Disasters won't always start with a bang. At times, they start with a fizzle: a soda can gets opened in boredom. A sip's hiss grates harder than it should.

Every once in a while, a sigh is drawn out behind the bar, filling the space between the shuffle. Occasionally, a soft sequence of knocks is heard when their feet hit the fruit crates, occupying their floor too widely. The water running in the sink complements the refrigeration hum. It's easy to tell the pitter-patters apart, regardless if they hit the stainless steel, the citrus skins, or Olive's skin.

"Do we really need all of these washed?" Hands still in the sink, Olive half-twists towards Rodi.

The pomegranate inkling is crouching next to the fridges, digging for bottles forgotten in the back. Rodi struggles to see Olive, with the pure white light blaring in his face. "While it's fucking dead, yeah, ideally."

"They'll keep fresher if we don't wash them. We can save them for Sunday, when the matches are over."

"You're kidding," he suddenly gets up, kicking the fridge door. "You'd rather waste time washing when we finally have the seats filled? Not like you've got anything better to do." There's a pause in which Rodi expects Olive to resume his activity. Yet, a resistance to any command took root since they both screwed the competition. There is a lack of give between them.

"Ah, fuck," Rodi's hands dart upwards, "I still need to sort out the rest of the ice. The goddamn ice," he rushes away with a clutch over his phone, speaking with a vastly different tone: perky, flattering, and needy.

Olive's eyes trace Rodi's loops, their leafy irises barely made from under his lids. In some muffled distance, questions about distributors, delivery times, invoicing flutter about. Olive runs checks of his own phone, keeping it close to the sink. Every passing minute, he flicks a wet finger at the screen, unbothered by the pools of water beading on the display. The display’s light mirrors in his alert eyes.

An hour after the festival's start, the first guests make their way inside. Rodi cuts his phone negotiations prematurely, approaching them with half a smile. He pulls on his shirt and tie with too much zeal, making them sit awkwardly on him. It causes an uncomfortable tingle across his neck, though he's unaware what might cause it.

The basement warms with more bodies arriving. Music and conversations get louder, and more limbs and glasses take turns over the bar.

During his laps of the room, Rodi passes like a whirlwind. This causes a draft behind Olive and he's not fond of them. In one such lap, Anthos suddenly pinches the black shirt's hem, just about missing Rodi's low tie. He grips and tames Isandro's chaotic inertia.

"What are you doing?" he asks, in a puzzled crescendo.

"Tables. Obviously." Rodi is about to sprint, but Olive places his foot in his way.

Although he's stopped in his tracks, his partner can't focus on one thing. He keeps leaning to take a step in any of the four cardinal directions, but ends up staring Olive down with impatience. He assumes he can push Olive out of his way with raw sight. Olive can recognise when Rodi's engine is running at full speed, though it seems fuelled by panic, not excitement. Olive also notices the messed up collar. He neatens it back down with a careful, yet firm press down, sneaking in a caress of the short back tentacles as well. Once it's in place, Rodi fixes the collar again, surprised that his neck's pinpricks disappeared with such ease. Yet, a soft flush takes their place, and it raises beyond his neck.

"You're all over. Slow a bit, you'll spill something at this pace."

"Slow?" Rodi thinks he's misheard. "No way, not tonight. We need to pick it up."

Isandro manoeuvres around the long leg with a high step and a lunge. Just as he is on his way, he takes a passing glance over the bar, and jolts with realisation. He forgot to take the order he was meaning to deliver. He returns, to Olive's amusement, though Rodi doesn't seem as jovial about his backtracking. He sees his pile of table order tickets lying ignored, right next to Olive's phone.

"You want me not crashing into everything?" Rodi picks up the tickets. "Do more of this," he fans them out, then forces them on Olive, "and less of this, yeah?" Illustratively, he flicks his index finger over his palm multiple times.

Olive was about to sink his head back into his well, chugging mindlessly through tickets straight away, though he doesn't find himself in a placating mood. He places the tickets in his apron and picks his phone instead.

"I'm not slacking. I'm trying to see if I'm retaking any exams, or failing the entire year."

Just to prove it, Olive lets his partner glance over. The screen is on a stark white background and black text page, shockingly utilitarian in its basic design. It's got a header outlining UoI BSc Botany 2016 Results, and a smaller text announcing that the site will be updated at midnight.

"...Alright. Well. It's not like they'll release the results earlier if you keep checking them," Rodi raises his eyes from the screen to the green ones.

Olive stows his phone into the apron. "Actually, they've already published them. They're keeping them hidden for no reason. There have been glitches when students were able to see the results earlier than they intended. Don't ask me how, but reloading the page a bunch of times has something to do with it."

"Really? Wh--... Whatever. They've got shitty timing, releasing results on a Splatfest night."

"They settle on these dates at the start of the year," Olive corrects.

"And you've got a queue forming up there," Rodi's eyes fling to Olive's usual chunk of the bar.

There's six or so inklings lined where the bar curves in, weapons and tanks still up their backs; on their break, the impatient kind. Olive's enthusiasm to approach them dwindles the longer he looks back at them. Before he takes a step, a different force pulls him away from his recluse, a prettier sight than six drenched turf battlers.

A smooth voice fills the third bar seat, it rattles in his head after hearing it. His gaze hits the source: turquoise, glistening pools bordered by a mascaraed eye mask and a frame of deep green tentacles. She has a best friend latching on her shoulder on the fourth seat, also an inkfish, a brighter green. Both are well-humoured, going by their genuine laughs, which leave a more youthful impression than their actual looks. Olive sinks into the first one, for starters. If he had the choice, he would always begin with the dessert.

