The phone. Where was that damn phone? He needed the GPS to get home.
Hands shoved in front pockets, then the back. A frown and a panicked "shit."
Looking frantically at the ground now. Lots of stomping feet. Knew it wasn't a good idea to go in the mosh pit with the phone. Knew, but ignored. Because that mosh pit and its energy and violence and closeness and sweating and just letting go.
Now the phone was gone. In a city he didn't know. With no phone, and therefore no GPS.
Lull in the music. Time to search, pushing people aside to look at the ground in vain.
Pale hand reaches out. Grabs him, tugs him backwards, away from the ground. Holds out a phone, miraculously untrampled and perfect. Man holding the phone is more perfect. Midnight hair matched by coal black eyes, all highlighted by his light skin color. Lips topped with a haughty smirk.
Relief and gratitude and interest and attraction flood in. Arms fly out, encircling the dark and pale. Smirk wiped off. A yell of "idiot" in his ear as the music starts back up.
The song is heavy and everything that makes him feel alive. Lets go of the name-caller. Re-joins the pit. Forgot the phone. Pain and excitement hit him as the bodies do.
Recognizes pale man get pushed in unwillingly. Barrels through to help. The man gets knocked to the ground, caught off guard. People stop. Make room for him. Pick him up.
Finally reaches the phone-keeper as the song ends. A slow song starts. A ballad. The mosh pit closes in on itself, energy exhausted. Both men are swallowed up. Pushed together.
A smirk. A hand making its way to a hip. A phone plucked from teasing fingers. Humor and amusement and questioning and sexuality. A finger to lips, drawing along them. Now excitement. Anticipation. Nervousness. And a lulled energy, absorbed from the crowd, the band, the music, each other.
Culmination leads to lips on lips. Then tongue against tongue, sliding and devouring and encompassing everything.
A hand on an ass. A hand up a shirt. A hand tangled in sweaty beer-soaked hair. A phone tucked away to allow more touching. Now a hand on a neck, pulling closer. Need to be closer, need more more more.
Music changes. A body slams into the two. Mosh pit revitalized. Release of desperate hungry hold. A grin. A phone handed over. A man re-joining the thrashing throng of exhaustion and vitality, drawn to it like a shark to blood. Unstoppable. Unwilling.
Elbows and shoulders thrown around. Tries to think about the man holding the phone. Starts to hope as he catches an accidental fist to his eye. Hope that the man was local, to help guide. Hope that he didn't run off with his phone. But most of all, hope that another ballad would play. That the irrefutable wild temptation of the frenzied pit would be replaced by the desperately sexual one that tasted of cigarettes and beer and crazed demand and needy desire.