If you were to as Skwisgaar about what his mother taught him as a child chances are that you would get punched in the face.

Ask him what her lovers taught him and you would find that he's a jack-of-all-trades. Serveta only fucked the best at first but when time went on, she wanted more. She wanted more for her son. She had everyone teach Skwisgaar something. Scholars, chefs, tutors, regular jack-off's, anybody with some type of useful skill were taken into her bed. Many of the lessons stuck but only from the ones who stayed the longest.

Then there was Erik. One of her more regular clients he was around solely for her. A well known masseur, she swore he was magic. She would call him personally and set up last minutes appointments. A rough day or just for some tender love, no matter, he was at her disposal and she knew this. Blond, chiseled, young, and he was hers and only hers.

It was by accident that they met. Skwisgaar was pushing six and was curious as all children of that age usually are. Every week the same man kept coming to the small two-bedroom apartment he and his mother shared at the time. He was sitting on the floor surrounded with various papers and pencils. Looking up he saw his mother staggering to the room, for nearly a week she had been suffering from some type of ache. He didn't really care. Old people were supposed to hurt all the time.

"Shit." Looking at the clock, she saw that there wasn't enough time to send Skwisgaar from their quarters. "Go to your room and don't make a sound." She hissed sharply at him. When he didn't move she tried to snatch him up but recoiled sharply when pain shot up her back like fire. Collapsing with a groan on a small white sofa, she told him again.

He sent her a blank look and went back to studying his papers. In too much pain to argue Serveta sighed left him alone, sometimes she wondered why she didn't give him away or leave him at a church. He continued working and she watched the clock. Soon a loud knock echoed though and startled him. Looking to his mother, she waved him to go open the door.

Cleaning up his papers and placing them on a glass coffee table neatly, he straightened his white button down and khaki slacks before moving to open the door. He knew he was tall for his age but the man in the doorway had to duck to get into the apartment. Coming up to the bottom of chest practically Skwisgaar felt small. The man had a bag with him and only had a light jacket shielding him from the cold winds outside.

He looked down and his brown eyes were full of warmth as he smiled at him. Patting his wavy hair, he closed and locked the door behind him. Skwisgaar watched as he toed off his trainers and hung his jacket up neatly. None of the others ever did that, usually they walked in without a word to anybody and shoved him into his room if he was spotted.

He felt the man take him by the hand not to the sitting room but to his mother's room. On the large bed were his mother in nothing but a small white towel and her long blonde hair pulled into a sloppy bun and she was laying face down. He was lifted gently and put on the bed gently before the man spoke to Serveta.

"I assume this is Skwisgaar?"

Nod.

"I'm letting him stay for this one."

"Erik…"

"No, he's staying. I won't be in town for awhile and you're going to find a way to undo most of my hard work. He stays."

Silence. Turning her head Serveta glared at her son who sat Indian style with his head on his fists curiously. A silent exchange went between mother and son before she gave the okay to Erik.

Silently Skwisgaar watched Erik start on his mother's neck and work his way down slowly. Slowly the tension melted off her and she relaxed in a way he had never seen. Her face lost it's hard stern twinge to it and she seemed younger. Numerous times Erik showed him and explained what he was doing, even letting him try many on his mother. After hours they had worked their way down to her feet and when they finished she was asleep. Shutting the lights and door, they left the room.

Without a word, Erik made his way into the kitchen and started making a small dinner for them. He didn't stay and eat but he made sure there was enough for both him and his mother for at least a couple of days. Before leaving he made sure he ate, bathed, and was in bed to his surprise. Skwisgaar decided he liked this one.

For almost two years Erik came for Serveta and continued giving Skwisgaar lessons. The summer after the first meeting he was allowed to observe in the spa that Erik ran. The following winter he was almost as good as Erik himself. He brought Skwisgaar home each night, checked over his lessons for the day, and when needed cooked for them.

One day he and Serveta had a loud argument. Skwisgaar sat on the floor between his bed and the wall hunched over his X-Plorer. They went at each other's throat for hours before his mother finally screamed for Erik to leave. He waited for a while before peaking out of his bedroom to look for his mother. Following the sound of heavy breathing, he found her sitting in the middle of their kitchen surrounded by a sea of broken dishes.

It wasn't long before she whipped her head at him, her normally perfect blond hair in disarray, her eyes- his eyes- burned back with a fierce hatred before calming. She silently reached out for him and after picking his way through the debris he let her embrace him in an odd moment of kindness. Neither one of them spoke and she just silently petted his soft, fine hair. Clearing a space around her she dragged him into her lap awkwardly and continued to pet his hair.

Skwisgaar never forgot Erik nor his lessons. He never forgot how his mother never held him like that again after that night. Nor would he ever forget how she just turned to everybody and anybody to warm her bed after him. Their apartment was never truly white after that. Sometimes if he thought back hard enough he could hear Erik's voice. The way it sounded when describing the different techniques or even asking about his day. The way it explained what his mother never had time too.

He did some digging and found out that the same night he left was the night Erik was hit by a car in front of their apartment. He never remembered the police questions. Never could recall the odd nights away from home when they would take his mother in for intensive questioning. He could remember, however, screaming at them through the door of their apartment after months of being hassled. He could remember his mother staring in shock at how he'd spoken willingly.

He could remember the dead and uncaring look in his mother's eyes during the funeral. They didn't wear black for they simply didn't own anything in that color. He'd wore his only suit; white with a cream tie. He was grabbing onto his mother's hand unconsciously as they lowered it into the ground. She never pulled her hand away until the last minutes of the burial.

He remembered how his mother left him alone in the rain to find his way home when she found the back of the Father's car more of a priority than him. He remembered the slow deterioration of his mother's image. She slowly let herself go and pushed him farther and farther away.

