Peter has been performing for crowds since he was eleven years old, and not one single day since has ever tried hiding who he is. He takes pride in his eccentricity: how he dances, moves, speaks, sings, plays the piano. He takes pride in his loudness and the way he can’t help but move when the music is good. He takes pride in his flamboyance and his colorful stage presence. Performing is all he cares about. It makes him feel good about himself. If he feels good whilst performing, why does it matter what anybody else thinks of him? They’re watching, aren’t they? They could look away if they really wanted to.

You, on the other hand, are not secure at all in your identity. It’s the 1970s, why should you be? Men like you get hunted down and beat to a pulp, or arrested, or even killed. Even in New York City. You dress in the least-conspicuous way, act like every other man, talk like ‘em, too. You don’t make a show of yourself and when people around you discuss matters of the LGBTQ, you stay quiet. You don’t go around picking fights like Peter does.

They say opposites attract, and obviously that’s the case for you and Peter. Nevermind the fact that you’re not very dissimilar in anything but your self-expression. Peter knows you hate who you are, and that saddens him deeply. He both understands and he also doesn’t. He wishes you would display more of yourself, but he also wishes you felt safe. He tries to encourage this in you every day, but you’re not easy to get through to. So he resorts to… desperate measures.

Hopefully you won’t be too angry with him for tricking you into going to a gay club with him.

“Hey, love, c’mon,” he calls to you as he walks through the apartment. “I wanna take you out somewhere. You’ve been cooped up all week. You need some fresh air and a new perspective.” He flashes a smile at you as he pulls a jacket over himself.