Chapter Text
Barty never had a model for compatibility. If anyone would have asked him, he would have shrugged his shoulders, murmuring around a cigarette some bullshit about “opposite attract, right?” Afterall, it had to be true. What with Barty’s shaved head juxtaposed against Regulus’ long, untamed curls. Barty’s tapestry of tattoos against Regulus’ unblemished porcelain skin. A diet of chain smoking and cheap snacks against one of red wine and vegetarianism.
And though Barty and Regulus shared the same occupation, Barty had only ever done it to raise himself out of poverty. It had never crossed his mind that there was any other reason to do it. Until he met Regulus, who was richer than God but had demons he could only slay when he projected them onto his clients. When he made them the mascot of every institution that had wronged him.
Barty saw Regulus, understood him in ways no one else ever could. But watching him fill up his calendar with these worthless men, like it would be the thing to heal him, wasn’t something Barty could relate to. Instead, he kept a small list of clients. An Architect, an Athlete, and the DJs. Considering each to be a known risk. Something familiar, routine. And Barty was good at routines. Good at not questioning what was working well enough for him.
“Fuck,” Barty hissed as soon as he saw the time on the alarm clock.
“Again?” the Architect huffed, reentering the bedroom of the penthouse suite in nothing but a hotel robe, a cup of coffee in hand. “After you let me have three rounds last night?”
“No,” Barty groaned. “I’m going to be late for my flight.” He stumbled out of bed, grabbing his pants off the floor and clumsily pulling them on. “I mean, goddamn. Why didn’t you design this headboard to reach far enough to charge a fucking phone?”
The Architect took a seat in a leather chair by the window, the view behind him overlooked the Golden Gate bridge, water shimmering in the early light of dawn. “It’s intentional,” he eyed him seriously. “Vacations are about the separation of work from rest.”
“Well, that is so divinely zen and all, but my fucking phone’s dead and I’m late.”
The Architect scoffed behind the lip of the coffee cup, “What’s even in that rat hole of a city for you anymore? More rats?”
Barty aimed a glare straight at him, “Met more rats in penthouse suites than I have in New York City.”
“Rude.”
“Prude,” Barty mocked back, going to the room’s closet and sliding the mirrored door open.
“Prude? You had me on my knees for hours last night.”
He started parsing through the kaleidoscope of dress shirts that hung on wood hangers. A gilded hotel logo on each of them. “Yet you refused to eat your own cum off the floor. Shame.”
“Because that’s foul.”
“I’m foul. Yet you seem to like me a great deal,” Barty settled on a crisp green vertical stripe, pulling it off the hanger and throwing it over his shoulders. It was too wide on the shoulders, yet the length was nearly too short for his long tattooed torso.
“Woah woah woah,” the Architect protested, sputtering over the edge of his mug. “What do you think you’re doing? Those are custom made.”
“Yeah, well, consider it payback for making me so late,” Barty bit out as he started doing up the buttons.
The Architect watched him for a long moment, fondness softening the creases around his eyes. He lifted his foot, letting it skim Barty’s calf where he stood, “Fuck the flight, B. You can stay another night.”
Barty turned, leaning over to put his hands onto the man’s thighs. Digging the pads of his fingers in just to hear the man suck in a breath. “But next time will be so much better when you haven’t had quite enough of me. When you’ve been craving me. Won’t it?”
Everything about the man seemed to soften and melt in Barty’s hands. “Yeah,” he breathed, looking dazed.
“Cute,” Barty cooed. “On occasion. When you aren’t so fucking desperate.”
The man eyed him up and down. “Only desperate for you.”
“Don’t sour my goodbye with your clichés,” he chided, scooping up his bag from the floor to make his way out.
“Hey!” the Architect called after him. “Call me when your other clients’ checks bounce!”
Barty didn’t look back, running through the motions to fish a portable charger out of the bottom of his bag and order a car to the airport. Checking the clock again, he knew was cutting it close, but he was experienced enough in jetsetting to know he’d make the flight just in time. As the city passed by the window of the car, he continued his habitual routines, dialing the first number in his contact list.
“Hello?” he heard Regulus on the other end of the line. Something about his voice brought him back to reality, grounded him in his real life that wasn’t just a string of strange encounters.
“Hey. Just left the Architect. I’m on my way to the airport.”
“Oh, he opened a new hotel then? Where is it this time?”
“San Francisco,” Barty sighed, sounding bored. “And this one was twice as ugly as the others. You should have seen the ridiculous headboard he designed for it.”
“Mm,” Regulus hummed. “Do you get the impression he keeps signing his company on to these hotel builds just to design new places to fuck you? Like you’re just a ribbon to cut when the doors finally open?”
