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Evan needs to get punched in the face.
One of those strong punches that leave you senseless - he needs one right now . He shifts his gaze to his left: Pandora gives him a supportive glance and strokes his hand under the table, but she can't do much more. She can't knock out her own brother - ‘cause she can’t - and also because she is still busy processing the news.
Evan is getting married.
Evan is about to get married and he doesn't know with whom. In the middle of the conversation, their parents must have mentioned a name, but Evan's brain was already shorted out. The malfunction started roughly when the concept of "arranged marriage" stopped being just a low-quality TV series’ trope and became a part of him.
Evan does not want to be overrun by a marriage at twenty-two years old.
He would like to think that it is not a form of perverse revenge, but well - it is . They must have done it on purpose, and also the timing is not a coincidence. They did it now . Now that, after years of internalized homophobia, Evan has finally managed to accept his sexuality. Now that the "maybe I also like boys" became a certainty of his existence. Now that, after being caught kissing a boy, in response to his parents' statement "He’s just a friend of yours, okay?", Evan replied with a proud "No.”
This marriage is no coincidence: it’s vengeance.
He should have prepared for the eventuality, but a microscopic part of him believed that it would be enough to give them time to accept it. But who are we trying to fool? The Rosiers don't need time; they have no patience. They didn't have patience when Evan struggled in the early years of high school. They didn't have patience with their son when he was suspended from school for an entire month after giving two black eyes and a broken nose to Pandora’s bullies. The Rosiers demand immediate action
The immediate action of that evening is a restrictive life order, under the guise of a lovely family dinner.
Evan should have understood it right from the start. He should have been smarter and found an excuse not to put on that light blue tuxedo. But... would it be useful? It would have only postponed the inevitable. One way or another, his parents would have found him and dropped the bomb.
Evan’s life is about to be torn to shreds, and there is nothing he can do. He’s physically stronger than both of his parents, but no muscle can win this fight. He had sworn to himself - and to Pandora - that he would no longer let anyone walk all over him, but now he must go back on his promises.
"How much time do I have to think about it?" he asks, in one last attempt to make a choice for himself.
"We have already set the date."
Evan's fists are clenched as he gets up from the table. The chair produces an ugly creak that resembles an echo - as if someone else were fleeing from their own life, as if another part of him were in conflict.
"Where are you going?" his mother asks.
As far away as possible from here and from you , he would like to respond. Instead, he makes an effort to return her gaze and, with a firm voice, says: "I'm going to the bathroom."
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Barty needs to punch someone.
And that someone risks being the man who is staring at him from across the table with a mocking expression. He inherited his name from the man - Barty thinks it is now time to return the favor by gifting him with a punch.
"Why should I move to the fucking United States?"
"Watch your language," the man warns him while signaling to a waiter. He orders another round of wine, under the gaze of a bewildered Barty. "You need a change of scenery."
"I don't need a change of scenery."
"And I have already mentioned your name for an advanced economics course, so your departure is non-negotiable."
Barty's jaw collapses onto the table and sinks into the soup. But if there's one thing Barty would like to see sink, it's the entire table of this stupid restaurant. He needs to see that son of a bitch of his father sink into the depths of non-existence, and if fate doesn't carry out the act, he will take care of it himself. He isn't afraid to get his hands dirty, not when his life is at stake.
Barty made it clear from the very beginning: he would never follow in his father's footsteps. Even when his innate insight surprised his father's skepticism, Barty insisted on being the architect of his own destiny. He would never, ever become a clone of his father.
"I'm already studying," Barty informs him.
"Literature? And you call that a good education?" The man rolls his eyes before taking another sip of wine. "You've already wasted enough of my money and our time."
Barty turns his gaze to the right of his father, where a woman with a brown bun offers him a faint smile of comfort. But Barty receives no consolation from it: that's just another mockery. His mother is not on his side, perhaps she never was. Even when she convinced her husband that it was the right thing to let Barty choose his own career, she wasn't really on his side. It was just a temporary consolation. And now that the hourglass has lost its last grain of sand, Barty needs to blow everything up.
