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It was dark.
The stage lights are shut off, bulbs already cooling. A few table lamps flicker, illuminating the space with a soft glow trapped between warped shadows. A record crackles in the background, playing Sweet Jazz Music.
No- not sweet jazz music. Sweet Jazz Music. Jelly Roll Morton.
Bobby stared up at the beaded curtains hanging from the ceiling. He’d always enjoyed pieces like Georgia Swing, more than his piano pieces.
He lay on the stage, arms resting limply by his side. It would be a good idea to get up. But he’d had that same thought about half an hour ago, and look where it had gotten him. Perhaps he’d slightly shifted his legs, his brain’s feeble attempt of getting his reluctant muscles to obey for a time other than dancing.
His finger twitched.
He lay still as ever.
Hm. Quiet, for once. Sally, upstairs in her room above the club for once. The air, clear of cigarette smoke for once.
For Once.
The offhanded thought brought him back to something he’d seen in the paper- some political schtick, or something similar.
Für Einmal, Kommunisten Durch Eine Einzigartige Stimme Zum Schweigen Gebracht
(For Once, Communists Silenced By A Single Voice)
Bobby idly shook the thought from his mind. What did politics have to do with him, anyway? The Kit Kat Club was enough of a handful as it was. He shifted his hand slightly so that it brushed the fresh bruise that already bloomed along his hip.
At that moment, the shadows on the walls shifted, making way to a familiar figure slinking down the spiral stairs.
Of course he wasn't asleep.
“ Reichsmark for your thoughts?”
He could almost hear the smirk in his voice. He let his head fall to the side, looking at The Master of Ceremonies rather blankly.
The Emcee raised an eyebrow, shadows of his face now accentuated by the dim light instead of his usual makeup.
“Perhaps two, then, Victor? Or… is it Bobby?”
He knows, of course.
When he got no response, he dropped the theatrical demeanour a little- never fully, and Bobby had come to accept that as a part of him- then walking over to the stage and jumping up, managing to avoid the lights with practised ease.
Bobby huffed, a quiet laugh leaving his lips. “Well, two marks for absolutely nothing, darling,” he responded quietly.
The Emcee pouted, frowning slightly.
“So lying on the stage in the dark and letting-”
He paused for a second, tilting his head and listening.
“-Sweet Jazz Music play until it breaks the record… this is normal behaviour then, ja? ” He teased.
“ Ja, ” Bobby replied.
A short silence.
The Emcee pressed his lips together, rubbing absentmindedly at the inside of his arm. He let the quiet drag on. Then-
He reached out a hand, pulling him up by his lapels and kissing him.
Bobby kissed back with a sigh, wrapping his arms around him. The Emcee is cold– as always–, and the sensation is uncomfortable on his own warm skin, as always , but he doesn't stop kissing him.
It is not a romantic moment, but it is a familiar one, meant to comfort. Meant to ground.
The record in the background whirrs on, the piano then coming to a stop with a click.
They pull apart.
The Master of Ceremonies searches him with his gaze, with the usual feel that he is dissecting his soul, pulling apart his consciousness piece by piece.
But he isn't some sort of earthly omnipotent being, and Bobby scolds his subconscious for needing a reminder.
He eyes the dark circles underneath his eyes, the track marks on his arms, the way his hair hangs loosely where the style has fallen apart throughout the day- and night.
“Losing your touch, darling,” he murmurs.
This brings a smile to the Emcee’s face.
“Ah, then however will the club make money? If I am losing my touch, schatzi, it is a given you must take over, mm?”
He says, not waiting for an answer before taking Bobby’s hand, intertwining their fingers. When he lets go, there is a cigarette in the other’s palm, and he stands up.
“When travelling too deep into the mind, you must remind yourself that you alone have the key. The brain is not simply clockwork. Turn the lamps off when you leave, won’t you?” He adds casually, dropping himself off of the stage and already beginning to walk away.
“And don’t forget your coat again, liebling, ” he calls out, voice fading as he disappears into the darkness of a hallway that he did not enter from.
Bobby moves himself to the edge of the stage, staring blankly once again- but this time after the maddening glory that is the Emcee.
He glances at his coat, discarded on one of the chairs.
The record crackles, somehow starting up again.
Instead of piano, a child’s voice.
…The sun on the meadow is summery warm…