"...Pacific Powerhouses Flairtending, twenty sixteen?"

Rodi's face appears from behind the held up phone. "We gotta sign up today."

Olive scratches under his scarlet back tentacles continuously, trying to grasp what he just read. The yellow light from the bottle shelves is illuminating only half of his confused face.

Isandro pockets his phone and comes closer to his partner. The music from the nearby speaker adds too much cross-talk. "Babe, they've made the duos category for us. It's just a single round, and the routine scoring's simple. Technique, choreography and the final drink. Can't get more straightforward."

"Flair bartending?" Olive just realises the title's portmanteau.

"Flips, throws, spins, all the shebang. It's gonna be awesome."

Anthos' brows furrow. "When did you find this?"

"Well, I knew of the Pacific Powerhouses' name for a while. I don't know why I haven't checked their events earlier. Was too busy living the dream," he snorts. "But, damn! You saw that cash prize, 50k first place!"

"If we make it there," Olive drops his gaze to the bottle labels on his side. "So the sign-ups close tomorrow," he repeats for confirmation. "When is the actual competition?"

"It's like next week, in some swanky hotel."

"That's barely any time," his head snaps back. "What about training? I'm not a shining example of tricks."

The tip of Rodi's Rockenberg stops digging into Mimosa's floor. He leaves his spot, glides his hand across the bar's inner curvature, and grabs the first shaker in its way. He splits the tins, and throws the larger one at Olive.

In an instant, Olive's hands claw up and catch the tin, with a soft stagger on his feet. He's taken aback by his own reflexes, he needs to double check what he's just caught.

"Look, you asked me what I think is possible," the pomegranate inkling balances the smaller tin on his palm, and has it spin by itself at the flick of a finger. "Nobody said it's easy, but it's not like that ever stopped me."

"Okay. You had like, how much? Over a year to learn this? I've got days," Olive puts the tin back where Rodi took it from. "Don't you think it'll be smarter to go for the solo category instead? I'll bring our scoring down."

"Honestly, it's not even about the prize. That's an extra. I'm going in for the exposure. And you," the shaker's half dances between his fingers, until its bottom is facing Olive, "...are coming into the limelight with me."

"Oh, for the love of..." Anthos sighs, brows unable to pull apart. He goes back to his lime juice-soaked cutting board, though Isandro is hanging on to him like an urchin, rambling behind his ear.

"We are entering under Mimosa's name, and we better show up as one unit, like we do every goddamn night. And I know you, you always huff before you try something, and then smash it like it's nothing."

Keeping to himself, Olive has his paring knife going through the exact centre of the limes. He places each half into his juice presser, and pours their measures into the two tins he abandoned earlier.

Rodi snaps the abandoned receipt out of the card reader as well. On his way to a table, he slips his final word past Olive's back. "I'll submit the application after the last call."

Anthos was sort of looking forward to that last call, having gone through an exam, an outing with his energetic friends, and a busy weekend shift. Not anymore. This is the cherry on top: getting coaxed into juggling his tools like a clown.

He'll smash it, for sure. It'll take one drop of a bottle or a glass. How did Rodi get the hint that he'd catch on flairs as if he hatched with a shaker in his hands? It might be that Rodi hatched with a bottle in his hands, which spurred all of these doozy preconceptions.

Olive scoops some ice for his shakers, then seals them with a knock of his fist. He would usually shake the lined up drinks individually, though a longer look at them convinced him to pick one in each hand. The shakers' rims nest in his palms securely. He turns them horizontally and alternates the shakes, sustaining a balanced movement. It matches the maracas in the current song, which add texture over its deep bass. He also does a little pace to kill the time, until the right temperature is attained.

Anthos takes his stare into the void and swings it across the bar, customarily. A young lady at the furthermost end, also an inkling, has her golden eyes affixed on him. When the silver-green eyes hit hers, she retracts her gaze quickly to the opposite direction. One of his eyebrows raises by itself, though he won't pay it attention. His hands are freezing on the metal.

Since he's already doubling his output, he also thinks of a way to unseal the shakers at once. Right before he places them on the bar mat, he lets his grips gingerly slide, so only the top halves are held. He then knocks the middles of the shakers together, letting a well-timed clack as their halves separate. In the moment, he flips the empty halves upright with a single motion. ...That felt good.

He needs to swap the dirty tins for a coiled Hawthorne strainer. He picks a stray strainer in passing by the holder's end, with just his index and thumb. It nearly whooshes from the quick pick up, and he adds an unintentional twirl when he orients and places it on the shaker's rim. While straining, the ink in his arm tingles for a higher rise. A slick stream of the cocktail lands in the coupe glass. He rattles the ice inside with a shake of his wrist, then cuts the pour cleanly, drawing a sweeping motion with the shaker's top and bottom.

Anthos slips another look to the inkling at the bar's end. There they are, the golden irises. He has to admit, he needs to hold the smirk back, though it only adds more fuel to the flames when it's restrained. His second pour is showier, more intentional, convinced of being studied without having to confirm it. He's growing aware of his presence, the privilege of being the bartender, not just any guy. He's had some admirers in his life, though it's unlikely that any of them observed the push and give of his upper body like this. If they only transposed this image further into imagination... Olive's next inhale is crisp.

