by Jayne Leitch
Rating: R for some of that good ol' slashiness. And a certain young man's foul mouth.
Disclaimer: wistful sigh It'd be nice, but...no.
Summary: He wants what he can't have.
PARTY BOY by Jayne Leitch
Endless, thrumming beat of the bass quaking through the air, through the soles of his feet, through the space in his chest, and he loves it. Spins and sways and rolls through the crush of bodies, curving around the places where people are and fitting into the places they aren't, sometimes both in the same second, part of a gyrating, frenetic entity made up of hundreds of people sharing the same energy.
And the beat.
Not nearly enough light to see clearly, but eyes are only one sense, and certainly not the most important one when the music is this loud. Black light makes fake shadows, glow sticks and gelled track lights and mirrored spots make real ones, and the club is a cavern of shifting, breathing anonymity. Darkness that throbs with the music, heavy with humid air saturated by the scent of a hundred expensive colognes and perfumes mingled with sweat and alcohol and sugar and sex.
Another Saturday night, and Theo feels alive for the first time in weeks. Lets the palpitation of the music take control of his pulse, swallows another illegal mouthful of vodka, and thinks he couldn't stop moving if he tried. Leans back to let some girl in a glowing white tube top press criminal amounts of her body against his, and they rock together until the crowd shifts again and lets them move on to new partners--a guy in a red shirt for her, a tiny Asian girl sucking at a lollipop for Theo.
He loves this. Wet skin and nearly unbearable amounts of heat pressing and sliding and moving on, changing with the beat, always changing. Never boring. If he wasn't drunk, Theo thinks, he would see how utterly pathetic it is for an eighteen year old to be bored enough with life that he needs this level of abandon to feel something--but he is drunk. Wonderfully buzzed on vodka shots and adrenaline and the idea that he might get laid before he goes home, and it's enough to make him throw back his head, raise his arms and crow with glee.
The beat changes, the Asian girl moves on, and Theo finds his view to the edge of the dance floor unobstructed. There are shadows there, but not deep ones, and it's not hard to see the outline of a long, lean body standing right in his eyeline. Stepping forward now, and Theo can feel the eyes on him before he can make out the details of the face; he shivers a little, instinctively, but doesn't notice as his body picks up the rhythm of the new beat and starts swaying.
Stepping to the very edge of the shadows now, and the blurred lines resolve into details: long legs in black leather hanging low on sleek hips, lean torso and straight shoulders draped in shiny blue silk, glowing yellow and blue bracelets wrapped up and down strong, bare arms, smoked ovals of glass barely large enough to hide the eyes Theo can feel on him. Smooth, bald scalp, white-pale.
Theo thinks he should know who the guy is, but can't quite place him. Way too distracted by the steady, smoldering cold he can feel in that stare, he almost doesn't catch the quirked brow and tilt of the head--only realizes he's been summoned when he finds himself dodging bodies on the dance floor in his rush to leave it. Draws up next to the guy, and is impressed by the lack of sweat, the total composure.
Feels somehow dirty just because he is sweating. Has a sudden sense of being completely out of his element, despite the crush of the dance floor barely three feet away. Lets himself be led back into the shadows anyway, and shivers again when he finds the darkness weirdly deeper and more private than it looked from afar.
Smooth hand on his wrist shocks him, but not half as much as smooth lips on his mouth, and Theo feels his back come up hard against the wall. He gasps, and gets the guy's tongue in his mouth, rasping his lips and rough on his teeth. Sensation of muscle gliding under the silk shirt, pressing chest to chest, and it's impossible to catch his breath.
The kiss breaks, and Theo sucks in a lungful of air. The guy watches from behind his glasses, and doesn't say anything until--
--and hell yes. Theo is dizzy at the sound of the voice, perfectly clear even under the music, low and silky with gravel underneath, and there's something like carelessness in it. As if it really didn't matter if Theo said no because this guy could pick up somebody else in five seconds, but there's also something...needy. As if it's taken the guy a while to decide on this one, and he doesn't want to have to make another choice.
And this isn't exactly how Theo had imagined the "getting laid" part of his evening, but what the hell--he's always open to new experiences. He curves his mouth into the slow smile that usually has girls falling at his feet, bows his head so he can look at the guy through his lashes, and nods.
Behind the glasses, the eyes narrow. The hand on Theo's wrist tightens, and suddenly he's being pulled along the wall, around a corner and into even darker shadows.
Full-body push into the corner, his broad shoulders hitting the junction of the walls at just the wrong angle, and the guy is kissing him again, harder. Surprised, Theo's eyes widen for a moment before closing; he notices through the glasses that the guy's eyes are already closed, something in the set of them making it seem more deliberate than it should--but then the sensations of the kiss catch up with him, and Theo groans a little as his lashes flutter down. The beat of the music pulses through the wall and into his body, something rough and fast and dizzyingly invasive; he picks it up and rocks forward into the guy's chest, feels a leather-clad thigh push hard between his legs.
Groans again as he rubs against it, and feels cool, smooth hands scrape over his neck and face, shaping themselves over his cheekbones, sliding into his hair. The thin bracelets wrapped around the guy's arms bite through Theo's damp cotton shirt and into his chest, chafe on the sides of his throat, and he squirms a little for a better position--
Fingers clench in the sweaty tangle of his hair, and the guy wrenches away. Theo is left off-balance, rolling his hips against air and lurching forward, wincing and swearing when the hands in his hair force his head to bow, his waist to bend. "What--?"
Tries to straighten up and gets his hair pulled. The guy isn't touching him at all anymore, except where his fingers are wrapped in Theo's thick, dark hair; through his disorientation, Theo feels the cold concentration of the guy's gaze drilling into the top of his head. "What the--"
"Shut up." Spoken with distaste, flat and cold, nothing like the sexy rumble of five minutes ago. Theo barely has time to shape his mouth around a curse before the hands flex and release, pulling away with just enough force to send him stumbling backwards into the wall.
Liquor, lust and unexpected movement leave him lightheaded, and Theo leans on the wall as he straightens up, watching the guy take another step away from him, square his shoulders and look totally collected--nothing like the promise of public sex he'd felt like seconds before. "Not even close to the right colour," he says, and he sounds as clinical and distant as if he were commenting on something under a microscope. Theo stares, wild-eyed and breathing hard, as the guy's fists clench at his sides, the neon bands on his arms flexing with the movement of his muscles.
He turns away, moving with a fluidity that would be surprising if Theo hadn't just been molded against that body. As effortlessly dismissive as he had effortlessly commanded Theo's presence off the dance floor in the first place, the guy rounds the corner like he's walking away from a phone booth, and it's just possible to catch the disgusted growl of his voice under the music as he goes:
"I fucking hate these places."
Just enough genuine frustration under the bitterness to make Theo totally confused, and he falls back against the wall--aching, breathless, and shaking in time with the beat.
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