Gripping his biceps. All of them grinning. Jo flipping up the end of his black T-shirt and whistling, Oh, but baby doll’s almost got a six-pack! And high-fiving him, his hoodie balled on the counter along with the beers, a song from the album in the car repeating in the club and this time he goes with them, pushing to the center of the dance floor, he doesn’t know what to do but everyone seems to be more or less jumping so they, too, are jumping, in time to the blue strobes, all these bodies around him, screaming the chorus. Sweat and sticky floor and smell of yeast. His arms flailing, Leni’s hair hitting his shoulder. Jo’s lateral thrash, cleavage to her chin, and he laughs, breathless, why did he never even imagine. Dancing. And P. there, every time the strobe flashes on, moving through the crowd, until. Behind Xie. If only he could lean. Back into him, be held, for once, among others, be held so others could see. Song bleeding into song. Jo and Leni with their arms around his neck, the three of them in a huddle, heads bent to center where P. stands, gold glow against the blue. Panting through their smiles. He can’t feel his legs they just. Keep moving. A Cure song comes on and he sings with everyone else. Dumb off-key voice. Sweat stinging his eyes. No way to move without touching someone but somehow it’s. Okay. No one here afraid of being hurt by the other bodies. No one afraid of being caught even though everything about this place is illegal. Leni grinning, her face seized with joy. Xie’s hair sticking to his face, his neck, a burn licking his lungs. Coming down so hard, again and again, on the concrete floor.