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The queue is not as long as it could be at eleven p.m., but not short enough to move quickly either. Ned sighs, steps into line, and pulls out his phone to ready his ticket. He has never been to a gay club before.
Not once.
But tonight is his birthday, and he has decided he wants to do something new. Something deliberately, undeniably queer. He has never really let himself lean into that part of his life. For as long as he can remember, hiding has felt safer.
These days it is easy. He passes as a cis straight guy. He has been on testosterone for years. He has had top surgery. The world sees what it expects to see, and he lets it. He does not dwell on being trans. He prefers not to dwell on anything that makes him feel exposed.
But tonight, just for once, he allows himself this. Maybe it will not be as awkward as he fears. Maybe he will even meet someone worth dancing with. Maybe, if he is lucky, he might leave with a kiss.
Or maybe he will end up awkwardly standing in a corner all night, nursing a beer, trying to nod along to the music while wondering how other people make this look effortless. How they exist in bright spaces without guilt or insecurity gnawing at them. How do they stand under flashing lights without their minds spiralling about how they are perceived?
Ned always found himself to be more of a sceptic than a dreamer.
The line moves on. Soon, he reaches the door. The ticket itself is already a sham, costing twelve pounds to get inside. The staff scans it and puts a stamp on the inside of his right arm as proof of entry. Directly inside are lockers, five pounds for a box that might fit two winter coats. It is freezing outside, and he cannot exactly dance in his winter jacket, so he pays and shoves it inside, slamming the small metal door shut.
He turns and nearly bumps into a group behind him, but manages to sidestep them. The bass thumps from upstairs, vibrating faintly through the floor. He follows the crowd up a dimly lit, graffiti-covered staircase.
The club has three floors, each with a different DJ. If he understood correctly, the first floor plays pop, the second leans more toward Latino and reggaeton, and the third is techno. He opts for the first floor first.
A Lady Gaga song is playing. He stops at the entrance to the dance floor and simply stares. There are so many obviously queer people in one space. He is used to seeing maybe one person on the street daring to exist a little bit louder than everyone else. One bright jacket. One painted face. One brave soul.
But here, there are dozens. Hundreds, even. Colour. Glitter. Harnesses. Mesh shirt. Dramatic eyeliner. Bodies moving like they belong exactly where they are. It hits him with unexpected force. It feels like a waste for all this to be hidden every day.
Seeing so many colourful souls here, daring to exist, enjoying it even, being themselves with outstanding looks that society deems too weird, too freakish, too different. Because in a few hours, when the club closes, all of this will scatter back into the city streets. Hastily wiping the makeup away, hiding themselves under several layers of clothing. As if they were never there at all.
As if the sun is swallowed by the clouds again, blending in with all the grey. Brightness replaced for safety.
Ned does not know what to do with that thought, only that it makes him feel angry. Or sad. Or guilty. He shakes his head. He definitely needs a drink.
At the bar, he orders a whisky from a dyed-blonde bartender dressed entirely in black, harnesses and chains adorning their slender body. They are stunning and entirely focused on their work. Glass in hand, Ned retreats to a quieter edge of the dance floor. He feels awkward without anyone to dance with, but for now, watching is enough.
Music blares. Smoke machines hiss. Lights slice through the crowd. Young twinks move in perfect choreography known only to them. Girls with extravagant makeup egg each other on before dissolving into laughter and kisses. A Black man in a bright orange hat commands the centre of the floor as it belongs to him. Older queer folk dance too: tank tops, moustaches, and contentment written plainly across their faces.
People are both alone and together. And slowly, something inside Ned loosens.
Then he sees him.
Off to the side, brown eyes, visible even in the low light. Scruffy stubble. Hair growing wild past his ears. A white tank top stretched across broad shoulders. A chain around his neck catches flashes of light.
He moves like he owns the space: precise but playful, a shit-eating grin tugging at his mouth. Ned's stomach flips; that is exactly his type. That rough edge, but still moving like he knows exactly what he is doing.
Ned wants him. But before Ned can try to catch his eyes, the mystery man is dancing—no, grinding—with another man. One dressed very expressively, complete with a black and red corset and a neatly trimmed old-timey moustache. Jealousy spikes through him before he can stop it.
Ridiculous. He does not even know the man.
But tonight, he is done waiting. Waiting is all he has ever done. Waiting for his parents to accept him—spoiler alert, they never did; waiting for others to respect his pronouns; waiting for his treatment; waiting for others to finally see him as himself. He is done being forced to wait. Now, he can finally make a decision that is not reliant on others.
If the man ends up alone, Ned will go for it. A club is a club. No one belongs to anyone unless they say so. It takes a whisky, two beers, and some tentative dancing encouraged by strangers who drag him into their groups before it actually happens. The handsome stranger heads to the bar. Alone. Ned follows.
He claims a space beside him, orders another drink, and pretends not to notice the way the man glances at him. When he gets his drink, he takes a couple of big sips, then turns.
“Hi,” he says, forcing confidence into his voice. “You looked like you might want company.”
