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When Max was a kid and couldn't sleep, he used to spend hours thinking about the future. Who he would be, and where, and what he'd be doing. He had tons of theories - astronaut, world class chef, professional video game player. Every night, it was something new, and he had full blown stories about how he'd get there.

He never imagined he'd be pulling up in front of a whore house riding passenger in a Porsche. But goddamn did he love his life.

He slid his jacket on when he got out of his seat, letting the door fall shut behind him carefully. The district was just now coming to life, the strip already bathed in neon red that would be more pronounced once the sun fully set. Max smiled up at the bright sign stretching across Hale's. He was home.

The mechanical slide of glass caught his attention before he disappeared, and Max smirked to himself as he turned around, leaning in the open window and raising an eyebrow at Sebastian Stone. He was a regular, which Max didn't have a lot of for reasons, but Seb was particularly good at handling him. "You have to share, Seb," he teased. "We've talked about this."

Sebastian rolled his eyes and leaned across the seats to hold out what was in his hand. A strawberry lollipop. Max grinned and snatched it, unwrapping the sweet and popping it in his mouth as fast as he could. Seb was amused, he could tell. "Until next time, doll?"

Max winked, and then finally spun away to head inside. Tito was already at his station, and the look he shot Max was nothing if not fondly annoyed. "Mi amor!" Max greeted with a grin, his Spanish as sloppy as always, and even though Tito rolled his eyes he still gave up a smile. Max draped himself over Tito's desk, pulling the lollipop from his mouth. "Am I on the schedual for tonight?"

"Are you ever not, mocoso?" Tito shot back.

Max's grin stretched as he shrugged. "Haven't been home for a couple of nights. Thought maybe you'd all figured I ran away."

Tito sighed deeply. "We should only be so lucky."

Max snickered and leaned over to press a sticky kiss to the security guards cheek. "You love me!" he stated as he pushed off the desk and headed for the stairs. He took them up two at a time, pausing only long enough to let Ian get a good look at him before continuing on up to the Penthouse. This early in the night the main door was unlocked, so he didn't hesitate to shoulder it open.

He could see some of the other Boys milling around the common areas already, but what grabbed his attention was Oliver Hale, lounging on their couch, playing their x-box. "Maximillion," Oliver greeted, barely glancing at him. "You're late."

"I'm right on time!"

"Which is already late, in Debbie's eyes," Oliver pointed out, not incorrectly.

Max huffed and used his lollipop to point at Oliver. "And anyway, what are you doing up here? Playing with things that aren't yours?"

"Everything in this house is mine," Oliver replied haughtily. "Including, but not limited to, that sweet ass of yours."

"Raunchy," Max commented.

"I try."

He rolled his eyes and kicked his shoes off at the door before going across the room to lean on the back of the couch and watch what game Oliver was playing. One of the Grand Theft Autos, though not the newest. "You know, if Spencer loved you as much as he loved us, you'd probably have an 85" screen too. Maybe you should spend more time at home, Hale."

"Don't you have better things to do with that mouth of yours, Max?" Oliver asked. Max smirked and leaned in to drag his tongue around the shell of Oliver's ear. It earned him a dark glare, but he was nonpulsed. "Not for another thirty minutes, unless you wanna take me for a test drive?"

"You're incorrigible," Oliver muttered.

"That's why you like me," Max answered cheerfully, bouncing away from the couch to head into the kitchen, popping his lollipop back in his mouth. He'd used Seb's place to clean up, so while the rest of the boys were getting ready, Max was already good. He probably could have spent some more time on his hair, but it would just end up in a mess anyway, so he wasn't terribly worried.

He was just settling onto the counter when Oliver finally got off their couch. "Twenty minutes until show time, Boys!" he called, and shot one more glare Max's way. "Brush your teeth."

He just grinned around his lollipop.

Sometimes Jordan despises waking up.

He had taken a nap as a way to shake off some of the usual stress before night rolled around, he had a recurring Client stopping by the House to see him up later and this particular guy had a way of exhausting the hell out of him before ten minutes could even pass. Which, wouldn't matter so much if he didn't take up most of the night - leaving little time to work in other appointments. But the money that rolled in from him kept his annoyance meter from spilling over.

Besides, he's a good lay.

Jordan could handle this, even if it meant going half the night without his usual form of currency, its cutting it a little close on the likelihood of being high while in the house, surrounded by people who have known him now for the better part of a year and a half - which is only a good idea for people that can handle their highs without seeking more. He's pretty sure Debbie (and everyone else,) would kick his ass for taking a secondary payment in drugs on top of the cash; what nobody knew about wouldn't kill them. He intends on keeping it that way.

No matter what, he doesn't have a problem, at all, end of story.

Because he's already late (according to himself) he half-asses most of his usual routine, showering and brushing his teeth a must, but he ignores the responsibility of looking presentable. His clothes at least stop him from appearing thoroughly bedraggled. The only indication of his carelessness the way his hair sticks up at random, try as he might to smooth it down. Oh well, not like it detracted from his looks anyway. Jordan didn't quite see what others saw in him, but he at least appreciated the thought that somebody out there could look past the grime on his soul. Doesn't help that he refuses to use a mirror, of all things, it adds a certain level of difficulty to his life.

He's always tried not to pass by them too often either, its unavoidable when in a bathroom but any mirrors that exist elsewhere in the house are constantly avoided if at all possible. Theres nothing funny about it, be that as it may his odd quirk had always been a point of contention with his family. Whom saw his disregard for appearance as a personal affront. At least here nobody would think twice about his personal avoidance - everyone had their issues.

By the time he's satisfied with the controlled chaos of his appearance its 20 minutes till, or so shouts Oliver Hale. Jordans been there long enough to know that its not unusual behavior for the owners to be at the House, usually doing everything but working - unless its Debbie, who works the hardest in Jordans opinion. However, no matter how long he's been around Jordan still gets a bit shy at the sight of the men, used to the authority figures in his life being more or less ready to berate him for anything and everything. He hates the part of himself that burns to be the best.

He doesn't hate them, but usually has no idea what to say to them. So, he trends towards avoiding them, and when he can't he finds himself pleasantly surprised at how accepting they are. It was Oliver after all who brought him into the house. Debbie is a different story altogether, Jordan both hated and loved how close they were, because he knew that the things he did outside of the house wouldn't make her proud.

His unfortunate habit of getting lost in thought led him to a quick demise moments after leaving his room. Body suddenly, and quickly, meeting the resistance of a wall that he could have sworn was to his left before. Or, he thought it was a wall until it began moving and a hand came up to grab his elbow before he overbalanced and fell flat on his ass. Jordan looked up to see Valentine - Val, he insists on being called (Jordan had to force himself to get used improper nicknames) - and the amusement painted all over his face. Notably, the raised eyebrows that seem to mock Jordans slip up.

Jordan scowls and tugs his arm away, stepping back. "Shuddup." He grouches.

"Didn't say anything."

Somehow, that only serves to piss Jordan off more. Maybe its the way Vals face doesn't seem to agree with the notion of 'not saying anything.'

"Yeah, well tell that to your eyebrows." Then, he sidesteps and continues on past Val as if the whole ordeal had never happened at all. Determined to ignore his own embarrassment. And really, beating himself up for the little slips in his mask - the rudeness in his tone that should have been kept under lock and key. Sometimes, it felt like hell trying to play nice all the time. Never the less, he makes sure to remember not to let the next words that come out of his mouth be scathing in any way.

He offers a few greetings to a few of the other boys, waving awkwardly at Oliver Hale, despite his reservations towards drawing attention to himself. He saw Max Evans leaning against a counter, and he offered a short greeting. From there, he kept his head down as best he could while time ticked by, determined to plaster on some semblance of a smile before the night began.

Though, try as he might not to, all he could do is crave. Fingers drumming along the nearest solid surface in a maddening rhythm as he thought about how he'd get his next score.

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Blood. He could smell it. The stench of decay laced with iron was everywhere in the darkness around him. It was all silence until he heard the screaming. There was a man, and a woman. Their voices mingled, crying out for mercy. But there would be none. Emrys knew how this dream ended. Soon, he would see his mother emerge from the darkness, covered in a scarlet liquid that clung to her like honey in a beehive.

Most people, when they encountered a nightmare, would manage to startle themselves awake, and out of it, back to the safety of reality. But Emrys was not like most people. He had had the same dream multiple times in the course of his life. He knew what would happen, and when. So it was no surprise to him when his eyes opened. He sat up in bed, the nightshirt he wore askew. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he paid them no mind. They had also been around for as long as the nightmares, and it seemed they were a product of them. He didn't understand, and he didn't question it, either.

Questions led to things Emrys didn't understand, and he didn't like it when he didn't understand things. It took away his control, and that was something he couldn't stand. Emrys sighed, running a hand through his shaggy dark hair. He glanced at the clock a minute before it rang, and he stared at it until it shut off. Time to get ready for work, he supposed.

Half an hour later, and he was pulling a white t-shirt over his head. His hair, the one thing he couldn't tame, he left alone, as there was little point. He walked out of the bedrooms, where he noticed Max, Jordan, and Dalton. Max had a lollipop, Jordan was drumming his fingers, and Dalton was in the kitchen. Emrys's green eyes slid over each of them with a small, almost imperceptible nod before settling down in an armchair in silence, lacing his fingers in front of his mouth.

x
x

Most people wouldn't see the appeal of living in a whore house for six years. Those who exist outside of its walls do not understand the rationale of those within. The ecosystem built around people twice as fucked up as your average bear, but still functioning with every step they take. Val's been there so long he couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Doesn't think he could survive in the same environment that his Clients prescribe to.

