It wasn’t unusual for him to be lost in life. He was always known as a kid without direction, a kid who never quite fit in with his proper family, a kid who was one step from spiraling out of control. But at least then he was known. He was Dylan Von Hootensberg then, an heir to great fortune; not Dustin Harlow, official nobody.

He had no real identity, no friends, no family, and now no shelter. He had nothing but a few hundred bucks, a pack of cigarettes, and an extremely fake ID to make due with.

For the first few hours since running out of Tag’s apartment the blue-haired teen wandered aimlessly through the city, stopping in parks for a smoke and a breakdown, until he ended up in a sleazy gay bar on Eighth Avenue. It was a crappy, decrepit old bar with its real heyday in the 80s and 90s and is now just known for attracting the very same customers today that it did then. It continued to run a ball night for voguing and its drag night would bring in the Chers and the Madonnas before the Gagas and Britneys.

It wasn’t the scene for the nineteen-year-old Dustin Harlow. His young presence grabbed attention as soon as he entered, the small handful of lonely patrons turned to him as he crossed through and made his way to the bar, showing off a fake ID as he ordered a Jack and coke.

He sat alone for his first drink, undisturbed, but by the time his second drink was ordered the first guy of the night approached him. He was likely a good twenty years plus Dustin’s senior, and his shoes looked cheap with a vintage porn star stache. He stunk of whiskey and his gut hung over his decade old jeans that were in desperate need of a thorough wash.

“Beat it,” Dustin scowled without giving him a second look. He wasn’t the type that he was looking for. Not tonight. Not ever.

It wasn’t until the third drink that things started to swing in his favor. The fifth man of the night to approach was well groomed. He wasn’t all that attractive and was still twenty years older, but he wasn’t the worst of the night. It isn’t even what mattered – what matter for that night was that he looked to have money. That’s all Dustin was looking for.

He smiled and offered a seat next to him, giving a fake name of Alexandre Evans (first thing that came to mind, really), and spun the story of being a runaway who is new to the city without a place to stay and looking for companionship. It was half-true, and convincing enough for them to end up at the man’s brownstone within the hour where he feigned tiredness before any action could begin and passed out in his bed.

It was a last resort – not a situation that could be permanent, but it was shelter for now.