Note: this chapter contains mention of illegal drug usage and its affects.

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The entire club has been enveloped in a horrific silence; even the music has been cut due to the scene that George has created. As he stands over Jules, it's easy to see every individual inhalation and exhalation he takes in an attempt to catch his breath from shouting; his shoulders move subtly up and down in rhythm with his respiration. He can't quite believe that he has just confessed his sexuality in front of every person in the vicinity; he wants, so desperately, to be anywhere but here right now. Not knowing what to do with himself, his arm reaches up; his hand tucks under his hair, and rubs the back of his neck shyly.

"What's the big deal?" The same security guard from outside the club bustles through the hoards of people, to catch sight of what's happened. "I got word there was an altercation."

"This twat pushed this poor girl over!" a random woman calls out from the crowd. "He wants kicking out for harassment!"

"Uh, excuse me!" George protests furiously, whipping his head around in an attempt to find where the voice came from. "She's been harassing me all night! And yet when I tell her to back off, I'm the problem?"

"You need to leave," the security guard asserts to George firmly. "Don't make me call the police."

"You've got to be joking?" Andrew chimes in, stepping forward to defend his buddy. "This chick has been on his case all night — what are you going to do about her?"

"Don't defend this bastard just because he's your mate!" another voice intervenes. "You should get kicked out too!" This unwanted opinion garners loud cheers from the other club-goers, which only infuriates George and Andrew even more.

"This is bullshit!" George hisses aggressively, pushing the security guard out of his way as he leaves. "Absolute fucking bullshit!" He heads towards the main doors of the venue, with Andrew following a few metres behind. The pair arrive outside, halting a moment to take in the cold night air. George becomes dizzy from being so overwhelmed; he isn't sure yet, how Andrew is going to respond to the secret he outed while they were still inside the building. He doesn't want to know, either. He doubles over, pressing his hands to his knees to keep him in this position; he couldn't stand upright if he tried, with how he's feeling.

"You alright, Yog?" Andrew asks him sincerely; his voice is quiet, because he can see his friend is in distress. "You look pale as anything. That's with having a tan, too."

"I feel sick," George comments, barely above a shaken whisper. Despite it being cool outside, he's sweating profusely; hot flashes send his vision distorted, causing him to feel as though he could collapse any moment. As he feels his legs start to give out, he uses very poor hand gestures to signal he needs help. Luckily, Andrew has seen George black-out drunk before; so he knows to catch him before he has the chance to fall.

"Maybe we should get you home," Andrew offers. "Perhaps you're just tired from working today. It's fine, mate. We can do this another time."

The stress of knowing he's shared his sexuality with so many people, is all that remains on George's mind through Andrew's words of encouragement. Still in his best friend's arms, he feels the disgusting sensation of bile rising up in his throat; it burns his oesophagus, as he brings up the solitary drink he managed to consume before he was kicked out of the club. In reflex, Andrew tries to reposition George so that he doesn't ruin either of their outfits or shoes.

"I've got you, mate. I've got you." His supportiveness is incredibly sweet; although he does worry for his beloved Yog. This is normally the result of numerous drinks — yet somehow, George is evidently affected by only one, today. He knows George isn't normally a lightweight when it comes to alcohol — so he does feel a level of concern for his friend.

Once George has finished throwing up, he tumbles again into Andrew's arms; this time, he bursts into heartfelt sobs of despair, from what has unfolded tonight. He is desperate for the embarrassment and the humiliation to fade away; but it seems as though it's irreversible, now. The other lads from their group will probably never look at him in the same way, again.

"Hey, what's this about?" Andrew asks him, in reference to his sudden extreme emotions. "Yog, I'm worried about you. Please talk to me. What was all of that about, back there?" It comes to his attention that George's abrupt illness has resulted in some light staining on his shirt, but he figures that his health matters a lot more in this moment. "Why did you say you were gay, George?"

Heart palpitations flood George's chest, rendering him speechless for a minute or two. He doesn't want to elaborate any further on the topic than he already has; but alas, his closest pal is relentless in quizzing him. Through the sickening whirling of his brain, he somehow manages to think up an excellent excuse to use for his explanation.

