Club 34, or the C34, is a grungy place that inhabits the shell of a clothing factory built sometime in the late 50s. It's conveniently located ten minutes off the interstate, its red brick walls graffitied to appeal to a newer generation of party animals. The joint is the laid-back type Ricky's only heard of through the grapevine because clubs aren't his scene, but word of this kind of place tends to get around if one is a person who enjoys the company of the same sex.
Moreso, if one is of the queer variety, they would know that C34 is the very clean and respectable face shown to the general public. The tail end of the 80s cracked a fissure that had not been there before, and in the decade that followed, those who would frequent gay bars were pushed, quite literally, underground.
The true gem harbored by C34 can only be accessed by purchasing a specific drink in a specific way, the rules of how to do so passed down by each patron over the years. The drink, an Alice Cooper, is a pink liquor that swirls with glitter and is not to be drunk. The bartender will present the patron with a coaster that is then handed to a bouncer standing in front of a nondescript door in the southeast corner of the room.
And that allows entrance to The Rabbit Hole.
The only kind of fight to break out past the door and beyond the narrow set of stairs are butches out to defend their girl's honor, or queens slighted by some pup who dared sniff at the wrong pair of heels. Or so Ricky has heard.
So far his experience has been an endless distraction by the stairwell walls decorated with band posters and other questionable signage, the likes of which grow lewder the deeper they go. There are photos, too. Some are old polaroids of people he doubts are still around, going by the ribbons pinned to them. Other pictures are of notable celebrities posing for shock value.
But the most shocking reveal waited for Ricky at the end of the sketchy path, when the room finally opened up before him.
"Is this… the Copacabana?" he says, stunned by the marquee on the wall and the columns that have been turned into massive makeshift palm trees. There's a dance floor that lights up, fog that curls in from the corners, and the music is so loud he can barely hear himself think.
Afton leans close enough for his beard to tickle the shell of Ricky's ear. "A replica. The original is in New York."
He nods, amused by the glittering disco ball.
It's tacky. It's godawful. It's overstimulating, especially with how bad a state he's been in. Ricky grabs onto Afton's elbow without much thought, his fingers digging hard into the unpleasant fabric of his jacket. Afton rests a hand over Ricky's, fixing him with a reassuring smile.
"Drink or dance first?"
"What?!"
Afton mouths the words. "Drink? Or dance?"
Neither, actually, thanks very much.
The button-down he's wearing is too form-fitting and it makes him feel like he's suffocating, especially when tucked into the only good pair of slacks he owns. He's wound so tight he fears his joints will pop apart.
Afton escorts him towards a less crowded corner of the room where the two of them can lean up against a wall, watching the sea of bodies shift and move to the music. They're old songs, the kind Ricky's parents would listen to on Saturday mornings and on long car rides.
Everyone present is either dressed according to theme or hardly dressed at all, some men and women and folks of indeterminable gender sporting nothing but leather harnesses and masks fashioned to resemble a variety of animals.
A warm thumb continues to caress the back of Ricky's clammy hand, a comfort he loathes but is unwilling to give up until he acclimatizes to the foreign setting.
With his thick-rimmed glasses and baseball hats and threadbare sweaters, it's difficult to picture this place being one Afton frequents. It is both too seedy and too obscure for the likes of him who prefers to be the center of attention. Here, he disappears, becoming another face in the crowd rather than the star of the show.
"Feeling better?"
"I don't want to dance."
"But we came all this way."
"I'm not feeling it, man," Ricky says, refusing to move. "Sorry for being a downer."
Afton abandons his hand as he pushes halfway off the wall to stand in front of him, forearm braced against the spot near his head. He steps close enough for his cologne to cut through the pungent smoke in the air, and for Ricky to see a hint of gray peeking out from the top of his shirt.
"One dance," Afton says, close enough to tickle Ricky's ear, an arm coming around him to rest low on his back. "I'm afraid that is non-negotiable if you want tonight to go well for the two of us."
His ability to thread a threat into the most innocuous statements is extraordinary. Ricky would bite back were he fast enough.
Afton leans away when the song changes, the lights going from strobing to a deep red that jolts an actionless reaction from the back of Ricky's mind. He doesn't move as Afton begins to clap along to the beat, the eyes of intoxicated patrons drifting towards him. The flourish with which he turns towards the dance floor, taking large steps in sync with the music, calls to mind some of the worst films he's ever seen.
The man probably thinks he's John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. To Ricky, he's more as if Silent Bob attempted a skit on Saturday Night Live.
The way he moves his hips, though? Ricky can't decide whether to cringe or be impressed.
Someone once said that confidence will get anyone far, and Ricky is beginning to believe that must be one of Afton's core tenets.
