MERMAID MOTEL | PHAN

! three !

1991
3/6

the fingers of phil's free hand tapped along in time to the music as he sat at the bar, and in his other hand sat a margarita in a glass lined with salt. the last of the alcohol was running down his throat like blood runs down the wall when the angelic voice he'd been desiring to hear all night filled the room whose air was thick with sex and smoke like the sweetest honey to his ears.

maybe we could go to coney island

god, hearing dan sing felt almost as good for phil as taking his butterfly knife out of his jacket's inside pocket to let it flap its wings and fly, fly, fly. as soon as he song started phil was off of his bar stool and up on his feet, heading towards the stage where dan shone brighter than the limelight, dancing against a glittering silver pole in glittering silver heels and singing in a glittering silver voice that mesmerised phil more than his favourite glittering silver blade.

maybe i could sing the national anthem

with other men's eyes burning holes into him like cigarettes, dan spun and dropped down, his head leaning back after seductively singing the next verse; phil didn't think he'd ever get sick of that song. the brunet centre stage cast a looked across his audience as he spun around, still crouched, at the base of the pole. it was as he pulled himself back up with a subtle swaying of his hips that his eyes locked with a certain pair like blue violets, which stood out like a lighthouse amidst the sea of lustrous looks and money taken out of pockets.

dan was so surprised he almost forgot his cue.

b-buy a white sweater...for the last white day

"maybe he's here for the other dancers," dan thought to himself, licking his dry lips and trying to keep his mind on the money and not how similar to velvet phil's fingers had felt as they traced up dan's legs in that siderroom.

of the summer

when he'd asked oil amidst the sex, cigarettes and sweetness of that same siderroom, dan hadn't for one minute that that he actually would. because who did, after they'd got their money's worth. who did come back?

buy my purple wig for my mermaid video

no one, that's who.

and god, now dan felt so cheap up their on the stage with nowhere to hide under such brightly coloured lilac lights, caked in makeup with his skin exposed and supposed to sigh sensually for the crowd's pleasure; dan felt just like a common whore, felt like he didn't deserve how phil had treated him two days before, felt so embarrassed of himself and how he must look through those ocean eyes that he damn well could've cried.

go back to where we live in a motel

he would've damn well cried, had there not been a crowd to please.

i'll never tell, never knew...never knew...

after dancing on the silver pole after a while with tears that sparkled like his heels welling up in his eyes and the whistles of guys surrounding phil booming so loud in his ears it felt like they'd bleed, dan forced himself to get down on all fours and crawl towards them, desirable and degraded.

you call me lavender

and then, fuck, phil was looking right at him.

"what's your name, lavender?"

those ocean eyes dan had used an anchor when the seas of screams and smashing glass coming from next door had risen into a storm at night gave him a look that told him he wanted him again, wanted just him again. and god, dan wanted phil to touch him exactly like he'd done before, even if it was in that dark siderroom and he getting fucked up against the wall because phil made it all different and all better and if he didn't have an act to finish he'd -