cyus

Title: Roar dragons (no, only drunk, sorry)
Characters: TW RPS, OC/GDL
Length: 1800 words
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The events in this story are fiction, as much as the interpretation of the real people as shown in the story is a fictionalization of them and their lives. It should not be inferred that this is an attempt to represent reality.
Summary: You scan the crowds and feel you play dress up by wearing only jeans.
Notes: Somewhat of a coda to Golden (We still sparkle). Repost from

touchyerwood. Originally posted as

dinoegg

You hang out by the bar because your friends are off fawning over a B-actor you couldn't care less about, and the alcohol's cheap enough in this one. It's not the Ritz. The bar's packed with people in costumes and you're in jeans and a shirt like this isn't one of these big fucking deals and only a weekend away you paid 500 quid for, who's counting. Music is deafening, you settle against one of the walls that carries the bass thrum through your bones. You see your friend across the room in angel wings and a negligee-like dress and snort into your JD and coke at the thought of her ending up on someone's hotel bed for the night.

A throng of people passes in front of you and back to crotch you can't quite inch back from the ass pressed to your front. You angle your glass away to save that, at least.

"Sorry mate," the guy mumbles.

You check him out. Like you do. Someone else not in costume, halle-fucking-luyah. Someone else who doesn't seem to give a fuck about the actors and their entourage of fangirls dragging through hallways like a swarm. Someone pushes past him and he has to take a step closer to you again, pressed chest to chest. His eyes flicker in apology, you shrug, take a sip from your drink and then half offer it to him.

He looks like he could do with a bit of loosening up. And a shave, but it's a con and people don't seem to understand the basics of hygiene any better than elsewhere, worse possibly.

"First time?" you ask at his skittering glance around the room after the sip from your glass.

He shakes his head, mutters "last year" close to your ear as he leans in so you can understand him over the music and someone's laughter. He reeks a bit of alcohol that's older and more than that one sip of yours. You take the glass from him then, even as he doesn't want to relinquish it, because you paid nearly a tenner for it and can do without letting some scruffy LARP nerd or another drink it from under your nose.

One of your friends calls your name and the guy steps away in a hasty retreat, shrug and nods and shuffles away, not quite a straight line there.

Ten minutes later you know he's an "actor" in airquotes and English-or-something and supposedly hot in a suit. You don't see it. But to be fair, you'd do him now just to name-check that on your mental list. Everyone's up for a handjob.

When you approach his table hours later (it's not that you've been looking for him, only looking, while your friends have fucked off to some band's gig) he's hanging with Draco and an entourage of girls that are clearly there for a look at the wizard and not his scruffy self. You nod to him, not sure his swollen eyes remember you. The confused draw of his brows spells no and you shrug that off. Was worth a try. One of the wizard girls is staring at you, so you fuck off past a playboy bunny and some superhero back to the bar.

"Thanks for the drink," his voice mumbles next to you, accented in English-or-something and alcohol.

You half-turn, sip your JD and nod a thanks and hello and a wanna fuck.

He looks like a morose drunk and you catch a glance of someone actually hot across the bar, skimpy leather outfit, nice crotch, nice hair, clean, so make to push away, no B or C or where do English actors come in when they aren't Hugh Laurie? thing for you, but as you push back you push back into him, and alcohol seems to give him a boner and an equal opportunity stare.

"I'll pay for your drink," he says, and you laugh, and think for a moment you are wearing a negligee and playing Pretty Woman for a drunk guy from England.

"I'm sure there are lots of girls for you," you tell him with a wink and flounce off for that guy in the skimpy leather outfit.

You have a bit too much to drink, JD here, atrocious vodka (warm) there and beer in-between as you loiter between hotel rooms. The party relegates itself to the hallways of the hotel and in a quiet moment you think it must be a bitch to work here this weekend, but then leather-clad boy has pulled you into an elevator and towards a room and you're fine.

You see the scruffy one again with Draco and the girls as they exit the elevator across, and he looks mournfully at his hand as if he's missing a glass or a cigarette in it, then stuffs his hands into his jeans and trails behind into a hotel room, a girl hanging from his arm and one of his hands sneaks out, quite interested, and plays with her.

