LIVES ARE ENTERTAINMENT.

“Pretty sure there’s kids here already doing that, but I’m sure they’re high on a sugar rush.” No doubt driving their parents adequately insane. Speaking of insane, it might be ideal for him to steer clear of his vocalist he had neglected to see in t-minus several weeks if he happeend to... manifest in the middle of the party. It was always strange to see the street rat clean himself up and try to blend in with those that knew how to mingle among the rich, but it had been an increasingly common sight since his marriage. “I usually take my pants off when I’m drunk and then I sleep... without my pants, so that’s where you’ll find me,” he replied with a snort. Anyone else would’ve found it rather sad, but he’d learned how to compartmentalize the fucked up pieces of his life. Now I might be even more. His smile remained teasing, though inwardly he worried if the banter were true. Dustin wasn’t someone a person should get stuck on, frankly. Rather disorganized with his own life, outside of his work, the fact Trevor had a kid made it immensely complicated. No need to breach simplicity. Entering the building with him, he brushed a wrinkle from his suit jacket, the flashy decor appealing to his taste perfectly. “I think there’s a bar around here somewhere. mind leading me in that direction?”

The model chuckled, about to comment that it was probably best to avoid having children here, but on second glance, he thought he saw one skitter by. Huh. Quite formal, indeed. “Fair. Kid won’t understand the shit going on anyway, he’d get bored.” What did he know? His knowledge on children was limited, and at the moment, he had no desire whatsoever to further it. Tempted to pull out his own cancerous byproducts, he presumed he would be drinking soon enough to abate the desire, tucking his hands into his pockets and lifting his brows. “Usually in my robe, outside the bus, in the morning. Very naked under the robe, which is why Cy always walks right back inside when he sees that. But I guess you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Dustin joked, removing his glasses he’d sported to drive and closing the frames, tapping them against his hand absently. “You get addicted to cures for stress. But I suppose that means you should be careful with me, then, if you’re prone to addiction.” Teasing simper pursued, he stepped forward, pressing a kiss to Trevor’s cheek, pulling away then and beckoning him, walking for the door.

“Do you? Right now, you smell like a mini-bar,” he deadpanned sincerely, no qualms whatsoever with pointing it out to her. Sir. Oh, god, no. God forbid. “Dustin. Dusty is fine. Just-- don’t call me that.” He loathed the use of it, as if he were some old jank, a counterfeit instead of a model in the prime of his youth. No, no, no-- he’d worked very hard for where he was, and he refused to entertain the notion he might become obsolete in the next few years if he couldn’t keep up the image his contractors had been pressuring him to. Wincing when she continued to drunkenly spout about her... what was she talking about? The roof-- it can’t stop me. “But gravity can, sweetheart,” he returned, a patronizing tinge lurking in his voice, “I am definitely... definitely not going to be responsible if a...” Grey eyes scanned over her face, trying to calculate how old she was. She didn’t look twenty-one at the very least. “...Teenybopper falls off the roof when she was two inches away from me.” Or gets pushed, at this rate. Dustin was already fed up with the prattle when he wanted a drink of his own on his own, until his nerves were lax and the world itself was naught but a floating island below. Not blind drunk, merely enough to slip him into a dreamless sleep. Damn it, he wanted to order from that bar, instead he was being pulled up to the damn roof within seconds, the energetic zipping reminiscent of his vocalist-- who, ironically, was stumbling down the stairs with his brother sticking to him, laughing his ass off. Safe to say, Cyrek’s brother looked hassled. Distracted promptly by her hand on his lapel, he brushed it off insistently, dreading the thought of wrinkling the fabric. “Give me that drink in your hand and I totally will. I’m an open book for a fee, girly.”

One could say he was equally surprised to see Jessica there, pleasantly so, a smile curvating his lips. “Pretty lady from the diner, it’s you, and looking even prettier. Do you always show up in fascinating places like this?” he asked, stepping forward to take her hand and bring it to his lips for a brief, but polite, kiss, giving it a squeeze before releasing her from his hold. She was intriguing, stimulating to parts of his mind that had lay dormant after he’d all but abandoned his interest in academia post-graduation, though he had entertained the idea of a master’s degree for a time. Pulling out his own chair, he sank into the seat across from her, brushing aside the gnawing urge to head upstairs for a cocktail. Fingers toying with a strand of his black hair, an elusive smile played on his features, cocking his head to the side. “Well, I wasn’t going to show, truth be told. However, I kind of figured that it would be unproductive to veg out on my couch all week. You know? Why do that when I can talk to you?” Dustin chaffed, winking in her direction, leaning back in the chair.

