1990 Something

By Pseudonymous Entity

Summary: Lies don't end relationships - the truth does. Max, struggling under the weight of his father's overwhelming presence, anxiety and secrets, discovers Bradley has his fair share of experience in both and might be the only one who can help. But can Max handle it when Bradley's secrets are far more sinister? These two may have gotten off on the wrong foot but as they keep running into one another they make some alarming realizations, about themselves and the people in their lives.

AN: Some Bradley POV

-Pseu

"You're hot then you're cold - you're a light in the dark

Just wait to see that you're swimming with sharks..."

-Sharks

Nine hours later, across campus, a singular room in the Gamma House was stirring awake.

Long before the first rays of morning light broke across the sky, Bradley Uppercrust shoved against his heavy comforter, pushing it down and off of him. An arm reached out blindly and shut off a chirping alarm clock with accuracy achieved through muscle memory alone. He stretched, sheets slick against his body, which was flushed and damp with sweat.

It was another rough night.

Bradley pushed himself up on his arms, tilting his head back, dark blond hair sticking to his forehead and neck. He sighed, swinging his long legs to set his bare feet on the blessedly cool floor. With a weary grunt, he got to his feet, swaying for a moment, and made his way to his dresser where he scooped up a pill bottle. His fingers spun open the top, tipped the bottle into his palm, and shoved the pills into his mouth with one hand before closing the bottle.

Bradley was the only occupant of the room. The walls held glimpses of a younger Bradley from various photoshoots and articles. Some of them related to the X-Games and some not. These were far outweighed by all of the articles featuring his father, Bradley Uppercrust the Second, a man who looked like an older, more stern Bradley with a thin, practiced smile.

If anyone asked, Bradley would say his father was a devoted family man that he admired greatly. Not because it was true, but because it would be stupid to say otherwise.

Bradley turned to fetch a loose shirt from a chair, passing a calendar on the wall with every day filled out and accounted for in his busy schedule. On the side table by the chair, as he pulled the shirt over his head, lay a thick, heavily underlined, and highlighted notebook dedicated to tracking expenses. Everything from the cost of new shoes to the team uniforms for the X-Games was meticulously recorded in Bradley's neat handwriting. Beside it lay a small ringed binder containing clear zip-close envelopes with differing amounts of money written on each in red felt-tip marker.

Organization, neither money nor connections, was the key to success, in his opinion.

Bradley pulled open one of the two doors in the room, with a large X-Games poster thumbtacked to the back of it, and stumbled out into the hallway and down the stairs with all the grace of a newly turned zombie. Which is to say, none at all. He turned left at the bottom, cut through the TV room, and turned right to reach the frat's kitchen.

His sleepy autopilot continued on its course, switching on the coffee maker and fetching Bradley's favorite cup from the cupboard by the feel of its handle. Bradley turned and leaned against the counter, setting his cup to the side, and pulled a thin black hairband from his wrist, pulling all his damp hair to the top of his head in a messy bun no one else living had ever seen.

The coffee machine beeped and a light came on. Bradley grabbed his cup and watched the bubbling brown liquid fill it nearly to the brim. He easily ignored the dull pain in his fingertips as his cup heated up, bringing it up to his lips and downing gulp after gulp. A satisfying burn made its way down his throat, jolting him from the remnants of his dreams and grounding him firmly in the present.

Yes, come to me, sweet nectar of the gods. Lend me your strength.

An additional three cups later, Bradley was ready to face the day. Or as ready as he ever would be, which was good enough. He cleaned his cup and put it away, then set about gathering the standard white and blue cups in the front of the cupboard and placing them on a mat by the coffee maker. He also collected several flavors of creamer and a container of stirrers, which he placed beside them.

That finished, he took the menu held to the refrigerator by magnets and glanced it over. Holding it in his left hand, he grabbed the red wall phone and dialed the number for the Sunrise Cafe, aptly named in his opinion, and put in an order for breakfast. It was charged to his account, and he was assured it would arrive at the regular time.

In the last three years, this had never not been the case, so Bradley saw no reason to doubt them. Of course, his decision to schedule it for a time when he knew at least one of his housemates would be awake to receive it in a timely manner may have been behind the success. But Bradley wasn't one to sing his own praises without an audience.

