Samuel Jordan Foxworthy's Story

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.

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.

xx
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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

"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.

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.

Isaacs lost interest before Jordans even gotten his mouth around the syllables. Words going in one ear and out the other. Boring.

"Some dude upset Max I think?" Jordan informs. Isaac doesn't care if his disinterest is showing in the slight hum he gives. Acknowledgment without furthering the topic. But apparently, the kid doesn't care that Isaac couldn't give two fucks. Studying the other with a critical eye, Isaac can tell theres more than that. Kids practically got his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Drug brain, the quickest way to loosen up a quivering tongue.

"I dunno man," Jordan mumbles but Isaac doesn't strain to catch his words. "Debbie's going to kick their asses."

"Debbie's not here." Isaac reminds quietly, pressing his tongue against the backs of his teeth in contemplation, knowing that this time of night is usually devoid of the queens tepid stare. But amused still at the prospect of her returning early and wiping the floor with the fighting fish stacked up by the bar. Theres too much riding on chance. Reminds him of Russian Roulette, a sensation like shock tickling up his spine. If a fight does break out Isaac wants to be witness to it. Like a junkie begging for a hit, its been a quiet few weeks since Violence has shouldered into his life with its heavy handed sweetness.

"I'm gonna find Oliver," Jordans voice just barely slips past the sudden, solid wall of dizzying blood lust thats stuck its claws back into the folds of his brain tissue. A memory of bones cracking under the pressure of a closed fist satisfying for but a moment. His bloods up, a reaction to the rooms tension and he wants to see fists flying against the odds. After a moment, he realizes though what Jordan has said. Off to find Oliver, who will most certainly break up the fight before its even hit a crescendo.

And just like that he's been doused. Flame gone but wick withstanding as he turns away from the raised voices. Long before they can consider him an eavesdropper. He can't even be bothered to turn back once Oliver rushes past him, looking harried as he goes. Its no shock that the voices subside, leaving a singular thought to swim over the backs of his eyelids each time he blinks; Lame. A missed opportunity to see if anyone here is really worth their salt. Isaac tempers the thoughts of how wrong it is that he had been practically wishing for a fight. How he's slipping back into that dangerous beast of a mindset.

Jordan is no longer in sight, likely floundering out in a riptide. Too far out to throw a Kisbee Ring. Isaac gets the fleeting thought to find him and show him what its really like to taste insanity. But he's not that motivated, has too many things to do and most of all is too weary to go on much longer. The nights here are long and wrought with writhing bodies. Isaac's on the easy side of things, doesn't have to deal with nightly showers and messy rooms. Not that he minds, rather, he prefers working the personable route.

Got too much pent up aggressions to take it as far as the bedrooms most nights, but sometimes, sometimes its okay to live a little. So long as he's got his mind out of the void.

After a long moment of staring at nothing at all he marches his way up the stairs, back to the penthouse. Bone weary when he slips past the security into the suite, and drags towards his room with no real purpose at all.

By the time he's standing within a feet of Oliver he's already forgotten that Val asked him not to. Memory shot, an effect of too long spent with his head underwater. Drowning out the brain cells that he doesn't use anyways. All at once, the nerves get to him. He's not used to Oliver, not in the way that he's used to Debbie. He almost forgets what he's doing there altogether.

"Jordan?" Oliver prompts, as if they had been holding a conversation - and maybe they had been. Theres something like delight in the mans voice, and Jordan assumes its due to the fact that this is one of a handful of times they've ever talked face to face, without the buffer of the other boys between them. Jordan needs to reign in those stray side effects before they get out of hand, can't be outwardly showing his hands, not with the threat of his toys being taken away.

Jordan shakes from his thoughts before the silence can stretch out into concern. Its dangerous, this line he's standing on. A tightrope over the gaping maw of a canyon. Any moment he could fall, shattering into shards of glass at the bottom. "Oh uh," Jordan stumbles over his tongue, whats he to say anyhow. Theres some weirdo, make him leave. Sounds childish in a way, too much like a fear of nothing at all. But really, what more is there to expect from a neurotic mess.

"Val said to come get you?" He didn't, but Jordan doesn't remember that bit of the speech. It had been too many words strung together, leaking into an incoherent head. "Theres some guy - " Oliver is already standing, but he doesn't look overly concerned yet. Jordan reels in the desperate need to stumble away, out of arms reach. "Anything more specific?" Oliver teases, in good nature, but it makes the fluttering of anxiety spark in Jordan. His stance widens, defensive.

