There was music playing somewhere. It was a throbbing, pulsing thing, seeming almost alive... but it was far away now. Lights were flashing in neon colors, so fast they seemed to blend together, and the bodies that were moving beneath them were almost blurs themselves. Hips ground together, arms waved slowly, erratically.

Dancing...

At one point Xanthe had been with a group. After smoking a few bowls they had decided alcohol was a golden idea and came to the Warehouse. Sitting in one of the booths in the far reaches of the club, they had drank and talked shit, bantering on about the existence of the soul and other subjects. At some point someone had offered them some little white pills, and one by one her friends had wandered to the dance floor to succumb to the frenzied euphoria that is exstacy. Xanthe had passed on the drug, however. She was supposedly meeting someone and, for the moment, she wanted to keep some of her wits about her.

A cloud of smoke hung around her head, thick and full of the neon glow from the dance floor. Her golden hair shone like a halo in the sweet smelling fog, her cigar clamped weakly in her jaw. Eyelids heavy, rimmed with black eyeliner and smoky green shadow. Her victorian high-necked blouse was unbuttoned to her collarbone, the vest she wore open and speckled with ash from her cigar. Xanthe was watching, thinking in her state of blurred and accentuated being. She removed the cigar from her mouth only to nurse her RedBull and Vodka, her eyes drifting lazily about the club.

Dancing was used for worship, is used for worship... Shiva, the dancer. Bringing forth renewal, or destruction. Both. Something to be learned, of course...

Xanthe was not much of a dancer, even under the influence of ... multiple things. So she was content to surround herself with curls of smoke and to watch her peers go about their revelries. Observation was one of her talents anyways.

But tonight, she was meeting a man. Tatters had served her coffee earlier that day, and after striking up conversation, they had decided to go dancing together. Well, Xanthe would make a valiant attempt anyway. She smiled thinking of him, his eccentricities. He was so beautiful in an almost alien way.

She shook her head. Her mind seemed to roll about in it's skull.

Tatters is running a little late. Diane was hysterical and drunk and he had to stop and comfort her and confiscate her phone because he doesn't want to have to deal with any of her crazy ex-two-week-stands. So when he arrives at the Warehouse it's already quarter past or so, and he doesn't see Xanthe right off.

The nature of his trousers - tight, vinyl, glitter, and did we mention tight - means that it takes him an unusually long time to make his way past the bar and around the dance floor. People keep accosting him, which is probably what he gets for dressing like (not to mention being) such a tart. But by the time he finds Xanthe, enveloped in a cloud of her strange sweet smelling smoke, he's already acquired a drink. It's a ludicrous colour of blue that almost matches his pants, and it has an umbrella.

"Heya gorgeous," he says, sets down his drink and slides into the booth next to her. "Sorry, I was a bit held up. Your hair looks fabulous." He's wearing a fishnet top and his eyes are as grey as the smoke from her cigar, lined with gold shimmer. His hair is loose, slippery, in his face, pale pale blonde. He takes a sip of his drink, leaving a smudge of glitter lipgloss on the rim of the glass. "This is toxic." He pushes it towards her. "Try it, I have no idea how they get that much alcohol into something and still make it that blue..."

Xanthe nodded and took a sip from the glass of electric blue poison. The alcohol warmed her as it made it's way through her esophagus and she grinned at the feeling. As she slid it back to him, she gazed at his attire.
"Glad you made it, and thanks. I was going to put some blue in it, but I ran out of time." Also known as you were too busy getting high "You look great. Did you sew yourself into those pants?" She asked, gesturing at his pants that looked more like a second skin of glittery blue.

"Thanks." Tatters drags metal grey nails down his leg, scarring the vinyl. "No, actually, I painted them on."

It's possible. The fabric has a shiny, wet look to it that suggests it's still wet. He should get a sign, perhaps, and wear it around his neck as a caution to the over enthusiastic. "Wet Paint - Do Not Touch." But that would be no fun.

He retrieves his drink from her and takes another sip, toying with the umbrella. Although his lip gloss is smeared on the glass, it's still pristine on his lips.

"So, can I buy you a drink?"

It's traditional, after all.

Xanthe grins. It's a lopsided lazy thing, a vague memory of a smile.
"Yeah sure. Surprise me."
She blinks slowly and looks down at her hands. Beneath her vision she could see the light pulsing from her fingertips... lightly, ever so lightly. Her mind was a fog of startling clarity, confusing and winding and ever so adventurous.

