#emcee 1993

I did another one about 'Emcee', since the last one did quite good.

A/N: Mentions of drug use.

-(Male Reader)-

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The room was dim, a single flickering candle casting elongated shadows across the peeling wallpaper. 'The Emcee' lounged on a worn chaise, a cigarette holder balanced delicately between two gloved fingers. His makeup remained untouched from the evening’s show—stark eyeliner framing sharp, mischievous eyes, red lips curved in a permanent suggestion of a smile. He could have washed it away, let the mask dissolve beneath soap and water, but he wondered if he would even recognize himself without it. And anyway, not in this company. Not now.

Across from him, sprawled on the floor, the man—quiet, introspective—shook slightly as he prepared another line on the scratched glass coffee table.

The air between them was thick, not just with opium and tobacco but with something less tangible, something restless and unspoken. This was how it always was—drawn together by a shared darkness, their nights edged with vice and blurred by indulgence. Lovers? No. Friends? Certainly not. They occupied a space that defied definition, where desire and need bled into something sharp-edged and irresistible.

"Darling," 'The Emcee' purred, tilting his head, amusement curling in his voice. "You're shaking like a leaf. Nervous, hmm? Or excited?"

The man didn’t answer, only ran a hand over his face and laughed—softly, bitterly. 'The Emcee’s' painted smile widened. With feline ease, he leaned forward, plucking the razor blade from the man's trembling fingers.

"Allow me," he murmured, tracing the powder into a perfect line. His voice was velvet dipped in acid, each word a performance. "You’re hopeless without me, you know that?"

The man didn’t argue. Just nodded. Bent forward. Inhaled.

'The Emcee' watched him, the corners of his mouth twitching, his expression unreadable. When the man leaned back, eyes glassy, 'the Emcee' laughed—a bright, hollow sound that danced off the walls.

"Better, ja?" He slid from the chaise to the floor, their faces mere inches apart.

The man’s gaze met his, and for a moment, the air crackled with something unspoken. They didn’t kiss—they rarely did. That was too intimate, too dangerous. Instead, 'the Emcee' rested his head on the man’s shoulder, draping himself there like a cat settling into warmth.

"You’re such a mess," the man muttered, voice rough, but without malice.

"Of course," 'the Emcee' replied, featherlight, teasing. "And you adore me for it, don’t you?"

The man didn’t answer. But his hand found its way to 'the Emcee’s' side, fingers absently tracing the seam of his corset. It wasn’t affection—at least, not entirely. It was something rawer, something they both recognized in each other.

The hours passed like that, the drugs dulling their sharper edges. They spoke in riddles, made jokes that meant nothing, let their hands wander when the silence grew too heavy. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they didn’t.

When dawn began to creep through the window, 'the Emcee' rose, adjusting his suspenders, smoothing his hair. The man had moved to the chaise, half-asleep, but still watching him, eyes laced with something unreadable.

"Well, my darling, this has been… delightful," 'the Emcee' drawled, voice laced with mockery, or perhaps something softer.

"You’re leaving?"

"Always do, don’t I?"

'The Emcee' bent down, pressing his painted lips to the man’s forehead in a gesture that was strangely tender. "But don’t worry. I always come back, too."

The man nodded, eyes fluttering closed. He didn’t ask why, and 'the Emcee' didn’t offer an explanation. They didn’t need to.

Whatever this was—whatever they were—existed only in the in-between, in that strange, liminal space where they could indulge in each other’s chaos without ever fully belonging to it.

He always left, and he always returned. It was the only promise he ever kept.

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Not sure how I feel about this one but I was half asleep when I wrote it so I'm sure we can forgive it being kind of eh 💀 And I'm running out of ideas tbh.

Was unsure whether to post this or not due to the meaning of the musical but I'll leave it here for now.

A/N: Implications/Brief mentions of Nazi's.

-(Male Reader)-

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The room was a haze of smoke, curling tendrils of opium and cigarette ash wrapping themselves lazily around the dim light of a single flickering bulb. A gramophone wheezed out a scratchy melody, something mournful and defiant, the kind of music that could only exist in Berlin—a city teetering between brilliance and destruction. On a stained mattress in the corner of the room, 'The Emcee' reclined, his makeup smeared, his shirt half-open, revealing a gaunt frame that seemed almost unreal in its sharpness.

