The Gambler

 

Author's note: Hello, I am new here (and to the writing scope) so reviews and insults will be helpful! This fic is based on fun.'s The Gambler - a great song by a great band, so do check them out. I have an annoyingly fickle personality so I cannot promise regular updates or even polite continuation. I digress. Do enjoy and leave me some interesting judgments.

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Tonight, Jac is resisting the strong urge to twist the barstool round and round and round and round and round and okay maybe he is a little drunk from the fourth, fifth Jägerbomb he had and the crazy lights some no-doubt-drunk fucker is playing with above the dancing and drinking crowd makes his eyes sting from the colors and accentuate his assessment of his drunkness. Or will it be more accurate to describe the floor as a moving herd of grinding and vomiting animals? And speaking of vomiting… he has to vomit now.

Tonight, Sam is forced to wear a tight shirt and go to the local club with his friends, then forced to remove his shirt by his friends. His ears are thumping with the jammed beats that seem to echo his heartbeat (or was it the other way round?) and he laughs loudly as a bear rubs hard against his pretty bottom and they dance together hotly, wildly. He eyes his partner (oh, big boy no doubt!) and he twirls and ohff! smacks a wall. A moving, sharp wall. He stills and glares at the drunk making his inconsiderate drunken walk through the dance floor. What an absolute jerk. Sam's momentum quite rudely broken, he walks off the dance floor and the bear thinks: What an absolute diva.

Jac has braved the collective hearts and bodies on the square and makes it to the washroom. He rubs his elbow free of the little accident he had a few minutes earlier. Expertly tilting his head over the dirty bowl, cloudy sour liquid comes out from his open mouth in a messy gush. He washes his face with the cold water from the dirty tap and pushes back his dirty blond hair so that his long curly fringe leaves his eyes alone and softly falls towards the shaven sides of his head. He has done too much things for an eighteen year old boy, but all the experience he has in the world will not cloud his Topaz eyes or wrinkle his smooth skin or age his nimble movements. All the experience in the world will not deny that he is young and beautiful. He walks back to the bar, leans his taut stomach on the counter to get attention (god, he is beautiful) and orders vodka on rocks to wash out the taste of his bile, and turns just in time to ogle at a walking sculptured chest coming nearer.

Sam's chest is the result of faithful gym membership and consistent waxing, so he has no qualms about showing it off. His eighteen birthday will come in a month and damn, he cannot wait for the strippers and the sex a birthday party will garner. Shaking his black bangs free from his perspiration, he finally reaches the packed bar. Waiting for the staff, he glances around the bar and his eyes meet huge blue ones. He does a slow double-take on the owner (young, skinny, pretty) and smiles. He grabs the filled glass and slowly walks down the bar table.

Oh my God he is coming over!! Did the room just get warmer? Jac wishes he has a mirror because he probably looks like hell now with the bloodshot eyes and messy hair, but oh my God oh my God he is coming look cool look cool pleaseee. Jac exhales a long breath. Man, the heat is getting to his head.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"So… what's up?"

"The ceiling?" And Jac groans when he hears himself answer. Way to be cool and sexy Jac. Seriously, the ceiling?

Sam grins. His stomach dips and heart skips. Mate is probably tad drunk because he is seriously flushed now. Nonetheless, he is so cute. He finishes his drink in a single tilt and stretchs out his free hand.

"Would you like to dance?"