Neon Rush {M/M} ❀

Ch. 8.1 Complimentary Caution Tape

Prancer's Palace is a strip club.

Zef doesn't have a problem with sex work. It's a job. If capitalism's gotta be the machine on which their society's back breaks, sex workers get to make their creds on their backs, their knees, whatever talents come natural to 'em.

Zef isn't sure why the flip Gray asked to meet him here, though. That is the only reason he's uncertain. For sure.

Prancer's is off the beaten path in a sub-city alleyway, marked only by a neon lit design of a woman in reindeer antlers kicking a high-heeled leg on the sign. Muffled music and a bass heartbeat thunder through the walls, the floor. Two bouncers with delts like melons flank the entrance. The woman dresses in a (respectfully) slutty baseball uniform and wields a bat meant for hitting balls, but not the sporting kind. The man's knuckles shine golden with gild that could punch hard enough to turn brains hamburger shaped. He is wearing less clothing than his compatriot.

Both bouncers give Zef the up-and-down, scanning him.

"Coulda sworn you were underage, love," says the woman. "Time's been kind."

"Trans fountain of youth?" Zef mumbles.

The man says, "First time?"

Oh, good. So it's obvious. He nods.

"No photography or recording. Security will fry your implants if you try. No scanning patrons or employees neither. Pronoun wristbands are available; blue for gents, pink for ladies, and white for non-binary. Ask before you touch. Whatever's the price asked, you pay it. No negotiating. Private rooms are sold out at the moment—"

"I won't be needing anything like that, I'm just meeting a friend," Zef says.

They accept this as if it's not remotely out of the ordinary.

"Welcome to Prancer's then, doll," says the woman, handing him a blue wristband and opening the doors to usher him inside.

Zef slips the wristband on and descends into a basement. Abruptly, he doesn't know where to look 'cause so much skin is on show he feels lecherous if he blinks in any direction. Makes no sense—the whole point of these places is to look. Raised platforms like Romanesque columns are decorated with chrome poles, and decorating those chrome poles are every variety of nearly-naked body. Like MilliTasty Ice Cream. Bodies now available in every flavour.

He spots Gray from afar, talking to a person wearing nothing but the white pronoun bracelet, a harness, and a bouquet of fake flowers over their delicates. Though the flowers aren't what catch Zef's attention. Neon blue paint accentuates their top surgery scars, glowing in the ultraviolets. No cybernetics like Zef's, just old-fashioned doctors and scalpels. Less common these days. Next to them, Gray looks overdressed in head-to-toe leather and denim.

Zef hesitates at the sight of Gray, heart in his throat. He came for a couple reasons. To hear Gray out, for a start. To figure out his next move, too. Rylan made it clear she doesn't want to wait much longer.

But he also came 'cause a part of him—a selfish, stupid part—wants to tell Gray about his new chest. Share that with someone who understands.

He wants Gray to notice.

Gray catches sight of Zef. A bit of relief unwinches his scowl, but there's guardedness in his face, too. Very porcupine-y. His gaze doesn't flick down to take in Zef's new chest. Belatedly, Zef realises it isn't obvious. He's bandaged up and wearing an overly baggy jacket he chose because it disguised his curves when he had them. He and Gray are equally overdressed.

Doesn't matter. Zef needs to focus on the more important reasons he's here. Maybe he can tell Gray, later.

The dancer Gray's with turns and waves. But like— Sensually? Just with the fingers in an undulating rhythm from pinky to index like they're playing a piano scale.