Spaghetti straps are followed by neroli and spice tones. Skipping the menu, she opts for a no-frills amaro and tonic, though it's something Olive would happily make for himself during the after-hours. His smile quickly morphs into a smirk. He'll keep these two in mind.

Another receipt inches out of the printer. Rodi's fingers are pinching it before it fully prints out. He rips it with a whip of his wrist, and brings it to the table that asked for it. He catches a fragment of the table's discussion. The topic is ripped from tonight's centerstage - the idols: questioning who the better girl is, in terms of their body measurements.

On the way, four guests showed up at the door. Rodi nods back to them, but the plea for patience gets stuck in his beak. He bends to pick the empty tealight holder from the table, to tuck the thermal paper underneath it. He perks on his toes to survey the battlefield: all seating is taken, the lounge is particularly overfilled, and Olive didn't clear the battlers at the bar. One of his hearts feels a pound heavier as he approaches the entrance. Juggling expectations at the door works as well as a coin flip.

Isandro's greeting is unilateral. "Lovely night, huh? Can you guys wait," he checks the back of his empty wrist, "a minute or so for a table to clear? I've just wrapped up with those guys there," his chest turns slightly to reveal said table. The seated aren't budging from their spots, and seem to get even deeper into their debate, as the bill lays ignored. Rodi pinches both of his lips between his beak. "...Or, well, you know, you're all on your feet and raring already, we've got plenty of standing space!"

It can be barely made out in the staircase's penumbra, though two more guests arrive behind this current group; two rather tall species, hard to pinpoint in the shadows. The group of four start debating between themselves, giving Rodi time to devise a better way to fit all the newcomers.

But the catch is right in his net, and it's slipping away. The two tall individuals leave when they realise there's a queue. In the leftover group, the urchin started looking for other nearby places. The group's inkling is luring them away with promises of better music, prices, faces, calling out spots Rodi used to frequent. Something akin to jealousy, the danger of being replaced with something better, makes him nimble in his reactions. Rodi slips a menu from the bar, and lets them peruse it. He twiddles thumbs in hopes that the drinks capture them, though the minute passes without any spaces clearing. They all exchange looks, and take back to the stairs.

No matter how many waits Rodi drops on each staircase, they don't reconsider. The clinginess on the spot isn't a good look, either. Rodi's left in the brick door frame, watching the gap widen between his potential clientele.

Hook, line, nothing close to a sinker. He knocks his fist into the A5 menu plaque with a crass swear. His ambitious projections for Friday are going down the drain, together with the perishables at last call.

The streetlight buzzes. He allows some distance between him and anyone else, before he mentally unravels a string of words to whip himself with.

You did it again. You did too little. You did too much. You control freak. You didn't even try.

He’s so engrossed in it, that the mane of thick, lilac tendrils from across the street startles him.

"...Lynda!" He takes a step into the road, to make sure he's seeing it right. "That's you? What the hell, come on in!" he beckons.

The anemone is already on her way to Rodi's side. His call reaches the wayward group, and they sneak a glance at the scene. Their expressions are most likely unkind, but they keep seeing their way. Rodi shuts his eyes for a second, to clear the group's image. With a fresh sight, he discovers his friend's state. Her legs aren't pushed by her will, but by some automated process that takes hold of her vacant blinking as well.

"Love the fit, babe," Rodi scans her. Dungarees always look great on Lynda. "But you're not too fresh otherwise."

Lynda has a pout for days. Various puffs, grunts and raspberries come out of her mouth. She summarises by waving her hands in frustrated, yet defeated signs. Her gestures and noises get confused in the middle, and can't pick whether she cares enough to explain or keep charading. She doesn't, and walks by Rodi towards the basement. Downstairs, Rodi finds her dragging out one of the crates from the stack of empties, creating her own table in the storage's vicinity. At least Rodi didn't have to give her the whole song and dance about a fictitious waitlist. Rodi hovers around her, unsure of where to stand.

"You alright there? I'll find you a chair."

"No, the crate's fine," she finally speaks. "I don't deserve more than this, really. It's fine. Really."

Whatever follows Lynda, Rodi's not in the prime state for it. However, it would be easier to quiet Lynda's berating than his own. There's gentle relief in the fact that she hasn't ever changed her go-to drink, even after it betrayed her many times the morning after.

"Maybe this will put more words back in your mouth," he offers a fresh Margarita.

Lynda lets a soft scoff before she takes her glass. She licks a small section of the salt rim, then takes a hearty gulp. Her whole posture relaxes.

"Maybe. Thanks. Your margs make my nights less shit, honestly."

"What's this about? Bummed about the exams?" Rodi raises a brow. "I've just heard they're publishing Olive's results, so..."

"Eh!?" Her dark scleras widen. "That's tonight?"

"Terrible timing, right?" he emphasises with a roll of his tongue.

However, his grin over this small connection quickly fades, as Lynda herself is also left staring at the phone screen. It's the same drab white page, though the department's name differs. Rodi rolls his eyes.

"You--... They're released at midnight, you know that?"

"Sure, we've heard that before," she mimics Olive's own rapid flicks to bombard the website with requests. Her other hand balances the Margarita, as she drains it at breakneck speeds.

"You gotta be kidding. This is somehow sadder than checking the 'fest results every second. You're gonna make your night worse, both of you," he flicks his finger at both Lynda and Olive, both untouched by the observation.

