Apartment 44, Heliko Building, Blackbelly Street.

A yawn, a stretch, and a murmur.

Rodi wakes with a plush breath on his nose, a bump of Olive's own nose as he flutters his eyes open, a little kiss with a dream still hanging behind his eyelids. They nearly fall back asleep after this magnetic nudge that brings them closer, though the midday noises and the sweat make that dream slip away from the eyelids.

Nothing changed in this bedroom. They went to bed with the same bundle of filtered light passing through the sheer curtains, getting more and more entangled in the fabric’s weave. The heat is well settled in. It's winning in the battle against the electric fan. They ought to buy a competent AC that can stand a chance, lest they dry up for good. Rodi's been postponing this task for a year.

Their limbs require deliberate movements to work. Everything's sore.

Anthos paws for the phone on his night stand, barely acknowledging the morning's spur of message activity. He's got little incentive to look at photos of past exam papers, or last night's witness accounts of his acquaintance's intoxicated adventures. These all lose their appeal as a hand runs the length of his back, tracing the channel his spine forms. Isandro's lips soothe his right shoulder blade.

These moments never go on for long enough. By the time Olive rubs the blur out of his eyes, Rodi's on his feet, opening the door to the rest of the apartment and leaving it wide. A mild draft enters the bedroom, which makes the dracaena by the window shiver. The pomegranate inkling passes into the living room with two short hums, grazing with the hoya that's hanging off the floating shelves.

Anthos pushes to the bed's edge. There are crackles and pops deeply stored in his cartilage. A twist of his upper body brings them all out. He picks a shirt left on the dresser, worn once before, skipping the buttoning altogether after putting it on.

The rest of their home is narrow, yet it spans with clear intent. Two pillows keep the couch company when they're not there. They're pressed down from when the couple last lounged on it. Olive notices the remote half-sunk into the upholstery's crevices, so he rescues it before it's too late. A peperomia's disc leaf brushes by the back of his hand as he leans over the coffee table. The low table has a sibling in the dining area, with taller metallic legs and a wooden top, on which yesterday's takeout boxes are forgotten. The toaster and coffee filter lights are on, from a quick check of the kitchenette. Olive paces a little in front of it, opening their pantry and kitchenware cabinets.

As soon as he bends to pick a bag of sugar, something clicks a strange way inside him. ...Concerning. Better take it easy. He stretches with his arms high to counteract the stiffness, before passing through the balcony door in the middle of the room. His fingers tap on the door frame's upper edge.

This is their place of choice during the warmest months. The metallic garden chairs and the round table have been here since the apartment's inception, and are its trustiest assets. In the chair furthest from the door, Rodi's counting their cash from last night. His squarish reading glasses slide down his nose in his slight hunch. Each bundle of ten thousand gets stashed under their ashtray. Olive's about to pull the ashtray closer.

"Leave it," Rodi warns. "It would be tragic if these just started flying off."

"Why are you counting cash on the balcony?"

"I'm sucking up those good UVs."

"You're kinda forcing your luck with them at lunchtime."

The filter stops gurgling, the toaster's internals click when the bread springs up. Rodi asks his partner to pick it up. You're already up, darling. They've got a generous brunch of buttered toast, painkillers and filtered coffee coming on a tray that won't fit the table. They leave it on the tile. Olive takes it upon himself to guard it from ants. He picks a lost one up with his thumb and places it back on a jasmine, springing from his hanging flower pots. He settles on his usual chair.

With his eyes on the river's opposite bank, he gradually brings his coffee cup to his nose, then to his lips. The sight is as usual, with the sky providing a cheery blue background. Birdsong, distant traffic, construction whacks and jets. They finally powered off Inkopolis Tower's lights.

Blackbelly's area truly grew on him. It's got West Inkopolis' quaintness, without the greater distances from the centre's hustle and bustle. In a city where you can lose yourself in every way imaginable, he finds relief in their tiny nook. It's unclear whether all of these balconies offer privacy or a sense of community to their residents. There's so much Olive learned about his neighbours, without ever greeting them. Someone on the next block's third floor has recently had a kid, from the cradle and carrier that appeared on their balcony. You can tell who moved from the farms to the offices from how successful their balcony gardens seem, and he always investigates what's a natively grown species and what isn't. He has also become part of this landscape, for whoever looks back at them from the other block. He can only smile at what sort of narratives their neighbours are building about them. A home can grow in such whimsical ways.