"Tall, Tattoo'd, intense." Jordan shrugs, chewing on his lip. The more he spoke the more interested Oliver looked. "Looked like Val was gonna pick a fight." He doesn't know him personally enough to say for sure, but it seemed that way at least. "Probably should have led with that kiddo," Oliver doesn't quite drop the smile but theres a sharper look to his face now, and Jordan knows that isn't his fault but it still feels that way. He's the one who delivered the news after all.

"By the bar," Jordan mutters but he's already on his way, clapping a hand on Jordans shoulder as he goes. And Jordan for the life of him does not let himself follow, wants nothing to do with whatever the hell is going on out there. But he does linger, even as guests trickle out in a steady stream and his coworkers begin to file their way up the stairs. Back to the penthouse for a rest before the next nights activities can resume. He waits until he knows that he can't anymore.

The smoke from his joint sent a plume out the window that mimicked the never-ending greyness above. It was dawn, the first light of day illuminating the scattering of snow across this ruined portion of the city. The nightlife had settled only an hour ago, leaving a discomforting stillness across a usually tumultuous neighborhood.

He wasn’t sure at what point it had snowed, he’d been nose deep in his own white powder as soon as he’d shut the door on Max and Val. He’d immediately needed to slip into the haze of drug and memory- his back against the musky box spring and head collapsed against the old mattress. There was a crack running across the ceiling that had descended along the wall and he was having a hard time remembering if it had existed when he was a resident of this room. All that was left was his bed and an old overturned box. He’d abandoned everything when he’d left three years ago, but obviously someone had not wanted his things lingering. There had been posters and photos on the wall that he could tell had been ripped down- scraps of color were still tacked up by pushpins. Everything had a layer of dust, so he knew that Hale’s didn’t even use this as a guest room… the abandoned space amongst a house filled with life sent a creeping shiver down his back. He'd assumed himself forgotten, but there was still a dusty space left for him here.

With thoughts still circling that crack creeping along the ceiling, he rose from his prone position as the sun pulled itself above the silhouetted buildings and ended up on the windowsill. Joint smoldering in hand, bare back and feet locking him against the molding wood, a position that was once so habitual to him he had moved without thinking.

Val had been quick to deposit him in this vacant space, so clearly provoked by his appearance and irritated by Oliver’s immediate acceptance. “I assume you still know where everything is”. Pissy for sure, Val’s voice had been calm but edged with a sort of malice Grey had once attempted to avoid. But he now found that contempt interested… and felt the need to see how far he could push the man before he lost this summoned control. Maybe a bad idea, in retrospect, as he needed the least amount of resistance on his return.

He probably should have just shut the door, but Val's anger had begged him to push just a tad further, “I mean” He’d sent a pitying look at the musky room and faked a cough, “It's pretty sad looking in there. And since they’re closing up downstairs, you two have nowhere else to be? I definitely still know where your rooms are”

"We have plenty of places to be, all of which are not here, with you. And If you show up at either if our rooms I’ll gut you" Val hadn’t even finished his sentence before Grey had shifted enough that he could see Max’s hidden form.

Max had always been easy for Grey. He was like a golden retriever- at some point he traded brain cells for pure excited friendliness. Their first meeting Grey had found him amusing instead of annoying… and that was really all Max needed. Most people (Val included) could handle tiny doses of this kid, but Grey found that naivety and pliability intoxicating. So he kept him around, sought out his attention- and he might have been the first person to ever to that for Max.

Grey exhaled smoke out the window and pictured Max's quivering form, barely hidden behind Val but momentarily safe from Greys icy eyes. Max was refusing to meet his gaze- he probably knew he couldn’t handle it. So Grey had settled for a small, gentle smile...a look that had earned him unwavering devotion three years ago.

<b>”Ah, no… but he’s right”</b>. Max’s voice had been a shaking mess, his tone tight as he tried to hide his discomfort. Grey'd decided to take pity on him- he'd needed another fix anyway and Val’s glare was threatening to set the hallway on fire.

