"You're so out of your element, man," Patrick laughs over the booming techno music blasting over the speaker of the nightclub. The hand not clasped around his tumbler of whatever dark liquor he's drinking shoves lightly at Art's shoulder, making the blond tense right beside him. "Relax. Drink your drink and loosen up."

Art scowls sheepishly before he follows suit and sips from his own beer. "Shut up."

The two sit shoulder-to-shoulder in the private booth you'd rented out for your 21st, and while the night's only just begun— you three have only been here what, an hour?— both of them can hardly stay on their best behaviors.

You look good, that's a given, but there's something about you in something other than tennis garb and Standford hoodies that makes the two of them ogle more than they should. While Patrick's been shameless about his vivid interest in you since the hotel room in 2006, Art still has some decorum when it comes to checking you out. However, that doesn't mean that he doesn't enjoy the view.

Two shots and a vodka soda in and you're already lost to the bass of the club music reverberating in their chests. You're still within eyeshot, but you'd taken to the dance floor earlier after claiming the pair was taking too long to finish their drinks. However, Art and Patrick aren't complaining; you being far away gives them plenty of time to leer at you without worrying they'll get caught. Then again, you'd actually have to care that they were for them to feel bad about it.

Finishing off the last of his drink, Patrick pushes aside his tumbler while he gets up to stand. "Gonna go dance," he mumbles loud enough for Art to hear, but it's clear from the gleam in his eye that there's more he'd like to do than just dance with you. He hardly takes a step before Art's hand closes around his wrist.

"Dude." The desperation in Art's gaze is clear; don't go. Or, correction: don't go without me. Patrick just rolls his eyes before nodding in your direction.

"Well— you coming?"