Mildly caffeinated, Olive gets his sense of responsibility back. He returns to the kitchenette. Three pots of equal parts sugar and water are left to simmer on top of the stove. He watches them with great care, making sure none starts to bubble, stirring with a wooden spoon whenever he feels it.

Rodi's hand soon makes its way on his back again. "Hey, we won't need this until Thursday."

"You saw how much I was stressing over these. I'm splitting the batches over the week."

"Alright, busy bee," he pecks his cheek.

Olive partially turns to the kitchen table behind him, as Rodi sits at it. "We haven't lost a bill to the wind, have we?"

"I'll need a last check. I was getting blasted by the sun out there."

"What happened to the good UVs?"

"They're too good at what they do. Kinda like us," Rodi shoots a breeze to his face with his notebook. "You know what I'm gonna say. We're getting some real big Gs out of last night. We've finally reached the triple digits in drinks made."

"Yeah, sounds about right," his partner twirls the wooden spoon, a satisfied grin making up for his dryness.

"Watch this all go in restocking and appeasing Big Brother. Anyway..." He pauses in concentration. "We're pocketing a gorgeous chunk of it, about 64 000 G if I've done this right."

Olive's eyes go big. "Are you sure?"

"I went through this thrice." He recites out of the notebook, readjusting the reading glasses: "So, 237k went in, including credit. Of that, 30k was in tips. We'll reserve 75k for inventory and maintenance, 98k will be burned in the loan - split the difference and we each get 32k. Take into account it's been an eleven hour shift, so it ends up at nearly 3k for the hour. Not too shabby, it pays a bit better than profesh turf!"

Although his mouth opens, Olive can't decide on what to say. Rodi holds his palm out, letting him high five it as a substitute. Not too strong, as to not upset the sore bits.

With the number crunching over, Rodi tips the kitchen chair on its two hind legs, with his arms behind his head. "It's getting real, baby," he draws it out. "This is just the start. First, the full nights. Then, world class rooftop parties, big guest names, you just start seeing it."

"It makes you miss those evenings when we'd do anything but bartending. It sounds like it's becoming a real job."

"Excuse me. We've haven't wasted any slow nights," his eyes squint out the sun rays assaulting from the balcony. He takes the glasses off his nose, twirling them as he speaks. "We'll keep working on our own specs, we're stayin' experimental with it. The other stuff... we'll call it time well spent."

Time well spent, by his definition, means building a tower of shot glasses, an ice cube eating competition, and pretending to be an aeroplane on the bar stools.

Olive takes a second to pull the balcony curtains. The floor is searing under his feet in that section.

"Is it still worth working on our own drinks if the classics worked so well?" he asks. "I think Beryl was right. It's not worth the effort, especially this early on."

Rodi nibbles on the end of his glasses while pondering. "No, let's keep trying. I'll have another talk with her. She'll be softer on us after this win."

"Speaking of, we're gonna see her today, right?"

"Yeah, I'm down to hear how yesterday went for her. We'll bond over the shared suffering."

"She's got a real arsenal behind her, I guess it was a breeze for them. I watched one of her bartenders work and I felt like a loser."

"Pff. They're all style, no substance. I worked with all of them. They think a little jigger twirl will make my panties wet."

"It looks really good, though," Olive side-notes in a descending song.

Rodi's gaze trails upwards. "...Maybe. I guess you need both style and substance. I tried to flair when I was finally left alone. I was a hot little shit, then dropped a bottle on one of her guys' feet. But I'd do it again, I'm better now. ...Not the bottle breaking, darling, the flaring. I should be doing more drills, honestly. I've got potential. The rest of her crew got nothing in those hips. People can feel the difference in execution when I'm there."

"You know, it usually comes from the hands, not from the hips," the green eyes narrow in a sly smirk.

"It's called a personal brand," Rodi gestures a bit too widely, and nearly tips the chair over. He gets it back upright, placing his hands and glasses firmly on the table. He plays it cool, despite the worsened tension in his neck. "Whatever, enough of that. I'm feeling the focus changing. We've got proof we have the essentials down, so Beryl can get off our ass with that. We're moving into the identity phase. We're making Mimosa more than a decent place for decent drinks. The sold out nights get people in, the identity keeps them there."