“Well sleep tight boys. I’ll see you guys for pancakes in the morning” He'd managed to catch Max’s eyes with that comment, a little light flickering in there from their old routine. That was really all Grey needed to reaffirm how easy this would be.

God damn.

His joint was almost burning his fingertips by the time he stubbed it out and closed the window. The room was cold, a chilly sort of cold that only came from these snow-covered mornings. He pulled a sweatshirt out of his bag and kept the hood over his head before exiting for the warmth of the hallway.

The house was dead, the nocturnal routine of Hale’s ensuring that the early morning hours were reserved for returning sex workers and dead-to-the-world drunks. He assumed it was around 7 or 8am, but time seemed to slip away from him here.

Val was right. He knew where everything is, so much so that the Bisquik was still in the same place in the kitchen. Pans, measuring cups, spatula- everything still in its rightful spot, like Hales had stood still while he was gone. The only thing missing was maple syrup... and Grey had to convince himself that the missing ingredient wasn’t intentional. The syrup had been a <i>thing</i> back in the day and after seeing Max’s reaction, Grey was beginning to see that his ghost was a taboo subject here.

He made a stack, overloading a plate to fulfill their old ritual. The kitchen was a warm, buttery, pancake filled glow and Grey couldn’t help but feel a little sense of ‘home’. He usually wasn’t awake for this kind of breakfast anymore and rarely cooked for himself, choosing to either order in or skip eating entirely. This was all for appearances- to soothe the grumbling Hale house at his return. Grey was only slightly annoyed to find he was also comforted by the meal.

Pancakes safe in a warming-up oven for the rest of the house, he took his over to the table. A few beer cans and ash tray lay out on a table that looked sticky to the touch. Grey ignored it, avoided putting his elbows on the dirty surface, and pulled another joint out of his pocket.

The house was still as he ate slightly, cindering weed in one hand and fork in the other. Grey anticipated someone would rise early- none of the routines here were ever entirely synchronized- he was damn excited to see who it would be. Maybe that little white-haired fuckable thing he’d seen eyeing him like the last drop of water last night? Hopefully, it wouldn’t bee the Queen Bitch, as he needed a little more coke in his system before he dealt with her. Oliver would be easy... but he was really hoping he'd hear the hurried footsteps of his old golden shadow. The pancakes were really for him, and Val, and appeasement for the years gone. He knew it would take more then that to eradicate the shadow of his ghost, but it was a start. He certainly didn't need curious eyes following his every move once he started pushing.

Max would be a fun addition to an already nostalgic morning and Grey decided that if he didn't show up soon, he'd have to bring a few pancakes to his room.

Grey took a drag, smiled, and exhaled, mingling the striking smell of marijuana with the warmth of the pancakes.

xx
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Max doesn’t sleep.

He could blame it on the A.D.D, if he doesn’t take his meds there’s no reason for his brain to shut down. He could rationalize it that way. It’s his head, not his heart. But it’s a lie, because his heart is broken and he’s staring at the shattered pieces trying to remember how to put them back together again.

His window frame was broken once. Would just fall down if he tried to put it up. Max had said he’d call a handyman but Grey had told him not to worry, he’d fix it. He couldn’t, he’d eventually just nailed the damn thing shut. Max had been upset as hell but hadn’t ever had the time to change it. After Grey had left, he’d admitted it was going to stay that way.

There’s a poster in the corner of the room that isn’t his. It’s buried under others that are, but that one is torn at the top. On the back of it, he and Grey had played about five hundred rounds of tic-tac-toe while they were both a few joints in. (The only drug that got through Debbie’s policy was marijuana. Most of them agreed it shouldn’t be illegal anyway.)

There’s a pillow case that was Grey’s tucked under his mattress, a pair of socks hidden away in his drawer, a book on his shelf that he’s not even sure Grey ever read that was stuffed with his photos, and a motorcycle helmet balancing on his desk. Grey’s voice swims through his mind, clear as day, “you'd look good on it, try it out".

Snippets of a life he’d once had. Pieces that he’d stolen when it had all come crashing down. He remembered destroying Grey’s room with Val. Taking it apart piece by piece until it resembled nothing of the man that had once occupied it. Because it was too hard to leave it that way. Like Grey was coming back.

It’s snowing outside. Max loves the snow.