"I said it to make her back off," he slurs, his speech not quite up-to-standard yet, with how unwell he is. "Worked well." He tries to give Andrew a thumbs-up, but even this is impossible; for his arm is trembling uncontrollably.

"Wait—?" Andrew presses, deciding to cut himself off once he has the idea that it's best to lead George to somewhere, where he can take a seat. He glances around at his surroundings, spotting a bench around twenty metres away from the pair. He slowly, carefully pulls his quivering friend in the direction of it, which is harder work than it appears. After a couple of minutes, they finally arrive at the bench; Andrew sets George down on it, before sitting by his side. "So you're not gay, then? You just said it to get rid of her?"

George, in his current state, chooses not to acknowledge the first question to avoid lying about the answer. "I said it to make her back off, Andy." He leans his body forward; and clasps his hands together, resting his arms on the thighs of his spread-apart legs. His face bows down, encouraging his hair to flop over his forehead messily; still, his breathing is heavy from nerves. "And now I've fucked up the night."

"No — she fucked up the night. You did nothing wrong." Andrew flings an arm around his mate's shoulders, bringing him in for a friendly hug. "And there's no rules that you have to go home just yet. If you feel well enough, we can go to a different club."

"I'd rather not," George admits, finally beginning to zone back in to his environment — although, only slightly. "I'd rather not fuck up again."

"What have I just said?" Andrew frowns, heaving a sigh of pity. "You didn't fuck up. What's brought all this on? Normally you'd just laugh it off and move on. What's making you so sad?"

"Nothing is," George lies, evaluating that it's best not to tell the truth about his last few days of intense depression and feelings of worthlessness. "Maybe I am just tired from working. But it doesn't mean I'm not still able to have fun. Don't think that."

"I wouldn't dare, you party animal, you." Andrew's comment evokes hushed laughter from both of them. "You were pretty cool, defending yourself back there. Don't let it get you down."

"Thank you ... " George's chuckles subside, with a more serious tone taking over. "For defending me too. You didn't need to. Especially after I ruined everything ... and made a fool of myself in the process." His speech is still slurred; despite being able to communicate to an acceptable level, his mannerisms are still woozy and reminiscent of drunkenness.

"It's what friends are for, isn't it?" He hits George upside the head with his hand, having deemed it safe to do so without making him unwell again. "Even if you did have to pretend to out yourself for her to fuck off."

Once more, George chooses not to respond to the subject of his sexuality. "Well, it certainly made for an interesting end to that experience. But please don't tell Steph. She'd kill me if she knew another woman tried it on with me."

"Scout's honour." Andrew holds up his hand, tucking his thumb and pinkie away to form the scout's salute with his three middle fingers. "She won't hear a thing from me, Yog." He checks his watch. "Wow. It's only ten-thirty. The other lads are still in there, too. Haven't heard the music come back on yet, though."

"I ruined everyone's night," George huffs, frustrated at himself. "Well and truly outdone myself, this time."

"Well ... " Andrew's tone is playful; as if he agrees with George. "Was bloody funny though, wasn't it? Seeing Jules on the floor like that. You can't tell me she didn't deserve the broken shoes."

"No, that was quite funny." George bites his bottom lip, to refrain from bursting into laughter. "And she's a woman. She can just bat her stupid eyelashes and get one of the other guys in there to buy her some new shoes. She won't go home empty-handed."

Andrew then looks ahead, before pointing across the way to the entrance of the club. "Actually, I wouldn't bet on that. Look."

George's eyes avert in the direction his buddy is gesturing towards; to his surprise, he spots security escorting Jules out. His brows furrow in confusion, as he watches the large man holding onto her to ensure she doesn't escape; he instructs one of the other security guards to do something, and they dart back inside the building. Moments later, Brett emerges with Leon; they catch sight of George and Andrew, walking in their direction.

"What's going on?" Andrew asks, with no emphasis on who he's addressing in particular.

