Working In A Beauty Salon - Part 9

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The first thing Hugo registered was the pounding in his skull a dull, insistent throb that pulsed behind his eyes with every heartbeat. He squeezed his eyelids tighter, willing the pain away, but the sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains was relentless. 

When he finally pried his eyes open, the disorientation hit him like a physical blow. This wasn't his apartment. The sheets were too soft, the pillow too plush, the air carrying a faint trace of expensive cologne that made his stomach lurch.

He turned his head slowly, wincing at the sharp protest from his neck muscles, and that's when he saw the arm draped possessively across his waist. 

Alex. Still asleep, his breathing deep and even, his bare chest rising and falling against Hugo's back. The warmth of another body pressed against his should had been comforting, but instead sent a jolt of panic through him. 

Fragments of the night before flashed through his mind - the clink of glasses, Alex's fingers tracing patterns on his thigh, the dizzying sensation of being guided toward the bedroom with promises whispered against his skin.

Hugo carefully lifted Alex's arm, holding his breath as he slipped out from under the covers. The cold air hit his bare skin, raising goosebumps as he took stock of himself - still in his boxers, thank God, but his shirt was missing, his jeans discarded in a heap near the door. 

He spotted them draped over an ornate armchair along with the silky blouse Alex had insisted he wear last night. 

"That color brings out your eyes," Alex had murmured, fingers lingering at Hugo's collar. Now the memory made his face burn with something between shame and confusion.

The hardwood floor was cool beneath his feet as he crept toward the bathroom, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his temples. The bathroom was all marble and chrome, spotlessly clean, with towels so plush they felt like they'd never been used. 

Hugo avoided looking in the mirror as he splashed water on his face, the shock of cold helping clear some of the alcohol fog. 

When he finally dared to look up, the reflection staring back at him was foreign smudged eyeliner, lips still slightly stained from last night's wine, a bruise blossoming just above his collarbone. He touched it gingerly, wincing at the tenderness.

The sound of sheets rustling sent his pulse racing. "Luna?" Alex's voice, thick with sleep, carried through the half-open door. "You running out on me already?"

Hugo's breath caught in his throat. That name was the one they'd all been teasing him with at the salon, the one that had started as a joke but now felt like it carried weight. 

He swallowed hard, bracing his hands against the sink. "I just... needed a minute," he called back, hating how shaky his voice sounded.

When he emerged, Alex was sitting up in bed, the sheets pooled around his waist, his dark hair deliciously mussed. He looked every inch the wealthy, confident man, he was completely at ease in his skin, in his lavish bedroom, in this situation. The contrast to Hugo's own trembling uncertainty was almost painful.

Alex patted the space beside him. 

"Come back to bed. I'll call for breakfast." His smile was warm, but there was something in his eyes a possessiveness, a satisfaction that made Hugo's skin prickle.

"I should really get going," Hugo muttered, grabbing his clothes from the chair. "I have work in..." He glanced at the ornate clock on the nightstand. "Shit. Two hours."

Alex's expression darkened momentarily before smoothing into that charming smile. "Call in sick," he suggested, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "We could make a day of it. Spa treatments, maybe some shopping." His thumb swiped across the screen. "I know this amazing place that does same-day consultations for..."

Hugo wasn't listening anymore. He was too busy fumbling with his jeans, his fingers suddenly clumsy. The room felt too small, the air too thick. "I can't," he interrupted, sharper than he intended. At Alex's raised eyebrow, he softened his tone. 

"I mean, I have clients booked. Important ones."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things. Alex studied him for a long moment before sighing dramatically. "Alright, if you insist on being responsible." 

He swung his legs out of bed, completely unselfconscious in his nakedness, and padded over to a sleek dresser. "At least let me call you a car."

Hugo opened his mouth to protest, but Alex was already tapping at his phone. "Done. It'll be here in ten." He turned, leaning against the dresser with casual grace. "You're overthinking this, you know."

"Overthinking what?" Hugo asked, pulling his shirt over his head too quickly, making his headache spike.

"Last night." Alex stepped closer, close enough that Hugo could smell the faint remnants of his cologne mixed with sleep-warm skin. "It was fun. That's all it has to be." His fingers brushed Hugo's wrist, light as a whisper. "Unless you want it to be more."

Hugo's breath hitched. The touch, the proximity, the memory of Alex's mouth on his skin it all sent conflicting signals through his foggy brain. He wanted to lean in. He wanted to run. Mostly, he just wanted to not feel so damn confused.

The buzz of Alex's phone broke the moment. "Car's here," Alex announced, stepping back with that infuriating smirk. He grabbed a robe from the back of the door and shrugged into it. "I'll walk you down."

