Lookin' for the one, but you know you're somewhere else instead --
Yep, it's another U2 songfic-thing. This time around, it's Discotheque.
I'm not gonna lie. When I first heard this song, I really didn't know what to think. It's pretty bizarre -- U2 gone synthpop and disco at the same time. And then I saw the music video, and.... well. Look it up and see for yourself, if you're feeling brave. It's sort of made of insane. But I downloaded it anyway, knowing that it would probably grow on me.
I was right. I fell asleep listening to it one night, and had the strangest dreams, ones that resulted in this story. This is the song that inspired me to start this whole mad project. It's maybe the weirdest thing I've ever written, and I'm not sure if it makes sense, but it's the first original fic thing I've written in ages, and something about it felt right.
I still don't know who the guy in the yellow sunglasses is.
Discotheque
This is what you live for.
The rave is a jumbled, chaotic blur of noise and light, and you dive right in. The wall of people opens and you’re dancing, moving like you’re caught in a cyclone.
The music’s loud enough to deafen you. You can feel the bass in your chest like a freight train. The old warehouse has been packed with mirror-balls and neon and strobes, and the people around you are brighter than the lights. Everybody is electric candy-colored, a toothache gone acidic. You’re chewing bubblegum, and its chemical sweetness mixes with the smell of drugs and sugar in the air.
You’ve been going to raves for what seems like eternity, now. They’re a welcome escape from the greyness that presses in on your thoughts from time to time. The pills are supposed to help, but all they do is dizzy your perspective. Music and movement are a better fix. The bone-rattling sound is easy to get lost in, and this crowd welcomes you, even if they don’t know your name.
The powerful drone of the trance music shudders, grinds to a halt. Something’s gone wrong with the sound system. As one, the pack snarls, angry at having their energy source cut off. There’s a sound of fumbling from the control booth, and a new, strange track begins. It’s incongruous with the techno and industrial that’s been playing all night - the style’s older, and the sounds aren’t all computerized. There’s confusion for a moment as people adjust to the new beat. Odd, but a little sexy, you decide, and resume dancing. The company around you has the same idea, and in a blink, they’re moving again, too.
You’ve learned that there’s a certain ebb and flow to the dancing, a tide in the sea of beings surrounding you. You’ve been carried to the edge of the crowd, but you don’t mind. You turn around, your back against someone else’s, and that’s when you see him.
There are always people in the corners and lining the perimeters, standing in threes or twos or collapsed on the floor. Some are drinking, some are locked together, some are shooting up and watching the colors breathe across the walls. This man is standing alone in front of a cracked window, gazing quite calmly into the crowd.
Unlike nearly everyone else, who are decked out in the day-glo shades of an acid trip, the man is dressed entirely in black. His hair is cut short, and he’s too clean to have been dancing. The only thing that seems fitting is the pair of lemon-colored wraparound sunglasses he’s wearing. You stare at them for a moment before realizing, with a jolt, that he’s looking straight at you.
You lower your head, pretend not to notice, keep moving to the music. You turn, but out of the corner of your eye, you see he’s still watching. Curiosity blooms in your stomach.
He’s not a dealer or a cop: his posture’s not right for either. He isn’t a raver or even somebody trying to be one, or he’d have worked a little harder to blend in. He’s not wearing beads or glowsticks, and even the amber glasses seem to be more of a personal stylepoint than an attempt at camouflage. Strange.
You see a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, and he tilts his chin up a bit. It’s an invitation. Your brain whirls, fighting with itself over whether or not to accept it. He’s a stranger, and he’s an odd one, at that. He doesn’t look dangerous, but even so… You can’t be too careful with the people who come to raves. Still, your mind is clearer than it’s been for days, and you’ve got your boots and a pocketknife, just in case.
In the end, the moonlight wins. It filters through the fractured glass of the window, outlining him in a cool glow even against the harshness of the neon bulbs overhead. If the moon likes him, you find yourself thinking, absurdly, he must be alright. You've always been the sort for signs and wonders. And so you raise your head and smile back.
There’s a change in the atmosphere as you meet his eyes. Even through the yellow glasses, you can see that they’re a clear blue. It seems cooler, unexpectedly, the stifling press of the crowd fading into the background. A peculiar feeling of serenity settles across your shoulders, and the buzzing greyness in your head retreats into the distance.
You look at him, and you’ve suddenly got the feeling that there might be more to the world than pills that don’t work, or gutted warehouses and blinding lights. It’s complicated, and it doesn’t make sense, but the only thing you want to do is go and talk to this man who seems so out-of-place and perfectly placed at the same time.
You take a step towards him, and the smile shines again -
-- And someone knocks into you from behind, making you stumble sideways. You’re pushed back into the herd of dancers before you can move away. The unknown song is over, and the music’s reverted to a pounding, mechanized house number. The tide’s changed, and you’ve been swept away again, but to the middle of the floor this time. You protest, try to struggle back out again, but you’re pinned by a solid mass of bodies.
After what seems like an eternity, you manage to fight your way out to the edges of the dancing mob. The man with the sunglasses is nowhere to be found. You scan the walls, the windows, the faces in the crowd, but you can’t see him anywhere. A heaviness fills your chest, and your stomach sinks with dismay. He’s gone, you realize. He’s gone.
You turn around slowly, winding your way aimlessly towards the speakers. You rummage in your pocket, pull out another pill, and swallow it down, ignoring the acrid taste. A minute passes, and though it should have kicked in, the medicine doesn’t seem to have any effect. If anything, the dead, concrete-colored humming in your head has only gotten worse.
You stand directly in front of the sound system, hoping that even if the noise reduces your eardrums to tatters, it’ll at least drown out the grey static that’s filling up your brain. Somehow you don’t feel much like dancing anymore. So you stand there, watching the lights and noise and people dissolve into the night.
