It just hit two in the morning, though the city's not giving up its festival fever.

A cacophony of live music and overdriven subwoofers thunders between the streets. Each contributes to the soundscape with a different frequency. Groups of ecstatic partygoers pass on Eelskin Street, with matching shirts and fluorescent wristbands. Earlier on, there'd been fireworks filling the night sky in their same vibrant purple shade. Sand still hangs on their shoes and clothes, a combination of the golden hued grains found around Mahi-Mahi, and the rugged dust of Piranha Pit. The battlers don't show their weariness after a day's worth of battles, they carry their weapons tall, throw jokes at each other, and are on the hunt for the next fun thing to do.

A red inkling watches them pass, leaning on the wall with his chin slightly turned upwards. He keeps kneading his shoulders with his hand, slid under his white T-shirt's collar, while the other hand lightly knots two fingers around a cigarette. He's the quietest thing here, by far.

Nobody's paying him any attention, and neither should they. Olive's had a lot of it tonight, this is a moment of solace. An illuminated sign hangs above him, enveloping each Inklish letter in a yellow glow. An ivy reaches just below its metal framing, betraying its wish to wrap its tendrils around it. Denser arms extend from the plant's base, and the leafy stems aim for Olive's ankles, the inner lining of his Splash Mob kicks.

Olive's ears twitch at the build up of cheers coming from the place downstairs. He brings the cigarette to his lips, while keeping an unfocused stare above the skyline. He forces a large inhale in his lungs, so the soot rushes closer to the filter.  A soft crackle sounds from the sudden rush of air in the lit end.

He can't afford more than a minute out here. It's not the time to get lulled by the full moon's magnetism. He's growing familiar with its whims and caprices, its waxing and waning. Once it's out, it taunts him for more, it fogs up his senses the fuller it is. It doesn't stop luring him into nonsense until it's back in hiding, finally shying away from the honest daylight. Despite the moon shining on him like a spotlight, Olive still refuses to accept he's a prime subject for its games. And yet, he fears these might not be his own hands moving when they're basked in this silvery light. They're being pulled by the same ropes that pull the tides in Inkopolis Bay. It's been happening for a while, especially on such bright summer nights.

This wave of wandering battlers has just stopped. As the cigarette shrinks to a stub in only five breaths, he smashes it on one of the exposed bricks, blackened by the soot buildup. This brick stands out in the lightly washed wall, with its stained appearance. It's also right at Olive's wrist level. He keeps the stub in his hands, does a brisk turn around the wall's corner, and goes down the basement's stairs, offering the street its own chance of solace, as brief as it may be.

A little plaque to the right of the staircase encloses a cocktails menu, an A5 cardstock. The prices are what you'd expect in this area, the capital's palpable upsell gets sweetened by the modesty of supporting a smaller business. At the top of the page, there's the same angular lettering found on the glowing sign above. It reads "Mimosa".

After going past the exit sign's harsh green illumination and pushing the metal door, he's enveloped in a subtle glow, cold violet bordered with dandelion yellow. It falls on his temples, his oversized mask's edges and the bridge of his nose. His green eyes lean more into their silver undertone in this dim environment.

He nearly trips on the pileup of weapons at the entrance, some cased, some loosely thrown. The taller ones, rollers and scopes, were left leaning on the wall. Beyond the entryway, there's inklings standing shoulder to shoulder. The bar's signature tropical houseplants make it all feel denser. The various palm fronds and leaves at the edges of the room are reaching for the ceiling. These also have a purple sheen reflecting off their greenery, from the dedicated grow lights installed around.

There's a drink in each of the guests' hands and a celebratory mood in the air. Everyone seems to have become friends with everyone. Some recognise their teammates from previous battles and clump together in quartets. The camaraderie they're exhibiting is quite strong for people that have just met this night. Even Olive's included in this, a hand reaching out for a high-five on his way back in, past the bar. He takes it with a slight grin, yet his eyes never quite make the person he's intersecting hands with. It's a blur, visually and sensorially.

He finally makes it to the bar's end, sucking his stomach in to get through the gap. He shakes his tentacles - his ponytail and the overgrown ones at the back of his neck - finishing with the two loose ones sprouting from his hairline. It's a signal for his sympathetic system to get working.