It is, however, his own body that feels like it’s about to explode when his father opens his mouth again. "The flight is scheduled for September 3rd."
September 3rd , less than a week.
Barty jumps up suddenly, and the screech of the chair catches the parents' attention. In his mother's gaze, he reads nothing; in his father's gaze, he reads too much. He feels suffocated: the tie is too tight, the navy blue jacket is too tight, his life is too tight.
"You can't force me. I have my life here, my friends!"
"Friends?" repeats the man. "Like who, for example?"
"Well, Regulus. And Dorcas, and..."
The man shakes a hand between them, putting an end to the son's words. "In the United States, you will find better."
Barty doesn't want better.
He doesn't want a damn thing that his father has arranged for him. He just wants to keep studying what he loves and being around the only people who understand him at least 70% of the time. However, trying to discuss with his father is like trying to have a conversation with a broken record: the same piece played on repeat, without interruptions. Barty hates that track from the depths of his soul.
Without uttering a word, Barty walks away from that stupid table and from his stupid family.
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Evan hoped that a quick trip to the bathroom would help him regain some fresh air and give him the time to come up with an escape plan. But, in the end, he gained nothing .
He doesn't know how much time he has spent sitting on the toilet seat, but certainly not enough for his parents to have forgotten their crazy idea. Evan himself couldn't make enough distance from him and the news: it’s still there , pounding against his temples and causing a feeling of fluctuating nausea.
Evan must leave this place. He must escape from the damn restaurant - and possibly from his life as well.
He exits the stall and heads towards the vacant sink. The one next to him is occupied by a person in a navy blue tuxedo - to whom Evan only pays the slightest bit of attention because he already has too many things to analyze.
He tries to buy more time by washing his hands until the water turns from boiling to icy. His fingertips are getting wrinkly, the minutes keep passing and, again, Evan doesn't know what the hell to do.
The first option would be to rebel against his parents' choice. But then... what ?
Evan is still studying. He doesn't have a scrap of a job and the only money he has for some leisure comes from his parents' pockets. Those same pockets that just pulled out a dagger and stabbed him in the back.
Evan still needs that punch. Perhaps it will change the inevitable course of reality and bring meaning back to its own future. Evan doesn't know.
What he knows is that the person next to him is weird .
Evan notices the aggression with which he targeted the soap dispenser . He doesn't know how long he's been doing that, but is definitely for more than a few seconds considering the amount of soap scattered between the sink and his hands.
He is definitely a weird guy, but that fury is a little bit interesting. It could be helpful for the punch he so eagerly desires. Evan distances himself from his own problems to focus on the weird guy's ones - because, to take it out on a soap dispenser, he must surely possess a bag full of problems.
Evan keeps his eyes fixed on those sticky hands, while teasing him. "What’s the soap done to you?”
The soapy hands come to a halt, but Evan doesn't stop staring at them. They are covered in tattoos - definitely unusual for someone who frequents that kind of upscale places and wears suits that reek of three zero figures. His hyperopia also lets him notice the presence of a small callus between his middle and ring fingers. His grandfather had a similar one, so Evan wonders if that weird guy is also a writer. Or maybe he’s just a soap dispenser fanatic , to the point of hurting his hands.
"Fuck my father."
For a moment, Evan fears that the words have slipped from his own mouth. It was his thought, yes - but spoken by a different voice.
"Fuck my father, for real," Evan agrees.
Evan doesn't meet the gaze of the weird guy. He only hears the giggle preceding the actions: the stranger returns to his personal fight against the dispenser. New soap, new words spat out in the bathroom that smells of potpourri.
"Fuck my father and also my mother."
Evan can only agree again. "Fuck my mother too."
Then - as if it was perfectly fine and not the first signs of an actual hysterical breakdown - Evan takes aim at his own soap dispenser. His wet hands produce foam as soon as they come into contact with soap. The stranger next to him is peculiar, but he has to admit that there’s an unhealthy satisfaction in tormenting that milky white dispenser.
It's satisfying to see all that expensive soap being wasted. It's satisfying to create a stir in that luxury bathroom. It's satisfying to regain control over a damn thing.
"Fuck the marriage," Evan's voice explodes, between the bubbles.
