They're leaving their home turf for a night.

The couple dresses in front of their bedroom's mirrors. Being so short-notice about Treasure, they pull the outfits they tout at Mimosa. Olive layers up with a short sleeve shirt, to conceal their logo on his sleeve. Rodi is oddly solemn in the tightening of his tie, which goes up to his first button, for the first time.

It's the second time Olive steps inside Treasure. The bar is built of minimalist, impeccable stainless steel. There's five rows, all chock-full of bottles, backed by a clean, slate grey tile, in a shared island behind the bar. The furniture is a lightly stained birch, and the ceiling is decorated with thousands of tiny light bulbs. In the middle of it all, a small disco ball shines.

As soon as they announce they arrival, Beryl throws a towel and spray bottle towards Rodi. He catches them without issue, even when zoned out. He understands his errand without any indications: wiping every surface in existence. He leaves the two in the main area.

"How can I help?" Olive still scans the room, from side to side.

Beryl ties her apron. "Learn the bar, first of all."

He settles in the station closest to the edge. He stops like a seahorse in the headlights. The setup is overwhelming. Three shakers are lined on his mat. About thirty pouring spouts spear towards him, from the bin on his right. The ice bin takes up his entire well, and the rail has over ten bottles inside. Tucked under the counter are his garnishes, neatly cut and arranged by Beryl's barback, outclassing Olive's own prep.

While he picks up each bottle, discovering whether it's a spirit, a pre-batch or a syrup, a hand lands on his shoulder. Beryl beams from behind.

"I also have some time now, for that challenge I gave you. Ready to show your riff on a classic?"

His beak fences his confoundment. He had hoped she'd forgotten. He still hasn't decided what he'll show her.

"Uhm..." He scans the bottles behind him. He spots the Squidfin lemon peel-infused gin they've won from the flairtending competition. He places it on the bar. He yanks a bouquet of mint from its container. He throws a few loose raspberries in his shaker. The refrigerated egg nearly slips from his hand. He throws a grenadine bottle in there as well, for the heck of it. Its colour, unsurprisingly, attracts him. He forgets the soda.

In the meantime, Beryl nests in a nearby table, crossing her legs neatly, ready to spectate Olive.

"What are you going for?"

"A frothy gin fizz... I'm redoing my competition drink," he talks while figuring out where all his tools are.

"Don't forget the original spec."

He muddles the fruit and mint together. He's replacing the simple syrup with the grenadine. The rest of the drink goes like at the Pacific Powerhouses, and he double-strains into a highball, careful of the little raspberry seeds. By the time he finishes the classic version, he remembers the soda. He pours it in both glasses, pinching his sides with the hand behind his back.

He carries the drinks on a tray.

"Nice. Sit with me, let's study."

Olive drags a chair for himself, settling on it with his hands in his lap.

Beryl flicks her eyes between the two glasses with interest, one pinkish and one translucent. Her forearms are neatly laid on the table in two parallel rows. She shifts from an elbow to another playfully, and glances back at Olive. He's attentive, more than usual, looking out for any twitch in her brows.

"Which one do I start with?"

"Uhh..." he takes a second. "Any? The riff? No... the classic."

Beryl taps a finger while he's flipping between the options. "So, which one?"

"...My riff," he lowers his gaze. He spots a loose seed floating inside its foam.

After an amused huff, she sips them in succession. She spends some seconds for her thoughts to develop. She fills the air with cryptic silence. Suddenly, both her hands pick up and place the drinks, closer towards him.

"Go on, try it too," she coaxes.

His mind rushes with all the reasons he fucked up. He retraces the taste with the memory of the poured measures, turning disgusting with every drop. Though when Beryl's brow turns concerned from his excessive hesitation, he sticks his own straw in each of his drinks.

Compared to his internal catastrophes, the two drinks are pleasant. Enjoyable, even.

"Good, aren't they? But which one would you order again?" Beryl asks.

He'd sip again, if he weren't ashamed of not telling from the first try. He could answer from her subtle body cues, though she's careful to not give herself away.

Though, if she had to ask, the answer becomes more obvious.

"The classic," Olive sighs. The effervescence of his version is heavy with sweetness, and the botanicals are struggling to come across. The extra shaking for the egg white has also given the mint a sad, herbaceous off-note.