"Go on and make it better, bartender," she chitters. She hands the empty coupe back to Rodi, and leaves her left hand hovering, wrist exposed tellingly, expectantly.

Rodi's mouth twists, a resentful smile can't ever settle properly on him. He returns the coupe to the sink, then places two shot glasses on the bar mat. A square bottle from the rail flips over the two glasses. Their rims get hugged by halved lime wedges. On the way to the crates, he picks a salt shaker. He pours a small saline mountain on Lynda's wrist, while one of the shot glasses gets presented in front of her.

"For you, this is the best I can do," he picks his own glass after serving her. "Hope it's enough, especially for tonight."

"Well, it's an alright shot," Lynda raises her glass a little, checking its wash line. "What's tonight got to do with it?"

He shrugs while seeking an acceptable explanation. "Oh, you know. There's always better parties."

"The night's got time for them all, have you forgotten?" she jests rather warmly.

A hint of a real smile replaces Rodi's forced one. The glasses kiss. The two flip their glasses over in synchronised camaraderie. It's just like yesteryear, though with slightly worse-off livers. A single tremor rolls over Rodi's entire body. Lynda hacks out the heavy vapours that weren't washed down with the shot.

"You forgot how to drink," Rodi chuffs at her. "It's a learning curve, I know."

Lynda drops the shot glass on the makeshift table, shuts herself up with the accompanying lime, then wipes her steamed round glasses against her dungarees. "Whooh... You can't learn if you can't buy better alcohol," she groans.

"Why waste the top stuff? Besides, I gotta keep the cost per pour in check with you," he gets even smugger with her, prompting her to scoff back. She licks every trace of salt off her wrist. It's the only cure for her throat.

With her tongue peeking between her thin lips, Lynda goes back to her phone, letting Rodi slip to the rest of the guests.

Isandro's arm reaches for the bar mats, though there's no glasses to pick up. His carmine eyes peek above the counter, surprised that all the tables have a drink per head. Everything seems already served. There's no ticket lying around. Yet, Olive keeps his behind on the back bar, joining Lynda in the wait for the exam results.

There must be something he's ignoring, surely. As Rodi checks the bar from one end to another, he sprouts an incredulous face. The whole place is pristine, ready for the next rounds.

He sticks his hand into Olive's apron without a warning, which makes him pass a glance over. Olive lets Rodi search as he pleases, with no inquiries. Though, after a minute of rattling the pockets, nearly untying the apron off his hip, Olive takes a small step away from him.

"The tickets," Rodi asks first. "Where did they go?"

"They're done."

"Are you sure you didn't toss a few?"

"Very sure," Olive refreshes again. His thousand-yard stare pierces through the screen.

"So? That's it? Job's done?" He flails on the spot. "Get some more orders going, clear some tables, prep some shit. We need to cycle the seats faster. I want to see numbers higher than the previous Splatfest."

Olive presses his beak together until the bargaining ends. "Stop fussing, Rodi. It'll happen when it happens. We didn't force it for the Early Birds and Night Owls."

"True, we didn't force it, we made it happen, babe." But his approval slips through his heavy hand gestures. "So do more, for fuck's sake."

Olive's nose flicks to the room. "Take a look. People are feeling good. Don't rush them."

Though the fact flies by his pointed ears. Rodi is en route to making the next drink, which will be another Margarita, judging by Lynda's slouch. If Olive won't bother, Rodi will take the reins alone.

A speck of citrus pulp impacts Olive's right cheek. Rodi's pressing his limes more forcefully than usual, they spurt out the manual juicer. Olive wipes the cheek with the corner of the wrist, though he can't wipe Rodi's briskness. He needs him off his neck.

In a caring gesture, Olive gets a random rail bottle, to pour a measure into a spare glass. He taps it onto Rodi's shoulder.

"Here... Take the edge off."

Isandro doesn't check or ask what's inside, never mind admitting he's already one shot deep. Once he finishes with the shaker, he drinks without holdback. Olive finishes whatever's left at the bottom of the glass, to stay equitable. They should only go down under together.

It seems to have worked, Rodi stops lightly self-flagellating with every stainless steel tool he picks. He gains serenity in a concerning way, like a child that quiets down when it injures itself. In the middle of his mixing, he goes to his phone on the back bar, to turn up their party playlist, drowning his hums.

The music gets too distracting, a pushy presence, when the baseline and hi-hats concur. Squinting his eyes from the strong vibrations, Olive pushes the volume back to its original spot.

"Please keep it low. I'll be conversing with the guests."

Rodi can't decide between acting cocky or surprised. "Are you, now?"

"These two might be our biggest tips of the night," Olive's sway in his legs exposes the women behind him. One forest-green inked, the other a bright chartreuse. "I'll try sweet-talking until they give. You've got a trained eye, do you think they're the generous type?"

Now, Rodi can't decide between shock and satisfaction. Having found something new in the pit of his stomach, Olive pulls his T-shirt sleeves higher up his shoulders. Rodi checks the guests in question, though he'd much rather indulge in Olive's current image. He drinks the sheen of Olive's upper bicep, how the arm flows back in his wide chest, his soft nose and lips in profile view as he turns to his work. He's steadfast, unassuming in how he carries himself, yet motioning with a desire to impress.

"...I guess," is how Rodi leaves him to it.

He observes Olive's craftiness from the sidelines. He's putting on more of a show, ever since he's learned all those tricks for the competition. Twirls and knits and flicks of the boxy fingers leave Rodi transfixed. The width of the bar has all eyes on the taller bartender. For once, Anthos stands out more than Isandro. He glimmers.