The elevator ride was silent except for the soft hum of machinery. Hugo kept his eyes fixed on the descending floor numbers, acutely aware of Alex's presence beside him. When the doors opened to the lobby, Alex caught his hand. 

"Text me when you're home safe," he said, and before Hugo could respond, leaned in to brush a kiss against his cheek. "And think about what I said. About making this... regular."

Hugo managed a nod, his throat too tight for words. The morning air was crisp as he slid into the waiting town car, the leather seats cool against his overheated skin. As the car pulled away from the curb, he finally let out the breath he'd been holding, his fingers going to the bruise on his collarbone again. His phone buzzed in his pocket, a message from Alex already. A single heart emoji.

He stared at it, his stomach churning. Last night had been a blur of alcohol and poor decisions, but this morning felt like the start of something he wasn't sure he was ready for. 

The car turned a corner, sunlight flashing through the windows, and Hugo closed his eyes against the sudden brightness, against the pounding in his head, against the terrifying thought that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see where this would go.

The familiar chime of Lush & Luxe's doorbell should have been comforting, but today it set Hugo's teeth on edge. 

He hesitated in the doorway, his hand still on the brass handle, the scent of lavender and ammonia hitting him like a physical barrier between last night's mistakes and today's reality. 

The salon hummed with its usual mid-morning energy the hiss of steam from a stylist's iron, the low murmur of client conversations, the occasional burst of laughter from the shampoo stations. Normal. Everything was perfectly normal. Except for him.

Kate spotted him first. Her razor-sharp gaze took in his rumpled clothes, the way his shoulders hunched defensively, the faint but unmistakable mark peeking above his collar. Her penciled eyebrows arched as she set down the color swatches she'd been showing a client. 

"Well, well," she drawled, crossing the floor with deliberate slowness. "If it isn't our runaway Cinderella." The words were light, but her eyes were calculating. "Rough night, princess?"

Hugo's cheeks burned. He ducked past her toward the break room, his stomach churning. "Not now, Kate."

She followed, her heels clicking a relentless rhythm against the tile. The break room door swung shut behind them with a soft thud, muffling the salon sounds. Kate leaned against the counter, arms crossed, waiting.

Hugo busied himself with the coffee maker, his hands trembling slightly as he fumbled with the filter. The machine's gurgle filled the heavy silence. He could feel Kate's stare boring into his back.

"Spill," she finally demanded. "And don't bother with the 'nothing happened' routine. You look like you got run over by a vodka truck."

The coffee pot clattered as Hugo set it down too hard. "It's not a big deal. I had drinks with Alex. Things got... carried away." The admission tasted bitter on his tongue.

Kate's manicured fingers drummed against her elbow. "Carried away how far?"

Hugo's grip tightened around his mug. "Far enough, okay?" The words came out sharper than intended. He took a steadying breath. "I don't really remember all of it. We drank. A lot. 

Woke up at his place." He couldn't bring himself to mention the consultation brochure Alex had texted, the way his stomach had flipped at the thought of implants, of becoming Luna permanently.

Kate's expression darkened. She opened her mouth, then closed it again as her gaze flicked past Hugo to the salon floor. "Where's Max today?"

The non-sequitur threw him. "What?"

"Max." Kate enunciated each word carefully. 

He turned too quickly, scanning the salon through the break room window. Max's station stood pristine and empty, his favorite shears conspicuously absent from their usual spot by the mirror. "He's not here?"

"Called in 'sick.'" Kate made air quotes with her fingers. "Funny timing, don't you think?"

The coffee turned to acid in Hugo's throat. He set the mug down with a clatter, liquid sloshing over the rim. "Did he say anything? About...?"

"About seeing his best friend leave the bar with some rich creep who's been trying to turn him into a living doll?" Kate's voice dropped to a hiss. "No, Hugo. He didn't say a word. That's what's worrying me."

The bell over the front door jingled, saving Hugo from responding. Through the window, he watched a regular client, Mrs. Delaney, with her weekly blowout settle into his chair. Work. Normalcy. A reprieve from this conversation he wasn't ready to have.

"I have to..." Hugo gestured weakly toward the salon floor.

Kate caught his wrist as he moved to leave. "This isn't over," she warned, but released him with a sigh. "Go fix Mrs. Delaney's helmet hair. But we're talking later."

The familiar rhythm of work provided temporary shelter. Hugo fell into the automatic motions of draping the cape, adjusting the chair height, and spraying the heat protectant. His hands remembered what to do even as his mind spiraled. Mrs. Delaney chattered about her granddaughter's ballet recital, blissfully unaware of the storm raging behind Hugo's practiced smiles.

