Two cans fizz together as they're opened simultaneously. Another cloud of dense smoke forms between two inklings, stopping just before the low ceiling. The navy inkling's burp stains the current song: a guitarist stretches her instrument's strings to their limits, bringing the listeners on a 20-minute wobbly journey in her band's recorded jam session.

"Damn, my specimens are still pressing, and you got them all mounted up on paper," Tavi falls deeper into his two seater couch, sinking into its old springs. In camaraderie, after taking his blunt hit, he passes to Olive.

Olive successfully guides the joint around, so that no bits fall on the scattered plant specimens. Out of habit, he inhales like on his bartending smoke breaks, quick and efficient, a mistake he keeps doing. The unfiltered heat puts his throat on pins and needles. He swallows the cough, wets it with his can of beer, and tries his best not to blow all the dried leaves and flowers off his papers.

As Olive allows Tavi to browse through his herbarium freely, he also allows himself to check the odd state of his friend's room. His basement bedroom seems to share Mimosa's grow light strategy. Tavi has been expanding his modest collection of C. sativa strains, stacked in rows glued to the darkest wall in the house. The grow boxes are unzipped, beaming purple light, hinting how Tavi's been attending to the legally grey plants before Olive's visit.

Tavi's eyes get wider as he goes through the specimens. "Ohh! Look at that arrangement! So fucking clean," he brings his face slightly closer to one. The flower head is fully open and centred, the leaf has a gentle bend, to show both of its sides, and all the loose material has been collected into a nicely folded envelope, attached to the cardboard backing. "You're always so good at this herbarium stuff."

"Careful. Some aren’t properly mounted yet," Olive laughs. "I'll give credit to all the bar training. My hand's steadier with the pressings now."

"What else you got?"

"Just some notes..." Olive looks for his notebook, the hardcover used in the Bluefin trip.

Tavi flips through the pages, eventually landing on Olive's drawing from the building. "Bro, I didn't know you sketched," he's shocked at the level of detail in it.

"I'm actually having trouble identifying this," Olive stops Tavi at this page. "What do you think it is?"

Tavi takes a minute to examine the drawing and description, probably zoning out a few times in the process. "...Hmm. You're saying here it stank herby, so you're probably right on Lamiaceae. And the flower… big Salvia energy.”

"That was my first guess, too." Olive takes the notebook back. His pinky delicately hovers above the sketch. "But I just checked online, all the Salvia observations similar to this one are outside Inkadia, and get more frequent as you go west, clustering on the Bankaran coasts. And I made sure to capture this, the tubular part is much narrower, and the corolla opens into this huge, split bottom petal. I never saw that in Salvias. And the leaves were kinda off... I tried to draw them, but... Imagine they're lanceolate,” Olive pauses for Tavi's own input.

Yet, Tavi takes his attention to his grinder and filters. "Crazy," he half-emphasises. A balancing act unfolds as he builds another bud on his knee. Tavi licks the filter paper twice, before pressing it over itself. He rolls one lap of it in his fingers, then brings it to his mouth, lighting it with his novelty lighter: shaped like another blunt. "It's prolly brought on the old trade ships. It's cool, it's worth another check. Aren’t you going back to the isle for a specimen?"

“I took a cutting, actually,” Olive mumbles, “to propagate.”

“Propagate...?”

“In hindsight, I needed a specimen, but the ferry would've left without me.”

“Pfffhah! Bro, you had time for a cutting,” he lets a wheezy laugher, ending on a brief cough. “You’re not gonna wait for the thing to grow, right? You gotta get a legit specimen.”

“Who the hell knows what dilapidated building this was in?”

“See? That's why you always note the observation's location and coordinates."

"I forgot to," Olive grumbles. He was too mesmerised for it in that moment.

After spilling his limited wisdom, Tavi freezes a while with his blunt close to his mouth. “...Is what it is. You can stick the rest in Shellendorf’s herbarium. That’s gotta add some points to your lab work.”

Olive gathers the loose papers, securing them in their folder. "Well, I need formalised IDs for them first, don't I?"

"Yea, but you don't wrap a gift so clean when it's for yourself. You become a contributor, they get more material. I gotta do that, too. ...Once my pressings get mounted," he ends on a lax pick of his nose. "What if you--"

"No," Olive stops him early. "Do them yourself."

Unaffected, Tavi shrugs and smokes, leg slowly bopping to the drummer.

With a lapful of dried flora, Olive hangs still, a quivering line of smoke emerging between his fingers. He ponders upon images of inflorescences, kaleidoscopic in his blooming imagination, as a chilled rhythm installs. "But, what if... one of my observations turns out to be a new species?"

"Then you're a lucky mofo, with a publication already sorted," Tavi's head falls on the armrest, ready to drown in the vapours.

Another beat, until the fact fully registers.

"...Shit," Olive suddenly leaves his herbarium for his notebook. "I haven't submitted my thesis proposal."

"Bro, it's right under your nose: you saw a weird plant growing in concrete, and you're the first to observe it in Inkadia. You have a boatload to dig into there, if you’d only get on that boat again. Man... We're the ones that should be thinking harder," he follows with another hit, and all worries dissolve into the nether. His eyes close, his face relaxes, and his hums join the song's vocalist.

Olive's brows furrow, until he finds the right page and gets his sketch in his sight. "Then again, I doubt I'm the first one to see this Salvia across shores. It'd be more suitable to pin-point when the species was introduced to the island, together with whatever else is there. There has to be a link between industrialization and its rapid adaptations."

"Wooh... Good shout. The M.E. group might know more. I spent my first year's summer with them. They take whatever you throw in their Inkadia project. Like, all the random collections in the region without IDs get dumped in there, they might have info on your isle find."

"There's no way the Mollusc Era group will care about a pre-Molluscian clade," Olive dismisses.