Growing itchy from the sense of being overshadowed, Rodi returns to the middle of the room. Like a bumblebee, he flies from table to table, checking in with his patrons. The responses are warm and content. Delicious. Great. Excellent. Rodi grows weary of himself, wishing the praise didn't leave his system in an instant.

His pointed nails trace the stainless steel edge of the backbar in his return. They hit the glass he'd been sipping from earlier, from Olive. If words won't reach him, a sense of feeling rewarded might. He pours himself a thin film of Jellysons at the bottom of the rocks glass, though there isn't any more satisfaction, nor effect in the swig. Rodi wipes the corner of his downturned lips with his thumb.

And so, swirling the glass to his chest, Isandro feels incompetent in his own domain. Anthos sorted their floor like it was nothing, and even had time to muck around. Rodi has a fear, which he didn't feed as much before, that his partner is turning out too good for him. Could he run away from a problem this good? He'll let it happen, just like the cheap spirits creating their own reactions inside his gut.

Rodi comes by the lonely stack of crates, noting the previous Margarita is halfway drained.

"Still checking?"

"Not really," Lynda stows the phone. "It gets boring after a while. They fixed the website. Killjoys."

Rodi takes a crate for himself, fashioning another chair out of it. He already sees large banknotes piling under Lynda's shot glass. It seems she's getting prepared to fully forget what's to come.

The anemone places her cheek over her fist. "By the way, how's the prowl lately? Spotted any new blood? Any good stuff back in town?"

He looks in the vague direction of the guests. "I haven't checked in ages. Not in that way, since Olive."

"Oh, right," her fuchsia eyes drop sheepishly. Her fingers connect the dots. "You and Olive... Yeah. I'm stupid for asking."

Rodi gets shifty-eyed, then leans closer. "...You're taking your chances there? Again? Are you sure?"

"I'll be more casual going into it. I... need something to fill the time."

"Girl..." he draws in a judgey way.

"What do you want me to do?" she expulses, whinier than she wants to. "You'd do the same. You need a body to keep warm."

She's right. Who is he to judge? He lets her finish her drawn-out sip, before he resumes nagging.

"Honey, what about your symbiont? Aren't those pairing sessions working?" His red brow raises with uneasiness.

Lynda's cheeks turn rosy from her drinks. "They're useless. And boring. Sooo boring. I need some spice to get me through this bland." She sinks into her thoughts for a beat, letting her tendrils twirl idly, then resurfaces with a lopsided smirk. "Rodi... we made such a duo, remember? Our brains put together could conquer a street's worth of bars. Want to tag as my wingman?"

A memory runs through the ink, a rush of never knowing where you could end up after an outing, and what combination of face, body and character you'd come across. It was a game of wit and allure. He could try playing again, revealing himself as off-limits at the end, to then redirect his capture to his friend, drenching her description in syrup and praise.

Though, isn't this dynamic the reason why he was attracted to bartending in the first place? He's playing matchmaker between people and cocktails. The labour's the same: the reading, the pretence, the setup, the physical effort. Instead of sharing his body, he shares the joy of a drink.

Unfortunately, he can't have a treat waved over his face and expect to sit quietly. Whoever trained obedience into him has to keep a watchful eye over, so he won't go for the bite.

Rodi shrugs. "Well, take your pick from here, and I'll push some of destiny's buttons."

"Not today, silly. Look at me. I look like a clown. Maybe that's why I had bad luck with the clownfish..." she pulls at her outfit, her frown. After the aside, she comes closer, as if about to say something illicit. "Anyway, you'd perform better with your mind off work. Next weekend, Hake District, yeah?" She presents her hand forward for a shake, too convinced about her half-baked idea. She keeps it in the air.

"No, sorry, I'm out of practice. And you are too," he scoffs at the persuasion attempt.

"Ugh. Who turned you into a killjoy?"

"Rodi!" His partner's shout cuts through the entire room.

He gets up in alarm, though Olive's bodyweight slams into his back, knocking the air out of him. Thick arms then wrap over his chest, leaving him too squeezed to inhale, until the grip loosens. Olive keeps Rodi cradled, as he turns to face him.

"I passed! I made it over!" His grin reaches to his ears. The silver-green edges of his eyes are sparkling in gold, like the light that's all around.

Rodi awkwardly laughs, having already forgotten about his exams. After gazing into Olive's shining expression, he figures he should cheer."...Congrats, babe!"

Anthos speaks quickly, fuelled by his joy. "I got the whole August for the bar. I'm not missing the Bluefin trip. I'm on track for third year. I'm so excited, Rodi, I can't believe I...!"

The pomegranate inkling nods with a wide-eyed smile through all these fabulous points. Though he picks off Olive's hands, sensing a pricking pain on his back. It's not the shirt's collar, nor the fear of underperforming, but the icy leer from the tower of crates. Lynda's frozen with her phone in hand, also open on the results, going by the white light illuminating her round chin. Instead of joining Olive's celebration, she seems to harbour contempt for it. The greatest betrayal lies in Rodi's embrace, and it deepens the wound when his gaze innocently hits Lynda's.

...Just as he was pulling her out of her misery.

He lets Olive wander, then ducks his head back to her. "Should I congratulate you, too?"

"Absolutely not," Lynda rasps.

Rodi's already picking the two shot glasses they've used earlier. "Should I ease the pain, then?"

Lynda's so dejected that not even the prospect of a free shot excites her anymore. Empathy calls, Rodi doesn't subject her to the rail bottle, instead picking one from the shelf. And when they complete their cheers-flip-heave ritual, Rodi notices he isn't struck with a shiver from it. He's got helium filling the gaps of his head. Olive's gleeful laugh towards a guest rings in the newformed space.