Then again - it'd be much less noisy. Val is always an early rise, up before the sun in most cases so its not unusual for him to be up and about already.

He knows that their 'day' is starting when half the penthouse comes alive, some with much less excitement than others and he's just happy not to be bombarded with 138 pounds of bouncy blonde ADD the second he emerges from his trash pit of a room. He tries not to get his hopes up, no matter what there is always a chance that Max is waiting around a corner somewhere to annoy the hell out of him.

As he comes out into the main room he can see that Max is nowhere in sight, which gives him enough time to grab a beer from the fridge and head towards the TV, intending to watch a little bit of the news before showtime. However, he has no such luck in continuing to avoid annoyance - Oliver Hale has settled himself onto their couch, looking completely at home with a controller in his hands. Val rolls his eyes and comes up to lean against the back of the couch.

"Don't you have a job?" Val asks.

"Of course," Ollie replies, no less vague and upbeat than what Val has come to expect. He can't help rolling his eyes, "of course," Val mocks, feeling particularly childish today. "Seen Boy Wonder around?" He'd rather know now which corners to avoid. Val always has hated surprises. And there is no surprise greater than the devil himself.

"A few nights ago, yes, recently, no." Very helpful, Val thinks. But he lets it go with a sigh.

"No wonder it's been so quiet."

"Indeed, he's due back any day now, but I'll be sure to let him know you were asking for him." Ollie looks away from the game long enough to turn and grin at Val, as if he had told the funniest joke in the world. Most people seemed to harbor this strange notion that somewhere in his dark, cold, shriveled raisin of a heart, Val actually enjoys Max's company. As if. "Har, har." Val scowled, pushing away from the couch to stand straight. "I'd rather have my dick slowly and methodically stripped of flesh." Honesty is the best policy after all.

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic." Now it's Ollie who gets to rightfully roll his eyes. Turning back to the game, seemingly absorbing back into the game. Val turns to stalk away, only to be stopped once more - "Go clean up, you smell like a motel room."

"I think it's actually called Eau de Whore House." Val snipes, without missing a beat. He heads back towards the rooms, already intent on cleaning up even before Ollie had said anything about it, not realizing his narrow miss when moments later Max is coming in. Right on his heels, as usual, Val makes sure to get out of sight before the blonde sees him.

He showers and dresses quickly, though his style is less enticing and more 'trashcan' as per usual. Nobody expected much from him and yet he continued to get plenty of clients despite his unconventional way of being. As he's heading back towards the main room - knowing that he can't avoid his fate forever - he is stopped momentarily by the collision of another body into his. He catches Jordans elbow to steady him. Though his efforts are entirely unappreciated. Par for the course, this place is full of jumpy fuckers, and none jumpier than their current youngest coworker. Val knows that look too well, once wore it himself but the kids issues aren't for him to spill. So long as nothing bad happened.

'Kid really need a chill pill.' or maybe not, all things considered. Oh well, Val leaves Jordan to his frenzy. Avoiding the gathering group for a moment to grab his smokes off one of the tables he had accidently left it on the night before. Passing by tall dark and broody to do so, just barely giving Emrys a two finger salute as he went. He's surprised there are any left in the pack, most people would have pilfered from it the moment they saw it abandoned. Which didn't so much as bother Val when he had plenty of money to buy more. People usually respected each others shit, but as far as Vices go it's all free game.

He finally made his way to the kitchen, stopping momentarily to direct a sigh in Max's direction, "Damn, thought we'd seen the last of you." Though he didn't participate in the conversation that Dalton began. Digging around in the icebox for the half empty bottle of vodka that had somehow also gone untouched. Surprising, with the amount of drinkers around here. "Anyone up for some pre-gaming before showtime?" He said it loud enough to not interrupt, mostly directing it towards Jordan, who really needed to chill out. He was already pouring himself a shot, but he looked pointedly in Jordans direction, letting his 'eyebrows' do all the talking.

"Stop trying to corrupt the kids," Oliver commented. "Need I remind you this house runs on the legal side of things?" Nope, message received a hundred times over, Val just didn't give a damn. He didn't back down, just grinned wider. "ya, ya, whatever. Jordan I'll slip you a cup in secret if you want - " Then he looked towards Ollie. "Don't let Daddy Warbucks ruin all the fun." And wow, he'd never quite seen that expression on Ollie's face before.

"You'll be the one answering to Debbie then." As if it would happen any other way. Val shrugs, tossing back the shot. "Never said I wouldn't be." He spoke, unable to help himself from pushing all buttons.

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Max offered Jordan a cheerful nod when he was greeted, but his face split into a grin the moment Dalton was in his sights. He liked his occasional field trips out of the House, but he missed his family when he was gone. Dalton hadn't been there long compared to the others, but Max had already sunk his fingers in their new shiny toy and declared mine. Which wasn't that unusual, he did it with most of them. Even the ones who tried to shake him off (Val).

Despite Dalton's pretty face, he was rough around the edges. Max learned that one pretty quick. He was all biting sarcasm and I'm a Strong Independent Heterosexual Man. (Max would like to call bullshit on at least one of those facts, but Spencer was working with him on things he Should and Should Not say out loud).

"Spent the night at your sugar daddy's house?" Ah, he was getting chatty Dalton tonight. Max made grabby hands until the other boy got close enough that he could pull him over between his legs, back to chest, draping an arm over one shoulder and resting his chin on the other. He pulled his lollipop out of his mouth with his free hand so he could answer. "Yup. He took me to a basketball game yesterday. I didn't really think it would be my thing, but let me tell you, I am totally here for muscled up, sweaty guys playing with balls."

Emrys appeared out of the darkness of his bedroom like some erotica vampire - broody, handsome, and completely delectable. Max stuck his lollipop back in his mouth to wiggle his fingers in a wave at the Rent Boy. Em was the newest, Dalton beating him by only a few months, and the only one Max hadn't quite managed to figure out. It was like trying to think around a brick wall. There were too many layers, and Max could only peel so far.

Before he can think himself too far into the void that is Emrys Von Nacht, a very familiar sigh gets his attention. Val. "Damn, thought we'd seen the last of you." Max hums and pushes his strawberry candy to the side of his mouth. "Had to come back eventually, nobody fulfills my insult kink quite like you, babe." He watches in detached interest as Val digs through the fridge, and tunes back in just in time to hear: "Anyone up for some pre-gaming before showtime?"

Max's hand shoots in the air but Val is too busy acting like a trashcan to notice. He stretches a little higher, ignoring Oliver's reminder that they're a legal establishment too (oh - he doesn't have to ignore him anymore - he's 21 fuck yes). Daddy Warbucks makes him snicker though, and to Dalton he murmurs, "10 bucks says we can convince Spencer to call him that in bed."

Ollie looks mildly pissed. Nothing out of the usual.

"Val," Max finally whines. "I want one."

"Nope."

"Val."

"Max."

"Vaaaaal."

"Find your own."

"Dude, come on." When the other continues to ignore him, Max finally sighs and drags himself off Dalton, which sucks, because he's warm and comfortable. He drops off the counter and goes to pick up the bottle himself, huffing out of annoyance when Val shifts just enough to make it difficult. "Val." He tries again, and gets blocked once more. Max narrows his eyes, clamps his teeth down over his lollipop, and fucking scales Val's body like a goddamn koala. "Gimme!" he demands, trying to reach over Val's head for the bottle.

Val is appalled. "Stop attacking me you heathen."

"Share your alcohol you trashcan," Max answers.

"Fuck off you overgrown child!" Val snaps back, grabbing the the bottle off the counter and holding it just out of Max's reach. He narrows his eyes and stretches out but he just fucking can't. "Why couldn't you have stay with Wizard Weekly, goddammit, it was so much quieter!"

Max's jaw clenches and he drops one hand on Val's shoulder to steady his weight before using the other to jerk the lollipop out of his mouth, holding it menacingly over Val's head. "Give me the bottle or this is going in your perfect, pretty hair. Do not tempt me, Cervantes."

Val releases the vodka, hands up in surrender. It tilts dangerously on the counter for a second, but doesn't fall over. Max grins and slides off Val's form, swiping it despite the Fifty Shades of Death Glare he's getting and throwing back a drink. It burns, in the best way, and he silently flips Val off before putting his lollipop back in his mouth. "I hate you and I can't believe I missed you because you're so fucking mean to me."

Across the room, Oliver Hale just looks tired, forefinger and thumb pressed into his brow. Defeated. Unfortunately, he's just too used to this shit.

---

*Val written with Bartholomew Finch

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David was usually the first one up at the Hale House. He always had something to do in the morning and he wasn't going to let lethargy get in the way of that. Today, this happened to be working on the playlist for his gig tonight; a bachelorette party at some swanky hotel suite downtown. Sure, it wasn't too elaborate or put together like his shows or as spontaneous as working the Lounge, but he had to admit that bachelorette parties gave him a kick he rarely got from any other type of work he did. Probably had something to do with the attention, but David didn't dwell on it to much as he placed a Trey Songz track as his ender for the night, satisfied with the choice.

After that, everything just fell into routine. Quick workout to make sure his wasn't getting stiff followed by a salad and some juice for lunch and the rest of the afternoon spent napping to make sure he had enough energy to keep the clients entertained.

