Bastiaan watched his subject’s movements with a critical blue gaze, his eyes focused on Max’s hesitant retreat to the excited grin that broke across his roguishly young face as he turned back around. Bass knew from the minute he met Max that the boy has an insistent need to verbalize all thoughts- even those others might deem too private to share with a drunk stranger- an over sharer, a trait most people might find incredibly irritating. But Bass was one of those beings that hated to share himself with others, socializing and reveals of any kind was about as appealing as bullet to the face- so he was glad for the people in this world that felt the need to express every detail about themselves to whomever asked. Maybe his insistent curiosity did not meld well with his cold, aloof demeanor. Maybe he seemed to be dissecting rather then learning, and perhaps his ulterior motives painted him as an untrustworthy confidante. But whatever others thought of him, he always had a knack for leeching their dirty little secrets out and tucking them away in his mind and journals for later use.
"London, mate. Born there, grew up there. Don't miss it much. Beautiful place, yeah. But cold. So bloody cold." Bass's gaze flicked to the quivering of shoulders, the look of discomfort, and a the revolving memories passing through Max's eyes like a film reel, "Why?"
A non-committal shrug, the slight movement of his shoulders being his only reply for a moment as he took a long sip of whiskey, "I lived in London mate, there’s no hiding where you grew up". Icy blue rolled up to meet sky blue, eyebrows raised, hands crossing in front of his mouth. Max’s deep drawling Londoner slang had pricked his ears when he first arrived- it took a lot for the dwellers of the grey north to abandon their precious city- a city that Bass himself equally adored and dreaded. Maybe that little slice of a past life in Max’s ever excited accent conjured memories of a life that could have been- another component into why Bastiaan often found himself following Max’s echoing jubilance through the bar.
Bastiaan could make up stories for the lives he saw in others footsteps. Max had been hurt as a child- that much he could tell. His insistent charisma and joy was a cover for something, and while Bastiaan could create his own series of events that left this young Londoner working in this strange little hostel so far away from home, he found himself interested in knowing exactly why Max was able to pretend to be so damn happy.
"Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough… I wanted to know where you are from" The corners of his lips switched into a small smirk, "Tell me something interesting. I know you’ve read my work, maybe you can wow me enough to be the next Simon"
Usually, Bastiaan wouldn’t push. Usually he’d avoid talking too much, seldom did he bring up his book, but with Max he knew what he needed to say to get the other male to talk. He required looseness, a slap of humor, maybe a bit of flirtatious sarcasm- traits Bastiaan knew well enough to copy for himself. Writing was acting, you needed to be able to flip between personality’s and mimic things that you would never do yourself. Bastiaan excelled at this to a point that he sometimes forgot where his personality started and the ones he created began.
Other then this excited puppy of a man, the others at the hostel all shared a communal aura of lost- a feeling that Bastiaan himself covered up with alcohol, anger, and blackout nights.
The leader of this strange little oasis, the beautiful Argentinian that Bas found himself opening up to in more ways then one, was an individual who’s warmth smothered you into a sense of compliance. Her abusive caring nature is infectious- her warm tan skin and long, exotic dark hair made a drunk Bastiaan loose his reservations and melted icy blue. Of all the workers and guests at Luna, Tati seemed the most grounded to him, but he knew that people that ordered their lives and those around them so meticulously had to have developed that need for a reason.
Other then Tati, the bartenders were the only other hostel workers that Bastiaan payed much attention to. The faces that kept his glass filled, the ones he silently watched and recorded, the ones that had to deal with his drunk mess when he went a little too far. Cameron, a woman who you’d have to be blind to not rake your eyes over, though Bastiaan continued to remind himself that those were the kind of women you avoided. Too at ease, too comfortable with themselves- a girl ripe and ready to wrap depraved men around her little finger. Keon and Deacon, the two males that had to manage guests and that flurry of red hair and Spanish, stroked Bastiaans need for reserved and quite when he needed. Their presence always paled in comparison to the two other bartenders, but Bastiaan would often purposefully place himself in either of the boys section if he wanted to avoid the rambunctiousness wake that fallowed Max and Cameron.