Lynda's still not impressed, her tongue sticking out after it. "...Guh, terrible! Get better bottles, for real!"

"I treated you! I picked it off the wall for you!" Rodi points at its empty spot.

"Yeah, it's paint thinner!"

"It's what the distributor offered as the mid-range choice. Go bitch to them. I didn't do the tasting, and Olive doesn't really drink teq."

"Olive this, Olive that, you're such a broken record!"

And Olive laughs a little louder in response to the forest-green lady right across him. He's moved his shakers closer to her, a strategic shift of his base.

Something lets a long, high-pitched tone, and Rodi's unsure where it's coming from.

Lynda keeps mocking in the background, fumes escaping her mouth. "Tell me, does Olive wipe your butt, too?"

But Rodi can't register any words. To his right, there's amateur flirting; claws on a blackboard. To his left, there's blatant envy covered in sticky righteousness; shaky whistling in a vacant hall. They leave a loud, tinny noise, vibrating between his eyes.

"Know what? Gimmie a pen and pad," Lynda insists, nearly reaching for the ones in Rodi's back pocket. She's too emboldened. "You're gonna stock up my choices from now on."

Though Lynda misses, as Rodi gets summoned by a guest. Someone raps their knuckles on the bar in an annoying pattern. That guy can't wait two more seconds for the change. He unwillingly drags himself to the large touchscreen, hammers the bill in his hands, and swaps it for the lost coins in the back of the cash box.

He doesn't even get to look at the guy he's handing the money to. There's yet another thing to steal his feeble attention. He focuses on the imposing stature of someone making their way from the entrance, a burly trevally. Eddy holds three large plastic bags branded with a convenience store logo, and passes the frame with a relaxed pace.

A rumble rises in-between Rodi's breasts. His pulse jumps. He makes for the entrance, his chest-first stance pushing both him and Eddy backwards, beyond the door's frame. Rodi pulls the door partially shut, hiding them both from the guests. Isandro starts grave, though explodes a few words in.

"I needed these six hours ago, fucking thank you! I missed the whole head start tonight! You know what I came to? Empty ice box! Rail bottles left open! Everything unwashed! Crap on the floor!"

"Hey. Hey," Eddy attempts between shouts. "I was out with my boys. Loud music, couldn't hear my phone... you gotta understand. Give me a heads-up next time."

"Heads-up? Isn't a massive fucking Splatfest enough heads-up for you? You need to be ready to jump at any second during these events! Why not leave me without my pants too, next time?"

"Bro, I'm here now. Tell me what to do."

The pomegranate inkling hangs on a scowl. His tape loop of lamentations migrated from his head towards his beak. He can't tell if there's crass indifference or trickery in Eddy's direct gaze. Adrenaline surges, Rodi is a mere half of this guy. If his temper keeps rising, things can get ugly. Fangs bared, knuckles whitened, he yanks the plastic bags from their handles.

"Get out. You're done here. For good."

And that's it for their barback. As quick as that. There's no additional dramatic displays. After a second of realisation, the trevally tucks his hands in his pockets, his fins undulate in deference as he climbs to the street. Rodi obsessively kneads the bridge of his mask, hoping a deeper breath will douse him from any more blow-ups. Though, with the excess of oxygen, it worsens.

He realises how flammable all the alcohol inside him is, in the furnace of his chest. Every breath airs up the flames, making them rebel. A part of himself shuts down. A delirium of emotions takes the command. Rodi reopens the heavy door, then looks back at his guests, focusing on nobody in particular. He loathes them all. He feels pity for them, for choosing such a third-rate place.

Then, he feels cold water sopping his Rockenbergs. The bags have been dripping before they've been brought, they're a shitty excuse of an errand. He dumps the bags' ice cubes in their cooler box, the clamour of it echoing in between his ears.

Another noise leaves a gash in his brain: a weeping cry, subdued before it could finish. He lets a few of these erupt, before he pinpoints the exact source.

Lynda. Again. Rodi comes over, no longer asking, but merely witnessing. Like an observer of a horrible car crash that he just missed.

"I'm... I'm just such a fuck-up. Honestly..." she sucks a sob before she can elaborate.

"Anything new?" he half-jokes, though it leaves her choking harder.

...Another joke too far. Rodi becomes frantic at her sorry state, yet he is stretched too thin to keep her company through her swings. He gets those shot glasses out again, pouring two more of the mid-range tequila, and gently taps one of them on Lynda's forearm. She's still capable of picking up the tiny glass with control, holding it up without spilling it from a sob or lack of sobriety.

He squats to her eye level. "Hey, I'm sure you're not as bad. You know better than me what to do. Look, I just told my barback to fuck off. On this night! Of all nights! Imagine! Actually, no, don't imagine, I really did it!" He sounds more loony as he goes. "See, you're fine! Don't worry! Whatever you're doing, you're not shooting yourself in the foot like an asshole. Look," Rodi takes his own shot, staring it down with repressed worry. The vapours are reaching his nose too, sharp and debilitating. "Let me be the fuck-up instead. Laugh at me."

Lynda's motions have become circular. She seems to register Rodi's proposition with delay, but she ultimately understands. She inhales snot and gives a strained nod.

A hesitant, half-formed smile is shared between the two, before the clinking and flipping. They both end up coughing, shaking every extremity for a brief moment after. Just about as Lynda is about to deride his feeble physique in drunken drawl, Rodi does a final shake of the weight off his head and arms. He straightens his spine and gets a shudder of responsibility. It feels dense, a ton of bricks atop his head. All the emotions have vanished, just as a line can vanish to an infinite point.