"Whoa, whoa, wait. Not so fast, bud. One of the postgrads, uh, what's her name..." his speech is fuzzing. The cloud around and in Tavi's head thickens. "That one, you know her. She started a taxa consolidation thing, between M.E. and pre-M.E."

Olive's ink veins swell. That was what June had been brainstorming while Olive tiptoed barefoot around her home.

"Uh. That's... not my domain," he briskly concludes. “I don't want to get deep into taxonomy stuff. But... I'll chew on it. Thanks for the input."

Like a catfish, he moves slower, in hopes that Tavi won't notice how he's getting ready to leave.

"Dude?" Tavi's head raises as soon as Olive leaves his blunt over the ashtray, as if it's an extension of his own body. "Give it a chance, aren't you curious?"

It's hard for Olive to keep the cracks of his voice at bay. "No. I'm not. I'm not touching the M.E. group. They're the department's favourite, it's not fair for the other researchers."

"I dunno, man. They're favourites for a reason. They're the domain experts for your stuff here."

"This is not even about their specialisation. I... just don't like them! Besides, other supervisors have better availability."

"Pfff. You want a supervisor that's not that chick," a wide grin takes over Tavi. "You always clam up around her."

"June?" Olive closely monitors his friend.

"Yeah, uh, the undergrad research thing was over the summer, like I said."

Olive squints, then figures Tavi needs some help. "...Your supervisor was June. June Maure."

"...That's her name! Wow, Mora's right, I'm such a dumbass. Yeah! I worked the entire summer under June. Good times, I--"

Olive claws the couch. "What the hell?!"

Tavi gets on his elbows, letting a confused hum.

"Whole summer? And you didn't say anything?! No... Did she say anything?" Olive drops back to the couch, his knees digging into Tavi's sides. "How much do you know?"

"Know what? Bro, slow down. You're tense as fuh."

"For the love of..."

Olive sits in recluse, at the foot of the couch, and finishes what's left of his blunt. As his lungs fill, he sees his herbarium peeking out of his backpack, something he can't ignore in the haze. He tries shutting his eyes as well, though the shade behind his eyelids isn't any comfort. It's wrapped in countless lilac tendrils. There's a pulsing sickness in his stomach.

Tavi scratches his head. "What's the deal between you and June? Legit, I got no clue. Mora and Tilly were hushing about it before, but when I asked, they switched subjects.

"...Those two as well," Olive pinches the bridge of his mask. "Fuck. I guess it was kinda obvious what happened, before we went on break."

"Like, in our first year? You were the TA pet. Hah... You kept asking for June to check your answers." Tavi's leg bounces, grin untethered. "Ooooh. Hold on. You were crushing on her."

"...Yeah. Crushing," he scorns.

"Is that why the girls were so hush-hush? Like, whatever, bro. Unless... Don't say it. You knocked her up."

"God, no!" Olive presses his palms to his forehead. "It wasn't that bad, no. We're not on talking terms, I think."

"Even on campus?"

"...I wouldn't try my luck." Olive slides lower to the floor, his head and tentacles pushing against the armrest. The uncomfortable position, both physically and mentally, makes him snap out of it. He gets up to retrieve his backpack.

A melodramatic whimper beckons him back.

"Man, come on, you just got here!" Tavi even offers the end of his own blunt, potent and priceless.

Despite his involuntary groan and slouch, Olive sits back down, next to his buddy, yet he finds himself unable to bite the bait.

"Fine, but I need to look some stuff up at the library. I'll go once I sober up," he sits on the armrest, simply waiting for time to pass, keeping Tavi company as he said he would.

Shrugging off the rejection of his generous offering, Tavi takes the hit by himself, billowing smoke from his mouth and nostrils. Eventually, he breaks through it, unusually serious:

"Bro, I have no idea how deep you and June ran."

Olive stares at the ceiling's peeling layers of paint, swaying his uncrossed leg. "She ended it."

"Huh?" Tavi's grown too dazed to follow the implication.

"She broke up with me," Olive leers back, as each mention of it stirs a stab of memories. "I didn't want to end it with her," he returns to the ceiling.

"Oh. Bummer. Did you try getting back together?"

"No. It was... a bit too late."

A chance encounter with the pomegranate inkling cleared a new path for Olive. However, he hasn't quite left his old path, which still wraps around June's in such fateful crossroads. It's why he sought closure with June, which never amounts, and never will, no matter how often he will try. There's still tremors where time should've left blank signposts in his emotions. Thoughts that were long buried resurface, now that he's facing the chance of seeing, even collaborating with her.

As he leaves Tavi's apartment, the darker thoughts prey on him.

Did he choose Rodi, and all his idiosyncrasies, just to quell his love for June?

After spinning the idea in his head for his entire journey, he wraps it in his old justifications. It's no longer an issue. It's a question of the past, which he already found the answer to. Rodi isn't the embodiment of his avoidance, he is a conscious choice fuelled by love.

...Why is he mulling this over again? Also, why can't he find one free spot? The University Library's availability flatlines as courses ramp up mid-October.

Olive storms his way between rows of identical monitors and bookshelves. The library's seating is taken in more and more ingenious ways. Leaving behind jackets and bags innocuously is a classic strategy, though Olive's more impressed by the mountains of empty instant noodles claiming someone's spot. Some seats are eternally taken by students sleeping their all-nighters off, only to immediately repeat the cycle upon waking up.

He heads for Tilly's usual desk, where by sheer popularity, she can hold claim over her own computer. Her privilege extends to her closer circle: Mora, Olive and Tavi, who are free to use it when she's not around. Olive sort of hopes to stumble on her, to brainstorm with someone else about his Bluefin Island specimens. Alas, she's been absent from her frequented spots, ever since she started dating that bland pike guy. ...A Leo, was he? Writing insurance policies. Oh, god. Tilly wants that.

