Work Text:
Confused, Clifford found himself at the Kit Kat Club on New Year's Eve. It didn't make any sense to him, he had no intention of being there. He had intended to spend the night, writing his novel, but instead found himself amidst flashing lights, bare chests and glitter galore. He cursed softly as he took a seat in a secluded corner. He glanced around as he lit up a cigarette, his eyes lingering on the male dancers who were sat flirting with some patrons on the edge of the stage. The show would apparently start soon, as he gathered from the locals whispering in the crowd.
As the lights dimmed, Clifford shifted in his seat and directed his gaze to the stage. A fascinating, pale figure emerged from behind the curtain - The Emcee. Clifford felt himself shiver slightly as he saw him. There was something undeniably captivating about him. He couldn't look away. The Emcee's gaze swam through the room as he sang, his eyes briefly lingering on Clifford. He winked. Clifford's heart fluttered and he fumbled for his notepad, but words refused to come. He remained frozen, his gaze fixated on the stage and on the Emcee.
The show went by in a blur of color and movement. Midnight came and everyone celebrated. Clifford felt absolutely buzzed even though he hadn't had a drop of alcohol. This place was terrible. But he loved it. He sighed as he stepped outside onto the rooftop to smoke, taking in the sights of the city. Berlin was always busy at night, and it was beautiful. The sun had set hours ago, yet the city stayed bright and alive. There was something oddly comforting about the idea. His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by an amused laugh.
"I couldn't help but notice you from the crowd, do you stare at everyone like that?" The Emcee joined Clifford and took out a cigarette, grinning at him.
Clifford jumped as he turned to look at the man. "What? Oh, no, I'm just-" he stuttered, his face flushing. The Emcee stared at him with an amused, almost cocky smirk painted across his face.
"You're an American, no? Do they not teach you manners overseas? Because frankly it is quite rude to stare." He giggled, offering a hand to him. "Though… I don't mind the attention." He grinned.
Clifford couldn't help but smile at the charming stranger. He took the Emcee's hand and introduced himself. This is exactly why he came into the club, to find inspiration, something to write about! Which was obviously just a lie he's trying to tell himself to make the situation feel a tad less awful in the morning. But right now he didn't care, he only had eyes for the stranger infront of him. They chatted for a bit, the conversation flowing easily. And before Clifford knew it, he was ushered back inside, a drink pressed into his hand.
He found that the Emcee was very touchy and expressive. He chattered on about something Clifford had no intention of paying attention to. He just stared at the man, intrigued, occasionally providing him with the english translation for something he was rambling about. He didn't take a word of it in. And he feels Emcee knows that. He felt fuzzy. Maybe the drinks were getting to him.
The rest of the night is a complete blur. He could only remember snippets of lingering stares and passionate touches here and there, as cliche as it sounds. It was now the following morning. He was sat on the floor of his room in the boarding house, in front of his typewriter, with a throbbing headache. Crumbled up papers piled up around him as he groaned and ripped out yet another paper and threw it with the rest of the drafts.