Unhealthy—if nothing more.

He was laughing softly, his voice a raspy echo of the performer who owned the stage at the Kit Kat Klub. But the laughter wasn’t entirely joyful; it had a sharpness to it, a kind of edge that dared the world to cut him deeper, dared it to tip him off the teeter.

Beside him, a man—a figure whose silhouette shifted like a shadow under candlelight—lit another cigarette, his hands steady despite the quiet tremor of their shared indulgence a mere few hours prior.

“You’re beautiful when you’re broken,” the man said, his tone flat but not unkind. It wasn’t a compliment, not really but it was neither an insult.

'The Emcee' tilted his head, the corners of his mouth curling into a sly smile. “Darling, I am always broken. That’s the trick, you see.” He plucked the cigarette from the man’s lips without asking, inhaling deeply before letting the smoke billow out in a long, theatrical sigh.

“Tell me, do you think they’ll come for us? The little men in their stuffy, brown uniforms?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. He laid back, staring at the cracked ceiling as though it held the secrets of the universe, or he was merely buying time or ignoring, a usual response for him. He wasn’t the type to offer comfort, and Emcee wasn’t the type to expect it.

They had an unspoken agreement: no lies, no pretense, no promises. They weren’t lovers, not in the way poets wrote about, but they weren’t strangers, either.

They had slipped into a strange rhythm, an intimacy born not of love but of survival, of shared moments stolen from a world that wanted to erase them both.

“Does it matter?” He finally replied.

“They’ll come for everyone eventually.”

'The Emcee' laughed again, this time louder, the sound bouncing off the walls like a broken melody.

“Oh, darling, you have such a gift for the macabre! You could take my job if you ever decided to trade in your... stoicism for a little flair.” He stretched out his legs, his stockinged feet brushing against the man’s.

“But no, you’re right. It doesn’t matter. The show must go on, ja?”

The man glanced at him then, his eyes unreadable. “Doesn’t scare you?”

“Everything scares me,” 'The Emcee' said softly, almost to himself. His voice dropped its performative edge, becoming something raw and vulnerable.

“The Jews, the queers, the misfits—we’re all standing on the same gallows, waiting for the rope to tighten. But you don’t survive by crying, meine Süße. You survive by laughing, by dancing, by drinking and... this.” He gestured vaguely to the crumpled sheets, the empty bottles, the scattered remnants of their last high across the room.

“You survive by pretending none of it matters until it doesn’t anymore.”

The man reached out, his hand brushing against 'The Emcee’s'. God, they didn’t even know each other's actual names, The man was given nothing but 'Emcee' to go off of, 'Master Of Ceremonies', fitting he must admit. While 'Emcee' never bothered inquiring about the man's name, sticking to loose, meaningless endearments, both in English and German.

It worked for the two, kept a nice distance between them and this arrangement of their's.

For a moment, they didn’t speak. There was no need to. Their silences were as eloquent as their conversations, filled with everything they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say.

They didn’t talk about the future. 'The Emcee' wouldn’t let them. He lived in the moment, in the chaos, in the strange, fleeting comfort they found in each other’s arms. He didn’t ask where the man went when he left, and the man didn’t question why 'The Emcee’s' laughter sometimes turned into quiet sobs in the middle of the night.

“I should go,” the man murmured after what felt like hours.

“Yes, you should,” The Emcee replied, his voice light and teasing. But his fingers lingered on the man’s wrist, holding him in place for just a second longer. “Stay.”

It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t quite a command, either. The man hesitated, then lay back down. 'The Emcee' smiled, triumphant but not smug, not yet anyway.

“Good boy.”

In the quiet that inevitably followed, the gramophone clicked off, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the faint hum of the city outside. Berlin was restless, caught between its hedonistic past and its ominous future. But in this small, smoke-filled room, the world could wait.

For now, they had each other. They would focus only on each other, when within these four decaying, yellowed walls. Not as lovers, not as friends, but as something fragile and fleeting, like the last note of a cabaret song lingering in the air before the curtain falls.

And for now, that was enough.

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Just something I threw together tonight because I've been obsessed with the 1993 version of Cabaret lately.

Also the tiny bit of German is from Google translate, so god knows what it says vs what I meant 💀