His gutter mind needs to shut up, Rodi's returning to the bar. Instead of picking the two table orders his partner just finished, he sits on one of the middle bar stools, with his smug grin turned up to 11.

"What," Olive asks flatly, places his hands on his hips.

"Changed your mind?" Rodi pulls on a knee to bring it into a crossed leg position.

"About?"

"The flairing."

"Is it last call already?" Olive dismisses.

Though Rodi leans closer. "When did you learn the smooth moves, babe?"

Olive scoffs. He takes a step away from Rodi, though his dastardly ego can't let it off like that. He slips the pomegranate inkling looks while reordering his workspace. "That wasn't anything,” he adds between it.

Rodi slaps his palm against the bar, letting a soft cackle as he gets off. He takes the coupe glass stems between his fingers, then turns to deliver them. Yet, his head hangs with a gaze over the shoulder, repeatedly raising and lowering his angular eyebrows for Olive.

Little bitch, he loves being right.

The last call's hour rolls by quicker than expected. Thankfully, nobody rushes in for a final order. The ducklings sensibly make their way out in neat, sporadic rows. They don’t need to call their closing.

Olive smacks the sink's tap the other way, making it face the ice box. He lets hot water stream over it, burning whatever's left of it. Faint crackles sound out of the bin, the ice is giving in to the harsh temperature shift. He spends a moment watching it dissolve, sipping on some leftover sparkling wine. His little musings float in that tepid water, until the lights go bright and the room goes quieter. He shuts the tap.

At the edge of his vision, he sees Rodi passing in front of him. Olive whistles at him, to grab his attention.

This time, Olive tosses the shaker's larger tin to Rodi, though the pomegranate inkling isn't startled by it. It's as if he was anticipating its coming at any moment. There it is, the perfect catch. So much for the surprise... He's got nothing on Rodi when it comes to being one with his craft.

"I still think you should be going solo in this," Olive says.

"What's the fun in that?" Rodi passes the shaker half in his other hand with an arched throw.

"Don't even try dragging me in it, if you're not taking it seriously," he pins his eyes on the smirking face across the bar.

"Oh, I am being serious about it. But all this seriousness doesn't make a performance good, you know? If you're not having fun, how can the crowd have any?"

Olive shifts his weight from a leg to another, lightly tossing his own shaker in the air, though not changing its hand. Rodi squints slightly, finding in Olive's eyes a sign that it's still his job to convince him otherwise.

"I promise you, you don't need more than a few tricks to make it work. Like..."

Rodi's feet go hip width apart. He passes his tin again, though doesn't hang on it. He lets it come alive between his fingers. It's dancing and flying with an intoxicating blur. It travels from one hand to another in a trail that tangles Olive's vision.

"That's just some basic moves."

"If that's the basics, I'm screwed," Olive blinks a few times.

"Nah. Watch. First, do a figure eight," he brings the shaker upright and holds it by the bottom with just his thumb and middle finger. In a rather uninspiring way, he lets the rim flop downwards. He pauses a second, in case Olive gets what's happening here. Rodi turns his wrist, so the rim faces to the left. His wrist flicks, and the rim flings to the right. Turning his wrist the opposite way brings the tin upright. Back to the start. He repeats the sequence quicker, and the undulations begin to trick the eye. Infinity signs emerge from the rim.

...It can't be that simple. Anthos stops tossing his shaker mindlessly. Indeed, it's as easy as having the right grip, with the right pressure, then flailing the metal in a clever way. He mirrors his partner's figure eights after some tries. The swinging weight of the tin has a satisfying push between his fingers.

"Sweet. Now's the hand spin," Isandro keeps his arm still for a moment, demonstrating the self-describing trick. The secret to it unfolds, his nails do a clack on the metal, then overextend behind their knuckles, forming a peak in the centre of his palm. On its top, the metal can freely twirl. "Try it," he encourages. "Hold it horizontally, give it a push, and let it do its thing."

Though simply opening up your hand won't get the shaker doing anything. Olive clenches and retracts his fingers over it repeatedly, trying to find the shaker's sweet spot. It should have enough impulse, though not too much drag. Finding its spin isn't as straightforward as it seems.

He's so focused on getting it right, that he doesn't notice Rodi coming by until he's touching his hand. Olive stops briefly, so his partner can position his hand and shaker correctly. He gives a soft push against Olive's fingers, so his hand arches harder. Rodi gestures to keep it like that, and spins the tin on top of it.

He sends a precious, wordless gaze, since his question is obvious. Got it?

Got it.

Olive keeps his arm frozen in place while he reconstructs the spinning sensation. First with the other hand's help, then with just one hand. Surprise, he's got a half spin going on the tin, then a full spin.

"Ooh! You natural!" Rodi says it very over the top, bringing a giggle out of his partner that interrupts his trick. "You see?" he redoes the demystified tricks from earlier, quicker. "It's the flow that makes it look impressive, not the elements on their own.”

