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They’re on the second-to-the-last act when Anton taps him on the shoulder. It’s dim and loud inside the club, not quite packed but certainly not empty either, and Sungchan has to make an active effort to get to him through the half-congealed throng of people.
Everything has a throbbing and sort of hazy quality, like he can see sounds and hear colors, though that might just be his head and the four cocktails he’s steadily nursed to completion over the past few hours. Sungchan doesn’t think he’s, like, properly drunk—he’s on the job, after all, and Wonbin’ll have a meltdown if even one more thing goes wrong tonight. JiMinJeong were already horribly late, and they were the opener.
Still, his face is warm and sort of buzzy, and Anton sinks in and out of his vision when he finally gets to him. He smells like someone’s cologne and margaritas. A slowly drying, medium-sized stain down the front of his polo shirt.
“We’re all out of tickets,” Anton whisper-yells. He’s being much too quiet for someone trying to make conversation on the dance floor, which is just amazing to Sungchan, honestly. Compensates by enunciating every word as clearly as possible, and a bit of spit hits Sungchan in the neck.
“That why you’re in here now?” He grins, makes grabby hands to try and get Anton to dance. Hopes he’ll sway a little bit awkwardly and try to keep time with Sungchan’s own shuffling.
“I’ve been dipping in since ten. Sohee-hyung snuck me a margarita from the bar.” Anton frowns. “Two margaritas. Maybe four of them.”
The music shifts to a mellow, house beat, in what Sungchan can only describe as a trainwreck of a transition. Someone off to his left groans at the ceiling-mounted speakers, and yeah, the DJ kind of sucks. Anton takes the opportunity to finally grab onto his wrist and forearm, yanking him back and forth in double-time, triplets. A brief pinch when one of his arm hairs gets caught in Anton’s chain bracelet, but he doesn’t mind the music at all.
“You see anyone cute?” he says a little too loudly. Something like a yell-whisper.
Anton’s nose scrunches in concentration, like he’s running through the guest list in his head. He steps on Sungchan’s shoe by accident as someone careens into them from the left, probably heading for the line to the bathroom. “Taro-hyung looked nice. As usual. He was with a girl, though.”
“He’s straight, so that isn’t really a surprise.”
“Yeah, I know.” They miss a beat, and Anton readjusts his grip to get them back in sync. “He still looked, like, really nice.”
Sungchan scans the room for Shotaro, finds him reclining against the sofa just out of eyeline. Someone’s purse in his lap, smudge of lip gloss against the collar of his shirt. He looks alright. “You got a crush, Chanyoungie?”
Anton gives him a dirty look. “It’s not totally like that. And like you said, he’s straight, probably,” he slurs.
The music gets louder—less of a trainwreck this time, and more of a highway pileup. Different samples and beats and interpolations pulled over for reckless driving, and Sungchan has to raise his voice again. “Dude, that’s crush language. You’re speaking in crush.”
He replies with something most likely snarky, but it’s swallowed up in the din. Sungchan points at his ear, gestures wildly and almost tears his helix off by accident.
Anton rolls his eyes. He leans in close, dampness of his skin against Sungchan’s neck and throat. Collarbones click together like magnetic charms, heartbeat loud and ribcage-mounted. “And what’s wrong with having a crush?”
“The whole, fucks girls, thing?” There’s a mole on the shell of Anton’s ear. “Plus, he’s so much older than you. He graduated last year.”
“Half-your-age-plus-seven, man—no, I’m the younger one. Point being, it’s not a weird gap. You’re old too if he is.”
It’s getting seriously hard to hear Anton. Not because the DJ is somehow getting even worse, but because he’s just sort of talking normally, now. Anton-language, like in the car on the way home after class or by the bleachers when Sungchan’s got a soccer game. Anton-speak, sort of fluttery around the edges and hard to see in harsh light, gossamer words and lace sentences that pull apart all too easily in the noise and hubbub.
“And if you weren’t delayed, you’d be done with school too.” He feels Anton pause. “Sorry, off topic.”
“I mean. I can’t stop you, if that’s what you’re set on.” Half-truth: he knows that Anton holds his opinion way too highly to actually act against it, for whatever reason. They just know each other like that. Fundamental constant of the universe.
“He’s just nice,” he mumbles groggily. “And kind of flirty with me in a way I don’t understand, like a sort-of-bro way. But also touchy. Like, he puts his hands on my waist and stuff, is that normal? It’s not normal, right?” He grabs at Sungchan’s waist then, as if to demonstrate, smash cut record scratch break. Runs a hand up and down his ribs, like he’s feeling for his glasses in the dark. It probably isn’t normal at all, Sungchan thinks, if it feels anything like this.
“Let’s just go sit outside. You’re drunk, and I need to get off my feet.” It comes out as a genuine whisper, he realizes. The room might as well be silent, fuck Wonbin and his color-coded clipboard of schedules and tasks and deadlines. Anton gets it, though, somehow. Hooks an arm through his elbow and unsteadily shoulders his way through the patchy crowd.
The evening breeze is cool on his forehead as they sit on the curb, bass and conversation replaced by the gentle thrumming of cars as they pass. The drone of an occasional motorcycle.
“You’re like totally drunk too, aren’t you?” Anton pokes him in the chest. He’s yelling a little bit, like his ears haven’t adjusted to the quiet, and it hangs empty in the vacant air. Their knees are close enough to bump, cross, lock, jean and chino. “You’re all warm and shit.”
“We’re already outside, man. I can hear you just fine.” Sungchan doesn’t hold it against him. He’d probably let Anton spit in his ear if he asked.
“My bad.”
Light isn’t much better out here, but he can make out the flush of Anton’s neck, top button undone and shirt rumpled. Blood ebbing under his skin, atempo. “C’mon, I’ll drop you off on the way home. They can clean up without us anyway.”
Proximity, so close that Sungchan thinks he can hear the shifting of skin as Anton narrows his eyes. “Like you’re in any state to drive.” It follows, then, that Anton has listened to him swallow and breathe and hesitate.
Heartbeat in his ears, throat, he gets to his feet. “I’ll figure it out on the way. Go get your shit from the front desk.”