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The fifth alarm of the night went off somewhere near Grayson’s head, and that was when he finally began to look for it. There were too things he immediately noticed. One, he didn’t feel the way he normally did when he woke up. No dizziness, no nausea, no headache. He actually was just groggy. And his phone seemed to have disappeared somewhere in his nest of pillows and fluffy warm blankets. Probably because Gray had fallen asleep texting with a really cute Algerian boy who had been ripped for the gods, with golden eyes that had stared right into his soul. When he finally found his cell, the bright light of it made his vision blur. He had the television on in the background (but that was always the case). Harper Rock didn’t quite have the urban sounds of New York, and Gray himself had grown up in a home where there were people constantly around. Normally he left it on a channel he knew would play through the night because it helped him get to sleep, hearing silent chatter. His thumb passed over the screen, and he was treated not only to the text box with the guy he’d been talking to the night before, but an image which he assumed was meant to impress him.

He stared at it for a few moments and then glanced down. “Nothing, Captain?” He asked. His hand dropped so he could squeeze himself loosely and then he sighed. “Yeah, I thought not. Ah well. We tried.” And then he closed the message without bothering to reply. Which was about the time that he finally realized what the alarms were all for. He knew himself well enough to know that he didn’t wake up easily. Not even in the best of situations. He had recently been working nights at a local club. On the plus side, the owner loved him, because he was good with the clients. On the bad side, there was a very strict policy where, if you were on the clock, you couldn’t drink. Apparently there had been a few instances where some of the gogo dancers had lost their dinner all over patrons. Rumour was that it had been a bad case of the flu, but the owner was not the kind of woman to take chances. Tips were pretty good, but tending a bar was not a career.

In fact, the only job that Grayson had arguably ever been very good at was modeling. It was perfect for him. Good pay. And all he really had to do was take care of himself and be cut throat. Easy. Right? So he was splurging on a professional photographer to help flesh out his lookbook. He had been in highschool when he’d done most of his modeling, and his looks had reflected that. Now he was a grown up, and he’d been through ‘some things’. His career choice before had been made for fun. Now? Now he actually needed and wanted money, so he needed to be taken seriously. People had to know that he could sell not only a garment, but a mood, an atmosphere, and himself all in one or two pictures. And the alarm? The alarm was for the shoot. He had several of his clothing choices all ready to go. He’d made connections with a local designer and had convinced her to give him access to her summer line. She was going to get his free services, and she was going to make sure he didn’t look destitute in his images. Win win situations and all that.

He scurried out of bed, and immediately began to tug on a pair of comfortable black joggers for men. His shirt was long and white, and his hoodie matched the pants. But then a lot of his wardrobe was black purely out of convenience. During the entire process of getting dressed, he had been searching through his messages, looking for the few texts he’d exchanged with the photographer, so he could find the location they had settled on. Minutes later, he was out the door and on his way, typing with one thumb just before he boarded into the elevator down to the lobby.

TO ADLEY : HEY! It's your six o'clock. I'm gonna be a couple of minutes late. I am soooooo sorry. Will make up for the inconvenience when I get there.

He had loaded into his shoddy little car by the time he got a text back. The vehicle looked like it was held together by duct tape and rust. In fact, it didn’t even really have a distinctive make or model - though it looked as if it originated from some point in the 1980’s. It was also one of Grayson’s proudest possessions, because it was one of the very first big ticket items he’d purchased with his own ‘hard earned’ cash. It had literally sold for only a few hundred dollars, and it had been a miracle the thing worked at all. The situation was not at all made better by the fact that it survived basically on fumes. The speedometer and gas gauge did not work properly and Grayson had learned how to time exactly how long it took driving for him to go from ‘next to no gas’ to ‘absolutely ******* bone dry’. This was only relevant because he insisted on only ever putting about a tenner’s worth of fuel in at any given time.

He had just stuffed his garments into the car and was already low-grade cursing up a storm about how cold it was when he felt the light buzzing. Seconds later, he was pouring over the brief message and typing up a response, which he soon submitted.

TO ADLEY: BB I can skate, do back flips, dance, sing, and twirl if it means getting a good picture.