"I feel we already made a start on the identity," Olive crosses his arms, spoon still in hand. "I was giving someone a second round last week and they kept calling the place a jungle. I guess we're the jungle now, even though not all plants are tropical or subtropical," he grumbles.

"Nice. Exactly, we've pinned aesthetics down," he fiddles with the glasses again. "Inkstagram's drooling over places like this. We've got some regulars too."

"One regular. A guy from the same building," Olive adds under his breath, giving the spoon another lap of stirring. Though Rodi's already on his train of thought, and it's going fast.

"Oh my god, babe, we're ahead of the game here," his enthusiasm is about to burst out of his skin. He's on the chair's edge, about to jump back into the bar. "Not even six months in, we're acing this shit."

As soon as Olive sees the syrup turning crystalline, with shy bubbles emerging from the pan's base, he shuts the range's flames off. With that done, he attends to the takeout boxes.

Rodi keeps on. "Who knows where we'll be in a year or two? An invitation is gonna slide down that door. Oh? What's this for?" He pretends to hold a letter. "A rooftop party with all the GOATs? So kind of them. Watch this. Late dusk. I'm holding a little champagne flute. Pinky out, of course," he demonstrates. "Waiters non-stop asking if they should refill it. Fuck yeah. I'll have the canapés too, why not. And I'm having this super involved discussion with that guy that made the Calamartini, slipping in a rant about how diluted a stirred drink should be. All with my dressed to kill babe, hooked on my arm, glued to my hip. He's got the correct answer, but he'll keep his secrets," he winks in Olive's direction. When he gets a soft laugh out of him, he presses the glasses on his bottom lip. "Then we're ending the night in the complementary booking at the hotel, all inclusive," he chews on one of its temple tips again, incredibly satisfied with his own imagery. "Raid the minibar and bring it in a bubble bath. Mm. How's that?"

Olive needs a second to return to their mundane kitchen, though he's keeping his faraway gaze. "Hah. Your make-believe nearly makes you believe it."

"I can bullshit about it all day. It's not that useful when you've still got a bar to run. So, how are you feeling about the work now? Settled in?"

"Pretty much," he sits himself across Rodi. "I'm more used to it. I really like it when we're in complete flow."

"It's electric, isn't it?"

"It's... weird to be in the spotlight. I feel like I'm getting a taste of it."

"And how does it taste?" Rodi's eyelids lower with intrigue.

Olive's lips involuntarily press on his tongue. A hint of a smirk emerges from this. "Exciting."

"You're my other half here, you know. I also want to hear where you want to take this."

"I honestly wasn't going as far as you with the vision, but... I'm happy to keep putting drinks out there. Things to be proud of with you. If I had the chance to be in such a high calibre place, I'd take it. I'd feel like in a dream."

"Good," his smile softens. "Keep the dream there."

Olive chuckles. "I'll use it as comfort material when we run out of the shitty whiskey."

"Should we do a quick run at the shop for an extra?"

"Sure."

It's a good excuse to put the remainder of the day into motion. After a stop at the konbini to cross more errands off, including the bottle of Jellysons, they trail back to Eelskin Street. They make it in time for their first delivery of the week, cratefuls of their missing spirits and liquors. They keep busy with the remaining cleanup and restocking.

At four on the dot, the bar’s door opens.

Beryl Barresi makes her appearance bright and gleaming. She's got a black tank top, paired with flared business-casual pants. The belt's tasteful and matches her shoulder bag. Under these white lights, the sparkling of her shoulder-length tentacles reminds of a calm ocean. The sea-foam tentacles have four hollow diamond marks, which become the webbing on the water surface. The boys immediately spring upon her grand entrance. Bubbly greetings and hugs ensue.

She makes her way to the table right in the centre, setting her bag on it. When she sees Olive rattling things behind the bar, she pipes him down with a hand wave. "Nothing for me, please. I've got to run after this." She sits once his hands are clear.

"Let me tell you about our weekend. You're not ready for this," Rodi rubs his hands together. He positions himself next to the room's pillar, close to the table. His partner joins the discussion as well, standing a few steps away from him.

