"Boy--" He whirls, brow furrowed, gesturing wildly to his eyes with two fingers, and then pointing at her one good eye with his pinkie. "Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me that Boy George could even remotely measure up to a specimen like this. If anything I was David Fuckin' Bowie." Boy George, honestly.

Still, he follows her, and he dances like there's no tomorrow, because he's got enough designer drugs in his system that he's actually loose, he can move his hips--watch out for his body rolls--and shake his ass (he actually does have an ass, it's just hidden under a layer of pure muscle, thanks) with the best of them. And her--goddamn, he ought to have known she'd look gorgeous out here, bopping her head and looking fucking happy for once. Good on her.