Yeah, Gray could totally skate. He’d even gone through that phase not all that long ago, as evidenced by the board that was half tucked under his bed, just waiting for the day when he got up wrong, and wound up with his face planted against the wall. Beyond that though, he knew exactly how challenging modeling could be. There was this common belief that a person just needed to never eat, and they could pull it off with a repertoire of facial expressions and poses. On the contrary, getting the aesthetic right and selling the garment often meant that a model also had to be an actor. Only where an actor had the luxury of time to convey an emotion or make people feel a certain way - a model had to be able to evoke the same with a still frame. It took dedication, confidence, and skill. There were plenty of things Gray wasn’t great at, but an even larger number he was passably competent with. Barring that, he had the nerve to fake it with the best of them.

Minutes later, he was pulling up to the abandoned warehouse, and yanking the outfits from his car. They were thankfully all on hangers, in vinyl garment bags for their own protection. His friend, Hollace the designer, had basically told him that if he wasn’t careful, she was going to use his sac as a legit pin cushion if even a single seam was torn. It was as he approached Adley, and the area which looked like a well list industrial skate park that he noticed the man had decided to join him in his eventual misery. Out in the freezing cold in shorts. Grayson was not looking forward to it at all, but that was the life he was signing up for. And frankly, he needed a break. Ever since the parents had cut him off due to some less than spectacular life choices, he had been struggling to make ends meet. He’d come to accept that his hastily improvised band (made up of a bunch of guys he’d met at a local club), was probably dead in the water.

“Hey man!” He called out as he approached. “Nice kicks.” He commented as he neared, and then his arms flung open so he could move to embrace the photographer, clothes still dangling from one hand. “Great to meet you, by the way. You got any place set up for me to change?” he asked. He had noticed that there was something a little off about Adley upon meeting him, but Grayson didn’t seem at all bothered by it. But he was also young enough that he belonged to a generation which naturally seemed to appreciate the differences between people. Besides. One of the perks of working in an industry driven by appearance and image was that he got to work with extremely attractive people all of the time. Back in New York, he’d been surrounded by them. In that way, it was a little like going back home for the first time in ages.

There were a few things that Grayson noticed when he hugged Adley. The first, was that the other man didn’t seem to give off body heat. Of course, Gray was aware of this because he had totally been hoping to leech a little off of his new acquaintance. Despite the fact that New York could get very cold, Gray had always been a bit of a priss when it came to that kind of thing. The truth was just that he didn’t like even the tiniest of discomforts or inconveniences. The second thing he noticed was that the other man was very firm to the touch. It was similar, in some ways, to the inflexibility of bone, more rigid than tense muscle - though about that, he didn’t think too much. The final thing Gray noticed was that there was this ambiance about the photographer. He felt a little bit dangerous. LIke it wasn’t exactly the greatest idea to get so close to him.

Indeed, there was something of a shift when they touched, in the air. For the first time in a long time, Gray felt just a little nervous. Like he was about to be caught smoking at school. In fact, it was very similar to the first time the model had come into contact with illicit substances. Wrong and alluring all at once. Exhilarating. And even from brief contact, he felt a little bit weaker as he pulled away. Like someone had sucked the oxygen out of his lungs, and there was just a little bit of tension bubbling in his chest. The odd thing was that he kind of liked it. Sort of like how a very small dose of poison could actually make a person feel good as opposed to being purely toxic.

He pulled away, and tried to shrug the feeling off. As if it hadn’t happened. Jesus, G, you need to get laid. Badly. You’re beginning to go a little crazy. Except there was a far more logical conclusion to be drawn, and it was one he arrived at probably a lot later than he should have, in order to protect the pretense that he was a bright guy. Adley was a vampire.

Adley was a vampire.

He didn’t even really think all that much of it. He’d lived in Harper Rock long enough that he’d worked with the undead, interacted with them, befriended some. They were no different to him, than anyone else in the world. Which was to say that the things that separated humans from vampires were no more important than religion or the color of one’s skin. People were unique and varied, and it was these variations that created an attractive community. LIke the philosophy which stated that beauty was not perfection, but the right combination of imperfections arranged in a pleasing way. On the whole, Gray just thought that he wanted to be appreciated for his own thoughts and merits. Not dismissed as the admittedly (sometimes) airheaded rich boy, who was out of touch with reality. He figured it was for the best to extend other people the same courtesy.

