Archive of Our Own

Osamu sets down the dish he’s been washing with a clang. “Drag brunch?” 

“It’ll rake in customers on Sundays,” says Kita matter-of-factly. “We need to compete with the big chains.”

“Yeah, but…” Osamu looks plaintively between Kita and his sink full of dirty dishes. Debris left from the morning rush. “Do we even have space?” 

“The queens will perform outside on the patio,” says Kita. 

Osamu conjures up the patch of sidewalk outside the cafe’s rear entrance and tries to envision a drag queen performing on that. The drag queen in his mind does a high kick and knocks the outside rafter clean off the building. “If you say so.”

Akagi sidles up to the sink. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” He rests his hand against the edge of the counter. 

“Fun for you,” grumbles Osamu. Akagi doesn’t work on Sunday mornings. Akagi won’t have to maneuver through the morning rush with a drag queen doing splits in front of him tomorrow. 

“You won’t be short-staffed, if that’s what you’re worried about,” says Kita. “I’m having Aran adjust his schedule to help handle the customers. And you’ll have Gin, as usual.” 

“Great,” says Osamu. Three whole people. At least it’s better than two. 

“Look at it this way, man,” says Akagi, and Osamu already knows he’s not going to like what Akagi says. “Free drag show tickets.” 

“Aran and I will work out the finer details tonight,” says Kita. “We’ll send the plan to you all over text.” He pulls out his cell phone and flips it open. “I’m taking my leave for tonight. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.” He types something into his cell phone, flicks it closed with a practiced flourish, and retreats from the back of the shop. 

Akagi smiles, wide and sharklike and deeply unsettling in a way Osamu can’t quite place. Maybe it’s just because he’s spent enough time with Akagi to know there isn’t a single pure thought in his head. “Lighten up,” says Akagi, reaching up to knock Osamu’s hat off. For one single, horrifying moment, it sails downward toward the filthy sink, but Akagi snatches it out of the air and places it on his own head. “It won’t be that bad. Maybe you’ll meet a hot queen who turns out to be a hotter dude underneath. Bisexual dream.”

“Go bother someone else, asshole,” says Osamu, turning back to his task. “Unless you’re gonna help with the dishes.” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” says Akagi. He slinks into the spot beside Osamu and grabs a steel wool pad. “Where do you want me, big guy?”

Osamu rolls his eyes, but hands Akagi a greasy plate. “Go to town, casanova.”

*****

Osamu arrives to work on Sunday morning at eight sharp, a black coffee from the big chain down the street in his hand and sleep fog in his brain. Ginjima flashes him a peace sign as he clocks in. 

“Today’s the big day, I guess,” says Gin, opening the closet door and grabbing a stack of plastic cups.

“Sure is,” says Osamu. He rests a hand on the door and fumbles along the wall of the closet for where his apron’s hanging. Gin tucks his cups under his arm, straightens up, and pulls the cord to turn on the light. “Thanks,” mumbles Osamu, and he grabs his apron off the hook. 

“You excited?” asks Gin as he walks to the drink-making station with the cups. 

Osamu trails after him. “Am I excited to be totally swarmed with customers until the sweet release of my ten-minute break? Totally. Absolutely. I cannot contain my joy.”

“It won’t be that bad.” Ginjima sets up the cups on the shelf. “Kita said no one’s allowed to order anything once the queens start performing. So we won’t have to duck under anyone’s high heels to deliver food.”

“Really?” says Osamu, scanning the drink station for any supplies he needs to bring more of. “Probably should have read Kita’s texts.” 

“How have you not been fired yet?” murmurs Ginjima as he dips back into the closet for more cups. 

Osamu doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he strolls over to the espresso machine and checks the beans. Nice and full. That’ll last all day, he figures. At least closing shift remembered something useful. 

He backpedals over that thought. He shouldn’t disrespect closing shift like that. 

The front door chimes, and Osamu whips his head up. First customer of the day. “Hello, welcome to Drippin' Beans,” he chirps, forcing himself into customer service mode. 

“Hi, do you sell coffee here?” drawls a disturbingly familiar voice from the doorway. Osamu glances over the front counter and his blood boils. Suna Rintarou.

“Would you like to look at a menu?” Osamu forces out, reaching across the counter and grabbing a paper menu out of the display. He holds it out toward Suna. 

“Nah,” says Suna, twisting his stupid face into a stupid smirk. “I just want to know what kinds of coffee you have.”

“Well, we have a whole section on our menu dedicated to coffee,” says Osamu through clenched teeth. He sets the menu on the countertop and points. “Right here.”

“Do you have any flavored lattes?”

He’s doing this on purpose. Osamu wants to scream. Kita should let him bully customers for being dumb. He’s going to ask for that the next time Kita asks about working conditions. “We have all our flavored lattes listed on our menu.”

“Oh, I see,” says Suna. He plucks the menu off the countertop and puts it back in the display. “Vanilla latte, double shot, sixteen-ounce, extra hot and extra sweet.” 

“Sure thing,” says Osamu. He jots the order down onto a slip of paper, squeezing the pen so hard the plastic buckles under his grip, then punches in Suna’s total into the cash register. “Five hundred fifty yen.”

Suna hands over his credit card without protest, thankfully. Osamu swipes it through the card reader. “Did it go through?” asks Suna when it beeps concerningly. 

“Declined,” says Osamu, staring at the screen. “Do you have another card?”

Suna snatches his credit card out of Osamu’s hands. “Never mind,” he mumbles, turning around and breezing out of the shop. The door chimes again as he leaves, and Osamu imagines it’s saying Good fucking riddance. 

Gin pops out from the back of the shop. “Customer?”

“False alarm,” says Osamu. “Couldn’t pay.”

“Shame,” says Gin. “I’m getting bored already.” He leans against the drink station. “The queens won’t show up till ten.”

“How many queens are there supposed to be?” asks Osamu. 

Gin pulls out his phone and glances briefly at the screen. “Three. Kita says that’s all we can pay for.” He grimaces. 

“God,” says Osamu as he kneels down to check the contents of the fridge. “Maybe if he fired Akagi we could afford more. Can you get me some oat milk from the back?”

“Only if you apologize for insinuating Akagi deserves to be fired.”

“Right. Forgot you wanna tongue him.” Osamu stands up to get the damn oat milk himself. 

“Don’t say that!” stammers Gin as Osamu slinks off to the fridge in the back. Osamu can’t see, but he knows Gin is lobster-red. He smiles to himself. If he can’t torture the customers, he’ll torture his hopelessly pining co-worker. 

Once the morning rush starts, the two hours fly by. Osamu plants himself at the drink station, leaving Gin to work the register. It’s a flawless system until Aran shows up at nine-thirty and exiles Osamu to delivery duty. 

Ginjima shoots him a saccharine grin as he hands Osamu a tray of food and a table number to give it to. “Good luck out there, big guy.” 

As promised, the line is out the door. Osamu weaves around them, keeping a vice grip on the sides of his tray, and just barely makes it to the table intact. It’s outside, which is the first red flag for these customers, and Osamu’s pretty sure one of the drinks he’s carrying is a caramel macchiato, which is the second. He hands off the drinks and the customers don’t even look up. Strike three. 

Osamu grits his teeth and tucks the now-empty tray under his arm, glancing around the patio. At some point the night before, Kita had pushed the tables off to one side, clearing a little spot for the queens. Still not enough room for a six-foot-tall man in heels to do a full split, but he’s not gonna bother bringing that up to Kita. There’s a van parked on the other side of the street. A bright turquoise van with pink and purple flames painted on the sides. 

As Osamu stares, the back doors open and a pair of red leather boots emerge. It’s the drag van, he realizes. He thought it’d be in better condition. The front bumper looks like it’s being held on with duct tape. That van could give Osamu’s truck a run for its money. He bets if they raced, it wouldn’t be a contest of who could reach the finish line first–it’d be who lasts the longest before breaking down. 

The person attached to the leather boots steps out of the van, and Osamu’s breath catches in his throat. 

Her wig is the color of strawberry lemonade. The red leather boots are thigh-high, only the faintest sliver of skin visible before the hem of her yellow dress starts–a skin-tight bodycon dress with slits in the sides. She has to be taller than him. She’s got tits the size of watermelons and an ass to match. 

The scrape of a metal chair against the sidewalk reminds Osamu where he is. He darts back into the shop and walks up to the counter. 

“Give us ten or so minutes and we’ll have that right out for you!” says Gin to the customer he’s serving. He whips around to Osamu. “The hell took you so long?”

“I was…making small talk with the customers,” says Osamu. “Trying to get those good reviews on Yelp.”

Gin rolls his eyes and hands Osamu the next set of orders. “Table six. Hurry up, please.”