The man tilts his head, amused. Clearly taking an interest, he looks Ned up and down, blatantly checking him out.
“With you?” he asks, a smirk spreading slowly. “Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”
He takes Ned’s hand without hesitation and pulls him toward the dance floor.
A hyperpop track pulses through the speakers. They bounce to the rhythm, circling each other first, eye contact lingering longer each time.
Hands brush. Then stay.
The man leans in close, lips near Ned’s ear.
“My name is Jacob,” Jacob shouts over the music. Ned feels the hot breath close to his ear and tries to stifle a full-body shiver.
That name fits him perfectly.
"Ned," he shouts back, grabbing Jacob’s bicep to pull him closer.
“I hope I am not stealing you from your boyfriend?” Ned continues.
“What boyfriend?” Jacob shouts back.
Ned feels giddy, happy by the implied confirmation. Although he wants to know for sure before some misunderstood poor third party comes to break his face.
“The guy you were dancing with earlier?" He tries again.
“What?” Jacob shouts, not hearing the question. The music changes as well, bringing a whole new beat with it. Ned does not recognise it, but Jacob does, giving a big whoop together with others to cheer on the DJ.
“The guy... the one with the moustache. The one you were grinding with!”
Ned feels silly for not moving on. Here he is, dancing with a beautiful human being, but ruining it with his own complex questions.
“Oh, Maxwell? He’s fun. Excellent shag from time to time. Absolute menace in anything resembling a relationship.” He grins wickedly.
But then he gets serious, puts a hand on Ned’s back, and drags him closer. Now their two bodies are touching.
“But you, my dear," Jacob murmurs, leaning in so close that Ned almost forgets how to breathe, “you are a sight for sore eyes.”
Ned swallows.
He should be smoother than this. He had planned to be smoother.
“You’re not exactly unpleasant to look at either,” he says.
It sounds dry. Understated. Very him.
Jacob laughs softly, delighted rather than disappointed. The lights flash. The bass drops. The air smells faintly of sweat and synthetic fog.
“Careful,” Jacob says, leaning his face closer again until there is almost no space left between them. “I might take that as encouragement.”
And then he starts to move, or rather grind, against him.
For a second, Ned panics, wondering if he remembered his packer. Then he realises he did, and the relief is almost dizzying. Jacob’s hands are warm at his waist. Their foreheads almost bump as they move closer. The music shifts a bit, with a deeper bass and a slower rhythm.
Ned feels hot and bothered. Jacob is really turning him on. He decides to do something about it and slides a hand into Jacob’s hair, curls his finger there and pulls him in.
Jacob’s eyes flick down to Ned’s mouth.
That is permission enough for Ned, and he takes the leap.
The first kiss is clumsy, with teeth brushing and noses knocking, but Jacob laughs softly into it, and that breaks the tension. The second attempt lands better. Lips pressing, slower this time. Jacob exhales against him, warm and sweet with alcohol, and Ned feels it all the way down his spine.
He tests the edge of Jacob’s bottom lip with his teeth. Jacob lets out a low groan and holds Ned tighter. That is all the encouragement Ned needs. The kiss deepens. Not frantic nor rushed, but more sensual.
Jacob’s hand spreads against the small of Ned’s back, fingers splaying and slowly moving lower towards his ass.
Ned realises, with startling clarity, that he is not thinking about how he looks. For once, it is not about his body.
He is just kissing.
When they finally pull apart, it is because breathing becomes necessary, not because either of them wants distance. Jacob rests his forehead against Ned’s.
“Bloody hell,” Jacob murmurs, half-dazed. “That was worth the queue alone."
Ned laughs breathlessly.
“So,” Jacob continues, "are you going to disappear into the night like a mysterious apparition, or am I allowed to see you again?”
“A date?” Ned asks.
“A proper one," Jacob says, mock-serious. “I promise to behave terribly.”
“Please do,” Ned replies with a grin.
The rest of the night, they stayed together. Teasing touches. Fingers hooked into belt loops. Shouting lyrics badly into each other’s ears.
Ned laughs at his antics, especially when Jacob takes over the dance floor and tries to do the worm. If he were properly sober, he might have pulled it off. Alas, he looks more like a dying worm, giving his last spasms before giving his final breath. Nevertheless, Ned finds himself laughing so hard his stomach aches, and he doubles over.
When Jacob is finally done with his dead worm impression, he pulls Ned into the circle, and together they dance. Ned twirls Jacob, and Jacob twirls Ned. Both performing exaggerated dance moves and ridiculous spins while strangers cheer.
Ned feels exposed, and he feels exhilarated.
Tonight, Ned does not stand in the corner, nor wait.
He dances. He laughs. He kisses a beautiful man under flashing lights. Maybe tomorrow the world will shrink again. Maybe he will tuck parts of himself away. But tonight, he takes up space.
And Jacob—loud, reckless, shining—pulls him right into the centre of it.
And for the first time in a long while, Ned lets himself stay in the spotlight.