When he awoke a few hours later, it wasn't long till showtime. David knew this because of the man sitting on the couch in the penthouse throwing quips left and right; Oliver Hale. That's just the way Oliver was; sarcastic, but ultimately genuine.

David sprung up from his bed in response and entered the main area of the Penthouse, scanning the room and figuring out that most of the boys were up and preparing for their work in their own ways. What particularly stood out was Max and Val arguing over a bottle of vodka, with Val ultimately conceding the battle of the smart asses and letting the roguish blonde have some.

"I wouldn't mind a drink before heading out." David said, entering the conversation. "Andre is driving me to the hotel later for my gig, so a little social lubricant won't hurt."

"The security staff aren't chauffeurs, David." Oliver exclaimed with a hint of amusement in his voice. "I'm aware. They're security. And what's more secure then having a designated driver, huh Oliver or should I say Daddy Warbucks?" The young dancer was rarely bitingly sarcastic, but when he was, he aimed to do his best at it.

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"ya, ya, whatever. Jordan I'll slip you a cup in secret if you want - " He really badly wants to say yes, for lack of better judgment. However, the idea of indulging in public makes his stomach queasy.

He can swallow his vices in privacy, no need for a show of it, especially in front of his employer. 'Daddy Warbucks' isn't exactly his issue; that moniker would much better suit Spencer. But he also isn't not the issue.

"I'm ok." He says, fingers abruptly halting all movement. He's suddenly aware of just how loudly he had been tapping. A mild sweat slicks his palms, which he proceeds to slip into his pockets. The urge to continue drumming making his hands itchy, but theres nothing he can do about that.

What neither of them seemed to realize is that Jordan would be the one answering to Debbie for indulging in any sort of underage drinking while on the premises. She didn't take lightly to him extorting the rules before, when he had been a new fish testing the waters and had made that abundantly clear from the get go - however Jordan didn't take it as her exerting authority so much as her being worried for his safety while on the job; which he understands loud and clear despite lacking the ability to practice whats being preached to him. It all sounded better in theory, compared to reality.

He's glad when Val's attention drifts away from him, because then he can pretend that nothing was offered in the first place. Luckily, Max keeps him busy damn near till Ollie calls time.

Jordan remembers being more surprised by these sorts of antics in his early days, but now they fade into the background, normalizing behaviors that would have never passed outside of these walls.

He almost fooled himself into thinking it would stay quiet and calm until things got started, but little did he realize that the cacophony that followed Max and Val like a stray dog fed table scraps would be as ever present today as any other. Jordan merely observed. He had never had that sort of ... friendship (if one could call it that,) with someone before and therefor had no idea how the interactions even occurred. The natural way they moved from simple bickering to fighting.

The first time he had witnessed this had been almost terrifying in a way - he hadn't known at the time that this was just a thing they did. Not until the second and third times it happened. After that, well, things in the house had become a lot clearer. Everyone has their niche here. Jordan just hasn't quite found his, though not for lack of trying.

"now go, go, go, before Debbie finds out you've been drinking pre-game." He hadn't realized he had been spaced out until Ollie spoke. For a few seconds Jordan lingers, gazing longingly at the bottle in Daltons hands but didn't dare bother going for it. He could have, but the fear of disappointing got the better of him. The ingrained panic that arose every time he thought about the repercussions of not doing his best. Old punishments still there in his mind, he tried to tune out the roaring memories.

Jordan leaves the penthouse hastily, throwing a small, shy smile at the others without prompting as he went. Still too word shy to be as chatty or, as excitable as them. He supposes in time he'll build up his words, the year had shown him the ropes and day by day things got better. Eventually, he'll be capable of speaking more than a few sniping sentences at a time. But at that moment he focused more on the night ahead of him.

He had places to go and people to fuck.

x
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With the threat no longer hanging over his head, and the game suddenly afoot, Val decides it's high time to extract himself quietly from the room. No doubt, Max will be in his shadow soon enough. Separation lasts only long enough for one of them to get bored. Usually, Max, sometimes Val when he's itching for a fight. Most days it isn't worth Debbie's glaring to start shit in the lounge. Most days.

He's nice and buzzed by the time he steps into the lounge, mock waving at the security as he passes by. Felix and Elliot eye him as wearily as ever, they know better than to assume he'll be on his best behavior. If trouble lived in human form, then surely it would take the shape of Valentine. Quite possibly, it would also be a conglomeration of the boys residing within the house.

Debbie's wiping down the bar as he walks up, her sight instantly narrowing in on him. Accusing, without a reason. She doesn't really need one with him, there was always something behind the pep in his step. Be it troublesome or not.

"Valentine." Debbie nods, voice a warning. "Don't think I can't smell the booze on your breath."

Val shrugs, absolutely sure that she can't but knows better than to comment. Debbie has a sixth sense in a way, she can tell when the workers are doing stupid shit and even more so with those who have been there as long as Val has. He isn't sure what his tell is, but, he thinks it wouldn't serve him all that well to figure it out either. His silence is answer enough for her.

"Right, what do you want." She doesn't pose it as a question. Val smiles at that.

"Do I have to want something to come by and chat?" He asks, waiting until she turns to settle into one of the bar seats, eyeing the displayed bottles, bored. Truthfully, he found it more entertaining to mess with her and he didn't have any regulars coming by tonight, giving him plenty of time to kill while he contemplated reeling in new fish. Or, potentially sabotaging someone else if he got the itch to do so.

"Yes," Debbie answers, flatly. "And no." She steps into a position that blocks his view of the shelves. Face stern, almost reminding him of his mother before she turned into a raging drug addict with a penchant for speedballs and shooters. "You don't need any help making bad decisions," Debbie reminds him, eyebrow-raising just a bit at his affronted expression.

"I'm not that bad." He pauses for a beat, contemplative.

"Sure you aren't." Debbie snorts, shoving a rag his way, "if you're not going to go out there and work then make yourself useful." Val's eyes roll as he pushes the rag back, sliding off the stool while trying his best not to seem too annoyed. "Fine, fine, catch you later then." He rolls his shoulders as he walks away, catching the tail end of Debbies unamused laugh as he leaves. Heading swiftly away from the bar.

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A bit of anxiety was normal. A few shaky extremities, some slight stuttering, but it was never that bad. That's why David was happy about the shot. Although Deb would hate it, it calmed him down. The drinking wasn't for every performance and it was most certainly not for every job, but ever so often, some liquid courage could do just the trick.

Andre wasn't too convinced when David met him at the company car however. "What are you nervous about this time?" he spoke openly to David. Andre and David had a mutual understanding of each other. Since the imposing bodyguard was often with him on his jobs outside of the club, the two had a few opportunities to bond over some of the less then average situations brought about due to both of their jobs.
"You know me. Just nervous about my act composition." the young stripper said, getting himself settled in the back seat as Andre put his key in the ignition and began to drive off. "It's the costume thing again, isn't it?"

"Yeah." David let out in a low sigh as his eyes darted towards his dufflebag and the trashy police outfit it contained. It wasn't the fact that he had to dress up that made David uncomfortable, but more so the tightness of what he had to wear that was the issue. "The client asked for the cop routine specifically. It's not my fault that you've got more than most in all the right places. Hell, if anything, you should be thankful." the bodyguard exclaimed, letting out a sly grin as he took a turn towards their destination.

"You wouldn't be saying that if it was your dick chaffing whenever you took a breath."

"Aww, your life is just a tragedy, isn't?" Andre spoke sarcastically, a tone that neither David or his dick appreciated. But, before he could provide a rebuttal, they had arrived at the parking lot of the hotel As he put the car in park, Andre turned to his charge. "So, you ready to do this, Officer Dick?" David let out a defeated sigh as he looked down at the deep blue costume he had worn so many times. "I am." David said defiantly, picking up his bag and opening his back door. "And it's Officer Long, thank you very much."

---

He shouldn't have left the house at all. He's going to be late getting back and its all for the sake of family bonding; aka, going ten rounds of gossip on a fifth of whiskey. Cards spread out before him, wearing only boxers and a single sock - fuck Nadia and her winning streak.

Strip poker with family sounds like the start to a bad porno, but its a fairly common practice with them. They veto'd full nudity after an incident last Christmas involving wine and a candle, so nobody had to endure staring at each others junk the whole time. Mores the pity, nothing says family bonding like getting naked around a glass table. As it stands however, Isaac is losing quick. One sock left before he's declared an official loser.

As fucking annoying as that is it bodes well for him in the long run. He glances impatiently at the clock every few seconds, the longer he stays out the harder it is to get back in time. He's got money to make, and after he loses he'll be out about five hundred until he can scrape it all back on the return games.



Nadia packs a real punch when she wins, throwing her cards down with more force than necessary as she scoops the cash in. Melina watches from the couch, where she's been sulking since Isaac commented something shitty about her new haircut. Its not his fault her hair dresser decided to make her look like an alcoholic soccer mom on crack.

"Lucky." She grumbles, while Nadia pulls her shirt and jacket back on (the only clothes she lost during the game.)

"Nothing lucky about it, I'm just that fucking good." Nadia boasts.

Isaac considers punching her for all of two seconds before he realizes what a monumentally bad idea that would be for his own health. No use falling back on the same habits that got him stuck in a shrinks office once a week until he's deemed 'not as fucking crazy' as he usually is.

"Aren't you late?" Melina asks him, as if she didn't hear him bitch about it several times throughout the game. "Am I?" He asks, flipping her off as he shimmies back into his jeans. "Didn't fucking notice." He grumbles, trying his best not to be a dick, but of course failing monumentally.



