we inhabit.
It pains me to say this, as I doubt it pained you when you said it, but I cannot continue this charade. The walls we have built around us are crumbling, and the emotions that simmer beneath the surface threaten to erupt like a long-dormant volcano. To pretend indifference is to deny the flames that dance between us.
I love you, Barty. A sentiment as inconvenient as it is genuine. I cannot keep pretending that my heart does not skip a beat when our eyes lock in the dimly lit corridors, or that my pulse doesn't quicken at the mere thought of you.
However, I understand the complexities that bind you—your family, the cartel, the very fabric of your existence. And so, with a heavy heart, I release you from this clandestine affair that has ensnared us both. I release you to the darkness that you call home.
As you have said, staying would mean risking my life, your father is a man true to his word and I do not doubt for a second that he will take it upon himself to make my death slow and torturous just to prove no one betrays the his family and lives to tell the tale.
Yet, should you ever tire of the shadows, should you find the courage to break free from the chains that bind you, know this, Barty—I will be here, waiting. Waiting for the love of my life to emerge from the depths of his world and into the warmth of something real.
I will be in France, back in the old quarters of the Rosier estate. I await you.
Until then, may the shadows protect you, and may the echoes of our forbidden dance linger in the recesses of your formidable mind.
Yours, always,
Evan
As Barty gazed out of the rain-streaked window, the weight of his emotions became too overwhelming to ignore.
For years, he had tried to convince himself that love was a frivolous sentiment, a weakness that he could not afford. However, in the quiet moments of reflection, his heart betrayed him. The realization hit him like a thunderclap – he wasn't heartless after all.
The one person who had cracked through the walls he had built around himself was Evan. As memories of their shared laughter, stolen glances, and the warmth of Evan's touch flooded his mind, Barty understood the depth of his feelings.
Love, once deemed a liability, now felt like the very essence of his existence. With newfound clarity, he made a life-altering decision. The love he felt for Evan surpassed all boundaries, and he was willing to forsake his family and country to be with the man who had captured his heart.
Determined and resolute, Barty set his sights on a future that held the promise of love, acceptance, and a shared life together in the enchanting landscapes of France.
He will leave it all behind if it meant having Evan by his side.