“ wow, you really flooded the bathroom. ”
between the six shots of tequila and and several beers, fire friday is living up to its potential. the dimly lit bathroom reverberates with strong bass coming from speakers that are probably way too loud for human eardrums, but it’s hard to tell whether the boom, boom, boom is coming from the music or from his heart. both seem to be pounding.
it’s no surprise that kyuha, who lives off of psychological highs via endorphins, finds ways to take the evening that much further. someone makes a side comment about the girls on the small stages looking like mini-king kongs trying to climb the empire state building, only pillars are not meant to be stripper poles and cage dancers are usually sloppy at best–not that this club has any cages, but the girls have taken it upon themselves to give a good show (for free, he might add, but technically they’re paid in plenty of attention).
“i know, they look like this,” he chokes out through laughs, climbing onto the counter. he stomps around, arms swinging and hips following like he’s reenacting a gorilla trying to yike by itself. one wrong step has his foot slamming down on one of the sink’s handles. it snaps clean off. he goes toppling down onto the floor, long and slow groan as he pulls himself up. a stream of water his him square in the chest, and he stares at the spurting sink for a beat too long.
“wow, you really flooded the bathroom.”
he gives the stranger a blank look and steps to the side, situation sinking in enough for him to finally move out of the splash zone (sink, not urinals–he clarifies this in his mind and tries not to laugh). his hand pats his soaked shirt, glad he can’t hear the squelch over the booming music.
“wow, you really need to shut the fuck up.”
