Paul brought him home after the meal, back to his penthouse, like he was just playing around after deciding Johnny was slightly more than your average uninteresting bum, brought out a fancy liqueur. Being as rich as he was, he could afford whatever he wanted. Whatever he wanted was apparently to flirt with a deadbeat while sloshing fifty dollar shots of alcohol down their throats.
They sat around, looking out a huge window across the city streets from their cushy spot on a large white couch, Paul more than happy to hold and pet him like some prized dog, occasionally slipping him something nice, be it treats or booze or drugs. Felt pretty good. Maybe a little too good, the guy was too pretty and his hands and his words and the way his eyes drilled into him were intoxicating. Too nice. Selfish pleasure. The total diva was complaining about one thing or another, spilling the frustrations. Johnny wasn't listening, too occupied with the comfort that was Paul's lap.
It didn't take long for them to be half naked on the couch, Johnny hovering over the young upstart and fucking into him once again. Sweaty, hazy, beautiful with little pleasured moans slipping from his mouth. Couldn't tell if the star was passed out or not, nearly limp underneath him with a magazine open over his face, leaving him unable to see anything but white fuzz through the corners of the paper. Cute, though. Really cute. They fell asleep there afterwards, curled up with the blanket from the back of the couch draped over them.
Johnny woke up to find a red sun peering over the horizon in the massive orange sky. He couldn't remember or reason why he ended up staying so long as to spend the night. Squinting against the offensive, unnecessary brightness, he was treated to the image of soft, tousled hair and one pale leg peeking out from under the blanket. The cutesy kind of legs that you'd want to bite. And so he bit, lightly, his eyes sliding shut again, the urge to sleep rather strong, but overridden by the temptation to snuggle closer and try to wake the dozing creature.
Stirring with an annoyed whine, the man shoved him away with a frustrated sound. "Ugh, yuck, no...don't..." Paul grumbled, his voice thick with sleep and a bit of a lisp. Unfazed, Johnny slid back up against his warm body, leaning to kiss his ear and breathe on him. Paul flinched, pushing away at his head. "Move," he complained in a mumble, giving him a half-hearted shove. "Why are you...so...hard?"
Johnny snickered, trying to tangle his arms around the protesting body, making moves that would have normally been met with resistance but were being mercifully permitted. "Listen." He lifted his head, coming to a rest with a sleepy mumble at the blond's ear, enjoying the pleasant quiet and the rare opportunity to talk to his odd benefactor. "What was in that...shit you gave me, what the fuck was that anyway."
"Mm?" came the lazy sound, maybe of feigned interest, lilting up in the middle. "M...don't know."
Johnny frowned, and slipped a hand over Paul's chest, wrapping their legs together. "I feel funny," Johnny admitted. Felt silly, after the fact, thinking of it while slobbering at the place where the boy's head met his neck, sucking a hickey into the skin as a distraction. Paul hummed in approval and tucked himself into Johnny's hold, half-smiling. He rubbed a hand over his nose and pushed his hair back, his eyes fluttering. Tilting his head to expose more of his throat.
"Paul! What the hell!" a loud male voice came out of nowhere as the front door slammed shut. Johnny all but jumped ten feet and ducked for cover.
"God...dammit...fuck!" Paul yelped, tossing the magazine to the floor as he scrambled to make sure the blanket was adequate covering. "How many times have I told you not to come in here like...goddammit, Michel...!"
From the doorway, a man clothed in a nice sweater and slacks entered, looking a little angry, and the expression only intensified when he noticed the star's disheveled state and the naked man strewn over him. "Oh for the love of God!" Michel screwed his face up in disgust. "This is exactly the shit I've been talking to you about. Is this really what you want for yourself? You are meant to be thinking about your future, not screwing whatever wretch you can find at the bottom of some whorehouse trash bin. For God's sake. Put some goddamn clothes on!"
So, this had to be the management. Johnny's groggy mind finally began to make a note of everything in his surroundings. Sun. Huge window. Big lounge. Smelled like French liquor and air fresheners and designer cologne. Designer boy laying on the sofa, blushing and trying not to make eye contact with his manager and wriggling his hips a little so that the sensitive space between his thighs could grind against the closest thing within reach. Johnny's leg, for the record.
"Christ, Paul, do you ever bother to read the schedules?" Michel dropped a stack of folders and papers to the table, running a hand through his hair. "The studio wants this finished by tonight, and I already wasted nearly an hour and a half looking for the damned thing. Why the hell wasn't it where I left it last night?"
Shifting positions on the couch, and clearly only to spite the manager, Paul licked Johnny's ear, the point of his little pink tongue teasing right inside the shell, then nuzzled his cheek and gave him a gentle kiss. "Ignore him," he whispered, his breath low and airy and oh so sweet, eyes fluttering shut as he shifted his hips a little and smiled, tilting his mouth towards Johnny's ear to whisper. "It's really not a big deal..."
