Instrumental Emmett
Instrumental
Emmett
There’s something so magical about the way queer bars show up in film.
I think about those teen-fantasy opening scenes at Babylon in Queer as Folk, of that strange unreality-away-from-unreality in But I’m a Cheerleader, the over-the-top drag extravaganza in The Birdcage.
They’re beautiful in all the ways real queer spaces aren’t—the drinks aren’t too expensive, no one’s trying to sell you weed, your ex-girlfriend didn’t break up with you there, no one gave you a shitty blow job in their bathroom, no one’s sweaty to the point of smelling disgusting, your best friend didn’t OD in their alleyway.
They’re just light and music and sex and too-gorgeous people, dizzy with the power of potential.
We see them through the eyes of the protagonist, and in those moments, we’re right there with them, the bass pounding in our veins, the world still more bright and overwhelming and wonderful than terrifying or painful or cruel.
What better kind of magic could there be?
—Always Here with Delilah Cohen and Iris Gold, season 1, episode 13: “Eden”
Everything is loud.
Emmett has spent more than twenty years in New York.
They know noise, they know the crush of bodies, they know the overwhelming scents of too many people cramped into a tight space.
But this is nothing like maneuvering through the subway at rush hour or walking against the flow of traffic on the sidewalk.
Here, it’s not music coming from a busker with a guitar or the noise of someone watching videos on full volume without headphones, but a pounding electric beat, accompanied by a chorus of raised voices from a crowd singing along to a song that Emmett doesn’t know.
The air is thick with the smells of sweat and body heat, but the scents seem somehow cleaner here, the sourness of train stations and garbage replaced by a heady mix of perfumes and cocktails and floral conditioners.
The dim light is broken by occasional surges and strobes, waves of lavender and pink sweeping across the room, illuminating faces and hands and the intertwined silhouettes of embracing bodies.
And then, standing out against all of it, there’s Delilah.
She shines more brightly than any of the lights in the room, a sparkling beacon of laughter and joy and swirling curls as she dances.
She has both of Emmett’s hands in hers, trying to teach them the relationship between the beat of the music and the movement of their body.
They do their best to follow her, mostly failing but determined to keep trying.
The fourth time they stumble over their own feet, Delilah laughs, catching their arms to steady them.
She cocks an eyebrow, a clear request for permission, and when Emmett nods consent, she puts her hand on their waist to guide them.
Her touch is hot through the fabric of their shirt.
A flush creeps up over their neck, and something starts to flutter in their chest, too-human sensations that shouldn’t be happening.
But the weight and warmth of Delilah’s hand seems to finally make something click—they feel it when the rough edges of their movements are sanded out, morphing into an almost fluid grace.
Emmett even manages to twirl her a few times when she coaches them through it, laughing.
The spin is totally incongruous with the pulsing music, but Delilah’s eyes are bright with delight when she spins back into them.
“Not a dancer, my gorgeous ass,” Delilah says, pressed back against Emmett’s side, their hand clasped in hers. Even in heels, she has to stand on tiptoe to get close enough to their ear so that she doesn’t have to yell. “You’re such a liar.”
“I never lie,” Emmett says back, tilting their head to meet the curve of Delilah’s ear, lips just brushing over the piercings through her helix. Her hair smells good, sweet and floral. They lean away before they’re tempted to press their face closer to breathe her in. “I’m just a fast learner.”
Delilah laughs, the sound swept away by the music.
They keep dancing, keep twirling. Delilah seems to be at the perfect point of alcohol consumption, happy and light and silly but still clearly in control of herself.
Tipsy enough to have flirted shamelessly with the bartender and to have pulled Emmett onto the dance floor with her, but not enough to be stumbling over her feet.
She keeps finding Emmett’s hands with hers, twining their fingers together, and Emmett can’t help thinking about how different their fingers are—Delilah’s shorter and thicker, callused at the tips from guitar strings, Emmett’s longer and more slender, except for the blocky knuckles.
There’s a heat in her eyes when she brings their joined hands closer to look at them, running her fingertips over the back of Emmett’s hand until their sleeve cuts off her access to their skin, and Emmett finds the breath they don’t actually need quickening in their chest.
And then another pair of dancers stumbles into them, and Emmett moves on instinct, wrapping an arm around Delilah’s waist to keep her steady.
“Are you okay?”
The music whips the words away, but Delilah sways closer to them anyway. She looks up at them, and Emmett can see where her hair is damp at her temples, where her eyeliner has started to smudge, and then she reaches up to cup their cheeks in her hands, and—
Emmett realizes what’s happening just as Delilah tiptoes up toward them, and catches her wrists. “Delilah.”
She freezes, color flooding her cheeks in a way Emmett knows has nothing to do with the heat of the room, and she yanks her hands away. “Sorry.”
Emmett’s skin feels so much colder without her touch. “It’s okay,” they start, but she’s already pulling back. “Delilah—”
“I’m going to get another drink,” she says. The smile she gives them looks camera-ready, perfect and public and nothing like her usual grins. She reaches up to pat their cheek, then spins on her heel and makes her way through the crowd, leaving Emmett alone.