Yellow Brick Road

Mitch is feeling pretty great. The show was great, the post-show champagne was great, and the music in this club is great, and Mitch is drunk enough now to enjoy it out on the dance floor. He danced with Scott for a while and Esther for a while after that, but they both left him for more alcohol, so now he's dancing alone. Except he's not alone, because there are bodies all around him, and the baseline of this song is pumping through his blood like a second heartbeat. He closes his eyes and let's his arms and hands float where the music takes them, up into the humid air. He can almost feel the green and red lasers as they arc and flash above him and light up his skin.

Someone behind him curls a hand around Mitch's waist, sweaty fingers creeping up under Mitch's shirt, firm enough that it doesn't tickle. He turns around and finds a very muscular man attached to that hand, and Mitch grins and moves a little closer, staying well within the guy's grasp. He's broad and ripped and almost as tall as Scott, and his shirt is unbuttoned down to his navel, and he's eyeing Mitch hungrily. Mitch throws his head back, half expecting the man to bite him like a vampire--he looks the type, or maybe that's just Mitch's fantasy talking, because the guy clings to Mitch's hips but doesn't lean down to kiss him or bite him or anything.

Mitch could totally go for a kiss right now. He slings his arms carelessly over the guy's shoulders and grinds on him for at least half the song, and while the man is definitely into it, he's also weirdly stoic about it. Not the greatest dance partner, or maybe he's just not as drunk and loose-limbed as Mitch. He accepts but doesn't return the open-mouthed, messy kiss Mitch plants on his throat--since he can't reach the guy's mouth--and when the beat changes, he spins Mitch around so they're dancing back to front again.

It's not that Mitch minds; he's more than willing to rub his ass all over this guy, but he can't really get a read on him, and it starts to feel awkward, dancing when he can't even see his partner's face. It gets boring real fast. At some point while Mitch isn't paying attention, they drift apart and some other guy joins Mitch instead, at least for one or two songs.

By then, Mitch is a little winded and extremely sweaty, and he either needs some water or another vodka tonic, and the place for that is back at the table with the rest of the gang. He slips through throbbing tangle of limbs that makes up the dance floor and finally breaks into some fresh air near the back of the room. It feels like breaking the surface of the ocean and Mitch gasps for a moment and hangs onto the back of a chair while he recovers. It's much easier to find his friends when he can breathe properly, and he's already feeling better by the time he reaches the booth.

Scott is texting on his phone but he welcomes Mitch to the bench seat with open arms. They sprawl together, too warm for comfort, and Mitch gulps down a few sips of somebody's beer.

"Hey!" Avi objects from across the narrow table. His beer, then.

"I'm thirsty!" Mitch replies. "Mm, I need my own drink."

"You're so drunk," Scott tells him, laughing as he digs his fingers into Mitch's side.

Mitch flails and slaps Scott's hands away from him. But without Scott holding onto him, the bench is too narrow for the both of them and Mitch nearly slips to the floor. He somehow manages to avoid smacking his head on the table.

Esther says, "I think that's enough tickling," in her stern tour mom voice, and she and Scott drag Mitch back up between them, into his own spot on the inner curve of the half-circle booth.

"I want a drink, though," Mitch tells them. He can't get to the bar from here. He's trapped by Scott on one side and Esther and Avi on the other.

Scott, best friend that he is, offers to get everyone another round. Esther refuses, because she's clearly the smartest of the group, but she doesn't bother telling them they've had enough. Tomorrow's a travel day, so they can all just sleep off their inevitable hangovers on the bus.