Next to him, another bartender slaps his palms against his pants, in a hurry to clean his hands. Right after, he rediscovers the rag he should've used, hidden between shelved bottles. His groan makes it through the noise, the angles in his thick brows sharpen up. He brushes his tied tentacles behind his shoulder, which hang heavy from the right side of his head. He saves the rag in the back pocket of his red pants, coordinated with his ink colour. He steps out for the next task, though pauses after noticing Olive. His diamantine eyes blink a snapshot, they capture Olive's overall stance. He spots the slight slouch. Rodi takes his shoulder for a last quick knead.

"Holding up?" he asks, briefly leaning towards Olive's ear.

"Yeah, yeah," he gives the hand two quick taps with his fingers, then leans for something down below. Olive picks their ashtray from under the bar. It's hidden right between the glassware, and it's already housing fifteen cigarette stubs. Sixteen, now.

Going back up, he notices Rodi pulling at his white tie, sliding the knot back up to the third button on his shirt. Where the first and second buttons should've been, it's just his upper chest on display. Rodi re-rolls his cuffs to his elbows, then dusts the black shirt off with the rag.

"Okay. Keep rolling, baby."

The two bartenders return to the frontline, ready to pick whoever's next in this lawless queue. Rodi wears a captivating smile that brightens up the rubies under his heavy eyelids. Olive's ears are just readjusting to all the shouting and laughing, so he leans closer to the customers when picking orders.

Stemmed glasses hang above the bar: flutes, coupes, hurricanes. They're lined up for duty, flipped from their upside-down stance on their way down to the bar mats. They're picked from the rails by the stems, with two careful fingers that avoid the pothos vines raining from above. The rocks, pints, highballs are under the counter, in army-like rows and columns.

Bunches of mint, rosemary and basil are potted in close reach. They're ripped and muddled in the base of a stainless steel tin, the smaller half of a pair that makes up a shaker. The citrus is still in the original wooden crates, left at their feet straight after the shop. A chill's felt at their right thighs, where the ice box holds a variety of cuts: cubes, pebbles, and whole blocks that require carving, for some luscious large rocks. Finally, a selection of six essential spirits are always at their hand's reach, on a metallic railing hanging on said ice box. All of these components need to come together. A little voice plays out recipes in bullet lists. The two bartenders create a rolling rhythm when they pour the smaller tin's contents into the larger one, slam it in to create a seal between the two, and bring them up to their hearts to shake.

Olive and Rodi work in contre-jour, with their backs to the strongest light source in the room. The shelves lining the higher quality bottles are encircled in yellow light strips. It's their most useful lighting in their workspace. The light's fragmented as it passes through the bottles, which remind of a vanity's perfume selection. They're delightfully colourful, shapes ranging from utilitarian to bold statements, and enclose an aromatic blend of scents and alcohol. Perfume's just alcohol in a smaller form factor. Then there's the cold white glow of the mini fridges, which house a selection of craft beers and ciders, for the less adventurous crowd.

One round turns into five, five turn into ten, they lose count, and they're only ten minutes in after their break. Though whenever they lift their eyes from their hands, they see smiles, vibrant mingling, kindling relationships, which may or may not have been facilitated by their creations. Every glass served is brought to a cheers, as it travels from hand to hand to its destination. In the shuffle, another customer leans more eager than the previous on the counter, in the space that briefly forms. Across the two metres, there's chatter, chins resting in hands, eyes glued on the bottles, taller denizens like seahorses and tunas curling their spines to reach the inklings.

Eventually, there's a call that makes them all focus on something in common.

"Results!" Someone in the crowd shouts at the full capacity of their lungs. This provokes an even bigger uproar, the entropy reaches new levels in the room. It allows a pause from the mixing and serving, as the bartenders crane their necks.

"Night Owls won popularity!" Another inkling announces, with their phone already on the Plaza's broadcast.

"Seventy-one percent?!"

"What!? I've never seen it go up to seventy!"

"That's insane!"

"Let's goooooo!!"

Yet the anticipation doesn't dissipate until the battle percentages are revealed. The numbers keep rolling, until they hit 49 and 51 for Early Birds and Night Owls respectively. The idols act out shock as the final results are listed out, though the crowd's already bouncing from the resounding victory. Some do a massive group hug, some choose to clap, and all are making as much noise as they can muster.

The bartenders join the applause, spoon and muddler still in their hands, though a slow realisation washes on their faces.

"Dammit," Olive grates between his fangs. "It's not slowing."

"Yep. We're neck deep," Rodi's more matter-of-fact about it. His clapping stops mid-way. He takes a breath, as if he forgot to take one in the past hour, and a step back to measure the crowd. His brows raise, his head shakes and he grins incredulously. "Oh, fuck it, it's all I ever wanted."