Beryl crosses her legs. "No need, it was full from start to end for us as well. We're lucky that the Night Owls took majority," she smiles wide, the wings of her mask flutter. "They're easier to sell drinks to."

Rodi brings a paper-clipped stack of pages forwards. "I've also got the shit for your accountant here, all the ins and outs for the month."

"Nice. You're finally on time."

Beryl flips the records a few times, her blue eyes softening at each line read.

"Oh, you've been on a consistent upward trend. And you pushed a bit over two hundred drinks last night. This marks a nice record for Mimosa, I'd say. Congrats. How are you feeling?"

"Great," Olive answers. His chest gains a slight lift.

"Fucking pumped," Rodi snaps his fingers. "By the way, babes, if you check the last page, I've drafted some planned expenditures for you to review. Pretty please."

Beryl loosens and taps the single sheet on the table. Her raised brow tells them this won't be indulgent. She mumbles each item with scrutiny. "...Upgraded sound system, 60k. Remodelling for increased capacity, 250k. Marble tabletops, brackets, granite works too, 37k. Audiovisual installation..."

Olive's eyes track Rodi's with growing worry, from how every item's read in a lowering voice. It disarms Olive enough to make him scratch the back of his neck for the entire minute. And when it finally finishes...

"Get this junk out of my face," she holds the pages away like a stinky sock.

Rodi yaps the next second. "Okay, wait, maybe I went kinda wild, but I'm thinking way ahead with some of these. I even prioritised them for you, look," he comes over her shoulder to point it out, "the sound system and extra space would've been awesome to have last night. The earlier they're in, the better. A little investment wouldn't hurt, what do ya say?" He turns to her face. She turns to his. There's no change in expressions.

"Why would I dump more cash in a place that just started making returns?"

"To make more returns? Duh."

"You survived one bloodbath. You're not out of the dark."

"Oof, tough love, are you?" He separates from her shoulder. "I thought this would be proof that we're serious about this?" He settles his back on the pillar.

"It's not enough, I'm afraid. Statistically speaking, you're still at risk. Thirty five percent of new establishments in Inkopolis can't make it past their first six months. Even if it doesn't sound disastrous, that's not something I can disregard."

Rodi's carmine eyes narrow, then run to Olive's for backup. He's out of his depth, by how wide they got.

Beryl's nails tap on each odd syllable, bringing the pair of sights back on her. "Let me rephrase. Only sixty five percent of bars make it past the first six months. Understood?"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, sixty bars suck pants," Rodi dispatches. "We're about to get past that so it's all cool."

"Oh, yeah? Do you know many make it past a year?"

He doesn't hesitate, crosses his arms straight away. "Fifty percent."

"Ten percent."

A thick silence falls, and they're under her inspection. Rodi keeps his cross-armed stare, as if he's immune to the stats. He isn't chirping, however.

Olive stammers. "It... It's kinda exaggerated to say ninety percent fail, isn't it? I mean, what's the sample size of this?"

"The sample size is how far my eyes stretch in this city, and how many quirky joints like yours pop up then die in a few months. The industry stats from so-called specialists won't serve the bitter stories, do you want them to scare kids like you off? No."

"Well, that's purely anecdotal then."

Beryl switches to a service worker's smile and pitch. "Want to go back to your books, Olive?"

Olive's nose scrunches, though his sight slips to the Embryology of Angiosperms, left on the bar counter to review in-between tasks.

"What the hell, are you bent on killing the mood today?" Rodi briefly frees his arms from his chest.

"I'm only getting a point across, don't get so giddy over a full night. You're not used to that volume of work, it needs to be trained like a muscle," she gathers her fingers into a bundle on the tabletop.

"This shit again," Rodi mutters as his eyes do the rounds in their sockets.

"On a more encouraging note, you two should have a cosier balance after working for these few months. And quite a boost from last night. You want something to invest in? Buy more booze. Stockpile the staples, then diversify your shelves. Don't spend it all on things that cost a fortune per pour."

"Oh, about that cost per pour?" Rodi interrupts. "We could've made a truckload more with 15%, not 20%. I've checked the average for this district, they don't seem to be doing 20%."

"You wouldn't have dealt a full house with 85% pocketed, trust me," she nonchalantly peruses the spreadsheets a second time. "You've got other areas to squeeze money out of. For example, time. You know the adage. You're already wasting a lot there with the prep, and should consider streamlining it. Looking at you, Olive."