He looked at himself in a cracked mirror and his lips twisted with displeasure. His hair looked ridiculous, and he rifled through his things after turning on the water - which at first came out dark and gunky. Moments later, he was wetting his hair just a little so he could apply just enough product to give it hold. His hair itself was naturally thick, and didn’t need extra texture, but he hated the overly coiffed, slicked back, or greasy look. So the goal was just to give it enough movement to look unintentionally tousled.

And then, after pulling on the warmest garment he’d been given (he could tell it was going to be a long evening), he slipped back into the main part of the warehouse, shooting Adley a grin. “So I was always taught that the photographer and designer are the artists, and the model is their medium. You mentioned skating? Where do you want me?”

The warehouse space was a little bit warmer than the bathroom/changing area had been, or maybe that was just Gray’s perception, based on the lighting and good intentions. He felt as cool as the fabric he was wearing, the white more reminiscent of the snow which coated everything outside, than of anything found in the summer months. In truth, he had no clue what his designer friend had been thinking, though his own style tended to be a lot more urban. The white suit was the type of thing that one might have found in the ‘South’. The ‘South’ in this case referring to the bottom coast of the United States. It should have come with a hand fan, a teacup filled with chicory tea, and a wide plantation hat. The outfit didn’t speak at all to modern sensibilities, and certainly wouldn’t have been found in Grayson’s personal wardrobe. Well. At least not without major modification. “Brave is usually just a nice way of saying crazy, dumb or some combination thereof.”

Not that Gray took that as an insult. People liked to say that he was reckless, that he was a dreamer, with his head in the clouds. That he was a performer who loved attention and demanded the best when he could only afford the worst. He could hardly argue those traits, and they too might have been considered crazy. Or dumb. Or just plain young. He stretched where he stood, in part so that he could limber up. Whoever said that modeling entailed posing had lost touch with fashion at some point in the 1980’s to 90’s. The age of voguing, of models relying on a series of fall back looks was long over. A model had to be willing to do anything for the shot, for the client. He also wanted to loosen up the stiff fabric just a little bit. The suit wasn’t nearly as comfortable as he would have liked, and he had to make it look as if he had been born wearing it.

This gave him the opportunity to peer momentarily into Adley’s eyes as if to ask what their partnership would produce. “Accurate.” He said, and then chuckled. The sound was surprisingly deep. Nobody ever expected his dry, ragged baritone. Didn’t really fit the pretty boy image. His laughter itself dipped even lower, though it animated his features. “I don’t mind dancing around, but not in this outfit please. You know what doesn’t need to be on a magazine cover? My Calvin Klein’s, because my designer drastically misjudged the way a crotch should fit, and I’ve ripped a seam.”

The shirt, at the very least, had a nice print. Maybe she would let him keep it. Or maybe he would just take it and say he misplaced it.

Gray decided he liked how quick to laugh Adley was. If the photos turned out alright, he would have to look into working with the guy in the future. Or maybe he just liked the way he smiled.

He followed along after the photographer, back arching to pop his vertebra with a sound of satisfaction. “Right. Cement tubes. Playground.” He had seen the concrete construction pipes in the past. In fact, there had been one in the very park he’d played around in as a child. The inside had been scrawled over with tons of graffiti despite the park being in an upscale neighbourhood. It had also been carefully supported by dirt all around, and a bridge built overtop. He and his friends had always pretended that it was a troll bridge, and would take turns being the troll. He loved that game. Especially when he got to be the troll because it meant he got to chase the other boys and girls around, and wrap them in a massive (well, for the age of about eight to ten) bear hug.

His expression was very briefly distant. He could fake happy, but when it was real, it showed like sunlight reflecting off of still water. The question he found himself asking (though not out loud) was whether he wanted to maintain the pristine white. Or if he wanted to get it a little dirty. He knew the answer to that was usually the latter. He knew if he returned the garments scuffed and messy, he was going to get a ranty, angry phone call. But he knew he could make it look good. Make people want to be him. Be in those dirty clothes.