Osamu obliges, forcing himself into work mode and handing table six their food without issue. An image of that drag queen pops into his head and he rips it out and throws it into the rapidly overfilling trash can by the front entrance. The drag brunch may be bringing in customers like nobody’s business, but it’s not exactly conducive to a distraction-free environment. 

He loses track of time again. His only indication that any time at all has passed is a sudden dimming of the lights. “It’s starting,” murmurs Ginjima, passing Osamu another order. “Be fast.” 

An MC’s voice booms from the patio. “Esteemed patrons, I present to you…Drippin' Beans first official drag brunch!” 

Osamu slips outside and hugs the wall as he searches for the table. A queen in a teal evening gown holds a pink bedazzled microphone. There’s a set of speakers behind her. He doesn’t remember seeing the speakers before. Did they bring their own sound system?

The queen smiles, revealing a set of shining white teeth framed by her navy blue lipstick. “I’m Memento, from the club Midnight Mammalia. The girls and I are honored to be here today.” 

She points to the alleyway behind the cafe. Two other queens poke their heads out and wave. One of them is the pink-haired queen from earlier. The other one wears a short sunset orange wig. As quickly as they appeared, they dip back into the alley. Osamu hopes Kita cleaned that alley, too. Knowing Kita, he probably did. 

Memento smiles. “Thank you for having us. Without further ado, I bring you our first queen of the day.” She rubs her hands together. “Hailing all the way from Tokyo, but gracing us with her presence down here in Osaka…Miss Hooter!”

Osamu finally spots the table and rushes to give the customers their food. They don’t acknowledge him, but he supposes he can excuse that this time. 

The queen in the orange wig steps out onto the patio. She’s paired the wig with a sky-blue bodysuit and red eyeshadow. Her song starts up–some American girl band pop anthem, and she drapes herself over the nearest speaker as she lip-syncs over the intro.

Gin’s gonna have his ass for being distracted. Osamu goes back inside. 

The line has thinned out, with only a few stragglers remaining. All the tables are filled, so these guys will have to take their stuff to go. Osamu smiles at the thought. Ha. Get out of my shop. 

At the counter, Ginjima waves him over. Osamu readies his excuse, but Gin simply opens the gate to let Osamu in the back. “Did you get a good look at them?” he asks.

“Sure did,” says Osamu. 

“Was it love at first sight?”

“Shut up.” Osamu picks up the order ticket and looks it over. “You need me to make any drinks?”

“Nah, I got it,” calls Aran from the drink station. “Just watch the show.”

“Yeah, the queens are supposed to come in here at some point,” says Gin. “The people outside can’t have all the fun.”

“Damn straight,” says Aran. “If Kita made us listen to all this terrible music without even showing us a queen I’d quit on the spot.”

Sure, you would, thinks Osamu as he goes to the back to check the sink for dirty dishes. It’s about half full. He leans against the wall and runs through the pros and cons of washing them. 

“Samu!” shouts Gin from the front. “The queen’s in here!”

Osamu sighs and leaves the dishes for later. As promised, Miss Hooter is in the middle of the seating area, shaking her ass to Destiny’s Child. Someone wolf-whistles from a table in the corner and Miss Hooter blows a kiss to him. The guy at the table turns a concerning shade of red. 

“Cute,” murmurs Aran into Osamu’s ear.

“She has the same haircut as Kita,” says Osamu. 

“Damn, she kinda does,” says Aran. “I’m not gonna pursue that thought any further.”

Osamu smiles to himself. The queen waves to the customers, then turns to the counter, fixing Gin with a heavy-lidded stare. She approaches, never breaking eye contact, and Gin takes a step back. Osamu resists the urge to cackle. 

The queen stops at the counter, shaking her hips for emphasis, and raises two fingers in a wave to Gin. She glances over at Aran and Osamu, then smirks. Aran trembles. Osamu could melt into the floor. 

The song breaks into an instrumental, and the queen turns around and waltzes back outside. 

Gin wipes the sweat off his forehead. “Maybe I don’t want them to come in.”

Osamu lets out the laugh he’d been suppressing. “What’s the matter? You fall in love with her or something?”

“You try it. We’ll see how you do,” says Gin. 

“Fuck you,” says Osamu with a grin. “I’m gonna wash the dishes. Call me when the next queen comes in.”

“Fuck you too,” says Gin as Osamu vanishes off to the back.

Osamu gets about halfway through the dish load before Aran’s dragging him back out to the front. It’s Memento this time, doing a performance of her own, to the first Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood opening song. Her silicone boobs are moving around just a bit too much to be natural. Osamu tries not to stare. Staring at a woman’s boobs is rude. 

“Does it count if she’s a drag queen? They kinda want us to stare at their boobs,” says Aran when he vocalizes this thought. 

Memento apparently has better hearing than any normal person should. She sidles up to the counter and hikes up her tiddies with one hand. “Stare, baby,” she says with a wink. Aran nods shakily. 

She’s gone at the next instrumental break, and Osamu doesn’t bother to go back to work. The thought of dirty dishes in the sink sends a shudder down his spine, but he doesn’t want to miss any more of the drag show.

Memento’s song ends and her real voice gets loud again. “Thank you for indulging us, everyone. We’ve got one last babe to show off to you. I want you to give her your biggest applause. Introducing…Pandora’s Fox!” 

The opening bars to a Backstreet Boys deep cut ring through the room. Osamu knows it’s a Backstreet Boys deep cut because Gin lovingly describes it to them. “See, A. J. sings most of this song, but Kevin is actually doing the harmonies on this verse, and honestly I think it would sound better if Howie just sang the whole thing. If you listen to the album version, it sounds like A. J. is really struggling to hit the high notes, especially after the key change, and Howie has the best upper register in the band–”

The queen struts into the shop, and Osamu’s mouth goes dry.

It’s the queen with the strawberry hair from earlier, up close. Pandora’s Fox dances in the middle of the shop floor, and Osamu’s heart thumps in time with the music. 

“I think you broke him,” murmurs Aran. 

I think so too. Her dress hugs her body close, leaving nothing to the imagination except for what’s under that ass padding. And by God, Osamu would like to know what’s under the ass padding. Her hair swishes back and forth as she dances. She drops into a split and Osamu blue-screens. 

Suddenly, she turns to the counter, her hair bouncing around her heart-shaped face. She effortlessly picks herself off the floor and comes up to the counter, eyes on Osamu.

He can never make fun of Ginjima again, he realizes as she draws closer. Her eyes are green, and he wonders offhandedly if they’re contacts before Pandora’s Fox slams her hands on the counter and leans forward, shaking her ass so the customers have something to look at. Logically Osamu knows she’s lip-syncing, but it feels like the music’s coming out of her. She’s got deep red lipstick on to match her boots. 

She finally makes eye contact and all thoughts leave Osamu’s head. 

“He’s really broken,” says Gin from behind him. Pandora’s Fox chuckles between the lines of her song, then straightens up and turns away. Osamu takes a second to mourn the loss of the most beautiful person he’s ever seen before processing that she was a solid eight inches taller than him. 

She saunters up to a guy with brown hair and bends down to serenade his table, and something snaps Osamu out of his trance.

“Gin, that’s my fucking roommate,” he hisses. 

“Oh?” says Gin. “You were roommates with Howie?”

“No, the guy she’s singing to. That’s my roommate.” Sure enough, that’s Yuuto at the table, his face beet-red and on its way to purple. 

“Ah,” says Gin. “He looks like he’s never seen a man in a dress before.”

“Probably hasn’t,” says Osamu. “I’ll get him some chamomile tea when the show is over.”

“Straight?” 

Osamu nods. “Straight and lame. I’ve been rooming with him for three years and he hasn’t brought a single girl back to the dorm.”

Gin chuckles. “Sounds like you two have a lot in common.”

Osamu chooses to ignore that and turns his attention back to Pandora’s Fox. She catches his eyes and shoots him a seductive smirk, and he smiles weakly back. 

“I’ll make two cups of chamomile tea,” says Gin. 

The chorus to Pandora’s Fox’s song kicks in again, and she slips out the patio door, her ass following five minutes later. 

Gin thumps Osamu on the back of the head. “Hey. Wake up. Stop being horny.”

“Urgh,” says Osamu. 

Aran laughs. “Down bad.”

“Shut up,” says Osamu. His rational mind is slowly returning. “I’m not down bad.” He nods toward Yuuto, who’s slumped over his pancakes. “At least I’m conscious.” God, he wishes he could whip his phone out and take a picture, but Kita’d lecture him. 

“We’ll see about that,” says Aran. He stretches his arms above his head, his back cracking like an old man’s. Makes sense for Aran. “All right, back to work.”

Osamu groans. He’s just had a spiritual experience and now he has to work? Bullshit. 

*****

The lights come back on, and the customers get to their feet. Gin practically drags Osamu to the punch clock. 

“Take your break. Please. Now. Go get your man,” says Gin.

