It's very rarely you even come out in the evenings, let alone on your own like this. The big she usually came with you when you wanted to go and scout for talent.
And by 'talent' you meant, obviously, people you could trick into sleeping with you. It was difficult without your wingman, in the velvet gloves and handmade pillbox hat, yeah we came together, no we're not together, ahaha. Your meat shields from the maniacs. Your spare pair of eyes. Your dance instructor. Your sharptongued bitch of a friend. She always made this easier. Or at least, less painful going home 'alone'.
This club was just as ridiculous as the last, packed and filthy. The damp, overpriced bar was identical to every other damp, overpriced bar you'd leant against that evening. You sipped your expensive, warm drink, in a charming dirty, chipped glass and began scour one.
People on their own. Even for a second. People getting pushed out of groups of dancing silhouettes. People that looked intoxicated, mentally fragile.
No? Done Being Sensible? Big she asks you mentally, and you grin.
Onto scour two. The letching.
The letching made you really wish you'd invited someone with you. You did feel like a bit of a creep walking about to the music, so played up just enough nobody could call you out for not dancing as you pushed through the crowds. You bounced to the beat, drawing shapes in the air with a glowstick, cutting through sashaying hips and full on jumping seizures.
There were several trolls you got close to in your adventure, some you had almost touched as you moved together.
There were a couple who pretended they hadn't seen him come up besides them, and pointedly ignored you as they danced.
There was one who ceased her raving, turned around, and stared at you until you went away.
You were pretty much giving up, and you'd barely finished your third drink. Then the fat chick with the long hair crashed into you, giggling light, bubbly giggles. You shoved her, or at least went to, struggling with depth perception in the flashing, multicoloured lights, but then her tiny dance partner glided between you as if nothing had happened, took her by the arm again and led her away in a few fantastically light steps. You followed him with greedy eyes, furious that your first nails and hairpulling fight of the evening had been interrupted.
Whereas the bitch he was dancing with had generous thighs and back, he was slender all over, and despite nearly matching her gargantuan height, looked pretty small. As he shuffled from side to side, skinny wrists encircling her fucking enormous hips, you basically realised he never stood up straight, never standing still. Every single one of his movements had this heavy, elastic force behind it and he was bouncing between bodypopping and the running man and you were basically already hard against the small of his back from all that way away, watching his different coloured shoes jolt around.
Thanfully, the hambeast he'd attached himself to was pretty much a boulder on the dance floor, preferring to rock on the spot and hold onto the dude rather than propel herself around. He danced around her like a fucking maypole, and you were so jealous you wanted to pull her massive hair and take her place. She had him gyrating in those jeans, in arms distance and she was touching his /shoulders/? What the shit?
You note their postures suddenly changing, and she whispers something to him. He freezes while he listens, nodding sternly, and then reaches for his pocket. You watch him take something he had in his pocket, putting it to the back of his tongue and then choking it down with the last of his beer. She nods determinedly, leaning forward to whisper it right into his ear. She's looking at you.
You realise what's happening. You suddenly realise why the situation is so weirdly familiar.
She's his wingman.
You're a target.
You choke a little, and duck off back to the crowd shouting at the bar. Your mouth is dry.
You need some courage or you're going to fuck this one up.
Gamzee's there, and he grins at you, hands you a glass. You shudder as you taste it, all sugary syrup and fizz and artifical fruit flavourings, but there's a sharp chemical tang through it all, reminding you who'd mixed it. His eyes are cloudy and unfocused, and it's obvious he doesn't remember exactly you are, but he offers you some of his drink and a line of white powder off a cigarette box and you accept both.
The bartender actually takes your money and gives you the wrong drink.
You look at the martini with disdain but you know it'll be worthless trying to argue. Gamzee sips the gin as you eat the olives, asks if you wanna pull up a pew with him, gesturing to the bar stool next to him, keep a bro company. Next to the massive bag he had on the floor. He was working. Oh. You tell him maybe later. You'd honestly rather help him burn through his excess stock at the end of a night than go home on your own, so you mean it for once when you say you'll be back evventually.
Feeling your face burn with cold for a few seconds as the speedcokepixiedust kicks in, you sip your revolting drink from the ridiculous glass, looking around for the two-person unit.
Someone bumps your arm a little, and you spill some martini.
Someone bumps your arm a little, and you spill some more martini.
Fifteen people have bumped your arm a little, and you threw the glass to the floor in disgust a long while ago, and you can see the girls' big, curly hair. You bop closer, getting your well-trained optical zoom examining the surroundings. She's talking to some guy with a ponytail who's acting like she's doing a striptease in front of him, wringing his hands and sweating. He's built like a brick shithouse and he looks so completely uncomfortable and awkward you almost feel a little sorry for him.
He might be a good one to shoot for, actually.
But Those Awful Shorts Worn With Ankle Boots Of All Things Eridan Really, your inner Kanaya mutters disdainfully.
You steel yourself, and decide. She'll know where he is. Unless you've got the situation wrong and they don't know eachother. Then you can get your claws into the sweaty one with the big arms instead. Excellent plan.
You sort of shimmy over, trying to act cool and ignore the gin smell from your sodden shirtsleeve.
