My new side project. It was one of those ideas that just sort of occurred to me, and I was so into it I couldn't put it in the back of my mind or else it'd drive me crazy, so this will run alongside Attending Fuckface Academy for a while. I don't have as grand as plans for this story as I do for AFA, though, so don't get frightened! You can still expect the AFA update on Valentine's Day. As far as the next update for this, who knows. This is a rich vs poor AU dynamic type thing for Skwisgaar and Toki, which basically means me having way too much fun coming up with douchey rich boy outfits to put a young Skwisgaar in, but whatever. I only hope you guys are as into that as I am.
The car ride to their new summer home in Andromeda's Vineyard is, naturally, long and painful. Skwisgaar is sitting on the right side of the backseat of Oscar Explosion's expensive as fuck car, his face in his hand and his fingers twirling his hair around themselves. Nathan, his new stepbrother, is asleep, drooling and snoring against his own window. His mother has a hand on Oscar's knee and Oscar is driving fast, carefree and dangerous. Skwisgaar, apathetic, jangles a leg, mourning the death of his phone an hour back, which he had been using to read music world gossip and suffer through a text conversation with his half-girlfriend, Trindle, before the battery ran out.
Oscar snaps the car around a corner, Skwisgaar bracing himself so his head doesn't conk into the window and Nathan waking from his sleep with a start. They depart from the narrow highway onto a backwoods road that needs to be paved, Oscar's car taking it with ease. Five minutes down that, a behemoth of a mansion is unearthed. The house is glorious: four stories tall, built two hundred years ago but remodeled into a fashionable fusion of old and new, the intricate iron gates standing tall and proud in the June sunlight. Oscar slams the breaks just a few inches behind them and leans out the window, tapping a code into the security box. The gates slide open into an arched driveway, the doors to the mansion sitting at the vertex and a manicured lawn filling the space between, that Oscar glides the car across with ease.
Oscar, Nathan, Skwisgaar's mother and Skwisgaar spill out from the vehicle and stand in the shadow of their summer house, shielding their eyes. Skwisgaar is impressed in a mild kind of way, more wanting to get inside his temporary bedroom and jack off to the picture Trindle sent of her tits, but his mother is tittering on about how great and big it is, hanging off of Oscar's arm and practically cooing the innuendos. Skwisgaar looks over the car at Nathan, sharing a disgusted look with him.
"Let's go inside," Oscar says, curving a hand down Skwisgaar's mother's arm. "I called ahead, Jean-Pierre has prepared us lunch."
"I've never had a cook before," Skwisgaar's mother says, and the focus on getting her English correct forces her to speak slowly, stupidly. Another shared look of disgust with Nathan and they're walking up the steps to the house.
It smells like mothballs inside, but otherwise it's pleasant. The entranceway has a high ceiling and an ornate tiled floor. They head to their right, where a large, formal dining room awaits them. In the dining room are two people, a crippled older man in chef's clothes and a teenage boy with raggedy hair that looks younger than Skwisgaar himself.
"Toki," Oscar says, nodding at the boy with the raggedy hair. He nods once, ripping his eyes from the nothingness he'd been staring into to Oscar's face. "Unpack our bags, would you? Serveta and I are staying on the suite in the second floor, Nathan has the master on that same floor, and Skwisgaar's in the master on the third." Toki nods again and unclamps his hands from behind his back, walking past them and, presumably, out to the car.
"Sir," the man in chef's clothes, whom Skwisgaar assumes to be Jean-Pierre says, "your brunch will be out in just a minute. Looking forward to cooking for you again." He, too, nods and flees, this time out a door at the end of the dining room.
"Who was the boy?" Serveta has once more attached herself to Oscar, fingers dancing along where the sleeves of his polo expose his upper arm.
"The groundskeeper's boy, I think his name is Toki. His father died in the winter, a tragedy, so be nice to him." He says the last part to Skwisgaar and Nathan, turning around; Nathan rolls his eyes and Skwisgaar waves his hand, dismissing the thought.
