Lights.


The world is a blacklight, people are screaming and seething and it's a riot contained on a dance floor. Breakdancers, glow sticks. The smell of burnt rubber and marijuana, perfume and cologne and sweat. And sex. It's messy, this rampant display of humanity, and you can see the edges twist and fray through pastel strobes, disco lights and laser shows playing out on the backs of the bouncers. There are bouncers, dozen of them. A few stand by the door but most flock along the floors, guarding backrooms and snarling through layers of glitter. They smile and tilt their head when no one is looking, but people are always looking. There is a madness here.


Sound.


The place is big, insane and thick with smoke and bass. Treble screeches along the stucco walls, stucco walls screech towards the ceiling, the ceiling screeches through to the roof burnt with yellow water stains. It's loud. It's loud, and it could be called music if you tilted your head right, guy in the corner wearing a Hawaiian shirt and noose blasting industrial music backwards. The doors shake in their hinges, what hinges are left, humans litter the floor, sweat and fabric, naked flesh grinding to music. Music, sound, pulse, life.


Action.


This is a naked freedom, this explosion of noise and dance and drugs. Blood runs fast and high and there are those who listen for it, predators among predators, smiling carnival nightmares along the balconies and floors. The world is a lamb to the slaughter, the Warehouse is the world, Di has his own world and is tripping and watching and happy, just now.

Happy. Revelry. God of fucking revelry downing shots of things he can't name, not anymore, tongue thick with good cheer and holiday turnout. He has a booth, he thinks, in the back but Di isn't sure if he's there or among the dancers, the girls wearing PVC dresses and the boys in the same. Leather-smell, thick and heady, sweat along his side that might be his or not. This is his world, his world, and he twists his arm and takes another pill, eyes dilated so everything is bright and big and beautiful, and watches his world scream.

Tympan swaggered through the sweat covered swarm of humans. He stop once or twice to tap out a beat with his fingers on the side of his leg, the effect of his tapping would either speed up a heart rate or slow it down... There was no slowing hearts down in this heat.

He smiled, techno and club music were his children. The music was so easy to make that any person with a mixer could do it, it's soul purpose was for dance. Pounding bass and repeatitive synthesized drumming was more important than the melody as it should be... For now at least.

Tympan's silver-fingered hands moved to the beat, and he stepped accordingly. The only thing about not moving to the music was his head which seemed to be moving to a different beat all together. He spotted a familiar glow in the crowd. He swaggered over towards the aura, practically swimming in the mass of bodies. He noticed that the god was already into his name sake.

"Ello there, fancy meetin you eh? Started without me? That's alright, I'm quite easy to forget, what with all this, now... and whatnot." Tym grinned at Dion.

Death stalks to the crowd, invisible to mortal eyes, brushing briefly past random people. He rests a hand here, strokes a cheek with cold etheral fingers there, winking at the occasional rave junkie as they stare off into something somewhere else.

He flows through crowd, occasionally literally, leaving a trail of bleached white light. Looking almost like a ghost.

Of course, he's as good as not there to anyone but a god.

A peal of bright laughter and the lights around him flicker, dim, brighten - quick trick he picked up after bashing into a lamp during a bar brawl, shoulders flexing as Tympan steps into view. His lips spread and part, smeared lipstick smile that edges onto black laughter.

"Pan!"

Genuine elation and a hand reaches out, faint glow among the edges and tarnished silver rings. Fingers ensnarl in Tympan's shirt and pull him closer, wrist cracking as the noise around him ebbs and rises. Manic, cheerful smile and he withdraws the still-attached arm, aiming the man loosely towards himself or the table.

Momentary discomfort at the shift in mood before recognizing Azrael's scent, and then another bit of laughter and he waves in his general direction with a foot, tipping backwards into the fraying wood of the table.

Tym laughed. "Happy to see you too, mate." He co-ordinated his body, which is still being tugged at, towards a chair at the table instead of plowing directly into Dion. "Wouldn't 'appen to 'ave any whisky now would ya? Ain't had some of that in a while..."

The semi-invisible God of Death and Dreaming makes his way towards Pan and Dionis, walking directly through a dancing raver who stops and shudders.

Leaving the stricken dancer behind, Azrael arrives at the table and gives a politely mocking bow to his fellow gods. The unformed suggestion of jewellery on his bony etheral arms almost clinks.

Catches himself and Tym against the table, or rather the table catches them. The music is loud but his smile is louder, his skin flushed and gold.

"Pan! Pan-pan-pan-pan Pan."

Arms move out, sluggish-fast, his body shifting as the last pill dives through his metabolism. Spike of colour, loud music, auras. Azrael turns dark and foreboding and Pan's pores are screaming Abba songs, high-speed and skipping like a bad tape recorder. Di's pupils dilate once, fast, taking over the grey until he's not there at all. The music jumps.

