He tipped the bottle back, letting the liquid burn his throat plesantly before tossing it aside, hearing the crash echo throughout the entire place. Every bone and muscle in his body ached and screamed, he wanted to move, he wanted to dance. He cranked the music high in his car, letting the sound vibrate around the high walls and inside his head. The beat thrummed in his chest, from the back of his throat down to the soles of his feet, and he felt it.
An explosion, a wild movement, in only seconds. He was jumping, moving, throwing his body wildly. Already in his time of working and being cut from gymnastics, his body craved the pull of gravity, the lightness of air beneath him. The warehouse was big, empty, full of dangerous places to free fall, and he loved it.
Sweat broke across his body, soaking through his shirt, droplets flying from the tips of his hair as he whipped around, spinning and flipping and dancing for all his life was worth. It all flashed behind his eyes, every shameful, vile glance and every word spat at him from the people who were supposed to help him, the people supposed to support him, his family and church and peers. And who did he have to show for it? Willard, he supposed, and Ariel. But a kid had to wonder, how far would a headstrong country boy and a wild preacher's daughter be willing to go for some city slicker with too much music under his belt and too many moves in his shoes?
He supposed he caused too much trouble, no matter where he went. Sure, stories fell from his lips of girls and dancing and parties the kids in a country town like this would never believe, but really? Really he was a lonely guy. He studied hard and worked out and worked a job and tried his best to fit in without giving up who he was. While he found himself thankful for the friends he did have so far, the thought made him even more frustrated, and despite the pull in his stomach and the ache in his limbs he kept dancing.
Somewhere along the way he'd lost his shirt and bore the white tank top underneath it instead. He slid down railings and wove around beams and gears, and swung from a rope down across the warehouse like he really could fly away from it all, the wind chilling his skin. He ran and leaped and swung from a pole in the only way his gymnast body knew how; with violent, agressive gracefulness.
Eventually, his anger and energy drained, and he found his breathing heavier and heavier, and the craving for another long drink and cigarette much more annoying than before. The ache in his body reminded him just how much he, and the people of Bomont, needed dancing. He needed to find some way to right their wrongs, and to fix the misguided caution they'd banded over the suffering teenagers. If anyone could, maybe it was him.