Jean-Pierre returns then, opening the door with his back while he carries dishes in his hands. He sets them on the table and Skwisgaar looks at them: some sort of fancy egg dish, an elaborate salad, French bread. They take their seats at the table, Oscar sitting at the head with Serveta to his right and Nathan to his left, Skwisgaar beside Nathan, and allow Jean-Pierre to serve them. Skwisgaar picks at his food, eating the cherry tomatoes out of the salad and ripping the inside of the French bread from its shell, and waits an appropriate amount of time to excuse himself from the table and get settled in his room.
There he finds Toki, lugging Skwisgaar's suitcases through a door propped open with a wastebasket. Skwisgaar leans in the doorframe, crosses his arms and watches him. He can't be but a handful of years younger than Skwisgaar, and has the look of somebody that's just started growing into themselves, his narrow body tapering into rounded muscles at point sand spots of acne revealed with his hair pushed behind his ears. The shirt he's wearing is ill-fitted, half a size too big, and his cargo shorts hang low on his hips, his socks bunching at the ankles, and there's a thin strip of sweat soaked across his lower back. Skwisgaar's amused—it's quaint, really, and he knows he should be nice to the help but feels no inclination to do that whatsoever.
"Dones?" he asks, and Toki freezes, hunched over the last of Skwisgaar's bags. He's placed them at the foot of the bed. He turns around, eyes wide.
"I didn't hear you come in. Yes, I'm finished."
Skwisgaar recognizes the accent in Toki's tone—Norwegian, with the vowels of a villager. Interesting. Skwisgaar raises an eyebrow, trying to nonverbally browbeat the other boy out of the room. Toki seems to pick up because he ducks his head and shuffles past Skwisgaar, arms that are a bit too long for his body swinging by his sides. He removes the wastebasket and shuts the door behind him, and Skwisgaar laughs into his empty room.
He digs around in his bags for his phone charger and searches the walls for an outlet, finding one, blessedly, between the nightstand and the huge bed. He plugs the phone in and gets up to lock the door while it turns on, tendrils of arousal curling in his abdomen. He pushes his salmon twill shorts down and reaches his right hand into his boxers, using the left to bring up his conversation with Trindle. He scrolls up a bit, past her annoying declarations of love, and finds the picture of her tits. Perfect. He starts to rub at his blossoming erection. He's pretty sure Trindle is using him to get to Nathan, the true object of her affections, but the orgasm he experiences in about five minutes more than makes up for that.
Already sleepy from the car ride he tucks his dick back in his boxers and wiggles out of his shorts, kicking off his Sperrys, and rolls over on his mattress, haphazardly pulling the duvet up his body. He dozes off in a light sleep, suspended between consciousness and somnolence, until somebody bangs against his door and calls him down to lunch. He groans and sits up, checks his phone. Three new texts from Trindle. He reads them and doesn't respond, getting dressed (though he neglects to put his shoes on) and going downstairs.
They eat lunch on the back patio at one of the few wicker tables, crisp finger sandwiches with succulent watermelon and sweet iced tea. From here Skwisgaar can see much of the grounds, spotting Toki trimming hedges in the distance, Jean-Pierre scurrying around to accommodate them. Oscar and Skwisgaar's mother are talking about the block party tonight, as they're one of the lasts to arrive, and there's many people they need to meet and become acquainted with.
"You'll just love the Cornichons," Oscar is saying, swirling the ice in his iced tea with a straw. "They have a son that's about Nathan and Skwisgaar's age, a little older, that's an absolute shame to their name. Then there's the Rocksteins—the boy, Leonard, he's about their age as well. I haven't seen all these kids since they were just toddlers. Lots of possible friends." He raises his glass towards Skwisgaar and Nathan, who share their third disgusted look of the evening and do not raise their glasses back.
