Adrian didn’t even realize he was wearing a cowboy hat until he was leaned against the bathroom counter trying to manipulate the faucet so that he could wash his hands. Drinking would be so much more fun if he didn’t have to take a piss every five minutes. He tried lifting the tab, tried pressing it, tried twisting it. Finally, he experimented with just waving his hand under the tap. When it turned on, he was a bit startled. Fuck. Technology.

He didn't like the lighting in the bathroom. His skin looked sallow and his eyes ringed. Everything looked deeper, he looked concave, like he would fall into himself at any moment.

On the dance floor he moved because that was the only thing he could do. Throngs of bodies rubbed up against him and he flowed with them, dancing with nobody and everybody at the same time. Sometimes he would find himself in the middle of a couple who were all but having sex, sliding his body up the girl’s front and his tongue across the guy’s neck. Sometimes he just moved in the thick of things, slipping and sliding with the fast tempo. Down he went once, falling, falling, only to be pulled back up by people who could have been friends or lovers or strangers, or all of the above. The lights pounded in his eyes and all the sounds shone in his ears. Things were moving in a colorful blur. He moved with it, followed it, touched it, became a part of it.

“Bacchus!” he shouted in some poor girl’s ear as she slithered against his body. She felt like water. He moved with her, hands examining inappropriate areas. She didn’t protest since she was doing the same. Her eyes were bright and the lights danced across her colorful, glowing clothing. She looked like an angel.

“What?” shouted she back.

“Bacchus! The god of being drunk. Fuck, that’s what I’m talking about. A god of being drunk.” The girl looked puzzled, so he explained further. “He was fat!”

“All right, dear!”

She didn’t understand. That was okay. She had a fucking great rack, so all could be forgiven.

"They expected me to be."

In a quieter room, Revelry's entrance would be - be more. Louder, brighter, more of a peak in the darkness, but this is Dionis's element, very literally his temple, and he slides in effortlessly, sidles up effortlessly, twines himself around the two. He smells like leather and myrrh and turpentine, and like he belongs there, which he does.

Palms and fingertips light on the girl's side (she does have a fantastic rack), over her back, over the kid's chest. Moving with the rest of them, like Dionis had been among them, with them the entire time. (And he had.) Dionis isn't motion like Music is motion, isn't hormones like Lust, isn't a threat like War is. Dionis is a body, algae-green hair and the last remnants of gold lipstick, fingernails chipping off silver and dayglo orange. He has glitter in his eyelashes, and it's spreading.

Lips against Adrian's neck, Dionis isn't asking permission. He doesn't need to. It's an old name, but it's still his, and twice-called through blood like that, Dionis is bound. It's more formality than ritual, more curiosity than real magic - it's quick-release knots on bedposts, the barest trappings of control. Dionis laughs in Adrian's ear, and presses his palm over the kid's heart. The words can get lost, in a place like this, but they aren't what's important.

Adrian didn’t even stop. To even pause would be to end. To end was unthinkable. He lifted an arm up over his head to lace his fingers into the hair of the man behind him. He pushed closer to the body, leaned his head down on the shoulder, the cowboy hat falling from his head and lost under thousands of feet. The green of the man’s hair shone brighter in his eyes, looked almost edible. He wondered if it tasted the way the man smelled. He couldn’t identify the scent, couldn’t place a name on it because he didn’t know the name, but he felt like it belonged to him. Like the scent was a part of the man. It sent him reeling. Intoxicated him. Made saliva gather at the corners of his lips, which he licked away distractedly.

His other arm snaked around the girl’s waist, pulling her closer, falling down to her ass to push their hips together. His eyes were half closed. Glassy. Music was his existence. His breath was fast, faster than normal, faster even than the breath of someone who had been dancing all night. His skin was alive, on fire, crawling across his bones. Everything was over-sensitized. He felt every inch of the man behind him, the woman in front of him. The lips on his neck sent his blood humming, raging, screaming. There was too much clothing in the way. He wanted to feel their skin, to see if they were as electrical as he was.