The rest of the bar is leagues more cheerful. Olive's holding a phone, heavy with an oversized pom-pom. He's grinning coyly while stumbling with its unknown keyboard interface. Though, there's nothing coy from his blush downwards. He's relishing in the swarm of compliments and teases from the women, and it takes him three tries to remember his number. Half of him is play-acting, though the other half gains awareness, how part of his charm is his sheepishness.

Meanwhile, Rodi can't remember what it's like to work with a shaker. It slips, it rings familiar to every last point taken off his competition scoresheet, it reminds how far he strayed from his dexterity.

A black speck appears over his vision: another thing to agonize him. He rubs it off, but it moves around erratically. The illusion falls just as he inhales a fruit fly. He blows the bug out into his palm, and he's left bent from choking on it. He glowers the source of it: Olive's overpampered plants.

And the noises. All the fucking noises. They are peaking, amped up at a deafening volume. Each one becomes isolated: a sucking sound inside one's maw. A monotonous bass line. Another rap of knuckles over the bar counter. An overblown laughter erupting from a table.

The universe conspires against Rodi's composure, making it hard to go without smacking someone: Olive, himself, or a guest. Another laughter bursts, and it brings him close to snapping. He checks where it's from, and briefly meets the eyes of someone who's clutching on someone's thigh, with no grace or regard for the flesh. This sleazebag hooked onto one of the ladies Olive was attending earlier, the younger one.

Time slows for the first time tonight. Whilst Rodi was battling with ten thousand sensations, Olive and the older woman have left his radar. His cognition stutters.

Rodi's needle-thin pupils dart towards the exit. Olive's tentacles are easy to make out in a crowd, together with the forest-green ones. Rodi's just about to jump over the counter, though he takes the more sensible detour, around it. It's less sensible how he scrapes his hip and elbow on half of his seated guests, as he aims for a better vantage point. He freezes in the middle of the basement.

Olive lowers his ear for the woman to whisper in it. He nods, and brings his phone up, saying something that can't be read off his lips. After another nod, he checks on the forest green inkling. He places his hand between her exposed shoulder blades, and guides her upstairs, towards the street.

Rodi's ears snap against his head. Deafening alarms ring between them, and they're impossible to drown. A shiver bursts from the sudden cold sweat.

They both exit.

His body rips at the seams. The last shot makes an unceremonious comeback, crawling up from the gut to his throat, bringing a different kind of burn. A more dangerous, debilitating one.

The back of his hand goes against his lips, hopelessly pushing against the pressure from inside. He slithers between the tables ungracefully, raising a few heads. He runs.

Rodi doesn't even knock before barging into Mimosa's bathroom, a boxy space for half a sink and a throne. It's a miracle that he even made it here, despite his sight, balance and touch losing any sense in less than a minute. He doesn't get to lock the door behind him, he bends in one fell motion towards the toilet bowl. The unclean gargling he held back with his tongue is suddenly in front of him, forming a pellicle over the water. The sight of it, the sharp, disabling smell brings him to heave twice more.

If he wasn't so out of it, he would be shaken from how sudden and forceful his expulsions were. His stomach becomes an unshaped void in a matter of seconds. His bright red inkstream got mixed with the ungodly combination of what he had throughout the night, ink even sticking to his lips and roof of his mouth. Rodi clasps his nostrils and flushes. When the water settles, his head falls deeper into the bowl. It stays there.

22 July - 7:34 PM
Didn't make it this time either

like, which session was this? 5th? remind me lol

22 July - 7:40 PM
i don't know why i even keep trying. i get close to securing someone, then just ruin the whole thing. i was a perfect match for one of the symbionts, but they went into someone else's tendrils for a "test drive" right after our talk

i just fucking lost it and hid in the bathroom until the event ended

22 July - 8:42 PM
damn it rodi

you don't fall into your own traps

22 July - 9:02 PM
i'm coming over, make me a marg

The writing becomes blurrier, the more he scrolls through the text bubbles. Rodi rubs his eyes, loosening the crusts hanging on his mask. He raises his back against the pillow, then sips from a pouch. The neutral ink inside brings his hydration back at a normal level, though the relief is a droplet in a sea of malaise.

He brings his phone to his ear, still plugged to charge, stiffening his shoulders as the tone rings on.

"Hey, Linds," he follows simply, rasping from yesterday's overindulgence. "How are you?"

"Hey," she said, matching the hoarseness. "I'm... home. That's good. Are you good?"

"Yeah, same. But I got to your texts. Are you good?"

"Sort of. Good enough to answer your call. ...Ah. Shit. Sorry, I was overdramatic last night," she cuts it short. "Forget about all of that. You don't want to hear this anemone bullshit when you're hungover."

"Who said I'm hungover?" He powers through, though it sounds less cheery and more tortured.

"Please. It is so obvious. Sure, I was drunk, but it's hard to forget the sight. I nearly pissed myself laughing. The lights came on way too early, like, what the hell. Next thing I knew, you face-planted the floor."

"Did I?" There's sincerity bordering naivety in the question. "I haven't ever been out so cold."

"You were far, far gone," she snickers. "Someone walked onto you and told Olive you were cuddling the bowl. He had no clue how to handle you. You looked heavy as a boulder, and then, swoop! You slipped off his shoulder! Right onto yer head."