Tilly never betrays any anguish about three years of higher education going down the drain, in spite of her fleeting infatuation luring her into this odd path. Whether this is determination or recklessness, Olive never knows, which is why he can't feel the same. This tear between his two brains always leaves a nagging chasm in his logic.

The computer greets him with his many folders of lecture notes and assignments. He goes straight to the library's online articles service, inputting keywords that might pop something up about his talk with Tavi. Titles and abstracts get instantly listed.

A synthesis of Molluscian and Pre-Molluscian flora in Inkadia, published last year. That sounds like a promising start.

The Inkadian Peninsula and its surrounding islands' flora, documented in pre-121st century expeditions, has historical mislabelling issues due to misinterpretations of fossil samples. Recent analysis of living specimens collected between 12000-12015 reveal the existence of distinct lineages from their Pre-M.E. counterparts, with 1-million-year genetic divergences from the type species.

Seems like that's where the M.E. group's work comes into play. Diving deeper into the paper, between cutting-edge DNA barcoding methodology and taxa revisions, he finds a nugget:

One often studied example of enigmatic taxa in the region is the Poaceae M.E. genus Calachloris. By aligning gene sequences from herbarium specimens with modern genetically modified proxy plants, we confirmed that C. compactum was actually Eragrostis minor var. bluefin, a missing link to a Pre-M.E. genus.

These researchers found a connection between a roadside grass and its long-gone ancestor, and on Bluefin nonetheless? Olive is intrigued how toying with a sample's DNA could recreate something from an era ago. He notes the source of this paragraph, hoping it'll lead him to a focused survey of the Inkadian islands.

Hours fly by. Before he knows it, he's at the citations, having littered the article with hundreds of highlights. The clock hints at the time outside, while the library's lack of windows cannot do so. Olive's still getting accustomed to the sudden darkness outside. The sun's been setting sooner, signalling the start of his shift at Mimosa earlier than he's used to.

He takes his shortcuts through the sprawling campus. He walks through the Natural Sciences building, aiming for the exit closer to the subway station. With all the day's lectures ended, the hallways are quiet, there isn't a single office door ajar for students to peer inside.

He's calmed himself with this small research session. In fact, the subject might be interesting enough to make him tolerate the M.E. group. Tavi was right: the resources and expertise they can offer could make his thesis a standout one. He warms up to the idea. He could even get an award for it. He'd be the alpha of his year. He's unstoppable. Though he catches a haunting sign, just before the foyer's descent.

June Maure, PhD Botany (Mollusc Era Project)

Olive's beak rattles in its grind.

...She even got her own fucking office?!

He can't escape her, no matter how far he is from the campus. Olive's fate is bent on driving him mad: J. Maure is authored on most recent papers that could relate to his thesis research. And if not her, her lead supervisor's name encapsulates her background presence: K. Vanua et al., which appears on papers pertaining the "M.E." - now claimed as Maure's Era.

Instead of information, he extracts unfiltered emotion while skimming through these articles. It's a mix of anger, and longing, and unsatiety, and it makes him more restless about June. ...She made it. She's reaching new heights, she's putting her ambition into action, just like she said she would. It leaves him in awe and reverence, and instead of shunning the feeling, he latches onto it. It itches just like when Rodi decided to open up Mimosa.

A dry swallow follows. ...What if Olive's just a junkie for other people's dreams?

"We're opening. Baby, get the--" the directions stop, once Rodi spots him clasping his temples above his laptop. "Ah, you're busy. Shout when you're done studying."

Olive's seated on a stool, sneaking in his last chances for schoolwork before he switches sides of the bar.

"I'm not studying. I'm thinking about whether I should drop out," he admits too matter-of-fact.

"Nuh-uh, you're not," Rodi immediately returns. "You've locked me in this bar until March, so I'm making you hang on until you graduate. Actually, you can't drop out if you've already graduated. Sounds like your problem solves itself in a few months!"

"..."

Rodi's seen Olive deal with his study troubles. He doesn't become catatonic from mere gaps in his knowledge.

"Is this about June?" Rodi sniffs it out.

"...Augh!! What is up with all of you?!" Olive puffs out, slamming the laptop shut. "Am I that bad at hiding it? First, Tavi. Now, you."

"You really are," Rodi attempts humour, though trails off out of concern for his situation. This isn't mere angst.

Olive takes a long exhale through the nose before confessing. "Yes. It is. There's a chance my thesis will land me in her research group," he pinches the bridge of his mask. "It'll be so incredibly awkward."

"Does it have to be?" Rodi tilts his head. "Like, business is business, baby. Love has no business mixing in..." he woos.

"You're the least qualified to talk about the separation of business and love," Olive pouts, somewhat offended by the suggestion.

"Hey, I can separate them, for real. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m keeping my head in the game, from opening ‘til closing," he boasts while he unloads the last glass in the dishwasher.

Olive scoffs. "I know you too well to believe it."

"Sure, don't take my word for it. Like you science-y guys say: try me."

Test the hypothesis, Olive corrects in his mind. ...Rodi might be onto something.

And a theory soon follows. His anxiety boils down to one thing: he can't stand ceding part of himself to June again. If Olive can keep a cool head in some self-inflicted tension, he can probably sail through any resurfaced tensions while working with her. Instead of letting himself get ripped in half by his past and present, he can prove he can tame both.

"Hah, actually, why not make it a bet? Whoever lets their feelings get in the way of their service will do the cleaning," Rodi adds. "I'll get to watch, and you'll make the stainless shine."

Olive's face twists with mischief. "This is big talk coming from someone about to mop this place."

He's got everything to convince himself tonight: controlled environment, known parameters, desired outcome. It's business as usual, Olive's got an idea of what strings to pull, and he'll know for sure who's in control. His maraschino cherry on top: Rodi will end up too horny to still be in the right.

The low lights are flicked on. It's time for Olive to be certain about something today.

