Vibrations [Prosper]

Dennis was gone. He had still been asleep when Dean left in the morning, and his things had vanished when he came back to check in on him in the afternoon. The couch was back to its non-bed arrangement, the blankets and pillows neatly stacked. Almost like he’d never been there, which Dean was sure had been Dennis’s intention. He sat at home for a little while after he got back from work, wondering, or hoping, that the boy had just gone on a very long walk, or found something else to do with his day. But by the time it was going on eleven, he had given up hope.

It felt like a time to go get drunk, and maybe get a little less lonely. So he headed out. He had no more rum, after all, and no desire to lie about feeling sorry for himself. He would sit at a bar and feel sorry for himself.

He came to the nightclub sometimes. Rarely danced unless he was very, very drunk, but liked to watch other people dance. And it was a good place for people who were looking to meet other people to find each other. If anything sounded nice tonight, some flirty banter and a good fuck sure did.

Since Pierce, he’d found himself without that hope of something more he’d always had. Maybe he was holding out hope for the relationship he’d lost out on, which he knew was masochistic and dumb, but the lowered expectations were kind of freeing. He could be himself, not worry about whether or not he was cool enough, witty enough, boyfriend material. It felt nice to take someone to bed and be able to breathe.

Dean swirled the ice in his glass and leaned back against the bar, looking into the seething mass of bodies. Maybe he’d get plastered enough to join them.

Prosper was an amazing dancer. Years of lessons and practice and hours of exercises every day meant that he had great control over his body. He was a performer, and being center stage was his natural habitat. He wasn’t the only good looking person in this club, but he could feel eyes on him as he moved through the bodies, swaying and moving to the pulsing beat. Confidence rolled off of him in waves, and he knew that people were watching him. His sly half-smile reflected this knowledge.

London wasn’t his favourite place. England definitely wasn’t his favourite country. Compared to the vivaciousness of Paris, London was grey and cold and somehow more dense, as if the French flavour of his home city somehow made everything more light and airy and fluid. That being said, Prosper had never – nor did he ever plan on – turned down a trip with his friends to anywhere, for any sort of spontaneous fun. When his dancer friends had suggested a spontaneous trip to London, sleeping on the floor of a distant cousin’s warehouse loft apartment, Prosper had been the first to agree. His last couple of days had been spent drunk with his friends on homemade mulled wine and cheap whiskey, taking stupid polaroid photos of each other and being half naked more than half of the time.

And now they were all here. Everyone except Zara, who’d been auditioning for a ballet performance at her school. Prosper only took night classes, but he’d expanded from ballet into various other performance arts, like acting and circus performance. Zara had been upset when he’d dropped ballet – he was sure she’d been worried about finding such a talented and well-matched partner as he – but he’d never really been cut out for a school like hers. Too much commitment, not enough flexibility. She was a better ballerina than him now, but Prosper could do all kinds of new flips and tricks. And in a place like this, he was the king of the castle.

Prosper found himself moving from the dance floor back to the bar, grey eyes silvery in the low light. His gaze flicked from face to face as he moved, sure that he’d see one of his friends soon. Maybe someone would do shots with him. Prosper was not someone who could drink a lot of alcohol and still be standing at the end, but he certainly was an enthusiastic drunk. The young man slid up to the bar next to someone who looked like they were here alone. Prosper wondered what that was like; his life revolved so tightly around all of his friends that he doubted he’d ever end up in a place like this alone. The curly haired young man leant over a little, a cheeky glint in his eye. “You wanna do a shot with me?” he asked over the music, his English very clearly tinged with his French accent.

He was approached by a young man, and asked to do a shot.

“Sure,” he said. Who was he to say no? He’d come here looking for someone to get drunk with, and Nyx had come through for him yet again. God bless the place. It was good at what it did. He drained the last of his glass and set it down, ice clinking. “I’m in.”

Eyeing the man, or perhaps the boy, the corner of Dean’s mouth turned up appreciatively. He was handsome. Probably not interested that way, but nice to look at. “I’m Dean,” he offered, holding out a hand. “You from around here?” It was too loud for him to place the accent exactly, but it hadn’t been English. He was reminded suddenly of that day in the Leaky Cauldron. Perhaps he was a magnet for good-looking foreigners.

Maybe this time would go better.

A full shotglass was passed to him across the bar, and Dean took it between his fingers. He contemplated the alcohol, mind wandering again to Dennis the sad drunk. He hoped the kid was alright. “Er,” he said to his companion just to shake himself out of it, “you here alone?” He glanced around. Nobody seemed to be looking at them. No girlfriend or anything, Maybe he ought to be a bit more flirtatious just to see if he could get away with it.