“He’s doing what now?” As disinterested as a man could sound, Dustin was partially intrigued by the thought. “Zapping around as in running or doing that weird dance he does when he gets super drunk? You know, the...” Making to mimic it, awkwardly, similar to the way an alien imitating a robot imitating a human might drive, he sated the desire to embarrass his main vocalist further and focused on the man’s... sister? Again, wasn’t she a tad taller before? “See him? Why’s that? You worried about him? I guarantee he’s been more drunk off toilet wine, he’ll puke it off in the morning,” he responded with a despondent shrug, running a hand through his jet black hair while chancing a chaste glance about the mansion itself. Only then, when he felt an insistent yank on his pantleg, did he register the-- small child clinging to him. Oh. Fuck. The kid looked happy to see another guy, simply put, and he sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, wishing a glass would magically appear in his hand. “This is-- uh-- Is this yours?” Tucking his glasses into the pocket of his suit jacket, nodding in affirmation. “You know it. Looking to leave in good company, though, if you catch my drift.”

Holy shit, she was incredibly drunk. He could practically smell her breath from a yard away; how long had she been drinking prior to the party? Typically, he would have been eager to return the flirting, but she seemed way younger than him. “Whoa, you need a breath mint, lady. As much as I appreciate the compliment, I think I should be treating you to... water,” he said, leaning back just a little and finding his hand entangled in hers seconds later. Oh great, he was about to be chaperone by a drunk girl this entire evening, with dwindling hope of getting himself drunk for fear they’d get kicked out of the whole damn party and tarnish his reputation by headlining alcoholic model back at it again. “Are you sure you can make it to the roof, chicky? How old are you?” Not that he was in the position to judge, drinking before the legal age restriction when he had entered the modeling career. “I think you should stay out of sight of the hosts if you want to continue being part of the entourage,” Bastian added, reluctantly catching up to pace with her and interlocking his arm through hers decidedly, concerned she was going to lose her sense of gravity.

“Hey, stud, what’s up?” Smirking, the model shifted his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, winking playfully. A night of fun had blown off steam for him, and moving right on along, he was prepared to settle into the fundraising party for the evening. His main intention of being present was all the free crap, though he’d considered donating a little. After all, he knew many people who had been raised in the foster care system and he wasn’t completely heartless. Questionable. “I’d have one, but I don’t want my nice suit to smell like smoke when I go in. Then I’d have to drown it in cologne.” Which he carried with him, needless to say, along with a spare comb in case his hair needed to be preened. Models always had to look their very best. Smirk softening to a smile, he ran his fingers through his own hair. “I don’t think cigarettes will help headaches though. Come inside and have a drink with me, why don’t you? Couldn’t let you hang out here all lonely.”

The party was exactly what he had expected it to be, perfect for him to fit right into. Originally, he had wanted to stay home, the way he had when he had heard about the rave. Eventually, the opportunity of free alcohol was all too tempting for the model, and thus, here he was in his best velvet suit, mingling with the rest of the richies until they wandered off in search of extra excitement. Probably to do lines of coke in the bathroom, if he had to guess. After being caught the second Bastian had stepped foot into the mansion, he hadn’t had the time to allocate any of the refreshments, nor the main party. He was fairly certain other people he knew would be here too, which meant he should be careful about snagging the alcohol-- then again, it was a party. What was wrong with self-indulgence? Stopping the nearest person as he left the foyer, he asked, “Hey, do you know where the refreshments are at? Is it on the roof?”

Bastian smirked knowingly, playfully socking him in the arm, the force of the hit harboring little strength behind it. If he’d really wanted to hit someone, he could’ve easily knocked their block off. The intimacy was moderately comfortable, though his subconscious worried naggingly about his appearance when he was too close to someone, that he’d get overexposed and suddenly, his vulnerabilities would be palpable. He’d never been one for serious relationships, merely passing flings or one-night stands, apt to keep others at arms’ length for the same reason he kept a distant sort of personality. He could be an asshole, or he could be humorous without the thought crossing his mind of the warped opinions that would arise for his slip in armor. Trevor’s words began to fade into the background, muddling together into a melding pot, his hands clasping on either side of his face when their lips met. Boldly, the model leaned in further to the kiss, delving deeper in his passion, slinging a leg over the man’s thigh and lifting his body up from its seated position to straddle him. “I could change your whole life if you let me,” he breathed teasingly when he pulled away from the kiss, smirking and tilting his head, “Should I kiss you again?”