He can dance, Ricky will give him that much, and his stage presence plucks strings of jealousy deep inside of him. His smile is radiant, the ease with which he goes from dance partner to dance partner a wonder to behold. He's also not taking himself seriously, waving his arms and making faces that makes the crowd around him laugh and Ricky realizes— fuck. This is it, isn't it? This is who he is. Actually who he is.
No child would follow a big scary monster into a back room. But the man he sees right in front of him? Posture easy and with the openness of someone who knows how to spark joy and laughter? The sheer effortless charm and charisma that radiates off of William as he commands the space and those around him?
It's humbling. It's sickening.
It's sickening and it's horrifying, just how effective it is on Ricky who can see through the façade, who knows what he is and what he has done and yet… and yet.
Out of breath, Afton holds out a hand for him to take. Those nearest follow the direction of his arm, their eyes falling on a flustered Ricky as the club holds its breath as if ready to experience the most magical moment of its collective lifetimes. Like it's some fucking Disney movie and he's the first gay prince about to get taught a lesson on what it means to let go in the name of love.
Or some bullshit like that.
He's not an idiot, though. He's very well aware of how Afton's managed to weaponize Ricky's anxieties against him. You're not going to let them down when all eyes are on you, are you? He was so enraptured by the performance and now every shred of possible attention has shifted to him. All because he denied Afton a dance.
It grinds more than his gears. It leaves him, shamefully, hot under the collar.
Unsure of what all to do with no means to escape without causing a scene, he takes William's hand and is pulled flush against him, his spare hand settling snug on Ricky's lower back.
"Like this," he says into his ear, keeping them close enough to have them both locked in each other's orbit in order to guide Ricky on how to move his feet. It's a mess of fumbling and stepping on each other's shoes, of moving out of sync and to a rhythm that does not match the song.
Keeping a level head proved an impossibility from the get-go, with his simmering frustration being overridden by the muscle deep exhaustion and mental haze. The best Ricky can do is focus on his footwork, minimize the sudden onslaught of dizziness by focusing on a specific point.
But then Afton kisses his forehead with a hardy laugh that scrambles more than just his already addled brain.
"You've got it, you've got it," he says, directing him into a spin that makes the room tilt on its axis. "There you go, kiddo. You're practically a star."
The concept of thinking straight is as unattainable as Ricky's strength of will, sweat beading in unfortunate places as his face grows hot. He can't summon the boiling hatred he knows simmers in the shallowest pits of his chest, because the corners of his mouth twist upwards unbidden. Both the music and Afton's rapt attention hold him weightless above the garish dance floor.
For a sliver of a moment, none of it feels real. The faint taste of relief pricks the corner of his tongue, numbing its surface so that the acrid taste of euphoria, sudden and alien, floods in. It is a delightful concoction that makes the world outside of the club walls not matter at all. Nothing matters at all.
The crowd claps along and he joins in, swaying to and fro as thousands of glittering fractals continue to spill over writhing bodies in that dimly lit place.
The passage of time can only be measured with the changing of songs, a never-ending catalog of 70s anthems, but Ricky's sedentary lifestyle catches up with him. There is only so much dancing a man can do during his first rodeo on a foreign playing field before muscles begin to grow heavy.
Satisfied, William guides him to one of the tables he thought were for decoration, before bringing over two drinks. Every step he takes is overflowing with energy.
"No passing out on me now," he says.
Ricky takes a glass without sparing it a thought. "Do you often bring the party?" he says, short on breath as William sits across from him. "That was really something."
"Not as often as I used to. Nostalgia can sometimes get the best of me."
He can see it, a much younger William gleaming under the lights and adoration of those who would dare approach him.
Ricky takes a swig and realizes it isn't water. He coughs, reminded that there is no way to disguise vodka no matter what it is garnished with.
William is smiling at him, close lipped, but it's all in the eyes. The look can't be described as heat but rather a warmth that borders on pride, as if he were proud of Ricky for stepping out of his shell and embracing the chaos of the moment. Proud that he trusted William to not make Ricky a fool of himself, even if he had to use underhanded means.
His dad would have called it tough love.
His mother would have called it something else entirely.
William takes a sip of his amber liquid before plucking out an ice chip and grinding it between his teeth.
Neither commits to much talking afterwards, the music too loud and Ricky's body too drained to try carrying on a conversation. Instead they sit and sip at their drinks, the vodka's burn managing to soothe his throat by way of numbing. He could drink two more of these. Three, if it continues to take the edge off.
Ricky doesn't get the chance to request a refill though, vision slipping from him until he's no longer sitting at a table in a loud underground club. The music grows muffled, still disco, still now, but he's someplace else, and other heightened sensations claw at him, fruitlessly, towards terra firma.
We're in public, is all he remembers thinking, followed by raucous hooting and hollering, and then the peaceful bliss of a fade to black.
• 
