The plastic cup was gone. It bent and split under the boots of a tall dude with brown hair and kind of boring face. Ariel looked from the red curls of plastic to the boy who had thrown it so carelessly to the floor. That had been a gift. The singer scoffed and ran a hand through his hair, but still, he smiled back, eventually placing his hands on his hips as he watched the casual, punkish, boyish Mao break. it. down. Now that was more Ariel's style, pockets and all.
With a huge grin, he applauded the other boy. Of course, he knew how to Charleston. He too spent an inordinate amount of time on YouTube or in classes, learning whatever it was he could get his proverbial hands on. However, rather unlike the drummer, Ariel couldn't just mimic what he saw. He practiced and he sweat. He could pick things up quickly - after all, he'd spent most of his life singing and dancing - but not so quickly as Mao. (Not that he knew a thing about the other boy's power.) But the apparent effortlessness wowed him. He didn't know the boy enough to know how he learned what he learned or to judge him, really, - all he knew was that what he was doing took skill.
He wasn't one to be shown up, however. Ariel cleared his throat, brushed imaginary dirt from the front of his shirt, then set to work. He decided to do the Camel Walk. It was more difficult than, say, the Hully Gully, but just as much fun as the Charleston. It did mean that he rather forced their spectators to continue pressing backward, as limbs flew in every direction, but none of it bothered Ariel.
Once Nicki Minaj and her starships finally transitioned into another song, he stopped, breathless, and smiled at Mao.