Bradley hung up, replaced the menu, and made his way to the TV room, surveying last night's damage. Not as bad as it could have been. He saw water glasses, or what he assumed to be water for his own sanity, spread throughout the room. Two pizza boxes were stacked on top of one another, some soda cans, and general disarray. Cushions were misplaced, magazines were on the floor, and the television was still on.

He rolled his eyes, cracked his neck on both sides and got to work.

The glasses of unknown libations were first. He dumped them in the sink and filled them with soapy water. Next, the pizza boxes, which he set in the kitchen on the counter to wait for him. He tossed the soda cans into the recycling bin, removed the pillows and cushions from the couch, and pulled out the heavy vacuum from the hall closet. He went over the large rug in the TV room as well as both couches, then unplugged it and rolled up the cord before putting it back.

The cushions were returned to their rightful places, and the magazines retrieved from the floor and stacked on a side table. If he wasn't getting something out of it Bradley doubted he would bother. They only immediately messed it all up again once they woke up. Though he supposed that was standard for many young men out on their own for the first time. Wanting to defy rules and authority. In Bradley's experience, there were better ways to do so than risking mold or vermin.

Alas, he was outnumbered.

Bradley ducked back into the kitchen to grab a green spray bottle from beneath the sink and sprayed down every possible surface in the TV room and the kitchen. Water, vinegar, and lemon. He didn't trust his housemates with harmful liquids. They were dear to him. Or some were. Most were vaguely tolerable. Still, he had no intention of being the one to stumble upon a body slowly perishing from poison.

Not one of these particular bodies, anyway.

When that was done, he gathered the trash bag from the kitchen along with the pizza boxes and dumped them in the large bin outside. It was still cool in the early morning air, with the dimmest bits of light coming over the horizon. He'd better get a move on.

Bradley closed the door as he came back inside and nearly took a dive as he stumbled over the shoes left at the front door. Darn. Usually, he remembered to jump over them. Quickly, he knelt down and placed them all on the shoe rack, which was for some reason always ignored regardless of its easily accessible placement right beside the door and the large yellow sign taped above it at eye level informing the house's inhabitants of its existence.

Bradley made a face and wiped his hands on his pyjama pants. Heathens.

He made a quick foray into the main hall, surveying the bulletin boards lining the walls. Out-of-date flyers were quickly swapped out with ones more relevant. The large whiteboard with the house schedule on it was down to the right; every chore, every meeting, every formal, and every alumni function was contained therein. Just below it, the schedule for his fraternity brothers, their upcoming tests, tutoring sessions, important exams, and club meetings. Bradley made a note to remind Tank about his Spanish test and he was darting back up the stairs.

Once in his room, Bradley's shirt was up and over his head, reclaiming its spot on the lone chair in the room, and he headed straight to the bathroom. Moments later, hot steam filled the air, and rushing water cascaded over his tired muscles. A quick lather of his favorite shower gel, then he rinsed off and was out of the shower once more.

The hot steam was heavy, and Bradley grasped the counter as he swayed. His breakfast of caffeine was seeking to betray him. He leaned to his right and kicked his door open, letting the steam escape into his room. The mirror was covered in delicate fog, which he wiped away with a slight squeak. He still looked exhausted.

That wouldn't do.

Bradley turned the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, pausing to cup some in his hands and drink it as well. Hoping the cold water would counteract the remaining hot steam and help rid him of the awful wobbly feeling in his head.

Bradley got to work making himself look more alive than he felt. He used a collagen peel, a seaweed oil-control gel cream, witch hazel and aloe vera facial toner, and a moisturizer. Next, he carefully concealed his dark under-eye circles and used some eye drops to get rid of the redness in his eyes. His hair came after and took little work on his part. He removed his hairband and placed it back over his left wrist, where it sat looking like an innocent bracelet. He shook out his hair and ran his fingers through it, grabbed a round brush, and a few minutes later, finished.

Voila.

Bradley examined his face critically in the mirror. Perfect.

He entered his room and pulled on a red polo shirt and his customary tan slacks. Socks on, wallet in his pocket, and keys in his hand, he glanced around his room. With a nod, he shut the door behind him and slid down the railing to the first floor, landing on his feet as gracefully as a cat.

Bradley slipped on his shoes, threw his backpack over one shoulder, and snagged his skateboard. He pulled the door open and stood on the front step. The sun was coming up properly now. Bradley pasted on his most polished smile as a few students from other fraternities and sororities along Greek Row noticed him and waved.

Show time.

2024

AN:What are we thinking so far, gents?