feeling electric. [tag; evan]

Another bar, another party.

Cradling a glass of champagne and wearing a sour expression, Perdita blew at a lock of her that had fallen across her nose. It was a launch of something she had no interest in. Neither did her family which is why they'd all neglected to show. It was a fairly standard set up so far. Pink lighting, candles, horse-like laughter from horse-faced women.

Everyone was so much older which made Perdita wonder why such a modern location had been chosen. The aptly named Sky Bar was situated way up in one of London's tallest buildings with a few that stretched for miles. It was a little after nine in the evening and the sun was just starting to set, casting the clouds into heady shades of pink and purple, the watercolour sky reflecting on the murky waters of the Thames which meandered through the city like a snake.

It was a lovely summer's evening. The breeze was still warm, clinging fiercely to the swelteringly hot day that had come before. Summer in London was awful. It was hot, sticky and the high rises meant that there was very little air circulating. Summers like these were made for places like Portofino. That was where Perdita was so supposed to be, with her legs wrapped around a handsome Italian man. But no. Here she was, stuck in a room of coffin dodgers and counting the minutes until she could go home.

Perdita had so far made polite but boring conversations with people she didn't really like. There was only so much fake laughter she could manage without wanting to scream. She'd avoided dances with leery elderly gentleman, exchanging contact details with greasy bankers and canapés. She didn't like them, she never had. They were just tiny bits of pastry that didn't taste like anything. And she was starving. Her dress was beautiful but unforgiving and it clung to her curves like she'd been sewn into them.

She hungrily eyed the passing plates of "food" and her stomach gave an embarrassing rumble. Dresses like these meant you could eat or wear them, she'd chosen the latter.

Growing annoyed with her surroundings, Perdita twirled in a rush of silk and a cloud of rose scented perfume, striding out of the doors and into the protruding bar. Surprisingly, it did seem rather empty. The view was lovely. In the fresh air, the still warm breeze ruffled her sleek bob as her smoky bright blue eyes looked around. Plenty of free tables. The main hubbub was inside and she was glad it stayed there. She was only here because her brother, Sebastian, was in Bali with one his new women and her parents decided they wanted to stay at home. Typical.

Carefully, she strode down the centre plinth to the bar. "Hi," she said with a smile to the barman. "Could I please have a whiskey sour?" She asked, placing the empty champagne flute on the bar. Just then did she realise she had company and seeing who it was, her heart sank. It was her unofficial arch nemesis.

"Oh," she said flatly, turning her nose up. "It's you." She and the man didn't have much history. He'd turned her down once and Perdita didn't like not getting her way. They ran in similar circles so they were often flung together but they hadn't seen each other in months. Thank goodness. Reaching out for the drink, her eyes looked him and down once before raising her glass to him and sipping. "Cheers. Your hair looks like shit."

Another bar, another party.

Cradling a glass of Moscato Giallo in one hand and twirling the shaft of his Self-Writing Quill in the other, wearing a white formal robe with an uncomfortably high collar, Evan sat off in the shadows on one side of the bar counter, atop the Sky Bar itself. He was supposed to be documenting the sights and sounds of high society at the exhibition and launch of the new Mundus, not simply a Muggle vehicle enchanted for Ministry and other official use, but actually designed by wizards to be more compatible with all necessary Ministry of Magic functions and fully abide by the Statute of Secrecy.

But the announcement had been short, the clapping accompanied by guffaws, the "big press event" turned into a foundering cesspool of tittering socialites talking about how wonderful it was to be spoiler rotten, blah blah, so on and so forth. It wasn't really necessary to watch anymore. All Cuffe wanted was good press coverage, and Evan's ridiculously accurate memory would be good enough to record what actually happened and was noteworthy. He'd fluff the piece up with some of the names he recognised and some of the release information on the Mundus, and it would still be headline material. Piece of cake, really.