"Fuck the United States," says the weird guy. They are following two different scripts but well harmonized to each other.
He doesn't know what the hell is going on, but he understands his anger. Evan doesn't know the weird guy, but he's already on his side .
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Barty hasn’t looked in the mirror for his reflection, but he knows he must seem crazy. Only a fool would target a soap dispenser - so the guy next to him must be a fool as well.
Barty doesn't know what issues that guy has, but he’s already intrigued .
He doesn't know what is troubling him, but Barty agrees with him. If there's a reason to send his family to hell, then he's right. He's absolutely fucking right.
"Fuck my future bride," he hears the guy says.
"Fuck the University! I don't want to study economics, for God’s sake."
"And I don't want an arranged marriage! I'm twenty-two, damn it.”
More bubbles, more words. Barty keeps tormenting the dispenser until he reaches the bottom. The next person to use that bathroom will find a nasty surprise - as long as someone else actually uses the bathroom. It seems that in this damn restaurant, everyone is too uptight to be seen going piss. Too bad for them.
And too bad for both the soap dispensers, because shortly after the second one runs out too. However, the guy doesn’t give up and keeps pushing the dispenser.
"Look, I think it's over," Barty warns him.
"Well, fuck you," replies the guy, although he leaves the dispenser to his miserable end.
"Did you just tell me to fuck off?"
"Maybe."
A smirk swoops on Barty’s mouth. "Well, fuck you too," he retorts. "And fuck the soap too." He hits the dispenser to the ground. If no breakage occurred, it was close to it.
The stranger emulates his actions by throwing his dispenser to the ground. Barty begins to wonder how far he could push it before the stranger gets bored with his madness and stops following him. He hopes the boundary is very distant.
If I decided to turn the whole bathroom upside down, would you help me?
If I decided to destroy everything, would you be on my side?
Barty laughs.
"Why are you laughing?" the stranger asks.
"Nothing. I just thought how fun it would be to set the whole restaurant on fire."
The guy's laughter reaches him like a wave: unexpected, but pleasant. It is fresh against his ears. "Do you think this bunch of idiots would exit in an orderly line?"
"Of course," Barty replies. "They would even line up at the cloakroom to get their coats back."
"And what if the cloakroom was on fire?"
"They would throw themself into the flames!"
The stranger is still laughing when he asks: "Will they also pay the bill?"
"Of course they will! They must uphold their status as gentlemen."
"I would say gentle-dicks since they are idiots who’ll die."
"How delightful," Barty exhales. "Bye bye, father. Bye bye, United States."
"Bye bye, marriage."
Barty and the stranger laugh with one voice. It's the first time they do it, but Barty already likes it. It's off-key, it’s noisy - it's pure chaos.
They are pure chaos.
Barty raises his eyes and meets the stranger’s in the mirror.
The eyes of the guy are curved in an amused crescent, but they widen when they meet Barty's gaze. He’s wearing a light blue tuxedo and his blonde hair looks soft. The stranger is elegant, but it is also a complete disaster with his sleeves soaked in soap.
Barty has never seen him before and he still doesn’t know his name. But he thinks the guy would really help him set the restaurant on fire - and that's enough for now .
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Evan wouldn't just help him start a fire: he would throw gasoline on his flames to fuel the mess.
He doesn't know who he is, but if he wants to set the restaurant on fire and everyone inside, he's with him. He just needs to save his sister, but he thinks the weird guy would like Pandora - and that's enough for now .
Also, the weird guy isn't that weird once he sees his face. A very pleasant face, moreover.
Evan observes his face deeply: he digs behind those brown eyes, traces the angles of his face, follows the lines of his body. He doesn't realize that he has gone a bit too far with the inspection until he lands back on his face. Something has caught fire, and it’s not the restaurant. On the weird boy's face, two reddish spots have blossomed.
Evan now understands why that guy wanted to start a fire: the flames look good on him - oh yes, they really do.
He turned from the mirror to stare at him face-to-face. The guy follows him.
Evan has the words on the tip of his tongue. He wants to tell him that the shade of blue of his tuxedo really suits him. He wants to tell him that the flames on his cheeks suit him as well. But he doesn’t.
