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[personal profile] nightwindows
Where: [livejournal.com profile] the_dead_muse
Challenge Name: The Self
Rating/Warning: Um, R-ish? Implied sexual situations.
Word Count: 517
Author's Notes: Yes, this is a reworked version of the little Zac drabble I wrote a while ago. I like the way this came out, so deal. >.>



The dance. All that matters is the dance. Not the people, not the club. Just the music, the movement. The pain, the pleasure, the emotion, it all fades when the dance begins. The pounding bass, the techno beat, these are the steps leading to paradise.

There are partners. There are always partners. Faceless, shapeless forms with no meaning whatsoever. They are merely obstacles, and he has to dance around them, through them, react to their clumsy motions and remain graceful. He is too fast, too beautiful, too lithe to be caught by any of them. He is the only dancer here, the only one who understands that heaven is within reach in these places, these dark clubs.

Part of the dance is the hunt, in which he plays the prey. Catch me, he screams with his body, if you can. The obstacles move, obscure him from those who would play hunter. He flits between them gracefully, knowing that all eyes are upon him. The hunters, though they play the dance, they are not true dancers. They think they have power, control, when it is the music, the dance, that controls them. They are only pawns, and may only hunt because they prey wishes to be caught.

Finally a hunter approaches, one whom he deems worthy. The next part of the dance begins. They writhe, they move, they touch, they grope. With a wicked grin, the hunter moves his prey to a darker, distant corner of the club. A rough motion, and the prey finds his face pressed against the cushioned walls. His too-tight shorts are pushed down to his knees, and the hunter consummates his catch. Safety precautions, well-used, are thrown in the trash as the hunter leaves in search of his next victim. The prey is left to his own clean-up.

The dance, paradise, the music... it all falters for a moment. As he pulls his shorts back up, the emptiness hits him. He feels used, and the lack of passion, of meaning, of names... He's been running from emotion for so long, using the anonymity of these clubs to stay numb. If he doesn't let himself feel, the overwhelming loneliness can't touch him. His broken heart can't get any more broken if it's locked tight away, or so he hopes. Too many holes, too many rejections, too few people willing to stand up and say they love him without wanting to change him. They'd love him if he was less flamboyant, they'd love him if he was heterosexual. They'd love him if he'd just give up his life of sin or back down when confronted with blatant discrimination. A single tear escapes before he catches himself. There's no point in letting those thoughts in. The music, the bass, the techno beat. He forces himself to remember only these things. To lose himself in them.

With a deep breath, he moves back out onto the dance floor. In a moment, with a few graceful motions, he is caught in it again. He can see the way to paradise, and all he has to do is dance.

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September 2013

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