Dean shrugged and lifted his glass. “Cheers?”

Prosper’s mischievous smile widened as the man beside him downed his drink. It was loud and he missed his new friend’s name, but he shook hands and gave his own anyway. “Prosper,” he said, “Definitely not from around here. I’m from Paris.” He gave Dean a dramatic look and added, “City of love.” The declaration came with a dramatic flair that he thought was very appropriate. Prosper was fully aware that he carried some french pride, or arrogance, but mostly it was just for show. The young Frenchman had trouble picking out accents when others were speaking English, so he had no idea where his new friend was from, though he assumed he was from here. They generally all sounded the same to him, despite the insistence from native English speaking friends who insisted otherwise.

Prosper ran a hand through his curls, then looked down at his palm which now had glitter all over it. He’d forgotten about that. When they’d all been getting ready, one of his friends had been adorning themselves with glitter and sparkly magical body decorations and things had gotten a little out of hand. That was what happened when all of your friends were divas, he thought vaguely. Prosper turned to the bar as he brushed the glitter off on his blazer and asked playfully for two shots of “anything”. He handed over some silver coins.

This club cost a galleon to get into, but Prosper got by with part-time bar work, small-part dancing work and the occasional job as an usher for a big production. He just seemed to fall into these things with barely any effort. The young man lived a fairly charmed life at the moment. He didn’t mind paying for both of their shots. “I’m here with some friends,” he answered, jerking his head generally in the direction of the dance floor. There had to be about ten of them around, and that was assuming some had left already. “How about you? Waiting for something?”

Prosper leant against the bar, copying Dean’s stance without really meaning to. The other man had looked a little apprehensive before, and Prosper wondered if he was waiting for a date or if he’d been abandoned by friends. Dean looked thoughtful, too, and a part of him wanted to brighten up his night with some spontenaity and fun. He supposed he was already doing that. Their shots arrived and Prosper took his and tapped it lightly against his new friend’s glass. “Santé,” he replied cheekily, downing the shot with a quick gulp.

The newcomer introduced himself as what sounded like “Prosper.” Dean hoped he had heard right when he commented. “That’s an…auspicious name,” he said. He had to search for the word, and hoped he wasn’t actually thinking of “audacious” or “ostentatious,” but who was he to know, he hadn’t gone to real school. Probably neither had Prosper. Or whatever he was called.

“Paris?” He repeated this time, to make sure he was correct. The Frenchmen were just drawn to him, he supposed. A superpower. “Beauxbatons?” he asked then. He wondered if this guy had known Pierce in school, but figured it would be rude to ask based on nationality alone. He had no idea how big the school was, anyway. Just knew that it served quite a few more countries than his own, so the difference was probably substantial. Dean gestured to himself. “Hogwarts,” he said, just in case it wasn’t obvious.

Prosper was here with friends, who were allegedly out there, somewhere. The question was returned to Dean, and he shook his head. “I’m alone,” he said, leaning close as a particularly enthusiastic song came on. He laughed and looked down into his shot, eyebrows raised. “Thanks for not letting me get drunk by myself. That’s not half as fun.”

They clinked glasses and threw back their drinks.

Dean set his empty shotglass back on the bar and regarded Prosper again. He was tempted to ask if he wanted to go somewhere quieter, where they could still get wasted while continuing a conversation, but he didn’t know what the man’s intentions were. Whether he was just stopping for a drink before heading right back onto the floor for another spin, or whether he was actually interested in talking. He’d let Prosper let him know.

Prosper didn’t know what “auspicious” meant, but he grinned anyway, more than a little buzzed on his environment. He’d always been the kind of person who was affected by the environment he was in. This place was dark and loud and Prosper noticed the way the girl at the bar had smiled at him and he couldn’t help but feel confident. He felt a lot more comfortable and confident than Dean looked right now.

Prosper sidled over, close enough for their shoulders to brush but not closer. He tilted his head in so Dean could hear him speak. “Beauxbatons, yes… Those are two of mine,” he said softly, pointing lazily over at the dance floor. His body drew a line from them to a couple of people who were dancing energetically in a circle of space onlookers had made for them. People were cheering and clapping the pair, who were now doing a fast paced latin kind of dance with lots of spinning and flair. “Dancers,” he explained with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Turning to face Dean, leaning his elbow on the bar, Prosper adjusted his blazer and fished for some more money. “Have you ever had a dementor’s kiss?” he asked, cocking one eyebrow. “The drink, that is, not the horrible torture, you know.” After a pause, he added, “Though I've heard people make comparisons.” Prosper smirked as he leant in at the bar a little. When the girl appeared again, Prosper ordered two of the drink. 

