Chapter Text
Then I met you Saturday night, I tried to run away
~*~
The dancefloor has turned into a kaleidoscope—flashing lights overhead hot and disorientating. The music is loud and to her taste. Echo can feel the ground shaking beneath her feet—feet which haven’t stopped moving since her friends first dragged her out onto the floor an hour ago.
Roan appears behind her, his return from the bar announced by the sweaty arm he extends over her shoulder. Echo plucks the offered drink from his hand without pausing the sway of her head and hips. There’s sweat beading across her exposed skin and gathering in large damp spots across her clothes. The press of Roan’s body against her back causes laughter to bubble inhibited straight from her chest. Taking a sip of her drink to ease the dryness in her throat, she turns on her heel to mock-punch his chest.
With his easy smile and half-lidded eyes Roan is the picture of a happy, tipsy man. The drink in his hand—dangerously blue—suggests he’s yet to hit his intended level of drunkenness. A look at the drink he’s gotten her—equally blue—makes her realise that, by his standards, neither is she. On any other occasion she’d resent his choice, but the rum can’t be tasted and so she decides to let it go. If she still wants her drink later, she’ll get it herself.
When she glances back at him, he wiggles his brows. This is the point of a night out where the games begin. Echo doesn’t enjoy playing them herself, but will gladly coach him through his game plan. Then, she’ll watch from the safe distance of the side-lines as he executes his moves on an unsuspecting victim. On most occasions the women are receptive to his advances; he has her to thank for that—she is far more observant than he is. As opposed to most, Roan only gets pickier the more he drinks.
Robin Schulz’s latest track bleeds into the final notes of The Chainsmokers’ song and Echo tilts her head back, hair swaying. Roan joins her half-heartedly, his lips pressed to the rim of his cup as his eyes scour the immediate vicinity. Lifting her head to take a sip of her drink, Echo follows his line of sight and spies the group of girls he’s watching. Two of them seem to be inadvertently crowding out the third girl—a blonde girl with a round face and glitter on her eyelids. Echo peers further into the crowd in search of Ontari but cannot find her. Chances are she won’t see her again until Monday.
Returning her attention to Roan, Echo tips her head in the blonde’s direction. Her eyebrows arch questioningly, the flashing lights streaking shadows across her face. This ‘conversation’ is one they’ve had plenty of times and doesn’t necessitate much detailing. His nod is duly noted, acknowledged with a long sip of her drink, which she then hands back to him. Without another word, Echo dances the distance to the blonde. It’s easy enough to lure her away from the two girls who seem to have forgotten their friend’s presence in the first place.
“I fucking love your eyeshadow!”—she yells over the music, taking the blonde’s hand—“I’m Echo!”
To this, the blonde smiles wide and tightens her grip on Echo’s hands. Oh, she thinks to herself, realising that this might not work out too well for Roan. The girl leans forward and yells back, “Clarke!”
The two of them dance together until the next song starts, the pattern of lights changing overhead. Atmosphere and alcohol make fast friends of strangers, especially two girls who just want to have fun. Slowly but surely however, the two of them and Roan meet halfway.
Roan returns her drink to her, bidding his time. Echo takes a sip of it before holding it out towards her new friend and leans into the girl’s blonde mane to yell: “Adios Motherfucker! Want!?”
As if to prove it’s perfectly safe, Echo takes another sip, not missing the way Clarke’s eyes remain on Roan. Okay, so maybe Roan does have a chance. Time will tell, but nothing can happen without introductions. As Clarke sips the vivid blue drink, Echo leans in once more: “My brother… Roan… Don’t trust a word he says. You like?”
The widening of Clarke’s eyes and lingering of her gaze on Roan is all Echo needs to make the call. Chuckling, she leans forward and adds, “I meant the drink!”
Laughing, the blonde hands it back, yelling affirmatively.
“No, keep it! I’ll go get us another round!”—Echo reaches for Roan’s collar and yanks him forward— “Roan, this is Clarke!”
