It was sleek. It was chic. And it scared the hell out of Tyler.

"Where are we?" Tyler asked, searching the sea of glassy eyed clones for a familiar face.

"Mini Bar, silly," Mason said, taking Tyler by the hand and walking him to the back.

"I feel so out of place," Tyler remarked, observing the abundance of expensive clothes and impeccable haircuts.

"You're with me," Mason said. "You belong."

"It's not my scene, really."

"What is your scene? Holed up in that homeless shelter, hiding out from the world?"

"Well, the first place I ever had a drink in Boystown was Scarlet. But I've been hanging out at The Pitstop."

"That place is so done," Mason scoffed. "I mean, sure it was great when it first opened, when it was new. But now they just let anybody in."

"Isn't that the point?" Tyler asked.

"Alright, here we go," Mason said as they approached his booth of friends with table service. "Be cool, be charming, and... "

"I know, be myself."

"No," Mason admonished. "Follow my lead. This isn't just a night out with brews and the boys. You're entering the elite of gay society, Tyler. You're actually about to belong."

As they approached the booth, some tipsy twink spilled his cosmo all over Tyler's shirt.

"Here," Mason said, quickly taking off his summer blazer and putting it on Tyler. He assessed Tyler's appearance for a moment and took a breath.

"What?" Tyler asked.

Mason had to repress the urge to kiss him. "To the manner born," he said, simply.

###