“Longer than you? Interesting. Yeah, I got the fuck out of my small town out of high school and moved right on along. Never been happier.” It wasn’t true; he had never particularly been happy. Initially, the burst of fame and the attention had been a thrill for the neglected teenager. Shortly, he learned the dark sides of the business, how it could be just as crimson-bathed in its own way as his hometown horror. His higher education was lesser known, seldom discussed, considering he did very little with it after his vices had consumed his life a second time. Concluding his trimming of the dead ends on the man’s hair, he retrieved his electric razor to knock off the initial layer of facial hair before he’d start trimming it, considering the actor’s question. “Not as glamorous as everyone makes out, but... if you’re doing it as an actor and not as your sole career, I think you’ll be fine. You may not have the natural ability to work the camera, though, so be patient if they tell you do this or that until they get it right, the photographers are usually working like, sixteen hour days. I sound like I’m shitting you, but I’m really not. Crew busts their ass.” They don’t speak about what happens behind the curtain, either, the abuses they must witness the models go through. Himself included. They turn the other cheek or risk a hefty paycut, if they don’t get fired first. Quickly working the shave down the excess scruff on Eddie’s face, he turned off the razor and set it aside, using his foot to pump the chair up higher to tend to the leftover work. “Ah, you know how it is, entertainment industry is fucking rough. Even the music industry is, I’ve had to get up on little sleep for a music video shoot before... our vocalist was practically fucking dead in the water, and hungover,” Bastian sympathized, “For what it’s worth, you’re still here and climbing the ranks now. Keep it up.” Glancing at his face when he inquired about the band, he nodded his head, replying, “It’s called Avant-Garde Society. It’s sort of in the less popular genre, you may not have heard of it.” The band had certainly gained traction, but it could still fall on the wayside. Chuckling when the other prattled about the egotistical side of the business, he wasn’t sure he should respond, fully aware he was exactly like some of those A-listers. “Williams was lovely, Jackman was fairly humble, too... It depends on the person, you know? It’s a coping mechanism for some,” Bastian mused with a shrug, tipping Eddie’s chin to the other side.

Chuckling, the model shifted on the couch beside him, looking over at him. “Really now? Well, you should’ve said something. You can see my ass anytime you want, handsome,” he teased, winking at him. His old habits might be eating away at him again, but he knew how to have fun-- and fun was all he wanted. Fun to put aside the stress of his work as a model, the abuses hidden within the system that lurked in the background ceaselessly. Bastian could tell that Trevor’s attention was ninety percent on him, which was the way he liked it, having someone’s complete and total attention. It had been a while since he had someone wrapped around his finger, hadn’t it? The excitement of it, the thrill-- he would be lying to say he hadn’t missed it to an extent. Nowadays, he had been accustomed to fake relationships with other models to boost his own reputation and staging a breakup later on. “Huh? I’m not sure I heard about his dad, Cyrek hasn’t been around as often lately. Seems like he’s in the shitpit.” It took less pressure off him to hide his issues, the opportunity to avoid the band and gain time away from them. Don’t get him wrong; he loved being in the band, but the scrutiny from his bandmates could be as much pressure as his modeling job, unwilling to bring attention nor worry to himself. In his eyes, he could take care of himself just fine, and if he had a problem, he’d deal with it. The bleak conversation of pasts was one he tried to avoid, finding it difficult to discuss his own past. If anyone was aware of what he had been through, would they think differently of him? He’d done unspeakable things at his father’s whim, under the acknowledgement that if he didn’t, he would be the one sustaining injury. We can all change, Seb. Shifting in the other man’s arms, he lifted his chin to look up at him, blue orbs searching every inch of his face. “Trevor,” he said softly, partially intending to shut off his preaching, leaning in to press his lips against the other man’s after a pause. 

