She doesn’t stretch before she fights. She let her joints crack when she skids on the beaten surface of the wooden platform and moves swiftly like a sharp knife through butter. Her knees bend in a way that looks lazy but it’s not. Every move is calculated and precise. It is so very different in this makeshift club. Roxy’s muscles tense as people brush against her.

Diane hands her a drink, spinning on a fluffy orange barstool as she does so. She’s already three shots in.

It’s a neon green triple shot that smells like acetone and licorice. She downs it in one fluid motion and slams the small glass down a little too hard on the illuminated counter. She sputters for a second at the unappealing (some [see; Roxy] would argue “fucking disgusting”) aftertaste.

“What the fuck did you just give me?” She shouts over the music to her friend.

Diane swivels to face Roxy and grins. “Absinthe!” She shouts back. She’s grinning until she sees the empty glass clutched in Roxy’s hand. Then she smiles even wider.

“That wasn’t diluted! Holy shit!” She’s practically screaming, giggling as she does so.

She catches on to Roxy’s confused expression. “It’s like, seven shots worth!”

Roxy pales and Diane laughs harder.

Diane hops off her stool and takes Roxy’s hands. “Let’s go dance!”

She lets herself be dragged out to the near - middle of the dance floor by her tipsy friend, already feeling the potent alcohol clouding her senses. Logically, she knows it’s impossible, but she hopes for a fleeting moment that she somehow doesn’t become completely wasted while dancing with Diane.

The music thrums through them on the dance floor and seems somewhat enjoyable after her initial adjustment to the intense volume. Diane takes the lead and starts swinging her body to the beat like everyone else. Roxy can’t stand to look anywhere but Diane’s face, her pale face reddening at the sight.

Diane’s hands slide from Roxy’s hands to her shoulders and from her shoulders to her waist, hooking her thumbs in the belt loops of her pants and rocking her hips in time with her own. Roxy wobbles slightly and loops her arms around Diane’s neck. They sync with the pounding bass and Diane looks like she’ll explode from happiness. Roxy thinks she’ll die here, in her best friends hands in the middle of a (highly illegal) warehouse in the middle of Who-The-Fuck-Knows, NY. What’s worse is she doesn’t think she cares.

God, imagine what her parents would say if they could see her.

Striped sleeves wrap around Diane’s waist and she recognizes the figure behind her as Debbie. She’s whispering in Diane’s War and motioning to a guy near the door they entered from. Diane says something that looks like a warning and with a quick squeeze Deb’s gone, running to the guy and leaving to do.. something straight, probably. Diane keeps a watchful eye on her sister until her blue head slips out of frame.

Roxy snorts a laugh at the interaction and Diane just smiles back, leaning close to her. She does her best to dance as well as Diane does. It’s like boxing again. She mirrors her adversary (best friend) that she hates (loves) and tries not to let her injuries (level of intoxication) make her do something stupid (like leaning in and pressing her li-).

After a while, they’re back at the neon bar. She’s too tipsy to stand without swaying so she’s leaning against the bright counter and perched on a stool of equal vibrancy. The crowd has thinned out significantly in the hours they’ve been there. Roxy nurses a ginger ale while Diane powers through another shot of vodka.

Roxy’s fumbling with her wallet to pay her tab when someone comes behind her and wraps their hand around her waist. “Don’t worry about it, she’s a friend.” The bartender shrugs at Bella and tends to the other customers.

“Bells! You hero!” Diane all but yells. She’s excitable like this, but at least she’s still coherent. Roxy’s afraid of the drivel that will come out of her mouth when she tries to talk.

“Hey.” She manages to growl out the syllable and lean back into Bella's torso.

“Have fun?” She winks. Her tan face is framed by messy strands of smooth brown hair and her neon orange adidas tracksuit clings to her slightly sweaty form.

Roxy puffs up her cheeks a bit. “‘Coulda’ payed myself, yknow?” Her words come out in a slur but they’re still recognizable as English, which is a cause for celebration.

Bella waves her away. “I couldn’t let you do that, king. Friends drink on the house. Don't need the money anyways.” Roxy mutters a thanks but it comes out like thhhmainkes, which is, decidedly, not a word. Damn. And she was doing so well.

Diane raises her shot glass in approval and drinks it quickly, only to gag afterwards. Roxy snorts loudly, causing Bell to laugh at the two of them.

“First night here and you get here wasted.” Bella playfully admonishes Diane, “You better behave.” She wags her finger at her and Diane slaps it away.

Roxy’s plays with Bella’s sleeves as she talks with Diane about high school graduation. Roxy notices how dark Diane’s hair is, and how well her loose curls frame her face, and how well it contrasts to own her bright blonde, wavy hair. It’s beautiful, they way it flicks and curls like inky raven feathers. She starts snickering to herself because God she was a mess and God Diane is too fucking pretty.

Bella laughs, big and over dramatic, and it shakes Roxy slightly. “You should take this one home, she’s fucking trashed.” She claps the blonde on the shoulder with a hollow smack. She leans into Diane and murmurs something in her ear. Whatever she said has Diane furious, her pale face slightly pinker. She hits Bella a few times as the orange clad teen cackles and trots off to God knows where.

“She’s right.” Diane says, still smiling.

“..’bout?” Roxy says. Her tongue feels like it’s tied in knots.

Diane sighs and stands up, gathering Roxy with her hands curling in affection around her. “Let’s split, drunky.” She smirks down toothily at Roxy. Roxy grunts and stands. Her knees wobble in protest and her hands dart to clutch Diane’s thighs to keep herself upright. Diane yelps. She looks at her in concern until she processes what had just happens and melts into laughter. Roxy has never felt warmer.

They bumble out of the warehouse and Diane manages to hail a cab. It doesn’t smell as bad as Roxy had thought, which is nice. The driver has a classic rock station on.

“Y’know, I love this song.”

“Mm,” Roxy says, “It’s my favorite.”

“Me too!” Diane practically yells it and the taxi driver visibly winces at the sound. Roxy snorts.

Their shoulders are touching. Their legs are on top of each other. They’re holding hands. Roxy buries her face into Diane’s shoulder, who makes a content humming noise in the back of her throat but otherwise says nothing.

Lost in the Supermarket is still playing in the background and the moment would be perfect if the lyrics lined up with how she felt. Instead, Mick Jones critiqued consumerism and Roxy felt warm.