gold to rot, rot to gold.

The red hues of the lights that glittered around Glass House made Romanyuk believe it was the hues of the sunrise, that he had been there far longer than most. It had dissolved quickly into another scheme, though, and once more time was no more than a construct within its walls. The bass swallowed him whole, and he tilted his head back into the black that danced behind his eyes. Exhaustion was close, but his fingers found his lips and parted them with a bitter pill. He wouldn’t be gone until they’d kick him out, which with his reputation, was always a hit or miss if someone would beat the bouncer to it. The stillness he found on the swarming dance floor tugged at him, a hand grabbing his and spinning him. He let our a roar of laughter, swearing he could see it vibrate of the perspiration that glistened off the bodies of those around him. “Woah, woah, slow down or I’m gonna be sick,” Roman laughed, but he dipped into the turn of the room to match the pace of the music. His own body became slick with something, possible the spill of a drink mute against the bass. “Shit.”

The streets of LA were always something going on the streets. Kennedy had stepped out of the studio for the some air and to sneak in a vape when he heard the hollering down the street. He started to roll his eyes at who ever was stuck in the middle of the cameras. It was a bit of a show or a bit until heard the familiar voice. "Oh, shit." He knew when he heard Foster's voice, shit was going to go down. "This is going to be good." He ventured over as the other musician and the crowd. He only heard a bit of the speech that was being said. Gladly every lens weren't focused on him, that Kennedy slipped by Foster. "What in the hell did I miss out here?" He light heartedly laughed, pressing his vape to his lips. Slowly the paps were going on their way finding some other victim. "Fuck those guys. They never know when to stop especially when we just want a smoke."

"Fuckin' hell, when did we order those buffalo wings, a fuckin' hour ago? I told them it was a rush order. Dimitri usually knows to rush it when it's me callin'." Foster's southern twang came out even more when he was mad as he sighed, shaking his head. He was perched up on the toilet, the seat was down and he was rolling a single joint in his hands and sighing. "You have to stop sayin' shit like that, Roman, or you're gonna get slapped one of these days. Regret nights like this? Where I come from, night like this are fuckin' treasured. Are you done with your fuckin' bath now?" He asked, sighing. "I'm just about done with this - or do you wanna recite another monologue, bitch?" The drummer joked, his lips in concentration with what he was doing, a faint smirk on his lips.

How he ended up reaching out to Foster Underwood of all people was beyond Roman, but he'd been told he was losing his sense a long time ago. It seemed that in the face of losing what little substance and connotation he had, he was testing every resolution to fill it.

Queue Foster, a couple of dime bags of weed, and an aimless night in the middle of the week. Even Roman had to admit after the adrenaline rush of a night like this, having nothing to do was a waste of it— he just hadn't expected it to die off so quickly after he left the stage. The burn that he longed for had faded into a pain he taught himself to recognize as triumph and the more it hurt, the better he'd done. Though with nothing to dull his ailment once the deed was completed, Roman was left fighting the slick touch of porcelain and too many suds.

Foster let out an annoying groan, head falling back dramatically. If it was one thing Foster was since coming to Hollywood, it was dramatic. Like an impatient, sensitive child, he wanted what he wanted when he wanted it and he despised having to wait. Usually he had his own roadies and crew to do things like this for him, but seeing as he was spending his time in Sherman Oaks with Roman - it was something else altogether. "You should have an assistant or some shit - some little bitch kid that will get you shit ASAP. Enough of this waiting shit. Don't you ballet dancers got shit like that? You're the ones breakin' your fuckin' bones, doin' that shit you guys do. Shouldn't you guys get some of the benefits? You're the fuckin' monkeymakers, right?"

Foster rolled his eyes and sighed, going back over to grab his own beer as he skimmed through the Rolling Stone he was looking at. "How much does a male ballerina even make, kid? I wanna know - maybe I'll switch fuckin' careers." He was joking, of course - just to get at Roman, but there was a laugh to think of himself twirling around on stage. He did with his guitar most nights, but headbanging and ballet were very different art forms.

As long as it had taken him to find this bar, it was worth it. He'd been looking for a place that wasn't rife with VIP sections and celebrities name-dropping for entry. He was still acclimating and far preferred the familiarity of dusty tabletops and sticky floors to anything else. He knocked back his beer, taking a long pull off it, his gaze glued on the fight playing on the screen across from him. The guy was getting pulverized, back up against the cage, getting pummeled until his guard broke. He watched blood go spraying, the commentator's voice getting drowned out by the bar's sudden eruption, as they watched the guy get KO'd, straight to the mat.

