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Dorcas vaguely remembers ducking inside what looked like a small office building to get out of the rain.
She vaguely remembers seeing the flag–shades of pink and orange like a sunset on the beach, remembers smiling at the colors. She remembers smiling at the receptionist–an older woman with short cropped hair and a vest over a crisp white shirt, remembers dropping her smile when she thought of what her father would say.
She remembers the receptionist smiling back anyways, a secretive grin, and asking “Would you like to come in?”
Dorcas remembers opening her mouth to say no, remembers the woman winking and opening the door before she could speak, music and lights hitting her in the chest, stunning her into silence.
“Everyone’s welcome here,” the woman had said. “Go on.”
She doesn’t recall stepping forward, but she must have, because then the door was closed behind her, a song that her father would have deemed satanic surrounding her entirely, the air heavy .
She remembers walking to the bar, not sure what to order.
Then she saw them.
A vision in a tiny tank top reading “god save the f★gs”, dyed blonde hair whipping around their face as they danced, jeans slung low over their hips, a soft trail of hair leading down under the waistband.
And then they walked up and Dorcas–
“I shouldn’t be here,” she blurts, her stomach turning– fluttering –as they lean against the bar.
“But you are,” they lean in close to tell her over the music, breath hot on her ear.
Dorcas knows what she’s feeling–what she’s doing–is sinful, but this creature has her frozen in place, mouth agape.
“Can I buy you a drink?” they ask, looking up at her through long eyelashes, green eyes sparkling mischievously.
“Okay,” something inside Dorcas says, something devilish and wrong.
Wrong, because she’s not supposed to feel this way–the way she’s always wished to feel about Barty or Evan but never really has, hasn’t felt anything close, and if this is sinning–
She takes the drink, sips it, and likes it, likes it all, likes them in front of her and the sweet alcohol on her tongue and the music and the people with their wide smiles and moving bodies.
“Yeah?”
Dorcas nods, feeling a shy smile overtake her lips. “What’s your name?”
“Mars,” they say, leaning in like they’re sharing some secret. “And yours?”
“Dorcas,” Dorcas says, blushing– blushing .
“Well Dorcas,” Mars says, “would you like to sit down? There are some quieter rooms, if you’d like that.”
“Okay,” Dorcas agrees, because she thinks if she doesn’t sit down she might fall–fall head over heels for this person whose hand is in hers now, pulling her through crowds of scantily clad sinners towards the edge of the room.
A man–Dorcas thinks it’s a man at least–opens a door for the two of them, his name tag reading “Sirius”.
The lights in the room are glittery but not flashing, and the music isn’t so loud in here, velvet couches lining the walls, ten or so people scattered around on these or various mismatching armchairs.
“You know, you probably shouldn’t follow random people into weird guarded rooms in the future,” Mars says matter-of-factly as they flop down on the couch, patting the spot next to them.
Dorcas takes it carefully, not entirely sure how to respond.
“So, Dorcas, what brings you to The Phoenix, anyways?” they ask, leaning on their elbows and looking absolutely fascinated.
“I just wanted to get out of the rain,” Dorcas confesses. “I didn’t know–and then the woman–”
“Minnie.”
“Minnie. She let me in. But I didn’t–I didn’t know .”
Mars grins. “Mmm. Well,” they start, lifting a finger to trail across Dorcas’s arm, leaving fire where it goes, “people don’t find this place if they don’t need it, I’ve found.”
“I don’t think that applies to me,” she says, frowning. “I don’t–I don’t belong here, I’m not–I’m not like you.”
“Like me?” Mars asks amusedly. “Queer?”
Dorcas flinches.
“Well that’s alright,” they shrug, finger still running up and down Dorcas’s arm, and fuck , she wants more. “Everyone’s welcome here.”
“But–what would people say?” Dorcas whispers. “If they knew I was–I have to repent.”
Mars offers a sad smile. “Whatever for?”
“It’s wrong,” she replies, not even sure if she believes herself. “It’s a sin–I–you’ll go to hell, you know?”
Mars hums. “I disagree.”
“But–”
“It doesn’t matter,” they smile, putting a hand up to Dorcas’s cheek. “We don’t have to believe the same things.”
Dorcas doesn’t know what to believe now, because Mars’s hand fits so perfectly to the curve of her face, and if this is sinning–
“Let’s talk about something else,” Dorcas decides, taking another sip of her drink.
“Alright,” Mars nods.
Dorcas isn’t sure how long they talk–it could be minutes or hours, all of it is a blur of questions and laughter and if this is sinning–
“You have nice eyes,” she says, watching green irises sparkle across from her.
“Thank you,” Mars says, voice soft and slow and if this is sinning–
“Can I kiss you?”
A smile, devilish and sharp. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Dorcas has kissed boys before.
But this feels like a first beyond a first, this feels like something entirely new, like heaven, and if this is sinning, then Dorcas will sin for the rest of her fucking life. Because Mars’s lips are perfectly soft and their tongue tastes of amaretto and vanilla. They smile, pressing further into the kiss, and Dorcas thinks she might cry, or laugh, or drop to her knees and pray, because this is divine.
Because surely something this good can’t be sinning, surely this–Mars’s tongue and teeth and lips are made in the image of something greater, surely what she’s experiencing right now is nothing short of a slice of heaven, surely this is a message from god, a yes, an of course, this is natural, because how couldn’t it be?