VEGA, HOLLAND A.

[HOLLAND ASHER VEGA]

FULL NAME holland asher vega
NICKNAMES holly
AGE twenty-five
GENDER male
SEXUAL ORIENTATION pansexuall.
SOCIAL GROUP & OCCUPATION stage crew for Chicago theater
ORIGINAL OR CANON courtesy of laur but in a subplot, hurhur.
PLAYED BY pete wentz

LIKES
the color yellow, ducks, the cold, night time, the stars, space in general, cats, dogs, most animals, loud music, post-hardcore, his cat edgar, sunrise, sunset, dusk, twilight (not the book, the actual time of day), fast food, the smell of old spice and axe, alcohol, being nude, fucking around at kids parks and getting told off by the angry parents, snow, rain, lightning, cows, Hannah Montana, knives, sour things, London, England in general, sunglasses, clothes, slinkies, tight clothes, tulips, cheesy jokes, sex, forests, old record players, elvis costello, paul anka, frank Sinatra, his large collection of records from said artists, ice cream, anything he can eat that’s cold, food in general (he’s a fattie), coffee, coffee, more coffee, anything that will give him energy(not that he needs it), old time swing bands, being loud, paintings that are done well none of that abstract shit, marijuana, alcohol, cool whip, jell-o, jell-o wrestling, spicy food,books.
DISLIKES
swans, a lot of birds, the smell of garbage, yogurt, bubble gum flavored anything, the color beige, not being in control, being told off by his friends, shirtless old men with the beer bellies and hair everywhere, his brother Persia, Burger King, hurt feelings, being called a pussy (see hurt feelings), loud noises, cinnamon, spoons, how flexible he is, batteries, technology, the fact he would die without said technology, dusty books, nails on a chalkboard, stuffed(literal) animals, his uncle who’s a taxidermist, jet lag, not sleeping, not having his pills at his disposal, bright lights, baggy pants, animal crackers, seagulls, tight spaces, the dark, being denied a goat and chicken, being rejected, dull colors, olives, itchy wool.

PERSONALITY
LOUD.
After a while, you might want earmuffs. Holland’s almost always been loud, but not just with his voice. Growing up with five other siblings, and more than their fair share of animals, he has gotten into the habit of just speaking louder than needed. It also gets his point across, since it means he’s talking over your, and more people are bound to listen to him. It’s not that he things you’re wrong, he just wants people to know he’s right. when he’s happy, Holland’s likely just talking a lot, with maximum volume, so you can share his happiness with him. When he’s angry, he’s heavy footed, and probably yelling at you because you fucking moved his shoes again, and he can’t fucking find them, you fucking fuck. When he’s confused, it’s earsplitting, booming questions shouted at you, wanting to know what? What? What did you say? Even when he sleeps, he’s noisy. He’s thrashing around, and rolling over, and moving all over the bed, sometimes falling out of bed. He’s not the best person to be a roommate with. He likes his music, and he likes it deafening. But it’s not just noise that’s loud about him. He gives off a lot of body language. With the cock of his hip, and cross of his arms, you can usually tell his mood by the signals he throws you.

OBSERVANT.
Surprisingly, Holland can be quiet. And when he is silent, he’s usually watching. Not in the creepy stalker way, but in the alert and sharp-eyed way. He likes to know what’s happening around him. The drama, so he can pry his way into it. Or even people’s mood, because he likes to suck up people’s emotions, and feed off them. If you’re upset, and almost in tears, Holland is likely conjuring up the crocodile tears just so he can have some attention too, and be a part of something. A lot of people just assume he’s an airhead who’s killed his last brain cell the past week when he put his head through a wall. Holland knows he’s more than that, but he likes to keep people thinking he’s a dumbass. He often passes off his stupid tendencies just so he had a reason to stare at people. People usually just think he’s being his usual space cadet, and is off on another planet. On the contrary, he’s picking you apart, and trying to figure what makes you tick. What makes you you. Holland likes to know people. He wants to know your buttons, so he can push them. He wants to know your weaknesses so that he can play you around, and get what he wants. Do you have a sweet spot for sluts? If Holland knows, and you have something he wants, no doubt he’ll be skimping around in less clothing than usual, and maybe being a bit too inappropriate. Because he knows what he wants, and he wants it now.