Olive does the hand spin a few more times, though he's still unconvinced. "This is an empty tin. How do you actually build a drink like this?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there," Rodi scans the bar, though from his darting irises, he's not finding what he needs. "...One mo'."

Leaving Olive to his two new tricks for a minute, Rodi comes back with an empty bottle, most likely dug from the bin. He borrows another's spout and starts weighting it in his hands, holding it by the neck, trying out different grips.

"You ready? Don't blink."

Again, it's like an esoteric wave of a magic cane, though with an empty bottle. It does laps around his hand, it flies from front to back, back to front, to wherever the hell it wants next. He ends on a reverse grip on the bottle's neck, which Rodi reorients so he acts out a pour in his shaker.

"Break this one down too," Olive's brows curled in the process.

"Hand roll, simple throw, cross and over the shoulder, cha cha," adding a hip sway on top of it, he retraces the bottle's travel slowly, snapshotting its trail. He passes the bottle over.

He guides Olive through these motions as well, the sauce that makes it work: the constant contact of the skin against the glass in the hand roll, the split-second calculations of force and direction in every throw. Cautious as always, Olive is half-hearted in his throws. Though he's been catching them with no issues. When his confidence builds up, he gives it his all in a complete run of the drill. So much so, that his bottle misses and flies past him.

"Oh, fuck," he bends to pick the bottle before it hits the floor.

"That's alright," Rodi watches Olive flail without stepping in to help.

Olive flings the tentacle tufts out of his eye mask. "We won't get any points if I smash and spill everything on the floor."

"Eh, what's a drop? A few points off the total? It's not a huge deal. We'll rack up enough points to compensate."

Checking the ground underneath, tucking his bottom lip under the top one, Olive retries the moves all over. Arches and circles. No falls this time. He releases his held inhale at the end, after pretending to pour and settling the bottle on the bar.

Rodi nods with great enthusiasm, his mind's image is closing into his reality. He grabs a nearly empty bottle from their shelves. "Now, try doing it continuously, don't go for the pour. I'll follow. Three, two..."

They grip the necks of their bottles on the same heartbeat. The necks roll to the back of their fingers, and they catch them from the bases. The bottles pass to their right hands, and with careful wrist flicks, they gain altitude. They travel in an arch back to their left hands. The bartenders sneak them to their backs. Afterwards, the bottles jump out from hiding and head for their right sides, where the juggling repeats a few more times.

Rodi coos himself as he goes faster in the second lap. "Got the hang now?"

Olive doesn't afford looking away from his fixed point in space, though his approval rests in his smirk. The bottle's shifting weight feels natural in the motion, he finally feels in control of it.

After Rodi's second countdown, they stop their looping and turn their bottles upside-down, above their respective shakers. Finally, the pour cuts. The mirror image stays sharp until the end. The champagne's pop is playing in their heads. They exclaim in ecstasy. That must've looked so cool.

Overcome by pride, Rodi nabs Olive's head between his fingers, pulling his cheek in for a very sticky kiss. Olive's eyes squeeze shut in it, his grin is puffing his cheeks harder. They dance in place. Rodi separates after the puckering sound of his lips echoes in the room, followed by his satisfied exhale.

"Fuck yeah!" Rodi bounces in excitement. He has to temper his feet, while they've still got the focus. "Okay, babe. Let's tie it all together. First, set up the shaker. Then, bring the pour in. Just like we're dancing. Take your stance," his right foot slides behind to spread the balance, "but keep the eyes on the tools, not on me."

"Big ask," Olive breathes his asides.

They will make this the run of the night. The forgotten song in the background is their metronome. One more countdown from Rodi, and they're off. Shakers get picked and brought to life, then settled right in their centres. Bottles enter the scene, and their weight makes them concentrate harder. Olive eventually falls behind, having to recall what comes next, but Rodi is mindful enough to adapt his speed in certain parts, putting their synchronicity above execution speed.

Just before the last catch, Rodi's bottle teeters on top of his fingers, causing him to lose his pose and balance for the first time. A yelp of surprise jumps out of him. It catches Olive so off-guard, that he explodes in laughter. No way they’re keeping their focus now.

"Alright, that's it! That's the night! Let's close!" Olive dumps everything in the sink, and pulls his shirt over his head. He exits the bar area in an instant.

"I'm putting you as the duo's frontman, you bastard," Rodi shouts back with a droll expression plastered over him.

It went so well in their closing hours, that Olive is, at last, convinced. The following morning, they set out to build a routine, using the scarce time they've got. There's still some details they'll need to settle before that: their routine song, their drink of choice. They split these two duties between themselves, since it makes the most sense. Rodi's the playlist builder, Olive's the menu builder.

Free from academia's clutches, Olive also uses his time at home practising some of the essential flairs, which will come useful both on shift and on stage. Only one glass fell victim to his slippery hand.

Before he leaves for his daytime shifts, Rodi refines their choreography, such that it brings the best out of them. He certainly finds inspiration in the most unlikely places. He pulls Olive to the couch at one point, settling a leg over his thigh, bringing forth the screen he kept glued to his eyes. It's a video capturing the beginning of a Turf tournament match.