Evan remains silent because he is curious to discover what else might suit his body.
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The guy’s hands are on his face before Barty starts pleading for his touch.
They are wet, they are slimy. They are also cold, yet the heat does not leave his face. Instead they increase its intensity, like gas that fuels a will-o'-the-wisp.
Barty doesn't wait before spreading his hands over the guy's face. He wets his skin, he dampens his blonde fluffy hair.
“Barty,” he reveals his name.
"Evan," the guy replies.
Barty chews the new name in his mouth. "Evan."
"Barty." And, hell yes , he likes how his name fills Evan's mouth.
"Evan," Barty repeats, rising up on the tips of his loafers.
"Barty," Evan repeats, blowing the name off his lips.
Barty wraps his arms around Evan’s neck. He grabs his hair and makes him bend his head: the chin is raised, the neck is exposed. The skin is sweet when Barty licks it. A guttural verse rises from Evan's throat, urging Barty to savor him again.
Barty enjoys it one centimeter at a time, while his intrusive thoughts are getting silenced. There are no more journeys or bad news. There are no more departures and farewells. There is only a new form of "Nice to meet you."
The greeting is reciprocated.
Barty still has his hands tangled in his hair, when Evan starts to move forward. His body presses against Barty's - a clash of satin and soap. Barty is pushed to walk backward until he bumps into the wall behind him. Something falls and adds to the mess in the progress. Barty wants more: more chaos, more destruction.
Barty himself begs to be destroyed.
He surrenders to Evan's hands, which are exploring him as if they were searching for something. Barty doesn't ask what he is looking for; but he demands for him to keep searching.
Evan unbuttons his jacket and presses his hands against his shirt. The soap sticks to the linen - which had probably once been well cleaned. Now there is nothing clean, while Barty's body is arching.
Barty's legs get tangled with Evan's. Evan's legs are long and tough, they seem strong enough to crush his head - Barty might like it.
Their hands chase each other: they slide over clothes, pull hair, scratch skin. It feels good - but Barty still aims for more.
Evan pulls his mouth away from his jaw, so Barty takes the opportunity to lead the dance. He hooks his foot behind Evan’s leg and makes him lose his balance. Barty reverses their positions: Evan's body makes a noise when it hits the wall. It's a pleasant noise.
But Evan doesn't let him win easily.
Their bodies begin rolling across the cream-colored walls. They hit paintings and furniture; toilet paper and dried flowers now scattered on the floor. It's a battle that generates new fire.
Eventually the wall stops and Evan's body ends up squashed against the cold tiles. Evan whimpers in defeat; Barty growls in satisfaction.
Barty doesn't give him the time to rebel: immediately, he’s on his lips .
They are rough; he should definitely keep them more hydrated. If he needs a lip balm, Barty volunteers - because he just discovered these lips, but he kinda doesn't mind being stuck there for a little longer.
Evan must agree, judging by the way he lets out a moan . Barty gathers Evan’s groans in his mouth: he swallows them, one by one.
Barty's hand slips under Evan’s shirt. The curve of his hips fits perfectly under his grasp; they seem made just for him. Evan moans again, so Barty feeds himself again.
When he thinks it couldn't be better, Evan's tongue presses against his mouth. A piercing hits his teeth.
Barty's body melts.
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Evan grabs Barty's waist before he can fall to the ground. He can't help but smile, which spreads across Barty’s mouth as their tongues start playing tag .
At this point, it would be wise to catch their breath. But Evan is not wise, not now, and neither is Barty.
"Evan" he purrs.
And Evan has never been so happy to have a name . He is happy to have a name that Barty can moan against his mouth. A name that Barty can pronounce, pleading for more contact.
Evan is ready to give him everything he desires.
Evan is ready to set the restaurant on fire if Barty demands him to. Evan is ready to kiss him until the next dawn, if Barty begs him to. Evan is ready to give him everything he has - and what he doesn't yet have, he will get it and give it to him.
Barty is a mess, with those red lips soaked in soap. And perhaps it's because of that stickiness that Evan can't help but to cling. Or perhaps it is the smell of the flames that draws him to Barty's body. More fuel, more kisses.
