The pulsing bass eggs on a headache that Derek hadn't noticed before he'd walked into the stifling club, and the press of hot, sweaty bodies staggering up against him as he threads across the dance floor to the bar makes his skin itch and his fingers twitch. He suddenly feels old, so much older than he did even just a week or an hour ago. A girl whose nose and hair are as fake as the id she must have used to get in here is giving him flirty, come hither looks from across the floor, but Derek ignores her and pushes through the crush at the very edge of the crowd. He stumbles and almost immediately there's a hand at his elbow, helping to keep him up and steady.
The man holding on to him flashes what Derek can only describe as a smoldering smile. He's older than most of the crowd-he's dressed in an obviously expensive tailored button down and slacks instead of the leather and mesh that seems to be in favor and there's a touch of gray at his temples that manages to make him look 'experienced' instead of 'old'. His lips form soundless words that are completely drowned out by the music, and Derek smiles apologetically and gives a minute shake of his head as he pulls away, backing up against the bar. The smile cools into something more friendly and the man shrugs good naturedly before moving on to someone else.
There are no bar stools, so Derek slumps against the sticky counter, careful to avoid the worst of the puddles, and rubs wearily at his eyes while he waits for the bartender to stop flirting with a man wearing a corset and thigh high boots and come take his order. In a surprising twist, the bartender-a pretty, almost androgynous looking young man-is embarrassed and apologetic when he finally notices him. He sneaks a look around to make sure his boss isn't watching, then waves away Derek's attempt to pay. When Derek compliments his pixie wings and leaves a generous tip on the bar, he flushes and smiles so that he looks impossibly young and tells Derek to grab him if he needs anything else.
The condensation on his glass is cold and slick against his palm, a stark contrast to the humid heat that's making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his torso. Derek moves to a dark corner of the room near the glowing 'EXIT' sign and takes a drink. He has to force himself to sip instead of gulp, because once the liquid hits his tongue, he's suddenly aware of how desperately thirsty he is. The sharp, burning alcohol slides easily down his throat and Derek suddenly wishes he'd asked for water. Garcia would have laughed at him for that, but he feels he could drink a thousand glasses and not be satisfied. His tongue's like sandpaper and the insides of his cheeks stick to his teeth. If he were to smile, he's certain that his lips would crack and split painfully.
He sucks an ice cube between his lips and rolls it over his tongue, swallowing greedily as it melts. His body heat is already warming his fancy frosted glass, but it's cool and refreshing when he presses it against his forehead. Even the wall against his back feels like it's burning through the thin cotton of his shirt, although the vibrations from the bass that shake it help to ease some of the tension in his shoulders.
His eyelids are half lidded-heavy with fatigue from the heat and the alcohol and a million other things that he came here to forget-nearly ready to fall shut completely, when a tall, lithe figure catches his attention. It's the long fingers being pushed through still surprisingly short hair that makes him take notice. It's a gesture he sees almost every day, as much a part of his personal world as the man performing the action. Derek's grip loosens in his surprise-not much, but enough that the slick glass almost slides out of his fingers before he recovers both it and his senses.
Spencer's on the dance floor, barely more than fifteen feet away from Derek, but he gives no indication that he's seen him yet. His dancing, if it can be called that, is almost completely graceless, little more than absent, jerky shifts from side to side. Derek makes the mistake of taking another sip as he rakes his eyes over his friend and coworker and nearly ends up choking. The strobe lights and fog machine make his slim figure fuzzy and indistinct, but not so much that Derek doesn't notice the black, pleated skirt swinging from his narrow hips.
Unlike the bartender, there's nothing remotely feminine about Spencer. His skin shimmers with a faint sheen of sweat, but he isn't dusted with glitter. His legs are long and hairless, but Derek can just make out the scar from when he was shot and, when Spencer moves, he can see his wiry muscles shifting beneath his smooth skin. His eyes are closed, his long lashes gently resting on the bruised, delicate skin under his eyes, but he hasn't smudged on eyeliner or mascara. His lips, which are just barely parted, are full and pouty, but unpainted. Heavy, chunky boots are on his feet, stopping halfway up his calves. They look practical and scuffed, and Derek wonders if the wear he can see on them comes from clubbing or something else. How many nights would Spencer have to come to a place like this before his boots started to look that broken in?
His plain black t-shirt is tight, as tight as anything Derek would normally wear, and it clings to the hard, flat planes of his body. When he twists or lifts his arms, it rides up, exposing the damp, pale skin of his back or stomach or sides. Derek wants to reach out and tug it back down, shield him from the eyes, male and female, that he can see are watching him, but he stays where he is. He tells himself that he's different from the other people who are staring, and he is staring, because he's Spencer's friend, because he knows him. But how well does he really know him if after all this time he didn't know about this part of him? Had never even suspected?
Derek's mouth is dry again, but his glass is empty. The last time he looked down it was half full and he doesn't remember draining it, but he must have. He shifts, feels his clothes drag across his suddenly sensitive skin, every nerve ending set on fire by the soft fibers. What does Spencer feel like in his clothes? Do they show the real him, a person who must be hidden away for fear of ridicule and rejection except for late at night in dark, anonymous clubs? Is it a costume, a way of forgetting who he is and what he does? Or is it simpler than that? Maybe it just makes him feel sexy and alive and desirable. Derek's breath comes in hard, harsh pants as if he's been running. It's the heat, he tells himself. The oppressive, wet heat is strangling him, sucking more precious moisture out of his body with each second that ticks by.
The urge to reach out and touch surges up inside of him. It's as insistent and demanding as his thirst. His feet move almost without his consent, first one halting step, then another. He licks his lips, his dry tongue doing nothing to help wet his equally dry lips. This isn't real. There's no way that this writhing, sexual, beguiling creature is the same awkward young man he's spent the better part of the past decade working beside. He needs to confirm it, make it real or prove it false. His hand is half lifted, hovering in the space between them, when Spencer turns and finally sees him watching.
Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.
Nothing belongs to me.