"Don't spend it all in one place," He comments on his way out. One foot out the door already when Nadia pulls him back, concern, painted soft over the usually smarmy canvas of her face.

"Be careful Izzy." She warns him.

Worry appreciated but utterly useless. It isn't for him, but for the constant threat of a fit hanging over his head. Anger throbbing in his veins. Never to his beck and call but rather to the unwilling moments between clarity and the dizzying loss of momentum.

"Never." He replies, amusement sparking in the aftermath. He tugs free and heads out into the streets, the last few rays of light painting the horizon pinkish orange where blue fades into black. The light pollution wiping out any trace of stars in the sky. He hates that the most. He remembers the vast abundance that littered the country skies, back when he would spend summers with his aunt while his parents worked themselves to the bone.

He'd feel worse about it had the two of them not turned into raging douche bags at the first mention of Isaacs 'less than conventional taste in bed fellows.

A fight for another day, perhaps they'll be calling soon. Nadia is sure to mention him when she returns home with a handful of cash not earned from an honest days work. He can only imagine the outrage they'll feel when he sends them straight to voice mail. Blocking their number never could be as fun as listening to them flounder over having been ignored.



Thoughts spared towards his parents are precious minutes wasted. He hurries along the streets to a more well-lit area to hail down a cab. He wasn't restricted to the house, but he felt it best not to ask for a driver when taking personal time to visit family. One of the few reasons he had chose to live in the house itself rather than with Melina in her swanky apartment. Besides the obvious need to be without her constant watchful eye.

Cabs are easy enough to pursue, luckily it isn't a very busy night. He's sure that Hales is already busting at the seems but out in the dark of night it is devoid of that familiar packed heat. He's got an active vendetta against time, its constant flow annoying to him on principle. A rolling stone shouldn't live on any dime, whether its a cent in hand or on the clock.

He tells the cabbie to let him off a half block down, the paranoid spark in him ever present as he shifts foot to foot. Money in hand, and less of a tip than usual - but thats how the game goes. Work, and work for whatever the hell you can get. Isaac understands that message with stunning clarity, and a bit of anger at the edges.



Hales is a looming beast in the flesh. A personification of carnal euphoria in the bodies within. Isaac doesn't quite believe he lucked out when he got the job here. Its a far cry from his usual hay rolls but it beats living out of a box in the pouring rain. He's got a nice set up here, an odd amount of people that don't hate his guts, and its fun to rile up the bossmen - and woman - when their around. He's laid multiple fishing lines for Gossip, despite his distaste for the practice; its always nice to have a secret or two in the pocket.

Tito met him at the front, giving him that all knowing eye that Isaac has come to be fond of. In the short time he's been here he's bonded more with the regular staff than he has with the ones that work the course that he does. It helps to be on friendly terms with the people who are keeping you safe.

"Bit late," Tito comments.

"Nope." Isaac pops the p, flashing a smirk and thumbs up as he strolls on by. Tito sighs between a laugh and a groan. What a way to start the night.

He's dressed alright, so instead of hitting up his room for a fresh pair of clothes he immediately heads down into the lounge. Feeding off the energy thats filtering into the room. A social high thats taking him to places he visits rarely, but loves immensely. Perks of being drug free, everything feels like sweet euphoria if its cherished enough.

When he first started out here he'd been more shy, a wall hugger. He had expectations that didn't pan out in the end, better for him, and better for all the others who work here. Nobody comes into sex work imaging it to be a cure all but lately, riding these waves has gotten him into a much different mindset.

He strides, graceful as he takes in the room. The looks of desperation, but depravity doesn't quite exist in the cards here. Theres a clean feeling to a place that takes care of its workers. A distinct separation from expectation and knowledge surrounding sex work. Isaac has already decided he enjoys it, much more than he could have ever expected himself too.

Inside knowledge tells him that he isn't the only one. He catches sight of a few co-workers, but mainly, Valentine Cervantes walking away from the bar. He's one of the few people that Isaac can't get a read on. Despite how openly - well, open, the man seems to be with most. Theres a large difference that can be seen between the Valentine that interacts and the one that stays stationary. A coil of familiarity at the base level.

But, the guys more idiot than Isaac can usually handle. Less when Max Evans is around, but bordering on psycho when he is. He's only ever experienced a moment of kinship between the two in the times where Isaac lets his anger get the best of him. It hasn't been often, and never in the lounge where clients are near enough to judge. But, he's had his fair share of misfires that have often lead to 'punishments' (oddly enough, the owners treated them more like beloved children than employees most of the time.)

No matter, he decides not to engage Val for the time being, he has no desire to spark up idle conversation while theres money to be made. Cash first, pleasantries when the clock runs down.



There had been a few weeks of being unsure at the start of this job. Being suggested to work the Boyfriend scene had seemed oddly silly, and Isaac himself had never been the best 'boyfriend' in the world. He had no experience in woo-ing, and even less capability when it came to knowing how to bait a hook. But it came naturally after observation. His confidence just enough to give him that edge over the competition.

After he realized that he wasn't required to move on the the darker deeds he had chosen to stick to Boyfriend work, if only because it meant being choosy with whom he slept with. And clientèle wise, he found more interest in the men who were curiously testing the waters, rather than those who jumped off the dock immediately.

Isaac sweeps the growing crowd with his eyes he grins, locking eyes with a jumpy looking brunette in the corner. A first timer perhaps? Or someone looking to play games. Well, either case. Isaacs more than prepared to win this one.

xx
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Max was 110% sure Daddy Warbucks was going to catch on and Oliver would blame all of them for it. Val was a genius. A meanie, but a genius.

Ollie shooed them out eventually, and it was only then that Max realized Em had disappeared already. He wondered where he'd run off to, but didn't think on it long. Jordan and Val were out the door just as quickly. It was time to get to work.

"Alright Boys, we got people to do and things to see!" He winks at Dalton before heading out, knowing the others aren't far behind him. Oliver will lock up and Ian won't let anyone back up their stairs until the night is over and sunrise is approaching.

Max doesn't need the liquid courage, is the thing. He gets high on this kind of life, gets his blood pumping as his feet cross the last step, feels euphoric the second the beat of the music playing in the lounge reaches his ears. He throws the doors open like a king in a palace, and breaths in the atmosphere.

It's not late enough to be packed yet, but it's full. Men lounging on couches, standing by the walls, sitting at tables and ordering food. Almost all of them have a drink. Social lubricant. The music isn't loud enough to be uncomfortable, just there to keep the room from being too quiet. The illusion of privacy in a world where there certainly is none.

There are a few women, they make up at least 8% of their clientele. Usually more interested in the Dancers, sometimes there for the Boyfriends, a little more rare to be sniffing around his area of expertise. Occasionally they come with their husbands, looking to spice things up. Max finds it interesting, but certainly doesn't judge. He has no room to. (He does, however, steer clear of them. Girls scare him.)

Debbie scares him the most.

She's already behind the bar, leaning with her hip against it, a cigarette posed in her fingers. The look on her face says she knows they've already been drinking. Max ducks his head and avoids, avoids, avoids. As a rule, he doesn't have many regulars, but he sees familiar faces in the crowd. There's a certain comfort to the men who come around often, and an obvious nervousness to the complete newbies. Everyone else falls somewhere in between.

He makes a couple of rounds, sits up on a few tables and has some easy, flirty conversation. Lots of hands on arms and personal space being invaded. He does particularly well with the mid-life-crisis', because he's got a young face and a bright personality. Probably takes them back to their High School years and the first time they had a crush on a boy before giving in and marrying the girl their mom liked. 2.5 kids later and that white picket fence just wasn't doing it for them anymore.

He avoids the sexually confused, because their hands always shake, their kisses are never good, and their faces pale when they remember just where they are. Max doesn't have the patience to sit around and hold hands. Besides, he's already paid his dues. He's fucked his way up to the top, he doesn't have to play games anymore.

He's a little depressed when he throws his lollipop stick away, lets his gaze search out his co-workers. David's already gone, Jordan's doing well, he's sure Em's upstairs. He runs his fingers through Dalton's hair when he passes him talking someone up, as usual knocking the socks off some dude. Max honestly had no idea how he does it.

He's a little bored, the tip money shoved in his pockets less than he usually makes. He taps his tongue ring against the back of his teeth for a moment, searches out a particular trashcan that can always keep his interest. Val's working, far more charismatic here than he ever is off the clock. Hale's employees and their goddamn personality disorders.

He weighs his options.

He's already fucked with Val today, and probably shouldn't push his luck. Then again, he kind of always wants to fuck Val - with Val. Max tilts his head in consideration. Given their line of work, there really is no way to use that particular phrase without it sounding like a sex thing.

He needs some new sayings.

He catches Isaac out of the side of his eye as he crosses the room, and files that away for use later. Max's survival instinct always seems to become even more shockingly absent when Isaac is around, but he's just too pretty not to mess with.

Mess. That's a better word than fuck.

Nothing is a better word than fuck.

"Max!" Debbie calls as he passes, and he almost forgot he was fucking avoiding the bar. "Leave Valentine alone."

"But Debbie!" Max whines, letting his weight drop dramatically. He catches himself on a bar stool, dropping his chin on the cushioned seat. "I'm bored."

She leans ever so slightly over the edge of the bar to look at him, one perfect eyebrow raised. You? her face seems to ask, and he sighs dejectedly. "Yeah. I know. No one's holding my interest tonight. Think Val will double team someone with me?"