“Proud of my ass? I already am, for sure, I don’t do squats at all and it’s fabulous. Why, have you been looking?” he half-joked, ever the egotistical member of the band that never shied away from a flirtatious remark when it came to himself. After all, he worked hard for how he looked, and people weren’t picked up as models for nothing. He used to have a heftier amount of muscle mass on him when he’d been recovering; too bad he’d flung it all down the toilet. To him, the significant loss felt too little still, thoughts running back and forth of purging himself for what was left of his journey from the dark side. “Suit yourself,” he said, moving to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water and returning to the couch where his bandmate was, glancing at the television. Up close and personal, the damages were exceedingly obvious, hence his thought to keep his fur coat on and close to himself. The last thing he wanted was for word to spread around the band again, tired conflict of his need to stay healthy brought back to life, sitting down on the couch beside Trevor at last when he had set the bottle down. Too bad he hadn’t secretly refilled that one with vodka. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the kid guzzle a line of shots of tequila without batting an eye. He’s a happy mess when he’s actually wasted.” Which made he and Micah a perfect match, he supposed, from the few slips of details that Orion had divulged to him. Nestling against the couch, clasping hands together atop his head, barely ruffling his black, well-kempt hair, the model watched the flickering of the television. Multitasking was a necessity in his day-to-day life; he could appear as if he were ignoring someone altogether and have successfully retained the entire conversation. “I don’t think it’s about mistakes, it’s just how I was raised,” he said with a shrug. Lack of affection had bred someone who tended to be careless of another’s emotions, insensitive and self-servient, choosing to shut out the world from proximate intimacy with him thinking it would be best for everyone. “Huh? Oh, I guess it is sort of chilly in here.”

Walking them up to his apartment and unlocking the door, he let the other in. The space was relatively cold beyond moderate decorations; he had never been materialistic with his items, always too busy with his various occupations to stay home for long periods of time. When he was, he mainly drank until he passed out, and the fridge was barren currently except for perhaps scarce produce, such as a head of lettuce. Chuckling when he brought up his drunken escapades, he shut the door behind them, replying, "My goal is to make sure everyone on the tour bus has seen my ass in all its glory." Though, Cyrek had scolded him a few times for it, unstable temper reaching a fever pitch and practically flaming him in front of the group. But it wasn't as if he'd ever listened. However, his issues had been placed on the back burner for now, hidden carefully-- no drinking around the band in a way that was obvious, pushing his food around his plate until it seemed he had eaten, sporting proper attire to obscure jutting bones. "Make yourself at home. Want anything to drink? I have water... flavored water... beer for company." His gin was hidden somewhere in his bedroom, frankly. "Oh, don't worry, he's actually a heavyweight. Kid will drink you under the table, seriously. Irish or not. He's got more under his belt than Cyrek." Bastian shook his head, gesturing toward the living room and searching for his television remote. Expression carefully shadowed with his back turned, the drummer flipped on the television and found something to watch, silently considering his words. Self-esteem had been null and void for him since his youth, ripping at the seams further the older he became in the industry he'd chosen, placed under a microscope and effectively destroyed. "I think that... I might be a bad influence on him, man, I make bad choices. I'd be shit at it." He'd never been able to change, crashlanding back into poor choices time and time again. Setting the remote back down and bringing the fur coat closet to his body, he moved to bump the air conditioner up several degrees, heaving a sigh. What a long fucking day.

Bastian nodded as he drove down the street, bitten fingernails tapping on the steering wheel. He had nothing he could contribute, no positive personal experience to take from. Nor had he, sine, seldom stumbled across anyone that firmly redefined his definition of healthy, in terms of parenting or interpersonal relationships in general. “It’s whatever to me. I mean, I do it all the time. I don’t really care about getting naked,” he replied nonchalantly, accepting it as part of his career. His body might be malnourished underneath all the layers, like the fur coat he was sporting, but they could always Photoshop it into their ideal picture. No harm, no foul, they dished it out one way or another and no one ever had to know the state of his health. “Great, it’ll be fun. He’ll have fun. At least a hangover.” Rolling up to the Chalet and finding a place to parallel park, the model shifted the car into park, collecting his belongings and stepping out of the flashy vehicle. Opening the passenger door for the other male politely, a snort escaped him with the notion of learning and kids in the same sentence. “Oh, oh, fuck no, I don’t... uh, I don’t think I’m someone you should have around... kids. I’m really-- I’m not good with them. I kind of suck with kids.” Looking down as he said it, he shrugged, chalking it up to his poor and rather twisted upbringing. In fact, it was a miracle he hadn’t ended up completely fucked in the head as a result, raised by someone who had been a total stranger as he had later found out. Fear would sooner set in that he was teaching them bad habits. Opening the door to the lobby, he searched through the keys on the chain for his apartment key.