He approached the concrete, and grabbed onto the top of one with a little jump, and hauled himself, as if he were doing a pullup. Easy enough. His body was his trade, and he did crunches, push up, and pull ups daily. Even when he didn’t actually hit the gym. He decided to show off, and let go with one of his hands, his wrist twisting to let him briefly face (mostly) the opposite direction before he had to let go and drop to his feet, ending up in a crouch before he righted himself. Playground. Maybe he could...He backed away. Yeah. He totally could.

Seconds later, he was sprinting towards the gray cylinders, only to make a jump. He caught the lip of the column at its wide mouth, along the top, and then he was flipping forward. He nearly shaved his head off, but ended up in a loose somersault onto the rounded topside. He sprang up onto his feet with a sound of triumph and another laugh. Despite the roughness, his suit was actually still mostly pristine, if a little scuffed in the back. He ended up twisting around, stepping forward and flopping to sit down on the edge, legs dangling over. His hands pressed to the solid concrete under him, between the lazy sprawl of his legs.

“I hope you know I intend to straddle this monster from the other end at some point. Maybe we won’t send that picture though.”

Finish the job first. Adley didn’t have to tell Grayson twice, because as much as the model loved to goof off, and have a good time, there was also this very thin taut string of seriousness inside of him. When he’d been the pampered son of the New York elite, he’d gone out of his way to shirk duty. His father had expectations of him, which he knew he was never going to live up to. Getting lost in a sea of alcohol and bodies, in revelry, had been a kind distraction from his need to grow into his responsibilities. Being cut off was an apt term. For a time, it had felt like one of his limbs had been missing. But it had also created a hunger deep inside of him. Not an insatiable appetite for a party (though old habits did die hard). He had, in his early twenties, realized that he did have dreams, and he did have motivation. Starving artists. He was one of them.

It was, he supposed, that eureka moment. That second when everything just clicked and made sense in his mind. He wanted to travel the world. He wanted to see all of its light and darkness and beauty and debauchery first hand. When he’d had the means to do this, he couldn’t have been bothered. But now? Now, when he could barely scrape together rent on a **** hole apartment, he needed to visit the brothels of Amsterdam, the brilliant casinos of Monaco. He needed to see the vibrant nightlife of New York City, and experience the best shows Las Vegas had to offer. He needed to witness the sun setting behind the ocean on the beaches of the Caribbean, and immerse himself in the deep blue waters of Mykonos. He wanted to frivolously spend every dime at the shops in Paris.

So no, Adley didn’t have to offer up instruction or insight more than once.

He lost himself in his thoughts of his youth as he looked upwards. He caught sight, in that moment, of a tiny fat bird with a black cap for a head, and bright white plumage at its breast. The thing looked like a ball of puff, and it was nestled asleep into a metal rafter near the top of the warehouse. He watched the way its chest moved as it steadily breathed in and out. Then, right Gray was about to drag his gaze away, the little thing’s eyes opened like pools of darkness. They might have been tiny black, shiny seeds. It jumped from its nest and fluttered away - probably to one of the nearby fastfood joints so that it could gorge itself on stale buns or tortillas. But that gave Grayson an idea. He was up on his feet without warning. He could tell that Adley was still taking images. He was near the edge and he leapt up and out, towards the camera.

Let us be Icarus today. See, not brave. Dumb.

He looked, for a moment, as if he was truly going to stay aloft. Like sheer willpower was all he needed to float along after that pudgy bird. His jacket seemed to have lost the effects of gravity and it moved like a cape at his back. Or like it might transmorph into wings.

He dropped like a stone a moment later. He landed on one knee, and one foot, looking for all the world like he was about to give a proposal. Of course, the contact with the ground itself had obscured the sound of his crotch tearing, which he’d mentioned as if by prophecy only a moment before. The wind was knocked out of him briefly, but he was practically radiating light. Thankfully the tear was completely without notice given his stance and didn’t show up until he had bounced up onto his feet again with a grin. That had been fun. “****. I need to change. Give me a moment.” He said, though he made no move to cover the hints of bright blue showing through the white. He was probably going to get reamed out for having torn the pants, but. Eh. Actually, he could probably stitch it himself. Avert the crisis entirely. “Actually, I need your eyes. Help me pick which outfit to go with next.” He called out as he neared the back area. He’d already pulled the coat off.