This inspires a glint in Olive's eyes, a slight lift of the chin in face of the deluge that's to come.

"It is."

Rodi leaves the muddler on the bar. He goes for something on the back counter. His phone, wired into the second-hand speakers in a makeshift way, hosts the bar's music. He switches from the usual playlist to his own curated bundle of bangers. Its name is a smorgasbord of icons, most of them lipstick prints, hearts, and flames. He checks the crowd as he turns it up, and they go insane over the first song, an absolute club anthem. Perfect.

Before his partner comments on the questionable turn of music quality, Rodi slides a hand on his back, and a simple command.

"Get two Coladas going."

The pomegranate inkling is back to the shaker he was attending to, keeping an eye on Olive until he does as told. Olive scoffs for a second, unable to help the grin while finishing up the previous Boulevardier in a coupe. The vigorous shaking Rodi starts over the current decibels scrambles any attempts of verbal communication. Not that Olive needs it, those four words are enough to get him started. The fridges hold the fresh juices he laboured over this morning. A wise decision, for once, to have them ready and waiting. There's no need for a mad dash at the gas station's shop, just for cartoned pineapple juice.

As he gets the Piña Coladas whirring inside the blender, Olive taps his toes on the kick of the song, keeping a wondrous look over the room. This place is rated for a maximum standing capacity of fifty, yet it became a dance floor for double the headcount. Rodi pulled the tables and chairs to the wall earlier on, to make way for the masses. Even with that, Olive can see some heads bobbing from the back of the room, presumably up their tables in the lounge area. He refrains from telling them off, there's no way he's getting anywhere close. A lot of customers are still gathered at the bar, waiting for their second or third rounds. A group stands out to Olive, hollering about something.

They're already handled. Rodi beams from the other end, with six bottles interlaced between his fingers. His bottle opener does quick work of them. He leaves them on the bar for grabs, caps popped off, then passes by Olive. Top notes of grapefruit and orange trail behind him, it's either his fragrance or all the stray oil sprayed from squeezed peels.

Standing still does no good here, Rodi's back and forth gives Olive a mild case of vertigo. He's eagerly waiting for the blender to finish its job. His fingers grip the dial for when his count reaches zero. On his way to the next round, Rodi intertwines a little dance through this to and fro. Olive gets a bit quizzical, deciphering whether this is a taunt or an invitation.

Since the opening hours, Rodi's been peppier than usual. It could be the extra attention he captures as his hands do expressive motions in his mixing, or the sweet chimes of the card reader and sliding coins that give him so much vitality. If he had a hunch this was going to be a good night, it’s surely been surpassed. It's all he wanted, indeed. A lucky star shined the right way for them. Watching it unfold so quickly placed Rodi in a dream state, where his overworked feet hover effortlessly, the liquids move by their own volition, and the night's entirely on his side. Olive could also blame the adrenaline, the rush Rodi's so often addicted to, to his own detriment. As much as he enjoys his ecstatic states, he feels a fuse is going to pop, sooner or later.

In any case, Olive might as well join the whimsy. He takes Rodi's hand in his free one, raises it and has him go under for a pirouette. He gladly follows through. When Rodi finishes it, he grips his hand again and raises it higher. Olive's eyes narrow, his smirk blooms when the second pirouette goes for longer, seemingly infinitely, without a hitch. The two centrifugal motions are in sync, one in the blender blades, the other in the feet. He grows aware of the wooing.

Olive turns the blender back to zero, then separates his fingers from Rodi's. Though, as he reaches for two glasses, Rodi takes his hands back, both of them this time. The grip fits naturally between the two. He guides him in the centre of their measly workspace. Nobody's able to see, but where Rodi's sole laid before his step back, that's where Olive places his foot. Olive holds a downward gaze in the walk, avoiding any accidental knocks. Rodi doesn't take his grinning face off him, he's determined to make him move.

In the distance of their hearing, strangers started clapping on beat for them. They've done the impossible, they created a semblance of order in the chaos. It's undetectable in the layman's eyes, though a check of their gaze tells them a lot about how they're managing. They share the sentiment: pupils enlarged from the dim lighting, a bit taken away by the moment, yet alert. Nevertheless, the way they shine says it's the time of their lives. Rodi's expecting blink makes Olive give in, his hands loosen up.