Brushing her bangs from her face, she slid her hand from her jawline to her collarbone, admiring the feel of her own soft flesh. Her other hand comes to her lips, cigar pinched lightly in her fingers. A long drag, the tip burns. A rush of smoke from her nostrils.

"Gimme a sec," Tatters says. He winks, because his eye make-up is shiny so why not.

He comes back with something pink. "Strawberry Daquiri on crack," he says, setting it down on the table and sliding down beside her. Whether he actually means the crack part is in the air. he might.

He'll let her ingest a bit more booze before he tries to make her dance.

Once again he can't resist stretching out a hand to touch her hair. The shimmery shiny quality of it attracts him. He's a sucker for pretty people anyway.

"So how's your study of plant life going?"

There might be a tinge of sarcasm to that, just a little. But someone who smells as sweetly of weed as Tatters does can't exactly be throwing that many stones.

Xanthe winks her smoky green eyelid right back at him and slouches a bit more in her seat.
"Oh, glorious as usual. I cut back a bit tonight, knowing I'd be ingesting my share of poison. Oh, thankyou for the drink." She brought the glass to her lips and sipped slowly. She nodded to him in appreciation of his taste in alcohol, and then she took a large gulp. "That is going to get me in to trouble." She said, setting the pink drink on the table.

Sticking her cigar in the side of her mouth, she reached over and twirled his blonde hair around her finger as she so often did to her own.
"So tell me more about yourself Tatters. What makes you go tick-tock?"

Tatters leans into her a bit and steals some of her drink. His sense of personal space is more or less non-existent. "Wow, this is good," he remarks. He's impressed with his own excellent taste. He likes the colour of it, the bright rose pink, especially sitting next to his toxic blue drink, and the umbrellas coordinate beautifully. "But not more trouble than is fun," he promises, smiling, crookedly and just a little wickedly.

"What makes me tick."

The question is repeatedly, thoughtfully, and he cocks his head to one side. Tick. His hair is spilling all over the collar of her shirt.

"I should try to say something deep but if I'm honest, coffee and cigarettes." He reaches out, stretching his fingers through the smoke of her cigar. "The world looks like this void and there's nothing real in it," he tells her. "Just smoke and mirrors, right?"

Tatters has suffered from a profound absence of meaning his life.

He pauses, cracks another grin. "And... partying. Dancing. Music. Beautiful people. Yeah, this is good."

"Honesty is the best policy, they say..." the blonde smirked "You know, you could be right. All of this could be nothing but a game. 'Smoke and Mirrors'? Hah, probably. So why not enjoy yourself?"

She looked to the dance floor. Bodies gyrating and colliding into one another in time to music that was more of a base beat than anything.

"You want to dance?"

It seemed like the right thing to ask.

Does he want to dance?

What a question. Tatters has pretty much never not wanted to dance.

"I thought you were never going to ask," he tells her, smiling sweetly. Nice of her to ask, saves him the trouble. Although Tatters rarely need to ask for a dance. People come to him. It's the glitter, it draws them like moths to a light.

He takes a bolstering gulp of his drink and stands up, holding out a hand to her. "Come on. Dancing is the best."

There was a moment as Tatters held out his hand that Xanthe hesitated. She really wasn't much of a dancer and the impulse to ask for a dance had come from the drink and the call of the music. This moment soon faded. Mimicking Tatters she took a sip of her flashy pink drink. Tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder she flashed the glitter-clad man a smile of pure confidence. Xanthe reached out and took his outstretched hand lightly in hers. She was aware her palms were a little sweaty her skin touched his but it didn't really matter.

Dancing was another way to worship, and Xanthe was an eager student.

"You may have to help me a bit." she laughed as she rose to her feet.

Tatters drags her out onto the dancer floor, pressing his way into the centre of the seething crowd. "It's not hard, I promise," he tells her, grinning. "You know how to fuck right? Dancing is the vertical version. Just... feel it and move."

He presses a hand against her waist, dancing close to her - but not too close. The smell of cigarettes, of weed, of perfume, hovers around him like an aura.

That said, Tatters isn't really worshipping much of anything. It's more of the oblivion through sex, drugs, and rock n roll attitude. Nothing is being glorified here, merely numbed and obscured.

The hand against her waist was surprisingly strong and Xanthe let herself get drawn close to Tatters.
"You know how to fuck, right? Dancing is the vertical version. Just... feel it and move." She heard him half whisper half yell in her head. Closing her eyes, she focused on the music. The electronic beats and blasts, little melodies playing in time with the booming bass. She felt her breath and smelled the sweat of the crowd and the aura of feelings and smells radiating from her dance partner. He was dancing and it registered to Xanthe that she should be to.

