Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts is owned by Square Enix, Disney, Touchtone, and so on. All respective characters apply.
Warnings: Yaoi. Indecent touching. It's a bar scene – what else can you expect? Cynical details, because that's just how I am.
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Pairings: LeonRiku and SephCloud.
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Gutter Snipe's around, Running With Scissors' in the works, and these one-shots are eating my mind.
I only write at sunrise, now. Which hurts, because I'm not sleeping…! …I vowed to do my homework this year, though.
It's not too long – but I tried to make it longer and it just didn't look sound right anymore.
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Wandering Amongst The Chandeliers
At eighteen, Riku sees the world through a cloud.
Pure beauty. Pure bliss.
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The barstool was ripped at the seat, dull-red fabric torn enough so the sponge-like foam underneath showed.
The drink's the first step – nothing elegant or beautiful besides the perspiration forming on the cup and sliding down the rim. The dim light reflects his own features into the scratched glass and the amber liquid.
It's not the first time tonight he's been offered something, but this one is by far the most thoughtful. That last sweet elixir flavored with strawberry syrup did nothing for him.
This one's sweet by being bitter, and there's a crispness.
Three sips later, and a lick of the glass' rim, and there's a tap on his shoulder.
"I see you drank it." A foot shuffled, opposite to the brazen voice. "Care to dance?"
Riku nods before he turns around, and studies the person through his indistinct view. It's harder still to distinguish anything in the dark atmosphere.
His musing paused as the stranger with blonde hair and blue eyes drags him to the dance floor.
I didn't finish my drink.
The blond is tall, young but still older than him. There's a white smile that so charmingly grins, but his passion-blue eyes are constantly darting to some other corner.
A bet, or a dare, then. Or he was trying to make someone jealous.
Riku doesn't care.
In minutes, the attention is solely on him.
He's never had dancing lessons before – anyone can tell, and he never does it while he's sober. (Yuffie tapes cameras in the most unexpected places, after all.) But he has a certain...energy. A desperation.
He feels hands on his waist guiding him against another body, taller than his own. Hair falls into his eyes, but his arms are too busy being pinned and moving – tapping fingers against each other to the beat - that he couldn't brush it away if he tried.
The music's loud, the floor resounded with the beat so it feels like the whole room, and the whole night is moving.
A call and a tap on the other man's shoulder; Riku's eyes travel up thin fingers and a wiry, strong arm to see a face that could easily be him in a few years.
He hears "May I have this dance?" from the new stranger, and Riku knows who the person is referring to.
Riku smiles, faintly, and nods.
He's about to head back to the counter when there's a hand on his arm, not firm or clasping, but it's there nonetheless and, oddly enough, it's a gentle touch.
The new arrival takes a step closer, and somehow he's caught in the same rhythm as before. He can't hear the groans of disappointment around him, some feet away, nor the catcalls.
They sway, and there's a murmur at his neck.
"What's your name?" It's hot against his ear, and he could swear that there's something wet against it, tracing the curve. But perhaps it's just himself.
Riku tilts his head back – just a little to the left – and manages to catch site of brown bangs, but not much else except the ceiling drafters.
"…Riku." The two syllables sound strange to his own ears.
The hand on his hip moves, gently, in circles. Lower. "Riku." His own breath catches – he wasn't even talking. "Leon. Nice to meet you."
Leon bites his neck, a sharp, stinging sensation as blood rushes to the area.
He winced.
(Maybe he shouldn't have tilted his head back…?)
But the deed is done, and Leon kisses the spot, almost like an apology.
Briefly, Riku's reminded of those old phrases that speak of 'a mother's kiss', but he isn't sure why, since the stranger certainly doesn't remind him of his parents in any way.
But places like these aren't meant for romance, and he pushes back and…
A sloppy kiss on the dance floor, not quite on target through the corners of their mouths.
Not a mother's kiss, but one so impure yet proper.
The other tastes like the drink from before that he praised. …Come to think of it, Leon was sitting with that other one – the blond. (In the same general direction, at least.) It was probably his idea.
Or maybe his head's too far gone to think properly.
Whatever it is, he concentrates on the feeling of mouth against mouth, tongues entangling and they part when Leon's slips out of his own, saliva trailing in the air.
It's wet and hot and he has a feeling he should feel tarnished, but then there's that moment that he couldn't breathe…
It's like he has the energy and his head is high enough that he feels as if he could twirl like a giddy little school girl…
Riku blinks as he's plopped into a seat.
"I'll get you a drink." And Leon's gone, whooshed away into the crowd and the dull but blinding lights. They look almost yellow now, mixed with bright orange to create a mix that Riku could almost call blue.
It makes no sense in his mind, but he couldn't deny it, either.
"Here." Leon's back, holding out a cup; the rim's coated with some kind of salt. He's holding one for himself, too, one that looks carbonated.
It isn't until he takes a sip, then gulps the stinging liquid down rather inelegantly and absentmindedly licks the salt off the rim, that he realizes how thirsty he was, and how dry his lips were.
They're dancing again.
Swaying and his back is to Leon's front, moving in circles like they've been doing it all their lives.
Like they're meant to dance through the air, beyond the dinky surroundings and up through the clouds and cold air.
There's a finger under his shirt, under his shirt and right above the low waist of his jeans. The alcohol in his system makes it distorted, but at the same time touch increases tenfold.
Leon's above him, on his shoulder, over him and huge and strong.
He feels small.
Riku feels Leon's hands wander, reaching into his pockets and the expanse of skin that his shirt had previously covered, and he gasps, his mouth open in a silent plea as his eyes close.
It's rare that he feels so helpless, and it's a different feeling from being the one in the back; the one with wandering hands and a strategist's mindset.
Leon murmurs something new in his ear – was that disappointment? But Riku hears the word "time" and he looks up to the wall, beyond the heads of the other dancers and to the clock.
It's getting late.
The dancers, all caught in the same ecstasy, are dwindling down in number.
The music ends.
Before he knows it, the brunet is gone with a last kiss on the cheek (odd), and Riku sits down at one of the booths off to the side.
His shirt's still halfway up. He absentmindedly tugs it back down, so he doesn't look as ravished.
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In the morning, he wakes up with a headache and he's been sleeping in the bar with everyone else who came alone. He was lucky – he managed to collapse and black out in one of the booths.
There's daylight streaming in the orange-tinted windows, washing the entire place in a hot and bothered glow.
Riku's all-too-awake, his pounding skull says so, and there's an unexplained pain on some crook of his neck.
The owner, bartender, grins at him faintly and pours him a cup of coffee; gesturing him over to the counter. Riku stumbles on a leg as he walks, but otherwise manages to hold himself quite well.
They're used to the routine.
Riku could never remember the man's name, though.
"Some night, eh?" The owner asks pensively, looking him over and noting ruffled clothing and chaotic silver bangs.
He doesn't reply, but does give out an acknowledging hum in reply.
His forearm and neck feels tender. He doesn't know if either is from sleeping in an awkward position or something else.
His thumb hooks into his jeans like always in the morning, but this time his finger presses something inside too hard and there's a crinkle in his pocket.
It's a paper (obviously), not without creased discolors at the edges from dried liquor and folded in half over a fingerprint. Inside, after he manages to pry it open without too much damage, is a number that he has to look at twice, but it somehow pretty easy to remember afterwards.
He puts it back deeper into his pocket, and drinks he coffee. Dwelling and adoring the quick caffeine kick that shoots into his body.
And the story started.
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…Can you tell I like bar scenes yet?
Review? You've gotten this far, right?
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