STATUS: closed for @huntervtheworld LOCATION: stvtic, some time past midnight
The music pounds in his chest, vibrating through every inch of his body, and Damian leans into it, letting it drown out whatever else may be fighting for attention in his mind. Sweat drips down his forehead, neck, dampening the collar of his shirt. His body moves in a way that’s sharp, erratic, not his usual flow. It’s angry, fueled by something deeper, something festering under his skin that he can’t quite name, but can feel in every volatile pulse of his heartbeat.
The drugs help. The alcohol does, too. Or maybe it’s the opposite, maybe they make everything worse — but at least worse is different. At least worse is something he can lose himself in, something that takes the edge off his own thoughts. Because fuck Jason, fuck everything he’s been doing to keep his life on some semblance of a leash. Damian knows what it is to be controlled, to feel like he’s choking under someone else’s thumb: and so this is the fourth time — fifth time? — no, fourth time he’s done this. Left his phone at Jason’s house, tricked him into believing he’s sleeping. Tucked safely away where he wants him, where he’s meant to be. There’s a thrill that comes with his defiance — a mixture of victory and unadulterated fear — but it’s easy to conflate it with novelty, when he’s here. Who cares? Jason hasn’t figured his little trick out just yet — so why would he now?
He spots Hunter through the crowd, and it hits him like a jolt of electricity. Hunter. His heart stutters, and for a second, Damian forgets everything else, the thrum of the bass, the way his legs feel heavy but weightless at the same time. Damian’s seen him around town — they haven’t caught up properly, but then again, he’d never really made an effort, had he? Their contact’s been limited to text exchanges, mostly, since they’d stopped hooking up in earnest. It can stay that way, he thinks for a second. It probably should stay that way, all things considered.
He’s already pushing through the crowd before he’s thought about what he’ll say, stumbling a little, half-laughing at the way his feet aren’t quite working right. When he gets to him, Damian doesn’t hesitate. His hands reach up, cupping Hunter’s face, thumbs brushing his jawline. His grin is wide, too wide, stretching across his face like nothing’s wrong, like everything up until this moment is fine, and will continue to be. “Hunter!” he shouts, his voice too loud, but it doesn’t matter here. “What the hell are you doing here?”
There’s a flicker of something in his chest — worry, maybe — but Damian buries it as quick as it comes. Hunter knows him. Knows he’s been sober for years, knows what all of this means, but that’s not important right now. They’re here. Together. He leans in closer, eyes bright with a mix of alcohol, drugs, and something dangerously close to desperation. “Didn’t think you’d be into places like this,” he says, the words coming out fast, breathless. His hands slide down to Hunter’s shoulders, grin not faltering for a second.