"Is this party, like, mandatory?" Nathan asks, grimacing. He looks utterly out of place, dressed in all black and surly among the charming wicker furniture and picturesque landscape. He has his arms crossed over his chest, his index finger and thumb picking at the nail polish on his right hand.
"Yes, Nathan, of course," Oscar says. "I want you boys to have a good time out here. I met your mother here when I was young, you know," Oscar says, and Skwisgaar almost laughs at the way his mother clenches up, curls her fingers into Oscar's forearm, her expression going sour.
"Yes, Dad, I know," Nathan grumbles. "You've told that story, like, fifty fucking times." Oscar's mustache twitches at the profanity, but he doesn't admonish his son.
"I don'ts," Skwisgaar says, sitting up and leaning forward into the conversation. "Tells me more." He catches his mother's narrowed eye and grins.
"Well, when I was a few years younger than you, seventeen or so, I came down here with my family," Oscar says, oblivious to Serveta's suffering and jumping at the opportunity to talk about himself, "as I did every summer since I was but a tot. I'd never really noticed Rose before—she was a bookish girl in her youth, and I was much more interested in her sister. But something about Rose had blossomed that summer—" Nathan groans, and Skwisgaar's smile twitches—"and we fell in love like that." Oscar claps his hands together, the sound echoing on the patio and causing Jean-Pierre to jump as he clears his dishes. "And I never loved another woman until your mother here."
"Oh, Oscar," Skwisgaar's mother says, scraping her nails against his skin. Skwisgaar does laugh, then, a short burst into his fist that he passes off as a cough.
The block party isn't until six, leaving them three hours to do whatever they wish until they have to get ready. Skwisgaar's mother and Oscar remain on the patio, Oscar reading the local newspaper and Skwisgaar's mother some celebrity gossip magazine, while Nathan and Skwisgaar retreat into their respective rooms. Skwisgaar considers going off and exploring the grounds, knowing there's a lake hiding in the woods somewhere and a ridiculous amount of scenic things to see, but he'd rather unpack his guitar and fuck around on it. So that's what he does, setting up the stand and the amp and tuning the thing, sitting on his bed and playing along to a metronome. His phone, relaxing on the nightstand, buzzes twice with texts from Trindle, and Skwisgaar ignores them both.
At five he puts his guitar away and takes a shower in his private bathroom. The shower is huge, with fantastic water pressure and high-end shampoo that feels like a fucking caress when he rubs it into his scalp. He steps out, towels off, and picks his attire for the evening: navy chinos, a brown leather belt, a white cable knit sweater and his trusted Sperrys. He shakes his hair and combs it over his shoulders, as he always does, affirming that he looks damn good in the mirror in the walk-in closet. He yanks his phone off the charger, pocketing it, before seeking out the rest of his family.
Nathan hasn't changed, still in the heavy black sweater and pants with the chains from earlier, but Oscar's swapped the polo for a button-down and his mother is in some monstrosity of a patterned red wrap dress. They pile into Oscar's car and take off for the Cornichons', where the block party is being held, as they're the oldest and richest family in the entirety of Andromeda's Vineyard.
Skwisgaar hadn't thought it possible to see a nicer house than theirs, but he was wrong, because the Cornichons' is like a miniature palace, on top of a hill and everything. It even elicits a noise of appreciation from Nathan as they drive up. With its elegant gray stone and elaborate garden it looks like it's walked off the page of a real estate ad, and the collection of upper-class vehicles parked outside only adds to that image. Oscar slides his own into the line-up and they make their way into the mansion, the gates and door propped open to allow people to trickle inside.
Though there are some patrons inside the house, the majority appear to be in the backyard, and that is where they head. Lights are strung up along the deck and on a gazebo that sits as a centerpiece of the yard, soft music filtering from speakers jammed in corners. Oscar seeks the Cornichon clan out, standing as a unit by a table with punchbowls and cocktails, and Skwisgaar, his mother and Nathan follow him. The Cornichon patriarch is a nondescript man with salt-and-pepper hair, his wife portly with an expensive haircut and a purple wrap dress that's just as hideous as Skwisgaar's mother's. Flanking them are two sons: one of them in a white suit with the collar popped and hair slicked back with a ludicrous amount of gel, the other in a flimsy tank-top and cheap jeans, obnoxiously red hair in dreadlocks and pulled back into a ponytail.
