#rexfives

Fives can feel the music within his chest, the thump-thump-thump of the bass an undercurrent to his heartbeat. His first partner just wants to dance, and Fives moves with them, content to follow their hands where they’ll take him; they’re a good dancer and Fives not a bad one and sometimes Fives thinks this is what they were made for, this is their real purpose, moving and being moved to the beat of the music.

His second partner is a better dancer that’s not very interested in dancing at all. 

By the time he sees Rex—flushed and laughing and surrounded by people, closing the back door behind him, crumpled pack of smokes held in one hand—Fives’s buzzing and soaked in sweat. Later, he’ll say it wasn’t planned, that he didn’t think: it’ll be a lie.

Because Rex is Rex is something—someone—Fives doesn’t know how not to want.

The drag of his partner’s hands down his side, the strength of their arms, the taste of their sweat and their skin: they push Fives across the dancefloor and towards the booth Rex’s sharing with his friends, to Rex’s lap.

Rex has exchanged his smokes for something sharp and not quite bitter that fizzes. Fives’s lips buzz when he kisses Rex on the cheek, the rasp of stubble wonderful and expected. He smells of cigarette smoke and cold night air, and Fives breathes it in, greedy in a way that makes him kiss him again, this time lower, on the edge of his jaw, his skin cool. Rex shivers, and he says something, Fives can’t hear it but he can feel it through his chest, and then his broad, warm hand is cradling Fives’s face, fingers tangling into his curls and pulling, and Rex licks into his mouth.