supernova

WHEN / October 31st, outside the Haunted Rave.

WITH / Hunter Vora — @huntervtheworld.

As it turns out, Clarence — the ten foot skeleton that he and Jeanie ripped from the zipties that secured it to a railing within the manor — is a fucking bitch to lug around. That, and people keep fucking stepping on him as he’s trying to dance, and it’s getting so goddamn annoying that it’s almost not worth the hassle it took to steal him. Hence, he’s decided to drag him outside instead, letting his legs make a trail in the dirt as he scouts the perimeter for somewhere nice to stash him. For later, obviously, because there’s no way in hell that he’s leaving without him; he’s already named him and everything, so. Might as well be his son, at this point.

He thinks that there’s a bush just on the other side of the fence that would fit Clarence’s large stature perfectly, where someone else with a similar idea of nabbing sick ass decorations might not see him. He’s en route when he spots Hunter ahead of him, and he says, as if his actions aren’t abnormal in the slightest, “Oh, hey.”

His eyes drag across his brother’s frame — doesn’t really take notice of the miserable aura that emits from his entire body — and he raises his eyebrows suggestively. “You busy? Wanna help me get this fucker over that fence over there?”

He was three cigarettes deep in his misery, wallowing around in the backyard. Hunter had busied himself for the last half-hour kicking the same stone around in circles, like a sad game of soccer. Hunter knew Sebastian was in good hands with CJ, but he also knew that the night was too young for an Irish exit. Sebastian would certainly know, and he would certainly hear about it every hour for a couple of weeks.

Halfway through an elaborate lie to get him out of this party, the last person Hunter expected to walk out the back door was his brother. "Hey," he said, eyes drifting over to the larger-than-life skeleton in Sebastian's arms. "Uh... sure," Hunter agreed. He'd learned long ago it was better to go along to get along. "Who's your friend?" A beat passed, Hunter turning over the truth of what had happened on his tongue. He didn't really talk to Sebastian about it, but at the same time, Seb was probably the only person alive who would really get where Hunter was coming from. Still, he settled on, "Where the fuck did you get it?"

“Lucky,” Damian echoes, his voice low, breathless as he leans in a little closer, the alcohol making his limbs loose and careless. He’s buzzing, riding the edge of too much and not enough, and it’s easier to lean into it, easier to forget that he’s doing something wrong. Breaking every rule. He knows it, feels it deep down — the baseness of it all, the way he’s burning everything he’s built. But he doesn’t stop. Can’t stop.

He cups Hunter’s face again, just like he used to, his thumbs brushing against the rough stubble along Hunter’s jawline. “Guess you were overdue for a place like this,” Damian teases, but there’s something softer in his voice, something familiar and charged all at once. His forehead presses lightly against Hunter’s, and Damian lets out a breathy laugh, a little too close, a little too comfortable. He’s always been an affectionate drunk, hands lingering too long, touches too familiar, and tonight is no different.

For a split second, a thought of Jason flickers through his mind, sharp and unwelcome. The way Jason would look at him right now — furious, possessive, eyes like knives. Damian’s stomach flips, but he shoves the thought down, buries it beneath the alcohol and the drugs, beneath the way Hunter’s warmth feels against his skin. Jason’s not here. Jason doesn’t know.

Still, Damian shoots Hunter a sharp smile, pulling back just enough to create a sliver of space between them, though his hands still linger on Hunter’s shoulders. “How the hell you been?” he asks, his voice cutting through the thumping bass, still riding the high of the moment. He's a little more sober now in his tone, but the buzz of alcohol and adrenaline keeps him light on his feet, shifting his weight with a careless ease. “And how’s your brother?” Damian adds, tilting his head as he asks, his curiosity genuine despite the haze he’s in. “You both good?” It feels strange, asking after Hunter’s wellbeing, his family, here, now, but something about it grounds him a little, keeps the world from spinning too far out of control.

