[For Freddie] Bohemia, Bohemia is a fallacy in our heads

[ishouldtellyou]

The first bar he'd been 86'ed from hadn't been his fault.

The owner was a dick and a crass piece of shit and Roger didn't want to fuck his ugly wife. He'd been sore and miserable and could barely stand up and hiss boss had pushed him to break. That couldn't have been helped.

The second one -- that had definitely been his fault. The other bartender was skimming tips. He could have confronted him, could have told the boss, but no, Roger figured he could handle it. It was simple enough: the guy owed him $50 and Roger was going to get it. He was younger, could run faster, and had the advantage that no one knew about his poisonous blood. No one had any reason to fear him. No one could chase him. So maybe he took a little more than he was owed.

He couldn't go back to that place, and Roger would seek papal sanctuary before he would step foot inside that first bar again. Staying home meant inevitable suicide. Something in Roger was still ticking, even though all he wanted was to close the gap of eventuality. There had to be peace there. He'd never found it anywhere else.

On his first day at Styx, Roger found himself grateful that his plaid pants were tight. It seemed that was the uniform for both patrons and employees. Some weren't wearing very much at all. As a matter of fact, this place had looked a lot less... gay on the outside.

Not that Roger gave a shit. Everyone was a little gay sometimes. No amount of Ronald Reagan cowboy idolatry could wash that away.

The owner looked him over, then pointed him in the direction of a boy with albino-white hair... oh, no, that was just what the lights did. He was very blond, though, blonder than Roger. He was also clearly a person comfortable in his skin. That alone made Roger want a cigarette.

He got himself behind the bar and found the guy. "Freddie, right? I guess you're training me today." He didn't fucking understand why he needed training. Any monkey with a bulge in his pants could pour beer and swizzle martinis.

Comments

[thisfaceismine]

Ricky'd warned him about this two days ago: New guy; About Freddie's age; came with experience. Said he likely wouldn't need all that much, just someone to show him around a bit before letting him loose. Why Ricky had chose Freddie was beyond him until he'd realized with some amount of unpleasantness, that he was the longest standing employee at Styx now, not counting the queens who ran karaoke or Ricky himself.

There'd been no real choice in the matter, though Freddie'd managed to completely forget about it.

Til now.

"That's me," he says, wiping his hands off on the towel and slinging it over his shoulder, gaze dropping to take the guy in. He's about exactly as Ricky'd described with the added swagger of a typical American and Freddie cocks his head appreciatively before he holds out his hand. "Ricky gave me your name, but I'm afraid I've forgotten it already."

[ishouldtellyou]

Roger nearly sighed. Was this going to be no different than the first place where he was an object to be eyeball-groped and cornered into uncomfortable situations? The kind that made Roger come out swinging.

The guy extended his hand and Roger's asshole unclenched a little. As much as it ever could these days.

"I'm Roger," he said, shaking the dude's hand without looking too closely. There was a lot to take in, as there was with most bars. This wasn't the kind of place Roger was typically invited to play, and where he played, he usually ended up working. The machinations of a manager with an eye for what was pretty, for what sold. And oh, did Roger sell.

"Is there a lot of training?" Roger asked, eyeing the bar skeptical as fuck. At least this boss didn't have a handsy wife. At least no one here knew a thing about him.

[thisfaceismine]

There's an instant wariness to him, the guy's gaze dropping to Freddie's hand like he might be palming fire ants, but he still reaches for it all the same, the shake solid and firm.

Roger doesn't seem like a name that fits this guy's face, but Freddie only gives a nod and steps back, still noting the hesitance in every inch of the guy's manner. The decor of Styx is fairly blatant, nothing about it trying to hide the clientele it caters to. Freddie can't imagine Ricky would've hired this guy if he thought he'd have any sort of issue with it, but now he's starting to wonder.

"Only as much as you want there to be," he replies, stepping back toward the farther end of the bar. "If you want to figure it out on your own, that's fine by me."

[ishouldtellyou]

Freddie kept space between them. What if he knew? Roger didn't know how he would, but what else could that sort of distance mean? He didn't think he was so impolite that space was necessary. What if he saw his pager? What if he knew what wasting looked like? What if Roger was so paranoid that he wore his baggage on his bare arm, like the name tattooed across his knuckles.

"What is there to figure out?" Roger asked, settling into the bar, his arms bracketing his body in resting defense. "Do I need to dye the gin pink or some shit?" He'd heard something about signature drinks, but either he'd forgotten or he didn't give a fuck.

"You been working here long? How are the tips?"

[thisfaceismine]

His attitude is honestly not far off of what Freddie's had been when he'd first started. At his age, it's not like he didn't know how to pour a few drinks, after all. He'd discovered real quick just how little he actually knew and, after more than a few broken glasses and foul tasting concoctions, he finally got the hang of it.

And one thing he learned is, if you do it right, you don't need any bloody dye.

Pursing his lips, he arches an eyebrow at the guy and tips his head. "'Bout half a year or more. You ever tend bar before?" he asks, fairly certain he knows the answer.

He purposefully avoids the tipping question for now. Freddie's got a feeling it's one that won't matter much to Roger here for awhile.

[ishouldtellyou]

The most important question went ignored. Roger was annoyed. It didn't look like this guy was any great fan of his job, so what's the point of brown-nosing silence if he didn't give a shit?

It occurred to Roger that he might not like the answer. Something uncomfortable creeped over him. That happened a lot. For a while, Roger had let himself think it was that place. He knew the truth: his baggage had come with him from New York.

"Yeah, enough," Roger said, and he was sure of that much, at least. It was the only real job Roger had ever held. Sure, there was A 3-6 month turnover rate with Roger as an employee, but he could hold his own when he was there.

"What about tips?"

[thisfaceismine]

This guy doesn't like him, that much Freddie can tell. He doesn't care all that much, can only hope it's more personal than not because if this guy's going to decide he hates all gay people, this really isn't the place to be working.

Freddie arches an eyebrow when he asks again about tips, huffing out a laugh as he shakes his head. "Doubt that's something you'll have to worry about, honestly."

Wiping his hands off on the towel, he nods past Roger's shoulder where the alcohol is displayed on a three-tiered shelf. The glasses are below and mixers and sours littered across the counter top. "Let's see what you've got, hmm? Make me your best cocktail."