Beryl hums affirmingly, smiling ever so at peace. She picks up the glasses, stowing them on the backbar. Olive waits for the sink dump, though she whistles short, staring at him right in the eyes. He gets up, scratching his back tentacles, loosely placing his chair back.

Behind the bar, Beryl hands the shakers back to him. He looks at them with mild apprehension.

"Do the classic again."

She watches him go through the ingredients, from cheapest to most expensive. In the middle of it, she makes a lid out of her hand atop the shaker.

"Now, pour a quarter of your grenadine instead of half. Add your mint garnish after, and expel the oils around the rim."

A pause lets him figure if this is another test. But Olive isn't the type to ask, he does as he's told.

With Beryl's fix done and a raspberry skewered through, as a last-minute touch, both take dips of their straws into it. They encounter a bright scent, followed by a passionate, silky embrace. A surprised hum rises from both.

"Your grenadine's an overpowering ingredient, and it was hiding everything beneath it. It's not so lost now, is it? It's dancing with the other flavours. You feel the the perfume," she places her nose next to the mint.

Olive takes it for another sip, incredulous of his senses. "...Such small adjustments."

"Tune those balances, and you're on the right track."

"But I'm stumped," Olive admits to Beryl, grabbing his head. "I was flipping through every book, and I couldn't find a real shortcoming in any drink. I have no idea how to make them better."

"It would've been a let-down for our entire craft if the classics had glaring blind spots," Beryl chuckles. "I hadn't had the expectation you'd start fixing classics, it's a devilishly hard task. I gave the challenge for another reason."

Olive gives a short nod, signalling for the real feedback.

"Can you find your voice in the noise? That's what will have people coming to you, for years. While you struggle to describe it, your work gets drowned by the ones who can."

"What even makes my voice my own?" His eyes widen.

"You find out. You keep exploring and experimenting. You keep working."

As unsatisfying as it is, it's the most pragmatic advice. He balls his fists behind his back. "Thanks, Beryl," he watches her wipe her hands clean, then turn back to the opening duties.

"Oh," she waves casually in her walk, "You can change the menus now. Go wild, but not too wild."

The large mask narrows. "Really...?"

Rodi's voice fills the room. "You're for real?"

"Only Olive has the privilege," she clarifies with a raised finger. "You stick to managing, Rodi."

"M'bad," Rodi sneers. Olive sticks his tongue out at him. Though, the tease ends when Rodi stares back blankly.

Rodi makes it back into the main service area. He isn't doing his usual foolery: no singalongs to the current song, no pew-pews with the sprays. There's apathy in his gestures. Once he crosses this task off, he leaves the spray bottle and towel on the last table.

He clears his throat next to Beryl. Rodi does that sly thing of his, where he pulls a cigarette just enough out of his pack to tempt someone else to smoke with him. Beryl catches the filter sticking out of the lid.

"I'm trying to quit," Beryl doesn't bite the bait.

"You didn't quit taking a break now and then, I hope?" He jokes, though his stare is hanging determined onto Beryl's. It squints ever so slightly, from all the restraint for ever telling what he wants straight.

Treasure's owner has a smirk forming on her lips. She leaves the rinsed tools to dry on a mat, goes for a last wipe of the counter with her spotless towel, and hangs it around her belt loop. Rodi takes his bait in his beak, and eagerly makes his way to the staff door at the back.

It's less picturesque than Mimosa's corner of the street. They're between trash bags, empty crates and broken restaurant equipment, but there's more privacy to spare. The establishment's dirty laundry isn't for every passer-by to notice whenever there's feverish discussions between the staff.

"I heard you had a queue," Rodi breaks the ice.

And Beryl brings the sledgehammers. "I heard you got blackout drunk."

"How did you-? Ah." Lynda. A blabbermouth goes both ways. "...Yeah! Wow... We've been having so much fun!"

"If I'm honest, I'm over this fun." Beryl briefly looks at the gap in the sky. "I'm leaving my associate in charge for three days once the Splatfest's over. Honestly... I would've been screwed today. It's good that you called. You would've had a mountain of lip, for that stunt yesterday, but I'm liking the extra pairs of tentacles."

"Oh, yes. Two bombshell boys to do your bidding. Ain't Olive a treat?"

"I'm impressed. He's improving so fast."

"I know." He smiles, but a clock ticks in his hearts. His eyes drift to the side, and his smile sits awkwardly.

Rehearsing his declarations won't make it slow. Running through all the outcomes of what's to come won't make it any better.

