grayson beckett

He let that two-word sentence stew. Allow its full meaning to seep in to every crack and crevice of suspicion. Had he even thought of his own feelings? Of course not. Grayson Beckett was self-obsessed with all the right ambitions and near-computer-like calculations that made him amazing at everything he did. He was revered in the business world and Roman could admit to some jealousy. Not towards him, but not having him with his own company. Then again, that had always been the plan, right? Marry him and slowly integrate him as an eventual full-time employee. 

Maybe even alongside him as COO or CFO— but that dream had fallen short the moment his fist connected with his cheek the first time. 

A month or so of healing and it was back to square one, it seemed. Part of him believed he deserved it. Both of them had in some way. Grayson deserved to be humiliated and Roman deserved a beating of a lifetime to make up for what he put others through— did he ever imagine it would come sooner than later, no, but it kept him on his toes. This relationship was dysfunctional. He subconsciously bit the drying skin on his lower lip, leg crossed over the other as he faced away from him. His steel gaze watching the passing scenery and cars with a look of mild interest despite the feeling of detachment filling his senses.

Getting out of the vehicle, gaze lowered on the way in. Several trains of thought crowded in his head, all focused on not crashing into one another and the next minute he was sitting across from his ex, menu in hand. Grayson’s question registered and reality flickered back into focus. A second chance. He suppressed the urge to laugh out loud. Reaching for the glass of water, he took a small sip, ruminating. Not pondering and chewing cud— no, he was actually considering the others words. He really was crazy.

“No,” he stated flatly. “What I did isn’t worth a second chance, let alone a second look. You wasted your time flying out here.” He wouldn’t make a scene, but he knew neither would Grayson. Not in the public’s eye. He glanced up at him, sadness nearly apparent in his features. Maybe it was exhaustion. “You should go back.” There was no malice in his tone; a simple suggestion. “A simple apology won’t satisfy you— so what is it that you want?”

When Grayson had first told his parents he was marrying a man, the first thing his mother said was “don’t you want a housewife?” -- a housewife. Grayson loved power in every single aspect of his life; his job, his relationships, his sex life. So why didn’t he wanted a domestic housewife to sit at home and clean and fulfill all those cliché, sexist stereotypes that were so revered in the 50′s? The answer was simple, that would be too easy, just like everything in his life had been. School, money, reputation, career, it all happened so seamlessly thanks to the family he was born into. Roman was the one part of his life that didn’t fit perfectly into the puzzle, and he loved it.

Roman was messy, toxic and infuriating. He made him smash plates and punch walls, punch him or break mirrors... Every other relationship he’d ever had (the girls in high-school, the boys in college), they’d all been so tame. They’d sit at his parents’ country club dinners and be docile, agreeing with whatever opinion Grayson held, or whatever side in a debate he took, they’d be quiet and respectful in the bedroom, always eager to please. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted someone to fight back and do what they truly wanted, not just do what they thought would appease him and give them access to the Beckett family name. Not once did Roman think he was with him for his status, certainly if he was it would’ve been a lot easier.

Getting out and being social wasn’t exactly in his repertoire of things he was good at. It wasn’t something he liked risking either but it had been a few months. If he were to be found by anyone, it would have happened by now, right? Sitting himself down a few stools from another patron, he wasn’t entirely certain he’d been speaking to him but he answered nonetheless.

“Think they might have some Don Julio kicking around back there,” he insisted, folding his arms over the edge of the bar. “Patrón if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Only if I can convince you to join me.” He wasn’t in the mood to drink alone, not tonight. Tonight he wanted company, and he wanted to drink until he couldn’t drink anymore. He summoned the bartender with a quick wave of his left hand, “four shots of Patrón,” he said as he turned to face the stranger, a smile pulling at his lips. 

𝐻𝑂𝑊 𝑄𝑈𝐼𝐶𝐾𝐿𝑌 the mood changed. Any outsider certainly would’ve thought them both bipolar, what else could it be? They went from being at each other’s throats, threatening to kill each other, to going out for a romantic dinner, bruises covered up and anger subdued. Any other relationship wasn’t like this, Grayson was aware, he’d been in a ‘normal’ relationship. It was boring and mundane, and he'd ended up cheating more times than he could count just to get some sort of passion back in his life. This was what he needed to keep him entertained, he needed Roman and his whirlwind of moods.

