It's Thursday night, a Ladies' Night, so the club is full of more women and girls than usual. The air smells like beer and sweat, a tinge of sex beneath all of it, and Arthur can feel the night curl beneath his tongue like a lazy cat. Anticipation is a throaty feeling, makes him go heady, and he dances with everyone, arms loose and hips feeling like liquid sand. It is, with one too many drinks and three too many drags, a good night.
His hands are on a girl's hips, just above her tight skirt, and when he looks over the top of her head, he has a moment of
heat, the summer sun beating down on his neck. sweating beneath the heavy links of his chainmail
vertigo. He tightens his hands on the girl's hips, rests his cheek against the side of her head. Sweat is running down his back, and he can feel it collect in the small of his back, into the back of his trousers. The club is like
too many hot summer days, the wheat in the fields dying before it's half-grown. nights spent sleeping on stone, unable to breathe
a furnace.
He pets the girl's stomach absently, feels her smooth her hand along his hip and thigh. When he pulls away, she spins into another man, drunken laughing and bright eyes. Arthur swallows back the throaty feeling, feels his stomach spin like the girls around him. He's had too many drinks, too many drags. Too many-- lives; dreams; moments tipping his head back until he falls into oblivion.
Arthur fights his way through the crowd to the big freight doors, open to the outside. The cold air is a jolt to his stomach and throat, and he breathes out, slow and shaky, as he leans his forehead against one of the heavy metal doors. It's cold against his skin, and the shock takes the edge off the dizzy, dippy feeling that's pooling in the base of his skull. Too much, too much, and he turns his head, rests his cheek against the door like he had rested it against the girl's head five minutes ago.
"Are you drunk?" someone asks. Arthur thinks about it. About how he's staggered on his feet, leaning against a freight door like it's a lover. Thinks about the way his body keeps feeling something not here, hot summer days with the sun beating down on dusty roads, and says, "yeah."
The someone laughs, closer, and Arthur lets his head roll on the door until he's look back into the club, and at a man with dark hair and a skinny, anorexic-looking face.
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timeasmymeasure
I/III
Date: 2010-07-05 05:08 pm (UTC)His hands are on a girl's hips, just above her tight skirt, and when he looks over the top of her head, he has a moment of
heat, the summer sun beating down on his neck. sweating beneath the heavy links of his chainmail
vertigo. He tightens his hands on the girl's hips, rests his cheek against the side of her head. Sweat is running down his back, and he can feel it collect in the small of his back, into the back of his trousers. The club is like
too many hot summer days, the wheat in the fields dying before it's half-grown. nights spent sleeping on stone, unable to breathe
a furnace.
He pets the girl's stomach absently, feels her smooth her hand along his hip and thigh. When he pulls away, she spins into another man, drunken laughing and bright eyes. Arthur swallows back the throaty feeling, feels his stomach spin like the girls around him. He's had too many drinks, too many drags. Too many-- lives; dreams; moments tipping his head back until he falls into oblivion.
Arthur fights his way through the crowd to the big freight doors, open to the outside. The cold air is a jolt to his stomach and throat, and he breathes out, slow and shaky, as he leans his forehead against one of the heavy metal doors. It's cold against his skin, and the shock takes the edge off the dizzy, dippy feeling that's pooling in the base of his skull. Too much, too much, and he turns his head, rests his cheek against the door like he had rested it against the girl's head five minutes ago.
"Are you drunk?" someone asks. Arthur thinks about it. About how he's staggered on his feet, leaning against a freight door like it's a lover. Thinks about the way his body keeps feeling something not here, hot summer days with the sun beating down on dusty roads, and says, "yeah."
The someone laughs, closer, and Arthur lets his head roll on the door until he's look back into the club, and at a man with dark hair and a skinny, anorexic-looking face.