"Calvert," Oscar says, addressing the man, and "Molly," the woman.
"You," Nathan says, to the Cornichon boy with the dreadlocks, "I like you."
The guy looks Nathan up and down, a lopsided grin exploding on his face. "Likewise," he says, and he jams a hand in Nathan's direction.
Nathan takes it. "I've met Seth, but not you," he says. "Why the fuck is that?" and he's throwing an arm around the guy's shoulder, leading him away and leaving Skwisgaar alone.
Skwisgaar has no interest in getting to know Calvert, Molly, or Seth, though Seth is leering at him in a way that makes Skwisgaar wonder if he could get laid if he tried hard enough. He entertains the idea, briefly, imaging shoving the guy to his knees and ramming his cock into his mouth, but decides against it, thinking of the slimy way his hair would feel between his fingers if he tried to dig them into his scalp, and Skwisgaar's a fan of digging fingers into the scalp of those giving him a blowjob. So, Skwisgaar stalks off, in search of other people.
He finds an assortment of men in similar outfits to his own, all cashmere sweaters and chinos and khakis and twill and boat shoes and loafers, and women in their horrible wrap dresses or tiny versions of men's trends, clutching iPhones with monogrammed cases in these gaudy patterns. He sees Nathan and the other guy stashed away in a corner in the house smoking something—probably weed—and joins them, accepting the joint without so much a second thought.
"Man, this suck ass," Nathan says, and the other guy nods, that stupid smile still on his face.
"Always does," he says, and Skwisgaar passes the joint back to him. "Name's Pickles, by the way," he says to Skwisgaar.
"Cool," Skwisgaar says. He doesn't mean it.
"Yeah," Pickles says. "I was just tellin' Nathan here about how my parents had me in boarding school for, like, my entire life, man. Douchebags were tryin' to pretend I didn't exist. I showed them, though—ran away on the family dime, did a bunch of coke and strippers, huge scandal up and down the country. Formed a band and everything. We sucked, but hey." He takes a drag and exhales smoke, which seems to solidify between the three of them, hanging in midair. "Totally worth it."
"What instrument you plays?" Skwisgaar asks, now mildly interested.
"All of 'em," Pickles responds. Skwisgaar's eyebrows shoot up. "In the band, though? I was the lead singer."
"Oh," Skwisgaar says. He accepts the joint, takes a hit. "Dat's lame as shits."
"Agreed," Pickles says, and Skwisgaar wants so badly to dislike this rebellious rich kid stereotype smoking weed like it's a religion in front of him, but the guy is just so goddamned personable. "How 'bout you, Nate? You got somethin' to weigh in here with?"
"Likes a wrestler," Skwisgaar says, staring to feel a bit fuzzy around the edges. His comment goes ignored.
"I like metal," Nathan says, shrugging a single shoulder and prying the blunt from Pickles's hand. It's a good thing, too, because Pickles double over in laughter so hard he has to wipe away tears.
"I'm sorry, it's just—that's so obvious. Sorry." He straightens up, shakes his limbs loose. "Anyway, I'm back now, they fuckin' hired a guy to drag me back here. Better to contain me and have me as an embarrassment right under their noses than on the television from the other coast, I don't know. Ridiculous. But, hey, come here, I'll let you guys in on a little secret." He puts one arm around Nathan's shoulders and one arm around Skwisgaar's, having to stand on his toes to accomplish this, and pulls them close to him. Skwisgaar inhales some of the smoke that's just lounging between them. "This place, Andromeda's Vineyard? It's fuckin crawlin' with scandal. Here, I'll show you." He releases them, and watches the hallway, waits for somebody to pass by.