“I went to Hogwarts once,” he said loudly, over the new dance song that had started playing, “For a ball? Victory ball? People seemed to like that I was French.” The young man tapped Dean's shoulder as the bar attendant appeared again, this time holding two larger-than-average shot glasses with matte black liquid inside. Prosper sniffed at the silvery smoke swirling up from the surface of the drink.

Dean’s eyes followed Prosper’s hand out onto the floor, watching the dancing couple. “That’s impressive,” he said. “I’m no dancer. That’s why I’m here and not over there, I figure.” Even the more modern rhythmic undulation eluded him. It didn’t usually feel like anything he was missing out on, but looking at the whirling pair, he sort of wished he could do that.

"Can't say I have," he said, still watching.  He had simple taste, had never gone for cocktails, but he was up for anything tonight, if it was free. He wondered why Prosper was buying him drinks. One shot he could excuse as some kind of spontaneous share-the happiness thing, but he was unsure why the dementor’s kisses. Did he look that desperately pathetic? Well, probably. He felt it.

He nodded. “I remember that.” He thought privately that people may have liked that face just as much as the exotic accent as he took his drink, eyeing the ominous smoke. It looked like something they would’ve cooked up in Potions class. Dean had never taken to drinking potions, the texture was usually odd, or some other unpleasant thing about the experience. But it was just a shot, and it would help get him inebriated, so he could manage.

“Er, bottoms-up?” he said, flashing a grin at Prosper and swallowing most of his drink without hesitation. It was interesting, causing his throat to tingle and his pulse to rush. “Wow,” he said aloud before he could stop himself.

Maybe the drink emboldened him, made him less inclined to wait for Prosper to take the lead. “Do you—do you want to go someplace quieter?” he asked. “We could talk—I think I owe you a couple.”

"You just need an amazing partner," Prosper answered with a soft hand-wave.

The drink went down smooth like oil, and Prosper felt his heart flutter in his chest – an effect of the drink. His skin tingled, as did the inside of his mouth and throat. Prosper could feel the alcohol in his bloodstream, or he could at least feel the effects of it. There was already a soft vignette at the edges of his vision, feathering things in a way that made the experience less focused and more intense somehow at the same time. Prosper’s thoughts hovered around the ball and the pretty brunette he’d walked with outside. Arianne. She’d been at his seventeenth birthday party, too.

Somewhere quieter? Prosper quirked a curious eyebrow at his new friend. He did consider it for a moment, but Dean obviously didn’t know him very well. Prosper didn’t want to leave the crowd; he’d only gotten here half an hour ago. This was his stage, his place. Still, he smiled. He couldn’t help it, Prosper was in a good mood and when he was in a good mood, good vibes rolled off of him in nonverbal waves. “How about you come meet my friends?” He suggested. It wasn’t much of a suggestion, though; Prosper held out a hand for Dean to take and moved off into the crowd. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this particular stranger and his cute smile, but he wasn't ready for things to quieten yet either.

The young Frenchman arrived at a small table with too many people sitting around it, laughing and chatting loudly. He spoke rapidly in French, exchanging a few sentences with some of his friends, who gave Dean curious looks. “English,” he said, jerking his head at his newest friend. Prosper nudged one of his friends over and ushered Dean to sit down. He glanced over his friends. They were a mismatched sort of group that had that casual elegance and too-cool factor that was impossible to achieve whenever you were actually trying to achieve it. Most of them were French, though all of them spoke English to one degree or another. There was glitter and tattoos and each of them were a little more beautiful than average - Prosper hadn't really noticed this until now. One of Prosper’s friends was trying to ask Dean about the club in very broken English and Prosper doubted that he’d be able to understand a word of it. Prosper slid in next to Dean as a few of them extended hands to shake.

“Well,” said Dean, intending to follow that with more words but leaving it there.

His suggestion was brushed off with a raised brow. They were going to meet Prosper’s friends instead. “Er, okay,” Dean said. The man held out a hand for him to take, and Dean placed his own hand on it without thinking. Leaving the glasses on the bar, they wove their way between people toward the area where people were sat.

He had almost been dreading that they were going to the table where they settled. Everyone was painfully cool, glittering—maybe because they were covered in actual glitter but maybe because they were just that way. These were the sort of people Dean fantasized about being, and the sort of people he had a lot of trouble interacting with, constantly worrying over every thing that came out of his mouth. So nothing came out of his mouth as he sat down. He gave everyone a sort of smile and shook the proffered hands. Would he have to get drinks for all of them now? He sure wasn’t going to. Should he say something? It seemed pretty pointless to talk here over all the noise.

