There was a loud whoop from Gally - Minho’s previously sought after perpetrator - and he grabbed Minho by the back of the shirt and hauled him out, laughing and hollering.
“Fucking cockblock,” Thomas hissed as he stumbled out after Minho. Minho felt Thomas’s face pressing into his back as he tripped slightly. Without turning around, Minho reached back a hand to steady him. Thomas then put his hand over it, and when Minho slid it away, Thomas kept his hand solidly on Minho’s waist.
“Back to the circle, you shucking fitheads!” Gally yelled. He was beyond drunk. He shoved Minho and Thomas back to the circle comprised of Brenda, Teresa, Newt, Harriet, Sonya, Aris, Alby, and Rachel, all of whom were sitting on the tacky rug.
Thomas sat - nearly falling - next to Minho. Newt was yelling something, but his accent got nearly indecipherable when he’d had a few drinks. Minho didn’t usually try to understand. It was usually 90 percent garbage, anyway. He could, however, make out Another beer which made sense, because he was shoving two brown bottles into Minho’s lap.