Leatherboy does you in his room and passes out after you burn holes into sheets, whoops there. One of your friends messages you, they're backstage with the band and her photo of it is black and with strobe lights. You crawl off the bed and out of the room and there's a talk in the morning you'd planned to see, you and all the other uncostumed ones, but the hangover is already starting at the back of your skull and you're not too sure you'll be up in time.

You're up two levels and squint at the room numbers, compare it to the one on your cardboard sleeve, when you run into him and squeeze out something like, "you look good in a suit," to which he groans and sounds like might vomit right there in the hallway. They got papers in England, is he big enough to sell that story?

His cheeks are splotchy, eyes tired and he says something about a talk in the morning, and you hope he isn't planning to go to the one you're going to, really, before you realize he's probably behind the table rather than in front of it. Or maybe under. He doesn't look like an actor, but you still get tongue-tied.

"Haven't seen your show," you feel you have to tell him.

"I die," he says, and you shrug.

"Sorry," you offer. "Time for another drink?"

You wonder why there's no security around, very small fish this one, and have to remember to ask one of your friends for his name.

"Mine's closer," he says and is right when a door opens ten steps on when he slots his card key through. You have nothing to share, certainly nothing you share with him, but he produces a bottle of JD from behind the queen-sized bed and he isn't much of a talker either, just drinks from the bottle, and you don't mind that.

He nods to the bathroom, "piss," and down to one-syllable words you just nod, sitting on the bed. Your phone buzzes and your friend's pulling a crazy face, half cut-off, into the phone. She rings you a second later, you pick up. She screams something about the best night of her life, "ever", and you try to remember that tomorrow's only Sunday and your flight out isn't until Monday when all the angel wings and snakeskins and stormtrooper outfits will be in suitcases of pasty-faced college students and housewives.

You hang up, wait, but he's still in the bathroom, and you can't help but pull a face when you imagine him retching. Torn between door and door, you push to your feet, JD in hand for a swig on the way, and knock before you push the bathroom door open.

He's standing over the toiletbowl, dick out, hand on a wall and half-asleep.

You lean against the sink, watch him, squint into the hard light and drink, thumbing open the button on your jeans. "Who'd you play on that show then?"

"I die," he mumbles after a pause, more one-word.

"Alcohol poisoning?" you joke and laugh.

He doesn't. You think he may be too drunk to get it. He turns to look over his shoulder and you spread his legs for him, playing with the tag on the zipper in sexy seduction pose. He's half-hard and his lips are swollen from spit-exchange as much as his eyes are from alcohol (you likely don't look much better, but you don't snog as much), so you doubt it's you and suspect Draco's girls, but when he steps closer and leans over you and you reach down for his dick, he doesn't resist so much as push into your hand.

A hand's a hand, doesn't matter if you die. You curl your arm around his shoulders so he breathes into your neck and not your face, the bottle of JD bumping against his spine. You pause for a healthy swig of it. Your phone buzzes insistently in your pocket, but you're busy because you're doing that actor from England in his bathroom. You'll tell your friend in the morning.

He gropes for your chest as if he expects tits and you let him, long-suffering, but you've had that blowjob earlier and this is just you helping someone feel a little more at home in a strange place rife with scary creatures and drag queens.

He comes, and the sink's dug enough into your ass that you are happy to pull away and offer him the JD as you wash his come off your hand and watch him in the mirror. You're not sure how he fit himself into a suit or a television show, looks more like he hangs out with the local bands during long weekends, but none of your business.

"Thanks for the-" he holds up the JD like a gift.

"Keep it," you tell him, laughing if it wasn't for the headache. "Have one on me, buddy."

You stumble out and leave him in his room. His phone's buzzing on the bedside table. You wonder who'd be checking in on him, briefly, before you're back to make for your room number written on the cardboard sleeve.

You run into him the next morning, after that talk you easily could have not gone too for all the entertainment it provided, and just as your negligee-friend, in jeans today, and a few others you've picked up during the weekend, snack on cheeseburgers for breakfast. He doesn't recognize you, you're not sure he even shaved since the night before.

"It's that- that guy from-" your friend says.

"He dies," you deadpan and stuff fries into your face. You'd do him again for a handjob. You still don't know his name. You're not sure if it's too much of a loss.

But then, there's always the bar later.