"Check this guy's spin on his Jet Squelcher's trigger at the start," Rodi puts his finger under it, when the grainy zoom doesn't make it clear. "It rolls on his index, then he continues it on his thumb. That's just like a thumb roll with a jigger. But on a weapon your size!" his jaw drops.

And after every new unlikely connection he makes, he enters Treasure's quarters more inspired. Not for his actual job, to everyone's annoyance, but for a new way to throw and break things. Beryl doesn't appreciate his antics on every night of this week, so she sends him off mid-shift for restocks, just to keep him far away from bottles and glasses.

At night, left alone in Mimosa during its closed days, Olive analyses his partner's latest draft of their choreography. He sees the pragmatism between the flairs, moments where actual drink making can get interjected. Instead of settling on a safe, two or three ingredient drink, he furiously flaps a cocktail book's pages, seeking the perfect match. It should speak to their moves, to the song they've just settled on, and most importantly, to his taste buds.

He keeps flipping to the "fizzes" section, unable to take his bookmarking pinky finger out of it. If he rehearses these recipes in his head, he discovers they're less annoying to make in a rush, and versatile enough for a touch of personality. The simple syrup can be any seasonal fruity delight he wants. If he's adding an egg white, they can dry whip it in the middle of their tricks, adding a lovely, effortlessly clean layer in their drink. Once the sparkling soda flows on top of it, its fluffy head will gloriously rise. Afterwards, he can rest his favourite dried flower garnish on it. He's adding something of himself in each listed ingredient.

...Does this qualify as his worthy riff on a Gin Fizz? Is it enough to impress Beryl the next time he sees eyes with her? He trials his idea, and places a highball glass on the mat. He follows his napkin directions loosely. His initial lick of the spoon was delicious, he's not changing his impulsive pick of the cherry syrup. The soda tingles his ears in this quiet. He ends with an Inkstagrammable glass: a cheerful pink shade fading into white, garnished discreetly, elegantly. Sticking his straw in, it feels like something's been thinned out too much. It gained a wateriness to it, and it's not the right kind of dilution. It's good, but it's not going to knock someone like Barresi off.

But it's one more day to the competition, and he can't mess with the steps anymore.

They have agreed on a final rehearsal, with the full package of music and ingredients included. Such an involved setup requires the trip to their establishment. Like a few nights ago, they stand behind the bar, performing for an empty room. Comparatively, they know exactly what to do this time. Rodi cues their song, and they wait for the first drum kick.

First, the shaker setup. That's the part they've settled on the earliest. It goes without flaw, the shaker hovers by their hands. They do their first pass here, then settle each shaker half on the mat. They don't waste time, they get their bottles out: syrup and spirit. They tangle hand flips and shoulder throws, flourishes that match the song's own. On the song's bridges, they let each other shine.

Balancing his bottle on his shoulder, Olive gets their square napkin ready, spins it on the back of his hand and flicks it on the counter. He then shifts his shoulder from under the bottle, letting it fall in his hand. One more spin of it, and it goes right above the jigger in his other hand, ready for a sugary half-measure. He leaves the nonsense behind for a second, to pour his lemon juice and his cherished egg whites, pre-separated. He retreats in the shadows to give it a dry shake.

Rodi comes in front, already hovering the bottle above his tentacles with repeated throws. His spins are quicker, snappier, in order to keep the spirit from raining everywhere. He dares to pick the highball as well, making it go around his other arm on every opportunity. He twirls the glass towards the napkin, then winks at Olive to get the shaker and jigger in position. Another measure gets dunked in the tin.

The best part is up. They re-establish the mirror between them. Their harder throws are coming up, the ones that happen on their behind, where they have to trust their senses. Hand roll, simple throw, backhand throw...

A clattering sound rings from below.

Olive curses under his breath, and falls out of sync with Rodi.

"Stop,” he leans to pick his bottle. “Let's go again from the start."

Rodi loosens his shoulders. "Okay, baby."

The previous pours go down the drain. There's not much difference in the second run, for better or worse. He reaches the backhand throw. Alas, he misses the catch once more. He lunges even lower to catch the bottle, though it rolls away, towards the storage.

"Fuck!" Olive stomps away.

"Start over?" Rodi's unusually hesitant in tone.

Olive sighs and nods, lips stretched thinner. While Rodi winds back their song, he gets into the starting pose, eyes strongly shut to squeeze his frustrations out.

No matter what, whenever they reach the backhand throw, Olive just can't do the bottle throw in the right direction, or his fingers don't fully grip it on the catch. It's soon filling him with dread, whenever the routine closes into this move.

"Want to repeat just this bit?" Rodi turns to him. "We've got the parts from before pretty solid now."

"No," Olive growls. "It has to work from start to finish. I don't have a do-over in the actual competition."

"Well... That's why we're rehearsing. We're nailing down the toughest bits. We just found one of those."

"You've got it nailed down. It can't be that hard," he grips on the bottle neck harder, until his skin turns lighter around it.

"Weren't you saying I'm years ahead anyway?" Rodi smirks. "Come on, babe. Chill out."