"Evan" Barty whines, wrapping his arms around his neck. He’s again on his tiptoes.
Evan helps him stay balanced, grabbing his leg and keeping it still around his waist.
"Barty" Evan murmurs into his mouth. He lingers his fingers on his covered chest before he starts unbuttoning the other’s shirt. It's hard to unfasten it with all the soap, and a few buttons pop off. They end up on the ground along with their jackets, in a puddle of soapy water and pleasure.
Barty's chest is covered in tattoos - Evan wasn't expecting anything else. He grabs him by the waistband and pulls him closer. Barty's body crashes against Evan's: a communion of moans echoes in the bathroom.
Evan wonders how loud they should shout to be heard by the other guests. The bathroom is most likely soundproof, but he could bet they would be capable of breaking the sound barrier - together . Barty seems to agree because, when Evan starts to moan louder, Barty's voice also rises in volume.
Between a moan and a kiss, a smile slips in. Evan hopes that the whole restaurant is hearing them, that the entire city is listening to them. He wants the whole world to be involved in the fire they’ve ignited.
Evan caresses his chest; Barty surrenders to him, as if his body was made to be one with his. One body, one voice.
Evan's fingers trace the edge of his briefs.
"Evan," Barty begs. " Ev. "
Evan finds it very hard to remain calm when Barty's voice keeps singing in his ear. A symphony of: Ev, Ev, Ev. His new favorite song. And it's difficult to keep a grip on his leg, while Barty rubs his body against him.
If fate has truly arranged a marriage and this is its last gift, Evan is fine with it. He can settle for a miserable life in exchange for a few minutes with Barty. It's a fair one-for-one trade.
Evan's hand has just reached the hottest point of Barty's body when a noise from outside falls into their personal bubble. They catch the bathroom door slamming shut.
If they weren't loud enough to be heard, they hoped they were graphic enough to have traumatized at least one of the guests. This is enough for both of them to burst into a loud laughter.
They breathe in each other's chuckles, until their eyes start to sting.
Evan's fingers gather Barty's tears. A caress. A loving wave on a soapy sea.
Barty surrounds Evan's face with his hands. "You are a disaster."
Evan smiles. "You are an angel."
He looks into Barty's eyes: there are still flames in his gaze, but he also appears so defenseless when he says: "Everything will be alright?" It sounds like a statement, it sounds like a question.
"Everything will be alright?" Evan repeats with the same shaky tone.
They are still on edge. They could fall at any moment, but they are not afraid. They know they are not alone, not anymore .
Evan clings to that hope and regains control of his body. He straightens his shirt and puts on the jacket again - but he doesn't get rid of the soap. The soap covers them both from head to toe. It shelds their body, it dirties their ungraceful mouths.
The mirror shows two madmen - but Evan is fine with that. The chaos they have created around them, within them, makes him feel good.
It’s time to return to the table, and to his family. However, Evan's body is covered in soap and Barty's kisses. So it's all right .
After all, Evan never needed a punch to feel better.
Evan just needed a kiss from Barty.
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Barty feels sticky, just like the entire bathroom.
There is soap everywhere: on the tiles, on the furniture, on their bodies. The dispensers are on the floor, the toilet paper is on the floor, even that stupid potpourri is on the floor.
Forget about the fire: this is a thousand times better.
Barty needs just one last thing to be able to cross the threshold of the bathroom and face reality once again. He rises one last time on his toes and places a kiss on Evan's lips.
"Everything is alright." He states. This time it's an assurance.
"Everything is alright." Evan agrees, with the same confidence.
Barty comes out of the bathroom with Evan. They share one last glance and hold back a laugh in their mouths. They are ridiculous, they are perfect .
Barty sits at the table, under the disgusted shock of his father. The man's words reach him like a white noise with no value - his ears are still filled with Evan's moans. The disapproval on his father's face does not mock him - his eyes still carry Evan's smile.
After all, Barty never needed to punch anyone in the face.
Barty just needed to kiss Evan.
And now he knows everything is gonna be alright.
Everything is alright.