As much as their connection was purely physical, there'd always been an emotional sense too-- the underlying knowledge that, though they weren't lovers by any stretch of the word, they were safe here. They knew each other intimately, each other's dips and ridges and sensitive spots. It was hard to deny the fact that the best kinds of pleasure come from knowing someone.

And for all that Hunter knew about Damian, he wasn't able to reconcile what the man was doing here when he was supposed to be sober. Hunter leaned down, lips next to Damian's ear, and said, "I... have to say I'm surprised you're here." He stood up, chuckling under Damian's touch, even leaning into his hand.

"Overdue?" Hunter challenged, eyes gleaming. It was impossible not to succumb to Damian's energy, the way his skin practically danced with sweat and glitter and anticipation. "You been keeping tabs on me, or what?" It was no Four Seasons, but it hardly mattered. Damian was here.

In his haze, Hunter was unable to track the flash of emotion across Damian's face. He could only mourn the sudden space between them, curling a finger through Damian's belt loop and playfully tugging him closer. "I'm good. Sebastian's good," he watched Damian's face for a prolonged moment before asking, "You know he married CJ? In Vegas?" It was old news, but Hunter was still processing it-- at least, what it meant.

"I think they're in love," he admitted, laughing like it was an inside joke just for him and Damian. "But, you know, gotta let them figure it out on their own." Hunter caught Damian's eye again, tilting his head inquisitively, "Are you good? Reallly?"

➥ event: haunted rave, 2024

➥ status: closed starter for @huntervtheworld

In hindsight Jeanie should've seen it coming. After pre-gaming with CJ to the perfect level of tipsy and a couple of hours of revelling in the spooky atmosphere of the dancefloor, it'd quickly become one of those nights where she could've floated away on the cocktails of joy and laughter she'd been consuming. Of course the universe had to come along and smack that down with some sort of negative karma-induced disaster bullshit. It was just typical.

She tottered out onto the balcony with a sigh of relief, half certain she wasn't supposed to be out here. Sneaking past the bouncers hadn't been difficult though. Besides, it wasn't like it was a big deal. Air. She just needed a little bit of air. And to give her feet a break. Nothing nefarious.

Of course that was when she spotted him. Jeanie swore. Her stomach turned over. It was too late to sneak away quietly, Hunter had already seen her. They were the only two out here. Two years of careful avoidance, a refusal to answer any messages or calls, to see him or even talk about him with his brother, and now she'd stumbled into him by mistake. Pure dumb luck. One might say that it was inevitable in a town this small, and maybe that was true.

She just wished she wasn't wearing a fairy godmother wig when it happened.

“Oh, this is not happening.” Turning to flee, she found the door had closed on its latch, resistant to any attempts to open it. “Fuck!” Oddly, smacking the door frame with the palm of her hand out frustration didn't help at all.

He'd hung around for the first couple rounds of shots, but Hunter had to admit he was relieved when CJ captured Sebastian's attention once and for all. Last he'd seen, they'd been dancing their hearts out in the middle of the dancefloor, and Hunter was granted a long enough reprieve to retreat to the balcony and make a dent in his cigarette pack.

The oasis was interrupted by drunk partygoers and at least one person projectile vomiting off the side of the balcony, and then... silence. Peace and quiet. Hunter was almost enjoying himself, leaning over the railing and watching people in costumes teeter around below.

When an all-too-familiar voice rang through the night sky, Hunter turned on his heel, staring at Jeanie with wide eyes. He barely even registered that she was in a costume-- and that it was ridiculous. His throat was dry, and Hunter stumbled forward once, hands out like he could stop her from going inside.

"I-- Jeanie," he finally managed, wild eyes flashing in the dark. This was it. The moment he'd been chasing after for the last two years. However long he had, Hunter intended to use it. "Look, I just want to..." he sighed, dropping his hands to his sides and stomping out his cigarette. "Can you turn around? Just for a second? I just want to talk."