Osamu digs his heels into the tile floor. “I don’t–”

Gin grabs Osamu’s time card and swipes it through the punch clock. “Go. Or I’ll tell Kita you need a Friday night shift.”

“Guess I don’t have a choice, then,” grumbles Osamu. He takes off his apron and passes it to Gin. “Hang this up for me?”

“Anything for love,” says Gin. Osamu rolls his eyes and walks into the dining area. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a flicker of green in the back door. Sure enough, it’s her–Pandora’s Fox, making her way to the drag van. 

Osamu can barely keep himself from dropping everything and running outside. He keeps his stride normal in case anyone is watching and opens the door as normally as possible. Pandora’s Fox leans against the side of the building, waiting on the traffic signal. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets and approaches her. She hardly looks up from her phone, only giving him the most cursory of once-overs. “Did I leave something in the shop?” she asks, her voice flat and monotone. Eerily familiar. Who did Osamu know that spoke like that?

“You’re pretty,” he says.

She snorts. “Yeah, and?”

“The other guys threatened to tell my boss to give me another shift if I didn’t get your number. So I am asking for your number,” says Osamu. His voice cracks and he pretends it didn’t happen. 

“That’s weak blackmail,” she says. “They have to at least have some embarrassing pictures they can leak.”

Osamu shudders. “Trust me, they do.”

Pandora’s Fox chuckles. “You’re charming. Convince me.”

“To do what?” 

“Give you my number. Why should I?” The traffic signal switches to the walk sign, but she ignores it. “What makes you different from every other straight boy who wants to fuck me?”

“Well, I’m gay,” says Osamu. 

She regards him for a brief moment, then holds out her phone. “Put it in. I’ll text you something.”

Osamu takes the phone with shaking hands and types in his number. He debates setting his contact name to “Baby Boy 💘💖❤️,” but settles for “Osamu (from Drippin' Beans.” After all, he doesn’t want to come on too strong. 

He passes the phone back to her, and she smiles. “Osamu. Cute name.” 

“Thanks. Picked it myself,” he says. 

Her eyes widen. “Nice. Same with me.”

From across the street, the drag van’s horn blares. Pandora’s Fox jumps, then turns sheepishly to Osamu. 

“Sorry. The other guys are waiting for me,” she says. “See you next week?”

“Yeah,” breathes Osamu. 

She grins. “Good.” She turns around and dashes across the street. A guy in a bright red Maserati honks at her, but she darts around the hood of his car and jumps into the back of the drag van. The van sputters to life and takes off down the road, faster than a vehicle in that condition should be able to go. Although, Osamu can still get his truck up to a hundred forty kilometers an hour, so he shouldn’t pass judgment so soon. 

He checks his phone. There’s a new message from an unknown number: “hey it’s pandora’s fox. or if you wanna get personal just call me rin.”

Osamu smiles and saves the contact as “Rin 👠💕💖 .” 

*****

At four, Osamu’s shift finally ends. His back and knees scream obscenities at him every time he tries to walk, but his stomach screams louder. He forces himself through a trip to the convenience store around the corner to grab a meat bun and some soda.

He eats in his truck on the way back to his college dorm. Fuck, he’s got a paper to write. He may as well just drive into the nearest river. His phone pings a few times, but he ignores it, because if he died answering a text from his mother, she’d never forgive herself.

By the time he pulls into the campus parking lot, his meat bun and soda have mysteriously vanished. They were smaller than he thought they’d be.

He hauls his aching body up the three flights of stairs to his dorm room and collapses on the carpet as soon as he steps through the door.

His roommate doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “Rough day today?” asks Yuuto. He’s lounging on his bed in the middle of a mass of pillows, computer perched precariously on his knees as he types.

“I need a back massage so intense I end up paralyzed,” says Osamu from the ground.

“Don’t we all?” says Yuuto. He lowers the lid of his laptop. “Dining hall tonight?”

“You know me so well,” says Osamu. “If I try to cook right now I’m gonna pass out.”

“Go take a nap. I’ll be quiet.” Yuuto reaches behind himself and grabs a pillow. “This one’s yours. Sorry.” He chucks it across the room. It falls short of Osamu’s bed and lands on the floor.

“Asshole,” grumbles Osamu. He crawls to his bed and retrieves the pillow. His back cracks as he wraps himself in his blanket, and he apologizes to Aran for mentally calling him an old man.

Yuuto keeps his promise, at least. Osamu has a nice dream about linking arms with fourteen hot drag queens and kicking Suna Rintarou in the shins. Dream Suna cries over the shoe marks on his designer jeans. All is right in the world for one brief moment.

Until Osamu’s ringtone blares full blast, snapping him out of his fantasy.

“Dude, turn that off before I kill you,” snaps Yuuto.

Osamu claps a hand over his phone and accepts the call. “Hey, Ma,” he says, pulling the blanket over his head.

“Hello, honey,” says his mother. Wind crackles through the speaker–she must be out for a walk. “How’s college?”

“It’s fine,” says Osamu. Generic non-committal answer. Can’t go wrong with that.

“How are your grades?” she says. “I haven’t had any urgent calls from your professors, so they must be good.”

“They’re fine,” he says. He’s passing his classes. Not by much, but he’s not gonna tell her that.

“Have you spoken to your brother lately?”

Ah. There it is. The question of the hour. “No,” says Osamu, because there’s no use lying to her. She’d have his ass. “Haven’t had time.”

“You better work it out with him,” she says. “I won’t have you fighting over summer break.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll talk to him,” he says.

“I’m not kidding, ‘Samu,” she says. “He’s real mad at you.”

“Yeah, I know that,” says Osamu. The urge to hang up on her increases.

“All I’m saying is you gotta see things his way–”

“Look, Ma, I’d love to stay and chat, but I got a dinner date with Kosaku,” says Osamu.

“Oh, Kosaku?” she says. “Tell him I say hello. He’s a nice boy. You could learn from him, you know.”

Osamu chooses to ignore the implications of that. “I’ll tell him. Bye, Ma.”

“Bye, sweetie. Love you.”

Osamu double-checks to make sure the blanket is fully covering him, then cups his hand over the speaker. “Love you too.”

He hangs up and kicks off the blanket. Yuuto grins at him from the other side of the room.

“Ma says hey,” says Osamu.

“Someday that’s gonna stop working,” says Yuuto. He shuts his laptop and gets up.

“Nah, she’s always gonna love you,” says Osamu. “It’s great. I haven’t been lectured since freshman year.” He climbs out of bed and reaches into the dresser drawer for a jacket.

“Have you considered that maybe you shouldn’t run from your responsibilities?” says Yuuto, crossing over to the door.

“Have you considered that running from my responsibilities makes my life so much easier?” says Osamu. He puts on his jacket and follows Yuuto into the hallway. “You should try it.”

“Can’t. I got nobody to distract my ma with.”

They start down the stairs. By the time they reach the bottom, Yuuto’s panting for breath. “Have you left the room at all today?” says Osamu.

Yuuto squeezes his eyes shut. “I went into the hallway to get the Uber Eats delivery.”

“Get a job, freeloader,” says Osamu.

“Oh, shut up,” says Yuuto. “You try being a double major. You’d never leave either.”

“Exactly why I am not a double major,” says Osamu. “Just for that, we’re walking to the dining hall. You need to exercise.”

“You’re evil,” says Yuuto as they start down the sidewalk. It’s nowhere near dark yet, the May sky still blue at six in the evening. The sun dips downward as they walk, just barely tinting the horizon with pink when they get to the dining hall.

The two of them check in and head to the end of the line, when Yuuto nudges Osamu’s arm.

“Don’t look now, but isn’t that your nemesis?”

Osamu searches for who Yuuto’s looking at and freezes. Dressed up in brand-name clothing, a stupid beanie squishing down his stupid hair, carrying a tray of food to a table by the windows, is Suna Rintarou.

Yuuto chuckles. “God, your face. What’d that guy even do to you?”

“He exists, and that’s enough,” says Osamu.

“Have you ever even spoken to him?”

“That’s besides the point,” says Osamu. The line shuffles along, and Osamu starts to regret not driving as he sees the buffet food thin out. Suna Rintarou probably had a personal chauffeur drive him directly to the entrance of the building in a slick black Maserati. Osamu clenches his fists at the thought.

“I mean, eat the rich, I get it,” says Yuuto, “but this is a bit much.”

“It’s not like I’m putting out a hit on him,” says Osamu. “I think a little hatred is healthy. Especially for trust fund babies who wanna act broke.”

Yuuto rolls his eyes. “How do you even know if he’s a trust fund baby?”

Osamu shrugs. “I Googled his name. His parents are CEO-rich. Of course he’s a trust fund baby.”

“You Googled him?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” The line moves forward enough for Osamu to grab a tray and set it on the buffet counter. “I was looking for his Instagram. I wanted to cyberstalk him.”