CRIMINAL
He tries to keep it hush hush, since it’s an embarrassing fact. He’s a kleptomaniac. Which means he steals. A lot. He can’t control it sometimes. Once he went on a date with a girl he really liked, and he didn’t even notice it until when he went to hold her hand, but he’s swiped the salt and pepper shakers. He never called her back. He doesn’t steal because he needs it, because he wants it. It’s never anything he really needs. It’s just things that look nice, and he feels drawn too. He has one too many little shiny objects cluttering around in his backpack. Sometimes he keeps all the things. Other times he gives them away to people. But mostly, he throws them away after a while. Everyone assumes he’s a pack rat, but he’s the furthest from it. He’s a very neat boy, and doesn’t like mess. He just accumulates too much, and he needs to get rid of some. Part of the reason he steals is because from the age of five to thirteen, they could never really afford anything, so he used to go out to the local street merchants, and nick breads and cheeses. His grandma never stopped it, and it turned into a habit, and soon, and addiction. He’s only gotten caught a few times, but got let off with a warning each time. He knows it’s a bad thing to do, and he’s ashamed of it, but you can see his in wal-mart the next week, pushing shampoo into his bag, and pretending to be looking for his wallet. He’s not poor, he can afford these things, but he can’t stop. He sometimes takes thing from his friend’s homes, but he gives it back after a while.

BRUTE
Through and through, Holland will devolve back to an animal on four legs at the end of the day. Sometimes he just forgets how to use his big boy words, and it’s grunts and snarls from him. When he doesn’t get his way, he’s stomping around like a lowbrow caveman who’s lost his favorite club. He’s a spoiled brat, and he knows it. And he’s not above throwing a temper tantrum. In public, or in private, Holland will throw himself around, whining and complaining, until someone gives into his whims. He’s quite the prima donna, and he knows it. He’s proud of it, because it’s what he does well. If he didn’t like girls so much, he would pretty much go find himself an old rich man, and live with him, if it meant getting whatever he wanted, at his beck and call, in return for a few gruesome sexual favors. But he’s not that desperate to get his way. But when he does lose a fight, and he’s thrown in the towel, you’ll never hear the end of it. He’ll nag you and nag you, and find a way to guilt trip you, until you admit he was right. Holland thinks he should be at the center of everyone’s attention, or else he’s not being noticed at all. He loves the eyes, and the glances.

PEOPLE PLEASER.
As much as he loves himself, Holland likes to make other people happy. It just gives him a self-righteous feeling, knowing people are grateful for what he’s done for them. Almost like he had a bad god complex. He doesn’t like to see people upset, even if he doesn’t know them. Because it just means someone else’s awareness is taken from him. He’s needy, okay? If someone’s blue, or down and out, Holland will do whatever he can to try and cheer them up. Even if it means physically harming himself, he’ll do it. He almost took his head off one time when his sister was upset because her cat was missing, when really; the cat had just gotten into the walls again. He’s also very territorial. When Holland likes something or someone, he’ll pull out all the stops to make sure he gets it or them. That doesn’t even have to be in the sexual way. If he thinks you look interesting, and he wants to get to know you better, he’ll just start conversations with you until you talk back. And the better he knows and likes you, the clingier he tends to be. You’ll need the jaws off life to pry that motherfucker off you. And we’re talking clingy in the literal sense here.

INEVITABLE.
See, the thing about Holland, he’s kind of like puberty. You cannot avoid Holland Jones. At least once in your life, he’s happened to you. Maybe he’s just snuck up on you, and got you when you weren’t looking. Making it was a slow and aching process that took years before he finally left you alone. Whatever it may be, you cannot avoid the plague that is Holland. It’s like a shark attack. You can feel it building up, and circling slowly, but you tread water dumbly. He has just used this time to figure you out, and the best way to get at you. Maybe a jump from behind, and onto your back. Or maybe even a direct approach. Either way, you’d probably had to have dealt with Holland once or twice. He likes people, and he likes to be around them. Normal people keep him sane, and on the ball. He’d hard to escape in the beginning, but often if not every time, he’ll get bored, to be honest. He’s not what we call the smartest, and it’s harder to keep his attention, which is about the size of a pea. The most you can do is wait him out, and just kill time until he detracts himself from you, and finds someone else to glue to the hip.

HOMETOWN Metz, Lorraine, France
MOTHER florent vega, 49, ex-escort, now a housewife.
FATHER unknown.
SIBLINGS barron vega-sawyer, eight.
OTHER IMPORTANT FIGURES jean-marie hotz, grandmother.
HISTORY
His life hasn’t been terrible, like every other child you see. Well, Holland doesn’t consider it horrible. He just sees it as unique. His mother was a high class “escort” in Metz, but she did all of her work in Paris. Holland has no idea who his father is, so when he sees a man on the street, he thinks he could be related to him. But he was born, basterdized, on March 3rd in Metz, and his mother was so hopped up on pills, she’d forgotten what his name was going to be. So she picked the first thing that came to mind. Holland’s still bitter about it, but won’t ever change his name. He grew up in a shitty little apartment, and spent most of his days alone as a toddler. His mother would come home and check on his every so often, and then go back out, leaving food out. It wasn’t exactly great parenting. But when he was around four, his grandmother came to take his away from his mother. His grandmother Jean never really did see Holland’s mother fit to be an actual mother, and didn’t want Holland to grow up and be what his mother was. So he was rooted up from Metz, out to Belgium.