"Replay the song," he leers until Rodi gets into the initial pose.

Isandro twists his torso to reach his play button behind. Shakers, bottles, pours... It's getting blurry behind their eyes. Finally, Olive executes the backhand throw successfully. Rodi flashes a brief smile, though Olive's too focused to notice. It gets followed by another impressive pass, two spinning bottle throws at once on the final chorus.

This is the last section, their good measure. The two take back the centre, and turn their swapped bottles in a free pour. Rodi doesn't keep his eyes away from their supple streams. His lips press together for a second, he steadily rises the bottle together with Olive. Then, their pours cut simultaneously. His bottle swings to the front of the tin, Olive's swings to the back. An outside and inside pour cut, well sold, as long as he's the only one to notice both their pours overshot the tin at the end.

During the last seconds, it's a race to get the ice shaking, the soda bottle cap off, all the good stuff strained and topped.

The song finishes. Rodi throws his fist in the air, loudly woos for themselves, for the feat they've accomplished. He brings his palm up for a high-five, though only sees how Olive's turning away, slamming the bar spoon he used for the garnish on the countertop. He awkwardly shoves his hand back in his pocket, though keeps his smile.

"Booyah, baby!" his roar echoes in the establishment. "Aren't you psyched?"

"I took too fucking long. Sorry," with his back turned, Olive wipes a bead of sweat from his temple with one of their rags.

Part of Rodi's glee dissolves in Olive's high standards. He didn't expect his partner would get so hung up about one thing, between the hundreds they've successfully done in under three minutes.

Conquering the routine isn’t the toughest part. The battles keep roiling within, insidious in nature, and don’t come to the light until the breaking point. It’s tough being your biggest critic, Rodi still has to fight his own from time to time. He can empathise. He walks behind his partner's back, kissing and clasping his shoulders. He does a quick, rigorous stroke on them before Olive turns his cheek to him.

"I'll let you in on my secret. One slip never makes the entire show," Rodi hushes.

A forlorn smile fades into Olive's expression. Let it be so. However, there’s so much trust placed on him, that it weighs on each of his moves. So much hope needs special handling.

Their Splash Mob and Rockenberg shoes appear from behind the yellow taxi's doors. After shutting them closed, their steps go for the trunk. The driver places Olive's old suitcase on the pavement. The car leaves them behind, in a sea of concrete and glass.

Swanky was a good describer for it.

New Albacore Hotel doesn't get overshadowed by Central Inkopolis' taller highrises. Its complex, intertwining modernist structure adorns every facet of the building. You can anticipate the interior's opulence through its exterior. And it's overwhelmingly lavish upon entering.

The lobby spans a ridiculous perimetre, presenting a long walk just to the hotel's reception. Along the way, there's sculptural light fixtures, abstract fountains with spiralling water flows, designer chairs and tables where today's contestants lounge before entry. The hotel's best known feature is their rooftop pool and bar, and they hint at it with the dense palm trees found around the lobby. They've got impeccable fronds, Olive notes. The interior gardeners must be top of their class.

In spite of the interior's grandeur, there are enough signs to direct the competitors to the correct conference halls. The two bartenders follow them through a number of corridors, which give them a sense of deja-vu upon each turn. These all look the same, many must've gotten lost in them before. They roll their suitcase over the impeccable carpets, their tools and bottles inside rattling on each ridge.

They reach a hallway blocked by tables. This is where the queueing starts, one line for contestants, one for spectators, and a single table for VIPs, without the need for queueing. One day, they'll go straight to it. For now, they join the other contestants and waddle along.

They soon reach a Pacific Powerhouses' staff member, a spectacled seahorse. She will handle the sign up for them. They each tell their full names. Olive's already knotting his fingers together, just at having to say his name. The seahorse checks them off, and she has two orange lanyards ready for them, which they take with slight confusion. The staff member acts out placing it around her neck, and they let an ahh in unison. She points a spiny finger deeper into the hallway, then turns it left, suggesting where they should head next. Olive and Rodi thank her, and make way for the next in line.

There's a great buzz in this wide hallway. Every species living in this city can be found here. Spectators have green lanyards, and mingle with the contestants wearing similar orange lanyards. There's citizens working in the press, with blue lanyards and cameras that somehow don't break their necks. Along the walls, there are banners and decorations, group shots of past editions, glamour shots of winners in the middle of their acts, holding something always suspended in thin air. Some groups take pictures next to the sponsoring brands' cutouts, decor pertaining to the spirits they produce.

In the contestant area, they realise how big this city's flair bartending scene actually is. Just in this room, there are at least fifty bartenders waiting for their turn at the stage. They're warming up, practising tricks and meeting new and old faces. The two anxiously look for the schedule, which is posted on the walls. It seems their round will be around the tail end of the duos' category, and before the second half of the solo category, which is considerably larger. They'll have to wait and simmer in anticipation on the fold-up chairs, hold hands and brush thumbs against the fleshy parts of them until they turn red. All the noise is filtered, the erratic movements in the area can no longer be distinguished. Behind their eyes, their routine plays endlessly, making the hours vanish with each mental rehearsal.