“You know, I think you should just stop talking before I lose all respect for you,” says Yuuto as he picks up a tray of his own.

“You’d never.” Osamu takes a salmon onigiri out of the buffet display and sets it on his tray. After a split-second of debate, he takes another. And then a third, so he has enough for leftovers.

“I guess it’s fine,” says Yuuto as he grabs a tuna mayo onigiri. He’s passive-aggressive today, Osamu thinks. “As long as you’re not actively planning a hit on him.”

“Nah,” says Osamu. “Not brave enough.”

“I figured.”

Osamu, getting the sense he was just insulted somehow, shuts his mouth and moves his tray along the counter. They make their way through the buffet line with only one setback–the soup station is out of soft-boiled eggs. They’re lucky this time. With a shudder, Osamu recalls the time he’d worked closing shift at the shop and come to the dining hall to find it picked clean.

Yuuto laser-focuses on a corner of the dining area, and Osamu follows him blindly to an empty table. They’re far away from the windows, but that means they’re also far away from Suna. Osamu scarfs down his dinner with little regard for his stomach capacity, which is fine, because his stomach capacity is unusually massive. Yuuto, on the other hand, picks at his food like a little bird.

When they leave, it’s fully dark outside. Osamu leads the way back to the dorm, following the streetlights until he sees the building. Yuuto huffs behind him. “Slow down, dipshit. Not everyone is a body builder.”

Osamu slows his pace to match Yuuto’s. “You have the constitution of a Victorian child.”

“What’s a Victorian child?”

“I don’t know. I heard it on the Internet.” Osamu reaches the door to the building and pushes it open. “Ready for the stairs? I’m not carrying you up this time.”

“Come on, man. Have some pity for a pathetic little shrimp like me,” says Yuuto, stumbling through the doorway.

“No way. You need to build some muscle.” Osamu crosses the hallway in four easy steps and stops at the foot of the stairs. “Do you want me to just go ahead and leave the door unlocked for you?”

“No, stay,” says Yuuto. “I need the moral support.”

“Fine.”

Yuuto reaches the stairs, and Osamu offers his hand. “If you wanted to hold hands so badly, you can just ask,” says Yuuto, taking it. They start up the steps, Yuuto quickly falling two steps behind.

“So, uh,” says Osamu as Yuuto pauses for breath for the fourth time, “how are your two majors going?”

“My literature major is stupid and my theatre major is even worse. Tell me about your job, so I feel better about myself.” Yuuto picks himself up and starts walking again.

Osamu, getting the sense that he was just insulted somehow, sifts through the memory of his day for something good. “I met the hottest drag queen today.”

“Right, your drag brunch was today,” says Yuuto. “Tell me about your new crush.”

“It’s not a crush,” says Osamu. “Everyone was really into her. If it’s a universal opinion, then it’s not a crush.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how it works.” Yuuto grabs onto the stair railing for support. “What’d she look like?”

“A dream come true,” says Osamu.

“Whipped.”

“Excuse me,” says Osamu, and Yuuto mimes zipping his mouth shut. “She was so tall, and she was wearing these sexy-ass boots. I kinda wanted her to step on me.” Osamu shuts his eyes. “And her makeup was so pretty. All sparkly. Red lipstick.”

“What’s her name? Or, her drag name, I guess,” asks Yuuto.

“Pandora’s Fox. Clever, right?” says Osamu. “I hope she comes back next Sunday.”

“You better get her number if she does,” says Yuuto. “Get yourself a romantic partner. Maybe it’ll help your personality.”

Osamu, getting the sense that he was just insulted somehow, steps out onto the third floor landing, dragging Yuuto behind him. “I’ll have you know I did, in fact, get her number . ”

“Oh? Miya Osamu taking control of his own destiny? Never thought I’d live to see the day.” Yuuto pulls the room key out of his pocket and unlocks their dorm. “Dibs on the shower.” Before Osamu can say anything else, Yuuto darts off to the bathroom.

“Hey, asshole–” Osamu hears the bathroom door slam and the shower turn on. Yuuto definitely can’t hear him now.

Great. Osamu flops down on his bed and pulls out his phone. He’s got two classes with S*na R * ntarou tomorrow and he won’t even have hot water to comfort him.

*****

In the middle of math class the next day, Osamu’s phone pings. 

He plucks it out of his pocket, silences it, and glances at the notification. 

Rin 👠💕💖: wanna hang later

Osamu grimaces and sends a reply.

Osamu: I have work today, sorry. I’m free Thursday or Friday if you still want to hang out. 

The professor fixes Osamu with a death glare. Osamu shoves the phone back into his pocket and picks up his pencil again, sighing. It’s not like he’s learning anything new. He’s pretty sure he took this exact course in high school. 

Two minutes later, his phone vibrates again, and he disregards the professor completely to check the notification. 

Rin 👠💕💖: what time do ur classes end thursday

Osamu: My last one ends at 4. 

Rin 👠💕💖 sent a location. 

Rin 👠💕💖: meet me here at 6?

Osamu: Ok cool. 

Rin 👠💕💖: why do u text like my uncle

Osamu: I am your uncle. 

Even without looking up, Osamu can sense the vein bulging out of his professor’s forehead, so he puts his phone back into the pocket of his cargo shorts and does his damn best to focus on the lesson. At least he doesn’t have Suna Rintarou in this class. 

When he gets back to his dorm that night, he makes the mistake of mentioning his plans with Rin to Yuuto, thus dooming himself to a week of non-stop heckling. He wakes up on Thursday morning to Yuuto waggling his eyebrows every time Osamu looks at him. 

Instead of paying attention in math class on Thursday, Osamu opens the location Rin sent him in his maps app and plans out a route. Rin wants to meet him in front of a place called “The Kit-Kat Club,” which upon further Googling appears to be a gay bar. Or perhaps a gay strip club. The website is ancient and covered top-to-bottom in flashing neon rainbow gifs. 

Osamu leaves for the gay bar at five-thirty and arrives with five minutes to spare and only minimal complaints from his truck. He parks behind the bar and walks around to the front, positioning himself as close to the location marker on Rin’s map as possible. He leans against the wall and waits. 

“Nice pants.” 

He whips his head around. Rin stands in the doorway to the bar, holding one of the glass doors open. She–he? Osamu needs to ask about that–has abandoned bright lipstick and sequins in favor of shimmery pink lip gloss and acid-wash skinny jeans. He’s not wearing a wig today, just a green baseball cap over dark hair. Osamu glances at his own pants–the same pair he wore yesterday, with a grease stain too close to the crotch for comfort that he thought would wash out by now–and grimaces. “Thanks,” he says. “You look nice.”

Rin smiles. “I try my best.” He motions to the open door. “Let’s go inside?”

“All right, let’s go inside,” says Osamu. 

Rin nods and steps through the door, shoving it open so Osamu can follow him. The inside of the gay bar looks about like the website suggested it would. Decor straight out of 2004, with glitter paint on any surface that will hold it. “Nice place, right?” says Rin. The beam from an orange LED catches the tips of his hair, lighting it up golden. 

“Yeah,” stammers Osamu. “Nice.”

“I do shows here sometimes,” says Rin. “They don’t have dressing rooms. I have to change in the van.” He stretches his arms over his head. “But the food here’s all right. Better than Midnight Mammalia.” 

“As long as the food’s good,” says Osamu. 

Rin takes Osamu by the elbow and guides him up to the bar, but stops abruptly just short of it. “Shit, I should’ve asked,” he says sheepishly. “Do you drink?”

“I’m in college. Of course I drink,” says Osamu. 

Rin relaxes, smiling. “Good. Because I don’t. And why go to a bar if neither of us drink?”

“We couldn’t just go to admire the decor?” says Osamu. 

“Point,” says Rin. He pulls Osamu all the way up to the bar, then lets go of Osamu’s arm and slides onto a hot pink bar stool. “I’ll pay. Don’t bankrupt me. But get whatever you want.”

“You don’t have to pay, I can pay,” says Osamu.

“I brought you here. I’ll pay,” says Rin. Before Osamu can argue with him, he turns to the bartender. “Takoyaki platter with extra sauce. Lime sparkling water.” He nods to Osamu. “And whatever he wants.”

“Whiskey sours,” says Osamu. 

“Whiskey sours,” repeats Rin. He extracts his wallet from his skinny jeans pocket and puts a credit card on the counter. 

“Sure, Pandora,” says the bartender. He turns away from them and grabs a bottle off the back of the bar. 

“They recognize you here,” says Osamu. 

“They recognize my order,” says Rin. “I’m the drag queen that always orders takoyaki.” He shifts on his bar stool. “You’ll like the takoyaki.”

“Have you tried the takoyaki at my shop?” says Osamu, hopping onto a stool next to Rin. 

“Yeah,” says Rin. “It’s okay. Too much onion.”