At first it is awkward and somewhat forced. But ever so slowly her movements became fluid and easy. She was moving her hips and feet, running her fingers through her hair and losing herself. It was possibly one of the first time Xanthe had ever relinquished so much control over her body.

But she was having fun.

Tatters is doing his best to ease himself Xanthe's progress into the dance along, moving closer too her - personal space, what - pressing his body against hers, pushing it with every twist of his torso. It doesn't take her too long to get the hang of it. He smiles. "See, not that hard. You're a quick study."

He's got a lot of years on her, mind. He was a stereotypical little gay boy, dancing around in his mother's clothes, much to her horror.

He'd like to move back a little, give her space to cut loose, but the dancefloor's packed and everyone is pretty much grinding whether they like it or not.

Drops of perspiration were forming on her forehead, bits of her blonde bangs sticking to her skin. It was like something had shut off inside her, bringing a whole new ego to light and letting it have control. It was like she was watching, bemused, from inside her own head. Despite the apparent sexuality of the dancing, sex was the farthest thing from her mind. All that was there was the booming music and the flowing energy that filled her senses and made her feel alive in a way she had never experienced.

Soon the song wound down and Xanthe opened her storm grey eyes to Tatters.

Tatters is staring at her, wide-eyed and exhilarated, and when she opens her eyes she catches him mid-laugh.

"See?" He grins at her, delirious with music, and motion, among other things. "I told you it was the best. Wasn't it...." He pauses, searching for an approprioate adjective. "Wasn't it delicios? But I need a fag, or maybe something stronger," take that how you like. "You want?"

She smiled a little crooked smile and nodded in a way that looked more like she was nodding off to sleep. The endorphins were catching up to her. Her blond hair hung in damp strings from her scalp in a strangely attractive way, here and there strands sticking to her wet skin.
"A drink would be good. I think I danced off the prior alcohol consumption." She said with a laugh and walked to the bar, her hips still swaggering with a hint of a song.

Tatters follows her, a possesive hand on her hip. Not that anyone's given him permission or anything, but he assumes consent. After all, who would deny him?

"It might be your turn to pay," he told her. Years of slight of hand had apparently made it possible for him to walk, stick a hand in her pocket, and simeltaneously light a cigarette. Don't let anyone tell you he's not talented.

"I think you might be right. What do you want, babe?" Not a name she gave very often, but hey, what the hell? Inhibitions were lowered and she was having a wonderful night. She cast him a sidelong glance and looked him up and down and gave a little giggle.

"Hmm..." Tatters drags on his cigarette and exhales a miasma of nicotine, then leans close to Xanthe's ear, breath hot and alcoholic against her skin. He smells like a million different things and they're all a bit seedy.

"I want whatever you want darling."

He'll drink pretty much anything. His penchant for toxically coloured beverages is all part of his costume, and he's just has happy with scotch on the rocks as he is with a blueberry daquiri. He's flexible, that's what he is.

She gave a cracking laugh and waved her hand.
"Bartender!"
An attractive man wearing fashionable, if not somewhat too tight, clothes turned and smiled at them. "What can I get you two?"
Xanthe gave him a toothy smile. "Well have two Long Island iced teas, handsome. Strong."
He soon brought them their drinks and she put her money on the counter, plus a tip. She handed slid Tatter the tall carmel colored glass and raised her own.
"Cheers."

Tatters is making eyes at the bartender through a haze of illegal smoke. The bartender is turning a blind eye (away from the cigarette, more in the direction of Tatters crotch).

"Mmm, looks deliciously alcoholic," Tatters murmurs, taking the glass from Xanthe. "Thank you beautiful. Here's looking at you."

He hasn't had one of these in a million years, and he cleary relishes the first sip. He sips delicately, like an old fashioned lady, and meets Xanthe's eyes over the rim of his glass. His eyes are as vague as the smoke from his cigarette.

She smiles and takes a drink of the amber liquid, feeling the false warmth of alcohol immediately. The temptation to take her drinking to the next level tickled the back of her mind, but she sipped her drink lightly in spite of herself.

"So.... " Eyes smiling she glanced sidelong at her drinking partner. "I'm glad I came out tonight. I'm afraid I spend too much time cooped up in my apartment."

"I bet you do," Tatters agrees. He spends next to no time cooped up anywhere, and anyone who spends more time at home than him spends too much time at home. Just by definition. "You're having ever so much more fun with me, anyway," he adds, with a big crooked smile. He's so horribly arrogant. And believes he can get away with it, because in his arrogance he believes his smile is totally irresistible.

He turns out to be right a lot of the time.