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John stretches his arms up above his head, into the bright, hot sky (tries to touch it), and he laughs, as heavy and heady as his smile, tipping his head and pretending it's jasmine in the air, not sex. He doesn't feel the sweat-damp curls stick to the back of his neck, and he doesn't smell the almost bitter undertone in the hot, cloying air of the club, and he doesn't feel it sticking to him, either- because by god, this is the first time he's felt alive in so fucking long, and he can't see anything past the flashing lights, can't hear anything but the music. He doesn't know the people grinding up around him, but they feel so familiar, their skin so achingly hot and heavy when it brushes against his own that he feels he must know them.
His head swims, drowns, and it's good, and the air is so heavy and thick and he feels like he can touch it, like he can reach out and catch it and keep it in his clammy palm- and he tries, stretching up one, drink-heavy arm. His hand is a dark silhouette amongst the flashing lights, so he closes his fist and tries to catch them, too. There's a boy bare inches away from John, and he wants to catch him as well, wants to pull him close enough to taste the alcohol sure to be on his breath, wants to steal that breath and keep it in his own, because he seems a lot more reachable than the lights hanging so achingly far above John. The boy's eyes gleam in the hot, bright lights of the club, and there's something about him that just pulls John closer, like he's some human-shaped magnet, and god knows John is completely ok with that.
His skin is gold and brown and blue and pink so many different colours and John just wants to reach out and touch him, tangle his hands in that thick, ebony hair- because the thing is, he can- if he only gets close enough. That's the problem though, because the things John wants (or needs? Does it make a difference?) always seem to be just out of his reach, and he's afraid if he tries the boy'll simply disappear, fade like the flashing lights come morning- he doesn't want them to go, either.
He knows he should just buy him a drink or something, because that's what people are supposed to do at bars, right? But the bar is so fucking far away, and he's afraid if he loses sight of the boy for even a second, he'll simply be gone (here, there, gone), and John's not sure he'd be able to stand that. So instead, he squeezes his way through the crush of bodies, through the tangle of limbs and alcohol and god knows what else, until he's close enough to touch him- it's just his shoulder brushing up against the boys skin (so many different colours), just a featherlight touch- but John has never felt that before, felt that electric, pulsing thrill racing through him now- and he wonders if the boy's skin is on fire. Or, maybe he is fire, maybe he's already burning, and John's ok with that if it means touching him again- because he can, because the boy is still here and he's so fucking real.
"Hey," the boy breathes (or does he shout? John can't tell over the pulse of the loud, heavy music), lips falling into a lazy, open mouthed grin. John realises he's forgotten to reply, but the boy doesn't seem to care, because the words keep coming, and John thinks he likes that. "'M Alex. Alex Hamilton."
John blinks, slow and heavy and sticky, as though he's forgotten how - because he has, or it feels like he has, in the face of this intoxicating boy.
"Alex," he nods, rolling the name over his tongue, hearing the syllables drip from his lips. He decides he likes it. "I'm John Laurens."
He smiles, long and limp, because he likes how that sounds, because it's his name now, not his father's, not his family's- his, and his alone.
Alex looks at him through thick, heavy lashes and John thinks he might die, might just fucking combust right here, right now, if Alex keeps looking at him like that, with those soft, dark eyes, and John thinks they're warm enough to melt butter (is that the phrase?)- but there's something in them, a sharp, dangerous gleam. John decides to ignore it, focusing instead on the rosy hue staining the thick arch of his cheek. He wonders if he did that.
They're dancing now, Alex's chest pressed right to his and John thinks he can feel his heart beating beneath that bright, vivid skin, can feel the thump, thump, thump of it and he feels like it's not pumping blood, but something else- fire, sunlight, or maybe even the flashing lights hanging above John, flashing, flashing, flashing, so many different colours.
He pushes his hand against Alex's chest to test- and sure enough, it's there, thumping at an uneven, jagged pace beneath his shirt, beneath his skin, and he can feel the fire again, thinks it might be hotter here.
"What're you doing?" Alex asks, in an airless kind of laugh, as though all of the oxygen has been punched from his lungs, and he's looking at John like that again, with those butter-melting eyes, and god, John thinks he might actually die.
"Checking." John shrugs, giggles- a bit too high, a bit too heavy. Alex looks like he's about to say something, those lips falling open again, and John wants him to stop, because talking comes later, he doesn't need to be talking right now- fuck, he's not even sure if he can properly string a sentence together, let alone try and keep up with him, because Alex looks like one of those people who will talk and talk and talk and talk, never stopping until someone makes them. So John cuts him off first.
"I wanna kiss you," he mumbles stupidly, pressing the words into Alex's shoulder, just to be sure he hears them, to be sure they won't fade like the lights, like the moonlight gleaming off his skin (or maybe that's the lights too). He's perfectly aware of how needy he sounds, how washed-out, how completely wrecked, but he doesn't care. His entire life, he's hidden his feelings behind a poorly constructed smile, behind feeble lies and half truths and memories and he's so fucking done, because for once in his life he's going to wear his heart on his fucking sleeve and hope to god Alex takes it.
Alex's lips are sliding over his own now, thick and velvety and hot, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders who kissed who- but pushes that thought away because that can wait, it can all fucking wait. Alex's hair is so soft it honestly should be fucking illegal, and his lips turn out to be hotter than his chest, his skin bright and burning beneath John's touch. It's the kind of kiss which is hot and open and more teeth and tongue than lips, and John can taste the thick, heady alcohol on his breath, but he doesn't care because there's something else there too, mint and another thing that's just so Alex he can't help but groan into his lips. He finds himself having to remind himself they just met. He finds he doesn't care.
He's pressed into the wall now, and he can't quite recall how he got there- but that doesn't matter, nothing matters, except for the hot, heavy press of Alex's body on his own, and he feels nothing beyond Alex's arms caging him in (not caging, because John isn't trapped, not by a long way- he's safe, he's home). He stretches his arms up to the sky, into the bright, flashing lights (yellow purple red red blue green orange so many different colours) and decides he doesn't need to catch them just yet, decides they can wait, wait for Alex because he thinks he'll always wait for Alex now, because Alex is worth it.
God, if his father could see him now- pinned to the wall, hot and sweaty, writhing against some guy he barely knows (and yet knows better than anyone else he can think of) in a gay night club of all places- "Jack," he'd say, "I expected better.". He'd say it in that tone dripping with disappointment, and something that isn't quite anger, but more like hatred, like he can't believe this is actually his son. Fuck him, John thinks. Fuck him. Look at me now, Dad, and his thoughts are angry and savage and sharp, splintering and shattering in his mind.
Look at me now.
He must've said that out loud, because Alex is looking at him again and his eyes are fucking melting him, not butter but him. Alex presses his lips to John's pulse point on his neck, and his breath is fire and it burns him and John knows now, for sure, that's it's not that Alex has been set on fire, but there's something within him that burns and scorches and blazes and somehow it's spread to John, and he thinks he can learn to love the flames.
"I can see you," Alex mumbles, mouthing at the sharp edge of John's jaw, "I'm looking, and I can see you, and it's fucking great."
John Laurens is burning.