A fast shudder and he's lucid again, remembering where he put his arms and dragging them back to his sides, offering a saner and more sheepish smile. Di's eyes clear, slow-fast, and his posture straightens. The Warehouse dulls to reality.

"Good to see you, kid. Az."

He offers a nod to the older god, respectful but a bit facetious, watching Pan out of the corner of his eye as if he might disappear at any movement. The whiskey comes, splashed about a crystal goblet and the edges. Dion always loved the sight of crystal against sterling silver.

...and then the jewellery does clink, because he's corporeal. Probably anyone close enough to notice is seeing much stranger things than someone materializing from thin air.

Sweeping a hand over his usual dark clothing and usual dark hair, Azrael pulls out a seal at their table and folds his lanky, thin body into it like a spider. A grinning spider.

"Good to be seen, Dionis... Tympan." he nods to each as he names them.

"Glad to see I'm missed." His arms and feet had become somewhat stationary. His head continued to sway... He looked oddly like Stevie Wonder, what an odd coincidence...

Tym lifted the goblet in a salute. "Ay, 'eres to clowns to the left of me..." He motions to Dion. "And jokers to the right..." he gave a salute to Az before downing the whisky.

Smallish, content smile. Di liked this. Liked the swirl of humans, liked Az being corporeal and enjoying himself, liked seeing Pan get drunk. Liked the feeling of 'we three gods' and the combined power they exuded.

"How have my two favourite deities been doing?"

'Deities' is slurred gently, archaic safeguards and the rest won't notice anyhow. His arms shift, twitch, restless again. A drink on the table behind them, something cloudy and amberish, appeals to him and he downs it before anyone can notice it missing.

Tym lowered the goblet. "Good question mate... I've been dabbling in a little bit of everything, as usual. I think I'm a bit off... I have you to thank for that." He pointed a wavery hand at Dion. "All in all, nothing much... yet, it's almost time for a change. Maybe some more classical bullshit to keep the people on their toes or a new contraption to anger the 'true' instrumentalists. Ay, now that'll be a kick."

"Maybe you could take a chunk out of a classical instrument... as with the guitar?" Az suggests, foldings his long, bone-thin fingers together. That said, his tilts his head at the Stoned God.

"I've been good... busy, as usual. Lots of work for Death... you provide me with some." He twists his head to glance back out at the crowd. At least one would die tonight, for one reason or another.

Teeth jut out in a slow underbite, scraping a layer of waxy colour off his top lip. His hands clench around the glass and he turns to Pan, first, Pan who isn't insulting his work or his godship.

Pan, who's ranting about music in the way that makes Di sort of floaty inside, amused and bemused and maybe a little impressed. Pan had a much more interactive follower base than he did.

"Y'could always start marketing the tin can as a new instrument."

Small smile but he's distracted by Az who's still watching the crowd like the damned reaper he is. Di never means to hurt anyone. They just can't handle the quest for a good high.

Body shift, protective stance, the cloudy-drink fading off into his bloodstream and the world becoming far too dreary and dark for his liking. A pocket is produced from somewhere inside pantleg and he grabs a pill, two pills, small and pink and cheerful looking.

Swallows one, quick gulp, and offers the other to the men sitting next to him.

Tym took the other pill. "Ey, sorry bout that Azzy, 'ows abouts you be the designated pray taker for today." He said, mocking what most people call religion. He swallowed the pill and drowned it with whiskey.

Azrael turns back from scanning the crowd, lids half-lowered over his white on white eyes. A half-smile. A small shake of the head.

"No thanks, Di." Maybe a quick wink... maybe not. "I'm on duty."

Slow, sardonic smile that eased into relaxation as the pill hit. His body slumped, muscles sliding together with blood and oxygen and his head fell against Pan. His metabolism was set too fast, he told himself, over the course of many heartbeats and a slow, sluggish thought process. He needed to.. redo the body, maybe..

Severe exhaustion hit and he collapsed the rest of the way down, leg twitching and jaw slackening as he went. Hoped, distantly, that he wasn't drooling, then closed his eyes and let the wave ride.

Tym showed little effect of the pill, choosing to not be so offguard today. It wasn't like Dion would notice. "Ey, the amazing things they put into their systems." He gave Dion's head a couple of fond pats. "Easy there mate, yer scuffing the look." He took another drink of his whiskey. "Azzy... Aren't you always on duty? You need a break, man."

A grin. Azrael waves his hand, dismissing the thought. "I'm always half on duty. It's like catnapping," he says.

A glance towards Dionis. "Is he drooling?"