“You to be?” said he. He didn’t even know what they were talking about anymore. His answer was automatic.

Breathy half-laugh exhaled against Adrian's temple, but Dionis bears his weight, twists him back further to mouth gold gloss against muscle and thin bone. Another inch and he'd have the kid's jugular and it's - an unsafe position, for a human to be in. Dionis lets a canine scrape at the skin, but it isn't a warning or threat. Even Dionis's summoning spells don't call for blood.

"Roman," he explains, letting his hair be twisted or mouthed. Di scrapes his fingernails against the kid's shirt, skin, heart, the other hand wandering absently, tapping out the beat of the music, of Adrian's pulse. He isn't paying attention the girl; she didn't ask for it. "They expected me to be their kind of god. Fat."

Dionis is too far into his body-construct to feel the extent of Adrian's internal landscape, but - all the gods have their forms of worship, and there is a rush of power in this, in the heat and movement and proximity, in the chemical headrush. Being in skin contact with Dionis has its own effects, one of which is a lowered tendency toward heart failure. It helps.

"People don't have the same expectations, now." There's the Dionis that is moving, supporting, sweating, thrumming, and the Dionis that is explaining. This kind of arrangement lends itself to questions answered; he could refuse, but there isn't any reason to, and it's habit to offer. A quick swipe of tongue at Adrian's hairline, tasting sweat and the high burning through his system and the glitter that's getting over everything. Dionis doesn't seem at all bothered by the dual tracks of the interaction, or by Adrian's status of initiation or lack thereof.

Adrian twisted around because he was curious about what this person was saying, this person claiming to be a god, but he was even more interested in the man himself. His body, his fingers, his lips. He was being covered in glitter but that was fine. It made him feel like he was bathed in sunlight. The girl stayed their for a moment and Adrian was being touched everywhere, explored, mapped, and then left for new lands. His own fingers traveled across this newcomer’s body, worshipping with curious touches, caressing this wrist, examining that hip. Being near this man slowed his heart-rate, made him feel calmer. Some of the clouds were washed away. He liked that, and he didn’t. He danced harder, demanding more, begging for less.

“They were sorely misinformed.” His lips were just bare inches away from this god’s cheekbone. He could play. Adrian has met stranger people before. Sure, you could be a god. I’ll worship you, if you want. He tilted his head further. There was a sacrificial quality to his movements, this allowing more access to his neck. He was adorned with more jewelry than he had on when he arrived. The beads glittered even more in the flashing, epileptic lights. He slid his hands up, tangled his fingers in Dionis’s hair. Examined the strands in the light, eyes far away, mind in a different dimension. To his eyes the hair was a startling green. With the lights flickering like so, it looked alive. Like seaweed swaying in the ocean stretching to those choppy rays of sunlight. His world was overexposed.

Humanoid figures have some kinship with peacocks, Dionis thinks - there's some fascination there, between hair and feathers, melanin and light refraction. He ducks his head, swaying within the confines of the kid's grip, one thumbnail raised and positioned to trace the curve of cheekbone and earlobe, cuticle chipped silver. He could put studs there, right into the kid's flesh - it would be pretty, it wouldn't hurt. Rows of silver or carnelian, maybe little plastic gemstones. It's difficult to be given a sacrificial offering and not take; the bodies around them press in tighter, and Dionis doesn't fight it.

"They weren't." The lights catch at Adrian's irises, pupils blown wide, and if anything's a gaping plastic-wrapped hole into the soul, the eyes are. (Dionis's are an interested, slightly glazed beachy-green; San's are viciously, unrepentantly red. Dionis watches Adrian's jugular and the slow corrosion it's feeding, aware that humans are beautiful, but not particularly hardy.)

"Misinformed, I mean." Di breathes this into Adrian's ear, which requires a bit of shimmying, as his hair is still being held and it isn't much longer than a hands-breadth at the moment. "They took it from the Greeks, and that's how they wanted it."

