i just wanna party with you - dreamwastaken

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do you mind if i wild out

a little?

the party swings like the great gatsby revived: drinks are flowing, various flavors of smoke paint the colored lights pastel red and gold, and the head of the party has yet to show his face. your body feels like a play on daisy buchanan — face styled like a doll's while a little shimmery black dress displays your form like a painting's frame — but your head feels like nick carraway, the outsider of the outside.

"hey mama!" sapnap shouts in greeting, startling you with the volume of his voice and the heavy arm on your shoulder. "where's dream?"

"haven't seen him," you respond. "nick, why the hell was i even invited? this is barely my crowd."

he raises his eyebrows. "george didn't tell you?"

"tell me what?"

"he said dream —"

and suddenly the two of you are whisked away as the crowd surges, music and revelry cascading towards the cavernous ceilings of the castle-like mansion along the ocean. your eyes flash with panic as the wild child disappears from your view, the only trace of him being the scent of his cologne and traces of gunpowder where he'd grabbed your arm. a flute of champagne is pressed into your hand, foam tingling on your hand as the tiny bubbles effervesce out of the chilled glass. the funky synth of the songs that play over the loudspeakers speckled around the room stands as a stark contrast to the theme of the party, making your head spin. you startle when an arm wraps around your waist, pulling you out of the fray and into a quieter side room.

"jesus, broad, you look like you've never been to a party like this before."

you blink, dumbfounded. "schlatt?"

"still stunned from the room?" he teases, parking you on a plush velveteen chaise lounge. "for such a secretive recluse, dream sure can hold black-out parties."

"i'm just trying to figure out why i'm here," you murmur. "i mean... yeah, we're neighbors. but i moved here not that long ago! how does he know me?"

the businessman tsks. "dream doesn't know anyone, kid. but he invites everyone . fills his house to drive the world mad, every single guest hungry for a glimpse of his face."

you lean in, entranced. "have you... have you seen him?"

"me?" he laughs, nearly in your face. "look, i've been crawling the streets like a goddamn miscreant for years. i'm the lowest of the low. there's no way in hell i'm getting close enough."

you blink slowly, watching the familiar form of the brooklyn native mix up a mint julep and another unknown drink at the minibar across the cozy room. he parks himself in the armchair across from you a moment later, gently placing the mint julep in your empty hand.

"trying to get me drunk, old man?"

he snorts. "old? do i look like phil to you, minty?"

you giggle as you alternate between the tingle of the champagne and the bite of the julep, the singe of alcohol melting away your sense of self and any apprehension the first ten minutes of arrival had lain upon you.

'cause i'm just a little drunk

and i wanna come party with you

an hour later, you've stopped drinking.

you wouldn't call yourself drunk per say — you'd only downed two flutes of champagne and three mint juleps via schlatt — but you know you're a different shade of yourself than the woman that had walked through the front door on shivering knees and two left feet. the lights are just a little brighter, the music a little more enthralling and loud. you're flitting around the dancefloor like a haywire firefly when a pair of hands grabs your hips, a kiss pressed to the apple of your cheek as they pick you up and away from your latest dance partner.