Fandom: Corybantic Dance 2
Characters: Quentin, Jasper, Marshall
Warnings: Some expletives.
Notes: Finally, one without jokes about anyone’s mom. Jasper’s kinda lost his shit, here, but those who read the original CD know that Marshall looks up to Quentin as a demigod.
"And after all his bitching about last week’s set, tonight we’ve got a special guest DJ!" Jasper nudged Spark, who flicked on the blue spot, pinpointing Quentin. "Oh, yes, that’s right. You said you could do better, now come up here and show me."
Quentin turned six shades of irate in under a minute, and then simply settled on smug, as he always did. "You sure you want to do this, Jasper? I’ll give you one chance to take that back!" he called out, as the club began to mutter among themselves.
Marshall grabbed the mic from Jasper. "If you’re gonna accept the challenge, get your ass up here, fuckwit. We’ve got dead air."
"As you wish," Quentin called, stripping off his frock coat as he strode toward the booth. He hung it over the newel-post as he leapt up the stairs.
"Ladies and boys with skirts, this is DJ Misfortune stepping up to the challenge," Quentin remarked, leaning toward the mic that Spark still held, as he typed a track title into Jasper’s laptop, hoping he was still carrying it. "Let me never be remembered as a pleasant creature!"
Jasper’s eyes went wide as he recognised the opening bars of the song Quentin had started. In a purely reflexive motion, he slapped the back of Quentin’s head, as Spark switched off the mic.
"Are you out of your mind?" Jasper demanded.
"No more than you are for giving me the opportunity. The question is merely which DJ. Tell me you’ve got ‘Omnes Gentes Plaudite’." Quentin seemed vindictively calm. "And how long do you want me on for? I need to plan ahead."
"Yes, I have ‘Omnes Gentes’. You’re on for an hour, and you’re an incredible ass." Jasper seemed somewhat surprised that Quentin had not only taken the challenge, but intended to break form so dramatically.
"That I am. Go dance with my boyfriend, or something. You’re distracting me."
Spark looked at Jasper and just shrugged. He had work to do, and so did Quentin, now. Even he hadn’t expected Quentin to actually do it, but maybe he shouldn’t have given him that last push. He didn’t know if Quentin was a bad DJ, but he knew damn well that Quentin’s taste in music could probably empty the entire club on any of Jasper’s other nights. It was Friday, though, and Friday was the night Quentin came for, so there was a chance the crowd wouldn’t evacuate and then return to hang them all. As long as Quentin stayed roughly within the borders of ‘Goth’, they’d probably be just fine.
Joy Division, Sisters of Mercy… Not since the opening track had Quentin played anything patently suicidal. Jasper had finally stopped throttling the banister, and retreated to the dance floor, from where he was keeping a suspicious eye on Quentin. KMFDM, Machines of Loving Grace… So far, so good. A little more fluid than Jasper’s usual stomp and kick — a style he reserved for Fridays. The Smiths (again), David Bowie — and that might have been a fatal mistake. It wasn’t ‘Little Wonder’, and that was about all the Bowie most of these kids knew. Half the floor stared at the booth, confused, as the other half picked out the step, step and a half rhythm.
Jasper shook his head, reassured of his position as the alpha DJ. There was no way Quentin was going to recover from this. Or so he thought, before Spark hit one girl with three lights, and the colour and timing gave the game away. White, first — a flash — a ‘look here!’ Then came the settled blue, that one would stay put. The girl had caught the rhythm well, and as the crowd’s eyes came off the booth, a few more of them spun to life. Last was the rose light which swept off her, to highlight a boy across the floor from her. Spark was doing his best for Quentin, just like he always did for Jasper, and in a way, it made Jasper a little jealous. Spark had always had a thing for Quentin — some deranged god-worship thing. He wandered off to the bar to clear his head with a shot, as the song changed again.
Depeche Mode, Bauhaus… Standard fare of an earlier era, but not wholly wasted on the younger crowd. Jasper watched them step and turn, eyeing the few who still led with the wrist. Marilyn Manson, Pigface… That was worth an eyebrow raise — both of them. He’d never thought Quentin would resort to Manson — not enough history, and too much face. And Pigface was far more industrial than he’d ever given Q credit for, but he mixed out beautifully into LPD. And the more Jasper thought about it, the more certain he was that he hadn’t been carrying any LPD, because he never played it. And that meant that Quentin had been carrying it. And if Quentin was carrying, that meant he’d come prepared — he was expecting the challenge. Turning quickly, Jasper bumped into about three people who’d been right behind him, trying to get to the bar. He flicked a hand, dismissively, at the one who tried to apologise. Now was not the time. He’d damn well been set up.
Quentin had worked into some Corvus Corax, by the time Jasper made it back to the booth, and he was sorting through Jasper’s collection for the next track when Jasper slapped him upside the head.
"You set me up! If you wanted a slot, you could have asked me, and I’d have just put you in as a guest. But, no, you had to piss me off."
"You were only gone for twenty six minutes, Jasper. How much did you have to drink?" Quentin just looked vaguely annoyed, as he had since he set foot in the booth.
"Don’t you even try to put this on me being drunk. You’re carrying music. You meant to do this, tonight." Jasper was furious. "Marshall put you up to it, didn’t he? This is all some thing about how he’s secretly crazy about you, like he has been for years."
Quentin blinked at him for a few moments, before pulling his CD player and headphones out of the pocket of his frock coat, and setting them on the counter, beside Jasper’s laptop. "I ride a motorcycle, dipshit. I carry music all the time."