"No."

"Damn."

The man on the stool next to him chuckles, and Max tilts his head slightly to look up. Late twenties, early thirties. Dark hair, stylishly fixed, expensive suit. They got the business types a lot, the men who wanted a relationship but were too busy to really work on one. They liked to dive in, get to know the Boys as fast as possible. Took them on dates sometimes, even on occasion fancy events that required a plus one. Max liked them, they came with perks.

"I'll fuck you," the man offered around the rim of his drink, the edge of his mouth tilting up into a slight smirk.

Debbie rolled her eyes and stood back up properly. "You don't want that one, Alexander. He's mouthy."

"Mouthy isn't an insult here, Debs," Max said as he pushed himself back up onto his feet. When he finally got a good look at the guy, he wasn't disappointed in the physical attributes. "Did you just solicit me? A professional solicitor?"

The man smirked again and somehow gracefully sat down his drink. "I suppose I did."

Max grinned. "What kind of freak are you?"

The way those brown eyes went dark was all the answer Max needed, and he grinned as he leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around the lapels of the mans jacket and bringing their mouths just almost together. "You realize you're still paying me, though, right?"

"Of course," the man breathed and Max nodded once before slowly pulling him off the stool. He had a room upstairs with his name on it, and a paycheck to make.

The starting routine was all too simple at this point. "Officer Long" would knock on the client's door, claim their was noise complaint and then proceed to get into the nitty-gritty of it all. And, for the most part, that's how things went. This particular group of women were especially rowdy. Screaming and howling before David could even say his lines, but, eventually, they were seduced by the act. First went the cap, then the aviator sunglasses with a flick of the wrist, then finally the shirt with a stylish twirl above his head, sending it into a dark corner of the suite. Various musical genres and octaves of female expression filled the air as David let the atmosphere take him.

After that, it was all just a blur of flesh, brightly colored drinks, and so much inappropriate touching, all of which came with the territory of of course. If he wasn't used to all the debauchery at this point and learned to feed off it he would have been out of a job a long time ago. However, even if the circumstances were quite a bit different, the praise and applause he got for his dancing felt exactly the same as when he started.

---

A few hours went by and most of the bachelorette's group were either passed out or in the process of doing so. The bride to be herself was draped over the back of the couch with one of her bridesmaids cuddling with her foot for some reason. As David gathered his various articles clothing, one of their party staggered over to him. She was one of the drunker bunch. Her t-shirt reading "Jill's Bachelorette Party, Bitches" in bright pink lettering, had three different colors of stain on it and the left sleeve was no where to be found.

"Are you go-Are you..." the woman struggled through her words as she swayed back and forth like a ship at sea during a storm. "Are you gonna go now?"

"I'm about to, yeah." David answered in earnest.

"Wanna make out?" the woman said, immediately letting out a large burp after.

"You're drunk, so I wouldn't really feel comfortable with that, but thanks." the young dancer responded. "But, I can take you to bed. You know, so you can sleep." the woman scratched head in deep drunken contemplation taking a whole ten seconds to think about the offer.

"Okay. But I want red spaghetti..."

"Don't know what that is, but sure. Bed first though." David then braced her by the shoulders and led her to the empty bed, making sure she didn't trip over any of her passed out friends who hadn't made it that far. Once she got into bed, the drunken bridesmaid formed a cocoon with the blankets and went into the fetal position, passing out almost immediately.

With that out of the way, David grabbed the rest of his belongings including dozens of dollar bills all over the floor and exited the room, with his large bodyguard waiting for him on the other side. As the two left the hotel, they went back and forth about the night as it was now the early hours of the morning and both wondered what the woman meant by red spaghetti. Either way, the guys back at Hale's would definitely have something to say about the whole affair.

Nights like this drag out into the long abyss of things forgotten. Somewhere between bedsheets he left Hales in the dust of euphoria. No longer within its safe walls, but floating along the distant streets, twice as seedy. Nondescript faces roam here, no familiarity in the motel hallways. Did he bring someone with him? He can't remember, but he knows the feeling of lighter pockets and a static filled brain. Payment well received it seems. If only he knew these streets half as well as he claimed to.

His mind climbs higher than the clouds that cover the moon tonight, no stars in the sky thanks to light pollution from the city beneath. Two harsh breaths double him over, lungs itching deep. Incapable of sating it without breaking open his chest to reach it. Maybe its anxiety, the dark beast curled up at his side. Unblinking as it focuses solely on his insecurities. The part of himself that doesn't want to drugs, constantly beaten down by the side that craves absolution.

Sense reaches him in the oddest of places, staring down at the key in his hands with unbidden curiosity. He barely remembers the past few hours. The beginning of the night at Hales so distant of a memory it feels like days prior instead of hours. Vague memories of the car ride over surface with every hard push to form the correct order of events in his head. Nothing big, the usual job that led him to his usual score. He never bothered to remember his clients names, most of them asked him to call them something else entirely anyways.

Funnily, he thinks he should have brought security with him - then again, he wouldn't have been able to dope up in secret if they had been there with him. Its a contradictory path he walks, one step forward, two steps back at all times. He clutches the key until it bites hard lines into his palm and marches towards the dimly lit stoop of the motel room. Its layout typically shady, but utterly open to the public eye.

As most motels go the room is cramped, dirty, and dark. The brown carpet and equally as dark walls give it the feeling of being trapped in a box. Theres a window, but the burgundy floral curtains block out the dim light from the stoop. The twin bed is a mess of tangled sheets and motel brand bedding. He takes a step in, for the first time noticing his lack of shoes as his skin touches wet carpet. A half empty bottle of Vodka is rolled against the wall by the door. Hopefully the source of the wetness.

Nobody else is in the room, but thankfully the rest of his clothes are strewn about haphazardly. His shoes oddly on separate sides of the room as if he had thrown them off at random. Theres a stack of tens on the nightstand and an empty pill bottle beside it. For a moment, all Jordan can do is stare.

Christ, of course he'd get ripped off tonight.

Almost ashamed of himself, he gathers the tens (40 bucks, what the fuck, he's not some cheap whore.) and checks the label of the pills. Xanax. Not exactly his drug of choice, if he was going to go the pill route he'd rather have uppers or psycho actives, theres nothing fun about the zombie-like state induced by prescription. He must not of had the same reservations earlier in the night however. He knows his memory loss likely has everything to do with the Xanax. Or perhaps any number of things. How many times had Debbie drilled into him the importance of staying safe outside the house?

Too many times not to feel fresh shame about the situation. However, nothing gets done by wallowing. He'll just have to salvage the night in whatever way he can. He doesn't know what time it is, the digital clock on the nightstand is flashing 00:00 rapidly. It probably hasn't been set in all the years its been here. He gathers his missing clothes and grabs the half bottle of vodka off the floor, chugging as much of it as he can before checking his phone again.

Time to gather his connections, someones has to be itching to get their dick sucked tonight.

---

---

A few successful hours later he's in a cab back to Hales, feeling more than glad that he managed to get his night back in order. Even though he's still pissed about the money and probably drugs that got taken off of him earlier. He's more than made up for his losses and hell, he got his own pleasure in return so its not like he can still be pissed. Though, the liquor swimming in his blood stream keeps his anger simmering just below the surface.

Jordan can admit to himself that theres probably more than liquor swimming round his blood stream when the cab pulls up to the curb and he wobbles out. Trying to compose himself even as his feet try and slip from beneath him. The cold night air is enough to slap some semblance of sobriety back into him. He subdues himself to staring at his feet as he nears the door, not at all looking forward to pretending he doesn't smell like a dozen different brands of alcohol and maybe a bit of vomit if he's going to be honest.

Theres a sewn in pocket on the inside of his jacket were he stuffs the nights score, hoping to waltz in without much inspection. Luckily, Tito is only mildly suspicious of him as he comes in. Plus, with it being so late theres no doubt going to be less pep in his step than usual. Its not all that weird to see a boy stumble in, whether their impaired motor functions come from the sweet drink or just their own fatigue. But Tito is mostly forgiving of the stumble to his step and waves him in with only a slight narrowing of his eyes. He can probably see the guilt written all over Jordan but they don't quite have that bond yet. The staff are nice and all but Jordan's inclination to avoid adult authority figures keeps him reserved.

He thinks about just going back up to the rent rooms but decides at the last minute to veer down into the lounge. Sweeping the crowd with a thinly veiled smirk. Here, in the heady atmosphere of sex and alcohol it isn't hard to blend in without looking too suspicious to the security or god-forbid Debbie. His eyes settle on Valentine, remembering his earlier offer thinly. He could use something to push him back into oblivion without tipping over the line of no return.

Jordan sidles up to the other with only the kind of swagger that being mildly drunk and high on pure euphoria can afford him. Confidence that would never follow them into the penthouse. "Hey man, still willing to slip me some booze?" He smiles, slow and careful. Gaging.

xx
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Max stretched out comfortably across egyption cotton sheets and grinned up at the ceiling. He was tired but feeling oh so good. Alexander hadn’t been the freakiest he’d ever met, but he’d been a lot of fun, and that made a damn good night in Max’s book.

He’d left looking just as fancy as he had coming in, but Max wasn’t so lucky. There were scratch marks and hickeys that wouldn’t fade for a while, but whatever they cost extra and Max had a nice new chunk of cash to his name now.

He rolled himself out of bed eventually to find his clothes and pull them back on, then ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times before finally leaving his room, marking it to be cleaned while he was out.

