Outside, the smokers are relegated to a tiny slit of shelter, offered by the brief overhang of the building's upper levels. The rain is amenable, falling soft and vertical instead of the harsh biting angles it normally takes to. The club's back door stands open, spewing neon lights and sweat-smoke out into the cool night air, flashing blue and white refractions caught in the puddles growing on the tarmac. Sometimes, when the bass hits low enough, they shudder in time.
Roxas huddles up against the wall, barely acknowledging his companions-in-vice, sucking on his cigarette somewhat more slowly than he would normally; the air is cooling against his sweat soaked skin, and he pulls his shirt away from his chest, his hair away from his neck, hoping to skim off some of the heat pooling in his skin before he goes back in to gather more.
There's a brief scuffle as they make room in their meagre shelter to fit another in, pressed tight against Roxas' side, all sharp lines and edges. In the lull between songs, the crowd inside becomes louder, and the guy rolls a cigarette against the platform of an upraised leg.
"What did you get in return?" Roxas tears his gaze away from the guy's fingers, long and ink smudged. The guy grins, eyes acid green and poison bright.
Roxas says, "What?"
"Your shirt," the guy says, and Roxas thinks, fuck it. This is what he gets for being lazy and mixing his laundry with Naminé's again; luck is never on his side, and he always ends up grabbing one of her pretentious mistakes, shirts scrawled with UV ink or glow in the dark declarations of anarchy. I gave my heart to rock 'n' roll printed in a neat box shape across his left shoulder for five hours, glowing blue in the random spurts of light flickering from the open door, and he hadn't even noticed.
"So?" The guy asks, waving his cigarette and still grinning, teeth a flashing scythe shape in the dark air. "What did you get in return?" Nudges Roxas with an elbow, sharp in Roxas' side, catching in a fresh bruise from his mosh-pit frenzy earlier. He's pressing the issue, and Roxas, in some vague mix of bewilderment and bemusement, figures, what the hell.
"Nothing," he says, sucking in smoke from his neglected cigarette and blowing it out into the misting rain. Smiles. "Rock 'n' roll never gives anything back. Rock 'n' roll just takes it all until you've got nothing left."
"Huh," the guy says, but he's nodding, mouth twisted behind his fingertips and fag. The flashes of light from the open door catch at his ears, lined with heavy silver hoops. Under his eyes are dark marks like a clown's tears, diamonds forever pointing downwards. "Sounds like a shitty deal."
Roxas says, "I didn't really need it anyway," and takes the last drag off his cigarette. Scraping the butt into the pavement under the heel of his boot, he thinks, yeah, alright, and turns back. "Why, you think you could make me a better offer?"
The guy's eyes catch sparks, his grin sharp like the winter chill that just lodged itself against Roxas' spine. Roxas shudders in time with the bass, with the damp night air, and the guy grinds his cigarette out against the tarmac. "Maybe," he says.
He slips back into the club, disappearing into smoke and sweat and diffused light, and Roxas stops thinking, and follows him.