"Are you listening to me?" the exasperated man demanded. He tossed a soft object at Paul's head, who just barely caugh it in the air with an incredulous noise. "I tell you every day. I ask you for one, one goddamn thing! What is it I ask you to do every goddamn day!"
"Don't flirt around with pathetic losers. Don't embarrass the company or my career. Don't eat anything that doesn't specifically say organic on the package...!" Paul rattled off in annoyance, huffing under his breath and poking and prodding at Johnny, who's honestly just curiously listening in on their conversation while idly mulling it over, doing his best to stay in the background, unnoticed.
Michel only sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and inhaling a deep breath to keep himself from losing his patience. "Clean yourself up. No nasty shit. Nothing. None."
Paul hesitated. Blinked slowly. "Alright," he hummed, dragging one leg out of the blanket to push himself up and reach for his clothes.
The manager shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at the two, his gaze eventually resting on Johnny. Something in his expression shifting from annoyance to barely-restrained loathing. "And more than anything, get rid of this fleabag," he announced, gesturing at Johnny. "I can't stand the sight of it."
With that, he left, closing the door, hard, the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hallway.
"I don't think your dad likes me," Johnny grumbled teasingly, lifting himself up on his elbow.
"Oh, shut up," Paul scoffed as he tugged on a pair of sweatpants and adjusted the drawstring. "He's not my father. Just the annoying man who takes care of all the...ugh. All the stuff I hate to deal with."
"Oh?" Johnny mumbled, stretching a bit. "What, like your entire career, apparently?"
All he got for that was a quick glare before the irritated blonde stalked away, gathering the papers up in a pile. Livid. Adorable. Stupid diva of a guy, spoiled rotten, looking and acting like a petulant teenager. Figures he'd have a big, dumb daddy keeping tabs on him. Keep him in line, make sure he's singing those catchy tunes and racking up the stacks of cash his talent and good looks bring in. Still, Johnny watched, a little fascinated. There was something immensely intriguing about the guy. Like a pet. He sat there, on the couch, gazing as Paul pulled on a shirt and made his way to the desk to sort through the various papers and folders, setting a few aside after a brief look. He snatched up a blue ballpoint pen and scribbled his signature on something, setting it aside and grabbing the next one.
"You want breakfast? We should get some breakfast," Paul's voice floated over to him from across the room. "I don't know if you like savory or sweet...like, I was thinking to show you to my favorite place, they have fresh pastries, and these big fancy eggs, and this wine that'll set you back like four hundred bucks, but seriously, if you like a good drink, it's incredible, and it pairs so well with just about everything. Or..."
"Wine?" Johnny scoffed. He stretched and picked himself up from the pile of blankets, awkwardly pawing around for his belongings. "At seven in the morning?"
"More like nine," Paul corrected him, glancing at the clock before scanning another document.
"Right," Johnny muttered under his breath. "Of course, where the fuck have I been. Cakes and wine, it's the right kind of breakfast for spoiled snots like you."
Paul didn't bother responding, didn't rise to his bait, just made a small humming sound as he continued the mundane activity. Johnny watched him stretch a little, his arms thin and delicate, hips slim and posture as elegant and careless as ever.
And he felt like a loser. Like the dirtiest, foulest scum in the world, for thinking what he was thinking, even as the sensation was as thrilling as it was shitty. What the hell was he, a slob without a dime in his pocket, doing in the company of some high-society, well-spoken golden boy, sitting in the luxury penthouse of an elite performer who obviously had leagues of admirers and cash to blow on whatever he damn well pleased? Johnny paused in mid-search for his belt, glancing at the star. The tiny sigh, the fidgety stretching. Midriff peeking out under his too-small shirt.
He should go. Cut and run. Surely that'd be a good idea. Before he could put this plan into action, the pen was dropped. Paul left his work at the desk and wandered back, leaning over to Johnny with a sigh, turning his face up for a kiss. Brushed a hand through the fried ends of his hair. "I could order in, too, if you'd prefer," he mused quietly. Paul was really close now, and the sight of the perfection was so sickening it was making Johnny feel faint.
"Where's the bathroom?" He blurted out the first words he could think of, sitting up fully to get the blood moving through his veins, thinking he was going to vomit any minute now.
"Oh." Paul pulled back slightly, looking concerned at his sudden shift. "Down that way, on the left."
Off Johnny stumbled, barely giving the other guy time to respond. Heart pounding as the nausea grew steadily worse. Finding the small room, with sparkling mirror and spotless white sink, he had time for only a choked moan before he collapsed at the toilet and dry heaved in place, unable to deliver anything. Pathetic. He felt disgustingly pathetic. How many women, and now even this gorgeous, flawless, shining superstar had probably been dirtied and ruined at the hands of this stupid fucking bum. Tainted by his mere presence. By touch, by proximity, breathing the air in the same room as him. His stomach heaved and convulsed again, and still nothing came up.
