my dear, a wildfire.
@idmilo, halloween party, astoundingly late or astoundingly early, status: wasted ( event )
-- dare, break onto the roof.
it’s late. the time that breaks past night and into the early morning if you bother asking a pedant what time it is. san’s had far, far too much to drink. at some point he moved past sloppy and into blear-eyed and telling people too much about himself. a rating that was achieved due to the fact that nobody was asking him questions. his tongue’s still loose, hands lonely. it feels like there are eyes on his back. a pair from someone he still hasn’t decided if he wants to buck the attention of or not. annoyance eventually outweighs desperation, and he’s on the verge of ordering himself another drink. the inevitable straw that will break him into tipping himself over the edge of a sink.
but then he finds someone familiar propped up against a pillar. san finds him, wants to hold him like a tool, use him for his own personal destruction.
so he reaches out.
one finger tucked underneath the edge of a suspender, he pulls it out in a slow stretch. it matches the smile on his face. heavy blinks of his eyes before he lets it slide free, thump back into place. “hey milo,” it comes out in a honeyed drawl. dripping slow, a clumsy-tongued attempt. but he’s still smiling. distracted. milo’s always been good for that, even back before atlas took off. back when san’s hair was always wadded up in long ponytails that milo would occasionally tug at during dances where he slipped up behind him. back when milo was still just a dancer.
“i’m bored.” it’s just a statement. there’s no question. there’s no request. but somehow san has this innate power to turn nearly everything into a demand. i’m bored, that’s what he says. you should fix it, that’s what he means. but he takes that upon himself anyway. “i’m already fucking losing, but find the roof with me.” he curls his fingers around milo’s wrist and pulls him along. weaves them both through bodies still littering the dance floor. protesting the idea of returning back to the real world where boundaries are firmly in place. where antics of this nature aren’t really possible.
“i bet the lock’s good and fucked at this point. should be easy.” san’s half-hoping it’s slowed down enough that it’ll be mostly empty. that enough people have gone home or passed out in some corner or another that he can find a small gap of space he can steal for himself. or for the both of them. he needs a smoke, wants to shake this feeling of claustrophobia sticking to him like sweat.
he was right about the lock after they’d tripped their way up the stairs. shoulders his way out with a laugh, keeps his fingers looped around milo’s wrist and spins so he can jam a hand into one of the deep pockets of milo’s pants in search of the cigarettes he knows he smokes. “what the fuck are you supposed to be, anyway?” he asks mid-loot.