The consonants are a little harder, to be heard over the bass. This really isn't the best place for a conversation, and yet - Dionis's hand slides over Adrian's ribs, feeling the heartbeat and the lungs, feeling the thickness of internal movement. He presses a thumb over one aureole, and laughs, lips against the shell of the kid's ear, rocking not entirely gently against him.

"How do you want it?"

A grin, and Adrian is going to be washing glitter and gold gloss off for days.

That's okay. Adrian likes the glitter. It gives his skin a nice, golden sheen along with the reflective sweat, and if he squints hard enough his vision blurs and flickers and makes the lights thrown from his skin dance. His arms are bare, but there are jangling bangles dangling from his wrists that some girl slipped on him because she thought they looked nice. He agreed. He's wearing an open brown vest made out of a very soft material and jeans just edging on tight.

Adrian doesn't mind pressing closer. The feeling of a body slick against his is right up there with sex, especially when he's rolling high on Ecstacy. Adrian was having trouble listening, so caught up as he was in the motions of feeling. He tries to focus on Dionis's words, but they kind of sound like they're coming from underwater. He grabs Dionis's hips as an anchor and arches under the ministrations.

"So 'being drunk' is personified in the way a society wants it to be?" He doesn't know if he makes any sense. That's okay. He slides up the bumps of Dionis's spine, a xylophone-like ladder he wants to play music on, or lick alcohol off of. His thoughts traveled through hazy reds and blues and greens. Green for Dionis's hair, blue for his own blue, blue eyes, and red for the pretty lights flickering over the dancing people.

"I want it—" He tries to grasp a thought. Flounders a bit. "Like it is. Just like it fucking is."

"I can do that." Loud enough to be heard but not overheard, half-swallowed consonants directed not to the shell of the kid's ear but the pulse point underneath. Answering to blood.

His fingers cradle the arch of Adrian's neck, thumbnail sliding over sweat, edges jagged but not breaking the skin. It's a harder grip than it had been, and Dionis leans in, possessive; the skin under Adrian's fingertips flares just a little, and Dionis pushes back against the pressure at his spine, movements more fluid than strictly possible in a human body.

That was almost a request - an entreaty. It was very, very close, and Dionis watches Adrian's eyes closely as they move, the blown pupils and bright irises. A desire isn't the same as a wish, but Adrian didn't ask for much, theological clarifications aside.

"Give me something in return."

This is louder, and this is more reckless, because Dionis isn't fully bound here, but Adrian, beautiful and flexing against him, could push that connection just a little bit forward. Dionis presses his lips against the kid's jaw, not quite a kiss, and the focus doesn't waver. It could read as threatening, as dangerous, and in a real cosmic sense it is.

This man's movements are hypnotizing. Adrian has never danced with a person like him before. People should not be able to move like this, but Adrian supposes it could be his own mind playing tricks on him. Sometimes people seem odd to Adrian. A little off. Like there's something distinctly different about them. Adrian appreciates uniqueness, but is a little daunted by it. Is he good enough? But Adrian arches against Dionis's touch, presses as close as he can against him, pleads silently for more. This man is intoxicating, somehow more stimulating than even the drugs that pounds through Adrian's veins. The skin under Dionis's fingernails reddens and Adrian hisses in response, not pained but interested; the Ecstacy he took earlier heightening the feeling, like needles to his responsive skin.

"Fuck," Adrian breathes, eyes drifting half closed. Dionis is close, so close, and his eyes are fuzzy from this proximity. The rational part of him, the one that's not blurred by the drugs and the music and the adrenaline and the sex he feels from this being against him, knows that this all just play, that he shouldn't be taking it seriously. But the lips against his jaw send shivers down his spine and he arcs, masochistically liking the danger, liking that it feels like it brings him one step closer to death. Just like the drugs.

"If you can—" He loses track of the sentence for a moment, breath faster, heart pounding, "if you can give me this—" His mind doesn't want to finish the sentence. All he wants to do is dance and dance forever.

"I would give you my life."

Because technically, that would be what he did, right?