Just before they numb from all the sitting, they get the signal to proceed. Olive inhales until his whole chest fills. Rodi rubs and pats the top of his thigh, until he gets up.

It's just him, his lover and the bar tools dragging behind them. Nothing else exists at this moment. Even the tall jellyfish guiding them to the backstage is on the fringes of their reality.

A last gulp slides down Rodi's throat. Fight or flight kicks in. He may not be a stranger to the feeling, yet it always leaves an all encompassing chemical behind its trail. Let all his inhibition be trapped in his phlegm and leave it buried deep in his stomach. He's got no place for holdbacks. He's more concerned for Olive, already discouraged from the rehearsals, and barely accustomed to stage fright even in Mimosa's confines.

The stage lights are incredibly bright.

"...--our next duos’ act. Give it up for Mimosa's Isandro and Anthos!"

The spectators are clapping, some gruffer cheers can be distinctly heard. They're already pumped by the previous routines. There's a surge of energy, and an expectation that their act will saturate it further. These unheard-of Mimosas must not be mood killers.

The couple takes their places behind the mobile bar. To their right, the DJ switches to a track to build suspense while they set up their bar. To their left, the three judges reorder their papers, sip from their water glasses.

Rodi warms his wrists and ankles until the roar subdues. The crowd turns attentive, and some hold their phones up to capture the moment. A sea of eyes engulfs them, and if they bask in it enough, they become two grains on the seabed's floor. No, they should fight it, they should be a tidal force instead.

Rodi lets out a short, breathy laugh. A brief smile draws across his face, which he shares with Olive. Despite himself, Olive has a determined expression, an alertness to his eyes and ears. He isn't shaking hard enough to halt him in place.

The seconds of silence feel like years. Their song's first note plays. Their jaws clench. On the first fallen beat, their routine unfolds.

The setup. The measures. The pass. They think of it less as a performance, and more as a rigid set of steps they must execute to perfection. Though from an arm's length, the crowd can only see a dazzling dance of glass and steel. The equipment and alcohol sparkles under the professional lights.

They're hit by a wave of cheers at their solo moments. It's surreal, the audience is not sick of the cookie cutter flairs they're filling all their time with. Though, as Rodi said, it's not just the individual elements at work. It's their flow. It's impossible to isolate flow. Their mannerisms are bubbling to the surface; Olive's coolheaded determination keeps every prop in check, each of Rodi's magnetic motions is connected to the next. They harmonise in motion, their effortless, dancing collaboration in building the drink makes the judges slowly nod.

The easy part is over, now come the trickier throws. Olive gets his bottle ready for the hand roll, holding it with a reverse grip. It's supposed to travel along the back of his hand, though the sensation's off. It doesn't have contact past his second knuckle. In the moment, he corrects the hand's position, though it throws the bottle's trajectory off. It doesn't want to go back in his hands. It teeters mischievously on his fingers, slipping at every catch and fall. It wants to escape so badly that it slips past him. It's running away. He's just about to slam his knees to the floor, but Olive manages to catch the falling bottle. It's not offering any relief, however. The cursed backhand throw follows.

He springs back upright with great momentum, to compensate for the lost flow. But he overcompensates. He launches the bottle past his left side, beyond his catching hand. He can barely acknowledge what just occurred before its aftermath unfolds.

The bottle shatters against the judges' booth.

Olive’s eyes nearly roll back into his head, as if possessed. He’s got every insult lined up for himself, but he quickly looks past this initial burst of anger. He inspects the disaster to his left. Is everyone alright? Did anyone get cut? Oh, god.

The crystal rain's pitter patter reaches Rodi with an atomic delay. Instead of catching Olive's bottle pass, he catches him like a statue, slowly turning away from him.

They can't let their flow die down. It would spell catastrophe. But try as he may, he won't get Olive's attention back before their next beat. So, like a master of split-second decisions, Rodi does the next best thing in his mind.

He picks their backup syrup bottle in his free hand, tilts it and the one he was already holding, to free-pour the missing good measure. After that, in an exaggerated backhand throw, he tosses it in the opposite direction.

The bottle shatters against the DJ’s booth.

Does the sheen of the shards mesmerise or horrify the crowd? It's hard to say from their faces stuck in animation. Symmetry in destruction will always feel uncanny.

The shatters now have Olive startled from both directions. He finally looks at Rodi. He needs rescuing. Yet, Rodi's unwavering eyes tell him it isn't over. It's never over. There's no do-overs on the stage.

Despite the panic that wants to creep in his limbs, Rodi can't leave Olive like this. He's too dumbfounded to own up what just happened. Rodi takes his hands. The last Splatfest's footsteps are on repeat. No more bottle twirls, it's their turn to spin. Olive's stiff in it, yet stops craning his neck to the judges once he spots more staff entering the stage, readying mops and pans. Olive finally raises his arm, making way for his partner's pirouettes. Rodi reciprocates, and Olive's sickness in his stomach worsens in his spin.

