The Boy and the Beast

11| paranoia

"Dance with me, Domisaurus." I hold my arms out to beckon him in.

He wiggles his eyebrows at me suggestively, peeking over the solo cup with glimmering eyes. His eyes sparkle mischief, as if he's challenging me. It makes me melt when he shoots me with the most discreet, shy look—he's doing it now.

He wraps his arms around me, squeezing me so tightly my breath hitch, slamming our hips together—but I ignore the bone to bone contact. He rests his hands on my hips, a grip firmer than I anticipated.

"Sing to me," he demands, fidgeting with the material of my shirt. "I love it when you sing."

"I knew you loved me," I smirk smugly.

"I'll love you even more if you sing to me," his drunken smirk widens. I wrap my arms tighter around his neck, knitting my fingers through his silky strands of hair. The pressure between our bodies could turn carbon into diamonds.

I can't lie, it doesn't feel too shabby, it feels kind of nice having someone reciprocating the movement. I'd love it if Dominic could feel the same way I do in a platonic way. I won't mind having him all to myself, not to do dirty things to him.

Dominic's ice cold fingers slip up my shirt, his touch like a bunch of needles pricking me. I jump slightly, but straight into his body. His grip tightens, his touch slowly brewing warmer. He's always so damn cold. No matter how much I try to warm him up, his touch doesn't become any warmer—he's an ice sculpture. That explains the cold perfection.

I warm up to his skin, allowing the delicate strokes if his thumbs over my hips. It's not as if one simple touch could change anything. After all, we're already grinding on a makeshift dance floor in front of everyone and no one is asking one single question. Everyone's ignoring us—I like it.

Just us.

We're making soft touches in the darkness, only strobe lights flashing violently, to the steady rhythm of the music, able to give it away the sweet secrecy. My heartbeat is accelerating in my chest, making sure I realize what I'm doing.

Not that I'm going to stop now.

I croon Troye Sivan softly into Dominic's ear, like he asked, brushing my fingers through his hair. I know every word of every song of the singer by heart—it keeps my heartbeat slow and slows down anxiety growing like fungi over my entire body. My heartbeat is doing the exact opposite as of now.

"I love your voice—"

I pull the boy inhumanly closer to me, our short breaths sinking. His eyes are godsend hazel orbs, freckled with rich beryl speckles to break the solid color.

"Your hands are cold," I whisper, flaking my fingers through his hair. He melts beneath my touch, as if I'm controlling his every movement.

I am controlling his every movement. It's my dream. It doesn't feel like a dream, it feels so real, so illusional.

"Weak blood circulation," he whispers breathlessly.

I rest my lips against his feverishly, his heart so violent and dominant against his shallow sternum that I can feel it. His nails dig into my skin, pulling me closer to him, but that's impossible. His intake in breath was sharp when our lips touched.

Déjà vu.

This entire event, fantasy, is the ripple effect of nostalgia; It's as if I experienced it all first hand, even though I don't mind kissing him again.