The sunset, so distant and yet looking so tantalisingly close, was throwing the sky into beautiful patches of foggy fire. Or it might have been the Moscato that was making Evan feel a little bit foggy. He hadn't slacked in his work at all, so Cuffe hadn't noticed any difference, but his heart wasn't quite as in it as it once had been. For the first time in a long time, Evan was well and truly pining for someone. And it was someone he had only met once, and it was three months prior. They hadn't even talked since, except to get approval for the article in which Evan had quoted him. Still, no matter how many guys he had hooked up with, he couldn't get the Frenchman off of his mind. It was... unusual, to say the least.

A delicate set of steps approached, not catching his attention, but a semi-familiar voice did when it asked for a drink. He glanced up and saw one of his, shall we say, fairly matched counterparts from the Ministry. Perdita Bloom. He wouldn't make the mistake of forgetting her first name again - not after he'd called her Penelope the first time they'd met after he turned her down. For Hel's sake, how wasn't it obvious that he was gay? Anyway personally she was still nursing hurt feelings, which Evan was undecided - and uncaring - whether it was because the girl couldn't let a disappointment go, or she was professional at holding grudges. She'd made damn sure he remembered her name going forward, however.

Oh, this he could handle. A little sssspicy sass? Evan almost perked right up. "It matches your makeup then," he replied indifferently. "Cheers," and he tipped back the rest of his Moscato, indicating to the bartender that he should refill it. "But," he went on, "I just can not throw any shade on that dress. All contempt aside, you look fabulous this evening." A red backless dress, form-fitting but with a graceful and très élégant flare as it caressed the floor. It took the right person to really fill a dress like that, and no matter his other feelings about Perdita, she had nailed it.

He'd called her Penelope. Penelope was a fat girl's name. Perdita pursed her plump deeply red lips in a frown as her eyes slid away and focused on the beautiful skyline that stretched ahead for miles. Dusk was falling and the change in temperature was welcome. It wasn't very ladylike to sweat, was it? No, it was not.

Perdita scoffed, tossing her glossy bob in a haughty motion as she took her drink and sipped it through the straw. It was like water off a duck's back. Unfortunately, Perdita was beautiful and she knew it and there wasn't a humble bone in her entire body. She was used to parties and galas. She drank champagne like it was water. Evan's remarks were childish but so were hers so she couldn't really do gown that route. Damn it.

The compliment made her blink. She turned her head and swivelled her cat-like eyes to stare at him in shock. Who was he and what had be done with Evan Reavley? "Thank you," she said gently, sipping her cocktail once more. Getting a compliment from a gay man must be a big deal? Either that or he was lying to her face again.

"Can't say the same for you," she piped up, gesturing to his wildly white ensemble. "Bit early for Halloween, isn't it?" Perdita asked with a sunny smile, her mind linking him to some sort of ghost. It'd be cheaper and more effective if he'd just donned a bed sheet instead. She was only rude because she was jealous. Evan had better cheekbones than her and eyelashes that were wasted on a boy. It was infuriating! She did like his outfit to a certain degree. It was tailored to perfection. It was just a shame that he was the one wearing it.

Still caught off guard and a little ruffled by his kind words, she frowned again. It was always easier to be mean than nice. She didn't know him well but she disliked him. Why? Because he was smart. They could trade insults all night and he still wouldn't run off crying. That was what bothered her. She'd never met someone whose will she was unable to bend until he walked into her life and ruined it. He just would not roll over and play dead.

"How are things going at that grotty little rag you write for? "Write" being the generous term," Perdita said with one more smile, eyeing the notebook. She didn't read the Prophet. She didn't live in London and wasn't bothered one jot about how the dirty, grey and noisy capital city was fairing. She read Continental stuff. If she read anything, it was the financial pages. Her brother had shit for brains when it came to managing the family's money and so, she'd taken to doing it herself in secret. If her grandfather knew what she was doing, he'd be positively apoplectic.

