Spoilers: And for this chapter, we have Portishead to thank.
Disclaimer: Merry Christmas to all. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.
Author's Note: As much as I love Mozart, requiems are not particularly conducive to writing anything but essays. That should tell you something about essays.
Martin breathed in deeply, loving and hating the smell all at the same time. Sweat, alcohol, perfume, and just the faintest undertone of sex. It was the kind of place he'd raided dozens of over in White Collar; he was well aware of what went on in the toilets, in the alley out back. Hell, on the dance floor.
But for some inexplicable reason – one he preferred to keep inexplicable – he'd let himself be dragged here. By Danny, no less. Martin would have thought Danny to be the last person to frequent such places. He knew the behind-the-scenes goings on as well as Martin did; and then there was the alcohol. That in itself was inexplicable.
But then, most things with Danny were.
The way he could be here - in the crowd, on the floor, head back, without caring – amazed Martin. The vibe that oozed about him in the most captivating of ways, setting half the floor's sights to him and him alone, didn't fail to captivate Martin in the same way. But the fact that the man emanated sex made Martin uncomfortable. In the strangest of ways, he could swear Danny was doing this all for him.
And that, more than anything, was what kept Martin off the floor.
The music was thrumming. Its continuous bass resounded in Martin's limbs, in his chest; his head.
As he realized that he was allowing himself to get swept up, Martin shook his head, only to notice a woman standing in front of him. Her expression told Martin everything he needed to know and he shook his head again, darkness and flashing lights hiding his blush. She smiled apologetically then, biting her bottom lip and running a hand up Martin's thigh as she moved back to the dance floor.
Martin watched her retreating, eyes avoiding her too-bare legs as the music seemed to get louder. As she disappeared into the crowd, Martin's eyes caught a flash of someone else, watching him, grinning.
Danny; motionless now.
Martin didn't – couldn't - look away as Danny started moving again, eyes still holding the telltale traces of a smirk before sliding closed only momentarily. They opened to Martin's again as the music calmed; the only thing heard for a few seconds was bass before the rest of the music seemed to catch up.
Danny's eyes now held more than a smirk, more than amusement over Martin's refusal to dance. God, what they held now, Martin couldn't even name. Something so terrifyingly akin to lust that it made Martin's cheeks redden; but something Martin could only perceive as affection that made him blush for an entirely different reason.
And even though Martin knew he couldn't – knew he couldn't because the lights were so dim, the air so thick – Danny smiled as if he knew.
As if he knew that Martin blushed; just for him.
And all Martin could do was look away, because it was either look away or stare. And staring was just too much. Too much to compartmentalize the way Martin needed to. Danny's reactions to him and his own reactions to Danny were too much, and Martin couldn't handle that.
The way Danny stared at him with such an animalistic energy as he moved, even the way he moved… Martin was sure he'd never seen anything so personal, so intimate.
Martin's eyes moved unconsciously back to Danny as the word pressed itself into his consciousness, mixing with the bass beat of the music and making him light-headed, as if he weren't truly there. At least not physically.
Martin was sure he'd never lost so much self-control in his life. Even as a child he was more disciplined than this; better at blocking, repressing and storing memories with utter detachment. But now. Now he was beyond attached; he was involved. In what, he didn't know; didn't have the faintest clue because nothing had ever been like this before.
Keeping himself grounded had never been so hard.
And still, Danny was watching him; Martin could feel it. For the life of him, Martin couldn't figure out why. What he saw in Danny's eyes – or what he thought he saw – didn't add up to anything Martin had ever known. The strange mix of desire and something else – something more - was foreign to him, which scared him more than he cared to admit.
But Danny's eyes were holding Martin's with such clarity, such confidence. Martin swallowed deliberately, as if trying to swallow the music, the thrumming of bass and bodies, of sweat and of sex.
Then something moved across Danny's face. Decisive and powerful, and Martin took a step back as Danny took a step forward. Danny's face showed only a hint of surprise, though his eyes – still holding Martin's – smoldered more than ever. Without provocation this time, Martin took a step back, turning to the door. He kept moving, despite knowing that Danny would follow.
The music still hummed through his head, intoxicating, but now it was only grating at his patience. Incessant and too loud, and everything that would be bound to give him a headache, and he wondered suddenly how he had gotten to be so angry. His shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched, so that when he felt a hand on his arm, he almost swung. Almost, until turning and finding Danny's eyes, still staring at him with the same expression.
"Martin."
And it was the most decisive thing Martin had ever heard.
The music seemed to slow again, quieter somehow, and Martin was sure it was just his imagination. But then Danny's hand slid down his arm and grasped Martin's hand. Without hesitation, Martin was being pulled onto the dance floor, and the music became louder again, the bass hitting him full force as Danny smiled at him.
Martin felt light-headed again, closing his eyes and just letting Danny lead him to wherever it was he was being taken.
His eyes opened again when he felt Danny stop. As the floor vibrated to the rhythm of the music, Danny took a step closer to Martin, eyes still aflame, though a small smirk kicked the corners of his mouth. Martin felt his hand being moved, but couldn't look to where; couldn't look away from Danny's face, his mouth, his eyes. God, those eyes: they would kill Martin if he were sure he wasn't already dead.
Martin felt his hand being placed firmly against Danny's hip, felt Danny move to the beat again; a beat elusive to Martin. He felt a weight against his shoulder as Danny's hand gripped it, still moving far too smoothly against Martin as Danny pulled himself closer. Martin was sure Danny realized the position they were in: the parody of a romantic dance.
Martin closed his eyes as all his senses both faltered and heightened at the same time, creating the strangest sensation Martin had ever felt. The music and Danny were wholly synchronized and Martin had trouble distinguishing the two, his head still spinning just enough.
Martin remained motionless as Danny's hand moved from his shoulder to his neck, fingers caressing in time with the music. Martin's head fell back, eyes still closed, breathing heavier than it had ever been.
Breathing that stopped when Martin felt slight, warm pressure against his throat. He moaned as Danny's lips lingered, and Danny must have liked that reaction because he laughed against Martin's throat, breath whispering across his skin. And Danny's body still moved against Martin's in a way Martin had never even considered possible; never dared to.
With the first voluntary movement Martin had made since Danny first touched him, he straightened, his eyes meeting Danny's. Eyes that were still full of such naked passion that Martin had to concentrate on breathing. Martin brought his free hand up to Danny's other hip, barely registering that his grip on Danny's hips tightened. Barely registering that he started – however shyly – to move with Danny, against Danny.
Danny's free hand moved to join the other, his fingers linking behind Martin's neck.
All Martin felt was the melodic drone of the bass and Danny's hands; everywhere, although he was sure they weren't moving. As Martin's eyes met Danny's again, he knew that the passion he could see in Danny's eyes was reflected in his own, and it scared him much less than it should have; much less than it would have in the past.
Martin's eyes drifted shut as Danny's forehead touched his own; he could feel – taste - Danny's breath, heavy as his own.
"Danny."
And it was the most decisive thing Martin had ever said.
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