I guess Ariel will just be a sexy blond lady with barettes.
The sudden intake of air took Ariel by surprise and he quickly lowered himself back to his heels, worried that he'd done something remiss as Wes turned his head to cough. (Though if that was his way of saying no, that was a little dumb.) But then, before the older boy could take a step back and appear appropriately embarrassed, large hands were tight on his arms, holding him where he was. Ariel blinked, his mind a little sluggish, as Wes apologized.
It wasn't hard to ascertain that the boy in the letterman jacket was ...nervous. Even as Ariel had neared to plant his little kiss, he could hear how fast and shallow he was breathing. Of course, had he known that Wes had hardly admitted his sexuality to himself and that this was like learning to run before learning he even had legs, let alone walk, he might have understood the anxiety. But he didn't. He just assumed Wes was experiencing the an amplified version of the pleasant butterfly sensation as he was that coupled nicely with the warm buzz of alcohol sloshing around in his brain.
The lips that met his had a confidence behind them that, up until then, Wes had lacked. That was all it took and, affirmed, Ariel's own breathing quickened. He returned the embrace, chin tipped up, as only someone as drunk and enthusiastic as he could, though he was still being held a short arm's distance away. Eagerly, both hands moved to the expanse of Wes' chest, underneath the warm layer of the jacket, and one stopped over his heart as it beat and beat and beat.
There were few things Ariel liked more than dancing and singing, this, he realized in a sudden epiphany, was one of them.