Rodi lights his cigarette, before this ends too quickly. He's fully equipped with his ultimatums.

"Beryl, by the way, this is my last night at Treasure. You're happy with Olive, so he'll take my spot. I'm gonna move onto something else."

Beryl speaks over him, before he finishes. "Are we extending Mimosa's opening?"

He lets a sound of indifference. "You can. I'm giving you the keys, darling. Do whatever you want with it."

She crosses her arms, having a thought locked in her throat that she refuses to believe.

Rodi takes another drag, before shifting and stepping in place, looking at the puddles of filth under the trash bins. "Umm. I'm not bailing. I have enough to pay the loan, but I won't have enough to keep running the bar. I'll amend our contract and give you your 100% back."

"With 100% of the managing?"

He leaves the rest implied, inside the waving smoke of his cigarette.

"...Do you think I'm stupid?" Her small brows crease, a drip of irritation pulses in her neck vein. "I can only guess you can't be assed to fix your books, so you're dunking it on me."

He flicks the soot so hard, that it disintegrates on contact with the air. "Oh, please. Can you give me credit for once? I'm the one bankrolling you every month. Remember how I tripled your shitty basement's revenue last month? Remember that?"

"To waste it all this month? And have Olive work your shifts at Treasure? Doesn't he start his course again in September? Are you both thinking any of this through?"

Rodi mutters, his mouth isn't opening fully for his words. "It's not that complicated. Just take Mimosa over for me. Come on."

She blinks with her mouth open. "...You've dragged me here to beg?"

Another forceful flick, that makes half the cigarette vanish into thin air. "You think this is begging? I'm giving you all I have, for fuck's sake."

Beryl groans in her palms, before pinning him with her gaze. "I can't with you... What schemes have you cooked this time? More competitions? If you have another stellar performance like the Powerhouses one--"

"I'm quitting." Rodi cuts. "I'm fucking done. Take my sea-monkey and my circus, 'cause they were yours from the start." His expression has the upturn of confidence, though the sneer of the betrayed.

"A-Are you nuts? You're not quitting anything!" Beryl reaches a hand in his direction, hoping to grab his full attention. However, Rodi's back is already towards her.

"I wasn't asking!" he barks, just before the staff door.

He tosses the cigarette behind him. Beryl's jaw hangs slack, she stutters before stepping on it, still lit.

"Show some fucking respect, will you?!" she shouts back.

Just as they make it inside, she grabs the cotton of his shirt and pulls on it, removing its neat tucking from under its belt. Rodi turns to her, flipped from arrogance to fury, baring his beak at her pull.

Her face isn't any less stern. "Go pick your garbage from the back, now! You're below a barback with the education I have to give you. Don't ever toss lit stubs again, you want to blow all of us up in a fire?!"

He whispers through his sneer. "What if I do?"

The mental image of an all-consuming fire is hijacking their minds. It presses their minds, and soon, a headache starts. A sting flashes through both of their hearts.

Rodi yanks himself out of Beryl's grasp, and storms towards the guests' exit. Beryl's left frozen, out of control for the first time.

Before Olive gets to ask, Beryl examines him in half a breath:

"Did you agree to work for me?"

"Um, yeah."

"Permanently, not just for today?"

Olive's eyes shrink.

"I... What did Rodi even say?"

Beryl lets her first confused, desperate noise. "Please, talk him out of this. He wants to quit."

His hearts give in to the drop. "Oh, god..." he stares the exit with panic. "...I'll try."

Outside, everything sounds muffled. The contours blend into each other. The world goes about its settled schedule. Party-goes, office workers, Splatfest T-shirts. Olive starts dashing, though has no idea where he's being lead. His steps naturally take him on the road they came from - the underground station approach. He nearly stumbles down the conveyor stairs. He scans himself through the gates without a pause.

The platform divides into southbound and northbound. Olive takes himself through the southbound one, walking with large steps between the strangers waiting for their train. He's got two minutes before it arrives.

Thankfully, he can make out a splash of red between the variety of heads. He finds Rodi with his arms tightly crossed, squinting tears out of his eyes. As he spots Olive in the corner of his vision, his eyes shut violently, choosing to shell up in his own skin.

His colossal walk slows while closing in to his partner. He requires a soft touch.

"Rodi..." Olive whispers on the busy platform, and he somehow drowns out the station's announcements and clamour. Olive takes his partner's hands, to steady them from the shakes.