Halfway through the blowout, his phone buzzed in his back pocket. He ignored it. Then buzzed again. And again. When Mrs. Delaney went to rinse her conditioner, Hugo finally checked.

Three messages from Alex:

"Thinking about you."

"That color looked incredible on you last night. We should find more like it."

And then, the kicker:

"Booked us a consultation at Serenity Spa for Friday. My treat. Say yes."

Attached was a brochure photo of a smiling, surgically enhanced model with Hugo's same dark eyes and bone structure. The caption read: "Becoming Your Truest Self."

Hugo's vision blurred. He fumbled to lock his phone just as Kate materialized at his elbow, her gaze dropping to the screen before he could pocket it.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Is that him?"

Hugo didn't trust his voice. He nodded.

Kate plucked the phone from his trembling fingers, scrolling briefly before her face went stony. She handed it back with deliberate calm. "You need to decide who you want to be, Hugo. Because right now?" She gestured to the phone, to the empty station where Max should be, to the mark on Hugo's neck. "You're letting everyone else make that choice for you."

The truth of it hit like a physical blow. Hugo opened his mouth, closed it. What could he say? That he liked the way Alex looked at him, even if it came with conditions? That Max's quiet, steady presence suddenly felt suffocating? That he didn't recognize the person staring back at him in the mirror anymore?

Mrs. Delaney returned, saving him from answering. As Hugo resumed the blowout, his reflection in the mirror caught his eye the tired slump of his shoulders, the smudges under his eyes, the way his hands moved with mechanical precision. The salon chatter faded to white noise around him.

His phone buzzed again. He didn't check it.

The rain started just as Hugo turned onto Max's street—cold, needling drops that soaked through his jacket within blocks. He'd left the salon early, claiming a migraine, though the real pain sat lower in his chest, a persistent ache that had grown sharper with every unanswered text to Max. 

Max's building loomed ahead, its brick facade darkened by the downpour. Hugo hesitated at the entrance, fingers hovering over the buzzer. What was he even going to say? That he was sorry? 

That he was confused? That part of him still thrilled at Alex's texts even as another part longed for the quiet certainty Max had always offered?

He pressed the buzzer hard enough to hurt his fingertip. 

No response. 

Again. 

Nothing. 

Hugo was turning away when the lobby door creaked open—an elderly neighbor exiting with an umbrella. He caught it just before it closed and slipped inside, rainwater dripping from his hair onto the scuffed linoleum. 

The elevator ride to the fourth floor took forever, each second stretching as Hugo picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, the same one Alex had complimented two nights ago. "This color was made for you, Luna."

Max's door looked the same as always same faded welcome mat, same sticker from that barber convention they'd attended last year. But when Hugo raised his fist to knock, the door swung inward before he made contact, revealing Max in rumpled sweatpants and a threadbare tee, his dark curls sticking up in every direction. 

They stared at each other. 

Max's eyes were bloodshot, the shadows beneath them purplish in the dim hallway light. He smelled like stale coffee and yesterday's cologne. 

"You look like shit," Hugo blurted. 

A muscle jumped in Max's jaw. "Yeah? You, too." He stepped aside. 

The apartment was a disaster takeout containers piled on the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside an overturned glass, Max's usually immaculate styling tools scattered across the kitchen counter. Hugo's stomach twisted. Max never let his space get like this. 

The door clicked shut behind them. 

"So," Max said, voice rough. "How was your date?" 

The word landed like a slap. Hugo flinched. "It wasn't." 

"Did you sleep with him?" 

The directness knocked the breath from Hugo's lungs. He opened his mouth, closed it. The truth stuck in his throat that he'd been too drunk to remember, that Alex had filled in the blanks this morning with smiling assurances, that the thought of it made him equal parts nauseated and shamefully curious. 

Max exhaled sharply through his nose. "That's an answer, I guess." 

"It's not like that!" Hugo's voice cracked. "I don't even know what it is! He calls me Luna and buys me clothes and" His hands fluttered helplessly. "And part of me likes it, Max. That's the fucked up part." 

Max went very still. "What does he want from you?" 

The brochure photo flashed in Hugo's mind that smiling, augmented version of himself. "He... he wants to pay for implants. A consultation's booked for Friday." 

Something dangerous flickered in Max's eyes. He crossed the room in three strides, snatching his phone off the counter. "Give me his number." 

"What? No!" 

"I'm gonna tell that rich fuck exactly where he can shove his—" 

"Stop!" Hugo grabbed Max's wrist. "Just stop." 

They stood there, breathing hard, rainwater dripping from Hugo's hair onto the floor between them. Max's pulse thundered against Hugo's fingers. 