The first person that does is a blond guy in obnoxious sunglasses, way overdressed for the event. Pickles, currently in possession of the joint, jabs it in his direction. "That's Dick Knubbler," he says. "Yeah, go ahead and laugh, but listen here. See those two?" The joint now points to what is clearly a couple, a clean-cut lawyer-looking guy that's attractive in that plain sort of way, his arm chaste around the waist of a woman with a good complexion and a ritzy taste in jewelry. "Charles Ofdensen and Abigail Remeltindrinc. Married, but she kept her last name. So, Dick's a bigshot music producer, Charles's this huge lawyer, Abby's a music executive. The big rumor here is that Abby's cheating on Charles with Dick, and everybody believes that, but you know what I think?"
"Whats?" Skwisgaar asks, humoring him. He couldn't care less about the love affairs of boring-ass upper-class Americans.
"They're polyamorous! Totally all doin' each other." The smile on Pickles's face is about to split his head in two, and he's looking at Skwisgaar and Nathan like this is the most important thing in the world, like he's revealed to them the secret of life or some shit, and all Skwisgaar can do is take the joint and hit it, wish he had some vodka and a nice hole to sink into and then fuck with fury.
"No way," Nathan says, and he sounds genuinely flabbergasted. Whatever previous connection they'd built together earlier in the day, Skwisgaar now feels is lost.
"Yeah, way. And it doesn't end there. Knubbler has this servant boy, right, this totally pathetic guy that goes by the name Murderface. He's trying to convince us he killed somebody in prison, but I know the truth, 'cause I knew him when we were kids. He got arrested once for, like, pissing in public, didn't even spend the night in jail. Anyway—this totally pathetic dude—he's totally gay for Knubbler! And Knubbler ain't gay for him back! Ain't that just the sweetest shit?"
"Gross," is Nathan's only contribution, and Pickles nods, as if that's exactly the answer he had been looking for.
"Dis ams so lame," Skwisgaar gripes, and he shoves the joint back towards Pickles. "Ams gonna go finds somethingk more interestings, ugh." He turns around and in the distance hears Nathan asking Pickles who some chick is, if she's single, and if she's doable. Pickles's answer is yes, but he really shouldn't, and a look over Skwisgaar's shoulder confirms that Nathan is, indeed, going to do it, because he's approaching some stuck-up looking chick in a pastel sweater with pursed lips. All the luck to him, Skwisgaar thinks.
He wanders through every area he can access of the Cornichons' mansion. It's overflowing with expensive, worldly artifacts, particularly of the Asian and Arab varieties, statues of Buddha on shelves and elaborate tapestries hanging on walls. He didn't pin them for the travelling type, but he's only had a minute of indirect interaction, so maybe they're not as bad as Pickles is painting them to be. When he passes a bookshelf that contains several bibles and bible analyses, he immediately changes his mind and decides that, yeah, they probably suck. In the kitchen he tries to get himself a cup of spiked punch, but some old guy asks him out old he is and refuses to give him any when he answers, honestly, that he's twenty. Behind him, he hears a snicker, and turns around to see some young man with hair in a ponytail and a vest, an interesting combination.
"Problems?" Skwisgaar asks, appraising the guy. Not unattractive, weird taste in shoes and belts, general weird vibe around him. He wonders what Pickles would have to say (or bullshit) about him.
"That's just so cute," the guy says, and Skwisgaar wonders if he's incapacitated, because he stutters on the c in cute. He walks past Skwisgaar and ladles some spiked punch into a plastic cup, turning around to give it to Skwisgaar before getting more for himself. The punch bowl's protector doesn't object to this, that bastard.
"Thanks," Skwisgaar says, slamming the punch back. It's the best punch he's ever had, which pisses him off in this abstract way. "Who's you?"