He took a detour by Ian’s desk to grab one of the lollipops he kept there, winked, and then took the steps back down to the main floor two at a time. It was late now, he could feel it in the atmosphere even though he hadn’t set eyes on a clock yet. There was still music playing, but the chatter wasn’t as loud as it usually was. Almost closing time, then.

He bounced off the last step and swung around the banister into the lounge, his gaze darting across the scattered crowd, looking for familiar faces. David had just come in, from the looks of it, and he was pretty sure that was Jordan by Val. He wondered if Isaac was still around, he hadn’t seen him in awhile, wouldn’t mind messing with him.

Out of habit, he looks towards the bar before he makes his way across the room, and gets frozen in the crosshairs of bright blue iris’ he would know anywhere. The last three years slam into his chest hard enough he almost loses his balance. Just like that the world disappears from under his feet, spins around and twists all up until he’s left with only the feeling of Val’s fingers digging into his shoulders and the sight of his lips mouthing the words: ”He’s gone, Max, he’s not coming back” even though they don’t make any sense and he can’t hear him. Dead. Drugged. Lost. Gone. Gone. Gone.

Three years. Three years of nothing.

The haze clears and Grey smirks at him and it almost sends him over the edge again. He remembers it, over and over again. From across the breakfast table, lifting a bottle of maple syrup in a silent joke only for him and Val. From the couch before he eventually admitted the floor wasn’t okay and gave into sprawling across the boys. From a drink behind the bar, from a bedroom door before it shut, from hallways and staircases. From above him before the pleasure swallowed him whole and the euphoria blinded him.

His heart rips to shreds right then and there.

Grey toasts him.

He looks the same but different, in a way that Max can’t exactly put his finger on. Like he’s there but he’s not really. He’s older, of course, more man than he was the last time Max saw him. All sharp jawline and too many tattoos and a fucked up sense of age. And he’s here.

Grey’s here.

He’s alive.

Max can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

HIs heart is beating fast enough he can’t hear the music anymore, and he turns around purposefully before putting his hand against his throat wondering why something isn’t there closing it. Why can’t he...

Val. His feet move but he isn’t entirely sure how because he can’t breathe, but he knows where he saw Val last. Doesn’t give a shit that Jordan’s there, doesn’t give a shit that customers are. He feels young all of the sudden.

He bumps into someone who grumbles but they’re too drunk to yell at him, lets him pass with only a muttered curse, and then he manages to push himself into Val’s side. His face goes into his friend's shoulder, and his hand slides down to twine their fingers together. He hasn’t done this in years. A silent request of ‘I need you. Don’t be a jackass right now’.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.

He feels Val tense for a minute, and then slowly squeeze his hand back, and gradually air fills his lungs again. It hurts, but it works. He’s not high. He hasn’t been high in so long. Which leaves only two options. “Max,” Val prompts, not kindly, but not as snapish as he usually is. “What’s going on?”

It can’t be real. It can’t be. Three years. People don’t just show up from nowhere after three goddamn years. “Val,” he whispers, and fuck if he doesn't feel eighteen again. He hates it, and knows Val can't hear him, not with the way he's pressed to him, not with the background noise.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to talk a little louder, holding onto Val’s hand so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Either I’ve finally lost my mind, or Greyson Ross is sitting at our bar.” If Val had been tense before, it was nothing compared to what those two words do to his body language.

Max can't even look.

He's afraid of either answer.

Halfway between Johnny what's his name and lets go upstairs, Val finds himself at that inevitable impasse of boredom. Fresh fucked but dwindling on his sexual high. One can only fuck so much before their dick is well and truly incapable of going on. Rest in peace buddy, there will be more work on the morrow.

The alcohols long gone from his system - swept out in the sea of sheets. It only lets the boredom sink in that much deeper. Usually he'd have Max nipping at his heels but tonight it looks like he's found entertainment elsewhere.

Debbie eyes him like he's a criminal the few times he wanders too close to the bar with that usual air of 'don't fuck with me' attitude to keep him at bay. He decides not to push his luck any further tonight, besides, there's plenty of alcohol in the penthouse. Fuck her for thinking he's not going to indulge every once in a while. Booze is better than the alternative.

A few hours pass entertaining the guests in the lounge. Val sits between two regulars for a while, exchanging small talk and sexual innuendo till the sun starts to rise up. About this time is when most of the customers filter out, back to their normal lives. Back to families and friends who probably know fuck all about their extracurricular activities. Val finds it just as amusing as annoying, why hide human desire when it's so readily accessible.

He's just about to consider heading back up when a ghost appears at his side, the willowy apparition wearing that evening's indulgences on his breath. Jordans got that false confidence in his eyes, the kind that makes Val vaguely uncomfortable, alongside the glaze of a high passing onto its final stages. Val's no idiot, he's seen that look too many times not to know its meaning. Hell, he saw it every day in the mirror for so long it's practically ingrained.

The way desperation settles like a bottomless pit in his gut a memory all too well remembered. Almost, almost turning into a true itch. He'd be damned if that ever happened. No amount of remembered pleasures would take him back to those days. "Hey man, still willing to slip me some booze?" Jordan's smile is just as eery as his willingness to be social.

Valentine considers for a beat or two the possibility of letting the kid get fucked up.

Maybe see how long it takes him to swim back up from rock bottom. The kind of sadistic thoughts that Val usual keep under tight lock and key slipping out. He's just barely annoyed with the blonde, more annoyed at the way he stumbled in on fawns legs and expects nobody to know just what he's been up to. If Val had any guess there'd been a little more than booze on the menu for Jordan that night. He reeks of it.

Besides the problem it would present with Debbie is enough to keep him from being a complete asshole. And he doesn't exactly want to babysit when shit goes south.

"Maybe later, kid." Val's not the big brother type. He's strong and capable, but for his own sake. He's tried to be there for others, put himself out there in dead end friendships. In the end, what's he left with? Nothing. Nothing but the echo of resentment and a hollowed out piece of himself where that person once lived. Jordan wouldn't do well under his wings, but Val wouldn't contribute to his belly crawl over gravel either.

Val considers once more, retiring from the night before Max is suddenly, inexplicably clinging to him. Val is only minimally startled, the behavior unusual enough to dredge up panic from the edges of his mind. Already, a cold chill has swept up and down his spine. Max doesn't cling to Val like this unless shits really bad. It takes some coaxing to figure out just what the hells going on.

“Either I’ve finally lost my mind, or Greyson Ross is sitting at our bar.”

Belief erases doubt in a blinding instant as he sweeps his gaze to the bar and stares for an eternity. Body impossibly still other than the fine tremble that comes with aftershocks of containing the sudden, destructive rage trying to course its way through his entire being. He wants to stand up, march over there, and start tearing shit up. Debbie could murder him later, and if he got kicked out for causing a shit storm then so be it - but he'd be damned if he let Greyson - fucking - Ross show up out of the blue like an old friend who didn't up and leave without a word.

He can barely see past the red invading his vision, the steady, controlled breaths he's taking just short of breaking his own ribs. But Max is still clinging, gripping his hand in that desperate way that stops Val cold.

"You haven't lost your mind." Its through teeth clenched hard enough to feel like they're breaking that he speaks. "But I wish that were the case." God, did he wish that the man had been some fucked up, shared hallucination. But the reality of the situation is cruel, and the truth is, Grey is really there.

Val is careful when he untangles from Max, torn between staying there on the couch. In a safe bubble where nothing hurts so goddamn much as coming face to face with a ghost of his past. Grey's different now, it's so easy to see that it makes fresh rage tear him up inside. He doesn't go to him yet, but he doesn't take his eyes off of him either. Incapable of letting him out of his sight. Almost afraid that in the instant that he looks away Grey will disappear again, as if he had never been there in the first place.

He puts his free hand on Jordan's shoulder, trying to stay calm enough not to scare the kid. "Go get security, or Oliver - wait, fuck, no, just go entertain someone else." He doesn't want anyone stepping foot near Grey, least of all Oliver, who will no doubt take one look at him and try to adopt him once more. Thats just the kind of person Ollie is. Too soft for his own fucking good. Well fuck that, he's not letting Grey get off that easy. Not till he's had the time to rip apart whatever fucked up reasoning he has for coming back here.

Emotions numb him to the outside world, whether Max is still clinging to him or not, he can no longer tell. He isn't sure if its better for him to be there with Val or not.

"Greyson." Val can feel the monster rising, the ugly feelings twisting him up inside. So deep, it feels like nothing will ever be okay. "What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

---

Skittish Brunette, later found out to be named Charlie spent most of his time occupying Isaacs ear with nervous babble, and the rest of the time assuring Isaac that he didn't usually come to places like this. Isaac would have been amused, really, had he not found it so damn offensive. Theres nothing wrong with a little pleasure now and again. If ecstasy is a sin, then it is a sin he will indulge in again. But things slipped into an easy rhythm by the time Isaac ordered Charlie his third shot in a row, in a vain attempt to dull the motormouth he wore with an oddly misplaced pride. He can't stand it, the more he talks the more Isaac feels like driving tacks into his eyeballs just to have a reason to leave.

But maybe it isn't so much Charlie as it is the lingering losses and self-pity thats attached itself tooth and nail to his spine. Sending all the wrong signals to a brain already got from the ever-burning coals. He'd like to say its a little of one more than the other. The strange, unfathomable anger leaving a large hole for things to be desired. Charlie isn't too bad, not when his mouths stopped moving and his eyes fall heavy lidded with the grog. He seems happier this way, a fucked up sentiment that Isaac shares for the most part. Nothing like working through a steady buzz. He's smiling shyly despite the way his hand runs horizontal the path from Isaacs knee to hip. Frisky. If not a little too - well, little to fan Isaacs internal flames of desire.