Barty groaned, the outreaching ache of being seen and understood, “No because that’s one hundred percent exactly it. He could have built it brick by brick with his own two hands, but it wouldn’t be his until he’s hogtied on the top floor by yours truly.”
From the backseat, Barty could hear the driver clear his throat.
“Stop scaring your driver,” Regulus chided.
Barty leaned forward over the center console, tilting his gaze at the middle aged man, “Am I scaring you?”
The driver’s eyes went wide, momentarily glancing at him before snapping his gaze to the road in front of him. “No, sir,” he shook his head, hands tightening on the wheel.
“See? He’s fine,” Barty told Regulus, sinking back into the backseat. “Anyway, I’ll be home later tonight. I can catch a cab straight to your place. We could order in. My treat.”
“Yeah,” Regulus said. But Barty caught it. Something hollow and forced.
Barty’s eyebrows furrowed, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Barty could almost see it in his eyes from a thousand miles away. The faintest hesitation. He sighed, “We can talk when I get there.”
“Barty, it’s nothing,” Regulus tried. “Let it go. Seriously.”
He wasn’t used to that. To Regulus hiding things from him. It didn’t ease his concern. “Forget I asked then,” he said, returning Regulus’ hollowness back to him. “I guess I’ll just see you there.”
“Yeah, see ya. Bye,” he muttered, before ending the call.
I love you, Barty said in his head. Trying to imagine those three words in Regulus’ voice but there was no point of reference for them. Making it sound muffled, like trying to talk underwater. He sank deeper into the backseat, grabbing headphones from his bag and turning up something loud just to drown out the quiet.
He felt like he was in freefall for hours. Until he was back in New York with Regulus’ hand clenched around his throat, making the whine of his climax squeak through, labored and strangled, as he came around three of the fingers on Regulus’ other hand. He collapsed into the mattress, letting his breaths even out as he calmed himself in the magic of feeling fragile and obedient under Regulus’ touch. Nowhere else could he drop his mask and just cower from everything he was afraid of. No one else he could trust to see him like this and not aim it back at him like ammunition.
But when he rolled over and opened his eyes to look up at Regulus, the boy’s gaze was somewhere distant, unreachable. Like he’d forgotten Barty was even there.
“Hey,” Barty whispered, reaching out to touch his face. Pull his eyes towards him. “Where are you going?”
Regulus looked at him, just as blankly. “Your hair is getting too long. Let me clean it up.” He started to get up, walking off towards the bathroom and rummaging around under the sink till he found a set of electric clippers.
Barty pulled himself from the sheets, leaning into the doorway, “Let me blow you while you do it.”
Regulus shook his head, changing out the guard to something shorter, “I’m not trying to cut off your ear tonight.”
“I can stand to lose one. It will only heighten my mystery.”
Regulus sighed, raising his eyes to him, but there was no smile on his perfect mouth. “Blow me after,” he murmured, half-heartedly.
When Barty fell asleep that night, his shaved head was just the right length of fuzzy and his mouth was comfortingly coated in Regulus’ taste. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sleeping when he stirred awake in the dark, feeling the absence of weight next to him and looking over to see Regulus gone. He roused himself from the bed, closing his eyes momentarily as he heard the faintest of whispers coming from the hallway. He couldn’t make out the words, only the choked sound in the high of Regulus’ throat like he was crying through them.
Barty’s stomach dropped. Because something deep down knew it was him. The client. And it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Afterall, it had always been Barty who Regulus would turn to when his emotions became a storm he couldn’t navigate out of. It was Barty he cried to. Whispered to. When did it stop being Barty?
He crawled back to bed, laying there with his eyes pinned to the wall for so long that he heard Regulus coming back to bed. Barty forced his eyes closed, feigning sleep as Regulus slid in beside him. But unlike when they had fallen asleep that night, and every night since Barty could remember, Regulus didn’t wrap an arm around him or entangle their legs. No, Regulus kept his distance, turning the opposite way.
And when it was clear by Regulus’ breathing that he had floated back to sleep, Barty cried. Trying to remember how long it had felt like Regulus was slipping through his fingers. Before wondering if he ever had a firm grip on him from the start.
—
“I told you not to smoke in here,” Regulus snapped, under his breath as he settled himself against the kitchen cabinets.
Barty hadn’t expected to slap his mask of charisma back on so soon that morning, but he’d been forced to by the sight of a certain special guest on Regulus’ doorstep. And maybe his first reaction should have been shock or horror, but after the phone call last night, Barty was finding James Potter’s arrival hard to question. Nevertheless, the handsome client’s presence in a place that felt like an extension of Barty’s home left him nothing but unfathomably irritated.
