#rosenior

Muscle-memory, really. They don’t know that hiding away from his own sons is exactly what he’s doing — and has been doing, from the second his beloved Anna fell ill.

Risking a glance into the living room, he immediately regrets doing so. The curtains have been drawn shut, allowing no light in, and one of the old flicks he keeps in his collection is playing on the television. At first, this wouldn’t appear so bad, weren’t it for the stench: rotten eggs, the earthy smell of marijuana, and stale beer. Then, he notices the torn pillows left strewn across the floor; the thin layer of feathers draws enough attention to detract from the porn magazines and used tissues scattered about. Who knows how long Junior has barricaded himself in there?

Well, considering his youngest son’s passion to put his father’s reputation in rags and ruin, this might all be just a trick to begin with. The boy knew his father planned to invite a colleague over, discuss the latest law draft the parliament plans to implement, and, therefore, tried to leave an impression. It is only thanks to his colleague cancelling at the last minute that Crouch Snr got spared this kind of repetitive humiliation.

He represses a sigh, calling over his housemaid to take care of the mess. All in all, this is not the worst Junior has done. These days, he doesn’t even try to rectify his son’s behaviour. It would fall on deaf ears or, worse, inspire him to more and far greater acts of debauchery. In a morbid sense, Crouch Snr is glad that his wife had died. It would break her heart to see what monster her sweet boy has turned into.

In his absence, the housemaid has opened the balcony doors attached to his office and turned on the standing fan to create a breeze in this sweltering mid-summer air. The fabric of Crouch Snr’s shirt is clinging to the skin of his back from walking alone.

He places his jacket over the backrest of his chair and loosens his tie before sitting down at his desk. With rolled-up sleeves, he fishes for the draft law in one of his drawers, hunching over the paper to study it carefully. What else is he left to do, really?

His eyes land on the portrait of Annabella, which he keeps at his desk next to his penholder and lamp. She is as lovely as ever: smiling, one ankle crossed above the other, with her long, blonde hair falling over her shoulders in soft, gentle waves. Not a minute goes by that he doesn’t feel her absence.

The corners of his mouth drooping and a saddened crease appearing between his brows, he places the portrait back where it belongs. No amount of wishful thinking will bring his darling back to him. She, now, rests in a better, less painful place.

After some time, a knock rings out from his door. Crouch Snr doesn’t answer, nor does he look up. He’s too engrossed in his work to truly care.

Whoever is standing on the other side of these wooden panels doesn’t await an answer either. The door opens, and so he enters: a young man, his sons’ age, with russet skin and white-blonde locs tied together at the back of his head. Crouch Snr has seen him in his home before.

“Can I help you?” he mutters, eyes following the curve of his fountain pen as he continues to work on his letter.

“I’m here to pick up my stuff,” the man replies.

“I doubt any of your belongings have found their way inside my office, son.”

The young man smiles. It’s a subtle, almost humoured kind of smirk, as if he knows something the older man doesn’t. Crouch Snr lifts an eyebrow.

Biting his lip mischievously, his visitor points with his chin at the older man’s desk. “Upper left drawer. You’ll need your key.”

Bewildered, Crouch Snr stares at the man before him, whose mischievous glint doesn’t leave his eyes. How can he know about the lock on one of his drawers? Did Junior put him up to this?

Continuing to throw the young man puzzled glances, Crouch Snr scrambles to pick up the key from the cupboard behind him and unlocks the upper left drawer. There, tucked away between old letters and photographs, lies a Polaroid, almost untouched and possibly taken not too long ago.

What the Polaroid depicts, however, has the older man quickly look away and clear his throat uncomfortably. His pulse quickens, and beads of sweat build up on his forehead. No decent man would ever allow such a picture to fall into the wrong hands.

“Barty,” the young man clarifies, unfazed, as if this explains everything. And, truthfully, it sort of does. Yet, it doesn’t make the seen unseen, regardless of his pretending. So, nodding jerkily, the older man hands the Polaroid upside down to the young man, whose very likeness he has just held in his palm.