Someone touches you on the back, featherlight. You look back absent mindedly, more concerned with what you're going to say to this fat girl than this nutter who wants to borrow a lighter or sell you some e.
He has glasses. Different coloured glasses. They're red and blue, which makes purple, and you're purple, so you pretty much want him already. He's not as short as you thought either, you've only got a few inches on him. He takes a sip from his bottle of beer slowly, and looks you up and down briefly as you stare at his fangs, wondering how he can even have lip piercings and fangs because it's not fair.
"She'th not interethted."
You barely hear what he says. His tongue is forked, almost, and he has a tonguebar in that clinks against his front teeth when he talks.
"Tho back off, okay?"
You wonder what else he's got metal punched through. You're glad you abandoned your one lone earring, because compared to the massive things this kid has stuck through his it was seriously pathetic.
He says something else, but you don't notice anything except the way the tips of his tongue stick to his upper teeth every now and then as he talks.
"Do you wwanna dance?" You ask, hoping to blindside him. It works.
"Yeah, I gueth tho, I-" You're already walking away from the girl, hoping she hasn't spotted either of you.
You both fall into the thrash room by mistake, the loud thumping music halfway between breakbeat and black metal. He laughs at your fallen face and leads you into a little light skanking, and you both take the piss out of the trolls just flat out moshing, and he's so light and frail when you ghost touch him you can't help but want to wrap your arms around him in case he tried to escape. He ducks his head to the side like he's saying 'blow this joint' and you snigger and run down the stairs together, cutting through another bar to find the UV lights, bubble machine and poi spinners.
This floor is a lot more relaxed and the music is so floaty and trippy you can barely follow it at all, but he steps against you so it's only polite to hold his back and keep his pace, at least, keeping your shoulders going in rhythm together. You look up at the projections on the blanketed cieling, watch the swirls of colour as you move with him. He digs into his pocket again and fishes out a pill, flicks it like a nickel, catches it on the back of his hand flawlessly. He drops it back into his thumb and forefinger, and offers. You nod. He presses his fingers against your lips and you try to be subtle about catching them with your tongue as you accept it. Your mouth fizzes and the music crackles and he wraps an arm around your shoulder suddenly and you're so sure he's going to kiss you and
and then he laughs and feeds himself one, his split tongue catching on his own fingertips
and completely fails to kiss you even a little
and he laughs again, a little clucking thing, dry and delicate, and his breath fogs your glasses up even worse, and you feel like such a dork.
He lets go of your neck and shoves you a little, and you're barely offended at the pushing, just deeply heartbroken he's suddenly not so close.
He is really enjoying the wailing sitar music apparently, because his hips are tracing the most ridiculously intricate patterns in the air as he does this insane, flawless, possessed by psychadelic spirits episode dancing, leaving tiny little touches along your collar and chest and arms. You catch his eye, and he sniggers. Caught taking the piss. Brilliant. He knocks it off, and instead you try your damnedest to keep up with his rapid switching from out-and-out raving, clapping his hands and jumping around, to calculated disco shuffling and occasional bouts of radically modern charleston. His biggest earrings glow in the UV.
You note the abandoned facepaint palette a few feet away, and sneak off and back as quickly as possible to retrieve it. He looks at you like he has literally no idea what you're waving that at me for why do you have makeup ii don't
and then you draw a line of bright, glowing white along your nose, like a bandaid. Like warpaint.
he stands totally still and bites his lip while you push his glasses up and streak red and blue around his eyes, pushing the colour out into his hair and towards his horns. He blinks and laughs, and his eyes are the exact same scarlet and cerulean. How about that. He puts his glasses back on, despite your protests, but pockets the palette.
You join right in with the spaced out trippers, swaying and trembling in eachothers arms, gesturing all around as you flail around like you're lost in the woods. Everything is so colourful and ridiculous and you're pretty sure you're just grinding against eachother now, surrounded by poisoned trolls, in this technicolour wasteland. He's pulling your arm again, tugging you away from the lava lamps and fruitjuice bar. You follow him blindly, wondering what time it is and how much of his giddiness is down to Gamzee's freebie, or maybe the pill you'd been fed, or maybe because you haven't eaten today, and just how much of your dopey grinning hornball retardedness was down to the mismatched boy with the wicked metal acne leading you through a set of corridors and stairs you don't know about.
He's looking around a lot like he's keeping an eye out for people, which isn't comforting, but he keeps looking at you like 'almost there' and when he smirks at you, his fangs melt you a little bit more.
You eventually get to a door with a big padlock on it that turns out to not even be attached to anything, just dangling on the handle like, and behind it there's a lot of kegs and cardboard boxes.
And a couch.
And a mini fridge.
And a pool table.
You realise from the massive screen in front of you and all the light machines that you're behind the stage where the DJ is.
He reaches out for you, and instead of just poking you on the arm he goes for your hand. You lace your fingers into his so gladly, and let him pull you towards the sofa. The music pounds across every surface of everything, and the light changes so often you're both swimming in rainbows constantly, patterns and flashes making it absolutely impossible to do anything but stare at him.
He whispers something into his giant teeth, and you kneel between his legs, your cuban heels between his odd, massive hightop sneakers. You can't hear a goddamn thing but you want this and you've got the best damned seat in the house for once.