JANUARY 1, 2014 / TIMES SQUARE

There were too many chandeliers in the VIP section.

The fact mocked him; everything about the penthouse suite did. The scintillating wine glasses, jewelled lampshades, looking nicer than Asher ever would; he felt out of place with opulence of it all. He was the rock that miners threw away, heading straight for bigger diamonds. The diamonds in the room were sparkling and laughing, having stripped out of the skin and skill that made them known. They embraced who they were before the fame; no — under the fame.

Asher left Leon Lonzano and his wife once realising he was only intruding, slipping into a conversation with a model. And then into a bedroom to make out. He never caught her name, but largely only because she never bothered to tell him. When they came out of the bedroom, she rearranged her hair and acted like nothing happened. Asher didn't care. Call her a fling.

The rise and fall of her chest when she breathed, how his hands fit into the curve of her back. All the memories could be easily erased, washed down with some tequila.

Everyone came with a date, even those that weren't dating. Alone again, Asher found solace in a bottle of lager, and some shrimp cocktails. At seventeen, he liked to think that he'd grasped the technique of drinking and not getting drunk. But, he was well on the way to getting wasted except this time, it was intentional. 

The fog in his mind would cover anything he didn't want to see, and wrap around him until he felt warm again. Asher wanted to feel warm, and alcohol was the way to do it.

He stood up from the chaise, feeling blood rush out of his head. It took his balance with him, leaving him swaying woozily before shaking his head and walking out to the balcony. Asher had lost most of clothing in his frenetic interaction with the lingerie model, and was left in only his shirt and trackpants. He put both hands on the balcony, feeling the icy steel sting him immediately. Leaning forward until his forehead was resting on the smooth metal, Asher watched the festivities carry on below through the gaps in the railing.

Times Square was a painting that night. 

Every person packed into was only a dot of paint, insignificant to Asher from how high up he was. The real features were the jumbotrons, lit up in technicolour, one showing the countdown. Big brands like Coca-Cola and Nike were relaying their holiday greetings through the screens. 

The red, blue and white balloons that were being handed out saturated the crowd until those were the only colours Asher could see. It was easier to spot the spaces the news crews and other VIP sections occupied from the balcony — they were the dark shadows in all the lights, the empty parts in an ocean of people.

An acclaimed band was finishing their set; the last chord the guitarist had played was still throbbing in Asher's ears, though the screaming was even louder. The lead singer had his arms spread wide as if to embrace every one of the people in the crowd. 

Asher wondered what Ryanel and Kerrish were doing. There was no way he could find them just by looking. Everyone looked the same, each like a grain of sand on the beach. A million people never looked so negligible to Asher, watching the crowd ripple like a static TV screen. Maybe this was what celebrities saw everyday.

When the countdown started, Asher made no move to take his head off the railing. The cold hugged his body; his breaths came out shaky and frosted, like winter's cigarette. The jumbotron at the top of One Times Square was showing the seconds left to the New Year. 

Five seconds left, and Asher heard footsteps behind him. 

Three seconds; someone was holding his waist, pulling him up.  His balance was disturbed after keeping his head down for minutes. The golden lights from the VIP section tilted as he stumbled, back into the balcony.

Asher recognised he was about to kiss someone, a stranger. He was dazed enough that kissing a stranger landed quite highly on his list of things he wanted to do at that moment. Maybe he wasn't so good at holding his liquor after all.

  Millions of voices screamed, "Happy New Years!" and exploded into cheering. 

Holding onto the balcony railing was all Asher could do as someone stepped closer to him.

Then he tasted alcohol on someone else's lips. It was a beverage that tasted much stronger than what he'd been drinking the time he'd been here. He could smell it too, along with a fragrant cologne and dark chocolate. Hands were pulling at the hem of his shirt, and when cold fingers clutched at his waist, insistently, Asher shivered.

"Shit, your hands are freezing," he muttered.

"Good." Asher felt him smile against his mouth. He pulled away, just far enough to see his stranger's green eyes in the light of the fireworks. 

"W-why'd you kiss me?" 

Inexplicably, Asher felt rather comfortable with this guy, who looked at him with an inquisitive stare. Like he was seeing a book with a padlock instead of a title.

"You seemed lonely the whole night." He looked down to Asher's mouth, a faint blush coming on his pale skin, "Yeah, I sound like a stalker."

"Were you just going to make the move and blame it on New Years if I rejected you?" Asher asked, chuckling lightly. It wasn't so cold any more.

The stranger stepped back, giving Asher a nice view of his expensive taste. His jacket and fedora would have almost made him seem hipster, if not for the self-assured smirk that screamed playboy. His clothing was casual, but too fashionable to be a coincidentally thrown-together outfit. "Pretty much. Can I ask your name?"

"Asher."

"Nice to meet you." He winked. Asher was smiling incredulously, wondering who the fuck this guy was. "Saxon Rush."

Asher wondered where he'd first heard the guy's surname. It was definitely familiar, and he thought about all the American Rushes he knew before slowly asking, "Is your mother—"

"Yes." Saxon shot a worried glance back to the party; it was thriving. No-one seemed to notice then two missing boys. Least of all, Saxon's famous mother. "Exactly why I want to get out of here. You coming with me?"

Asher nodded, "After I sort some stuff out."

Then, he walked back inside the penthouse suite, trying not to scream at himself. The night had taken a strange turn, the sort that had warning signs on every side and street light, but looked too nice not to go down. Damn it.

Asher found the room he'd shared with the lingerie model. The sheets were still crinkled, the room unlit and silent. From here, the festivities in Times Square and this VIP section were muffled. Asher took a seat on the bed, running a hand through his hair. The emotion drumming in his blood was not panic; it was more, am-I-really-going-to-do-this?

Quickly, he plucked out his phone and texted Kerrish. He told him not to wait up, and did the same for his father. That made up his mind; it was the closing of the door behind him so he couldn't backtrack. Then, Asher went around collecting his scarf and gloves and various articles of clothing he'd shed in his hurry. Two people in one night — that had to be some sort of record.

Kerrish texted back, and Asher cursed his friend for managing to sound so smug with two words.

getting some? ;)

Saxon cast a lazy, appreciative gaze over Asher when he stepped out of the room. He swept his eyes up and down, like a laser scanner, unashamed. Asher thought it didn't make sense; he was wearing more clothes than before. And not particularly trendy ones. 

Saxon and Asher managed to sneak out of the VIP section easily — everyone was swept away with dancing, singing and kissing. He kept a firm grip on Asher's hand, dragging him through the crowd. Saxon's hands felt like marble; cold, smooth and tensed up so much that he seemed made of stone instead of flesh.

They had squeezed out the crowd, and were heading to a quieter street when Asher asked, "Where exactly are we going?"

With his other hand, Saxon fished out a cluttered key ring. A denim tag hung off it — the type that cam stitched to expensive brand lines. A car nearby chirped, and Asher narrowed his eyes at the grey Lamborghini. Its matte finish looked like velvet, felt like flawless steel and radiated style. For the third time that night, Asher wondered who exactly Saxon Rush was. Because — damn — his whole lifestyle sounded impressive.

Asher slid into the passenger seat, the leather taut underneath him. He assumed Saxon had ignored his question, after not hearing a reply. Saxon's long fingers nimbly buckled his seatbelt, flicked on the heater and tuned the radio until an indie song came on.

When Saxon spoke again — backed by the soft strumming and vocalisation of Bastille, and the whirr of the heater — Asher could almost hear the smirk in his voice. 

"My apartment."