“Well, I wasn’t going to walk out on the street in little but your robe, no matter how good it looks on me,” he muttered, venomously. “I don’t have the luxury of firing all my clientele and giving it away for free like you.” He pointed towards the ceiling above their heads where heavy footsteps were no longer ghosts of the Black family, but James making home in the remnants of last night’s romp.
Regulus crossed his arms over his chest, tutting his tongue behind his teeth with a shake of his head. “I don’t get it. You’re just as angry as him,” he noted. “What do you have to be angry about?”
Barty could have exploded, but it wasn’t in his character. Instead he acted painfully disinterested, eyes casting up the walls as he spoke offhandedly. “You knew he was coming. You lined me up right before he got here. And why’s that?” he muttered. “Like if you needed to be good and stretched for him, they’ve got toys for that.”
“God,” Regulus scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Grow the fuck up, Barty.”
“I should grow up? I’m not the one fucking my brother’s best friend as a half-assed attempt at revenge or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder as if James could be standing there.
“Maybe, I shouldn’t,” he smiled wildly. “Maybe go up there and tell him exactly how you’ve been deceiving him for weeks.”
“And if you do, I’ll never speak to you again. Never let you step foot in this house. Not miss you for even a second.”
Barty paused, hurt and confused all at once, before swallowing it down, not wanting it to threaten the sharpness of his expression. However, a quietness, a tinge of vulnerability still seemed to peek through beyond his control. “What am I missing here? What do you need from me that I haven’t already given in spades?” he asked softly. Voice wavering in his throat between anger, devastation, and trying to pretend like neither of the former sentiments were there. “How could you possibly need more? How could you be so insatiable?”
Regulus went quiet. The house went quiet. And in it, Barty knew Regulus wasn’t withholding an answer from him. No, he knew the boy well enough to know that no answer existed. Which hurt all over again.
Barty sighed, exasperated. “What do you want me to do?”
Regulus took his time responding. “I think you should go home.”
“And then what?” he huffed, mouth turning up in a twisted, sad smile. “Wait for him to leave? Wait till you need to feel entitled to someone again and I’m the most accessible option?”
“Yeah, actually,” Regulus said blankly, leaning his head back against the cabinet to nearly look down his nose at him. It exposed his throat, fearless. Or at least damn good at pretending to be. “Does that work for you? Or would you rather I find someone else?”
Barty could feel a crack in his chest shudder open, covering it with his hand like it would keep anything from spilling out embarrassingly. And in the moment, Regulus’ eyes were so painfully indifferent that Barty cursed himself for ever teaching the boy to be so violently detached. He thought it would protect him, just like it had protected Barty, but he had never imagined Regulus would wield it against him. But then again, Barty had always been the first and last victim of Regulus’ ego. He’d always been the kindling that kept the proudest parts of him warm.
Suddenly, Regulus’ eyes flicked like they were turning to a different channel, going sweeter and sadder as the boy rocked up on his toes, reached for Barty’s face, and drew him into a kiss.
Barty melted into it. Because it had always felt right. Felt natural. That was why he had never needed to imagine there being anyone else in the world for him but Regulus.
The boy pulled away, leaning foreheads together as his hand painted down the peek of Barty’s chest through the robe. “I’ll call you,” he whispered.
That shuddering devastation sunk deep into the pit of Barty’s stomach. Because it was always those three words. Never the three words he actually wanted to hear. “Alright,” he nodded, kissing Regulus once more before slipping out of the kitchen, down the stairs, and out of the house.
He still slammed the door on his way out.
—
Barty tried to cool off the whole way home, but with anger and summer heat still ruminating under Regulus’ soft robe, the peace never came. He stood on the subway, staring into his solemn reflection in the window. Hating Regulus for loving that handsome and naive client, for not admitting it out loud when it was so clear that the bastard had become a light in Regulus’ life that the boy refused to open his eyes to. Meanwhile, Barty was being left out in the dark.
He arose from the subway station, slippers scuffing against the concrete as he walked three blocks down to Slughorn’s with a cigarette between his lips. He flicked it out before waltzing in, giving a wave to Horace at the front desk who regarded him with nothing more than a twisted grimace over the top of his glasses as he glanced down at Barty’s robe.
Barty rolled his eyes as he kept moving, “Just don’t ask, will ya?”
Horace humphed, gaze returning to the broken piano hammer he was fiddling with in his thick hands, “You overestimate my capacity to care, my boy.”