"Fuckin' hell, when did we order those buffalo wings, a fuckin' hour ago? I told them it was a rush order. Dimitri usually knows to rush it when it's me callin'." Foster's southern twang came out even more when he was mad as he sighed, shaking his head. He was perched up on the toilet, the seat was down and he was rolling a single joint in his hands and sighing. "You have to stop sayin' shit like that, Roman, or you're gonna get slapped one of these days. Regret nights like this? Where I come from, night like this are fuckin' treasured. Are you done with your fuckin' bath now?" He asked, sighing. "I'm just about done with this - or do you wanna recite another monologue, bitch?" The drummer joked, his lips in concentration with what he was doing, a faint smirk on his lips.

       Lauren stands still in the middle of the room, her eyes closed and her breath steady. Her body was ready to move, to let the music sweep her away. The bass started and her feet begins to move, slowly at first as if she was savouring each moment. The music becomes louder, it begins thumping, and Bex let the rhythm take her away. The blond spins and twirls in her spot, her body free and unencumbered. In her own little world, Bex was the only one there, but she was dancing for two. She was dancing as if she was thirsty, her body yearning for something it could never quite reach.

       As the music builds higher, her movements grow more frenetic, as if she was shaking off the pressure of the world on her shoulders. Every spin, every dip, every jump was an attempt to break free of the invisible chains that bound her. It’s been exactly one month since the passing of her father. It had been a quick death, sudden, as she was told by the doctors who had attempted to revive him. And Bex hates him for it. She now harboured so much anger and resentment toward Wayne Bexley. More than she has ever before. Especially now that he’s still fucking with her, challenging her while he’s dead quiet in his guady and golden coffin.

Foster couldn't help but go back to old familiar spots - the Prayer Factory being one of them. An iconic institute that allowed him to let himself be free, to party - and Foster knew how his partying could lead to old habits - old habits he would much rather get rid of. Gambling was the lethal one he knew, but drinking, partying, getting loaded, it was all up there too. He hadn't been there a full hour before he saw the beautiful blonde dancing and he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. He smirked, watching as he grabbed another drink, talking to a few friends, but doe eyes always went back to her.

Kennedy recognized Foster instantly even with his disguise going on. He laughed at his words. "Kid? Fuck, I didn't grow out my beard for be called kid." Kenny gestured to his barely visible stubble. It had been a while since he saw Foster. The last tour they went on together was a while back. Kenny wasn't sure if Foster, coming from a way bigger band than his own, would actually remember him. "Oh, no. Never on my own. But I decided why the hell not start." Kenny slapped the surf board he had under his arm. "I've heard things about these beaches. That's why I need to record it." Quickly rummaged for his phone. "Can you get a video of me for my socials?"

Foster had to chuckle when he looked up at the blonde and smirked. "Well, listen - you don't know how much I love these fuckin' pants. Ozzie Osbourne thrifted them to me - but ay, drinks, I like just the same, honey." He smiled, shrugging, that boyish charm that Foster had. "I hope ya don't paint me a picture about this - me with wet, stained pants. I could be your new inspiration, but it'd have to cost ya." He teased, hand up to rub over his growing in scruff.

Tiffany? Rachel? God why are there so many names? Hers was a hazy blank spot in the depths of his alcohol soaked memory. With a swift movement he was through the crowd, if there was one thing the young Allard had learned, it was how to get away from someone who was trying to confront him. For a final measure he would duck into one of the overcrowded booths. Icy blues surveyed his options, Batchelor party. Pass. Men that were enjoying the spectacle far too much. Hard Pass. Eyes land on a booth that seemed to be here for what he was, the drinking. Settled. Finishing off his drink in one fell swoop and allowing the glass to rest on a passing tray Oliver made his way to the booth, getting turned around at the last second by a burly man escorting a very guilty looking man towards the exit. Hip met table, and the sound of glass falling was all too audible in the too loud club.

Expecting was a fickle thing, knowing the clientele of this establishment, Ollie had his notions of what the reaction to a spilled drink would be, this was not that. A small smirk played out across his features, lighting his eyes, "all good over here" his voice was cool and calm, slender fingers reaching for the glass, placing it on the waitresses tray. An almost laugh leaving his lips, while he wasn't one to apologize, he was one to buy forgiveness "I'll do you one better, drinks for the table are on me, all night" He turned to the woman helping them "put this table on Allard, anything they want". With the moments business out of the way, he pushed himself into the open seat across from him. "favorite pants huh?" his eyes wandered slowly down his frame. "you wore your favorite pants to a place like this?" a small gesture to the place around them, "this is more of a fifth favorite pair kind of place" a small pause lingered, as he let his eyes slowly come back to Fosters face "no ones even going to see them" a sly grin teasing at his lips "not for long by someone that warms your sheets if you're fortunate, and not at all by the public if you're lucky"

Foster knew Oliver. Living in this town long enough, everyone knew who Oliver and his family were - the diamond heir was someone he had hung around, had partied with. It was people like Oliver who Foster liked to be around, people of the world, who could afford anything they truly wanted. It was something so foreign to Foster growing up, when a plain pair of shoes was something he often went without. That little boy though from Macon, Georgia, was no more - here stood a rich musician, famous and full of notierty, but still - Foster at times still felt like the poor kid who hung out on his porch's first step most nights because he couldn't stand the fighting of his parents.