He'd much rather fuck him and get it over with - if thats what Charlie even plans on doing. Which, at this rate seems less and less likely. Heavy petting isn't exactly his forte, and yet, its a pivotal part of the job description...Sometimes he loathes doing this, despite the pay and benefits of being surrounded by so much false love. He doesn't think he likes it so much as tolerates it. Besides, sometimes the conversation is great in the lounge. Unalike now, with Charlie practically dry humping him on the couch. He tries not to look too uncomfortable, if this is heading upstairs then so be it but he wouldn't be participating in any voyeuristic fetishes. Especially in the lounge where anybody could see them.

There were lines, and that was one that he did not cross. Charlie however seemed to have no care in the world for the people all around them.

"Shall we take this upstairs?" Isaac nudges the other away a bit, determined to get as much breathing room as possible. If anything, it seemed to worsen the situation. "No..." He could barely hear the other mumble.

He hadn't realized quite how drunken Charlie had become from three shots alone - of course the guy had to be a lightweight. Knowing that nothing good would come of this, Isaac looked up and scanned the crowd for either Felix or Elliot, knowing one or both would happen across his line of sight at some point. When Felix finally did, Isaac raised a hand to flag him down. Feeling a bit foolish as Charlie practically tried to glue himself to Isaac. Annoying, but understandable to a point. Some people just couldn't handle their drink.

"Problem?" Felix asks as he approaches. Isaac shakes his head, but points to Charlie anyways, "He's had too much, needs to get sobered up preferably somewhere alone." and away from me. Isaac didn't add, despite the truth of it. He found people like Charlie too exhausting to handle. Not his usual customer at all. Felix nodded in return, the issue clear to the both of them in that moment. For once, Isaac is glad to be the lesser capable person in this situation. Felix will take him somewhere to cool down, hopefully away from the boys in case he decides to start rubbing up on anyone else.

This night hasn't turned out so well for him, between the late start, the crap beginning with Charlie, and the continuing stream of customers leaving as the day approaches he's practically wasted his entire night. It sparks a hot coil of anger in his gut, until he remembers where he is and how monumentally bad of an idea that would be. No. He just needed to cool off and get settled in with another customer. Maybe someone who would actually pay him for an impromptu rub out on the lounge floor. God, did nobody have manners these days?

~*~

Through dumb luck and sheer skill using his words Isaac manages to at least get his shit together long enough to woo a pretty blond. While their ascent to the rooms upstairs had been short lived - he didn't think anyone could finish that fast to be honest, it must be a world record - he had at least made up for some of his lost poker money. The night had died down and the customers that had been swarming the lounge before had all cleared out. Isaac had only just come back downstairs when he caught sight of a grouping of his coworkers. Jordan....as well as Val and Max of course, when were they ever more than two feet from one another -

However this seemed different. Isaac had never seen Max touch Val like that. They were usually fighting, and being general nuisances but currently they were more wrapped up in each other than in anyone else. Isaac closed the distance, just as Val stood and told Jordan to scamper along. Isaac took the presented opportunity with grace, keeping one eye on Val as he proceeded to stalk to the bar. Looking far angrier than Isaac thought he could manage.

What the hell had pissed him off?

The source seems to be a customer. From the way Val shouts, Isaac easily gets the gist that whoever it was, they most definitely weren't welcome. Isaac had no time to entertain his curiosities though, he wants to pick the kids brain before he scampers off into the abyss.

"Hey man, whats that all about?"

Good fortune does not live in the shadow of orphaned rich kids.

Jordan tries his damnedest not to feel offended, but inebriation soaks up the partial dismissal like a leech. "Maybe later, kid." Val says. Maybe. Later. Kid.

Something born of old resentments curls tight around his vocal cords. Strangling a slurred line of incoherent noise from the pit. Something along the lines of "Seriously?" and "Fuck you." conglomerated into one spectacle of a noise. Nothing against Valentine at all, nothing against Hales or its kin, nothing against anybody but his own hollowed self. Jordan would not be so forthright, so confident as to think he could say something like that to a guy with twice his toughness.

But this isn't Jordan right now. He left the shell long ago, when the booze and the - well, whatever he took - tore him limb from shaking limb. This is Samuel, he who bides his times scratching tally marks into stone, sitting at the very edge of consciousness even with sobriety leads him to lighter places. This is a rich kid demanding the dues that he is not owed. A memory of a boy unused to working for the very drugs that roast him alive.

Jordan hates, hates, hates when that ugly monster pops its head up. But right now, Jordan is floating far above the head-space of earth. Stuck in an orbit that will only end on the painful, messy comedown. He doesn't want that, never wants that, but it is as inevitable as it is life altering.

"Fucking what?" Jordan starts to spit, though its more a whisper than anything. So low, spoken more to himself than anyone else that he doubts anyone has heard it, let alone Val. "When the fuck is later?" He tries to question louder, feeding on his final reserves of Samuel to get the annoyance and rage across in his tone of voice. It is, however all for naught as by the time he's found his words, Val has already become encumbered by his shadow; Max.

Something about the familiarity of it all snaps Jordan back to himself, briefly, but with the purpose of curiously watching. What, exactly is going on. The air around their party of three has gone impossibly tense, in fact, Jordan is entirely too aware that he's practically third wheeling here. Anxiety creeps into the holes that his anger has left behind. Causing an inward curl as he watches Val become progressively angrier. When the other stands, and speaks to him once more - Jordan expects biting remarks and something a tad more angry than the stumbling half formed thoughts that tumble clearly from Vals lips.

"Go get security, or Oliver - wait, fuck, no, just go entertain someone else." Jordan must have missed the memo where Val became his authority figure. Seniority or not, Jordan can't fathom having a guy like him in any position of power - or, wait, no he most definitely can. And he is not blushing, not at all.

The seriousness of the request or demand (he isn't entirely too sure which.) Does not escape his notice. Theres something heated in Vals eyes, a darkness that makes Jordan want to run the other direction. And its all leading to some guy that Jordan does not know, but who sharply tugs at his curiosity. He doesn't know how long he stands there, observing from a distance, but he does know that he's spent far too long roaming the contours of the strangers body with his eyes. Focused, but quickly losing his attention span as the floaty feeling returns to him.

Nothing is so sobering as a fight breaking out in the lounge, and that looks entirely like whats going to happen. Jordan doesn't want to be around when it happens, he'd rather go up to his room and down the rest of what he's got in his pockets. No use letting the high slip away on a bad note.

"Hey man, whats that all about?" Isaacs voice beside him is startlingly clear, cutting through his sudden drift from reality. He doesn't remove his gaze from the bar, but rather, just barely inclines his head in greeting. Isaac is an enigma, terrifying in some ways but laughable in others. Jordan, on a normal day, with a clear conscious would steer clear of him. If only because of the sudden, violent rages that Isaac goes into. Its alarming, and Jordan is no fighter. But tonight, Isaac seems clear headed in all the ways that Jordan is not.

It takes him a moment to reply, thoughts scattering like dust in the wind every time he tries to piece them together.

"Some dude upset Max I think?" Jordan is fuzzy on it all, and also the sudden thought comes to him that its a bit odd that Valentine is defending Maxs honor or something. Like, those guys fight so much they may as well be a married couple - but he's never seen either of them really stand up for the other. "I dunno man," Jordan mumbles again, trying not to feel too useless for it. But of course, being incapable of giving a clear answer gives him that acute pain, just between his ribs where his need to please exists in a constantly painful stasis.

"Debbie's going to kick their asses." He says, lastly. Thoughts shifting to the woman that he should probably stay out of sight of. At least, until the effects of the nights party have been laid to rest. "I'm gonna find Oliver," He decides, forgetting that he's not supposed to do that. But Oliver might have a heart attack if those two get blood all over the lounge floor - it'd be bad for business - which is also something that Jordan is a bit afraid of happening. If not because Oliver makes up 1/3rd of this business and what would happen after he died? Nothing good. Nothing good at all.

xx
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"You haven't lost your mind."

Max supposed he should be relieved over the fact that he hadn’t drifted into having shockingly realistic visual hallucinations, but that wasn’t exactly what he’d call this feeling. Val’s dismissal meant Grey was actually there. Maybe Max wasn’t going crazy, but he was sure there was plenty of other stuff about to come his way that would rock his loose grip on sanity.

Val’s anger is so thick it’s almost a corporeal being and Max feels smothered by it but also safe in a twisted sort of way. Enough so that when Val goes to detangle from him, fear at being left alone grips his chest. He’s a toddler with separation anxiety that’s being forced to act like a big kid and he is not a fan.

Val says something to Jordan but Max can’t hear it. The words, the music, the chatter is all spinning into nothingness and he’s pretty sure he’s standing just on the edges of a panic attack. He hasn’t had one since he was a tween and it pisses him off that one guy can send him reeling like this.

Val gets up but he holds a hand back to Max probably subconsciously and the blonde clings to his arm like it’s his lifeline as he somehow makes it to his feet and shuffles to keep up. Across the lounge, back to the bar, back to the same spot he just ran away from. Grey gives a lazy smile to whatever greeting Val opens with and Sunday mornings. Late night car rides home. The pillow next to his.

