Summary: He is a poster child for this party, this rave, and you want him more than the drugs in your back pocket.
A/N: Back from the dead, what?
He’s there, in the back, with glowsticks in his hands and glitter in his hair. There’s a gas mask, painted black and silver and red, hanging around his neck, thudding against his bare chest every time he jumps up. Dozens of candy-colored, beaded bracelets crawl up his arms, glowing in the blacklights. His lips are open, his chest pulsing with the off-beat rhythm of his breathing. A child-sized backpack, one shaped like a frog, is strapped on across his back. He is a poster child for this party, this rave, and you want him more than the drugs in your back pocket.
The music is blasting through the speakers, the floor vibrating in time to the bass. A nameless DJ is stirring the crowd up, her dreadlocks in her face and bouncing against her tiny arms. You can see the meth written in her cheekbones. There’s so many lightshows going on around you that you can almost forget you’re in an old warehouse, right outside of Chicago. Some kid in pants he could fit into three more times is working a pair of glowsticks on shoestrings in the center of a small audience, his small hands shades of purple-grey where the circulation is being cut off.
You skirt past him, eyes and ears and brain filled to the bursting limit with the noise of the colors around you. Your poster boy is bouncing up and down, his long legs kicking out in front of him in a dance that any kid can do, rolling or sober, and you can already smell the Vick’s that’s smeared inside that gas mask, even though you’re still so far away. You wonder if he’s already rolling, or just waiting for the party to pick up a little more. He’s got a pocket full of Blow-pop suckers and bottles of water shoved into the many pockets of his too-big pants.
There’s sweat hot on your back and neck, sticky and not all yours. The press of people around you, the gyrating, never still sea of arms and legs and glowsticks is familiar, and your confidence might be coming from the bong you hit before you caught the bus, or maybe it’s just the atmosphere, but you know you run this terrain. You know you can’t be stopped here, and you’re pretty sure you can get at least a blowjob out of this. Poster Boy’s got a nice pair of pink lips, and, from closer up, you can see the glaze over his eyes from the drugs. It might be too easy, but challenges were made for people who gave a damn.
You sidle up next to him, and the Vick’s scent is overpowering, right next to your mouth and nose. The glitter in his hair catches the blue and red and green lights flashing over your heads. You touch his wrists.
“Want a lightshow?” You have to yell over the music, mouth next to his ear, even if that means rocking up a little to make yourself taller. He nods, and hands over his glowsticks. You have a pair in your back pocket, but touching his hot hands is a better way to start out.
And maybe you’ve practiced your lightshows at home with deadened sticks from a party long past, but they get the job done. Poster Boy’s eyes are wide, his face still, lips jut a little slack. The movement of curling your wrists and fingers feels good, the barely there heat from the glowsticks familiar in the best of ways. The DJ’s playing a happy hardcore mix, and Poster Boy’s hands are twitching in time, the rest of him staying put for the end of the lightshow. He’s had more than one hit, and your task is getting easier by the second.
“Show’s over, Poster Boy.” You hand him his sticks back, curling his fingers over them. That’s how he’ll introduce himself later, at the next parties. You’ve given him his new name, and you know it by the way he looks at you.
“Jeremiah.” His voice is hoarse. He’s been yelling.
“Matt.” You hug him, the usual greeting, and you can feel that his heartbeat is skyrocketing.
There’s dancing, and backwards glances, and touching that’s only half inspired by drugs. He’s talking to you in speed-tinted words, jumbling them together, voice vibrating as he bounces around. At some point, he’d pulled one of the suckers from his pocket. The white stick is glowing between his lips.
There’s a DJ switch. You press against Jeremiah, your shirt sticking to his arm. He pulls the sucker from his mouth, staining the center of his lips strawberry red, and you smile. His lips taste like Vick’s smells, mixed with the sweetness of his sucker and the bitter twist of melted drugs on his tongue.
Your fingers are twisting in the frayed straps of his ridiculous backpack, pulling him closer. The glowsticks in his hands are making indents on the back of your neck, his bracelets sticky with sweat. The music’s vibrating up between the both of you, and you have to admit to yourself once again that you wouldn’t give up raving to save your life.
Jeremiah’s cheeks are mottled red and pink, skin almost hotter than the damp air around you. You pull him toward a pair of stairs, rusty filthy things, and he stumbles over his own feet trying to follow. Both of you crash into the iron. The stairs are pulsing in time to the bass on the speakers.
Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know you should be working a build up to this. That it’s too easy to take advantage of some kid with a drug cocktail sitting like a bomb in his stomach. And, as Jeremiah’s big, warm hands slip under your shirt, you wonder if he’d be this easy if he were sober. Grabbing a handful of his hair, you remind yourself that it doesn’t matter.
Poster Boy’s throat is pink-red under the straps of his gas mask. You dig your teeth into one of the marks, sucking the salty skin like candy. He’s making noises that hum under your mouth. You’re hard, and he’s pressing his hips against your side, and the two of you are back in high school, groping behind the bleachers.
You lean back against the iron stairs and undo your pants with one hand. He’s still kissing you, and you think that you would want him to wear the gas mask if you had somewhere to fuck him. Instead, you settle on pushing him down onto his knees, burying your hands into his hair. The glitter sparkles in the strobe lights.
And Jeremiah’s sucking your dick like an old pro, letting you move his head back and forth, hands braced on the stairs for leverage. You shamelessly fuck his mouth, watching his pretty face contract the few times he gags. It’s quick, and you can feel the orgasm coiling in your stomach sooner than you’d like, but there’s people heading your way, and you know can’t let it drag out much longer.
Jeremiah’s face is flushed, lips slick with spit and cum, cheeks damp with sweat. He pulls himself up, leaning against you for support. The neon lights flashing around you are distracting, and your head hurts from the music and knocking it against the stairs a few minutes ago. You pull the little bottle of drugs from your back pocket, shake it in front of Poster Boy’s face. He opens his mouth, and you drop on happy little pill inside. Not that he really needs it. You take the other one, cringing at the bitter taste.
“I’ve got to go.” Jeremiah’s breath is hot on your ear. “Nice meeting you.” He grabs your hand and lops his fingers through yours. Quick, practiced, he slips one of the candy-colored bracelets onto your wrist and grins. Your hands are covered with glitter.
It’s not until later, when you’re dancing again, your glowsticks making your arms glow green and blue, that you really look at the bracelet. It’s pink and powder blue and candy orange, and homemade by the knot that sticks out. A strobe light flashes, and you see the tiny numbers written in permanent marker. A phone number. You laugh, and it might be the ecstasy making you giddy, but it gives you a new reason not to kill yourself that night.