*

Phase one: Opening.

A couple is joining them for a first-hour booking. They quickly settle at their candlelit table. They seem to be on a date, absorbed into each other. Love is in the air, priming Olive for his schemes.

Olive has some work-appropriate techniques to inject some intimacy into their work. Anthos becomes unaware of personal space when reaching for a glass above, leaning into his partner with all his body's length. Hands land on Rodi's hips as his partner passes behind. However, no matter the amount of brushings and bumps, his attempts don't have any impact on Rodi's stone-cold stare and execution.

Isandro's coldness extends into his reply.

“…Gah!!” Olive bursts out of nowhere.

Whilst stirring a drink, he gets shocked by something cold on his neck. It slides in an instant down his spine, making him drop his spoon, then curl and wince. From behind, Rodi suddenly pulls on Olive's shirt, fully loosening it from under his belt. An ice cube falls to the floor, having left its wet trail along Olive's back.

"Tuck your shirt better. You're looking sloppy," Rodi corrects, under the guise of professionalism.

Olive’s skin is raised all over from the sudden temperature shifts, the chromatophores underneath showing in bumpy, glowing spots. He turns behind to growl, "…You're playing dirty."

"All's fair," Rodi leaves the adage unfinished. "You know, it'll be best if you stop here. You'll end up on your knees at this rate." The self-assured glint in his carmine eyes drives it home.

Olive rearranges the shirt underneath his belt. "Y-... You'll slip at one point."

Unfortunately, Olive starts to see the gap in his experiment. Rodi had plenty of experience with this sort of stuff. Before Olive, he was always landing himself in unscrupulous situations and clawing out of them. The bet might be skewed towards Isandro, but Anthos believes things can always turn around, as long as he adds something unexpected to the mix.

*

Phase two: Serving.

A few regulars have shown up. Some new faces are taking up the tables and standing spaces, chatting and sipping away as the place gets louder. Another booking arrives, a group of four that Rodi sits at the bar. While they're left to read the menu, the bartenders gleam from their chatter that they're all coworkers.

Besides an order, Rodi gets slipped a compliment.

"A Fresh Spritz. And your skincare routine. There must be a trick to being this handsome," the curly-tentacled inkling beams at him.

"Trade secret," Rodi glitters back. Yet, he doesn't indulge the guest with more.

The buzzcut inkling has a sharper eye. "Careful, you're hitting on someone taken."

"Ah! Not again. How can you tell?" Curls asks back.

"Tall guy there nearly spoke up," he points at Olive, "but closed his mouth and grinned."

"...Crushed shell cleanser, two different moisturisers, and light cushion foundation, specifically, the one in collaboration with Nami." Lowkey, keeping his eyes on his work, Olive recites from memory.

Rodi pauses as this unfolds, but is unwilling to intervene. "There go my secrets," he smiles, as if Olive's done him a favour.

"What? You were right," Curls blinks back at Buzzcut, and scans Olive herself. "You know so much about it, too! That's so cute of you two."

Both bartenders nod in thanks, and build their drinks in unison.

With more people around, Olive can approach his schemes from a different angle. There's some fondness in the equation now, innocently brought up by their guest. Olive's got a better chance at making Rodi lose composure, maybe with a compromising discussion that's not too overt. Rodi tends to talk himself into his own demise in such moments.

Thankfully, the party in front of them is generous with their words.

"It must be so nice, having all these drinks to yourself!" The inkling with a short ponytail's been admiring their bar's setup for a while.

"Yup. We get a bit of time to enjoy some at the end, when everyone's out," Rodi adds.

"What's your favourite one, out of these all?" He points at their wall of bottles.

Turning with his hands on his hips, tapping his foot as if in deep thought, Rodi picks a rather full bottle. "Oh, this? It's the best thing at the end of a hard day. It's perfect on its own, on the rocks. Trust me."

The wheels spin behind Olive's forehead. Now's the chance to turn Rodi's sales pitch against him.

"Don't believe him, he's trying to sell you that bottle. In truth, he’d rather go home for some sweat on the rocks. If he asks nicely, I can serve him one tonight," Olive's glance sticks to the side, making sure not to miss Rodi turning red all over.

"Aw, you'd really do that? Thanks, darling," Rodi winks back. Something devious takes hold of him, as if two devil horns grow out of his raised brows. "But you know it takes more to make me shaken, not stirred."

"I have over-served you before. Too bad I'm not into a clingy customer."

"Funny you say that, I've never had you go past a double measure with me. You're knocked out by the first round with me. Hell, I've given you the mocktail a few times and you couldn't tell the difference. Rookie mistake, I know. That's why I pour slow for you."

Laughter sounds across the stools.

Olive's roars are reduced to a sputter, his eyes roll back to his bar mat. "Oh, fuck off."

Rodi mouths behind a menu, "You started with the puns, baby."

This was stupid. There wasn't any way Olive would outwit Rodi's lip. At least the guests are left entertained by their veiled oversharing. If public embarrassment would warrant some tips, Olive would let go of it easier.

But until that check is printed, he's using it as a mental chew toy. There's no way Rodi actually meant it. Right? ...Right?! Olive runs every ending of theirs through his mind, though it leaves him more frustrated than assured.

*

Phase three: Last Call.

Most of the guests have left with a smile on their face. The bartenders' little game made them even more mindful of their service, which nicely fattened their tips. Little did the guests know how stiffened the two have been sitting next to each other, overly cautious of their next moves.

Rodi announces the last call, using a novelty bell he got from one of their regulars. It catches the attention of the party of four inklings, still sat at the bar.

Seeing the tiredness in their eyes, yet feeling too good to be leaving so soon, Buzzcut and Curls ask what the two can serve quickly and easily. Olive lowers himself to the fridges in anticipation, while Rodi lists out what's on offer.

