indestructible
it’s just us—we ignore the crowd dancing
four-to-the-floor beats in my heart
(put your hand on my heart)
—robyn, “indestructible”
The corner is their compromise.
This club is loud and laser-bright and filled with smoke and sound, and Garak likes none of it, which doesn’t matter, because Julian needs to be here. It’s understood between them that these nights are entirely for Julian, not at all for Garak. This is, perhaps, not entirely true, but then what is?
Still, to put himself in the centre of a crowd of strangers… no. Instead, he’s found this corner, with walls to put his back against, and this is where Julian will find him when he’s ready.
Not far away, Julian is dancing in the crowd, arms up and mouth moving, and the flicker-flash of strobing light freezes him in a series of moments: eyes, mouth, hair, laughter. The air between them is liquid-thick with sweat and pheromone and perfume and buzzing sound.
He can feel the smile on his face, tugging at his mouth. It shouldn’t be there: there’s too much noise, too many people, too much, too much, and yet he’s smiling because Julian is looking at him, smiling for him. Julian gets to dance, to lose himself; Garak gets this.
An inquiry flashes between them in a moment of lifted brows, and it brings Julian to him through the thick air, through the people, eyes half-closed, grinning. When he reaches Garak he leans back against the wall, exhausted, exhilarated. His eyes close briefly as he gasps for breath, and Garak looks at him, at how the sweat is dripping from his mussed hair, at how his shirt is damp and clinging, at how his hands press back against the wall, fingers stretching.
He can’t say anything. Julian wouldn’t be able to hear him if he did. The noise of the bass beat drowns out any possible conversation, any communication at all that isn’t delineated by touch and scent and widened eyes, and so when Julian opens his eyes and smiles at him and says something, Garak doesn’t ask him to repeat it.
Instead he leans in, watching Julian’s mouth moving, shaping amazing, shaping feel, and when he looks up uncomprehending Julian laughs and catches his hand and presses it to his chest.
Julian’s skin is slick with sweat. His shirt is just as damp as it appeared. He’s so warm against Garak’s palm, so warm between his fingers as his pretty hand entwines itself with Garak’s own.
Feel that, says the shape of Julian’s mouth, and Garak presses hard, feels the vibration of the bass thrumming through his body, through Julian’s body, shaking them both where they touch, yoking their heartbeats together so that they beat in time with the insistent drum.
Can you, says Julian, do you feel, and Garak does; with warmth and sweat and the shape of a clever mouth and the heartbeat under his hand now pulsing inside him, Garak does.