Skwisgaar remembered a lot from his childhood, he just chose not to pay attention to it. He always remembered his lessons however, never knowing if he was going to use them ever again. After nearly twenty years he never thought take those lessons with Erik would ever come in handy.

*~*~*~*~*~*

He knew that their robot -his robot- went through a lot because of their actions –his actions- on a daily basis. He never paid any mind to it until after his little stint in Sweden away from the band. Sure his stepfather was okay but he didn't have what was needed to deal with his mother. He called her and told her he was leaving, she said okay and hung up.

Sitting in the middle of his white fur blanket he perked up when he heard his door open, secretly hoping it was anybody but Murderface before he remembered he was in their hospital getting stitched up. Pickles did a good number on the jet, letting out years of suppressed anger. The robot said it was healthy that he was letting it out but next time just don't do it on another band member.

"Skwisgaar?"

He saw standing in the doorway in a black robe and red trim, in his hands a newspaper. He was looking at him over his glasses with a searching gaze. Stiffly he stood as Skwisgaar eyed him up.

"Comes in robot," he said in an act of kindness, "I ams not in a bitings mood." Chuckling he went back to staring at his ceiling.

Slowly Charles made his way to the large bed and nearly tripped on a discarded bottle of liquor. Looking around the room he spotted a half empty crate of Swedish vodka against the dresser. Making his way to the side of the bed he wasn't expecting the lead guitarist to pull his down next to him. They sat in silence for hours, Skwisgaar staring up at the ceiling before lying on his stomach watching the night sky and Charles reading his paper by the moon light.

Around two in the morning Charles figured he dozed off as he stared slightly when a heavy weight fell in his lap. Skwisgaar had fallen asleep propped up and finally fell over sideways into his lap. Setting his paper aside with a smile Charles tried to maneuver himself out under the larger man but found that he had grabbed his robe tightly. After struggling for a couple of minutes he figured he might as well sleep there for the night.

After all, it was only a couple of hours.

When Skwisgaar awoke the first thing he noticed was that he wasn't alone. Feeling up the chest he was leaning against he shot up and stared at the groggy face of Charles. Untangling himself from where he wormed himself into during the night. Stretching he saw that his guitar was leaning against the wall and his crate of vodka was closed and next to the X-Plorer,

Rolling his shoulders, Charles paid no mind to the series of pops that admitted and rose. Before he could stretch fully he caught sight of the horrified look on Skwisgaar's face.

"What?"

"Don't you move."

Saying nothing else Skwisgaar got up and went into his large closet. When he came out he had a large dusty bag and his arms that had a slightly sweet smell wafting out. He pulled Charles up and tossed a towel, washcloth, and robe at him; all in white. Catching the hint he let Skwisgaar push him into his personal bathroom. Even though was slightly offended that he was being ordered into taking a shower, Charles took pride in his personal hygiene, he was curious to what Skwisgaar was planning.

After seeing his room Charles should have been prepared for the blindingly white and sterile bathroom. White shower with gold fixings and glass sliding door, the white whirlpool bathtub that could easily fit two Nathans and a Murderface, white toilet and like everything else the sink was white with ivory handles. Just standing in the pristine room made him feel slightly dirty. Catching sight of himself in the large dance studio mirror that took up the entire length of the wall he saw just how out of place his chestnut hair, jade eyes, and dark robe were.

After setting the water to his desired temperature, he got under the hot spray. Looking around he located a bottle of shampoo after giving it a quick sniff, it smelt very faintly of pine, he pour a small amount in his hair and went about his routine. He quickly finished his routine and left the still clean shower to dry off. Taking no time in doing it he dried off and noticed a pair of black boxers, his own, folded on top of the toilet. A small note said his personal Klokateer dropped it off for him.

When Charles finally left the bathroom there was a weird shaped chair by the window and a small table next to it. Skwisgaar looked freshly showered, he had used on the bathrooms down his hall, his hair pulled into a high half up- half down style and he had on one of his old white outfits from the early days. He pointed at the chair sharply with a nearly unseen calculating in his eyes. When Charles didn't move he pointed again sharper.

"Sits downs. Now." He barked at him before dragging him to the chair. He pushed Charles in backwards and put his head in the whole where the headrest was. Quickly he uncapped a small bottle and squirted a little of something thick into his hands. Rubbing them together and ignoring the slow heat pooling in his palms he quickly went to work on Charles' tense back.

When Charles was forced into the chair he knew what he was going to get, what he didn't know was that Skwisgaar actually knew what he was doing. When his hands touched his back he felt his self being pushed into a lying position as the chair turned into a table instantly. The calloused fingers added a different sensation than what he was used to form their in haus masseuse but felt excellent. He never really knew how tense he was before this and just felt the stiffness melting out of him.

Skwisgaar on the other hand wasn't as happy. For the first half hour he kept trying to work on some kinks and tension knots with a basic effleurage and didn't feel anything changing fast enough so switched to a deeper techniques. For almost three hours he kneaded, drained, pulled, and wrung Charles out like laundry until he was satitfyed that he was the perfect puddle of goo. For an extra measure he gave him some friction and percussive strokes before noticing that he never said a word.

"Butlers? Ams you still awakes?"

Charles gave a faint nod and felt the table turn back into a chair before risin g more swiftly than he had in weeks since he's came back. He made move to had Skwisgaar the robe back but was pushed out the room with a faint 'Keeps it'. Standing in the hallway in nothing put his boxers and a white fluffy spa robe he saw Pickles and Nathan leaning against the wall with equally smug looks on their faces.

"Good isn't it?" Nathan smirked at the nod Charles gave him and walked away. He was left with Pickles who idly toyed with one of his dreads while staring at him.

"Next time ask for a 'happy ending."