“I’ll put less onion in it next time,” says Osamu. 

Rin chuckles uncomfortably. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I like feedback on my food,” says Osamu.

“What else do you make?” says Rin. “For the shop, I mean.”

“The takoyaki,” says Osamu. “The dango. The mochi buns. And I make the fillings for the dorayaki, but Kita makes the bread.”

“Kita?”

“Cook. My boss,” says Osamu. “You wouldn’t have seen him. He never leaves the kitchen when the shop is open.”

“Tatsuki might’ve talked to him,” says Rin, resting his elbows on the bar. “To set up the brunch.”

“Which one’s Tatsuki?” asks Osamu. 

“Miss Hooter,” says Rin. “He’s been a queen longer than me. He’s my boss, I guess. Signs my paychecks.”

“I’ve always wondered how much drag queens make,” says Osamu. 

Rin snorts. “Not fuckin’ enough.” He puts his chin on his hands. “But it’s a job I don’t hate.”

“Damn, I wonder what that’s like,” says Osamu. 

“Sucks to suck, I guess,” says Rin. He chuckles. “I worked in retail before I found the club. Sold makeup.” 

“That’s fitting,” says Osamu. 

The bartender sets a plate of golden brown takoyaki between them. “Here you go, babygirl,” he grunts, handing a glass of sparkling water to Rin and a whiskey sours to Osamu. “You need more sauce, just holler.”

“Thanks,” says Rin, grabbing a takoyaki ball and dipping it in the extra sauce.

Osamu picks up a ball and takes a bite. He chews slowly, examining the texture and flavor mix. It’s heavy on the octopus and batter, light on the vegetables, crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside. So this is how Rin likes it. 

“Good, right?” says Rin with his mouth full. 

“Yeah,” says Osamu. “But it could use more sauce.”

Rin chuckles. “S’why I ordered extra.”

Osamu nods. “Yeah. It’s good. Tastes unhealthy.”

“That’s what makes it good.” Rin takes a sip of his sparkling water. “How’s your whiskey sours?”

Osamu picks up his glass and takes a swig. “Fine. Not the best I’ve had.”

“Sorry,” says Rin. “I should stop bringing guys to bars.”

“It’s fine,” says Osamu. “I like this bar.” 

“The glitter fumes are getting to you,” says Rin. He grabs another takoyaki ball and drowns it in the extra sauce. “We’ll go to a restaurant or something next time.” 

Next time. Rin’s committed to next time. Osamu holds back a cheer and nods noncommittally. “I’ll pick a place.”

Rin smirks. “Do you even go out?”

Again, Osamu’s hit with that wave of deja vu. He’s seen that face before on someone else. He scowls. “Course I go out. I go out all the time.”

“Sure you do,” says Rin. He stretches. His shirt hikes up to reveal his abs, and Osamu suddenly feels lightheaded. “At least my job takes me to cool places.”

“Fine, you kinda got me,” says Osamu. He picks up another takoyaki ball and copies what he saw Rin do–holding it in the bowl of sauce for a solid thirty seconds before trying to eat it. “But I gotta pay for school somehow.” He lifts the takoyaki ball to his mouth and gets sauce all over his hands. Hopefully Rin’s not paying attention to that. 

“God, school’s fuckin’ ruining my life,” says Rin. He slumps forward, nearly missing the plate of takoyaki with the brim of his baseball cap. “I wanna drop out, but my family would cut me off for good.”

“Where do you go to school?” asks Osamu as he wipes sauce off his fingers. 

“Same place as you,” says Rin. Osamu pauses mid-cleaning. “I see you sometimes. You’re friends with Kosaku Yuuto, right?”

“He’s my roommate,” says Osamu. 

“Ah,” says Rin. “He’s in my literature class. Sleeps through it half the time.” He takes another sip of sparkling water. “But he always takes perfect notes. Lets me copy for free.”

“Yeah, he’s actually kinda smart,” says Osamu. “When he’s not getting on my ass about taking care of myself or whatever.”

“Who has time for self-care?” says Rin. “I didn’t even shower before I came here.”

“That’s the spirit.” Osamu tilts back his whiskey sours and downs it in one go. 

Rin points to the empty glass. “Want another?” Osamu shakes his head. “Good,” says Rin. “I’d go broke.” He straightens up. “Can I take you somewhere?”

“Is it a dark, secluded location where you’re gonna murder me and leave my body?”

“Yes,” says Rin, deadpan. He waves to the bartender. “Can I get a to-go box?”

The bartender grunts and tosses a styrofoam box at Rin’s head. He barely catches it. “Great service here,” says Osamu.

“That’s just how Unnan is,” says Rin, with a nod in the direction of the bartender. He sets the box on the bar and shovels the remaining takoyaki into it. 

Wordlessly, the bartender shoves a plastic container of takoyaki sauce in Rin’s direction. Rin nestles the sauce in with the takoyaki and clicks the to-go box shut. He slides off the bar stool. 

“See you next week, Unnan,” Rin calls to the bartender. 

“Get the fuck out,” says Unnan. 

“Love you, too,” says Rin. He starts toward the door, motioning for Osamu to follow him. 

“So, where’re we going now?” asks Osamu as they brush past the guys on the dance floor. 

“Dunno,” says Rin. “Wherever we can get a train to, I guess.”

“I can drive,” says Osamu. “I have a car.”

“Oh? You can afford a car?” says Rin. “How fancy.”

They walk out the doors of the bar and Osamu turns toward where he parked his truck. Rin trails behind him. “I didn’t buy it,” says Osamu. “It was a hand-me-down.”

“Ah,” says Rin. “I know all about those.”

Osamu walks up to the truck and Rin chuckles behind him. 

“Yeah, that’s a hand-me-down,” says Rin as Osamu unlocks the doors.

“Don’t laugh. He hasn’t fallen apart yet,” says Osamu. He opens the door and climbs into the driver’s seat. “It was my mom’s.”

“She get a new car?” asks Rin, sliding into the passenger seat beside Osamu.

“I don’t know,” says Osamu. “She just handed me the keys one day, like ‘You’re gonna need this where you’re going.’”

“Are you close with her?” asks Rin.

“Yeah,” says Osamu. He sticks the keys in the ignition and starts the engine. “It was always just me and my brother and her.”

“Sounds nice,” says Rin. 

Osamu smiles. “Yeah.” He backs out of the parking space and pulls out of the parking lot. “What about you?” says Osamu. “What’s your family like?”

Rin snorts. “They’re the reason I’m broke.” He leans back in his seat. “Told me I had to go to college and didn’t even offer to help with tuition.”

“And they’d cut you off if you dropped out?” Osamu turns onto the main road.

“S’what they said,” says Rin. “And I don’t wanna just never see my sister again.”

“Are you and your sister close?”

Rin relaxes just a little. “Yeah. She’s not like them. She’s tolerable.” He sets his jaw. “Her birthday’s soon. Eighteen.”

“Is that good or bad?” says Osamu.

“Hey, turn left at the next light,” says Rin. “It’s both. My parents are throwing her a big fuckin’ party and I can’t go.”

“Why not?” says Osamu, turning on his turn signal. 

“Told me I either show up in a dress and heels or I don’t come at all,” says Rin. He laughs humorlessly. “And I know what they actually mean. I’m two years on testosterone. I don’t think they really want to see me in a dress.”

“Why not show up in drag?” asks Osamu. 

“Don’t laugh,” says Rin. “It’s stupid.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’m kinda scared,” says Rin. “It’d be funny for five minutes. My sister would be overjoyed. But what would happen after that?” He looks out the side window. “What would they do?”

“What’s stupid about that?” says Osamu. “You’re thinking about long-term effects. That’s more than I can say. Where do I turn from here?”

“It’s just straight ahead for a while,” says Rin. “Thanks for the validation.”

“Any time,” says Osamu. 

Rin laughs. “Fuck. I’m kinda sad now.” He turns to look at Osamu. “You said you had a brother.”

“Yeah,” says Osamu, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. 

“What’s with that face? Was I not supposed to mention him?” 

“No, it’s fine,” says Osamu. He takes a deep breath. “It’s just…he’s mad at me right now.”

“Damn, what’d you do?” says Rin. 

“He’s just pissed I didn’t skip out on my midterms to come to his stupid volleyball game,” says Osamu. 

“Good job, you said it,” says Rin. “Sounds like an asshole.”

“He is,” says Osamu instinctively, smiling a little. “Such an asshole. He always steals my pants and when he gives them back, the calves are all stretched out and the thighs are too tight. He oughta know we’re not the same size anymore.”

“Is he in college?” asks Rin. 

“Nah,” says Osamu, hitting the brakes as they come to a red light. “Went pro straight out of high school. He plays for a division three team, but he’s been talking about trying out for the Black Jackals. Won’t shut up about ‘em.”