"We can pop open any bottle in the fridge for you, we've got sparkling, beers, w--" Rodi stutters. He clears his throat. "W-Wine. And other stuff. Let me check..." the carmine gaze shoots downwards, brows furrowing at the predicament he's finding himself in.

Olive's taken hold of his ankles, knowing how ticklish Rodi can get. He pushes the red pants' hem higher, to reveal more of his leg. He brushes the tips of his nails along it, softly nipping at the skin. A slight twitch is enough confirmation for Olive to know that he'll be the victor tonight.

But all that conviction leaves in an instant. Rodi lowers himself to his level and doesn't waste a moment. One of his hands goes over Olive's mouth, the other grabs one of his tied tentacles. His fingers brush against the tentacle's soft sucker, finding the spot that makes Olive instantly drop to his knees.

It's like a button to jolt his entire body and disarm him. The weakness keeps him kneeling, trying to suck air through Rodi's fingers.

"I knew you'd moan," Rodi hushes next to his ear, then releases his hand from his mouth. He's done Olive a favour, nobody heard his pathetic whimper.

It leaves Olive even more star-struck.

...Where the hell did this come from? Where, when, with whom did he learn this?

"Can we have a beer each?" The guests have decided already.

"Of course," Rodi shouts back. Aware of his partner's helplessness, he picks the bottles from the fridges. "Get up, silly," he demands before lifting, but the request emasculates the other bartender more.

...There's no comebacks left. Olive didn't heed Rodi's warning from earlier. It's too damning that he wanted Rodi atop him that moment, not pouring beer in pint glasses.

Once he's able to stand, he makes a swift exit to the street.

He's too worked up to stand still at his spot on the wall. He does everything to leave the relentless lewd images in his mind behind. He's trying everything, remembering phylogenies, listing synapomorphies of various plant families, but nature won't save him from his own nature.

A prance of steps echoes from the basement. Olive's foresight makes him sigh and seize the first word.

"...Fine! You weren't bluffing."

With a smile spanning his entire face, Rodi grabs Mimosa's brick arch entrance, sticking his head out into the street. "Hah! See? I told you. Is this why you're here? To cool down?"

"If you're here just to rub it in, don't," the back of Olive's neck starts glowing again.

"Relax, baby. I'm better than that. By the way, did you know I'm an unshakeable pillar of professionalism?" Rodi sing-songs.

Anthos' hand tries to wipe his sneer and blush off, but the wind signals his surrender, waving his shirt like a white flag, untucked once more. "Shut up or say something useful."

Acting like the most special boy in this world, Rodi takes his steps one by one, hands laced behind. He aligns to Olive's oblique lean, and gets to see his overwhelm in moon and streetlight glow. Olive often mixes worry and stubbornness into his flushed gaze. Save me, you glorious bastard, the hidden nip of his bottom lip says.

"You nearly had me at the end, I can give you that," Rodi murmurs.

Finally validated for his efforts, Olive unsticks himself from the wall, closing the cold gap between them two. His hands encircle his partner, meeting at the small of his back. A pull on his arms has them squeeze closer. Outside the bar, there are no more restraints.

"I'll take it."

Rodi initiates their overdue kiss.

The pressure they've built becomes palpable. The heated air inside Olive escapes with each opening of their lips. The valves in his hearts let his lust out in measured doses, having Rodi take sips of him like ones of their strongest drinks. As redeeming as this all is, Olive gains a craving for more. He's getting reacquainted to Rodi's permissiveness, which is tinder for his anticipation. They press their bodies closer, getting as much contact as their clothes allow. The heat builds up to the sharp halt of their separation, leaving Olive under higher pressure than before.

"Well, this was fun," Rodi takes a hand off Olive's shoulder to toy with one of his white earrings. "I wish I called the last round earlier. These bitches are overstaying their welcome," his head tilts towards the entrance. "I'll go kick them out.”

Olive's too far removed from his thoughts to register anything said, or notice Rodi slipping out of his grip. On his next blink, Olive spots his partner descending back to the bar.

His hungry mind barks one word: an echo of his past, ringing just as loudly into the present.

…Again.

Rodi feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to his partner, expecting a fleeting request, though an unexpected force falls upon him. A whimper, drowned by downstairs' music, escapes Rodi's lips. He suddenly finds himself pressed between the stairway's cold bricks and Olive's furnacing body. Olive's eyes are shut, all his senses are laser-focused on a single goal: return to their deep kiss. His hands clasp the back of Rodi's neck, having him yield completely.

Forgoing any gasp for air, Rodi gives into bliss once more. It's mixed with treacle and trepidation from his partner's boldness. He relapses to the taste, suddenly famished from the holdback he endured. The grit of the brick behind him keeps him from sliding down in weakness. He'd merge with him, if he could. Yet, his loud inner voice nags.

"...Olive," a breath sounds between his lips, before his partner sticks his tongue back in. "Olive." He rips himself off, taking another step down their stairs. "Baby. Nobody's watching the register."

Still entranced, Olive opens his eyes partway. A moment later, he gasps at his realisation, which hits him at full speed. He is the one to usually call out common sense like this.

He swallows his tongue and nods for Rodi to continue descending. However, his breath is as heavy as before, his veins swelled to put him into overdrive. He learns another unfortunate thing about himself. He lost control. He couldn't have ended it.

Ruffling his tentacles, making his way back to the street, he pipes down in the way he should've from the start. He grabs his emptying lighter inside his apron, holding it in his trembling fingers, cigarette in swollen lips. The first sigh of smoke takes him down a few notches, but the tension's just the same, only less urgent.

The neon above his head fades into darkness, it's closing time. He's left only with the full moon beaming on the top of his head. It's twisting his mind again, making images of Rodi and himself rapidly flash. But he can't enjoy the feeling. If this little game went so far from something so little, he's too scared to think what June could make out of him.