Max is well aware he’s hiding. He’s just enough smaller than Val to keep out of sight behind him, a literal human shield. He can see over him just barely if he stands on his tiptoes, but he doesn’t want to. He wants this all to go away.

“Came back to check on old friends, wanted to make sure you guys survived without me.” Survived. Max wasn’t sure if that was what he’d call his Post-Grey era. The man’s complete and unexpected disappearance had done a real number on his psyche. Max had never handled death well. There’d been many nights spent in Grey’s bed until the scent had faded, many more spent in Val’s - either from a rare moment the older man caved to Max’s neediness, or a good, old fashioned, frustrated fuck. It’d been the only time during his life that he’d missed the drugs of his teenage years. The only time he’d been put on probation at work. He felt things too deeply. It’d been a problem.

Until eventually Val made him snap the fuck out of it and move on. ”He’s gone, Max. He’s not coming back.”

Yet here he was.

More than anything though, Grey speaking rocked Max back, because his voice snapped the audible world back into clarity. He tightened his hold on Val a little, wondered why he didn’t feel just as pissed. He didn’t know what he was feeling though. Surprise? Interest? He was just ...conflicted. Like he couldn’t decide if he was hurt or happy.

Old friends.

That didn’t feel good, and he cringed.

Grey was alive.

He was also a dick for doing what he’d done. And not the good kind of dick. An old, shriveled up, small, gray, too-hairy, disproportioned dick.

”Maybe I’m not here for you?” No, Max thinks, don’t do it, but Grey’s hand gestures towards him anyway. “Alright back there, Max? Thought you’d at least be happy to see me”

Max’s I am gets stuck in his throat and he remembers what it felt like that morning. Tumbling into Grey’s room, still hungover, with a smile on his face and a plan for greasy bacon and probably a blowjob. Only to find it empty. And the next morning, and the next, and the next.

No. This hurts, this definitely hurts. Grey disappeared without a trace. No letters, no phone calls, nothing. For three fucking years. How could he? Max grips Val tighter, like the man is the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces. Literally and figuratively. Because it feels like if he steps away from Val, he’ll forget everything. And that the only thing that will matter is that Grey’s alive.

“I thought you were dead.” His voice shakes and it’s only then that he realizes how close he is to fucking crying. Grey leans forward, but Val is like a brick wall between them, and Max has never been so damn thankful for Valentine Cervantes in his whole life.

“Really think I’d go off and do something stupid like dying? Nah, I just got bored, wanted to try something new”.

Bored. There was the anger finally, snapping up at him the way he saw it do Isaac all the time, but just before he could burst Grey’s smile was like cold water dumping over his head. 0-100 real fast, but Max faltered. “Missed you though.”

No one ever missed Max. He was like that annoying kid brother that people claimed to love but not ‘like’. The one that sent their older siblings running for college without a look back.The kind that moms posted about in secret groups online, questioning their decision to have more than one child. He knew this. He was aware of this. He shouldn’t let Grey make him feel special because it simply wasn’t true. ”- so I came back for my job. I seem to remember Oliver saying Hale’s had an open door policy if we ever wanted back in” That was true. That was true and it made him feel sick. “And you can lay off. No drugs, I promise. I’m clean. Figured it out all on my own”

Max tilted his head up towards Val, but unsurprisingly the brunette wasn’t buying a word of this, which reminded him that he didn’t need to be either. Bullshit. It was all bullshit. And Open-Door Policy or no, there was absolutely no way the Hale’s would let Grey back in. No way.

As if the universe had a sense of humor, Oliver Hale flew down those same stairs Max himself had appeared on just moments ago. His eyes were wide and worried and then he just... Barreled into Grey’s arms. Like a father seeing his druggie son for the first time in years. Which, undoubtedly, Ollie saw himself as. He was the caretaker for all the wayward boys. He loved them.

He loved Grey.

Max tore his eyes from the little reunion because he couldn’t bare to watch it. Instead he glanced at the bar, and wondered for the first time where the fuck Debbie was. Then he seemed to remember the time. She was out front, helping too-drunk men into their cabs. For the first time she wasn’t arms length away, and he blamed her a little for whatever was about to happen. Because they needed her, here and now.

Grey laughed.

Max closed his eyes tightly against the memories and buried his face into Val’s back. He couldn’t deal with this. Why had he come back tonight? Why hadn’t he stayed with Sebastian for just one more day?

”you are always welcome to use the guest room till we figure it out. I’ll vouch for you for now”. Max looks up again out of shock because seriously? At this point he was surprised he wasn’t fucking floating because it seemed like the world had dropped out from under him for good.

He’s too shocked to say anything but Val isn’t, and he’s nodding along until Oliver turns around. They so rarely get scolded, beyond the slight slap on the wrist for their fighting, but Oliver’s face then is enough to shut Val up and make Max want to take a step back again. He doesn’t even have to say anything and Max feels like he’s in trouble.

He didn’t fucking do anything wrong! He feels angry and scattered and betrayed. And as Oliver leaves, Max’s heart sinks.

He wants to run, which isn’t something he’s felt since he was fourteen and itchy to get out from under his grandparents and his therapy bills. He wants to push himself until he can’t go any farther and then pass out and not have to deal with anything ever again.

Val’s saddled with getting Grey the room and Max shakes his head a little, because Val’s either going to kill him or fuck him, and either are probably an option right until the winning blow is upon him. No matter how much Max wants to drown himself in a bathtub full of vodka, he can’t make himself leave. He’s rooted in his spot next to Val, and silently he slides his hand down to tangle their fingers together again. He’s not letting go until Val cuts him off at the goddamn wrist.

His sanity is on a string.

“Come on,” he mutters softly, giving Val a tug. He can see Oliver sending the other boys upstairs. Dalton, Isaac, David. The bartenders and security will stay, clean up. Where’s Em? Still in the rent rooms maybe? Jordan...

Max turns towards the Lounge doorway, and there’s the blonde, undoubtedly the source of Oliver’s oh so perfect appearance. Traitor Max thinks, but it’s not like Jordan knew any better.

Walking out feels a little like walking into hell.

And he’s not sure if he’s excited or afraid.

---

“You know I have to check with Debbie and Spencer on your job, but you are always welcome to use the guest room till we figure it out. I’ll vouch for you for now”

F u c k.


Anger has long past fled from the situation altogether. Now, it's a subtle shake that keeps his hands firmly tucked at each side. Balled up so tight his fingernails gouge his palms. Interrupted for only a moment as Max winds their hands together, either to stay his own anxieties or to calm Val down before he decided to disregard Oliver altogether.

There are too many emotions being dredged up from the underbelly of his memory. The nearly opaque, inconsistent thoughts that keep painting over the anger. To momentarily blind him before common sense takes hold again and shows the transparent image of a ghost before him. A memory that should have stayed dead.

Guilt trips him up for a moment. Maybe not dead. Maybe just far, far away from Hales. From them. From the blonde at his side practically molded like glue to him. From himself, the impulse to start throwing punches manifesting as a deeply uncomfortable stone in his gut.

He'd regret it just as soon as he finished, Oliver may be an idiot but Val respects him enough to realize that this isn't his decision. Even if by siding with Greyson he's doing more harm to them than good. Max alone could shatter at any moment. Val wouldn't let that happen. Bound and determined to destroy the threat encroaching on his territory. Worse than a guard dog, snapping at an intruder. Hackles raised and ready to fucking go.

He steels himself against the torrential downpour of insults that beg to pour from his throat. Words designed to hurt on a superficial level, unwilling to cut deeper in fear of memories leaking out. He won't forgive Greyson for disappearing out of the blue.

He won't.

No matter how fucking badly some small part of him wants to.

Goddamn, this sentimental bullshit. Because in the end, Greyson's still an old friend. The truth is raw and cuts like broken glass. And the more he avoids the thought the more he wants to scream and fight his way out of this.

If ever there was a moment to say the world is a cruel, shithole, then this would be that moment.

“Come on,” Max speaks at his side, so soft that Val almost doesn't hear him through the rush of blood in his ears. In an instant, every horrible feeling fades. He squeezes Max's hand and realizes that it's better to just get this shit over with before he ends up driving himself to the brink of insanity. He gives Greyson one last cold look before jerking his head towards the stairs. He'd show the bastard to his room, but that didn't mean he needed to make small talk.

"You don't have to tag along," Val mumbles to Max, ignoring the current bane of his existence entirely. He doesn't want Max to feel obligated to babysit him. Not while the blonde's own sanity is at stake. Besides, in a way, he feels territorial. His own hold on the situation thin and fraying by the second.

But Max doesn't leave his side as they head up, each step adding to the weight dragging Val down. He's so tired. He wants to sleep for the rest of the week and hopefully when he wakes up this will all have been a shitty dream.

He huffs a laugh under his breath.

Of course, this wouldn't go away that easily.

Its odd seeing a room so empty, most of the boys rooms are heavily decorated to their own tastes. Vals own a chaotic mess, with a color scheme that looks like a punk rainbow has thrown up all over the place. This one is bare. Depressingly so. Val turns to Greyson, acknowledging him for the first time.

There's no spite to his words this time, he's conserving his energy for the next round of rage to kick up.

"I assume you still know where everything is." Why wouldn't he, it's not like the place had changed that much in the past few years. Still, Val isn't going to help him anymore than he has. He's shown him the room, he's done his duty. Now, he just wants to go punch a hole in his wall and be done with this shitty day. Maybe drown in a bottle of vodka.