Kismet

Seven [The Pill]

You can feel him staring and although it's questionable to just assume his compliance, you want to make sure that he is fully aware of what he is about to get himself into before it's too late, "is this okay with you? You can ditch me at any time."

He nods but his focus is immersed on the pink and white capsule, "what is it?"

You pop the pill into your mouth and swallow it dry, "ecstasy." It seems obvious to you considering the event space and the area of the city that it's in, but you assume that he must not party often due to his adorably clueless demeanor, "it makes you happy and lovey. Makes everything feel good. Most people there will be on it. I don't take it often but tonight is a special occasion."

He hesitates for a long time, the glass of the passenger window beside his head dotted with drops of rain, the lights of the passing city both darkening and brightening his features as he blurts out, "any extra?" He thinks it'll help ease his awkwardness and he just wants to be near you and on your level whatever that takes.

You plug your fingers into your mouth and whistle loudly in exhilaration before passing him one between your index finger and thumb, his cheeks puffing out as he exhales a nervous breath and swallows his pill dry just as you had one minute earlier.

.

Harry follows you through the congested room filled with sparkling lights and shining chunks of fat glitter, neon primary colors bounce from wall to floor and back again. The music is easily two hundred years old; so old that it feels new again, from a time in the late 1900's when the underground club scene started to flourish in The United States in New York City with a music called "disco" he thinks.

The ground is flat but with every footstep he takes, it feels like his right leg lands slightly higher than his left, his stomach boils with nausea and his palms sweat, the lights flicker overhead and create a strobe effect that makes it hard to keep his sights set on you as you push your way through the crowd.

You stop hard in your tracks and turn to face him, taking note of how his hair appears sweaty where his scalp and hairline bridge, his face shiny with condensation and his eyelids drooping and blinking at different tempos as he attempts to keep them open. He licks his lips slowly, as if he were simultaneously tasting and moistening them and the soft pull of a grin appears at one corner of his mouth as the snare drum joins the track over the speakers and suddenly makes the entire room feel more sexual.

Your palm lands on his arm and it's so hot under his sleeve that it feels like it could be on fire if he weren't so fucking humid, "should we get you some water?"

He rubs his palms against the thigh of his pants and it feels so good that he does it again, his tongue darting out to lick his lips once more before he wipes his palms on his seat this time. He knows that you are talking to him but he feels sick and confused, he doesn't know what he needs to make himself feel better and that thought of uncertainty causes his heart to kick in his chest.

You step forward and wrap your fingers around his bicep, yanking him closer as you shout into his ear over the volume of the music, "it's okay, just stay with me. I'm gonna get you water." Your fingers slip down his arm until they find his and lace together, realizing in that moment that your hand is just as balmy as his and that your high is about to creep over the edge.

He closes his eyes and allows you to drag him through the horde, tripping over people's feet as he walks and bumping into stranger's shoulders, quietly mumbling apologies and opening his eyes for a split second before he feels ill and shuts them again.

Harry can hear you shouting at the bartender for a couple bottles of water and the sound of your voice is pretty and dulcet. He peels his eyes open again and is happy to see that the lights aren't as bright here and you're standing before him, presenting him your back as you tap your foot in impatience.