In Belgium, he found out what his grandmother was like. She was a strict woman, married to the lord. Like his daughter, Jean had given birth at an early age. So when she was seventeen, and with a baby, she went to a nunnery, and asked to join them. Jean was taken care of by the nuns that ran the orphanage, while Jean became a nun. She wasn’t a nun anymore when he took Holland with her to Belgium, but she never forced the word of the Lord onto her grandson. She was a poor woman, who could barely afford to feed herself, let alone her grandchild. Still, she believed that God would take care of them. She thought it was the friendliness of neighbors when breads and cheeses and foodstuffs showed up on her counters. But really, it was the problem of Holland, who was starting to get into stealing. Jean really had only become a nun because she needed a place to live, and be away from her own parents. Things came and went fast with her. She had an addiction to buying lottery card every Wednesday. It was part of the reason why she was so fucking poor. But again, being naïve, he thought the lord would rig the system for her, and her numbers would come up. They never did. Not the lottery anyways. But her sister, Emile, who lived in Las Vegas, had died when Holland was seven, and they had to go get the will from her lawyer. Emile left every penny she owned to her sister, and she owned a pretty penny. So Jean-Marie figured, what the hell, stay in America. Holland was happy with the choice.

As Holland learned, Las Vegas wasn’t much different than his old town. There was still the sweltering heat, and still people who didn’t understand him. But there were much more vendors he could watch everyday, and plan to take something from to give to his grandmother. He’d always been a smart child, and he quickly picked up the language during the summer. He learnt the basic words, mainly the curses. He knew how to ask how much, or where something was. He also knew how to shout “I’m walking fucking here” when someone walked in front of him. Everyday, while his grandmother went out on errands, or to find a job to keep himself busy, Holland would go out, and wander around the town, making a map in his mind of where everything was. He was encouraged to make friends with the children in the neighborhood, but he’d rather crouch under bridges, and look for bugs, maybe ten feet away from a sleeping homeless person. He made more homeless friends than kids his own age. They liked to watch his find the bugs and make them play, and screech out French songs in his horrible singing voice, and he would bring them food sometimes. They called him a saint, and an angel. He loved it. He liked to see them happy. But one day, a cop saw him playing under a dirty underpass, with a bunch of men, and he promptly grabbed him, and took him home, and lectured his grandmother about getting a babysitter for Holland. So Holland was put into a day camp. Computer camp. He hated computers, but still excelled. To this day, he hates electronics because of it.

High school came around, and he was still a nerd. By then, his grandmother had moved them to a suburb in Illinois, because she wanted a smaller town, away from the lights of Vegas. Two years younger than everyone and fresh faced, he had no idea what it was to fit in high school. He was socially awkward, and didn’t know how to talk to people properly. So he was mostly quiet, and ignored in high school. He was a mouse. The most he got asked for was a pencil, or the answer to a question. He was also a nervous child who got sweaty palms. One time in gym class, he was called on last for volleyball teams, and he was serving first. His hands were clammy, and a senior was screaming at him where to hit it, and telling him to do overhand. So Holland listened, and aimed, and spiked the ball right into the seniors head. The senior charged at him, and knocked to the ground, and knocked his head against the floor a few times before the coach came in to stop it. Holland thought he was safe, and the senior kept on giving him toothy smiles. But then when he was in the change room, the boy attacked him, gave him a black eye, and stole all his clothes. And then he went and put his underwear on Holland’s locker. High school was a traumatizing time for him. But he survived it, twitchy and nervous, but still happy with himself, because he got mostly straight A’s. Except for gym, he mostly stayed on the bench, or claimed he didn’t have him clothes, or that he had a strained ankle.

With his marks and usual effort put into education, Holland could have gone to many of the universities in the state. But he stuck to what he knew.

NAT DONE. BECAUSE I HAVE A SIX PAGE ESSAY DUE TOMORROW THAT I HAVENT STARTED. OH LORD.