"She's going to be arrested," Brett explains. "When they helped her up off the floor, they found bags of coke on her person ... as well as some other nasty stuff. They think she was planning to spike people's drinks."

"Holy shit; that could have been you George." Andrew widens his eyes, examining him as if he's a fully-qualified doctor. "Maybe that's why you're so ill."

"You okay, mate?" Leon questions to George.

Still having some difficulty with his breathing, George resorts to nodding. "Yeah."

"He's been sick," Andrew informs them. "She must have spiked him when they bumped into one another earlier."

"Fucking hell. You should report that," Brett responds, taking a seat at the other side of George. "You must have been off your rocker to randomly shout out that you're gay."

"But he isn't," Andrew reassures him. "He said it just to get rid of her."

"I thought so," Leon laughs. "It did seem a bit out-of-the-blue."

With that being said, a police car comes around the corner; onto the scene. It parks up at the side of the road, and an officer gets out of the vehicle. He approaches the security guard, who palms off Jules with no hesitation. He then looks across at the four men hovered around the bench; he gestures for them to come over.

"What does he want?" Brett scoffs. "The bastard already kicked you out."

"Let's just see." Andrew acts as the voice of reason, proceeding to help George up from the bench.

George, not being accustomed to standing up, shakes violently as all his body weight is forced to his feet. Brett and Leon take the hint, also helping poor George to walk across to the club entrance again. Once they make it over to the authorities (who have since placed Jules in the back of the car), they're greeted with a remorseful-looking security guard.

"I want to apologise for what happened in there," he speaks, with an unexpected authenticity. "We found a host of illegal drugs on her person after we asked for you to leave. Did she spike any one of you?"

"We think she spiked George," Andrew answers on everyone's behalves. "He's just thrown up, and he's only had one drink the whole night."

"We'd like you to be tested," the police officer requests politely. "Make sure that's what actually happened; and keep an eye on you to make sure you don't have any more adverse reaction to the drug."

"That's fine," George replies shortly; the terrible nauseous feeling has overridden his body yet again. "I just don't feel good at all."

"Is there a number we can call to let a partner or parent know what's going on?" the officer interrogates, giving a professional-yet-genuine facial expression. "Because somebody will need to know."

"He has a girlfriend at home," Andrew tells him. "I have the number for the telephone in case of emergencies like this."

"Brilliant. What's your name, sir?"

"Andrew. Andrew Ridgeley. I'm his best friend."

"Alright. Well, Mr Ridgeley, would you be okay going with the paramedics when they arrive, so that they can get some information from you?" The officer adjusts his belt, which holds a gun and taser; as well as a collection of other equipment. "You might have to answer any questions that your friend ... " He pauses, not knowing what name to give George.

"George. Um, but his real name is Georgios." Andrew rubs the back of his neck, a little shy at the fact he still struggles to pronounce the name of his own best friend. "Georgios Panayiotou."

"Right. Well, you might have to answer any questions that Mr Panayiotou can't answer for himself — if that's alright with you?"

"Of course. Anything to make sure he's okay." Andrew looks to his pal; they exchange small smiles despite George's difficulty in forming any kind of expression.

Another emergency vehicle arrives; this time, it's the ambulance. The paramedic from the driver seat exits the vehicle, to liaise with the officer. After a brief chat, the paramedic is informed of who needs the medical attention; she approaches George to ensure he's alright.

"You must be Mr Panayiotou?" she asks softly, as not to startle George — who is now very much out-of-it mentally.

"Yeah he is," Andrew responds on his behalf. "Please get him to the hospital. He's really not in the frame of mind to be answering questions right now. He needs to get better."

"Don't worry, sir. We'll make sure he's alright. Thank you for your help." The paramedic helps George into the ambulance; Andrew follows behind so that he can come to the hospital too. George is settled onto the bed inside the vehicle, with Andrew on one side of him; and a paramedic on the other.

Through his immense lightheadedness, he can't help but feel sorry for himself; for how his first night out in a long time has escalated.

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Chapter seven! What are we thinking? xx