It comes to the wind up and the extension in their dances: Rodi coils around Olive's left hand, pressing his forehead to his chest with a face fit for a wince. He'd wish to remain glued to Olive's rapidly beating hearts, though he adds distance and extends his arms as far out as he can. He briefly opens his eyes, and notices Olive regained their mirror image. They swap places, each walking under their linked hands.

They release their hands through countering spins on the song's final chorus. The only thing they should be caring about is getting back on track and building the drink.

After Rodi adds his scoop of ice into the shaker, he throws it to Olive to chill it. In the meantime, Rodi can take care of the highball glass and soda cap. The flairs he does in his usual shifts will suffice here.

The drink's build is like on paper: fresh lemon juice, cherry syrup and botanical gin, holding afloat a silky layer of foam. Rodi pours the soda, its fizz elevating it in every sense. Olive slides a paper thin flower off the bar spoon's bottom, setting it in the centre of the drink's head. Lastly, he takes the spoon away through a final spin between his fingers.

At least they finished on time. The timer buzzes a few seconds after Rodi pushes their drink forwards.

The finish line doesn't have the elating feeling they've imagined. They stand in place, their chests rising and falling like a stormy sea's waves. The flow of air in their throats is audible. Although it takes longer than usual for it to start, the audience applauds them for their performance. Out of awe or out of politeness, they'd rather not know.

"Wow. That was crazy! I've never seen something as... daring before! One last round for Mimosa's Isandro and Anthos, everyone!" The MC wraps it up, though the audience's reaction doesn't intensify. Instead of acclaims, there’s a blanket of whispers laid on the chairs.

The back of Rodi's hand brushes against Olive's. The contact puts a break to their surges of adrenaline. They take their eyes off the audience, and check themselves. Pupils too small for their comfort, sweat rolling too fast for the physical effort they've actually put in. Rodi jerks his head towards the backstage, and Olive commences their stage exit, giving a shy bow for the crowd. They leave the judges with quizzical stares, the hotel staff picking at stray glass shards, and the DJ unsure what to play as an outro.

That's not the kind of show-stoppers they should've been. Beyond the audience's eyes, they each do a facepalm. In bittersweet irony, the slapping is synced to the same second.

Rodi's beak grits against itself. "Uurrrgh! We were so close!"

"We weren't anywhere near," Olive gravely mutters to the side.

They walk past a wall-mounted TV, monitoring what's being broadcast to the competition's online livestream. Olive backtracks some steps to inspect it. The current frame, a birds-eye view of the stage, cuts to themselves, their last moments on-stage. Their slowed down, dramatic panting fades out into a replay of their routine's highlights.

Olive's mouth opens slightly. With urgency, he sits on the closest fold-up chair, to analyse their performance. Rodi hums in question, then sees the free chair next to his partner. He joins in.

They're highlighting the first minute of it, the satisfying synchronicity, impressive angles of their unshakeable flow, despite their initial jitters. Although the moves themselves weren't advanced, their execution was on point. Then it closes to the harder throws. The slow-motion replay catches every imperfection, every slip and slide. It physically hurts to watch it. It gets to Olive's beefed up throw, his shattered bottle, his furious gaze turning fearful, then perplexed when Rodi breaks his the same.

"...What the fuck happened here?" Olive pulls at Rodi's shirt, making sure he's watching it as well.

Rodi puckers his lips, asking himself the same. He turns his neck to Olive, then shrugs. "I think I saved it. I played along with your small butter fingers moment. It made it so artsy, don't you think?"

Apparently not. Olive lays his shaky palm across his face, then lets a low whine in it.

"...I had to do something, okay?" Rodi barks, flinging his arms forwards. "You were a frozen slab of meat with a minute still to go on the clock. It's a tandem, I can't carry the show alone."

That didn't help. Olive's palm gradually slides off his forehead, one finger at a time. His green eyes are aflame, even surpassing the intensity in Rodi's. He tries to keep it down, though his voice is only more grating, whistling between his fangs.

"I told you a hundred fucking times, go for a solo category. You didn't. Suck up your loss now."

Olive's chair squeaks as he darts upwards and away in the hotel's hallways. Some in the backstage crowd stare and raise their brows to him, then back to Rodi. Rodi's by now immune to the stinky eye. He's cross-armed and embittered, so their attention doesn't linger.

He's too pissed to play the chaser. Isandro keeps watching the show on the screen, head in hands over his knees. The next pair makes its way on the stage, a female nautilus and a male barracuda. She's got all the appendages to spin bottles in the air to infinity, and his snout is as long as Rodi's arm, yet wider and easier to roll sideways shakers on it. There's a reason inklings get into Turf War and not bartending, as much as he hates admitting it.

He wouldn't have had a chance in the solo bracket anyway. The lionfish streak champion has a shaking style like nothing in Inkadia, he's only moving his wrists and its delicate spines. As if that shake stores kinetic energy, he unwinds it in some crazy acrobatics and juggling of every instrument. He keeps two bottles and three shakers in the air non-stop. They just about touch his spines before the catch. And, by all heavens, his glass looks impeccable at the end.

