A/N: So, yeah, I fell down the Promptis hell hole again. A little obsessed, wrote 3 chapters in 2 days, posted em on AO3 and forgot about ffnet (woops) so here we are. Reminder, this is an AU. Enjoy!
I
《The Art of Dancing》
He lives two lives.
He keeps them very firmly separate, divides himself in two. It makes life easier, gives him a disjointed sort of structure and a fall-back for when it's all too much.
Two paths, and he knows eventually he'll have to let one go.
《 》
The bass is heavy, shakes the floor and rumbles across his core. Loqi brought him here once, when he's just turned sixteen, and he'd made his way back on his own countless times since. The music is always good, the drinks are cheap, and the crowds are always looking for one thing. Chasing that good time pony, no expectations and no cares about who is dancing beside you. Scents mix together, blend out the differences that separate all of them. It's impossible to tell who owns the heady Alpha scents or the sweet Omega ones.
He jumps with the rest of the dance floor, everyone slamming down as the bass drops, laughs as someone knocks his shoulder, has to readjust the sleeve of the long black glove on his left arm, but he does so with practiced ease, reaffixing it around his bicep. He feels like he could fly here. Like the world outside is nothing and he's one with everything and everyone here.
Fingers brush his shoulder, catch his attention enough to maneuver around other bodies to turn. Aranea grins at him, her teeth flashing multi colors in the flashing neon lights. Her face reads like a tiger on the prowl and she jerks her head, encouraging him off the dancefloor.
It's calmer outside of the lights, but only just. He swallows down a laugh as he follows her slim form through seas of people, catching flashes of her skin between where her black crop-top cuts off and her wine-red leggings start. The music, the atmosphere makes him feel funny, feel good. It's an escape he will always gladly accept.
She reaches a side hall, marked with a red rope and a sign reading STAFF ONLY, and ducks under it, gesturing him to follow. They've done this countless times, he's pretty sure they get away with it purely because Aranea knows the owner, helps bring in and keep the clientele.
She stops in the darkness, where the flashing neon lights don't reach and faces him, glanced past his shoulder to make sure they're alone.
"'Nea?" He digs fingers into his pants for a bill.
She waves a hand and slides up to him, leans close, "Heya, sugar. Missed you Friday." She drapes an arm over his shoulder, lets her hand hang limply behind him, smiles up at him. At this distance he can smell her Alpha pheromones, warm leather and wild raspberries. Not unpleasant, but not his type at all. He still sets a hand on her hip, rolls his thumb over warm skin in kinship, "Got a show coming?"
"Always." He quirks the corner of his lip up but doubts she can really see it, hopes she can just hear it in his voice, "But you know I don't talk about that shit here. And I know my absence on Friday can't possibly be why you dragged me out of the greatest song ever."
"You say that about all the music." She leans her weight against him, breasts pushing against his chest and grins, "If I had to wait for you to leave of your own will it'd be after last call." The hand not on his shoulder drops to dig into her pants and reappears with a small bag, several tiny pills inside, "Pretty sure you'd want to try this before then."
His eyes widen and he actually takes a step back, "New shit?" he reaches for it but she pulls it away. She never tells him what she's got, and he trusts her enough to trust she'll know the product. It's still a thrill, though, when it's something he's never seen, "How much?"
She tilts her head, her hair slipping across her face as her eyes flash, "This time around? Free."
"But?" There's always a catch to free. Half the time, Aranea's 'free' catch is simple, but the other half winds up getting him in much more trouble than it's probably worth. But those times are always worth it if the high is good enough.
"Don't worry about it right now." She opens the baggie, extracts a single tablet, "Just enjoy it." She holds out her hand, index finger extended, tiny tab on the tip.
He maintains eye contact as he leans forward and wraps his lips around the digit to the first knuckle. She laughs as he pulls away, tucks the baggie away, "You're so lucky I like you, Prom."
It's meant to be a light jest, but it tugs at something in his chest. He doesn't bother to dissect it, instead he rolls the tiny tab over his tongue several times before he swallows it, "Like? 'Nea, I thought you loved me." He tries to make himself sound hurt.
She laughs again, pushes a hand into the center of his chest to push him back towards the noise, "Only on days that end in 'y', sugarcakes."
He stays to watch her go, to vanish like a ghost, then heads back to the dancefloor to let himself relax and bathe in whatever trip the pill is going to bring him.
《 》
The silence centers him. It drowns him and drags him down into his own core. His second-self, the Omega he hides so often can live in this space. Can thrive. He takes a slow step, extends an arm and rolls it in a slow, precise gesture. It's a different type of dance, a slow, exacting one that's been taught for generations. He's in darkness as he takes up the first position, waits for the single beat that signals a start, moves carefully into his second gesture as a light comes up.
There's the shifting of bodies, quiet murmurs everywhere around him. He breathes it in, his brain processes it, even as he moves into the next few sweeping steps, the traditional music around him setting an atmosphere, giving life to ancient practices.
He feels the shift in his core as he drags his bare feet across the polished floor, slides to turn and leans back, extends hands towards the ceiling. At least twelve Alphas he muses, thinks there may be two Beta, definitely one mated Omega. Quite the audience for such a lowly, old show.
But he's just getting started, and he knows they're all waiting. He makes a sweeping gesture and the ribbon wrapped around his left hand unravels and flutters away. The music pauses and he holds position, listens to the gasp of breath and the shifting scents in the air.
He knows he's rare, knows why they come and pay the price to see him. The musician knows to hold off longer than tradition states, to let the audience drink in their fill. From the base of his middle finger winds a dark, curling line, almost like a tattoo. But it is far from that, and he mentally tugs at the ball of energy in his chest, wills it to respond. The black line changes, the edges glow blue, the color racing from the back of his hand up his arm like a wave, traces the curls and edges of the mark until they vanish into the sleeve of his robe, where he knows it wraps around a circular seal on the curl of his shoulder.
The music begins again, and he drags his hand downward, lets them look upon him. Lets himself pretend he's anything more than what he is. He loses himself in the ancient dance, forgets the crowd, his glowing arm leaves a trail everywhere it moves. It's easy, like this.
He lives two lives.
The one where he's Prompto, the 20-something raver with nothing to lose.
The one where he's Siren, which he wears like a mark of pride, but knows it's a shackle that will slowly wear him down.
He keeps them separate, keeps them safely apart.
Until he can't anymore.