“Never heard of them. I don’t follow sports.” Rin glances at the stoplight. “You could probably run this.”

“Never. My truck wouldn’t survive being towed,” says Osamu. “Atsumu has a BMW.” 

“He can afford that? Lucky bastard,” says Rin.

The light turns green, and Osamu presses the accelerator. “Right?” he says. “And he won’t even let me drive it.” 

“What a jerk,” says Rin. 

“Damn straight,” says Osamu. “I oughta call him up.” He sinks into the car seat. “But I know he’s just gonna be pissed at me. He really wanted me to come to the game.”

“Get into the far right lane. The road’s about to fork,” says Rin, and Osamu turns on his turn signal. “Sounds like baseball is really important to him.”

“Volleyball,” says Osamu.

“My mistake,” says Rin. “But you’re so lucky. You can just go and talk to your family.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t complain,” says Osamu. “I’m gonna wait for him to call. He wants to talk to me, he better talk to me, you know?”

“I know,” says Rin.

“Also, if you don’t mind me asking, where are we going?”

“Oh, there’s a bridge my bus always goes over on my way to the club,” says Rin. “Always wanted to watch a sunset from there.”

“Nice. A bridge. You gonna push me into a river?” says Osamu. 

“Yes. No one will ever find your body.”

*****

“So, let me get this straight,” says Ginjima, pacing back and forth in front of the coffee bar, “He took you to a gay bar, you watched a sunset with him, and when he asked you to come back to his apartment with him you said no?” 

“Well, yeah,” says Osamu as he wipes down the windows of the dessert display case. “I had classes in the morning, and if I don’t get eight hours of sleep I can’t focus.”

“You idiot,” hisses Gin. “You were supposed to go back to his place and…you know. Get wet and wild with him.”

“Never say that again,” says Osamu. 

“Still,” says Gin. “You totally had it, and you just chucked it out the door to get eight hours of sleep?” 

Osamu scrubs at a stubborn stain on the window. “What’s wrong with wanting sleep?” 

Gin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have scrambled eggs where your brain should be.”

Akagi walks in from the back of the shop. “Who has scrambled eggs where their brain should be?”

Gin motions to Osamu. “This bitchless man.”

“I am not bitchless,” says Osamu. He turns to Akagi and realizes he doesn’t know the inside scoop on Osamu’s terrible morning. He ducks under the counter, throws his towel onto the coffee bar, and plants his hands on Akagi’s shoulders. “Suna Rintarou looked at me today.”

“Is that good or bad?” asks Akagi, squirming in his grip like a rat in an eagle’s talons.

“Bad! Big time terrible bad,” says Osamu.

“So eloquent,” says Akagi. Osamu releases him and Akagi’s feet hit the ground with a thunk. His Skechers light up. “Tell me, why is it bad?”

“Because that means Suna Rintarou is acknowledging my existence, which means he could find out about my plans to egg his dorm window, which means he could call his CEO parents to come shut down my bank account–”

“Slow down, man,” says Akagi. The LEDs on his shoes finally turn off. “You’re catastrophizing. Think realistically. Maybe Suna Rintarou just thinks your hair looks nice.”

“My hair never looks nice,” says Osamu.

“That’s not true,” says Akagi, stomping his foot. His shoe starts flashing again. “It looks like it was cut by the world’s most delicate weed whacker.”

“Akagi, Kita’s gonna yell at you for wearing those to work,” says Ginjima, looking one hundred percent done.

“I don’t care. Express yourself,” says Akagi.

The chime of the door snaps Osamu into customer service mode. Akagi sidles up to the register, the LEDs on his shoes flashing as he walks. “Hello, what can I get for you today?”

Gin rolls his eyes and empties out the portafilters with what Osamu feels like is excessive force. 

“Small black coffee,” says Suna Rintarou.

Osamu grabs a cup off the shelf and fills it with coffee, pointedly not looking at Suna.

“Two seventy-five,” says Akagi. “Anything else?”

“No,” says Suna, his face impassive as he hands over a five hundred yen note.

At least he paid this time, thinks Osamu. He pops a lid onto the coffee cup and sets it on the front counter, keeping his eyes fixed on his hands. He definitely doesn’t grit his teeth when the glare off Suna’s silver watch gets him straight in the eyes.

“Have a wonderful day!” says Akagi. Suna grunts and turns to leave, then looks behind him.

Sweat beads on Osamu’s forehead as Suna makes eye contact with him. Then, Suna has the audacity to smirk.

Osamu can barely hear Akagi snickering over the blood roaring in his ears. He fights off the screech that’s threatening to burst out of his lips and nods at Suna. A polite, neutral acknowledgement.

Suna dips his head in return and finally, finally walks out of the shop.

Akagi’s snickers explode into peals of laughter. He doubles over, hands on his knees, and cackles like a hyena. “Oh my god. You’re gonna fuckin’ get fired.”

Osamu balls up his fists. “It’s not funny.”

“That was kinda funny,” says Gin.

“He smirked at you!” says Akagi between gasps. “And then–and then you…” He stops for breath. “You looked like he’d just shot your mom.”

“You know, maybe you should give him a chance,” says Ginjima, obviously fighting off a shit-eating grin.

“Give a guy who buys designer clothing with Daddy’s Money a chance?” Osamu clenches his jaw.

“I mean, you don’t know it’s his daddy’s money,” says Gin. “He could be an estranged bastard child working at a strip club to pay his way through college.”

“Or maybe he’s just really good at thrifting,” says Akagi.

“I feel violated,” says Osamu.

“Then go Google cat photos or something,” says Gin, leaning against the coffee bar. “Kita left half an hour ago. He’s not gonna get on your case for using your phone.”

“Just don’t spend too long on Google,” says Akagi, “because someone needs to wash the dishes.”

*****

The next Friday, they’re back in Osamu’s truck, rolling and sputtering down a side street toward a dilapidated apartment complex, bathed in orange sunset and encircled by rusty Honda Civics and barbed-wire fences. 

“Damn, bitch, you live like this?” says Osamu as he pulls into the parking lot. 

“Since I was seventeen,” says Rin. He’s dressed up more than usual today, fresh off the stage at a restaurant downtown, in a lime wig and matte pink lipstick. In the leg space of Rin’s seat is the dress he wore–a magenta and yellow strapless number with slits down the sides. He’d changed as soon as the show ended into dark-wash jeans and a hot pink T-shirt. The summer air blows through the open windows of the truck, rustling the sleeves and revealing his toned biceps. A pang of self-consciousness hits Osamu. He sure as hell isn’t toned like that. 

Osamu hops out of the truck and crosses to the other side to open the door for Rin. As Rin climbs out of the seat, Osamu reaches for Rin’s hand. 

Rin snickers. “What a gentleman.” He takes Osamu’s hand and starts toward the door to the apartment complex. 

He leads Osamu up five flights of stairs and down a long, musty hallway, stopping in front of a door. Rin pulls a key out of his pocket and opens the door. He motions for Osamu to go inside. 

Osamu steps through the door into a sparsely-furnished studio apartment. The kitchen counters are bare, the double bed is unmade, but the walls are plastered floor to ceiling in posters and photographs and newspaper pages. Osamu recognizes some of the faces on the wall from Atsumu’s emo phase. 

“Is that Pay money To my Pain?” says Osamu, thumbing over a poster by the door.

“Yeah,” says Rin. “I used to love them.” He shuts the door behind them and crosses to the bed. He quickly straightens out the sheets. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Don’t sweat it,” says Osamu. He walks to the kitchen and runs his finger along the countertop, leaving a stark white streak in the layer of dust on the granite. “Actually, never mind. I’m gonna kill you for this.” He holds up his finger. 

“I don’t cook,” says Rin. “I never use that kitchen.”

Osamu slams his hands down on the counter. “That settles it. I’m gonna teach you how to make katsudon. Where’s the nearest konbini?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Rin, walking to the kitchen and resting his head on Osamu’s shoulder. His lipstick is scented. Osamu could die right now. “What do I get out of this?”

“The ability to make katsudon whenever you want?” offers Osamu. His heart palpitates. 

“Let’s make a deal,” says Rin. “You teach me how to make katsudon, and I’ll teach you how to do makeup.”

“But I don’t need makeup to survive,” says Osamu. 

Rin opens the nearest drawer and pulls out a knife. “What was that?”

“I agree to let you put makeup on me,” says Osamu. 

“Good,” says Rin, putting the knife away and shutting the drawer. He grins. “Let’s go shopping, then.”

After a quick trip to the convenience store around the corner, Rin and Osamu stand in the newly-stocked kitchen and admire their haul. 

“Do I really need all these different spices?” says Rin. 

“Absolutely,” says Osamu. “Unless you want your food to be utterly flavorless.” He reaches into one of the grocery bag and pulls out a package of pork chops. “Speaking of flavor, help me rub some salt into these.”