Barty weaved through the pianos on the floor that were changed over from week to week. He passively noted which ones had sold, which hadn’t. Fingers skimming over their polished finishes as he passed. But his sights were ultimately set on a piano in the back of the showroom. It called to him like an old friend, coaxing him to sit down on the bench. Under him, he could feel where the wood had worn down over time from every other player before him. Something about its mahogany felt like a warm hug that seemed to encourage him to release exactly what was troubling him. He felt along the wood grain, raising the fallboard and watching the yellowed ivories shine back like a wise, sweet smile. His fingers curled over the keys, momentarily pausing as the silence cradled him like a mother.
He dove into the music head first, letting it seep out from his fingertips as they moved in practiced motions over the keys. It came to him like breathing. Thoughtless, subconscious. Echoing the pieces that had lingered with him like imaginary friends from his childhood. They comforted the most unsettled parts of him with the perfect weave between ordered structure and ambiguous beauty.
Music had always been a language that came easier than thinking or feeling. It was the only common language he had when he moved to the States, which carried him through a turbulent childhood of struggling to acclimate to a new country, new culture, new family. It carried him into adulthood, where he’d hoped it would be enough to pay the bills in the Land of Dreams, but it never was. And when rich men who begged to be weak behind closed doors started paying his bills instead, music turned to a much needed escape.
Barty wasn’t sure how long he’d been playing, but at some point, between pieces, he paused, letting the final notes resonate with his slipper pushed into a pedal. With his fingers still on the keys, the chord was disrupted by a clamor of slow, jarring applause. He turned over his shoulder, glare loaded between his dark brows as he met the eyes of a man.
He was handsome in an annoying, overt way, like something teenage Barty would have cut out of a Ralph Lauren or Abercrombie catalog in his youth. Blonde hair, neatly coiffed out of his pale blue eyes. A pair of khakis and a boldly salmon-colored linen shirt outfitting a body that had to be made by rugby or crew or lacrosse or some prep school shit to be that substantial in his arms and chest. He looked like a walking trustfund, like he’d never gone a day in his life feeling like he didn’t belong. Nevertheless, he had this smile, this brightness that flooded into every corner of his face, that seemed to radiate a nearly childlike joy. It illuminated his eyes with warmth, softening the harsh lighting of the piano shop as his applause came to a stop.
“Wow,” he gasped, chest wide with a deep breath. “That was brilliant.”
Barty blinked, taking him in with a look. “Yeah, I know,” he turned back towards the piano, fingers repositioning at the ready. Hoping it would send a clear message that he didn’t entertain conversations with strangers.
“How long have you been playing?”
Barty’s eyes guided up towards the ceiling. He sighed, long and hard, before turning towards the clock behind Horace at the front desk to note the time. “Three hours.”
“No, I meant… well, nevermind,” his grin shrank slightly, going shy. “I actually was wondering if I could ask you a question. About the pianos here.”
“Because you think I work here?”
The man’s eyes flicked down to Regulus’ robe. He shook his head, “After playing like that, I know you don’t work here. You’re a professional. And a damn good one at that.”
Barty felt the tinge of a smirk twist at the side of his mouth, sensing the start of a game he knew he could win.
“Which is why,” the man’s smile grew again, perfect white teeth like he’d kept the best orthodontist in town on speed dial since the age of eleven. “I wanted your opinion on what to get.”
Barty swung his legs to the other side of the bench, crossing them together as he leaned back to look up at him through dark lashes. “Let me guess,” he grinned pointedly. “You just got a new townhouse and you thought, ‘hm what better way to broadcast to my guests that I’m filthy rich and don’t care if it eats up my vast square footage then an absolutely ridiculous piano that will gather dust between times I bend my hookups over it.’ If that’s the case, just buy the biggest and more ornate piece of shit you can find on the showroom floor and move the fuck on.”
The man’s face froze in its smile, something changing behind his eyes. And while in the past, this had been the part where Barty would have expected biting anger backed by fragile insecurity and a long history of emasculation, the expression the man held now wasn’t anger at all, but something amused, impressed. It was different, curiously so. “Actually,” he combed his fingers into the back of his blonde hair. “It’s for a restaurant I’m opening. I was hoping to hire a pianist to play for the dinner crowd.”
“Mm,” Barty hummed, practiced in his reflexive disinterest. “How quaint.”
“Though, you were sort of selling me on this one,” he let his knuckles wrap the top of the mahogany piano where Barty was sitting.
“This one?” he raised a brow.
The man looked shy all over again, shoulders shrugging high, “Yeah, I mean you made it sound pretty amazing.”
Barty shook his head, “You can’t take this one.”
His smile dulled, brows furrowing in confusion, “Is it not for sale?”
“It’s reserved. Unofficially. For me.”
“Oh,” his light blue eyes widened. “Are you… planning on purchasing it?”
“As soon as I have the space,” he nodded, matter of factly, not very enthused by the dullness of the conversation nor the obvious prying.