"Nnnn."

He wasn't hallucinating, not on this, but it was close and he was soft and limp and the world melded together with the light of them all. Dion could feel it strong now, but that meant it'd end faster. Rapid dissolve, and he was rapid-dissolving on Pan, curling into his stomach and the warmth fled his body, shocked his fingertips and bleeding his pride-life away towards Az.

This wasn't a particularly good pill. He'd have to try another.

Tym looked down at Dion. "Aye, he is... I think it's his new god-mark... Ey, Dee sod off!" Tym gently lifted Dion back up to a seated position. "Swear, 'e's as messy as they come. He'd be one of your's by now if he wasn't immortal. But as I say let the kid 'ave his fun."

Azrael had lifted his head, like a wolf sniffing the wind, just as Di was collapsing bonelessly onto the God of Music.

And knew exactly what Tympan was talking about, now.

"He would be, yes." It's not judging, or disapproving, or approving, or, anything. Just agreeing.

Full-body shudder and there's a pain in his mouth, bad copper taste that at least tells him he isn't puking. He hasn't puked in years but his body is mimicking the actions, dry heaves that seem to be in his lungs, fists clenching and unclenching and the taste is there, stronger, wet. Dripping down his throat, his chin, invading the sanctity of what organic life he's made for himself.

And then it's over, and he's just shivering, wiping the blood from his mouth and used to all of this. Eyes wide and glazed, skin pale. The glow is stronger, now, his hair damp with sweat and gag reflex swallowing down blood.

"Fuck all," he offers as explanation to any still watching. "Fuck. All."

Tym took a sip from his whiskey. "Ey, that's your job Dion. I still have to pay attention to my work." He gave Dion's back a good pat. "Everything changes too fast for me, not getting any easier... Are you going to launch your guts or something? Very ungodly mate."

Azrael sighs. He leans forwards and begins to trace pattens on the vinyl of the tabletop. Lines burn themselves into being behind the trail of his thin, bony finger.

And decides that he has no way to comment.

Rough self-shakage, like a dog drying itself after a bout in a mud puddle. His skin fades and the blood sinks back inwards, the sweat in his hair drying and leaving odd, biblical scents behind. He smiles, or tries to. The blood is gone from his teeth.

"If I could manage to sleep through a night, I'd.. want to be doing that right now."

The smile fades and he's weak, real-organic-all-natural weak, slumping down in his chair and resting his head against Tym's shoulder. Di figures if he leans on Az he'll have a stroke or something.

Fingertips curl gently around a stray coaster, cardboard and slimy with condensation. He crumples it in his fist and tries to slow his breathing.

Tympan tapped a random beat on the table, the metalic sound resonanted across the warehouse but not very many people heard it. His arms and legs started moving to the rhythm of the music again, his head to another beat. It looked like he was testing something, conducting something in his head. He brought up his hands and started waving them, not unlike a conductor.

The music in the building didn't change, he was either doing something somewhere else or nothing at all. He stopped after two bars of three beats, it was a short period of time. His arms and legs stopped moving, and he grinned at his companions. "Ey, I think ol'Di 'ere got jipped in the responsibility department. Don't cha ever 'ave anything to take care of?" He lifted Dion off his shoulder as he teased him playfully. "Not that I'm complaining or anything... although I wish I could spend most of my days past out on the floor... Last time I done that, the king of rock and roll died and I wasn't finished with 'im yet."

Azrael's roving fingers still. A wisp of smoke curls up from the table for a moment, then is gone.

"Sorry," the God of Death says. He doesn't really sound that sorry.

he casts his dead-white eyes on the slumped-over Di, and leans forwards. Elbows in the table. Fingers feigning support of his chin.

"You're pretty heavily involved in that body of yours, Dionis." He pauses there, for just a moment, letting those words hang in the air.

Then continues. "As such, I could probably send you to sleep."

Shoulders hunch, eyes clearing and blood pressure dropping. Drop-safe, the good drop, he's slow and calm and, fuck, sober again but that's okay because that last bit of poison's still shoving off. Hates the dealers for doing that, wonders if a crusade to smite them might be in order.

"Lennon or Elvis?"

Words are slurred, gently, like a kid trying its hardest not to fall asleep in the middle of dinner. He watches the conducting as best he can, impressed in that sort of distant way one becomes of Olympic athletes in sports one has no interest in.

Considers Az - his words, his tone. His words, again, because Di's sure there's something there he's missing but, damn, eternity feels long these days and and sleeping for a few weeks could make it more bearable.

"I'm 'llowed to be 'vest in it. S'mine."

Props himself against the table, again, all limp bones and uselessness. He feels like a drowned dog. He doesn't even like dogs.