With a faint groan, he got himself off the floor and turned the tap on. The faucet was very nice, really pretty gold accented against the pearly tile, and for a few minutes, he just stared blankly at the sparkles under the faucet while cold water gathered in his cupped hands. Finally he splashed his face, the sensation taking him out of his panicked haze and into a state of exhausted misery and shame. Well, time to get the hell out of here. Just cold shoulder the poor idiot who'd screwed him into a lovely state of limbo, make some shitty excuse about having forgotten he had to do laundry or take the car for an oil change, then leave and never look back. Yeah. No problem. Easy.
Stepping out of the bathroom, he's caught off guard by the position Paul's in. Standing in the middle of the floor with his back turned, fingers twisting together in little nervous knots, staring off into space and breathing little sighs and stiff as a board. Murmuring things to himself. Something about food and wine and how sorry he was. Like a dumbstruck bird that accidentally nests with a frog and is trying desperately to get any of the eggs to hatch. Johnny cleared his throat, already working out excuses and lies to get out the door as fast as possible. Paul's head snapped around, cheeks a bit pink and lips bit. He blinked and quickly relaxed into a smile, running his soft fingers through his hair and tilting his head in one of those very coy, practiced poses. "Oh. Um. Breakfast. I've called for stuff, I wasn't sure what you liked so I ordered a little bit of everything, you can just have what you like if you'd rather not have a big meal, with the...well, y'know, the hangover. And last night. Erm..."
Johnny wasn't listening. Just watching, observing the way his hands played with his hair, how his eyes flit around the room, avoiding any real contact. This was bizarre. New, and something that his still-reeling mind wasn't sure how to process or respond to. After a moment, Paul's smile dropped, nervous with all the silence.
"Don't stare, or I'm putting on a hoodie. That's, like, too unsexy for this level of awkward morning interaction," Paul said suddenly, voice sharp and anxious, hands tugging uselessly at the hem of his top as if to emphasize his point.
Disgust again. "Okay." That's all Johnny replied with as he respected the request. And the other sort of looked on, blinking a little bit in response, uncomfortable with the single-word reply, hands pulling on the bottom of his shirt again before putting them back in his pockets. The tension of unease so thick it was like a forcefield between them, Paul's body language just reluctant and uncomfortable enough that it set off alarm bells in his brain. "Well, I should get going," he finally got out, voice as flat and uncaring as he could possibly muster. And, ignoring the sudden and brief look of panic on Paul's face, he started moving towards the door.
"You need a ride?" Paul immediately blurted out, catching him by the arm. A light but frantic touch. "Or you want money for a cab? I can pay for that, at least..."
Johnny narrowed his eyes at him. This self-absorbed little diva having the idea of driving some disgusting bum with hardly a dime to his name somewhere. He almost wanted to say something to shock him, to expose just how worthless he really was, see the disgust come flooding over Paul's pretty expression and know, for certain, that Johnny was exactly what he looked like, a complete piece of shit with nothing to his name and nothing to offer. Somehow, when he opened his mouth, the excuse of having to work for something utterly unrelated came out instead, and next thing he knew, Paul was promising him five hundred dollars in cash before he left. Five hundred fucking dollars. It felt unreal. Made his head swim, made his skin heat up in shame, to be offered that kind of cash for no reason whatsoever. "For the sex?" He found himself uttering, like an idiot, immediately regretting it when Paul gave him a look that was beyond incredulous.
"What? For the...no! Don't be crude. What do you take me for?"
Johnny didn't respond, sort of nodding a little and looking away, trying not to squirm at the look that was being given to him. Judgmental and insulted.
"Just take it," Paul huffed, reaching into his pocket and taking his wallet out, as if daring him to oppose. "Really. Just. Take it, okay? If you're not going to eat here, I'm still not letting you go hungry."
How much did this fucker think a meal costs? Johnny let him shove the cash in his pocket anyway, but he didn't say anything, and the conversation trailed off. There was a tense pause. The silence got very heavy, and Paul started, looking down and fidgeting his slender fingers.
"Hey," he finally broke the silence, eyes fixing on Johnny hesitantly. "You sure you won't just stay for breakfast?"
Johnny hesitated further, looking him over. It sounded almost vulnerable, and for a second Johnny believed him. Actually considered turning around, sitting down, getting a cup of coffee and a waffle and accepting whatever hospitality Paul had to offer. So he brushed it off. Told himself that what he actually was hearing was the plea of a spoiled child worried about his favorite plaything being taken away from him. He ignored the plaintive words, and left him with a cool goodbye. A little cruel, maybe, but it might stop him from indulging the fantasies he knew better than to linger on.