"...Shit." Rodi presses the ink pouch against his forehead. A hint of a bruise enters his awareness, like a third eye above his eyes, seeing each of his life's embarrassments with enlightened clarity.

"Oh well. It was a shit night anyway," Lynda groans. "Your boyfriend also had to kick me out, but all the streets were closed off, so no cabs could pick me up. I said, fuck it, I walked to Treasure. Though it wasn't much fun..."

Rodi shuts his eyes, to suck a breath in. "So... Was it packed in there? I guess you start sobering up here."

"Yeah, too packed for comfort. Beryl was pissed. She had a door queue."

"Oh?" Rodi leaves the ink pack on the nightstand, then raises on his bum with more life. "Wait, wait, she was sweating under pressure? This is pipin' hot. Where were her two hench bartenders?"

"You tell me. She just had herself behind the bar. At least she had the rest of the staff to tame the crowd."

Rodi hasn't seen Beryl confront an entire night on her own since Myrtle's earlier days, when he had just started living on his own. And, back then, the basement's setup was even more modest, holding just the handful of guests Isandro and Anthos would have on a regular day. He winces at the idea of having Treasure full, with just one brave bartender to serve hundreds. Yet, he grins with sweet satisfaction, knowing Beryl got the taste of her own medicine. She'd treated him plenty of times as a spirit and mixer conveyor belt. He can't wait to rub it on her.

"Rodi?"

"Mm?"

"Heh. You shut up for once. Scared you'll be in the same boat?"

"Well..." he curbs the smirk coming over his tone. "I didn't have the best night either."

"I know. I'll leave you to recover, then."

"Thanks. Take care," he sinks back down into his pillow.

"Later, 'gator."

But he can't go back to rest. He needs to call Beryl, to make use of any upper-hand he might have with her two main bartenders fleeing from the scene. However, before he can call her, he needs to become functional. He texts her a heads-up, that they should discuss ASAP.

As he gets out of bed, the minuscule change in altitude makes his body even groggier. He leaves the bedsheets behind, and discovers he's been left to recover in his night clothes. Olive dared to change his clothes, even after mishandling him at the bar. His work clothes are neatly folded on their dresser.

Rodi takes the ink pack, sucking onto it as he exits the bedroom. Once he stops squinting from the flood of light, he spots more caring gestures.

An entire blister of painkillers greets him on the coffee table, together with a filled glass of water. A peeled orange rests next to them, each segment separated neatly. Rodi takes a pitiful glance at these. He swaps his nearly-empty ink pack for a small segment of the citrus. He shuts his eyes from the sudden sourness in his mouth, slowly chewing through it, then washes it down with a pill and some water. When he opens his eyes, he sighs at how the glass emptied from what he thought was just one sip.

Fresh air circles around their living area, though the heat doesn't relieve much of his nausea. Olive has left the balcony door open, letting the curtains dance with the breeze and sun rays. Rodi paces around the kitchen, finally settling on a loose cigarette forgotten on the counter. He stows it behind his ear.

He pulls the curtains away. His feet make contact with the balcony tiles, which sizzle his soles during the midsummer noon. He finds Olive at the other end of the balcony, kneeling over his plants.

Their urban oasis has withered and flopped into a sad, dry tangle of overgrowth. Anything that's unsalvageable, Olive rips out and leaves behind him, destined for the trash can once he makes it back inside. Anything that's still green, he gently pushes up with his finger, to see if there's a chance for the stems to stand up straight again. He waters the soil, though it rejects any moisture, so it beads on top.

Rodi slowly makes his way to the railing. He nests himself in the space between two hanging planters. Curious of the damage, he picks up a dead leaf, which detaches and crumbles at the lightest touch. Startled, he drops it, and it makes a light tapping sound when it hits the tile.

"Feeling better?" Olive checks before Rodi gets to greet him.

"Hm?" Rodi forgets about the leaf, and it forces him to remember his miserable state. He leans over the railing and, like a switch, it triggers a wave of nausea. "Yeah. Splendid," he groans.

He lights up that cigarette he brought from inside, in hopes that it'll make him less sour. He summons smoke, then takes another look at his partner, numbing his knees on the tile and hacking through dried weeds without a break. Every sigh Olive makes when he discovers another casualty is a punch in the gut for Rodi. There was a sacrifice made here, and it feels like it was for naught. Some gratitude is warranted.

"Thank you. For the ink pack," Rodi softens. "And whatnot. I would've been gurgling toilet water, if not for you."

In acknowledgement, Olive tosses a crisp leaf backwards. It lands next to Rodi's heel.

Anthos talks flatly. "It's the least I can do, after dropping you on your face."

"...I just found out about that," Rodi mutters, then drags from the cigarette. He presses his thumb between his eyes, confirming that the bruise is still there.

He keeps a quiet watch over Olive. The blaring sunlight is bringing beads of sweat to the surface. Olive wipes his forehead with his shirt's hem. He's not leaving himself any breaks, even though he's the most deserving of one. He was left with a full bar, a spiralling guest, and a blacked-out idiot, yet he took the time to carefully set himself and Rodi for another try. Another morning. Another beginning. Again, anew.

Rodi feels a warm ocean's embrace, secure in Olive's catch. If he were in his full power, he would take Olive in his arms, raise his soul a bit closer to the sun, express how lucky and thankful he is through his mother tongue, his touch. Just as he was thinking it, Olive gets off his knees, with a grunt that ages him by thirty years.

There's no concerned gazes, mellowed whispers or healing hugs. Olive's expression is more menacing than the resigned smile in Rodi's imagination.