The pomegranate inkling still tries ignoring him. His mean brows turn to sad ones with each swallowed sob. He struggles to keep a straight face, though his chin wrinkles from the overflow inside.

"Please don't bite your lip," Olive carefully pulls down on the bottom lip with his thumb, to check for ink. This makes him shake even harder, yet Olive keeps his finger steady through it. It's bruised, but it's clean. The thumb slips to his chin.

"Go back. Help her," Rodi barely makes out in his flooded voice.

"We'll help her. You took it up, for her." Olive steadies his partner's shoulders.

In between gasps of air, Rodi whips himself. "No...! I'm done. I'm running. ...I keep running. Running all the... Fuck," he spits to the side, avoiding anyone's gaze. Memories rush, and he realises he always quits a job with tears in his eyes.

An announcement blares over the platform. Olive's brows lower in concentration, his ears twitch to adjust to Rodi's whimpers. He listens for the truth in them.

He runs. He runs because it's his only comfort.

"Rodi. What was Beryl's super doomy statistic?" Olive gets closer, to assure that he's being heard over the rail's rattle. "Only ten percent of bars make it over a year? How about you hang until that year mark? Finish what you started, get into the ten percent, and then bail. You've got until March. Seven months."

A sob finally sounds, though it's lost in the train's screech. The floodgates burst open.

Rodi's forehead drops towards Olive's chest, letting go of the chokehold on his emotions. All tension and composure dissolves into an unglamorous cry.

Though, on the slam, he remembers how he got himself in this predicament.

"...Ow," he warbles from the bruise on his forehead - yesterday's drunken fall.

They would've laughed, if reality wouldn't have sunk in so quickly. Olive wraps his arms around him, stroking the top of his head until he pulls himself out of the stormy depths.

Inkopolitans and tourists keep detouring the two in the busy station. The train towards Blackbelly opens its doors with a jingle. Everybody gets on it, except them.

The platform hollows. The world gets uncannily quiet. The screens update with the upcoming train's time. An advertisement of a red crab with a cereal bowl plays after. Olive takes in the sterile sights, so his own hearts won't falter from the weeping close to them.

Eventually, Rodi quietens down, unglues himself with a loud sniff, keeps his eyes to the stairs back to the surface.

"Ready?" Olive makes sure.

Rodi snatches his partner's hand, before stomping towards the exit.

"Seven months," he rumbles, fangs gritting.

On Moray Towers, a long-tentacled inkling clambers to the top, dragging her battle-worn feet towards the clear sky. She steps her Tentateks between mauve-lime layers of her team and the other's inks. She uses a hand as an eye shade, as the massive moon radiates like a disco ball in this neon land. The fireworks sputter on the sky again. The final show begins in the Plaza. She settles under the spawn point, grinning wide at her Squidphone.

It rings over the entire city. Heaven has found a new language on Earth.

Ya weni marei mirekyarahire
Juri yu mirekerason!

The idols dance, and the world follows. Life embraces itself, and sings back to the stars.

The fierceness of the last battles spikes with this universal energy. There's determination to be on the top, to be seen, to be part of this bigger something.

The guests watch the broadcast on Treasure's screens with heavy anticipation. The gates close on the Towers, Kelp Dome and Walleye Warehouse. The counts are done live. Drums roll. Suddenly, the screen turns green, in favour of Marie's team. The green wristbands exhume, while the purple ones clap and wail.

Beryl, Olive and Rodi celebrate with a pat on their backs. They start wrapping up as the guests make their way out of last call.

Perched on a bar stool, Rodi barely holds his head up. He keeps rolling his energy drink on its protruding, bottom edge. He lets go of it sometimes, to watch it spin back to its centre, keeping its verticality. The times it falls to its side, it echoes its emptiness. The rattling stays uncomfortable until it silences itself. Once the can teeters towards the counter's edge, Rodi retrieves it and repeats the sequence.

Giving his partner peace, Olive has strayed to Treasure's impressive wall of bottles, reading the labels of those that strike his fancy. Beryl notices he's been fixated on a bottle of elderflower liqueur, a relatively new product on the market.

"You can take it," she chimes.

Olive looks too startled for the kind gesture. He swallows and bows, a meek thanks.

