London, December 2002
"John!"
Mike calls out across the deserted library and John looks up, bleary-eyed, to discover that it's gone dark outside. He sits back in his worn wooden chair and stretches, rolling his neck from side to side, rubbing his eyes. He opens them in time to see Mike drop his backpack on the tabletop and lean against it, arms crossed over his chest.
"Don't you ever take a night off?" Mike asks, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Especially this close to the hols. 's not right."
"This cardiovascular stuff isn't going to learn itself, you know,' John replies, laying his hand on the open textbook before him. "Not all of us can get it on the first go."
Mike leans over abruptly and closes the book's cover, just missing John's hand as he snatches it away.
"What'd you do that for?" John complains, but Mike just turns to stuff the book into John's canvas bag, snapping it shut and handing it to his friend.
"All work and no play, Johnny-boy," he replies with a grin. "Let's go grab a pint and then get you home, shall we?" Taking up his own backpack, Mike slings it over his shoulder and starts down the aisle, throwing a glance back over his shoulder.
"Come along, then. It'll be fun," he says. John stands, stretches again, and picks up his bag with a deep sigh.
"Where're we going?" he asks as he catches up, and Mike just laughs.
"New place," Mike says. "You'll like it."
A ten-minute walk later and they're pushing past a burly doorman who's busy tossing out a skinny boy with a shock of black curls. They enter to the thunder of a deep bass beat, and John stops dead in his tracks, gawking wide-eyed at the gyrating press of bodies before him.
Normally, when Mike suggests a pint or two, they end up at the pub near John's flat, soberly sipping lager and listening to the one-upmanship of the red-faced regulars. By contrast, this is a sensory smorgasbord that's almost too much - too much heat, too much noise, and far too much touching.
Mike raises an eyebrow as he catches John's eye.
"What did I tell you? Better than those books."
John just stares at him incredulously.
They wind their way through the press of bodies to a far table. It's a bit quieter here - still deafening, but at least they can hold a conversation. Yet, looking out over the crowd, John finds himself completely speechless. He doesn't fit in here, with his corduroy trousers and woollen jumper. Neither does Mike, for that matter, but he seems never to care about such things. It's something John envies, this comfort with himself; John's never been at home in his body.
"Where'd you hear about this place?" John almost shouts over the din.
"Time Out," Mike replies. "Thought we could use a change of scenery."
A weary waitress brings them the beers they've ordered on the way in, and Mike lifts his glass.
"Cheers," he says, taking a swig, and John returns the gesture, settling back to watch the crowd, far happier in the role of observer than he ever would be as participant.
The only dancing he's ever done has been at family weddings; a short boy all overbite and awkward shuffling and leading old biddies about. This is new - alien, really - and his palms sweat a bit as he takes it all in. Firm bodies gyrating together, glitter and shimmer and silky hair, and it's so (fucking terrifying) spectacular that he has to look away.
At Mike, nodding beatifically at him across the table, an irritatingly knowing glint in his eyes.
At the bartender, smart in his crisp black shirt and carefully gelled hair. John's heart skips a beat at the sight of long fingers deftly flitting between bottles and glasses, but he ignores it, taking another drink of his beer. Looks away.
At the girls dancing together in their stringy tops and tight skirts. Beautiful, but for a desperate flamboyance that makes John inexplicably nervous. He looks away.
At the dark-haired kid, gangly and a bit spotty, who's managed to get in after all and is now impossibly holding court with cigarette in one hand, a glass of something in the other, and an open-mouthed gaggle of girls listening raptly to whatever it is he's pontificating about. A boyfriend or three, glaring daggers at him from the sidelines.
John lets out an involuntary laugh at the sight, catching the boy's suddenly narrow-eyed attention for an arresting moment. Mike gives him a quizzical look.
"Nothing," John says, shaking his head and looking away, washing away his smile with another swig of beer.