Perhaps it’s because his undivided attention is the antidote to having been ignored by her friends, but Clarke doesn’t seem too worried about switching dance partners. Still, it impresses both Echo and Roan when she knocks back the remainder of the drink in one fell swoop. Roan does the same. Plucking the empty cups from their hands with a roll of her eyes, Echo considers her job here done. It’s just as well, for after over an hour of dancing her body begins to make its needs known.
~*~
Moving towards the edge of the dancefloor, Echo continues to sway to the beat. The song that escorts her towards the bathroom has her arms lifting over her head and singing loudly. Somewhere on the dancefloor Ontari is doing the same. Had they still been dancing together the first few chords would have been drowned out by excited shrieking. Dua Lipa is, hands down, the shit. But even without her trusted partner in crime Echo doesn’t hold back, swinging her head and stepping to the beat. As she moves through people—dropping her arms to casually swim through the crowd, she flashes a smile at a handsome guy standing around at a table. A quick glance suggests that all of his friends are paired off with one another. Before returning her attention on her path, she gives him a knowing look. Some might say, an unspoken invitation.
The guy is perched against the wall when she steps out of the bathroom, fresh water from the faucets dripping down from her hair. They don’t exchange names as she crosses the corridor towards him to cheekily pluck his drink from his hand. Beer isn’t the most interesting of drinks, but beggars can’t be choosers. Watching him over the rim of the cup, she gulps the remainder of his beer. It’s a little too bland and warm for her taste, but the way his gaze dips to her throat entices her to keep going. Triumphant, she tosses the empty cup over her head without a care as to where it lands. He follows its trajectory with eyes but returns his attention to her immediately. Smiling, he gently cups her jaw and leans forward to lick the foam off her upper lip.
Oh, she thinks to herself. He’s trouble.
Turns out Bellamy—as he introduces himself between kisses when they crash into the wall further down the corridor, away from the lines outside the bathroom—is more than trouble. He is something more and she has no idea what that means. All Echo knows is that she feels a dampness she didn’t before, and his mouth is entirely to blame for it. His mouth and his hands. Strong, calloused hands that skip across her hips and back as the two of them roll along the wall towards the darkest available corner.
When they crash into a trashcan, they part long enough to laugh. When they bump into others, they quickly regain their footing and restart as if uninterrupted. By the time Echo backs him into a corner, she’s lightheaded and weakening at the knees. It’s too dangerous, she realises. It’s like jumping out of a plane without a parachute: the initial free fall is invigorating, but the closer the ground gets the clearer it becomes. From the press of his hips she knows what awaits her if she lands, and Echo isn’t interested.
(In reality, she's afraid. She doesn't it know it though.)
Stepping back, she reluctantly relinquishes her iron grasp on the front of his shirt and takes a good look at him. The light is coming from behind her, which means she can disperse the shadows on his face by tilting her head. He’s the embodiment of tall, dark, and handsome, though there is a roundness to his cheeks and a smatter of colouring across his nose that softens the edge. His beard suits him, if a little unkempt for her taste, but she has no doubt he’d look equally inviting without it.
Bellamy paws at her hips, wanting her to step back into the space between his feet. Echo slides her hands over his forearms, noting the sinew and muscle. This combined with the line of his shoulders and the variety of smiles he’s flashed at her in the last ten minutes, tick too many boxes on her checklist. Best she get away now—while she still can. He’s magnetic. The dark eyes like blackholes threatening to swallow her whole.
Her smile is appreciative as she takes a long look at him—head to toe and back. Biting down on her swollen lower lip, she makes it count. Then, she pushes his hands off, her own digging firmly into his forearms. Echo steels her resolve as confusion plays across his face, and she has to disengage before that kicked puppy look tricks her. A wolf can’t hide beneath fleece once its fur’s been noted. Given the angles at which his hair is sticking out, she most certainly knows he’s a wolf.
“Thanks, Bellamy.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he calls out, pushing himself off both walls.
His hand wraps around her wrist—gentle but firm. Echo allows herself to be stopped and turns to face him, eyebrow arched. Bellamy offers no explanation other than his lips crashing against hers. With his opposite hand he cups her neck—fingers sinking through her sweat-matted hair—and deepens the kiss. It’s demanding and prying. His tongue slips a question onto hers which she finds herself replying enthusiastically.
~*~