Again, he's frustrated beyond measure. His leg is bouncing with the speed and force of an engine. He's incredibly menacing in his gaze once the judging intermission commences, and the sponsor ads roll. He gets up with little control over his limbs. With a shield made of sass, he walks past the fellow competitors, his hands deep in his front pockets. He couldn't care less about their exchange of congratulations.

He's been stewing in frustration enough, to the point where he's frustrated at his frustration. The only thing on his mind is a cigarette. He remembers when this was a little thing to fling while talking with random people at a party, not a pacifier for his nerves. He checks his back pocket for his pack of slims, though discovers with slight horror how his lighter sits lonely inside of it. Would it kill him to have a smoke break without bullshit like this?

Maybe a walk to the shop will be better for his mind. He makes way through the confusing hotel hallways, up to the registration area. The seahorse lady from earlier attracts his attention with a raised arm.

"Are you exiting the venue?" she asks, her words naturally muffled by her long snout.

"Just for some smokes," Rodi answers with a little surprise.

"No problem. Please have your lanyard ready upon reentering. Ah," she realises something. "Mr. Isandro? Please take your feedback as well."

The seahorse brings a sheet of paper forwards. Rodi takes it with a bit of delay. His thanks are curt, reserved. He keeps his momentum in his legs. His lowered brows raise once he skims the writing.

His steps towards the lobby slow to a halt the more he reads. His hand goes for his chin, then to his mouth, keeping him from any strident exclamations in public. This is more important than some pack of cigarettes. He has to tell his partner. It doesn't take much guessing to know Olive is in the smoking area, a cordoned-off room just by the backstage doors. He heads in there like an arrow.

This side room is surprisingly small and undressed for New Albacore Hotel's oversized chambers. It reeks, the ventilation doesn't keep up with its purpose. Groups of contestants are bunched together between the four walls, and those that came alone are dotting the empty spaces. Olive's one of those lone smokers, on his god knows which cigarette of his break. Rodi won't bug him about his chain-smoking tendencies, they're irrelevant right now.

It hurts, just a little bit, when Olive doesn't even acknowledge Rodi's approach. But it’s fine, he's built with thick skin. His arms cross, tucking the feedback sheet under his bicep.

Rodi whispers just for Olive to hear. "They called our routine too dangerous, and that we should've modified it 'cause we didn't have barbacks to catch stuff. That's our biggest point deduction, on the technique."

The taller inkling gains enough goodwill to look back at his partner, though it's stern.

He continues. "They said it was unique, but couldn't give additional points on the choreography. It was too abstract, or some shit. Their choice of word, not mine."

"What about the drink's score," Olive's eyes narrow, nearly hiding into his oversized mask, as he takes another drag.

"Above average. Best of our scoring, by far."

His exhale is composed, his sight steadfast through the brief cloud of smoke. Yet it breaks for a second as Rodi picks the cigarette off his fingers, then finishes it for him. That settles it for his nicotine craving. Olive's eyes get lit with intrigue, and his arms take their time to cross.

"Tell the exact number," he leans an inch closer.

Rodi doesn't outright mention the score. He keeps Olive in anticipation, savouring the tension with a smirk. His weight shifts from one heel to another, at the same time as his partner. Once the smoke fully dissipates, he obliges. "Nine out of ten."

The air in this room is somehow clearer. Rodi knows Olive wants to smile, from his eyes opening just a bit wider, though he's too much of a mule to let it be known. The green eyes run to the side, then back to Rodi's lack of manners. Disregarding the hotel's grace, Rodi separates his fingers and lets the stub drop to the natural stone flooring, before pressing his wingtip's sole over it.

"The ceremony's starting soon. Shall we?"

Olive doesn't nod, though takes his steps towards the conference hall, letting Rodi follow by his side.

The hallway is as crowded as in the morning. All rounds have finished. They traverse with glued shoulders, and faces that express neither glee nor disappointment. For a first try, it could’ve been worse.

The stage, now with all three booths removed, fills with talented souls. And themselves, the package deal that they are. The contestants' heights range from their knees to more than their arms stretched upwards. They all do an awkward shuffle, until the smallest stand in the front, and the largest in the back. The middle row is mostly inklings, in their splendid averageness.

The two winners are called for their respective categories. The lionfish and the nautilus with her barracuda reign as champions. No surprises there for Rodi, he claps with his palms fallen sideways.

Camera flashes, loud fanfares, and more applauding. They're forcing their best smile for the complete group shot. Once the flashing settles, the people around them scramble, but they're standing their ground. Is this it?

The answer comes by itself. Event promoters make the rounds around the contestants. One of them hands Rodi a tote bag with the competition's logo. The two dig their hands inside, like kids with a candy bag, and find the alleged participation prize. A pity prize, rather: a spotless bottle of Reefeater's newly released gin variety. It's electric yellow, indicating its forefront citrus peel infusion.

"Now what? Drink our sorrows and have a sad snog?" Rodi lifts the bottle a bit in the air.

"No, we're not drinking it. It was a prize for Mimosa, not for us. We're putting it on the shelves," Olive takes it away from him. "Besides, you forgot that Beryl gave us homework."

"...Right. Study material," Rodi takes a last look at it, before Olive places it back in the bag.