2020-09-17 - Shine On, Fireflies

It's a truth that clubs are always hot and sticky, even if it's well below freezing outside. But sometimes that can be a good thing. Dante presses a cold bottle of beer (no, not his customary gin and tonic) against the curve of his neck. He's bearded, with salt and pepper in the stubble, and wearing his dark-framed glasses. That's rare, but not completely out of character. He has on occasion, let his beard grow a bit, and worn glasses when his eyes were too tired for contacts or he was just sick of wearing them. Or, if he just felt like switching it up.

What is more unusual is that the Mr. I Wear A Suit Grocery Shopping is in a t-shirt and jeans. A rather tight pair of jeans, and a rather worn t-shirt. In fact, it would be easy to miss him in a crowd, which isn't usually the case. "I feel old," grouses the Englishman as he looks floor-wards at the crush of young bodies.

"You're not old." Cristobal says with fond frustration, "You just don't have a fondness for House Music like most of our generation. Clearly what we are missing are either good drugs or to have been born popped of our mother's vaginas in the late 90's." He shoots his shot of mezcal and then spins the empty glass back to the bar, grabbing his own beer and urging Dante away from the bar slightly with a slap on the ass. "You're at best a baby Silver Fox cub."

"Enjoy the silver while it lasts, darling. Eventually it will get to me and I'll feel old, and off it will come." Dante's hair, meanwhile, is still mostly black with a tiny rebellious pop of silver here or there. "At least in a town this small, a place like this is mixed by default." And indeed, they aren't the only of their age bracket in the club. They're just not the majority.

"Oh. I will." Cristobal assures, face closing in to Dante's until he can nuzzle the man's jawline briefly along with his lascivious words. "At least two more times tonight, in fact." Then he starts backing away towards the dance floor, "Now come on, old man, show me your moves on the dance floor." He grins completely innocently as he tilts up his bottle for a quick swig.

"You have realized by now that we're polar opposites on the rhythm spectrum, yes?" Dante, the aristocratic Brit, whose people are known for their complete lack of rhythm. And Cris, the Mexican whose hip movements could power a generator. He swigs the beer, makes a face (cheap beer, not his jam, but he needs the liquid courage) then ditches the bottle on the table and follows the other to the crowded, hot and sweaty floor.

"You gotta realize one thing, babe. Nobody cares. So long as you're having a good time, you can dance." Especially to this music that is all repetitive and most of the people who are 'dancing' are just basically bouncing in place. Some more adventurous ones even use their arms. "And there is no way you're going to have a bad time with me." Cocky as ever, Cris leads them right into the middle of the throng of people for full emersion for his social loving boyfriend.

Dante's mood does seem to have lightened since they came in, even if it is hot and sweaty and full of children. Being isolated is not his natural state, and Cris can almost see his social battery being recharged. "Good vibes only?" he drawls, head cocking, toothy smile making an appearance. He lets Cris pick the spot and the rhythm, and he'll do his best to copy.

"Good vibes!" Cris confirms, voice pitched a little louder so it's sure to carry to his partner over the noise of the music and the people. He hooks a thumb on Dante's waist, beer dangling from his fingers and bumping against the man's hip as they shift about in a vague approximate of dancing. This isn't Cruz' music so his own Latino hip sway doesn't kick in just yet, so they're just bobbing about like the others. He leans in after a little while, to conversate. "Sparrow texted, so we must be good."

Dante says, "Oh she did? That's a relief. I mean, I'd imagine it will take time. For things to not be awkward." Dante seems to be speaking for himself as much as Cris. He experiments with moving his hips. He's really not as bad as he lets on, just a bit stiff and self-conscious, which is unusual for such a peacock. He's at home in front of a room or behind a piano, but apparently not so much on the dance floor."

"Well, it was to ask a favor, but I'll take what I can get towards the end of awkward." And then Cris tacks on a word he doesn't use often, "I'm sorry. That things got weird." And then he lets the music take place of conversation, half a step back as well if only so he can take some pride and give some attention to the way Dante is moving now that he's loosening up a bit.

"Nothing to be sorry for, darling. I..." Dante drapes an arm over his shoulder and shifts to the music. It takes him a moment to find the beat, but once he gets there he does okay. He is a musician after all, and the piano does involve rhythm. "I...really do appreciate what you gave up for me. I know it wasn't an easy choice."

"I'm trying." Cris assures, which means he's not been perfect at it but for now he can be happy with at least that milestone himself, in this moment. Because? No bad vibes tonight. He takes another swig of beer, then settles in against Dante as the music shifts to something slower and a tune that Cris recognizes as, "French electropunk." Curtesy of some music that ended up his Alexa playlist thanks to Sparrow. "Feeling better?"

"I recognize each of those words individually," Dante drawls. "That makes me horribly lame, doesn't it?" He cups the back of Cristobal's neck and experiments with swaying on the off-beats rather than the way that the bass is thumping. It's still in time, just syncopated. He's jazz dancing. "Mhmmm. It's nice to be social and not also working."

"Babe, I wouldn't know what it was either, if someone hadn't taught me." Cris grins wide, "So I guess we can be lame together." Cris must see someone he knows, because for a moment his attention strays and he gives someone a little upnod. Then his full attention goes back to Dante. "These latest rewrites have been brutal as shit, haven't they?"

Dante sighs and rolls his eyes skyward. "Absolutely brutal. Some of it is deserved. The section I wrote while opening Sitka is garbage. Definitely not up to my usual standard. But..." he hesitates. He's avoided telling Cris just what he has taken issue with with the edits. "I...made my main character gay and my publisher is having a real issue with it. They're dancing around it. They're critiquing the character's relationships and poking holes in that believability. But what they're not saying, because they know they'd get in shit for saying is, they worry about the book's marketability."

"So. What do you want to do about it? You going to do the rewrites or are you going to find a new publisher?" And Cris is being good, so very good, at not supplying the third option that's shining in his eyes, which may or may not include flying across the country and visiting their headquarters with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.

"I am being a shit right now and making changes that don't touch his sexuality, and even add in some more gay stuff." Dante grins wryly and shifts a little closer. "Certain things have been quite inspiring, after all." Then he shakes his head, "I'm trying to force them into saying they think it's not marketable with a gay protagonist. Either they're going to realize they can't say that and publish the damned book, or they're going to force me into a confrontation. And my poor editor is caught in the middle."

Cristobal's laugh comes easy and genuine, giving Dante a little excited jostle. "That's my boy." Then he turns to the crowd, none of which probably care much as he lofts his voice to shouting level and reiterates with unabashed pride. "That's my boy!" Pointing down to Dante as expecting the other dancers to stop in their tracks and break out in applause. Still, Cris doesn't seem disappointed as only a few faces look in that direction and give them bemused smiles or nods and go back to what they're doing. Cruz doesn't care about the lack of group participation, nor is he shy about leaning in and dragging Dante into a toe-curling kiss. So much for keeping a low profile.