“As you wish, Master,” says Rin, taking the pork chops with a small smile. 

While Rin gleefully pounds the meat flat with a tenderizer, Osamu gets to work figuring out Rin’s ancient rice cooker. He wipes down the inside with a paper towel to get rid of the thick layer of dust and pours in the rice. He stares at it for a minute. Where’s the fucking power button?

“Are these tender enough?” asks Rin, pointing to the meat. 

Osamu glances at the pork. Rin has pounded it a little too flat, but it’ll do. “Yeah, that’s good.” He motions for Rin to come over to him and gestures helplessly to the rice cooker. “How does this thing work?”

Rin shrugs. “Dunno. It was a gift from my sister. I’ve never actually used it.”

Osamu wheels around to face him. “Seriously?” 

“I told you, I don’t cook,” says Rin. 

“Do you at least, like…” Osamu’s eyes dart back and forth between Rin and the rice cooker. “Know how to turn it on?”

“Give me a second,” says Rin, shouldering Osamu out of the way and inspecting the rice cooker closely. “Uh, how much rice is in here?” 

“Like two cups,” says Osamu.

“Eh. Should be fine,” says Rin. “Ah, here’s the power button.” He taps something on the rice cooker and it whirs to life. 

Osamu smiles. “Nice. At least you’re not completely useless.”

“Hey, I pounded the fuck out of your meat,” says Rin, pouting. 

Osamu bites back a snort–he’s not his brother, he can be mature–and grabs a pack of pre-made panko out of one of the grocery bags. “Okay, let’s get our pounded meat ready for frying.” 

“Heh. Pounded meat,” says Rin. “As your faithful kitchen assistant, what should I prepare for you?”

“I need three bowls, two eggs, milk, and flour,” says Osamu as he rips open the panko bag. 

“Got it, Master,” says Rin. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a stack of paper plates. “Are these good? I don’t know if I have three bowls.”

Osamu sighs. “God, you are such a college student.” He takes two plates off the top of the stack. “But those are fine. And stop calling me Master.”

“Whatever you say, Master,” says Rin, putting the rest of the plates back and rooting around in the cabinet for a bowl. 

Osamu rolls his eyes at Rin and sets the plates on the counter. He spreads a layer of panko crumbs across one of them and a layer of flour over the other. 

Rin pushes a patterned bowl across the counter toward Osamu. “This good?”

“Cute,” says Osamu. “Yeah, this is good. Are those chickens?”

Rin picks up the bowl and squints at the chicken pattern running across the top edge. “Huh. Those are chickens.”

“That’s adorable,” says Osamu. “Now, speaking of chickens, I need eggs.”

“On it, Master,” says Rin.

“Stop that.”

They fall into a comfortable rhythm, breading the pork and deep-frying it in Rin’s single pan, then setting it on a stack of paper towels to drain off the oil. Once the pork is done, Osamu puts Rin to work scrubbing the pan while he chops onions and separates eggs, then they put the pan back on the heat for the final steps of the recipe. Osamu tries his best to explain what he’s doing to Rin, but softening the onions and cooking the eggs over the pork cutlets feels like second nature to him. 

“What do you mean by ‘they’re done when they’re done?’” asks Rin. 

Osamu pokes the edge of the eggs with a spatula. “Have you never cooked eggs before?” At Rin’s scowl, he sighs. “Don’t answer that. I mean, they’re done when they’re crispy on the outside but still runny on the inside, like this,” he says, breaking off a piece of the egg to demonstrate. He turns off the stove. “Check the rice.”

Rin nods and heads over to the rice cooker. Osamu reaches into the grocery bag and retrieves the final item from their konbini trip–a stalk of parsley. He picks up a knife and chops off two leaves to make a garnish. Not that the presentation of the food really matters here, but he’d rather die than forgo the parsley garnish. 

The edges of the eggs are starting to brown from the pan’s residual heat. “Rin?” calls Osamu. “Everything good over there?”

“Uh,” says Rin, looking down at the rice cooker, “I think we might’ve used too much rice.”

Osamu sets down his knife and comes over to inspect the damage. The rice has doubled in size. It presses up against the clear plastic lid of the rice cooker, demanding to be let out. “You know, I feel inclined to agree with that,” says Osamu.

He presses the release latch for the rice cooker’s lid. Cooked rice springs free of its prison, spilling over onto the counter. Rin picks up a grain and nibbles on it. “It’s cooked, though.”

Osamu copies him, taking a chunk of rice and putting it in his mouth. “Yeah. This is fine.” He swallows, then reaches for the chicken-patterned bowl and passes it to Rin. “Help yourself. Let’s enjoy the fruits of our labor together.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” says Rin, lifting the bowl up to eye level. “Cheers?”

Osamu reaches for a paper plate and taps it against the bowl’s rim. “Cheers.”

They pile rice and pork cutlets onto their dishes and take their meal to the edge of Rin’s bed. Osamu makes a mental note to take Rin furniture shopping one of these days. There’s definitely space in the apartment for a dining table. At the very least, Rin needs a shelf. 

“S’good,” murmurs Rin around a mouthful of rice.

“Of course it is. It’s my exclusive patented recipe,” says Osamu. 

“You haven’t forgotten my end of the deal, right?” says Rin. “Don’t get too much egg on your face, or the foundation won’t stick.”

“Do you already have a makeup look for me planned out?” asks Osamu. 

“Been planning one since I met you.” Rin smiles. “You have great bone structure. Sharp jawline.”

“Don’t say that,” says Osamu, looking down. His face feels vaguely hot. He elects to ignore that. “I’ve gotten all round and squishy since I quit sports.”

“Are you blind?” asks Rin. He shoves a third piece of pork in his mouth and continues. “You’re like, a modern Greek god. There should be statues of you in museums.”

“Uh.” The tips of Osamu’s ears burn. “You too?”

Rin laughs, and Osamu wishes he could set that sound as his ringtone. “Hey, I’ll take it.”

They finish their food between sentences, teasing quips and flirting remarks, and a debate on whether or not Saitama shaves his head (“his baldness is stress-related and I will die on that hill, Rin!”). Osamu places the leftover rice and pork into Tupperware containers in Rin’s fridge, and Rin grabs him by the sleeve of his hoodie and ushers him into the bathroom. 

“All right, here’s where the magic happens,” says Rin as he guides Osamu into sitting on the edge of the bathtub. “I’m gonna make you so pretty.”

“I don’t doubt your abilities,” says Osamu. 

Rin chuckles and takes a palette of makeup from his medicine cabinet. “Foundation. Step one. Gotta even out that skintone.” He kneels in front of Osamu, picks up a large makeup brush, and coats the tip in foundation. “Hopefully this matches. If not, I’ll just use a whole bunch and blend it out really well and no one will know.”

“Matches what?”

“Your skin,” says Rin as he brings the brush up to Osamu’s cheek. “Hold still or I’ll stab you in the eye.”

“Noted,” says Osamu, gripping the edge of the bathtub. Rin gently brushes the foundation over his face, pausing every few strokes to dip the brush back in the powder. The touch is feather-light against Osamu’s skin, and Rin’s face is so close to his that he can feel Rin’s breath. He doesn’t say anything, because if he breaks the silence, the moment will end. 

Rin turns around and sets the makeup palette on the counter. Osamu stretches up, hoping to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror, but Rin glances over his shoulder and fixes Osamu with a playful stare. “Don’t ruin the surprise.” He picks up another palette and kneels back down on the bathmat.

“What’s this?” asks Osamu. The new palette is bigger than the foundation, but it’s all various shades of brown and orange. 

“Contouring,” says Rin. “Trust the process.” He grabs a smaller brush and covers it in a medium warm brown. “I said you had a nice bone structure earlier, right? I’m about to make it real nice.”

He touches the brush to Osamu’s cheekbone and Osamu stops breathing. Rin’s green eyes are inches away–parsley-green, like Osamu’s beloved garnish. He’s captivating, intoxicating, so utterly beautiful, and he’s touching Osamu’s face. 

Rin exchanges his contour palette for what must be eyeshadow–it’s an array of teals and pinks and iridescent golds–then for eyeliner and mascara and cherry-red lip gloss, and Osamu can feel the layers of makeup cling to his face like coffee grounds to his hands on a Saturday shift. Does Rin feel like this all the time? 

As if reading his thoughts, Rin lowers his weapon of choice–a blending sponge–and smiles. “Feeling cute yet?” he asks. “Or just sticky?”

“Both,” says Osamu. 

“It’s a sliding scale,” says Rin as he resumes blending Osamu’s blush. “You start cute, and as your drag show goes on you get sweaty and gross.”

“Is there even room for sweat under all this?” asks Osamu. 

“You’d be surprised,” says Rin. He steps to the side with a dramatic flourish. “Now, behold!” 