Beryl's wide shoulders lower in her sigh. She settles her elbows on the counter, scratching her neck while she inspects the two bartenders. Her mask's lashes flick, as she takes in all their signals. She puts an innocent question.

"When was the last time you went to a bar together? Obviously, with the exception of mine and yours."

The two exchange glances. Olive's shoulders jerk. Rodi actually tries remembering, but his gaze sticks to his left for too long.

"Or, any enjoyable outing. ...Something," her tone lowers, discouraged.

"Not since we started working," Olive guesses.

"No," Rodi raises his head. "No way, we surely..." Though he gets lost in his poor memory again. The more he fixates, the more his rich imagination fills in the gaps.

"First off, you are seriously missing on market research," she places her hands on her hips, threading her fingers through the belt loops. "You have no idea how your competition is holding up. Also..." she squints, unsure how to grasp the mood in the room. "You two are nearly chewing your tentacles off from the stress."

As if on cue, the two bartenders raise themselves, just slightly.

Stress? It's part of the process. It keeps us sharp. See?

...Yeah, it's not going to fly anymore. That little contrarian in Rodi is shot down and bleeding in its own puddle.

They will take some days off after this mess of a fest.

"...The hell? 3k for a cocktail? What a ripoff," Rodi scowls, throwing the accordion-fold menu back where it came from. "The bottles are the same. Same distributors. Same brands," he cranes his neck to check the bar's shelves. "Like, are you kidding? They better piss some gold in it."

"The wine's a bit more reasonable," Olive keeps his nose in the slim menu. "A glass starts at 2k..."

"Damn, I could've snuck in one of those teeny bottles from a konbini instead! Too late, now," he throws a leg over another, manoeuvring his shoe's slender heel around the small table. "Guess a glass it is."

Olive places the menu down, with conviction. "I'll start with a Daiquiri."

"For research, huh?" Rodi leans towards his partner.

"And for pleasure," Olive throws his arm over Rodi's shoulders.

As if shocked by current, Rodi shakes his head. "There's no pleasure in that price, dammit."

A classy mantis shrimp waiter approaches them. Olive taps his finger on Rodi's forearm, to bring his attention. They place their orders, and only now realise where they've found themselves.

The establishment's mood is heavy, yet jovial. The windows facing the street are lined with wooden slabs, stained in warm tones, creating a different world, shielded from the reality outside. The conversations around are an enveloping hug. The vibes are enhanced by the playlist: a mix of groovy classics and contemporary psychedelia. They have three tealights enchanting their low table. All the ottoman seats are huddled closer than needed, and the two rub their legs against each other, in the bar's dimly-lit intimacy.

"I know Beryl told us to research the competition, but Decapod & Co.?" Olive whispers, overly paranoid to not get heard by the bartenders on-call. "Do you want impostor syndrome?"

"Why do you think I'm having wine?" Rodi derides. "Baby steps, baby. It's hard to fuck up wine. I'm as good as them there. But I'll have to get myself drunk before I try their rice-washed, clarified, infused, fancy-ass stuff without crying. ...Though, I can't do another hangover," Rodi taps his forehead, the soreness is on its way out.

"Yeah, some of these drinks are dizzying to read. I think I share your thought process with my Daiquiri. Start with the basics, build complexity after. Ah, that might be..." Olive catches a train of thought. "I need to start with a really simple drink next time. That'll help my voice."

Rodi raises a brow, unsure where this is coming from. Though he gets lost in the buzz of the bar, feeling misaligned when he's the one watching the other side of the marble countertop. To feel less like a gawker, Rodi brings out his phone, to do a quick status update with their prestigious location. Though he doesn't immediately stash it back in his pocket. Amidst his saved pages are countless resources on bartending competitions, event calendars of each upcoming one.

Olive sneaks a glance. "Reefeater's Mixology Masters, that sounds cool."

"Mm," Rodi scans its homepage. "The finals are in Marmaria. Right next to the Aegean. Your hometown was a few islands off, right?"

"In Saronicity," Olive nods.

"I've never been to yours. One day, maybe?"

"Saronicity's just the Mediteranean's Inkopolis, but smaller and less cool," Olive snorts. "I'd rather see Marmaria, the flora is even more diverse."

"Hey. If we ever find ourselves on Marmaria, we could do a quick trip to Dodecanea. Get to see my mum, too. We'd be even."

"Oh." Olive pauses. He retrieves the image of Rodi's mother from his childhood photos. He never thought he'd picture her in the present. "I didn't know she moved back there."