"I'sis one of those sleeps that means I wake up in someone else's body with seven arms?"

Eyebrows try to waggle but he fails, and sighs, and turns back to the music which seems to be getting louder or at least brighter.

"I 'ave half a mind to say that it wouldn't be a bad idea, Azzy. Ey, but who would keep me company? Music gets bloody boring without a pint." Tym elbowed the God of 'Booze and Pills' trying to revive him a bit.

"Ay, come now, Azzy's going to take you away from this mortal plane and all you can say is some half-witted idea of seven hands and such?" Tym gave Dion a bit of a shake... like that would work.

Azrael shakes his head, his mouth creeping up at the corners.

"Good idea, but no. Just sleep."

"Nnn."

There's a kid on the floor, somewhere in the middle, dancing like his muscles have burnt away to stiff joints and bone. Eyes half-closed, hair across his face, and he's just standing there looking miserable and dancing. Di wants to throw something at him.

"Sleep. Just sleep? S'good."

Watches the kid a minute more and the dislike grows, shifts to a girl trying her hardest to spin herself into a dizzy circle. They look like a mess out there, all flailing limbs and it doesn't look like revelry or happiness so much as attempted escape. And he's never stopped anyone from leaving before.

Slump, blah. Still feels like a dog, can still taste a bit of copper. Hates dogs, hates the kid and the girl and the way the lights don't shine on the walls at all. Even hates Pan a little bit for jostling him, even in good intent, because it's disturbing and dizzying and sort of hurts, vaguely.

"Wha'd'I gotta do?"

"Pucker yer lips and blow mate." Tym said in jest, giving Dion a pat on the back. "Ay, but some sleep would do you good. That's why Azzy here's one of my best mates, he is. I Don't just like 'im for his cheery nature and compelling conversation and all, 'e's useful to." Tym gave Az a little wink.

A dead smile back at Pan, and Azrael leans forwards, towards the drugged-out god.

"You don't really have to do anything, Di... just don't resist me."

He reaches a long arm over the table and lays cold fingers on Dionis' shoulder.

"Just let me in."

"Let you.. in?"

This is a good idea, terrible idea, and he'd resist but the fingers on his shoulder are good. So good. And it's bad, he knows this, but he wants this and he tries to open his mind but he wasn't ever very good at meditation and, oh, Az's fingers are cold. Cool. They feel like liquid.

Di tries to make sounds, noises. Tries to say 'yes' or 'no' because this is kind of surprising, he doesn't let people influence him, doesn't let people in because in isn't a place he likes to go. Surface living, and Az is on the surface. Pan is on the surface, next to him. Hips touching. Sides. Cloth. Skin.

All of a sudden there's too much sensation, and this is the start of a bad trip and he knows this but sometimes even bad trips start off good. Good and warm and clean and that isn't how it feels but the exhaustion is settling, forming into something he doesn't know how to respond to. Like a dream but he's still there, Di's still there and he tries to tell Az because this might be wrong but all that comes out is a slow groan, choked and wet. Choked and sweet, wet around the edges.

"Ya better watch out Azzy, 'e could get addicted to you. You'd never get rid of 'im." Tympan quipped as he watched in fascination.

Azrael withdraws his ice-cube fingers, resting his white eyes on the slumped-over form across the table from him.

"I think Dionis could get addicted to anything."

He's dreaming. He thinks he's dreaming.

White-clean, colour-clean. Every colour. Mud, white. Pigments and light hues. It tastes like soap. Good soap. Powdered soap.

He's allergic to soap and this makes him fall, slow-fall, down low and then he's where he was, but lower. And he wonders if this is how it's supposed to be, if this is how it is for everyone and he can hear things, sort of. Not real things, but nice calming things. Wind-whoosh and explosions like a really good movie on mute. Sensitive hearing. Tastes like vertigo, now, and he tries to fall up and fails.

His body, Dion's body, that's a shell again. And he remembers what that's like, to have a shell that wasn't you, didn't make you, but he doesn't really. Remember. Or notice, or feel. Because this is dreaming, this is sleep. And his spine crumbles, vertebrae by vertebrae sliding into place, a different place, and he shifts.

And he shifts, and he falls, and he's sleeping and the taste of vertigo is a lye burn against his retinas.

"Ey, wish I could stay an' chat Azzy but hard times, gotta work, music doesn't jus' get up and create itself." Tym stood up and motioned to Dion. "Least he'll wake up in a place he likes." Tym swaggered back to the crowd.

Azrael nods to Tympan as he leaves. Giving Dionis one last unreadable look, he leaves, himself-- simply disappearing from view, as he is wont to do.

Exists. and sleeps, and distantly wishes for a pillow.