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“We’re ride or die. That means we go to jail for each other, we lie for each other, and you bet your ass we go to each other’s dance recitals.” Rick had both hands resting on Daryl’s shoulders helping to add emphasis to his words, strength of conviction.
“Weren’t so sure you’d feel that way after seein’ me in this get-up,” Daryl looked down at his costume. His instructor for the traditional Irish dance class had chosen skin tight black pants made of little more than spandex, and a form fitting bejeweled black jacket. No shirt, his chest bare.
“How do you think I feel in this?” Rick gestured to the ridiculous white suit outfit a la Saturday Night Fever, for his own Disco class. “I might as well be nude on stage, everything is going to show through this under those bright lights.” His high waisted white bell bottoms left little to the imagination, the material crafted and sewn in such a way that his package was lifted up and away from his body. He looked like he had a goddamn python coiled in his pants.
“S’good look on you,” Daryl admitted. “O’course I prefer you in no suit at all.”