YOUR ALIAS laur.
YOUR AGE lying is for losers.
ROLEPLAYEXPERIENCE
EXAMPLE
sitting out in the sun, with the thick and heavy, dark and sun absorbing material of his hoodie probably wasn’t helping his train of thought. it was likely giving him a mild case of heat stroke. and the last thing he needed was to pass out in front of max and bit off the tip of his tongue on his way down by banging his jaw on the bench or something equally as idiotic. asher wasn’t exactly the most graceful person around. growing up, he’d trip over things that weren’t even there. “invisible roots”, as he’d call them, that came out to grab at his ankles and make him trip and almost smash his face into doors, walls, peoples chests. anything that was available and painful for him to come down hard on. he was pretty sure the first time he’d met max those invisible little tree roots had been coming out of the especially often, to ensure he was always blubbering on about “vertigo” and “not drunk” as he tripped over himself. it might have been his natural bumbling-ness, with his heavy feet made of lead, or it might have just been max as a factor. he’d always learnt to never trust marcus with anything really, especially not with people he wanted to introduce to asher. usually they ended up being creepy older men who would call him “honey” or drunken assholes who would spill their drinks all over him. even though asher had already developed his problem by then, he didn’t exactly enjoy being showered in liquor just because he was the last stop for the booze to hit because he managed to be a foot shorter than everyone. so when he was introduced to max, it was like he swallowed his own tongue, he was overwhelmed by the fact that he wasn’t creepy, slurring his words and the fact that max was tall as fuck, had that accent and was just fucking gorgeous killed him. from then and that point on, he’d always been a giggling idiot around max, laughing at his stupid jokes and generally being a vapid space cadet. it was something in him that always came out around max and he was terrified of it happening approximately three seconds after he saw him again, despite the time and silence.

he’d been absorbed in his own day dreams and thoughts of past times and the horrible scenarios rushing through his mind to even notice anything around him. he’d hoping to have been prepared for the moment max approached, have himself composed, stone faced and ready to be professional for the sake of it all. but when the sound of someone close clearing their throat rattled him from his thoughts, asher practically jerked away. he was caught frozen, like some as good as dead deer in headlights, staring up at max. maxmaxmax was all his brain could really function, soaking in the few beats of silence while he tried to calm down his fluttering heart rate. he had the good sense to thank the gods he was sitting because he could feel his knees going weak and buckling, going limp against the bench. looking at max for the first time after all those years almost burned his eyes, too might to take in, like staring directly into the sun. he tried not to be obvious about his greedy eyes trying to read and soak everything in like a sponge, down to the ridiculous details. like his hair cut and the direction the strands of hair went and the fact that asher recognized his shirt almost immediately, smiling feebly to himself over the memory of it that he’d almost lost. managing to draw his eyes away from his gawking and up to max’s face when he heard his own name, it was almost too much for asher. he wanted to yell, shout, scream, maybe hit him a few times, cause a scene, force him to answer truly why he’d gone back to london and never left anything for him. because he had the natural need to be a diva in him, he wanted that scene. to make a huge deal out of it, for any bystanders, so they could watch and feel for him. to make himself the big victim in this even though he knew that was lie. he was the one that caused it all to happen. his drinking, the fighting, the loss and the separating. it was all because of his doing. he could have prevented it. but there was that need, to be the one who was the one who suffered the most. to get the attention, to get the affection, to get it all. get it all from max, even if it was in the form of another screaming match. asher needed it more than he needed his job, needed it more than reputation. the only rational thing he could come up with was need.

but max was making it hard for him to summon up the anger and energy needed to cause a fuss and be raving. asher hadn’t ever forgotten max’s voice and his thick, almost delightful accent but hearing it just made him swoon slightly, with his knees and nerves all just turning into jelly. the comment made the dumbstruck look finally wipe away from his face, with a small pained expression. every emotion he didn’t want to be showing right in that moment managed to waver across his face for a spilt second before he settled on a small smile to match the others leer. his mind went into hyper drive to come back with something witty, something that would make a long lasting impression. but all he managed to spit out was a few cluttered stutters. pinching his eyes closed and his face heating up further with embarrassment, he tried again. “i. it’s not really that hot. kind of.” he murmured quietly, reopening his eyes to look up at him, almost curiously, with that nervous smile still tugging on his lips. “i don’t know, max. i don’t know what to say.” he admitted, twisting the already crumpled paper, well on it’s way to being ripped in half with the tension clutched tight in his fists and fore arms. sorry was a good place to start. but how could he say “i’m sorry i was a raging alcoholic who could hardly control himself and i made you go through that for so fucking long” and make it have meaning. saying it once just wouldn’t feel like enough. and repeating it over and over would be ineffective, it would sound fake and forced.

letting out a small sigh, he finally broke his eye contact, feeling small and useless on the bench. “i’m sorry.” he addressed the paper, the questions mocking him. “i know it’s not enough, but for what it’s worth. i am. sorry, that is. you did the right thing.” asher rambled on, quietly picking at the corner of the paper, not being able to bring himself to look up and face him. max had been right to call him a woman, he was certainly acting like one. sucking in a quick breath of air, he tried to keep it all in his chest, almost holding it out, asher turned back to look at max. he tried to use his practiced and easy fake smile but it just came out feeling real, however uncomfortable it was. “do you want to sit?” he asked, shifting over and laying his hand down on the bench briefly. “might as well get this over with, right?” he offered lamely, laughing nervously, feeling his guard go back up. he couldn’t trust himself with being this close to max again, being around him, within touching distance. trying to be discreet, he moved his hand from the bench away and tucked it slightly underneath his thigh, to pin it down. he was going to go to extremes this time around.