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The smell of the establishment is cloying, salt-taffy sweet despite the incomprehensible amount of beings packed inside it. The strobe of lights overhead and from the walls—from the frosted reinforced floor, as well—is meant to be pleasing, but it takes Thrawn’s sensitive vision a moment to adjust to it.
He resists the urge to confirm that the tracker placed into Vanto’s comm had led him to the correct location; Vanto had confirmed at least six times that he would not be needed tonight, that Thrawn would be tucked away at the palace through the morning.
To Thrawn’s credit, it is technically zero three hundred the following day.
The lights cease as the rhythmic vibrations of the music come to a close and the beings within whoop and laugh and carry on as the next song begins to swell. The people here are covered in sweat and glitter and are, at a glance, quite jovial.
He is glad he heeded Vanto’s advice never to visit the lower levels in uniform; he is equally glad he chose to wear the green glasses that Vanto says make for a terrible disguise.
He has seen no fewer than eight of his ship’s crew on his first glance around the club. There are undoubtedly more still lurking among the other patrons, since none are his bridge crew and Thrawn is quite certain the reason Vanto had checked in with him so much regarding his agenda and whereabouts for the evening is because they were all going out together.
Lieutenant Pyrondi is the first of his bridge crew that he sees, pressed together with a woman he suspects to be Hammerly based on stature and body language. They laugh and sing loudly in each other’s faces, sometimes pressing cheek to cheek, their hair mussed and glitter-streaked like their faces, and their clothing nearly painted upon them like a second skin.
He wades through the crowd, ignoring the commentary of others, and holding himself rigid to prevent as much contact with the rest of the club-goers. It’s impossible, but he would like to minimize outside contact. This establishment already has far more stimuli than he is comfortable with. She does not seem concerned with him, which means his glasses have acted as intended. He spots several others—Carvia and Dobbs flank a pair of shorter women, their hands touch occasionally, and even Lomar is dancing obscenely with a massive red Togruta towards the corner.
They all remain within shouting distance of one another, as if a perimeter has been established, each looking out for one another. It is a testament to their camaraderie, to the way they have come to rely upon each other.
“Vanto, get a load of that one,” he hears, layered between the deafening bass and the sound of other, less pointed voices. He looks up to see Faro elbowing Vanto and pointing in his direction. She’s a little less scantily clothed than her fellows, but her body is no less on display.
And Vanto, he—
He elbows her back, jerking his head as if telling her to leave him to it, and she laughs and laughs, as if there’s a joke to be had before giving him a thumbs up and sashaying back into the throng of bodies.
“What are you—They’re all gonna be watchin’ us,” Vanto whispers, marching up close and tugging Thrawn down by the collar of his dark tunic so their noses are nearly touching. His gaze is dark, like the sky after a particularly violent sunset, brown-black and demanding, and his breath smells like burnt sugar and spiced whisky. “So either you make a show of dragging me out or y’show me they taught you how to dance out in the Chaos.” His eyes search Thrawn’s, demand warring with worry. “Anything else and they’re going to recognize you.”
“None have so far.”
Vanto groans with exasperation and chooses for him, easing Thrawn forward by the wrist toward a wall. They stand, barely four inches apart, and Vanto rests a hand on Thrawn’s left hip, as if to adjust that distance as necessary. Thrawn has his back to the tangle of bodies behind him which is not tactically sound but seems to help him concentrate on the man in front of him.
“Why’re you here?” Vanto asks, having to almost shout now that they are a slightly more respectable distance apart from one another.
Thrawn blinks down at him. The glow of his eyes is concealed, so it’s likely impossible to see. His lips part but no sound comes out.
There is a tic of irritation that crosses Vanto’s face, but he removes the hand on Thrawn’s forearm, making a crude gesture in the direction where Carvia had been previously before refocusing on Thrawn with a more understanding look in his eyes.
It’s the gaze he has when he dims the lights when he notices Thrawn squinting, the one that says he knows what Thrawn needs without Thrawn knowing to ask for it.
“Okay,” he tells Thrawn. “We can leave.”
Thrawn isn’t sure what makes him take Vanto’s wrist when he tries to lead them away, much less what he wants. Maybe it is this feeling of being unknown, anonymous. Maybe it’s the sweet-tang smell of the fog in the air, or the way he has no control here.