"Yeah. Jacob's still in Inkopolis. She went back home." Rodi calls his father by his first name, a trait inherited from his mother. "I still remember our address, I was around ten when we moved countries. She said I can drop by anytime. But I have to sort myself a few more happy stories, before she can dissect my life. ...Ah, well. Since I'm still in the bartending game, I might as well sign up for this Reefeater thing."

He begins filling its form, until it blocks him on a required field.

"...Video entry? You have to create a new drink for these bitches?"

"Did you read the entire description before starting the application?" Olive wonders why he even asked, though.

"Ugh. I'll do it later."

Just on cue, the drinks arrive. They cheer and wait for the waiter to distance before exchanging a chaste, smiling kiss.

It's judging time. Rodi didn't know what to expect: it's just red wine. Olive studies the sensation on his lips and tongue with great care.

"Well?" Rodi dies of curiosity.

"...It's perfect."

"Motherfucker," he laughs aloud. "You could've said it's shit for morale!"

The closeness encourages Olive to stroke Rodi's back tentacles. "I can't mistreat it. It's the first drink Beryl made me. It's the first one she taught me how to make."

"You know what she taught me first? How to pour a fucking shot."

"Well, you can't go wrong with it. She was encouraging you from early on."

"Yeah, right." His nasal tone becomes forefront in his sarcasm.

Olive lets themselves fully enjoy these first sips, before diving into his worries.

"Tell me... What would you have done, if Beryl actually let you quit?"

"I don't know," Rodi idly stares at the flickering candles. "...Go back to stripping?"

Olive softly chuckles, then realises Rodi isn't joking, from the distant stare of his reflection in the clean ashtray in front of them.

"Do you want to?" Olive murmurs.

"...No. Probably not," Rodi snaps out of it. "I just wanted to feel on top of the world again. Do a quick dip in and out. It would've ended in a shitstorm."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Last time I danced for a club, I carried a dead body up the stairs. Never fucking again," he shudders from a cold draft, the ghosts he's seen. Olive looks even more distraught, he seals his lips for a while.

The waiter makes another visit, carrying candles atop each of her appendage. She swaps the nearly-finished ones at their table. Rodi nods as a thanks. He goes through half of his glass, before he dives into questions of his own.

"Olive. Did you love your ex?"

"Huh." He pushes through the suddenness. "...I can't tell, now. I thought I did. It's gone too cold to know."

Rodi's ears lower as he gets more specific. "Did you love her for her body, or for how she made you feel?"

He spends a long minute, making sure he grasps the true essence of Rodi's questions, and his answers. He breaks his silence after a sip of his cocktail, with a low tone. "...How she made me feel."

Rodi hums. He moves to the next question quickly.

"So, you love me for how I make you feel?"

"Yes. ...And your body. And not only," he quickly adds over, with a satisfied smirk. Though, the precision of Rodi's questions makes it fade as suddenly as it arrives, leaving him wondering if the additions make it worse. Olive deflates.

Rodi hides whatever reaction would've surfaced from the praise with a sip of his wine. He holds his gaze steady over the flickering candles. "...Did she rile you up? Get a kick out of it?"

"No, I don't think so. The few times she did were to get me in bed with her."

Rodi's eyes light up, as if one of his checkboxes was crossed. He keeps from smirking, and continues in the same manner. "So, she liked your body."

"I think so." Olive's laugh is curt.

"But you didn't make her feel a thing."

Olive offers a weak smile in lieu of a reply, though something inside turns bitter, from having Rodi search in the dirt of his soul with a crude stick.

"You'd also hand yourself on a platter to feel on top of the world," he turns his body to face Olive better. His knees press into Olive's thigh. "It takes one to know one."

"What are you getting at, Rodi?" he tires of the riddle.

Though Isandro wouldn't give so easily. "I'll need another overpriced drink."

"Don't get too drunk before you tell me," Olive murmurs, though more playful than scornful. It seems the effect is right, as Rodi spotlights the sip of his wine glass, with his pinky darting in the air. He places the wine glass with a laugh.

"Chill. I'm not testing you. I'm trying to see what the hell you and Beryl saw in me."

"Well, that, I can just tell you."

"Nah. You'd dork out and say what you think you see. I liked asking my stupid questions. Very insightful," his diamantine eyes flutter.