It was a miracle, a sign from above, that they’d met when they did. Grayson almost didn’t attend the benefit where he saw Roman for the first time. To think, if he hadn’t he wouldn’t have a daughter and he wouldn’t have a partner in life. He knew as soon as he saw him that he was attracted to him, that much was obvious, but what he didn’t know was that there would be an immediate connection -- so subtle and intense that he’d never be the same. He’d never look at another man or woman the same way, not without instantly comparing them to Roman. Were they as good looking? Were they as wild in bed? Could they keep him on his toes? The answer was more often than not ‘no’.

He dressed quickly, his suit strewn across the house haphazardly. His drink was gone now but he poured himself a second glass while he waited for Roman -- something to take the edge off of dinner. He wasn’t positive there wouldn’t be a fight, but he hoped there wouldn’t, not in public at least. When the other male sauntered down the stairs, his face stretched into a smile -- oh how he’d missed him. “Handsome, as always,” he complimented, leading the shorter male to the car. It wasn’t until they were in the car, driving towards the restaurant that the questions started.

Why was he there? More importantly, why wouldn’t Roman expect him to come back? Was he really so clueless as to think that he wouldn’t? “Wrong questions,” he hummed, “-- you should be asking me why it took me so long.” Clearly he was naive if he thought Grayson hadn’t been planning on coming to find him the second he disappeared. He shrugged, turning his face to Roman, “you’re an easy man to find, truth be told.” He was. His PI had found him in less than a few weeks -- they’d have to fix that. “Well, I’m not an unreasonable guy, Roman. You and I both know you made a mistake that day, and I’m here prepared to give you a second chance, should you deserve it.”

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑭𝑨𝑪𝑻 that Roman could even think he’d been planning on beating him and just letting him bleed out was beyond him. Grayson could and would admit that yes, he had some anger issues, but murdering the only guy he’d ever truly ‘loved’? That was a bit out of his league. He’d come close to it when he was at boarding school, but that was different -- - he’d had no real emotions for him. And that boy was taunting him, threatening to out his blossoming sexuality and experimentation with men to not only his parents, but the rest of his social circle. He couldn’t have that. He couldn’t have people labelling him as a ‘queer’, not back then. So he did what he had to do, and the boy had recovered eventually, albeit with a few more scars and a few less teeth than he had before.

Grayson wasn’t inherently evil, he just had rage problems, like half the people in America. Did he sometimes take them too far? Yes. But did Roman push him to do it? Always. In his eyes he was never unprovoked, his violence was always just a consequence of something Roman had done to bring it out. Just because Grayson was the bigger man, the one who could handle himself in a fight and the one who threw the punches didn’t mean Roman was innocent. 

“Au contraire, it seems you’re the one who was planning something here, not me,” he countered, motioning to the gun as he picked up the glass. He took a sip, the warmth of the alcohol filling his chest as he leaned back in his chair. “You should know me better than that, Roman. Our reservation’s at eight, michelin star, of course--” he looked down at his watch, a gift from his father, “-- which means if you’re going to maim me now you’d ought to hurry up.” 

The more she thought that she had dealt with every stupid person she could, the more Dawn found herself being proven wrong. The same client again, a man who would clearly not learn from his mistakes and really should be in jail. Though the retainer fee was enough that it paid off her apartment so Dawn really wasn’t going to complain much about needing to earn it. Though she was going to drink over it now that the case was over.

Sliding up to the bar she stopped when she heard the voice and Dawn shrugged. “Higher quality or higher alcohol percentage? Those are two different things,” The Scottish woman answered. Ordering herself a Scotch she looked at the man, “And what kinds of things you actually like to drink.”

“Higher quality alcohol, of course, do I look like I want to wake up with a cheap alcohol hangover?” He watched as she ordered, scotch was admirable but he wanted something a little stronger. “Reposado, on the rocks,” he said to the bartender, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, always pleased with some company.

Eevee has always shown precaution when drinking and has regarded herself to an alcohol free life unless Lenny, Oliver, or Lev are with her. There are very few people she trusts, even less so when she lets her inhibitions slip. As it is, she’s seated with her coworkers, a Sprite in her hand ignoring the constant jabs at her practically volunteering to be the designated driver. She doesn’t care nor will she let peer pressure push her into doing what she doesn’t want to do, but gives them a break and offers to buy the next round.

The man next to her at the counter reeks of self entitlement and Eevee’s only proven right with his apparent distaste with the place. Still, she dons the facade, pastes on the smile and flutters her eyelashes up at the stranger. “Aw come on, surely this bar isn’t too bad. Trust me I’ve been to worse.” She hasn’t. “Plus, what does it matter anyway when the ultimate goal is to get shitfaced?”