The man’s eyes carefully skirted down Barty’s robe again. “I see,” he noted. “Why this one?”
Barty rolled his eyes, “Come on. Don’t pretend to be interested.”
His smile grew again as he came to lean his elbows on the side of the piano, eyeing Barty more intently, “I’d never pretend.”
Barty stared at him, having a harder time reading him now. Everything in his aesthetic seemed to paint a familiar picture, but his genuine curiosity, his missing hubris painted something more obscure.
“Refurbished,” Barty sighed, starting to read off the history as he’d memorized the description long ago. “Was originally built here in New York in 1916. Shortly after, it was donated to the oldest Black Methodist church in Brooklyn where it lived through several decades, each with their own unique brand of civil rights movements. By the eighties, it was in such poor condition that it was moved into storage until it was eventually put up for auction. The person who won it saw it as a restoration project, but when they passed away, it ultimately was moved here. Where it gets passed over for newer, flashier picks by people who never care enough to take a deeper look.”
The man smiled softly. “Sounds like she’s lived quite a life.”
“Yeah, she has. Might not have much left to live for.”
“Oh, I very much doubt that.” He held out his hand, offering it to Barty. “Name is Evan. Evan Rosier.”
Barty looked at it, gaze drifting back up towards his face. His smirk spread wide. “Oh, finally. There it is.”
Evan’s smile crumbled, looking as if he’d just been told his fly was down. “What?”
“No, no. It was cute,” Barty giggled, propping his face up on his hand to watch as Evan drowned himself. “The little story about your restaurant. The feigned curiosity in the piano. Usually, I see it coming from a mile away, but you had me doubting myself. That was practiced. Polished. Nearly respectable.”
His blonde brows furrowed deeper, “What are you-”
“You’re hitting on me. And while that performance may have gotten you anywhere from a phone number to head in the employee bathroom from most, I’m kind of, sort of impervious to men like you.”
“Men like me?”
“Pretty boy, oh so put together,” Barty mused. “But I know the only thing deeper than your pockets is a filthy fucking search history. So to say I’m simply disinterested would be the understatement of the century.”
Evan took a step back from the piano, seeming to think carefully through his next words. “For the record, I wasn’t hitting on you.”
Barty cupped his hands around his mouth. “Oh, no. He’s backtracking, folks!” he announced to the minimally occupied showroom before turning back to Evan. “You were doing so well, my dear. Don’t stumble into cliches now.”
Evan’s stare stayed locked on him, dancing between confusion and intrigue. “Who are you?”
Barty smiled tightly, “I’d tell you, but there’s a waitlist of people trying to find out.”
The man’s expression dimmed, dipping into something more pitifully dejected. “Sorry if I offended you. Or made it seem like…” his words fell away. “I was just trying to be nice. Believe it or not.”
Barty bit into his cheek. He could hear the honesty in Evan’s tone. It sowed another seed of doubt, regret. He gathered himself with a sigh. “I would recommend the cream Steinway they just put out,” he craned his head towards the opposite corner of the showroom where some of the newer additions sat closer to the entrance. “Depending on how much floor space you have, a baby grand like that should just be fine. Good resonance, a touch on the warmer side, but whichever schmuck you get to bang on those keys for your dinner guests should be just fine.”
Evan seemed a bit taken aback by the genuine help, but regardless, he nodded politely. “Thank you.”
“Anything for a pretty face,” Barty said, rising from the bench before making his way toward the exit. “Ttyl, Horace!” he called, waving to the man at the front desk.
“Fuck off, son,” Horace cursed without looking up from his work as Barty escaped back on to the city streets.
—
The warm ocean breeze of Monaco was coming in from the open windows as Barty tightened the leash around his hand. He felt the tension there as the Athlete on the floor whimpered and squirmed under where Barty had put a boot squarely between his muscled shoulder blades.
“Settle down,” Barty murmured as he flicked through his phone with his free hand. The Athlete, and all his hyper-specific client lore, wasn’t immediately relevant to Barty’s current musings. He was too busy checking his phone for what felt like the thirtieth time that hour, trying to manifest missed calls from Regulus. All the while, a heated debate was served and returned, back-and-forth in his head like the prestigious tournament of tennis he’d watched the Athlete win just hours ago.
Regulus will call. He said he’d call. He always does. Eventually.
And? What if he doesn’t?
He will.
You can’t win this. You can’t beat that client no matter how much you try.
Why not?
Because that man makes Regulus stronger. Strong enough to not need you anymore.
That’s not true. There is still something weak in him. Something weak that is only for me.
Funny he only lets you have the worst of him.
I don’t care. Even his worst is perfect.
What would it mean to stop believing that?
What do you mean?