Olive stares at his partner, expecting something lost in translation. Then, he squawks: "What the hell got into you!?"

Rodi would've scowled, if the furrow of his brows didn't dig the needles deeper in his forehead. Instead, he mumbles and prefers the sight of the Tower. "T-Take a guess."

"Don't kid me. Compared to you, I still remember what I did last night. So, what was it? What pissed you off? My service? My sass?"

"If you were the problem, you know damn well I would've told you." Though, after saying it, Rodi isn't fully convinced himself.

"Well, who was the problem, then?" Olive lays his doubt bare. "Oh, I know who ended the party early, it was the owner who didn't know when to stop. But that's not what I'm referring to. I'm more interested in who made the owner do such a thing."

"...General manager," Rodi adds the correction as an aside, tucked between his smoke. It's the first time he prefers his actual title, verbatim as on his contract with Beryl. Soon it may become owner, though he's acted like one since the start. Something shifted for him to suddenly downgrade.

Yet, this isn't what Olive's after. "As if it matters. I know it was me, but I want you to say it."

"Oh, fuckin' hell," he tosses the still-lit cigarette over the rail, before it makes him more nauseous. Olive's pushing him into a petty corner. "I'm not allowed a little jealousy."

Olive expels a laugh, as if not believing it. "Since when can you be jealous? You can get anyone in one night, if you try."

Rodi remains unamused. "D'you think that makes me immune to it, or what? Also, not true."

"It's true." Olive says it out of stubbornness, but it comes across as reverent. Melancholic.

A long sigh later, Rodi fesses up. "Yeah. I got jealous. You had her hanging from your neck."

It takes a second, though Olive presses his lips closer together, signalling he's not going to inquire or push back against the fact, even if it's somewhat overblown. At least he seems to own it up. It's a relief, albeit marginal for Rodi.

"...Look," Rodi's head lowers towards the rail, then his body follows with a lean. "If you ever want to sneak off, at least do it after set-down."

"Sneak off? What are you even..." Olive's eyes squint, not from the sunlight.

"I saw you were calling up a place."

A whole-body twitch instils urgency in his speech. Olive's expression turns severe. "You're misunderstanding. I called her a cab, and made sure she safely got into it. Our street was closed. ...Are you saying I was ringing up a hotel?"

"I didn--"

"But that's what you thought. Rodi. My god. You were so wasted. Shit, it must've been on your mind the whole night. You were drinking as soon as you saw me talking to her," he places his arms on his tentacles, realising what caused this mess.

"Hell no." Rodi rips his limbs off the railing. "You handed me the first glass. See, I remember that! And the rest was on Lynda's money. I just felt like utter shit, no excuses. ...But me being a jackass, and you leaving with that guest, they're completely separate things!"

Olive doesn't stop the shake of his head. "You can't let yourself slip so easily. We promised not to get drunk during open hours. You'll sink yourself and the bar if you don't control yourself."

Rodi's anger unearths from yesterday, and isn't yielding. "You're preaching to me about control? Were you controlling yourself when you gave her your number, huh?"

Instead of pulling away from guilt, Olive doubles down. His lip curls. "You... You can be the biggest flirt, but I can't even try it on for some tips. If I knew you had such little faith in me, I wouldn't have taken the job in the first place."

Releasing his arms to the ground, Olive picks up the dried plant mass from the tiles, then retreats. He pulls the red balcony curtains, so Rodi can't track him inside.

He blinks, drawing to a complete blank from what just happened. ...Did he lose his barback and bartender in less than 24 hours? Rodi turns back to the city, nearly laughing. If it were someone else, it would've been farfetched. With him, it's just another day in his fucking life.

He waited an entire month for last night, for him to break even bigger on the nightlife scene. All of that chance and hope has vanished in a rash moment. Word spreads quickly, Rodi learned it on his own skin. It's hard to think that Mimosa can still leave a good impression on the scene, after the embarrassments from the competition and last night.

His carmine stare craves to latch on something, anything. The Great Zapfish can be made in the distance, twisting itself around the Tower. After it uses it as a giant scratching post, it wanders off in the sky, patrolling the southeast, their bar's district. Eelskin Street's neighbourhood can't be made out from so far away, the old buildings can't impose on this century's skyline. The Zapfish circles back to the northwest. The Plaza's construction cranes are raised higher by the day. That skyline will change drastically, compared to the southeast's that is left in stasis. Rodi chews a nail, unimpressed that he'll be forced to compete with a new hotspot, so far away from Mimosa's. The world takes and leaves behind. It's unpreventable.

He thought himself irreplaceable, that neither Beryl or Olive would come across a partner like him again. But, in his own banal truths, he is unremarkable, as any other inkling. He's dispensable, a flash in the pan, at best.

He rubs another dried leaf between his fingers, letting its dust fall over the balcony, back into the dirt it came from.

But something shivers behind him, sooner than expected.

Olive peeks his body from the balcony curtain. "We've got a delivery in an hour. Can Eddy pick it up?" Olive asks without affect. It's business as usual.

"I think I told him to fuck off," Rodi says, surer on himself than it sounds.

"Ah."

A pigeon coos in a nearby tree.

"...Should I make a run for it?" Olive continues.

Rodi shakes his head. "No need. I'll cancel it." His attention gets captured by the ring of his phone in his shorts. Beryl saw the text.

Olive gets suspicious, with how unphased Rodi is. "So... Can we open Mimosa tonight as it is?"

He brings his phone slowly to his ear, looking past the Tower, towards the northern districts.

"Mimosa? No, but I'll get us an opening for Treasure instead."