"Single?" She asked with a smile and a head tilt. Oh, she hoped so. She wanted him to be miserable. "I think you're out of luck. Everyone here is either married or cheating on their spouses," with a heavy sigh, she turned away from the sunset, resting her back against the bar as she watched the people inside the room mill about casually. "Twenty sickles says I can get his contact details," she told Evan, nodding at a portly middle aged gentleman who was currently eyeing up the waitresses hungrily. The pervert. But she was bored.

Perdita was impossible, he remembered that much. And if he hadn't he would have been reminded watching her face rise and fall like a tempest waves on a beach. You could tell when she was about to deliver a pithy one-liner because her face would light up in a way that, surprisingly, made her more pretty. In between however her brow burrowed and she frowned like she was upset she couldn't carry on a diatribe. Oh, or that he still wasn't into her. The poor darling. "Might be," he said offhand in response to her Halloween costume, "but at least my scariness just comes from a costume. You're stuck like that," he gave her a lazy look, eyes half-closed and the corner of his mouth turned up in equal parts amusement and challenge.

And, oh, she was a little spitfire tonight. That 'grotty little rag' - an opinion which Evan actually shared but would never, ever, say to anyone except Adena or his late parents - was the only real wizarding newspaper in the entire United Kingdom, and was released internationally in at least fourteen different countries and six languages.

"Oh, sales have been phenomenal ever since that big editorial about the need to do away with unnecessary sub-departments in Magical Law Enforcement," he cooed to Perdita as he waggled the notebook she had been eyeing. "The sheep have been writing in with huge support. Funny, isn't it, since the Ministry leans on the Prophet to justify their own policymaking?" He took a long draught of his Moscato, then said, "Oh wait that's not funny, that's telling."

Was she flummoxed? Evan couldn't tell, but she made one of her signature abrupt changes in conversation topic and asked if he was... single. Now that was a hit, and a palpable one at that. He blinked but otherwise betrayed no indication that the question had fazed him; it didn't matter, as Perdita was continuing in that vein while she turned her attention and her gaze to the people who were coming up to the rooftop bar for refills or escapades. And he had to admit that she was probably quite accurate. Couples that came up with strained looks: married. Couples that came up with expressions of desperate passion: um, not. Then there was the rotund man with the atrocious combover - and yes, Miss Bloom had noticed him too.

"I'm not taking that bet," he protested playfully. "He's an easy target for a head-turner like yourself. You want to earn any Sickles from me, you'll have to up your game." He scanned the crowd, looking for an ideal up-level for his counterpart, but in this motley crew all you could see was money and lust. No asexuals, no obvious gays. "You know what, though, I'm as bored as you look," he turned back to Perdita. "Make me a better gamble and I'll take you up on it."

Perdita scoffed. She liked her eyes over him disparagingly, serving Evan with a definite case of the side-eye. "What are you? Twelve?" She asked with a roll of her perfectly made up blue eyes. He sounded a lot like her six year old cousin, Violet, and a lot more of a bitch. She could trade pathetic, half-hearted and childish insults all day but she doubted she'd win. She never partook in anything she wouldn't be crowned the victor in.

The tall brunette offered Evan a sunny smile, not rising to his bait. "Angel," she purred as she turned, resting her back against the rather flimsy glass barrier between the rooftop and the terrifying drop to the pavement. "You seem to have mistaken the commitment I have to my job," she said as she folded an arm across her chest and sipped at her sparkling drink. "You can be as disparaging as you wish. Even my boss knows that I paint my nails when I should be typing up important invoices." That much was true. She'd only taken and held down this soul destroying job to prove to her father that she was responsible. One day, her dream was to run the empire. She just had to get her guileless older brother out of the way first.

"You could set my desk on fire tomorrow and I'd sent you a bottle of plonk as a thank you," she said as she tilted her head backwards to look at the sky, watching the clouds tinge pink and darker as twilight drew steadily in.