"Leonard Rockstein, baby," the guy says. He drinks all of the punch in a chugging motion, his Adam's apple bobbing, and crumples the plastic cup up, throwing it at the old guy. The old guy sighs, picks it up and throws it away. Skwisgaar figures he must be one of the help, and is immediately enamored with this Leonard guy, not remembering a thing Oscar had said about him. He drinks the rest of his punch, too, and repeats the process of throwing it at the servant, laughing his ass off.
"Awesomes," Skwisgaar says, turning back to Leonard, who nods.
"I have some cocaine," he says, stuttering again. "Wanna come do it with me?" Skwisgaar is not impervious to the double entendre, and he's definitely up for blowing in all senses of the word, so he follows Leonard out of the kitchen. Leonard takes his hand, leading him up the marble staircase like he owns the place, and into what seems to be a guest bedroom, all dark wood and forest green accents. He produces a hefty bag of cocaine from his pocket, his eyes glimmering.
They snort it off the dresser, using some of Leonard's hundred-dollar bills, and Skwisgaar's never felt like as much as a rich prick as he does in that moment, sucking up this high-quality coke and seeing the elation on Leonard's face in the mirror. Skwisgaar's in love with the feeling, substances running in his system and his mouth heavy with the fruity tang of the punch. After a few more lines it seems like a good idea to jam it in Leonard's mouth, see if he tastes and feels like Skwisgaar does, and he does, it's great. He snakes a hand up his vest, twists his nipples, and the next thing he's aware of is the sensation of sheets with thread counts in the thousands under his back, Leonard straddling his hips, undoing his belt.
Skwisgaar doesn't bottom often, but there's something about this guy that makes him want to, that makes him hunger for it, and he lets him roll his pants over his hips and tangle his hands in Skwisgaar's hair. He has enough sense to take his wallet out and produce a condom, giving it to Leonard because he's pretty sure the idea hadn't occurred to him, and he nods once, shoves it on his cock unceremoniously. They alternate between coke and sex for the next few hours, until the sun has long since set outside and Skwisgaar phone is ringing with his mother calling. He's lying in bed, wearing his sweater and nothing else, Leonard doing yet another line and mumbling to himself. Whatever—Skwisgaar wouldn't let that fuck him, anyway.
"Whats?" he hisses into the phone, regardless.
"Where the hells ams you?" If her English is slipping and she's yelling at him, she's probably drunk, which means she can't judge Skwisgaar for being drunk nor high nor fucking a guy that's now talking about himself in the third person using Dr. Rockso.
"Heres," Skwisgaar says. He pinches the phone between his shoulder and his face and gets out of bed, locating his boxers and khakis on the floor. He can't find his belt, which is pissing him off because it's a good belt, but whatever. When he checks his wallet he sees he's missing a few bills, too, but his mother's shrill voice in his ear is telling him that they have to get going now, Skwisgaar, and so Skwisgaar doesn't have the time to confront Leonard—or Dr. Rockso, whatever—about it. "Okays, moms," he says, and he zips his pants and hangs the phone up. He searches for his Sperrys, one of which is centered under the bed and the other is hanging on a bedpost, somehow, and slips into them.
"You leavin', baby?" Leonard purrs, walking over to Skwisgaar. There's white on his nose and red in his eyes and he puts a hand on the back of Skwisgaar's neck, strokes it. "We had such a good time, though, makes Dr. Rockso sad to see you go."
"You's a crazies clowns and I hates you," Skwisgaar says, plainly. "Good sex, doe. Don'ts calls me." He hadn't given this guy his number, but sometimes it's good to be dramatic. He walks out of the room, goes to meet his mother and the rest of them by the car.
On the ride back Skwisgaar is fucked out of his mind, his pupils dilated and his head rolling. Nathan is texting, probably either Pickles or that girl he picked up, maybe both. Skwisgaar's mother's hand is all but cupping Oscar's crotch, and while he seems sober, and he's not complaining about that, either. The five minutes it takes feels like five years, and Skwisgaar's thinking about that stupidly nice shower and his stupidly nice bed. He could really, really get used to life as a rich douchebag.