The guests from earlier emerge from the basement. In the darkness, they don't notice Olive glued to the corner wall. They're chittering loudly about their own workplace drama. Rodi managed to get them out without killing their mood. That's nice of him. It's less nice how Olive has to deal with his desires and responsibilities again.

However, it seems that Anthos isn't the only one between a rock and a hard place.

"There you are," Rodi listens for his descent downstairs. "Have you ever tried to hide a hard-on at work? It sucks. I never had this problem before," he yaps without abandon, while gathering dirty glasses.

Olive joins the gathering. "No... I guess it wasn't a problem while you were stripping?"

"Ha. I don't think I ever had one this bad while dancing. If I did, I could've rolled on a money carpet."

"I'm sorry I pushed you," Olive avoids the carmine gaze, in spite of its playful glimmer.

"It's cool. I don't mind seeing you steamed up like this," Rodi's laugh comforts. He's finally in enough privacy to unveil the early pillow talk. "I didn't think the day would ever come, shoving me like you own me."

A loaded pause. "...You liked that?" Colour returns to Olive's cheeks, more diffuse than before. He dries his hands with the nearest bar towel, getting sweaty as he's washed again by thrill.

"I always like a surprise," Rodi winds closer, taking the towel away.

Olive stops before laying his hands back on him. "Even when it's out of hand?"

"Especially when it's out of hand."

Olive's reply is a short, breathy laughter. He can't think of anything else. He needs to finish what they've started upstairs. His arms wrap as far as they can go around Rodi. His lover presses his thigh between Olive's, briefly hovering off the floor when he's brought closer.

They can't even focus on the kissing anymore. They press lips and whimper, undecided and impatient to take it further. Olive pauses with his forehead touching the other's, gasping before speaking.

"Rodi... You should lock up," he opens his eyes partway.

"Mm... I turned off the signage," Rodi nuzzles closer.

"That won't stop our friends from coming downstairs."

A fanged smirk with its smeared, fading nude lipstick takes the centre-stage. "I know."

"Tsk." Olive dives back into the sparkling red eyes: they feign innocence. This was another ploy in their game, which hasn't ended despite his surrender. Rodi also doesn't know when to stop.

"Think we'll be done before them?" His lover tests him with pleading eyes from below, nails curling behind his ears.

"We can try," Olive's murmurs draw out before wrapping them in a last kiss, stopping at a shallower depth. But he returns to his usual voice when self-consciousness takes hold. "Still... Let's take this to the storage."

The pomegranate inkling glances to his right. The dark doorway beckons. "Hm. Does it even fit two people?"

Olive sneaks a last squeeze on Rodi's hips, a last press against his body to make known that they're really going for this. "...It's better than the washroom," he says, mildly amused by the idea.

Rodi steps back with a bounce. He offers a hand, to let Olive lead the dozen steps towards the storage.

The storage's obscurity is working in its advantage for once. The air is stuffy, and it couldn't be better. The lack of time and palpable precocity befalls them, the tall shelving traps them inside. The wrong knock could bring all these bottles to the floor, a disaster unveiling at the peak of their pleasure. Their heartbeats start racing just from thought. Suddenly, broken bottles sound inciting.

With the white shirt's hem already in his hands, Rodi goes deeper into the room with deliberate, backwards steps, pulling the other along with him. When the shirt goes past Olive's tentacles, Rodi's behind lands on a table's edge. All the forgotten, old furniture in here finds a new use. Olive takes his shirt back from Rodi and places it over a chair's backrest. Rodi shuffles up on the table, sitting at the perfect level to sneak a kiss on his partner's neck. He radiates warmth like the sun.

Anthos feels for the gap in Isandro's tie, pushing his finger inside to undo it. He goes through each of his shirt's button, trying his best to balance the patience of the task and the impatience of themselves. Rodi does his own part, pulling their belts loose before they become a nuisance.

Pushing the fabric away from Rodi's chest, his verdant eyes fixate on the deeper shadows of his form. Intimately familiar with his sculpt, he places his thumbs under his breasts, fingers curling around his ribcage, nestling in the shallow gaps. He hones on the sensation, his vision cutting through the darkness, forming his own faint, silver-toned sight. The soft lines delimiting his lover's chest invite him to sink into them. The day's work has mixed with the amber and rose sweetness of his perfume. Olive gets enchanted by it, he licks the scent off in wide strokes, leaving the first traces of himself upon Rodi's skin.

It doesn't take much strategizing to get one on top of the other. The aluminium tabletop goes from frigid to red hot once Rodi's back is fully laid over it. Olive nestles above, between his spreading legs. He manoeuvres both his body and Rodi's higher up the table, showing off his strength with surprising lightness, undaunted by the wobbling shelves. The control, the focused channelling of these impulses - they entrance Rodi.

In fact, Rodi is unusually happy and willing to mould into whatever shape Olive's arms make of him. His sinner mouth slipped some truth earlier, with his confession for feeling owned. A year ago, he would've claimed arousal for such a thing only if a gun was up to his ear. He discovers the allure of giving up his freedom. Getting handled so effortlessly makes a flustered laughter rise out of Rodi. It soon morphs into a moan, cut short by Olive's hand over his mouth: revenge for shutting his mouth earlier.

The scene is utterly compromising. Olive's belt buckle rings against the metal. His shoulders are adorned with Rodi's legs. Their breathing's a hurricane. But there's something that's been left unsaid in this great wave, stuck somewhere in-between Olive's consciousness and instinct.

Rodi's hand digs in Olive's scruff. A low, cagy hum betrays some dissatisfaction. The message is simple. Keep going.

He needed the command. Olive stuffs a chunk of the tie in his partner's mouth. Rodi sings in the satin white fabric for him, and he makes whatever he wants out of his sounds.

I need you.

I'd do anything for this.

I wish this would never end.

But it's all too good to last. End comes too soon.