"You're really considering it," Max said quietly. "Becoming his little project." 

"It's not." Hugo's throat tightened. "When he looks at me, I feel... I don't know. Special. Wanted." 

"And how do you feel when I look at you?" 

The question hung between them, fragile as glass. Hugo's breath caught. Because the truth was, Max had always looked at him like he was already enough, whether in grease-stained work clothes or the feminine styles Kate talked him into trying. Like Hugo himself was the constant, no matter how his exterior changed. 

Tears burned behind Hugo's eyes. "I don't know who I am anymore." 

Max's expression softened. He reached out slowly, giving Hugo time to pull away, and cupped his face. His thumb brushed away a tear Hugo hadn't realized had fallen. 

"I love you," he said, simple as that. "Not Luna. You. However you are." 

Hugo's knees nearly buckled. All the breath left his body in a rush, leaving him lightheaded. Max loved him. Had always loved him, probably, in that steady, unshowy way he did everything. 

And Hugo,

He surged forward, crushing their mouths together. Max made a startled noise but kissed back immediately, his hands sliding into Hugo's damp hair. It was messy, desperate, nothing like Alex's polished seduction. Max tasted like coffee and exhaustion and home, his stubble scraping Hugo's chin, his grip almost painful on Hugo's hips. 

When they broke apart, gasping, Max rested their foreheads together. "Stay," he murmured. "Figure it out with me." 

Outside, the rain drummed against the windows. Somewhere in the building, a pipe clanged. Hugo closed his eyes and let himself lean into Max's warmth, just for now, just for this moment. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Alex again, no doubt. 

He ignored it.

The first light of dawn crept through Max's curtains, painting gold stripes across tangled sheets. Hugo blinked awake slowly, disoriented by the unfamiliar weight of an arm slung over his waist, the warm press of another body against his back. For one dizzying moment, he thought he was still at Alex's until the scent registered.

 Not expensive cologne, but the familiar laundry detergent Max always used, mixed with the faint herbal tang of his shampoo.

Max's breath tickled the nape of Hugo's neck, steady and deep. Still asleep. Hugo held perfectly still, afraid to shatter this fragile peace. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—again. He didn't need to look to know it was Alex. The messages had come all night, growing increasingly insistent.

Carefully, he extracted himself from Max's grip, wincing as the floorboard creaked underfoot. The bathroom light was harsh after the soft bedroom gloom. 

Hugo avoided the mirror at first, splashing cold water on his face until his skin stung. When he finally looked up, the reflection startled h,im his hair mussed from sleep, lips slightly swollen, the beginnings of stubble shadowing his jaw. And on his collarbone, just above the neckline of Max's borrowed t-shirt, a fresh mark that hadn't been there yesterday.

The bedroom door clicked open behind him. Max leaned against the frame, sleep-rumpled and bare-chested, his dark curls sticking up in every direction. 

"Morning," he rasped, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. The motion stretched the tattoo on his bicep a pair of scissors intertwined with a comb, inked after his first year at the salon.

Hugo's throat went dry. "Hey."

Their eyes met in the mirror. Something unspoken passed between them, fragile as the morning light. Then Max stepped forward, pressing a kiss to the crown of Hugo's head before reaching past him for the toothpaste. The domesticity of it made Hugo's chest ache.

The kitchen smelled of coffee and burnt toast. Max moved around the small space with practiced ease, cracking eggs one-handed while Hugo sat at the rickety table, cradling his mug. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but charged with all the things they hadn't said yet.

"You hungry?" Max asked, scraping eggs onto two plates.

Hugo nodded, though his stomach churned. He picked at his food, watching as Max devoured his portion with single-minded focus. "You cook a lot?"

"Only when I'm trying to impress someone," Max said around a mouthful of toast, then immediately flushed. He shoved the plate toward Hugo. "Eat. You look like shit."

Hugo huffed a laugh, obeying. The eggs were slightly overcooked, the toast charred at the edges. Perfect.

His phone buzzed again, vibrating across the tabletop. Max's fork clattered against his plate. "You gonna get that?"

Hugo flipped the phone over without looking. "No."

The salon was unusually quiet when they arrived together, the morning rush not yet begun. Kate took one look at their rumpled clothes and matching dark circles and smirked, but mercifully said nothing. 

Hugo busied himself with restocking supplies, trying to ignore the way his pulse jumped every time Max brushed past him.

The peace was shattered when the door chimed. Alex stood framed in the entrance, impeccably dressed as always, a bouquet of white lilies in hand. His gaze locked onto Hugo immediately.

"Luna," he said, voice smooth as silk. "We need to talk."

The salon froze.