"And there he is - Mister Diamond. Sorry I didn't see you there, I was distracted by the cute hustlin' right in front of me, kid. How ya doin'? Haven't seen you in a stitch, have I?" Foster had barely seen anyone since getting out of rehab and of course the first people he bumps into - it had to be him. Nothing could quite trigger a relapse more than seeing Oliver. "Oh, yeah, is it? Well, for royalty like you, kid, I'm sure your first favorite kind of place is somethin' really shiny and pretty. Why don't you tell me all about it? Drinks on you - look at you, already bein' so generous and kind. I like that. Daisy, baby, why don't you cop someone else's joint for a while?" He kissed the dancer on the lips as she nodded and walk away, and he turned his attention to Oliver.

this is certainly not xirin's type of crowd. in fact, she wouldn't even be caught showing up at a place like this on a good day. it's supposed to be someone's birthday party; one of her costars' from an upcoming project that hasn't even begun filming yet, but everyone seems hellbent on a get-together to mingle and bond and for her to skip out on the invitation doesn't seem too nice now. though, now she thinks she's close to having a headache. she has nothing against the place, really. she just much prefers to laze around in bed all night and be a boring person. in an attempt to move past the growing pile of people dancing and snuggling up to each other, xirin barely has half the mind to watch out for the ones seated when she's too busy avoiding the moving and wriggling ones. the next thing she knows, she seems to be the cause of someone's misery of the night.

The torment was as close as he could get to resolution in his retaliation against his vices. Wiping his fingers along the stick of a bar counter after one too many drinks, biting into a lime or an olive to salivate at the anticipation of something stronger, listening to a slur and feeling it slick on is own tongue— Sinclair could relish it all from a distance. He carried some false sense of faith that as long as he didn't hold a drink, he could keep himself from stumbling out. Soon enough, just as his manager told him, he would have to walk into rooms like these and know how to act. He told himself this was what he needed to do in order to learn how not to behave, but survive. But as he leaned forward to ask for another cup of garnish, a heavier glass was put in his hand. He could smell the fumes of ever bridge that would burn under its influence. "For you, sent from over there," The bartender greeted him with the gift and a nod towards the other end of the bar. Sinclair turned his head away quickly, sliding the glass over to the person next him. Maybe they could skip the line with whatever prize sloshed over the the crystal edge lined with salt. "Take it," He said. "It's on me. I doubt whoever sent it over knows what I drink anymore."

Go out and get back out there, they said. It'd be fun, they said. Go and introduce yourself back into society. That was what his manager had told him, his producers - and in all honesty, Foster didn't mind going back on the scene. He liked the admiration from his fans, from everyone that told him that he missed him - it filled something inside him that had to be great validation and confidence. Walking over to greet a few people he had managed to catch up on, Foster turned around and smiled, taking his sunglasses off to get a proper look at the mop of blonde curls that sat there.

California and Australia were not much of a change for Kennedy. The sun, the cities and the beaches were not much of a difference for him. But in California, Kennedy was free to do what he loved. Making music was his life passion. But that didn't mean he didn't get homesick from time to time. The sunny beaches were a bit of a comfort for him. It the same waters that he saw back in home. Kennedy wasn't going to deny he had this certain look, tall blonde and built physique. He looked like someone who could surf. He's been told that by multiple people, even a few of his bandmates. And today he was going to change that. Maybe.

He gotten so far as to renting a surf board. He had taken lessons before but they didn't go well that he didn't take them back up. But he learned enough to go on his own. Yet he was still standing on the beach. "Hey, quick question." Kenny turned to the person. "By just looking at me, how many years do you think I've surfed? For science."

The good old California sun. Coped up in that gamblers anonymous facility was never good for Foster and so the sun felt good on his skin. With sunglasses on, he toured the Venice Beach - a few people stopping him here and there for a few signings, but mostly - it was lowkey. He wanted to feel the sand underneath his feet and so Foster took off his boots and felt the sand - the way freedom felt to him, it was like this. Back where he grew up - there was no water, no sand. Just railroad tracks and dumpsters for miles. When the young kid stopped him, Foster did a double take and took off his sunglasses to look him up and down. At first, he thought he was a fan, but smirked when he asked the question.