What's left is a haze of steam, and its light condensation trickling down behind the bottles on the storage's walls. A subdued, satisfied moan stops in Olive's throat. He lets himself fall over Rodi's chest, having his lover stroke his longer back tentacles with a light touch. They catch their breaths, finding a steady rhythm in them again, letting the waves of pleasure dissipate back where they came from.

After coming down from euphoria, he's left in the complete awareness of his body, the pulse emanating from his hearts to his extremities, which he'd never notice otherwise. He remembers: this is what being alive feels like, without the numbness of overthinking to cloud the feeling of living in his own skin. The world and all its perils ceased existing for a while. It's raw and frightening upon the wake, but it's wholly alive.

He remembers how they even got here, sweating and gasping over spare furniture in one of the most uncomfortable corners of this world. Olive's now certain of his weaknesses. It's why he keeps ripping himself in two every day. He'll only ever find control inside someone else.

"...I'm doomed," Anthos chuckles into Isandro's side, feeling bitterness overtaking the sweet in his mouth.

His partner hums in lieu of asking. He's still floating in himself.

"I can't keep my work and my feelings apart. I can't do without one of them. It's too tempting to have both."

Rodi's laugh is weak with affection.

"...Honey. Of course it's tempting. It's a fucking dream working like this."

Olive's unfortunate smile finds some peace after these words, though he doesn't linger on it. He lifts off Rodi, the cold hit of air making him softly shiver. He finds his top and puts it back on, trying to shake his dreams and nightmares off in the process.

Rodi takes himself off the table and stands in front of Olive, with his undone tie thrown across his neck. The scene's akin to their shared afternoons, when they huddle around their bathroom's mirror to get ready for their shift. It'd be quicker to do it himself, though Isandro needs to indulge in that quiet minute, in Anthos' dancing eyelids as he concentrates on perfecting the tie's knot. In this case, he needs one last chance to feel his breath brush against his shimmering skin, while he buttons up the black shirt. The ritual unfolds, both of the satin ends are for Olive to grab. In kind, Rodi pulls with satisfaction on Olive's belt, looping it back with little hurry.

Returning to the main room feels like a reality check in the current state. With stumbling feet, the two take their usual positions. Their set-down is riddled with aftershocks and daydreams. They've long forgotten about the bet.

On the dot, a trample is coming from the stairway. Through the heavy door, seven patrons make their way in, all still uniformed in pristine white and orange. An eccentric mix of line cooks, chefs, waitresses and a busser have escaped their shifts.

"Ah, you scumbags," Rodi endearingly greets them.

"Just so you stop bitching," one of them drops a white plastic bag, filled with styrofoam containers.

"If these are pan scrapings, I swear," he peeks into one of the containers. Olive butts in and picks the other.

It's still steaming, gorgeous gravy glazed fish-steaks and sautéed root vegetables, sided with daikon sprout salad. The sight makes them grow a cherub's wings, even more so with their afterglow.

"Yeah, baby. I finally feel like I've earned a little respect around here," Rodi smacks his lips.

The neighbouring restaurant, The Orangery, is shut for the day. Its staff is already making itself comfortable: the kitchen warriors nesting in the bar stools, the runners sprawling their legs in the lounge.

"Well, lad? Where's our respect?" The head chef exposes his lop-sided teeth with his grin: tattered shovels that get polished once a year.

Olive's already devouring his own box. His tongue, although sore, doesn't miss any stray speck of gravy.

"Was it a rough night? Your collar's all over the place," their bartender, a neon-striped tetra, points at Rodi's shirt.

"Oh... Set-down was rougher than the shift."

After wiping with one of their black square napkins, Olive, ever so slightly, squints to his left. Yup. Rougher, his smug mind interjects. His eyes however, they trail from Rodi to the register. Something's amiss...

Rodi picks a rail bottle, without looking at it. "We still haven't finished up, but that makes your visit timely. There's nothing worse than seeing your faces after we're ready to lock."

"Damn it," the chef slaps his thigh, starting a laugh from the belly. "We hoped you would've finished setting down!"

Rodi continues the good humour as they discuss their nights. It's been sponsor party after party for The Orangery, so they share the pain. Mimosa caught some of Treasure's overspill of events, having to entertain rowdy patrons, sorely missing the Splatfests as the idols chased their solo careers. Rodi and the Orangery's bartender take turns on describing brand managers in unscrupulous terms. Squidforce's saving grace was that they tipped well.

Like any good host, Rodi stays engaged in the chatter as he prepares a round of shots. As each shot glass gets picked, Olive tries to force the register open, pulling on its sides without stirring suspicion. He discovers, with momentary relief, that their register is properly locked. Yet, something else makes him more frantic. He does laps of their workspace. When his eyes fail him, he burrows. He's practically lifting every object on their worktops, at a panicked rate.

Rodi feels his belt loop pulling.

"Where did you leave the keys, Rodi?" His partner is somewhat of a squeaky door, even through he's whispering.

Both of their eyes switch to the register that second. They've usually got Rodi's ring of keys jutting out of it during their set-down.

"Ah, right. I hid 'em, you know, to keep you from locking us in..." Rodi sees Olive's face sprout a furious wrinkle. "Don't worry. I took them back," he grumbles and taps his behind. He pulls his keys out, and rattles them in hotshot fashion. Olive snatches them, flipping through each one in order. House, bar, bike, but no register key.

A darkened cast falls Rodi's eyes, as Olive goes through the keyring a third time. "...Oh, yeah. I split the register key, in case you searched me. Haha... Huh... I sure hid it well, huh! Got you."

Olive glowers. "Stop. Please tell me where you've left it."

"It's somewhere in here, I'm sure."

Their minds immediately jump to the restaurant staff, in case they nicked it, though Isandro and Anthos have been eyeing them this whole time. Besides, they're in their element: dead-beat and cynical. If there is someone to blindly trust in this city, it's them.