Someone tried to ask him something from across the table and he leaned in, asked “Sorry?” He glanced towards Prosper, his one weak lifeline in this whirlpool of people. This was more than he’d expected tonight. Hopefully the alcohol would start kicking in more and he’d start forgetting himself.

Prosper was a whirlwind. He was a manic pixie dream girl all covered in glitter, buying drinks for strangers and whisking them off on weird, drunk adventures with his weird arty friends. It was a good life, he thought, as he pulled Dean through the crowd to his little slice of French-speakers and cocktail-drinkers. He liked their entwined fingers, though he reluctantly let go of Dean’s hand when they arrived. Prosper hadn’t really done much with other men other than kissing and drunk groping. Nothing meaningful, and nothing more physical than that. He’d never been in love with another boy, but he figured that that was probably just because of norms and situational things – more people were straight than not, so it just turned out that way.

Prosper liked kissing and touching and he liked body and skin and romance and lust and none of those things were intrinsically tied to gender boundaries for him. His hand absentmindedly settled on Dean’s back as they took their seats. There was a lot of stimuli around them but Prop didn’t find it overwhelming. At least not in a bad way. “Clemence, the brunette, and those two are ballerinas at a very prestigious school in Paris,” Prosper said, leaning into speak to Dean over the chatter. He motioned to people as he mentioned them, “Those guys over there – with the neck thing? – do circus stuff. Tristan is trying to get into Eldrich. You know, Sparkling Saturnalia?” Prosper waved at a pair who were sipping red wine with moving metallic temporary tattoos. “Sometimes I want to join too,” he joked. Or, well… half-joked.

The young man leant forward, up off his seat a little. “Your English is too shit for him to understand!” Prosper called loudly, enunciating each word clearly before repeating the sentence in snappy French as he sat down again. Some of his friends laughed, others smirked with amusement. He joined in. “I’m sorry, you must be so uncomfortable,” Prosper said, leaning in again and apologising with the kind of charismatic half-smile that suggested he didn’t really believe anyone could be uncomfortable enough to not want to be here, at this table, with him. He met Dean’s eyes with his own pale grey ones, sparking with knowing interest and curiosity. “Did you want another drink? On us, of course.” Prosper raised his eyebrows, suddenly distracted by something behind Dean. He’d always had a short attention span. “Oh… actually never mind.”

The man chuckled as someone appeared with a silver tray laden with many small shot glasses. The substance inside looked like a mixture of liquid and gas, glowing slightly in the dim lighting. Prosper thought it looked like a unicorn’s coat. Or the surface of a penseive. He gave Dean a questioning look. This is your out, if you want, he thought, the idea humorous somehow.

Prosper’s hand was at his back, an interestingly possessive gesture. He wondered again what he was expecting to come of this, whether he was just being absorbed into a group of friends or whether there was something more intimate going on. He found he didn’t care, though. As long as he was distracted, it would be fine.

“Wow,” he said as he was introduced to the table. “Well done.” As he looked around and back to Prosper, Dean wondered how he fit in here, with these circus people and ballerinas. What he did. But on the other hand, he didn’t really care about that either. If he asked it would be only to be polite. What he was more interested in was listening to them banter about like friends, half in French but that didn’t matter. It was the atmosphere he liked. Dean liked friendships. Mostly his own, but failing that, other people’s.

Prosper leaned close to him again, and he shook his head. “Oh, no, I’m fine,” he said, not even thinking about admitting to discomfort. They’d been nice enough to accept him into their cool dance-circus-glitter circle, he wasn’t about to say anything negative.

Thankfully, new shots arrived from behind him. “Thanks so much,” Dean said, meaning it. If they’d let him have a night of free drinks he’d stick out anything. He took a glass and waited for the table to all drink in unison, downing the sweet, airy liquid.

He was feeling fuzzy around the edges now, and while he still had enough lucidity to recognize it, he was relieved.

“So you’re brave then,” Prosper stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He knew a lot of people that wouldn’t be excited to join a random group of people in a club, but then again Prosper doubted he’d ever come to a club by himself. Was Dean here just to pick up, then? Did he genuinely enjoy being out by himself? Prosper grinned anyway, a little disappointed that his new friend hadn’t repeated his name to the group. Prosper hadn’t caught it the first time.

Prosper downed his shot with the grace of someone who didn’t know their limits. He liked magical alcohol so much more than muggle alcohol. It always tasted better and looked more interesting and sometimes it did things other than get people drunk. He’d tried drinks that changed people’s hair colour and made their eyes sparkle. He smiled at Dean afterward, including him in on the moment.

