In a navy and red blazer of glory, the Warblers had descended on Scandals. In point of fact, he had berated them into wearing something that could pass for normal. Its clear they're underage, some of them woefully, but the staff ignores it because they dance, and buy drinks, and can sing in perfect harmony, even when drunk.
"You seriously think they'll let you into the club wearing that?" He had asked, with a derisive nod toward Andrew's DALTON FENCING t-shirt. "It screams, 'I'M UNDERAGE!'"
The little freshman, Andrew, had gone back to change, head hanging in defeat. He's not even sure if Andrew ranks on the Kinsey scale, although it's hard to believe that anyone who can hit a G above middle C is straight and has his junk intact.
The rest of the Warblers, proclaimed questioning, allies and gay, trickled into the room as he did damage control on their clothes. Fitted T? Okay with a jacket. Three piece suit? No.
Nick and Jeff are playing pool and carefully supervising Andrew's Coke to make sure he gets no Captain. Trent and David are gyrating together on the dance floor. Katherine would be jealous if she could see her boyfriend now. Thad, another designated sober Warbler, is dancing in the most uninhibited way.
He sits at the bar, perfecting his douche bag look. His hair is gelled as high as it can go. He sips his drink, stirring up the double shot. God, he loves well drinks.
He knocks back the gin and tonic, and slides off his bar stool. His indiscretion earlier in the day has caught up to him. He stops at the water cooler on the other side of the dance floor, and swallows the full plastic cup without thinking about it. God, hydration feels good to his parched body. It's all he can do not to stand there, and drink an obscene amount.
He is in control of his body, he reminds himself. This thirst is just weakness.
He has to piss like Seabiscuit. He joins the line for the men's room. Aside from sporting events, museums, and Dalton after a particularly bad batch of Curry Masala, Scandals is one of the first places he has seen an actual line for the men's room.
A pair of brown eyes meet his green ones. He lifts his chin in acknowledgement. He'll be there. He just has to piss.
A hand closes on his wrist. Its owner drags him out of line, toward a dark corner of the bar.
He can do this, he tells himself. He can hold it. He lets himself be lead away from the bathroom, away from his friends, away from his sobriety.
He is in control.