You need to believe Regulus is perfect. If only to make yourself feel inherently flawed. Because you being flawed is known. It’s safe. It’s constant.
And the inverse would be?
Admitting Regulus is anything but perfect. Admitting that he continues to be careless with you and your heart. And admitting how your only mistake has been staying as long as you have.
It stung like something strong going down with no chaser. Making his stomach churn at just the treacherous thought. He would have moved mountains for Regulus, changed in ways no person ever should. But change how he feels about Regulus? Change how he perceives him? Make him anything but a God in his eyes? That felt like a betrayal to everything Barty had ever known.
The Athlete, squirming below his boot, gasped, cried, despite no safe word being uttered.
Barty’s boot dug deeper, yanking the leash just to hear him yelp again. “Stop sniveling,” he snapped. “Grow the fuck up.”
—
In the blink of a red eye, Barty was back home in the city. The midday sun in the windows of his studio apartment was bright enough to rouse him from the heaviness of his jetlag. He sat up, looking out the windows at the folks on the street of the East Village. Their grocery bags and pickleball kits and prancing puppies at their side. He tried to smile, but his face fought against it.
He looked around, taking in the unkemptness of his apartment. The half unpacked luggage, the pile of clothes he’d been going through before leaving that were never put away. The empty noodle cup still lingering on his coffee table from last week. The studio was modest with white walls, mismatched wood furniture, and the brightly colored rug. There were a few houseplants his landlord had dumped on him. She was a sweet Cambodian woman who always tried to speak to him in her language, even after he’d told her he was half-Thai, not Cambodian, at least a dozen times. He’d ended up Googling enough phrases to get by in small conversations with her. The houseplants seemed to survive even with Barty’s minimal care.
He could have afforded an apartment that was bigger, newer, but change was hard for Barty. Afterall, this was the first place he rented after moving out of his grandmother’s place in Brooklyn. The first time he’d lived on his own. It was a little over 300 square feet, cozy and homey in ways Regulus’ roomy, yet haunted house wasn’t. It held his history of triumphs and failures, highs and lows. It was a safe place to fall when the world became too cruel. So even with the cash to upgrade, he found it hard to let go of that comforting familiarity.
He rose lazily from his bed, crossing over to the small kitchen near the door. It was basic, a small fridge, oven, and microwave with barely a foot of counter space. The fridge was nearly empty, save for a few well-expired delivery boxes and a bottled smoothie he’d grabbed as he left the airport. He grabbed that, knocking it down for some sort of sustenance. He leaned into the wall, feeling hungover despite the fact that he didn’t drink on the job. His exhaustion was mental, emotional and it went bone deep.
He knew what he needed was Regulus’ post-client aftercare, but with it off the table, he instead got himself ready for the next best thing. He threw on a pair of loose denim shorts, a boxy t-shirt, some beat up sneakers he couldn’t bring himself to toss. He stood in the mirror in his bathroom, running a hand over his buzzcut. Remembering how it had felt to have Regulus’ hands running up his neck, against his skin. His face and breath close as he lined up the sides diligently. He wanted to see him, wondered if he was in town. Wondered if that client was still here too. Maybe that’s why Regulus hadn’t called. Maybe there were a lot of reasons he hadn’t called.
Barty shook off the neverending dialogue and walked the length to the piano store. By the time he was there, he was sweating through his shirt and the air conditioning felt like a welcome reprieve as he felt the eagerness of his imminent musical relief.
“Back to grace your ears, Horace,” he said, barely looking at the man as he headed towards the back of the shop.
“Barty, wait,” the shop owner called after him.
“Can’t,” he told him, not stopping.
“Barty!”
He kept walking, prioritizing other needs. As he wove through the showroom, he squinted towards the back. Towards the corner where the mahogany piano sat. Or at least where it previously sat. Because now, there was some budget-friendly Hailun in its place. He turned, glaring already as he doubled back towards the front desk.
“I tried to stop you,” Horace rolled his eyes. “Now, if we could skip the dramatics-”
“Where is it?” he demanded.
“For heaven's sake-“ Horace’s posture drooped like a heavy garden flower. “It sold,” he said, sounding slightly regretful about it.
“You sold my piano?!” Barty nearly shrieked. “Why the fuck would you-”
“Barty, my boy, please,” he sighed, rushing through his words. “I couldn’t just save it for you for another fifteen years. I mean that antique was an eyesore on the floor. I know your grandmother loved it, but it had to go. I have to make room for pianos that people actually want!”
“Who was it?” Barty seethed, leaning closer. “The buyer. Who was it?”
He pursed his lips, looking around like he was afraid of drawing eyes though the shop was nearly empty. “That guy who was here a few days ago. You saw him, right? Said he’s the owner for some new restaurant going up in the West Village. He had it delivered there over the weekend.”