He turns his back on the window and pulls his covers over his head. His bed is soft as fuck, he really splurged on it once he started making good money. But when he buries his nose in the sheets it just smells like him. And he resents the fact that he suddenly misses months of being buried in Grey’s bed. Of soaking up that scent until it was gone.

He should have slept with Val. He should have begged and pleaded not to be left alone. Max was never good with being alone.

He throws the blankets off and pulls himself out of bed, doesn’t bother to put a shirt on or change out of his pajama pants, just runs his fingers through his hair a few times. It’s fucking early, eight in the morning. Most of the house would still be sleeping, morning was a deadzone for people who worked the night. But Max can’t sleep, and there’s video games in the livingroom.

He wishes Isaac were up, so maybe he could pick a fight. Get some other emotion rolling through his body to replace this shit that hurtshurtshurts. He’d even take Jordan’s company. They weren’t really close, but Max would damn near pay to look into blue eyes that didn’t hold him in a vice grip. That didn’t rip him bare to his soul and take fucking control of it.

He needed Val. But Val had a meter of energy he could allot to Max at any given time and with Grey back in the picture, back in their house, back in their lives, Max knew better than to waste that energy. He’d save it until he couldn’t stand without it.

He remembered Grey’s smile just hours ago. Small, gentle, the same even on a face that had a sharper jawline than in his memories. Grey had never found him annoying. Had never run out of energy to give him. Max closed his eyes tightly and rested his forehead against his door, his hand resting on the curve of the knob. His chest was tight and his bones were heavy. It’d been three long years since he hadn’t felt like living.

He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he can sneak downstairs and get some whiskey. Drink himself silly before any of the staff members realize what he’s done. Before he has to come back and share with the others. Maybe if he gets just drunk enough, he can pretend like he’s okay.

He opens his door and pushes himself out into a living space as quiet as he’d expected, but blood rushes through his ears when only three steps in he realizes what he’s smelling. Pancakes. He’d hardly thought Grey was serious, much less that he’d be awake this early.

Max isn’t sure if it’s curiosity or masochism that draws him towards the kitchen but the fact of the matter is that one is just as deadly as the other. He finds Grey at the table, occupying a seat that had long ago stopped being his, joint in one hand, fork in the other, stack of pancakes in front of him. The nostalgia hits Max in the stomach like a cannonball to a pile of bricks. Autopilot says he should be bouncing on his toes, pushing himself into the space between Grey and the table to balance on his lap, a ‘good morning’ in the form of a shotgun kiss that tastes like maple syrup.

Maple syrup. They don’t have any. Max had thrown it out the goddamn window, and no one had had the balls to buy more since. “Let’s literally go fuck right now, after we eat. Or here. During breakfast. Maple syrups gotta be a kink somehow.” Val had been so frustrated, Grey had been so amused. Max had been…

Sweet tasting shotgun kisses were a thing of the past, and Grey’s lap was no longer a place Max should want to occupy. He should have stayed in his room. He should have asked Val to let him stay with him. But he’s in too deep now.

“That pancake mix isn’t yours,” he mutters as he drifts into the kitchen, back tense and hands shaking. They used to all three sit on that end of the table. Max had carved their initials on the underside of it once, after the first time they’d all had a good night. He was pretty sure it was still there.

Max fucking loves pancakes, and he hovers over the pile staying warm, wondering what kind of hell he’d put himself through if he chose to take one. He could, and just go back to his room, shut the door, lock it.

He thinks it says something about how much he hates himself that he grabs a plate and fills it up before heading to the table. He sits as far from Grey as he can get, puts his feet on the edge of his seat, knees pressed against wood. Distance is good, he thinks, but the downside is that from here he can see Grey. It’s not the low lighting of the bar or the shadows of a darkened bedroom. It’s morning light, and Grey is just as handsome as he ever had been. When Max had known him, he’d been smaller, softer around the edges, only his arms covered in tattoos. But even with a sweatshirt on, Max could see the additions to his bulk, to the ink that covered his entire neck, to the sharper definitions in his face, the longer hair.

Max jerks his gaze away before he gets caught in those goddamn eyes and shoves a pancake in his mouth.

He’d thought Grey was dead. With every fiber of his being. He’d watched the news for almost a year, waiting for his body to be found. He never imagined he’d be sitting here, across from him, again. He never imagined that his heart would be so weak that he would want to, while his brain was telling him to run.