Cling!
The soft, rhythmic clicks of crystal echoed like a heartbeat, punctuated by the gleam of half-finished crimson liquid dancing under the frantic pulse of the disco lights.
"Cheers!!!"
The voices, half-drunk, half-sober, and entirely vibrant followed in a tidal wave of sound. It was a crowd of full-blown mature individuals, their laughter carrying that specific, gritty familiarity only born from long years of shared chaos and survival.
Even a blind man could have felt it: this clique had carved out their own sovereign territory in the club, an invisible boundary that no stranger dared cross.
The vibe was a thick, heady cocktail of liquor, lethal face beats, and beauty that could drop a grown man to his knees.
It reeked of sassy mannerisms, playful jabs, and constant yells a safe, chaotic sanctuary for the queer clique.
Their aura was a sharp, jagged contrast to the club's curated, classy ambience, but they paid their bills with a flourish that ensured nobody had the guts to care.
Suddenly, a thread of soft, classical vintage music wove through the air, serving as a silent signal to lower the volume. Fortunately, they caught the vibe, settling harmoniously into their individual seats, though the murmurs never truly died.
The air between them remained thick with the lyrics of a long-awaited reunion.
"It's been really long."
"You look so fat now!"
The waiter arrived, a brief interruption to the flow of insults as he moved to take their orders. His presence sparked a new round of criticism for each other's tastes, a sport they played with practised ease.
"I will also have one of those," Tyra, the hot, emo-looking soul of the group, interjected.
He pointed with a sharp, seductive flick of his finger, his gaze fixated on the man holding the server pad like a serpent sizing up a particularly tasty prey.
"Tyraaa!" the others echoed, a chorus of knowing groans.
"Leave the poor boy alone."
"Can you stop flirting? Eeeyyuck!"
Tyra only smirked, throwing the waiter a cute, devastating wink. The nervous man managed a jerky nod, his face flushing a deep scarlet as he offered a flustered smile before retreating into the safety of the bar.
"It's not your fault, boy. Blush… God is gay too," Tyra teased, leaning back into his seat with the smug satisfaction of a hunter.
He ignored the tsunami of taunts that followed, looking for all the world as if he'd just accomplished his divine mission of turning the world's straight men one wink at a time.
"If he's blushing at your little naughty advances, what's going to happen when he sees Fedora? He'll be hypnotised!"
"Hoooooo!" The others mimicked a hypnotic trance, swaying in unison before bursting into fresh peels of laughter.
That was when Tyra's gaze shifted to his bestie.
Fedora was slouched sideways on the soft lounge chair, his thumb pressed against his teeth as he chewed on it like it was the most mouth-watering delicacy on the menu.
He hadn't ordered a drink. He hadn't joined the laughter.
It was awkward. Usually, Fedora was the undisputed leader of this chaos whenever he was in town. But tonight, he was a ghost in the room, present in body, but drifting somewhere far beyond the neon lights.
His gaze was glued to the large windows, watching the evening life pulse outside. He stared at the steam clinging to the glass, the wet, reflective tar of the streets after the rain, and the streaks of light from cars passing by.
Pathetic, he thought, the word tasting like copper in his mouth. This whole act, the brooding, the silence....it was lame. It was giving...
"How can I put the spotlight on me?" and he cursed himself inwardly for it.
"You're a bad bitch, Fedora. Bad bitches party. They don't cry over some lame, idiotic dim-wit who doesn't even deserve you".He was supposed to be drinking his intestines out.
This entire "nuclear ticking bomb" reunion had been his orchestration, a grand distraction to help him forget why he'd suddenly fled college abroad and returned home unannounced.
He shook his head softly, trying to rattle the thoughts out, and let out a long, slow exhale.
But the atmosphere had changed. The chatter had died. The jabs had ceased. Even the bar's karaoke machine seemed louder in the vacuum they had left behind.
He had done it again. He was the centre of attention.
"Dora?" Tyra's voice was soft, laced with a rare, genuine concern.
Fedora's eyes rolled instinctively; he hated being called "Dora",...but he blinked, forcing a smile that barely grazed the surface of his expression. He swept his gaze across the faces craning toward him.
"You know that was fake, right?" one of the guys called out.
The group exploded into laughter again. They knew him too well, better than his own blood. And despite his best efforts to remain miserable, their laughter finally managed to tug a genuine, lopsided smile from his lips.
"Exactly! That's what we need to see!" Tyra cheered. Without hesitation, the group sucked him back into the vibe, acting as if nothing had happened, as if no heartbreak existed, as if no one was currently suppressing the urge to punch a wall.
The night deepened. The liquor began to hit, and they danced until their hearts felt like they were vibrating on the floor. When they finally retired to their seats, gasping and laughing, a heavy, expectant silence fell over the table.
It was time for the "gisting" session.
To an outsider, their serious faces might have suggested a discussion of high-level politics.
Hell no.
This was the time for the wildest, juiciest escapades: who was hooking up with whom, the status of their lavish lifestyles, and most especially...
"How is it abroad?" Tyra started, his gesture sharp and demanding.
The others nodded, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
They were waiting for the "group's beauty" to spill the tea, the wine, or his guts. Just spill something.
Fedora's eyes narrowed.
He wasn't spilling shit. He knew the drill: answer one question, and they'd have his entire life story by the second round of drinks.
They were fishing for information about the boy he'd been flaunting on his Instagram stories for the last few years the boy who was currently the reason Fedora's heart felt like it had been through a paper shredder.
He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Instead, he gulped down the remaining whiskey in his glass, his face souring at the gut-wrenching burn of the liquid.
"Eyyyyyy!!" The group booed playfully, catching his refusal.
"I'll go get another one," Fedora said, his voice husky. He raised his empty glass and staggered to his feet.
"Careful," Tyra warned, his arms instinctively reaching out to steady him.
"Is there a time I'm not?" Fedora retorted, tugging the hem of his leather tank top.
With a final, defiant toss of his head, he began the long, swaying trek toward the counter.
To be continued...