The lights flashed down bright pink and blue and Marco threw his head back as the song hit a high note, rushing to a climax and exploding into a crash of sound and power and bright white intensity. All around him people jumped and moved faster, harder, with renewed vigor as the music hurtled on at this new speed like it was driving forward to enter your brain, your bloodstream, until it filled you. Until the music was in your body and you really and truly could feel it pumping through your veins.
It was intoxicating.
Burning.
Feverish.
It was like standing on a deserted hill in the middle of a thunderstorm. The storms raged overhead pouring smoke and metallic bits of paper. Lighting fell down in mutli-colors. It was life and death waging. Power, energy, light, darkness, heat, cold...breathing...falling...living...
And this is why he came back night after night. He danced to the same rhythmic beat, raised his hands, moved, rolled, twisted just like every other faceless person around him, pressing in too tightly. It was like a giant one man machine. Even if you were all dancing to a different tune, moving one way, then another, you were still moving, one big dancing, gyrating mass. And it felt great. There are no thoughts, no worries, no pleasures, just that same amazingly electric beat and the hot breath on your neck and the swivel of your own hips among many.
The rhythm slowed as a pause sounded silently throughout the room, just as loud as the thrumming beat ever was. It was almost like you could hear every single heart beat other than your own in that split second. Every beat, every breath, every light lift and fall and sigh of a chest next to you or ten feet away. But then the music pounds right back up to the sky, crashing into your ears and tidal waving through the people straight to you. You're who it's after tonight. You're the one who's begging it to take you. Begging it to transform you.
It meets the call with startling intensity, pulsing down your spine and alighting fire in it's wake. You're arms move on their own accord and they move without a thought down your sides, trailing ribs, brushing a waisteline until you might just die from the intensity, because it's crushing your lungs until you can't breathe and fogging your head and stealing your soul. And you smile and move faster, more sensually, because this is what you came for.
You came for the fire. You came for the feel. For the torture. For the pleasure.
For the music.
And for the escape.
Strong arms wrap around your waist for the first time tonight and you think this one has to be amazing if only his arms were an indication. You don't turn though, even as the music slows once again. The man's breath is like white flame on the back of your neck and it burns the skin there. His hands brush across the top of your thighs, but you keep you keep your eyes closed, instead of looking at the fingers, too completely immersed in the sounds and the sighs and the amazing heartbeat fluttering against your back.
He's whispering nonsense into your ears, but you don't care. It could be anything. He could be calling you names, telling you you look like a god, or even saying the most sexually appealing drivel of yoru life, but honestly your brain is somewhere else. It's dancing with the music. It's selling its soul to the rhythm, to the pulse, to the sheer gripping climb of the notes, and then their victorious fall, over and over, completely and utterly owned by the crash and build of ecstasy.
You're addicted to the rush like a chain smoker. It's filling your lungs, blackening you from the inside out, but it's the most beautiful way of dying you can imagine. It lifts you higher, closer to God, closer to an explosion of the mind that you just know is waiting for you at the top.
The hands rise up, sliding, dragging, your shirt draws up the smallest bit but you don't notice. The hands are near scorching and you can almost see the flames from beneath your closed eyelids. You can feel it. The music. It's in him too. It's dragging trails of fire through his blood. It's in his hands, the hips tucked against yours, that most infuriating and awe inspiring breath on your neck. It's pouring off of him in waves of eminence and power and brawn. It just screamed for submission, it just begged and pleaded to listen, to look, to dive straight into the darkness that engulfed him, into the arms that scorched where they touched.
Because he was sent from the music.
He was the music.
Turning around you stare straight into the music's eyes. They're as blue as the high notes and as deep and playful as the chorus, little pink lights flashing across their glassy surface like it belonged there. He's bright, shining, golden, like the fire, like the flashes of lightning, and that slow, gentle dawn every single time the pauses rolled through the air.
He was beautiful.
"Hey Marco. Thought I'd find you here."
But the music was still blaring in his head, still singing through his veins, and sinking velvet claws into his heart as it soared higher. The blue eyes glanced over him appreciatively, flashing electricity and coaxing, pushing him to keep going as if he had never spoken in the first place. As if he had never messed with the delicate cloud of energy and emotion and living rapture that he came for.
You fall into the arms of the one who gets it. The one who simply is.
Somehow you forget he is the reason you came to lose yourself in the first place.