"It's fine. Any time spent on prep is still better valued than a lab assistant's pay."

"Alright, then double the quantity you get to prep at a time. It won't double your prep time, and you'll cut the fresh produce prices with bulk orders."

"Now we’re talking. I want people to taste the freshness, know our stuff is from scratch," Rodi declares with a pleased grin. "It's all made with love, baby."

Beryl nods without a pause. "Yes. Keep it up."

Olive scratches his chin. "That doesn't guarantee that we have enough for the crazier nights. I ran out of basic things on the last shift, and I can't prep everything hours before."

"Don't worry about the odd garnish. Cut them in batches, in-between rounds if you really need them fresh."

His hand goes from chin to lips. "Okay, but what do you do when you're out of simple?"

"Cook more next time? Also, treat Saturday as a one in a million. You won't have that sort of turn-up again, your capacity can't sustain it."

"We'll see," Rodi's ankles cross. He balances on the thigh and the shoulder glued to the pillar. There's a sea of arrogance bursting out of him.

"Don't set yourself up for disappointment, I know you like doing that. You will have a painfully quiet night."

"But there won't be one. We'll keep upping the numbers. Like, we'll host some events, run some advertising, start a happy hour, you know. Stuff."

"...Sure. Get your name out there," she squints, "but don't break yourselves in a hundred. There's only two of you."

Olive quietly nods.

Rodi's fingers cascade in taps across his bicep. "Nah. I think we can afford pushing a bit more. We won't keep that upward trend by waiting."

"Guys. You'll burn yourselves too hard, too early. You're already doing very well. I hopefully don't have to spell it out for you every time. Don't make me go: yay! Awesome! You get a gold star!" She claps with little vigour as her pitch goes high. Once done with the preschool teacher act, which was played a bit too naturally for it to be a caricature, she neatens her turquoise tentacles down. "Build amity with some regulars too. You can only do that on normal nights."

"Okay, but," Rodi nags, "think about it an extra step above. Like, picture the big names. Shit that's got two hour waitlists at the door. Milkfish and Honey. Decapod and Co."

"What about them," the way she checks her wristwatch and her fingers press into her cheek isn't encouraging.

"I see us raising up their ranks."

She nearly snorts. "If we give it another ten years, yes, you could get to their level."

"Listen. It'll be sooner, not later. We can be the new players in the scene. Honestly, it's all been the samey-same in the past two years. Tell me this doesn't sound like a juicy chance."

"Nope," she plainly shrugs. "I don't see it. Do you have something concrete?"

He snaps the fingers on his both hands and points them to her, as if a massive revelation is about to occur. "So! Obviously, as you said, we're getting our name out there. You know, we'll go to some industry events. ...Competitions? Those happen, right?" By this point, Beryl starts packing her bag. "Also, it would really help if you'd let us put our own specs on the menu. I'm not feeling particularly excited about these ancient-ass drinks. And the guys next door weren't impressed when they found out we substituted the concentrate in their cheap Daiquiris with hippie hand-pressed juice."

She checks the wristwatch a final time, before shaking her head and grinning at it. They've had this discussion before. She carries the amused expression as she gets up and glides her hand over the circular table.

"You want to make it big in this city's bartending scene? You need ambition, a vision and a dependable crew. Your ambition's over the moon, the vision's all over the place, and your crew's just your clueless boyfriend."

"...See? We're right on track."

Beryl's smug grin doesn't wipe off. "Pick a spirit. Include it in an original spec and a riff on a classic, and have these ready for our next review. Taste them before you subject me to it. We'll see each other next month."

"Hell yeah we will," he shouts with furrowed brows, as she walks to the steel door.

The hinge echoes, and the thud cuts it all too short. The damn door shutting never gets quieter. Her steps up the stairs keep ringing inside.

It's back to the two of them, manning this space by their own judgement. They stay frozen in their defensive stances, limbs crossed firmly. They shoot each other quizzical looks, Rodi pulling a sideways smile from the depths, Olive mirroring with little success.

Olive's still hanging on each of Beryl's jabs. Especially on the last one. He could complete what Beryl was keeping for herself: he's barely a bartender, even less an owner. She's the only person that can sober them up regardless of their grasp on reality.