Barty realized immediately. That man. That walking, talking Ken doll. “Shit,” he hissed, running his hands through his short hair. “Fucking shit. This can’t be happening.”
“I was trying to tell you,” Horace rummaged around in the front pocket of his shirt. “He left you this.” He pulled out a neatly folded letter, sliding it across the desk.
Barty stared at it confused, before he pulled it into his hands, unfolding it and reading the neat handwriting in bright blue ink.
Dear talented patron,
First off, I’m sorry. I know you had your sights set on this one and at first glance, I must look like a real asshole scooping it out from under your feet. But I assure you, that isn’t my intention. Instead, I was hoping to strike up an offer that would benefit both of us.
Let me make it clear. You want the piano. I want a pianist. So instead of coming down to this shop to play, come to my restaurant and play for the dinner crowd. In return, I’ll not only compensate fairly for your time and talent, but we’ll consider the piano yours. You’ll be free to store it at my restaurant until you have a space of your own.
I hope that sounds reasonable to you. When you are ready to discuss, come down to Vinda in the Village and ask for Evan.
Until then.
Barty was storming out in a flash, phone in hand as he quickly searched for the location of the restaurant. Finding out it was only about ten blocks away, he set off on his rampage. With each step, he got angrier, hotter in the bright sun until sweat was beading down his back. Until he was just a few doors down from the corner restaurant. What immediately drew his eye was a line of people snaking out of the building. But these weren’t guests, no, they all seemed to be dressed in their finest, freshly pressed server uniforms, hair pulled back and shoes polished. It was only when Barty got to the front of the line that he saw the sandwich board outfront.
Open House
Recruiting serving staff
Come by 11-3
Barty rolled his eyes, pushing through the glass doors as a sea of glares followed him, perhaps thinking he was cutting them all in the line, but he blocked it out. Once inside, he was surprised by the size of space. The corner spot allowing it to be wall to wall windows, a lower portion of tables on one side, while an elevated area and bar stood at the other. The kitchen towards the back was partially open, enough so that Barty could see a few cooks darting from one side to another as they seemed to be prepping the kitchen. And near the center, sandwiched between the differing levels was his piano. Its rich, warm wood reflecting the mid-day summer light. So much more beautiful than it ever looked under the piano shop’s clinical fluorescents.
Just past his gaze, on the elevated area, a few tables had been pushed together. On one side, a couple of the potential servers sat, looking overly eager with nervous smiles. On the other side, three individuals sat. A woman with dark blunt bangs, sultry dark eyes, and a dragon tattoo weaving up her arm and a man with sleek black bun and a stern, yet placid gaze. But between them, at the center, sat that blonde man. His lightness and brilliant smile seemed to radiate so brightly, it was contagious, spilling across the table, infecting into the easing smiles of the potential servers.
Barty felt his fists ball, heat in his head doubling as he made his way straight to the table and slammed his hands down, ignoring the jolts of shoulders as he stared down that owner with his full fury unleashed. “Remember me, pretty boy?”
The owner, Evan, looked up at him, briefly giving him an up and down before looking to his face again. “Welcome in,” he smiled, unperturbed. “I take it you're here to discuss my offer?”
“Yeah, I read your offer,” Barty tossed the letter into his lap. “One question. Are you trying fuck me or fuck me over? Which is it?”
Evan’s smile dwindled. He fiddled with the letter in his lap for a moment before looking to the others at the table who sat tight-lipped and wide eyed watching the exchange. “Excuse me,” he smiled politely. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” He got up from the table, walking to the opposite side of the restaurant where Barty followed. Leaning into one of the tall windows, vines outside crawling up the side of the building and dappling the sunlight on him like a photo filter. “Alright,” he sighed. “Run that by me one more time.”
Barty enunciated slower, more bite in each consonant. “Are you trying to fuck me or fuck me over? Because either way, you’re going to be sorely disappointed with the outcome.”
Evan huffed a breath of laughter, “I’m not trying to sleep with you nor undermine you. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“Yet you know damn well you could have bought any other piano on the floor.”
Evan shook his head, “Did you even read my letter?”
“Oh yeah, a half-assed attempt to stiff arm me into a deal,” Barty kept seething. “Arrogant enough to think you can play God and get thanked for it. I mean, for fuck’s sake, you’re just like the rest of them.”
The man tilted his head, eyes narrowing, “Rest of who?”
Barty couldn’t say it. His clients. These rich men who leveraged their power over others like a weapon. It was an amorphous enemy, but an enemy nonetheless. He held himself firm, determined to stay stony and angry even when all he wanted to do was crumble. “I don’t want your shitty gig,” he spit out. “Playing for tips at some overpriced watering hole is beneath me. It’s insulting.”