But it will be impossible to forget — those dark, smart eyes staring back at him, burning with lust and arousal, as the young man’s naked body is bent over and taken apart from behind by one of his sons at the very desk Crouch Snr is currently sitting at.  

He regards the young man before him, who slides the Polaroid into the back pocket of his jeans, appearing composed despite the other man having seen him in such a compromising position. Perhaps even too composed, truth be told. Did Junior put him up to this? Crouch Snr certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

The older man’s eyes wander over the blonde one’s frame: the tight, powder blue crop top — colours similar to those his late wife used to wear — which hugs the muscles of the blonde man’s chest and biceps, as well as the slope of his waist, sinfully tight, paired with the pair of jeans that hang a little lower than necessary, and the stretch of stomach and trail of hair these clothes reveal.

Briefly, Crouch Snr closes his eyes, memories of nights spent with boys like this flashing before them. He always tried to ignore his sons’ inclinations to the same sex, as a responsible father would. But it is of no use. Their inclinations are his fault, after all.

He chuckles grimly to himself, reaching over for the pack of cigarettes he keeps lying on his desk. Striking a match, he lets the nicotine calm his nerves. With his head tilted like a curious bird, the young man watches him, making no move to leave the office now that he got what he wanted.

“You know, your sons are quite a handful,” he says, stepping closer to the desk. “I would know. I dated both of them.”

“They’re good men,” Crouch Snr replies gruffly. The lie does not go unnoticed.

“Sure.” The young man narrows his eyes, a cryptic smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. Once again, he nods in the older man’s direction. “Can I have a hit?”

Crouch Snr sighs, giving in without ever putting up a fight, and motions vaguely to his desk. “Be my guest.”

However, the young man might have taken his words too literally, as he moves to sit at the corner of his host’s desk, shoving aside pen and paper alike to make room for himself. And he doesn’t take the pack of cigarettes either. With an air of naturalness, he steals the cigarette from the older man’s lips and places it between his own, a teasing sparkle in his eyes.

Crouch Snr swallows, visibly taken aback. Something stirs inside him at the young man’s boldness and spine; a certain heat trickles down the muscles of his back. Everything about this reminds him of wilder, more rumbunctious times. Times when he himself was younger and coveted by many. It is a flattery of a hitherto long-forgotten kind.

“But they’re quite handsome, I must admit,” the young man hums, taking a drag and blowing out the smoke right into Crouch Snr’s face. Mesmerised by the way his lips wrap around the filter, the older man doesn’t dare move.

“I imagine you, too, must have been quite handsome once, haven’t you, Mr Crouch?”

A slow smirk spreads over the older man’s lips.

“Once?” he replies, haughtily, like he used to do in another, better life.

The young man chuckles, letting his eyes drift deliberately from his host’s mouth to his chest down to his lap, where they remain at last. Crouch Snr takes note of it with benevolence and, yes, perhaps a conceited sort of pride, too.

Equal parts intrigued and playful, the young man bites his lower lip. “Still.”

He takes another drag of the cigarette, then extinguishes the smoke in the ashtray that has not been emptied for a long time. Looking up at his host through long, fluttering lashes, he leans forward. Crouch Snr hums appreciatively as he wraps his hand around his tie, tugging him closer.

“I think your sons could use a lesson, no?” the young man murmurs, continuing to play with the tie in his grasp, his flirtatious gaze stuck to the older man’s mouth. “Something to put them back in their place. Nothing truly lasts forever, does it? They should be reminded of this.”

“What is it that you offer, Mr…?”

“Rosier.” The blonde one smiles. “Evan Rosier.”

He props his foot onto the chair the older man is sitting on, pressing the tip of his shoe against his crotch. It is light, not much pressure behind the motion, but it has his host hard in seconds. Mr Rosier’s mouth twitches, and he moves his foot ever so slightly, teasing the erection so shamelessly presented to him.