The current song asks for a little bit of salsa, Rodi sets the tone with a leg going back, while the opposite hand gives a gentle tug on Olive's. Olive catches on the move, then soon mirrors it. Pleased with the stage setting, Rodi lets go of his left hand, letting it hover behind, keeping the arm parallel to the ground, as his footwork becomes less one dimensional. While Olive can't match the snappy steps, he can guide Rodi to his spot, letting him spin his hearts out on the way. When their positions are reversed, Rodi leans back, extending the free arm out, putting faith in the hold that he won't fall over. The hold's sure, it's giving their chests the most room before they come together. Rodi coils around the linked arms, and once he can't go further, he makes sure that Olive's hand falls on his hip by itself, just as he planned. Rodi's free hand takes his shoulder, bringing it all back to the three step routine, a tad more intimate, this time.

It's a massive success, there's now even more screaming.

"Is this sending a message? Someone's been hitting on you?" Olive turns to Rodi's ear.

His footwork doesn't hitch. "Ha! I'm not that petty, I would've put a ring on me if I didn't want any of that!"

"You little shit," he laughs in his face, then lets him unlace. He watches Rodi show off for a little more, finishing off the final spin by striking a pose. It's hard to get mad about it, Rodi's a bona fide entrepreneur, of course he's gonna catch any chance for an extra tip.

As much as they love messing around, they're still on the clock, there's more drinks to be made. They drift back into their multitasking, letting this moment become a reason to stay playful with it.

Olive picks the jug out of the blender and quickly pours its contents into two hurricane glasses. A frangipani and pineapple slice on a toothpick serve as garnish, and he spots how dangerously low they're running on garnishes. He should take note of the status on the rest of the stock, if only there was a breather. He pushes on regardless.

Those that haven't caught the dance bug continue the chant, as the two inklings pour, shake, and strain to it. It's mesmerising to watch how the taller and the shorter bartenders maintain their lockstep. At the end of this arduous round, the chanting dissolves, and the scenery's back to what Olive came to.

Olive scans the bar for the thousandth time, for anyone who gives off the biggest impression of being next in line. The next guy orders a spirit and mixer. As Olive pours a measure into the jigger, the spout's stream stops as it fills a third of it. He angles the bottle with a sharper twist of the wrist, yet it doesn't bring out more than a drop. He checks on the customer, distracted by his group. He chooses to pour the shortchanged measure into the glass. He bites his tongue, hoping it goes unnoticed.

He picks each rail bottle afterwards, sloshing and squinting for what's remained of each. There's a few more like it, all about to go dry. He needs to sort it out into the storage, though he bumps into Rodi as he makes way in the opposite direction. The impact makes Rodi stagger a few steps behind, but he holds on to the bottle in his hand like on to his life.

Olive reaches to catch his partner and apologize. Rodi instead detours it by maneuvering his hips around him, switching places in the narrow space. It's like it never happened to him.

Though a few whistles sound from beyond the counter. Olive keeps the acrid expression at bay, rearranging the apron at his hips. He'll let the blush fade in the storage's obscurity.

A set of keys rattles in the apron. It's second nature to unlock the inconspicuous door without looking. He lets the residual light of the bar area rain into the cramped room. Industrial shelves hold spares, extras, miscellaneous lost and found that are yet to be claimed. This space is incredibly liminal, and it unnerves Olive as soon as he enters it. He'll one day discover an incredibly rotten lime under these shelves.

As he returns with fresh bottles under his arms, shutting the door with a back kick, his eyes dart to Rodi. This is what happens when he's left alone: he starts drinking the leftovers in the blender.

"Gross. It's separated." Olive points at the distinct watery and coconut oil layers in what remained of it.

"Nah. It's perfectly fine," Rodi wipes the corners of his mouth with his wrist. "I can't leave it to waste."

"Sure, you're used to chugging weird, clumpy liquids," he adds while offloading the bottles, one at a time. He then returns to the order he abandoned for the restock.

"Only if they're yours," Rodi's grin exposes his fangs in their entirety at this point. He slams his tins together with a slap he didn't even witness, then knocks the big tin's base on his chest, starting the next shake.

Olive's right brow stays raised, as he goes through the motions for his own pair of tins. Synchronicity gets reestablished in the process, the ice bangs the same way within the two pairs of shakers. Olive's left hand is grounded on the counter, his head turned slightly away from his right arm to allow it a stronger motion. His eyes are shut, as if blinking would demand too much energy at this point. He knows he chills the drink more than enough if his fingers fuse on the frosty steel.

The numbness in the finger pads is at home in the static that's taking over their limbs. A drone tone of noise and memorised measures circles their heads, turning them on autopilot. So much for staying playful with it.

The clock hit four in the morning.