Evan was slower to respond, taking his time as he seemed to take in all of Barty’s features. “My apologies. The last thing it was meant to be was an insult,” he told him, something firm in his tone like he wanted to make it known he was being honest. “I was just moved by your playing. And the shop owner let me know you didn’t have any other gigs going on. I thought it might be a good opportunity for someone trying to get back on their feet.”
Barty stopped, taken aback. “Back on my feet? What are you talking about?”
“You know,” Evan shrugged, clearly side-stepping around something awkward. “Until you get a place to live.”
Barty stared at him, long and hard, trying to figure out what he wasn’t saying. And when it finally clicked, his eyes widened. “You think I’m homeless?”
“Are you not?” Evan raised a brow, looking uneasy. “I mean. You said you didn’t have space for it. That’s what you meant, right?”
Barty scoffed, hands rubbing against his face harshly, “Because I live in a studio, you fucking idiot!”
Evan’s mouth hung open, face flickering through a million thoughts. “But, I mean-” he rushed. “You were in a bathrobe!”
“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t wear one of my Armani suits to the fucking piano store,” he fumed. “For fuck’s sake, you’re clearly not from around here.”
“Is that common practice here? To wear a bathrobe out and about like that?” his shoulders raised defensively.
Barty groaned, steamrolling past the question, “So what? You thought I was some piano playing bum off the streets. You thought you’d swoop in to play the part of Daddy Warbucks. Buy my piano, shackle me to it, and I’d what? Fall into your lap, mouth first?”
Evan’s mouth closed, a heavy exhale through his nose. He looked off towards the table on the other side of the restaurant momentarily, lips pressing together. “Look. If you’re going to hit me-”
“Hit you?” Barty gawked. His tongue curled in his mouth, poised like a trigger finger, ready to fire. Because if he knew anything it was how to take apart a man with words alone. Weaving enchantments like he was a modern day snake charmer to make them cower in fear or curl around his finger. So when Barty licked his lips and tasted the venom, he knew exactly what to do with it. “Oh, I see. You want me to slap you so hard your pretty lips bleed and your pretty cheeks sting, mm? Want me to put tears in those baby blue eyes?”
Evan watched Barty, holding himself firmly in place. His fair eyes deepened, pupils bleeding black into the faint blue. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”
Barty stepped too close, taking pride in how he exceeded Evan’s height by a few inches. “I’m thinking about it now,” he crowded him. “Thinking about doing it here where all your soon-to-be workers can see. Where they can hear their boss yelp like some helpless, pretty thing. I wonder if you’d still feel like God then?”
Evan held his gaze steadily, the corner of his mouth turning up, “You really like calling me pretty, don’t you?”
Barty’s eyes glued to that upturned corner of his mouth. Evan seemed unshaken, uncharmed. No snake. It sobered Barty off his power high as the world seemed to come back into view.
Evan sighed, creating space between them as they slipped back to normalcy like nothing untoward had happened. He smiled tightly, the way you would with a stranger you were simply trying to be polite to. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “I made assumptions. Jumped to conclusions. And while it wasn’t my intention to manipulate you. Trap you. Buy you-”
Barty worked to keep the flinch from his face, unaware of whether it succeeded.
“I’m not too proud to admit it was wrong,” Evan continued. “You are outrageously talented and I knew you’d be celebrated here. But if this opportunity wasn't what you're looking for, I’m not here to convince you. You’re free to go.”
Barty felt himself fading, the cooling of his anger making the hopelessness rush in again. “And my piano?” he asked, sounding more desperate than he wanted.
Evan gave a steady nod, “I’ll keep her safe till you can buy her off me.”
The muscles in Barty’s face started to tug like he might cry, making his eyes dart to the floor. God, he couldn’t do that here. Not with some stranger staring at him. “She doesn’t belong in a place like this,” he worked a hand up his neck. “Horace should have never sold her to some-”
“Tell me your name.”
He looked up at him, meeting his light eyes. Seeing genuine kindness that radiated like an aura around him. It was unfamiliar, uncomfortable. “Barty,” he told him.
“Barty,” he repeated, soft smile spreading against his lips. “I promise. I’ll keep her safe for you.”
He went quiet, watching the stranger. Habitual distrust being tested.
Evan gathered a breath in his chest as he pulled a business card from the pocket of his shirt. He held it between two fingers, offering it to Barty. “I hope to see you here again. If not as our pianist, then as a guest.”
Barty slowly took it, eyes skimming over the modern font. Evan Rosier. Chef. Restaurateur. Entrepreneur.
Evan bypassed him with a polite nod, “Have a good day, Barty.”