Crouch Snr exhales slowly, a little unsteady. It’s been years since he’s been touched like this.

“I don’t know,” Mr Rosier continues, shrugging. “Whatever it is that you desire. We can start easy, or you can bend me over your desk. Right here, right now. Just like in the picture.”

And, oh, wouldn’t he love to do exactly that? He has wondered what this wicked mouth would be capable of; how it would look wrapped around his length? Would he stare at him with wide-eyed innocence, an adoring gaze, like Annabella used to do? Or would he be mean, fierce, like Liza once was? How would his back arch once he bends him over that desk? How sweetly would he moan? How much would he be able to take?

In seconds, Crouch Snr is out of his chair, leaning over the pretty blonde sitting at the corner of his desk. One hand cups Mr Rosier’s jaw, dragging his thumb over his lips, while the other searches his desk for the portrait of his late wife. With utmost care, he places it face down. She doesn’t need to be a part of this.

Mr Rosier tries to follow his motions, but Crouch Snr carefully guides him back by his jaw. He wants those smart eyes on himself, and nowhere else.

His hand winds into the young man’s hair, accidentally undoing the tie. Easily, the locs cascade over Mr Rosier’s back and shoulders, framing his angelic face beautifully. Crouch Snr smiles, the now free hand sneaking below the fabric of Mr Rosier’s top, teasingly exploring the skin and muscle on his sides and back. Mr Rosier moves closer, opening his legs wider, and pressing their bodies flush against each other. Hungrily, the older man leans down, tasting the warm breath ghosting over parted lips before he brushes his mouth against the young man’s wicked one.

“What is the meaning of this!?”

“I’m—I’m sorry, Sir. I—I tried to stop him, but—”

Crouch Snr looks up, displeased, his hand remaining against Mr Rosier’s jaw. In the middle of the room stands his eldest son, Belshazzar, a file tucked beneath his arm that he must have intended to hand to his father just like Crouch Snr requested hours ago. His secretary watches the scene from the doorway with unease.

Belshazzar Crouch. He is everything Crouch Snr has ever wanted in a son: intelligent, studious, well-mannered. The two of them could have been unstoppable — father and son guiding their country to a new and shining future — hadn’t the boy’s mother gotten to him first. He doesn’t know with what kind of fairytales Liza has poisoned his mind, but Belshazzar has been regarding his father with nothing but contempt and disdain ever since. He tries to hide it, of course, but it didn’t take long for Crouch Snr to figure out how little he holds of his old man.

And, right now, his contempt couldn’t be more blazing. It’s in the subtle shake of his hands, the paleness of his face, the feathering muscle in his jaw. His father can only begin to imagine what would provoke such a violent reaction, but Belshazzar is Liza’s son just as much as he is his, and Liza has always been a jealous woman.

Crouch Snr lets his hand fall from Mr Rosier’s face and steps away. Without another word, the blonde man slides off the desk and leaves the office as if nothing had occurred. Belshazzar stares after him, practically burning holes into the back of Mr Rosier’s head. For only a second, he looks back over his shoulder, but the look the two of them are exchanging is too loaded with hatred, disappointment, grief, and vengeance not to mean anything. Mr Rosier knew exactly what he was doing, and it only occurs to Crouch Snr then that he has been nothing more than an instrument to a far greater scheme.

As soon as Mr Rosier has rounded a corner and vanished from sight, another figure emerges from the shadows. His mouth curling into a snarling grin, Bartemius Crouch Junior watches from afar. While his expression reads as a malevolent kind of joy, his eyes drill into his father’s gaze with nothing but murderous intent. Who knows what master plan of retaliation is forming inside that demon’s mind?

Crouch Snr sighs, the interaction leaving him even more exhausted than before, depleted of all his energy. At once, he sinks back into his chair, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face.

“Leave or stay”, he tells his eldest son, who has yet to make a move, with as much concrete authority as he can muster. “Either way, close the door behind you.”