He chuckled, was that the ultimate goal? Surely not, he had to make it home somehow. Then again, he had the day off tomorrow and he could use something to take the edge off. He’d been in a foul mood for the past couple months, but that was finally subsiding now that he’d found Roman. Maybe he could stand to celebrate a bit and let loose? This girl certainly seemed like she was up to it.

Ellie loved The Pint just as much as the next person did, though it was in neutral territory that didn’t mean the occasional scuffle didn’t break out to keep her entertained, it was close enough to home that she could walk and it served beer. What more could a girl ask from a place? At the males question Ellie let a laugh tumble from her mouth. “I hate to disappoint you, but that’s not the type of bar you’re at.” She informed, a shrug following her words. “I mean if you’re looking for that type of stuff, I’d maybe recommend Cataleya, Skyfall bar might be more…your style.” 

Anyone who knew much in Chicago knew of the bar, she just wasn’t a frequent visitor herself, she preferred to keep her fingers after a visit to the bar and she didn’t need to run the risk to have a god time. “Besides, I’m a beer girl or I hit the martinis, so I wouldn’t even know what they have on the top-shelf, if they have one.” 

Unfortunately, the office he’d been having a meeting at was just around the corner from The Pint, and he was making do with what was available to him. “Oh, I guess you’ll have to play the part of my tour guide and show me those places sometime,” he said simply, with a shrug. He wouldn’t pass up an opportunity for someone to show him the good parts of Chicago, so far he hadn’t seen anything other than the inside of meeting rooms. 

Zedekiah’s index finger was gently tracing the rim of his glass, an almost inaudible hum ringing out through the Boyevik’s thoughtful trance. There wasn’t a particular reason the man was buried in a bar - he didn’t usually frequent The Pint, but he’d had a long consultation earlier that day. The complexity of the patient’s medical history had made an intricate puzzle that had Zed reconsidering the anaesthetic dose a couple times; he enjoyed the detailed ones; especially ones with the acidic-like body pharmacy. The desire for a drink afterwards usually came as a result, but never for too long; he couldn’t do the sitting still thing for extended periods. His eyes trailed the shape of the ice cubes from within the glass, vodka pooling around them as they floated helplessly under its potency.

During intermittent sips, a pleasant burn tore down Zedekiah’s throat, he managed to catch a neighbouring voice - it wasn’t exactly one that was easily ignored. It stuck out; obnoxious. A curve of a smile found its way to Zed’s lips, his finger pausing on the glass so he could grip it. Idle hands are never good. He needed to keep them moving somewhat, now fingers shifting into the active form on tapping. The stranger appeared to be in the wrong bar, Zed wasn’t any kind of tolerant of arrogant rudeness. “You like your vodka,” he mused, more as a statement than an actual question. A few moments pause, he then turned to address the unfamiliar patron. Let’s talk vodkas, shall we? “What exactly are you looking for? Beluga? Belvedere? Russo-Baltique?” he inquired with a hint of mocking behind his tone, he was expecting an answer that was probably as ignorant as the stranger seemed.

“Who doesn’t like their vodka?” This had become a nightly habit for him ever since Roman had left. Visiting his local bar every evening after a long day of work -- granted, his local watering hole in New York City was a steep step up -- but this would do for now, at least until he could convince Roman to move back to New York with him. Anything to curb the loneliness he felt ever since that fateful day, probably the same reason he tended to frequent Eden -- just to find some company. 

angel had had a long day herself, dealing with ignorant men who would rather try and show off than listen to what she was trying to tell them. especially when they tried to play it up like they knew more than her. they didn’t. 

she needed a drink, that was for sure. the pint was good and neutral and nearby. she hopped up on one of the bar stools and ordered. she raised her eyebrows at the sound of disdain and tried to resist rolling her eyes. “i like a lot of things here but something tells me you’re a wee bit picky,” she said, her southern twang slipping out slightly. 

“Picky isn’t really the right word. Refined is.” He shrugged, he’d struggled in different ways those ways just didn’t have to concern money. Didn’t make them any less important. Money and income was the one thing he could readily control in his life, through hard work and family name.

R: Is cheating ever okay?

If my partner cheats, no they don't deserve mercy. But I’m only human.

O: Where would I like to travel?

Where haven’t I been? Maybe Thailand.

S: 2 habits

Grinding my teeth, drinking too much and going to Eden. Whoops, that was three.

E: How many piercings I have.

Zero, it’s tacky.

T: 3 things I love unconditionally

“My daughter, myself, and occasionally Roman.”