Those dark eyes rove over him, searching his face, tugging him back down so that they for once stand eye to eye.
“You’re going to have to dance,” Vanto says. “And you’re going to get covered in glitter.”
His shirt is half unbuttoned, revealing curls of sandy brown chest hair speckled with glitter. His clothing even more so. He lifts hand, thumb coming to the ridge of his cheekbone and swiping at some. His fingers curve under Thrawn’s jaw in a deceptively firm grasp. “You already are.”
Thrawn lets his head bob into Vanto’s grasp; Lets it fall forward. Vanto uses his free hand to pull them closer together, so their midsections are just barely touching
“Your people seem a little too prideful for this sorta thing,” he muses, his lips at the shell of Thrawn’s ear. “Tell me if it’s too much and we’ll stop.”
It is immediately too much, immediately too obscene and risqué. His pelvis grinds against Vanto’s stomach, and he folds forward, his chin to Vanto’s temple, eyes shut tightly. His mind is loud with white noise, with everything. He has not touched someone this intimately, not like this. The intent is not erotic, Thrawn did not come here for that, he—
“Just move with the music,” Vanto whisper-yells, drawing back enough to grab Thrawn’s hands and drape them behind him, Thrawn’s arms braced on his shoulders. He sways into Thrawn and Thrawn can’t help the way he shudders, biting his lip to hold the sound.
They move for what seems like ages, fast and slow, never truly breaking apart. Others try to come between them, but Vanto snarls and pulls Thrawn closer, so they touch from thigh to shoulder. It is odd, he thinks, not to be in charge. He’s spent the last four days with his guard up, the subject of the Emperor’s attention. Now that it is over, he does not know why he came here, from that place almost directly to this one. He had simply come here, seeking Vanto out.
Vanto’s hands come around his middle, resting hot and heavy on his back. They slide a little further down and Thrawn arches into him, a little too sharp, a little feline. He chuckles when Thrawn buries his face in his hair, attempting to compose himself and failing.
“That’s what you need, huh?” His stance shifts, his legs framing Thrawn’s right. “Bend your knees,” he says, and Thrawn obeys him without thinking, sliding down elegantly until he’s rutting on the crease of Vanto’s leg and torso like an animal and his mind goes quiet. Before he knows it Vanto’s rocking back and the music drones on but none of it matters. His head has fallen to Vanto’s shoulder. His shirt is wet with sweat and sticky glitter that smears across Thrawn’s cheeks, his forehead, but his body controls him now—
“Slow down,” Vanto says, guiding his hips. “With the beat.”
—and it is torture. He groans against Vanto’s neck, mouthing at it mindlessly and pulling a sound from Vanto that makes his own hips stutter and jerk. There’s glitter all over him and now it’s in his hair as Vanto rakes his hands through it from the nape of his neck upward as he pulls the strands loose of their styling to bring Thrawn’s head up to meet him.
“If you’re needing me to take you apart,” he drawls, his irises swallowed by something dark and lovely he’s kept hidden deep inside him all this time, “Tell me. I’ll take you back to mine and do it properly.”
“I—“ Thrawn rears back, swallows. The club around them begins to rush back in like floodwater—
Vanto goes up on his toes, their lips brushing against each other with every word. “Tell me,” he demands.
“Yes,” he says, he says, “Do it,” and Vanto bites his lower lip, pulls at it with a little nip of his teeth and the world slants sideways, goes a little floaty.
“Good,” Vanto tells him. The hand that slides down and wraps around his wrist grips tighter than is polite, as if to ground him. It is the only thing Thrawn can focus on in the overwhelming push-pull of bodies.
He does not notice the way Vanto signals his departure to the rest of the crew, the all clear he gives as though they’re in the midst of a field assignment, nor does he notice the whistles and rowdy congratulations wished to Vanto for pulling such a tall and handsome man, one in line with his perceived type and desires.
Most of all he definitely doesn’t notice Hammerly’s expression of shock followed by a call to action—a shot is to be done in honor of Vanto scoring a bed partner, definitely not to conceal the fact that she’s just learned that her CO has not only crashed their plans but spent the last hour basically humping his aide in public.
The last thing he thinks, before he spends his time feeling rather than thinking much of anything at all, is about the pale pink of Vanto’s lips and the spun sugar taste of his mouth.