This is what you live for, after all.
I'm not gonna lie. When I first heard this song, I really didn't know what to think. It's pretty bizarre -- U2 gone synthpop and disco at the same time. And then I saw the music video, and.... well. Look it up and see for yourself, if you're feeling brave. It's sort of made of insane. But I downloaded it anyway, knowing that it would probably grow on me.
I was right. I fell asleep listening to it one night, and had the strangest dreams, ones that resulted in this story. This is the song that inspired me to start this whole mad project. It's maybe the weirdest thing I've ever written, and I'm not sure if it makes sense, but it's the first original fic thing I've written in ages, and something about it felt right.
I still don't know who the guy in the yellow sunglasses is.
Discotheque
This is what you live for.
The rave is a jumbled, chaotic blur of noise and light, and you dive right in. The wall of people opens and you’re dancing, moving like you’re caught in a cyclone.
The music’s loud enough to deafen you. You can feel the bass in your chest like a freight train. The old warehouse has been packed with mirror-balls and neon and strobes, and the people around you are brighter than the lights. Everybody is electric candy-colored, a toothache gone acidic. You’re chewing bubblegum, and its chemical sweetness mixes with the smell of drugs and sugar in the air.
You’ve been going to raves for what seems like eternity, now. They’re a welcome escape from the greyness that presses in on your thoughts from time to time. The pills are supposed to help, but all they do is dizzy your perspective. Music and movement are a better fix. The bone-rattling sound is easy to get lost in, and this crowd welcomes you, even if they don’t know your name.
The powerful drone of the trance music shudders, grinds to a halt. Something’s gone wrong with the sound system. As one, the pack snarls, angry at having their energy source cut off. There’s a sound of fumbling from the control booth, and a new, strange track begins. It’s incongruous with the techno and industrial that’s been playing all night - the style’s older, and the sounds aren’t all computerized. There’s confusion for a moment as people adjust to the new beat. Odd, but a little sexy, you decide, and resume dancing. The company around you has the same idea, and in a blink, they’re moving again, too.
You’ve learned that there’s a certain ebb and flow to the dancing, a tide in the sea of beings surrounding you. You’ve been carried to the edge of the crowd, but you don’t mind. You turn around, your back against someone else’s, and that’s when you see him.
There are always people in the corners and lining the perimeters, standing in threes or twos or collapsed on the floor. Some are drinking, some are locked together, some are shooting up and watching the colors breathe across the walls. This man is standing alone in front of a cracked window, gazing quite calmly into the crowd.
Unlike nearly everyone else, who are decked out in the day-glo shades of an acid trip, the man is dressed entirely in black. His hair is cut short, and he’s too clean to have been dancing. The only thing that seems fitting is the pair of lemon-colored wraparound sunglasses he’s wearing. You stare at them for a moment before realizing, with a jolt, that he’s looking straight at you.
You lower your head, pretend not to notice, keep moving to the music. You turn, but out of the corner of your eye, you see he’s still watching. Curiosity blooms in your stomach.
He’s not a dealer or a cop: his posture’s not right for either. He isn’t a raver or even somebody trying to be one, or he’d have worked a little harder to blend in. He’s not wearing beads or glowsticks, and even the amber glasses seem to be more of a personal stylepoint than an attempt at camouflage. Strange.
You see a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, and he tilts his chin up a bit. It’s an invitation. Your brain whirls, fighting with itself over whether or not to accept it. He’s a stranger, and he’s an odd one, at that. He doesn’t look dangerous, but even so… You can’t be too careful with the people who come to raves. Still, your mind is clearer than it’s been for days, and you’ve got your boots and a pocketknife, just in case.
In the end, the moonlight wins. It filters through the fractured glass of the window, outlining him in a cool glow even against the harshness of the neon bulbs overhead. If the moon likes him, you find yourself thinking, absurdly, he must be alright. You've always been the sort for signs and wonders. And so you raise your head and smile back.
There’s a change in the atmosphere as you meet his eyes. Even through the yellow glasses, you can see that they’re a clear blue. It seems cooler, unexpectedly, the stifling press of the crowd fading into the background. A peculiar feeling of serenity settles across your shoulders, and the buzzing greyness in your head retreats into the distance.
You look at him, and you’ve suddenly got the feeling that there might be more to the world than pills that don’t work, or gutted warehouses and blinding lights. It’s complicated, and it doesn’t make sense, but the only thing you want to do is go and talk to this man who seems so out-of-place and perfectly placed at the same time.
You take a step towards him, and the smile shines again -
-- And someone knocks into you from behind, making you stumble sideways. You’re pushed back into the herd of dancers before you can move away. The unknown song is over, and the music’s reverted to a pounding, mechanized house number. The tide’s changed, and you’ve been swept away again, but to the middle of the floor this time. You protest, try to struggle back out again, but you’re pinned by a solid mass of bodies.
After what seems like an eternity, you manage to fight your way out to the edges of the dancing mob. The man with the sunglasses is nowhere to be found. You scan the walls, the windows, the faces in the crowd, but you can’t see him anywhere. A heaviness fills your chest, and your stomach sinks with dismay. He’s gone, you realize. He’s gone.
You turn around slowly, winding your way aimlessly towards the speakers. You rummage in your pocket, pull out another pill, and swallow it down, ignoring the acrid taste. A minute passes, and though it should have kicked in, the medicine doesn’t seem to have any effect. If anything, the dead, concrete-colored humming in your head has only gotten worse.
You stand directly in front of the sound system, hoping that even if the noise reduces your eardrums to tatters, it’ll at least drown out the grey static that’s filling up your brain. Somehow you don’t feel much like dancing anymore. So you stand there, watching the lights and noise and people dissolve into the night.
This is what you live for, after all.