Olive raises his brow and nearly checks himself, wondering what sort of conclusions Rodi could draw from this. Rodi continues, albeit more serious.

"Beryl likes me because I trust her. Did I tell you how we started? The night I met her, she threw my drink away, without even asking. And I paid for it! I did my usual bitching, but she didn't even flinch. She told me, just before I left with my date, that the bastard tried spiking me."

The recounting leaves Olive heavier. "She always seems protective of you, despite the tough love."

"Yeah, and for what? I know why. I was just starting out. I was her novice. I was so stupid. She likes me when I'm stupid."

Olive passes all of Beryl's gestures towards Rodi through this prism. However, the colours that emerge don't quite match.

"And you," Rodi continues, "You started really loving me when I couldn't trust you. You have a little flick of a switch when you have to struggle. You like me when I'm smart."

"So, trusting is stupid?" Olive connects it, sceptical of it.

"No. Trust is a leash, and someone has to pull it close." The carmine eyes fixate. "You like seeing me in it, but you're not a fan of holding the lead."

Olive's lips part slightly. There's a faint presence on his neck, now.

"And I just had to yank yours." Rodi admits with little pride. He looks at the swirls in his wine glass, though he doesn't sip.

Olive strokes his coupe's stem. He senses a piece of him emerging from his mind's filth. "...I see."

After that fizzle, Rodi's words ignite. "But I feel like an asshole, you feel like an asshole. I shouldn't be doing this shit. I don't own you."

"I wouldn't call it owning, but there's an unspoken agreement here. Maybe, as you said, it's the trust. ...I trust that we're just fooling behind the bar." To ease him, Olive's fingers go back to petting his partner's tentacles.

"And when you realise you're not just playing, what then? Do you snip it at the bud, or let it be? I sure as hell don't know. Hell, if I actually went through with the dancing, neither you would've known."

Olive looks away, though his hand doesn't leave Rodi's tentacles. "I also don't own you, you know."

Rodi sighs, then takes the menu, attempting to browse it. His brows furrow, at his inability to unlatch himself from his thoughts.

"...But we're leashed. If not, then I have no fucking clue why I got so mad at you."

Olive looks at the ceiling, its naked bulbs, for sympathy. When it seems lower than it was before, he shuts his eyes, and returns to their grounded existence. "I'm sorry I made you feel this way. I promise to go light on the flirting, and keep it only on the job."

Rodi brings the menu to his chest, to look into the silver-green eyes. "I don't need special treatment. The only thing that matters for me is that I can get in my bed, every night, and have you there. I don't care who you talk to. I don't care where you wander. As long as you're there, and I can fall asleep... I'll be fine. I need it to be a given thing, for my selfish reasons."

The inhale comes with a surge of electricity. It was always a given. Olive kisses his temple, then his forehead, then his cheek, when he discovers he wants Rodi even more. Rodi shuts his eyes during it, feeling lighter from the gesture by the second.

"Got it," Olive lets go of his head and ruffles the tentacles. "I forgot that you're not as... aloof as I once thought of you."

"It's fine." Rodi places the menu back down. "I know what it's like to get lost in the moment. It makes me forget everything that's been before it. And, anyway, isn't life always about forgetting and remembering?" Rodi gains his yap back. "Why did I pick a job that makes me memorize hundreds of specs?! It's agonizing! Doesn't remembering make you feel... ticklish?"

"Now that you say it..." Olive dives deeper into the idea. "Usually, when I remember, I feel like I'm remembering more than I thought I knew. ...Does it ever happen to you? I wouldn't call it déjà vu, but the sensation is just as weird."

"Yours sounds a bit different."

"I sometimes feel it's more than just remembering. Sometimes, it feels like an epiphany. I find more than what I initially thought was stored in my mind. My mind lets me see what it's been keeping under lock."

"Mm?" Rodi tilts his head. "Care to share some of that forbidden knowledge?"

"Like, when I saw that I passed the year, I remembered why I started my studies. I think I made the right choice to become a botanist. I've got a good feeling about it."

Rodi smiles, though some weakness in him wishes his partner's forefront thought was different.

"And you just made me remember why I love you. We love in a way that not many can."

"Darling, you know I'm not for everyone," Rodi nuzzles into Olive's shoulder, resting his ear on it after.

