![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hey dj keep playing that song
Sep. 13th, 2022 02:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timetechs[ The summer before college is supposed to be awesome. More American than apple pie, wild and free like a bunch of undomesticated ponies running through the waves of Chincoteague Island, their manes blowing majestically in the breeze, all cannons blasting and literary professors weeping with the joy of the last passing months of unadulterated boyhood or some shit. School's out forever, or at least for a few months, and responsibility is non-existent until it's time to ship out. Any hot-blooded teenager is guaranteed a good time, and coolkids like Dave and his equally coolkid twin are supposed to rule the town before they take off for bigger and better things. Or in their case, get the fuck outta dodge.
Surprise sucker, the summer before college is shaping up to be as shitty as possible. Dirk's busy with his job all the time, out every night because every fucking bar and club in Houston is begging him to grace their grody doorsteps with his presence — cooler than Daft Punk, more southern sweetheart than T Swift, the DJ that makes or breaks a place by deigning to spin under its roof. When he's not out entertaining the adoring masses, Dirk's holed up in his room with whatever 2001: A Space Odyssey project he's working on that week or snatching a few hours of full body shutdown driven sleep.
Dave's barely seen hide nor hair of his twin since school ended and it officially sucks ass.
Sure, they don't need to do everything together. They're twins and no one gets either of them like each other (at least, Dave had thought), and Dave can't remember a day in their whole lives they've spent apart, but it's not like Dirk's obligated to hang out with him. Especially not when he's the older, more successful twin with an idea of what he wants to do with his life, and Dave's still drawing shitty webcomics and taking purposefully bad pictures as a hobby instead of anything resembling a future career.
So yeah, he may be feeling a little adrift without Dirk around. But it's not like he's some cliche asshole younger sibling who's so obnoxiously needy you just wanna punch his face in any time he's on screen because he can't deal with not having big brother's attention 24/7.
He's not, okay. That's why he's dared to borrow one of Bro's hats and (with less trepidation) the oversized jacket Dirk left hanging on the back of his desk chair. With his usual shades, he's barely recognizable. Definitely no one bearing a marked resemblance to the DJ playing at tonight's hottest of some nouveau riche asshole's fancy clubs.
Sneaking in isn't hard, it's not like the bouncer cares that Dave looks on the tail end of too young. It doesn't matter once he's inside, either. In the dim, smoky interior, no one can see well enough to tell he shouldn't be here, especially with the hat and shades on. Not that most people would care. They're busy drowning themselves at the bar or grinding in an overheated mass on the dance floor.
The booze is flowing, the bodies are moving, and Dirk is up above it all in the DJ booth, the all-knowing puppet master pulling everyone's strings. Each heavy beat of the bass thuds between Dave's ribs. The neon lights of the dance floor light up Dirk's smirk and glint bright off his shades as he leans in to hear whatever shit some barely-dressed twink wants to whisper in his ear.
Oh. That hot sting is Dave's nails digging into his palms, his grip so tight he's almost breaking skin.
He takes a slow breath, makes himself unclench his fists. Cool. He's gotta be cool, chill, ice fucking cold, this is not a big fucking deal. So what if everyone in the crowd wants a piece of Dirk. So what if Dirk seems perfectly happy to give it to them.
So what if he's never smiled at Dave like that.
Dave's so busy gritting his teeth against the hot burn in his chest that he doesn't notice the moment Dirk looks up, past the morass of the crowd, and oh shit, sees him.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The slight tilt of Dirk's head is so familiar, readable enough to clue Dave in that despite his incognito mode, he's been spotted. Shit, Dirk was never supposed to know. Dirk was supposed to think Dave is back home, or hanging out with his friends, or... something. Anything else but playing the part of underage idiot sneaking his way into this stupid club, which Dirk is absolutely going to be mad about, and lingering in the shadows, watching like some wallflowery creep.
He is so fucked. Dirk is gonna come down on him like Thor's mystical hammer — or worse, tell Bro.
Without a second glance to see just how much anger is on Dirk's face, Dave ducks away, trying to push his way through the flailing, grasping limbs of the crowd. If he's lucky, he can make it to the door before Dirk catches up to him. ]
Surprise sucker, the summer before college is shaping up to be as shitty as possible. Dirk's busy with his job all the time, out every night because every fucking bar and club in Houston is begging him to grace their grody doorsteps with his presence — cooler than Daft Punk, more southern sweetheart than T Swift, the DJ that makes or breaks a place by deigning to spin under its roof. When he's not out entertaining the adoring masses, Dirk's holed up in his room with whatever 2001: A Space Odyssey project he's working on that week or snatching a few hours of full body shutdown driven sleep.
Dave's barely seen hide nor hair of his twin since school ended and it officially sucks ass.
Sure, they don't need to do everything together. They're twins and no one gets either of them like each other (at least, Dave had thought), and Dave can't remember a day in their whole lives they've spent apart, but it's not like Dirk's obligated to hang out with him. Especially not when he's the older, more successful twin with an idea of what he wants to do with his life, and Dave's still drawing shitty webcomics and taking purposefully bad pictures as a hobby instead of anything resembling a future career.
So yeah, he may be feeling a little adrift without Dirk around. But it's not like he's some cliche asshole younger sibling who's so obnoxiously needy you just wanna punch his face in any time he's on screen because he can't deal with not having big brother's attention 24/7.
He's not, okay. That's why he's dared to borrow one of Bro's hats and (with less trepidation) the oversized jacket Dirk left hanging on the back of his desk chair. With his usual shades, he's barely recognizable. Definitely no one bearing a marked resemblance to the DJ playing at tonight's hottest of some nouveau riche asshole's fancy clubs.
Sneaking in isn't hard, it's not like the bouncer cares that Dave looks on the tail end of too young. It doesn't matter once he's inside, either. In the dim, smoky interior, no one can see well enough to tell he shouldn't be here, especially with the hat and shades on. Not that most people would care. They're busy drowning themselves at the bar or grinding in an overheated mass on the dance floor.
The booze is flowing, the bodies are moving, and Dirk is up above it all in the DJ booth, the all-knowing puppet master pulling everyone's strings. Each heavy beat of the bass thuds between Dave's ribs. The neon lights of the dance floor light up Dirk's smirk and glint bright off his shades as he leans in to hear whatever shit some barely-dressed twink wants to whisper in his ear.
Oh. That hot sting is Dave's nails digging into his palms, his grip so tight he's almost breaking skin.
He takes a slow breath, makes himself unclench his fists. Cool. He's gotta be cool, chill, ice fucking cold, this is not a big fucking deal. So what if everyone in the crowd wants a piece of Dirk. So what if Dirk seems perfectly happy to give it to them.
So what if he's never smiled at Dave like that.
Dave's so busy gritting his teeth against the hot burn in his chest that he doesn't notice the moment Dirk looks up, past the morass of the crowd, and oh shit, sees him.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The slight tilt of Dirk's head is so familiar, readable enough to clue Dave in that despite his incognito mode, he's been spotted. Shit, Dirk was never supposed to know. Dirk was supposed to think Dave is back home, or hanging out with his friends, or... something. Anything else but playing the part of underage idiot sneaking his way into this stupid club, which Dirk is absolutely going to be mad about, and lingering in the shadows, watching like some wallflowery creep.
He is so fucked. Dirk is gonna come down on him like Thor's mystical hammer — or worse, tell Bro.
Without a second glance to see just how much anger is on Dirk's face, Dave ducks away, trying to push his way through the flailing, grasping limbs of the crowd. If he's lucky, he can make it to the door before Dirk catches up to him. ]