“Good job. You lost the register key,” Olive hisses underneath the chatter.

Rodi sparks up, sudden like a firecracker. "Wow! Really, now? State the fucking obvious next--"

Before they start fighting in front of The Orangery, Olive taps the length of his finger on his mouth, shushes, then points his thumb behind him, where the stairs go. Rodi's nod is as swift as his exit, knowing he can't contain his outbursts.

Olive steels up, before he mimes a nonchalant, friendly look for their guests. "We'll take a smoke break. Don't destroy the place."

The sous-chef raises his glass.

Outside, the sky and the air's clear, yet everything else is muddled into an unrecognisable mess.

"I'm not blaming you," Olive opens as calmly as he can, but the waver in his voice betrays him.

Rodi shouts for both of them. "You are, dammit!"

"I’m warning you. We don't have the key anymore. You don't remember what you've done with it. It's gone. Gone gone."

Rodi taps his pockets again, in case it materialised itself.

"You should've told me what you were doing with the key."

"Hey, wasn't the rush the whole point?" Rodi's voice becomes straining. "Oh, yeah. Sorry babe, gotta take the key out and hidey hide it, tell your dick to wait a second," he rolls his eyes. "As if it could wait a—"

"Rodi... Not now." He pleas, unimpressed. "Do you really not remember where you've placed it?"

"I think I left it underneath something, just as you were coming downstairs. I had to be quick, so I picked the first thing next to me."

Olive kneads the underside of his mask, shutting his eyes to concentrate. He's searched underneath the bar as much as he could. "...Call Beryl if she's got a spare."

Pausing with his lips stretched thin, Rodi gets used to the idea. He takes his phone, dialling and sighing in the receiver.

Beryl's contacted during working hours only for exceptional situations. Rodi devises an explanation before she picks up: they can't close the night without a functioning register.

"Mid-shift," is all Beryl says, probably with her phone between her shoulder and ear.

"Our register's... keyhole broke. No, fuck. I mean, our register key vanished. ...Damn, the first one sounded less stupid."

"You're right."

"Please say you've got a copy of it somewhere."

"You have the only copy."

"Okay. Cool," said in the least relaxed way possible. Yet Rodi's relentless. "Do you guys have the same model? You probably do. It should've come with more than one set, for sure. Do you have any extras, y'know, lying around? Or something?"

"They're unique. Order a new register."

"And leave cash in it overnight?!" He loses his patience. "What about tomorrow, huh? Stow the cash in my ass?"

Beryl breaks her curt responses. "You're an idiot, you lost your key, so consider your register compromised. Why did you take it out of the register before closing? Wasn't one of you at the bar?"

"Wow, what a question! Maybe it so happened that we weren't both there, no! What are we, robots?"

"Silence. Pass me Olive."

"Beryl, listen, we...! Urrggh!" He gives up quickly, Beryl checkmated him. He's extending his phone to Olive's ear.

Olive gingerly takes it in his own hands, bringing his ear closer to it, rather than pulling the phone closer. "...Hello?"

"Why did you take the key out of the register?"

"Compromised?! Bullshit! Nobody was there to steal it! It's under some random crap..." Rodi keeps going in the background.

"We left the bar unattended for ten minutes. Maybe twenty...?"

"Your smoke break shouldn't last more than a minute."

"We weren't smoking."

"Buying cigarettes?"

"No," Olive sours up, then slips. "We were in the storage. Um. ...Inventory."

"Both of you?" The question is enough for Beryl. "Fucking hell. You two, get your act straight, work is work. Keep it in your pants until you get home. You hear it, Rodi?" She shouts in the receiver, so it comes across to him.

"Oh, c'mon! I didn't fucking start it," he snatches his phone back. "Get me a locksmith, or I'll get one that rips me off."

"Not my fucking problem," and she hangs up.

He rattles the phone as the tone rings, power-walking a small circle's lap with his hands on his head, before returning where he was. "Bitch! Ugh! What a fucking bitch!!"

"Stop shouting," Olive's hiding his cheeks with the entire span of his palms, feeling the street's windows burning holes in them. "I guess... We'll pay someone to open it and place an order for a new one."

"Uh-huh! Should I start carrying a fuck-ass fanny pack and a little calculator, too?"

"Or we can keep an open tab until it's sorted," Olive crosses arms.

"Hell no. What about card payments? That's most of the ins. Beryl's interest is in us not failing until she's paid with interest, remember?!"

Now they both have lost their patience. "...Accept a fuck-up is a fuck-up, okay? When will you get this? Swallow your defeat and move the fuck on."

The petty quarrel stewing inside them is bubbling, though it all ends in a fizzle. Rodi cedes at Olive's straightened, chaste lips, his unsettling blank expression. Frozen in place, the way their minds and hearts race is pronounced. Too many sensations got mixed in too short a time. The energy within is terribly muddied and confusing.

But Olive finds a conclusion buried in this mess.

"...I changed my mind. I'll be keeping love and work separate."

A golden line flows from the balcony to his laptop's screen. Olive hunches over the kitchen's table, having scattered his herbarium, books and notes all over it.

His thesis proposal's draft sits at about four pages long, yet it's untitled. He brings the cursor to the top of the page, pauses to ponder, then types in one go.

The Effects of Environmental Stressors on Inkadian Flora.

He was able to bang this whole document in one sitting. He goes into some detail about his observations and other literature on the topic, hoping to catch his next supervisor's attention. He's planning to submit it to the M.E. group's mailbox, yet there's something still left blank.

He's got no real ID for his Lamiaceae observation, on which this entire work will hinge. No amount of editing will make him fill in that parenthesis.

In the middle of his pondering, his phone rumbles on the table. He picks it up and answers the call.

"Guess what," Rodi's on the other end, already at Mimosa. "I found the key in a highball glass."