The music pounds in his chest, vibrating through every inch of his body, and Damian leans into it, letting it drown out whatever else may be fighting for attention in his mind. Sweat drips down his forehead, neck, dampening the collar of his shirt. His body moves in a way that’s sharp, erratic, not his usual flow. It’s angry, fueled by something deeper, something festering under his skin that he can’t quite name, but can feel in every volatile pulse of his heartbeat.

The drugs help. The alcohol does, too. Or maybe it’s the opposite, maybe they make everything worse — but at least worse is different. At least worse is something he can lose himself in, something that takes the edge off his own thoughts. Because fuck Jason, fuck everything he’s been doing to keep his life on some semblance of a leash. Damian knows what it is to be controlled, to feel like he’s choking under someone else’s thumb: and so this is the fourth time — fifth time? — no, fourth time he’s done this. Left his phone at Jason’s house, tricked him into believing he’s sleeping. Tucked safely away where he wants him, where he’s meant to be. There’s a thrill that comes with his defiance — a mixture of victory and unadulterated fear — but it’s easy to conflate it with novelty, when he’s here. Who cares? Jason hasn’t figured his little trick out just yet — so why would he now?

He spots Hunter through the crowd, and it hits him like a jolt of electricity. Hunter. His heart stutters, and for a second, Damian forgets everything else, the thrum of the bass, the way his legs feel heavy but weightless at the same time. Damian’s seen him around town — they haven’t caught up properly, but then again, he’d never really made an effort, had he? Their contact’s been limited to text exchanges, mostly, since they’d stopped hooking up in earnest. It can stay that way, he thinks for a second. It probably should stay that way, all things considered.

He’s already pushing through the crowd before he’s thought about what he’ll say, stumbling a little, half-laughing at the way his feet aren’t quite working right. When he gets to him, Damian doesn’t hesitate. His hands reach up, cupping Hunter’s face, thumbs brushing his jawline. His grin is wide, too wide, stretching across his face like nothing’s wrong, like everything up until this moment is fine, and will continue to be. “Hunter!” he shouts, his voice too loud, but it doesn’t matter here. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Except, now there wasn't a monster waiting for him at home. There wasn't much of anything-- a couple frozen dinners, a final roll of toilet paper, and a pile of laundry that desperately needed attending to. Only, when he got like this, it was hard to get the energy to dissipate on his own. He'd tried to go Sebastian's route, joining a boxing gym or even signing up for fights, but it didn't scratch the itch. If Hunter was being honest, he needed it to be real.

Which is how he found himself at Stvtic-- probably the last place he would've gone had he been sober, but crowded, sweaty dancefloors were a good place to become anonymous for a while. Except Hunter wasn't much for dancing, even after he grew into his feet, so he hovered by the bar, scanning the throng of sweaty bodies for a man he could agitate... but the man he found was the last thing Hunter expected, here.

leon tried hard not to let his face reveal the growing annoyance as he was rattled off to ingredients for some overly complicated cocktail. it was supposed to be a quiet night—just him, his regulars, maybe a chance to go over last month’s sales in peace. o’shea’s wasn’t the place for sugary, twelve-ingredient monstrosities. aurora down the road thrived on that sort of thing, but here? no. o’shea’s was a pub, not a cocktail bar. the only sweet liquor they had was that weird hornet thing for st. patrick’s day, and that was a stretch. otherwise, this place was about beer, whiskey, and the occasional gin mixer. “we're an irish pub. i can’t do that,” leon said flatly, shooting down the request with a shrug. “you can have a lager, guinness, or an amber,” he offered, tapping the taps as he spoke. “i’ve got cider if you want it sweet. and i can make you a gin and tonic—that’s about as fancy as we get.”

When the group had settled into a corner booth that was thankfully far away from Hunter, he chuckled, "That part of your long-term business plan? Berate your customers until they don't dare to come back?" He grabbed a coaster and placed it in front of himself. "Just an Old Style for me, man, thanks."