"You're chickenshit," Perdita informed Evan with a slow smile. That poor waitress was going to be in a world of pain if she didn't move away soon. If she was in her position, she wasn't sure she'd be flattered. Even if Mr. Tubbs over there was somehow transformed into an Adonis. She'd been catcalled at by enough Muggle builders to know it wasn't pleasant. Perdita often got glances but that was because she walked like a panther. Shoulders back, eyes focused, stride wide. She never said sorry, she never moved for other people on the pavements, she bulldozed them if they were dumb enough to stay put. She was snarled at by women frequently but that was simply because they were jealous.

"Well you need to play too," she said as she looked around, suddenly a cheetah surrounded by gazelles. Turning her head, she watched as two young people wandered in. A tall, handsome man. Early thirties with a well cut suit and on his arm, a pretty little thing. She had bright blonde hair (obviously bleached), a pink dress (poor material, too short), heels (too high, bordering on stripper-ish) and her skin looked suspiciously orange, liked she'd been dipped in a vat of fence paint. The woman caught her eye and turned to whom she presumed was her boyfriend. The little troll was clinging fiercely, placing kisses on his cheek, curling tighter around him protectively.

"Well, someone's a little insecure," she said softly into Evan's ear before giving the couple one more look and then a light bulb dinged above her head. "First one to get his contact details wins," she told the reporter with a smile. "Would you like to try first?" She asked magnanimously, extending her hand out towards the strapping stranger and his shabby Barbie date.

Burn her desk down and get paid to do it? "Make it Moscato Giallo and you've got a deal," Evan teased half-heartedly, lifting his own glass in indication. He too was boring of their little trade in insults. Despite himself he was enjoying her company, someone to trade tick for tack and feel superior to all the societal nitwits around them.

"I beg your pardon," Evan went on after pretending to choke on his wine. "It's not chickenshit, it's knowing the odds. Whatever my personal feelings about you - and they are conflicted," he drew out the last word in an annoying drawl, "you've got that high-society glam going on and all the hetero men would kill to have someone like you on their arm or in their bed. Tubbo over there is probably desperate as fuck - you're like dangling a T-bone steak in front of a man who has been looking for leftover hamburger for a week." Perdita must have conceded the point, since she started scanning for other prospects, and Evan did the same. What was a little money to spend on a game like this? This was risk, not chance. They were both skilled in their own way at winning the hearts of fawning boys and young men. In fact, Evan reflected, that's probably another reason why I get under Perdita's skin so easily. I'm not just the guy that rejected her, I'm the competition.

Perdita's head snapped at the door to the sky bar, and Evan followed her gaze to see two young people wander in. A small, petite, bimbo of the evening. Mid twenties with a trashy-chic pink dress and heels and, in her clutches, a tall handsome dream. He had beautiful bronze-coloured hair (combed and cut close), a classic grey suit and coattails (custom-made, 100% silk-- no, silk blend, but still expensive), dress shoes (wingtipped, but he was otherwise so well put-together that Evan could overlook it), and his face was adorned with a perfectly shaped short-cut goatee. The bitch saw Evan and Perdita eyeing them, and turned to the man that Evan presumed was only the golddigger's newest catch. It must have been a fresh catch, maybe still trying to get away, because the little blonde was showering him was affection that was clearly designed to indicate her "devotion" to him.

"Oh. My. God," Evan whispered back, the more hateful aspects of their rivalry forgotten in the rush of not only a fun gamble, but the possibility of seducing a hot young man like that. "'Little' insecure? If she was any more worried about losing him she'd be pretending to cry and hugging his junk." He rolled his eyes, and then turned his attention back to the man himself while Perdita laid down the terms of the wager. First to get contact details? It'd be a little unorthodox but he could manage it. Or try.

"Deal. Twenty galleons to the winner." He looked back at the man, still enraptured by his little carrot, and added, "He hasn't seen either of us. You distract her for me, and I'll do the same when it's your turn."