Giving the air a one-two punch, the beer splashing out of the cup, Ariel, who actually did a little casual boxing, pretended to show Mao just how he kicked his imaginary attackers' asses. But then, when he realized he was sloshing precious alcohol to the sticky floor, he stopped himself and took a gulp from the cup. Now it was at a much less dangerous level. He continued dancing for a moment, the music hooking him a second time. (He was especially distractable when in the throes of inebriation.)
"I did kick their asses, but I let them keep the bowtie. They needed some style direction," he bellowed as knowledgably as one can bellow. Finally, he decided to relent and held the red cup out to the drummer, only pulling his hand back when Mao made a vulgar grab for his own crotch. Ariel laughed, eyebrows raised. His own pants were tight-fitting, with little room for airing out one's balls. "I get that, but all those pockets."
Ariel gave his bandmate a pained look, as if all the extra cargo space really did hurt him. And in a way, it did. Aesthetically. He shook his head. He never did understand the appeal of shorts with room to carry one's fucking laptop. He preferred a sleeker look, though one might not have known it from his dress tonight, the touseled hair and lack of bowtie, etc. But it was true.
At the elbow to the ribs, the older boy grinned again, pushing the cup into Mao's hands. He held his arms up and danced. He didn't do the grinding thing. No, he just let the music move him. It sounded corny, but there you go. His knees were pulled together and he almost looked he'd walked out of a black-and-white beach flick from the middle of the 20th century. Mao could do the feline, arched back thing. It was sexy in its own right, especially coupled with the sweat-soaked tanktop. But Ariel himself would stick to his flashier style.