Some of his friends said some things to him in French and Prosper chastised them in English, reminding them to speak the tongue of the country they were in, at least for the benefit of the newcomer to the group. “They wanna know what you do, where you’re from, what you’re planning on tonight,” he explained, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. Prosper waved at his friends to hush and they did, most of them leaning in a little. “Give us an introduction.” Prosper grinned, making little twirling motions with his free hand as he introduced his new friend to the crowd and waited for him

Dean shrugged, smiling a little. “Maybe,” he said. When it came to big things, perhaps. Rushing into battle without a wand sort of idiot-bravery. But this was just something he’d got suckered into with free drinks and a handsome face. He’d do just about anything for those things, it wasn’t really brave. At least not the sort of brave they talked about in Gryffindor.

He was asked for an introduction.

“I’m Dean,” he said loudly. There was some clapping and he laughed self-consciously, looking down at his hands. He twirled his empty glass on the table for a brief moment while he thought. “I’m a Londoner,” he said, and smiled again at the supportive response for his meaningless words. He felt like he was making a speech to a willing crowd. “I do tattoos… And I’m here to—er—to forget who I am.” It was just the next poetic step up from “get fucking wasted,” but as he said it he realized that to experience things that way may not be universal. He’d always seen the club as a room full of people trying to escape, but this group of people seemed like they belonged here. They weren’t escaping anything; this was their home. Dean considered quickly amending his statement, adding “or whatever” or whatever, but he didn’t. Cool people let their words stand.

Well, Prosper thought it sounded brave anyway. While he was, admittedly, mostly caught up in his own swell of joy and experience, he was making a conscious effort to note a few things about his new friend. He seemed quieter and softer than Prosper and his crew – not that that was hard at all – and he’d come here alone. Those were notable things.

Dean

Prosper felt some relief, but a part of him thought he’d probably forge the guy’s name in a few minutes anyway. One of his friends started clapping and he joined in, drunk from the alcohol and intoxicated by the mood at the table. He laughed, quieting as Dean spoke again. Londoner. Prosper rolled the word around in his head for a moment. He wasn’t sure he’d heard it said like that before, but he liked it. “Do you like London?” he asked curiously. The former Papillonlisse didn’t mind visiting, but the overwhelming grey vibe of the city would get to him if he lived here, he thought.

Tattoos? Prosper had a tattoo. A small tattoo of the Lachapelle crest on his left hip. Prosper had gotten it in Paris with two of his cousins while completely drunk. Poor Christophe had only been fifteen at the time, but somehow they’d all gotten away with it. Prosper didn’t even mind; he liked that the mark was a remnant of a funny story. He was distracted for a moment as one of his friends leaned in and spoke in French. "She says you should tattoo her," he translated with a mischievous grin.

Prosper was distracted again as another tray of shots appeared, this time dark purple and flecked with yellow. "What is this?" he asked to no one in particular, plucking a shot up and inspecting it. Their group expanded as a couple of people returned from the dance floor. Prosper shifted closer to Dean to make room.

“I always liked it,” he said, unsure what the proper response was, what these people thought of his city. They were here, at least, so they must not hate it that much. He felt okay admitting to his affection for London. “Loved it, really,” he corrected himself. “I mean, I’m glad I was born here. It’s my home.” He was sure that, no matter where he may go in the meantime, he’d come back here.

It crossed his mind then that he was now solidly in that meantime. Dennis was gone and seemed to have no intentions to ever return. Dean was free to not be here. “I’ve been thinking of moving somewhere else, though, lately,” he said. These people were more worldly than he, maybe they had suggestions. “What do you think of Paris?” he asked Prosper, who he was pretty sure had said he was from there. “I always fancied Paris—heard it was overrated, but I could use a second opinion…”

He leaned in to hear Prosper’s translation for the girl across the table and chuckled, locking eyes with her. “Maybe if you’re still around when I’m sober,” he said loudly, hoping his words would make it, and flashed a grin at the pretty, shimmering girl. Fingering his shotglass, he added, “Got to pay you lot back for the drinks somehow.”

More funny shots arrived. Dean took one without even feeling like a freeloader this time. He gazed down at it—even Prosper was looking at his glass dubiously. After a few moments, Dean figured there was nothing to be done but knock it back, so he tipped his head back and swallowed. There was a heat reminiscent of firewhiskey in the aftertaste and he felt interestingly invigorated, a rush of energy. He laughed. Maybe he might just dance if someone asked him.