He's not looking forward to the next critique. The last and singular time they shared their own recipes was right before Mimosa's opening week. Olive wrote out their menus by hand. They had things on there that they were genuinely excited about. Creations from their tiny kitchen table, self-steeped bitters, outlandish ideas spawned when they were one past too many. They were beautiful.

It was harsh.

The bar had five drinks lined up. Small flowers gingerly floated in a coupe, a sprig of rosemary laid across a rocks glass, a stem with two basil leaves raised out of pebble ice. A mint leaf and a dehydrated lime sat clipped on the edge of the second to last glass, next to a lip gloss stain. Beryl let go of the flute's stem, and repositioned in her stool. She broke the anticipatory quiet.

"You did well on the presentation and the homemade ingredients, Olive. But everything you've shown is stuck on one note. I can't tell much apart, the bitters overpower them all."

Olive immediately placed his hands back on his shaker. "I can halve their measures."

"You're not supposed to have more than a few dashes," she patiently explained. "Don't worry about making a new round. I doubt the rest of the drink will stand by itself. The spices and herbs won't be the saving graces, since they'll act in the background. They're enhancers, not crutches."

He slowly let go of his tools and gave a slight nod, keeping his lips pursed. He took the advice, swallowed it, and began pouring his drinks down the drain. "Thank you, Beryl."

"I'm glad to see your technique has improved. Feels nice to have your hands knowing where to go, doesn't it?"

He replied with another curt nod.

The fifth glass was Isandro's brainchild. He was on standby to defend it. She picked it up with slight hesitation.

"This thing has more than four ounces of spirits," Beryl hovered her nose above the highball glass, a solid fifteen centimetres away to not inhale the vapours.

"Just as I like it. A heavy hitter. A mix of all I love, rum, vodka and tequila. I used limes for the sour element, and topped it with soda to lengthen it. Don't you hate it when you get those tiny glasses and they're half water? I didn't ask for a shot, babe. Anyway, I made it so it can stand by you all night long."

"...I am not even going to try this," she set it down, brows twisted in concern for it. It could've blown them up if someone opened a flame next to it.

"Your loss.”

"Come on, Rodi. This is dorm party material. I thought I taught you better." It's the first time Olive heard her so disappointed. "...I've tasted enough. I can't in good conscience let you open Mimosa's doors with these."

"Fine. I get it, Beryl. It's not your style, not your comfort zone. But we want to make mixology here."

She broke composure with a burst of frustration. "This isn't mixology, you twats," she picked the menu off the bar, and it shrilled in its rip.

A water droplet falls on the floor from the tired air conditioner. It makes the white noise more apparent in the room.

They wordlessly return behind the bar, emptying the crates into the shelves. They need to finish up today's restocking. In the process, Olive forces a tiny laugh out for his partner, before pitying himself.

"I guess I am clueless."

Rodi leaves everything he's been holding on the counter to stroke Olive's arms. "Babe, no, don't take it to the hearts. She grills the shit out of everyone behind her bar too. It's the natural language for service workers. You gotta be a little into the degrading talk if you wanna stay afloat."

"...Great. That's one thing I haven't explored."

"Well, I can try it out on you next time," Rodi can't keep the fiendish grin for himself.

Olive puffs through his nose and shakes his head. Entertained, then unamused, then growing more confused as he seriously considers the proposition. He forgets and remembers what it’s like to breathe.

He shakes it off. "Even so, what will you do if I can't keep up with it? You need an actual crew, she was right about that."

"I don't know. Her loan's more trouble than I needed already. I don't want to get into a legit payroll. It's a breeze to go fifty-fifty with you on everything." Realising his lacking consideration, Rodi places his hands on his hips. "Though I can try looking for someone when we need it, like a helping hand for the odd night."

"...Yeah, let's try that."

They let the thoughts stew as the shelves fill.

"You know," Rodi starts in a lower tone, minutes after. "I wasn't lying earlier. I don't say these things just to piss her off. I will see this through until we get the recognition. You keep working your magic, and I'll take us there." He places one more bottle, before looking straight at Olive. A fond smile draws on his face. "I think more people should see how good you are."

In his twinkling carmine eyes, it gains a sense of truth.