For once, it's delightful to see a room of happy people, without the stress that comes with hosting them. They're each navigating their own dilemmas through their stories. Some are getting made, others are finding their end. As life happens before their eyes, with legs brushing and weaving underneath the tables, a song carries them through this moment. A sappy piano breaks into a full-on groove. The room gets even more energized.

I hold you, I touch you
In a maze, can't find my way
I think you, I drink you
I'm being served you on a tray
You see, girl
That's what I go through every day
Is this the way it should feel?

"We need this song on our playlist," Olive muses, before finishing his drink.

"We need an entire playlist rewrite. I'm bored of my stuff."

"Even the lipsticks playlist?" Crescendo.

"Even the lipsticks playlist." Diminuendo.

A light chuckle. "New menu, new music?"

"Exactly. Mimosa deserves it. So, what do we think of this place?" Rodi kicks his heels back. "Overrated?"

Olive looks to his side, grinning. "A bit."

Rodi finishes his wine, and sticks his tinted tongue out briefly, pretending it was less enjoyable than the glass' emptiness suggests.

"Damn. I really have a craving for a bottle of red Rhonian, now."

"The cheapest one?

"Only the cheapest for my boujie ass," Rodi points at himself.

Their week of market research has ended. They have a few highlights to draw inspiration from. It's hard to pick a favourite between them:

A night of beautiful Bellinis, which they lost count of, because they were holding the summer's abundance of fruit and other little pleasures in its fizz.

An elegant Rhone 75, with a sneak of bitters in it, and a green, dizzying spirit's vapours still hanging from its glass rinse, which made them more loose-lipped than usual.

A playfully sweet desert cocktail which borrows from the mature mixes of frothy egg whites and citrus, showing them it's not only about being dogmatic, but also about delighting the person sitting across of you.

However, their favourite highlight is how they always end their explorations. They throw their shoes in a corner of their apartment, after teetering up the stairs. Rodi opens up another wine bottle brought from Mimosa's storage, to enjoy on their balcony. They bring out the cards, the Tavli board, their mass-produced wine glasses.

They indulge in their games. They toy with words and dice, sips and comments of their neighbours and themselves. The bottle soon finishes. They make an excuse of going back inside for another one, but they always end up on their couch.

Their flighty talk finds an abrupt end in their tangle. The couch never fully contains them both. It becomes an oversized drop-spot for their clothes. They lie to themselves that they'll go to sleep, though they're both aware of how untrue it is. They say it for courtesy.

The sheet falls to the floor, as they take the bed's edge. Olive finally becomes confessional, when his tongue is tainted purple, when warmed skin is pressed against his.

"You give me strength to be more."

Rodi can't help the sweetened smile. He'd say so too for Olive, though he knows already. He settles better on his lap. He can respond in kind, by pressing his lips on Olive's soft, plush cheek. The kisses always trail back to his mouth, and keep a steady buoyancy as their bodies create waves. They share their breath and pleasure. They're in tune with the tides.

At a pause, Rodi laughs softly for himself, which makes Olive open his eyes, with half-shut intrigue. The red inkling takes a spot in the middle of the bed, making his partner turn. He slides a distance back, pushing against Olive's chest with his foot. Olive stands like a mountain against it and takes the ankle for a caress.

Rodi hushes low, with a soft rumble. "Now, do you believe me when I say we'll go far? We'll mark everyone with the things we make?"

His hearts against his leg's strength: they're the only thing that can stand against this life-force, without shattering.

Olive looks down at his foot, kneading the tiredness out of it. He applies tender force, also in his voice. "I've always believed it. You hide something sublime inside. I love losing myself in it."

Whilst getting massaged, Rodi falls into a well of thought again. He pictures his innards, not the physical ones, though the ones knotting in the darkness of his consciousness. They're overwhelmed by Olive's image, tangling around the sensation of him. Without him, it's a hollow, hungry echo. He couldn't run from this love, even if he wanted.

Rodi lets the leg fall out of the hands, framing Olive with both. He slowly drops himself on his back, keeping himself open for his partner. Like a magnet, Olive gets pulled close, leaving a trail from the inner thigh to the middle of the chest with his fingers and lips.

"That thing you found in me, bring it to light. I need to see it again." Rodi cups Olive's jaw with both hands, to persuade him with eyes aflame. "I need to remember."

Olive keeps caressing Rodi's forearm, watching him breathe from above, before voicing. "Only if you'll be kind to it."

Rodi makes a promise.

"I will."