“Oh, it’s done?” says Osamu, jumping to his feet and rushing to the mirror. He rests his hands on the counter and stares at his reflection. 

The first thought that hits him is wow, I am so shaped. His cheekbones are defined, highlighted with shimmery golden powder, and his jawline looks sharp enough to cut someone. Red and purple eyeshadow frames his eyes, making the gray appear violet, and winged eyeliner juts out and curves upward into a sharp point. The cherry-red lip gloss that had looked so garish in the tube suddenly fits in perfectly on Osamu’s face. 

Rin comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Osamu’s waist. “Like it?” he murmurs into Osamu’s ear.

“Holy shit,” manages Osamu. 

“Hell yeah,” says Rin. He reaches forward and picks up the eyeliner tube. “Let’s go out and buy you one of these. Eyeliner suits you.”

Osamu nods, still dumbstruck by his own appearance. 

“I’ll help you practice doing it,” says Rin. 

Osamu nods again, much more forcefully. Because no way in hell is he gonna decline an invitation to get Rin’s hands on him. 

*****

“Damn,” says Akagi when Osamu clocks in on Monday. “You not get enough sleep, or what?”

“Rin taught me how to do it,” says Osamu. “It’s supposed to look like this.”

“Statement redacted. Looks sexy.” Akagi hands Osamu a stack of plastic lids. “Go restock for me? Pretty please?” 

Osamu opens his mouth to ask why Akagi can’t do it himself, but he catches a glimpse of Gin in the back of the shop and walks to the coffee bar without a word. About damn time, he thinks to himself as he refills the lids. He blocks out the kissing noises and starts his afternoon cleaning routine. 

He’s halfway through sweeping the floor when his worst nightmare comes to life. The door chimes, and a gang of college boys spills into the shop. One of them–a curly-haired pretty boy–props the door open for the rest of his party. Osamu quickly sweeps his dust pile into the dustpan and slips behind the counter, avoiding eye contact and sending a prayer to the coffee shop gods that these guys will leave tips. 

“On me today,” calls the curly-haired guy to his friends. 

“Thank fuck,” a horribly familiar voice responds. Suna Rintarou’s here again. 

Osamu wills Akagi or Gin or even Kita to come to the front and notice his predicament, but no backup arrives. He steels his nerves and plants himself at the register. “Hi, welcome to Drippin' Beans.” 

“Hey, ‘Samu,” says Suna Rintarou. “Nice makeup.”

Great. Now Suna has escalated to bullying him. “Thanks,” says Osamu, his best customer-service smile plastered across his face. Since when did Suna know his name?

The guys chuckle. “He’s cute,” says one of them. 

“Right?” says Suna. He smiles at Osamu. “I can teach you how to do foundation, too. Cover up that blush.” 

Osamu meets Suna’s eyes. Green. Like parsley. 

“What’s wrong?” says Suna. “Shy?”

“Rin, are you gonna order or not?” says one of the guys. 

All at once, the world shifts on its axis again.

Suna Rintarou. 

Suna Rin tarou. 

“Sorry,” says Osamu. His stomach twists and untwists like a clogged cement mixer. “I need to–uh…” His brain feels like it’s made of scrambled eggs. “Water the coffee beans. Before they dehydrate. You know.”

As he sprints to the back of the shop, he hears Suna say “Dude, what?” One of the college guys laughs, and it’s a laugh Osamu recognizes, because he’s heard it from the MC at a drag brunch. So Memento’s eyebrows are real. 

Osamu ducks in front of the sink and turns on the cold water. Akagi and Gin at least have the decency to stop making out. “Are you, like, good?” asks Akagi. 

“Customers. Please. Help,” Osamu chokes out. 

“For fuck’s sake,” grumbles Akagi, but he goes to the front anyway. 

“You’re permanently in debt to him now,” says Gin, leaning against the edge of the sink. 

Osamu ignores him and rubs cold water onto his face. When did he get so warm? Is he sick? Did he contract an incurable disease from hanging out with Suna Rintarou? He must have. He gets hives from being in contact with rich people. But–he’s been to Suna’s apartment. His studio apartment with nothing in the fridge, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, two inches from the train tracks. He’s listened to Suna’s story, empathized with it. They shared evil retail experiences. 

Miya Osamu might be an idiot. 

There’s black streaks running down his hands. Oh, shit, he forgot about the eyeliner. No way he can go back out there now. 

“Akagi has makeup remover in his bag somewhere,” says Gin tentatively, like he’s scared Osamu might explode if he talks too loud. 

“Read my fuckin’ mind,” says Osamu. 

Akagi bounds back around the corner. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, what the fuck was that?”

“I may be stupid,” says Osamu. 

“You guys break up or something?” asks Akagi, squinting as his Skechers illuminate the area under the sink. 

“No, but–” Osamu looks up. Akagi cringes. “I made out with Suna Rintarou.”

Akagi stares at him. “No shit. That’s your man, isn’t it?”

A strange sound behind him makes Osamu turn around. Gin has one hand clamped over his mouth, his face beet-red. “Oh–my– god,” he says, wheezing. “You didn’t know?”

“Holy shit,” says Akagi. “This whole time, you didn’t realize–” A peal of laughter escapes him, and he doubles over, bracing his hands on his knees. “Oh my god.”

Gin cackles and props himself up against the wall, trembling. “He thought–” he says between gasps. “He didn’t know–” He breaks off into full-body laughter. 

“Damn right,” says Akagi with tears forming in his eyes. “Damn right you may be stupid. I can’t believe–” He clutches his stomach, his body shaking. “I’m fuckin’ dying.”

“Thanks, guys,” forces out Osamu. The frozen feeling in his stomach won’t leave.

“Sorry, sorry,” stammers Gin. “It’s just–” He takes a deep breath and straightens up. “I figured out they were the same person, like, the first time Suna came into the shop.”

“Me too,” says Akagi. “I thought you were fucking around when you said you hated him. Like, how people on Twitter will see hot men and be like ‘I wanna put him in a blender on the coarse ground setting.’ You know.”

“Who are you following on Twitter who says that?” says Gin. 

“Doesn’t matter,” says Akagi, too quickly. “But damn. Anyway…” He reaches down and pulls a makeup remover wipe out of his Skecher. It lights up again. “Need one of these?”

“Yeah, thanks,” says Osamu, gingerly accepting the wipe. He rips open the package, pulse out the wipe, and scrubs at his face. The eyeliner comes off in thick stripes of black. That shit spreads. “Good?”

“Good,” says Akagi. 

The door chimes again, and Gin claps Osamu on the back. “Your turn. No excuses. Don’t freak out again.”

“Thanks for the support, buddy,” says Osamu. He rounds the corner to the front of the shop. Suna’s at the register again, but this time he’s alone. His friends stand outside, and Osamu doesn’t miss how they glance through the front windows every few seconds. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” says Suna coolly. He’s not smiling anymore. “You took off the makeup.”

“Yeah, uh,” says Osamu, “I got water on my face while I was watering the coffee beans. And it started running. So. Uh. You know.”

“Cut the shit,” says Suna. “Couldn’t handle seeing me in public?” 

“Uh, yeah,” says Osamu. “Just got so flustered by your gorgeousness that I–”

Suna slams his hands against the countertop. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. You’re just like every other shitty man I’ve ever been with. I knew it from the fucking beginning.”

Osamu steps back. “Woah, what’s this about?” 

“You ignore me at school, I walk in here and you glare at me, but the second I put my makeup on you’re sweet as peaches.” Suna’s chin quivers. 

“That’s not–”

“You only like me when I look like a girl. Is that it?” barks Suna. “Is that fucking it? Are you so insecure in your sexuality that you only wanna fuck me when I look like a girl?” 

“No, that’s not–”

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Suna straightens up and steps back. “I knew it. I thought I mighta had it twisted, but I was right the whole time.” He takes a step to the door. 

“Wait, don’t–” calls Osamu, but Suna’s already gone. Frantically, he pulls out his phone and opens up his text conversation with Suna. He types out a quick “it’s not what you think let me explain” and hits send. A red Not Delivered message illuminates the bottom of the screen. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbles to himself. 

Slowly, he turns around. A flash of black hair disappears around the corner. 

“Akagi–” begins Osamu, and Akagi slinks into view, followed by a sheepish-looking Gin. 

“We can cover for you if you wanna go home and wallow in self-pity or whatever,” says Akagi. Gin nods. 

“Fuck no,” says Osamu. “I’m staying. I want my fuckin’ tip money so I can go buy eight pounds of mochi ice cream on my way home.”

“That’s the spirit, I guess?” says Akagi. He shrugs. “As long as you’re not feeding into hustle culture and overworking yourself in a time of emotional stress for the sake of being productive.”

“Save your self-help for Kita. I need whiskey sours,” says Osamu. “And help from God.”

“You can say that again,” says Gin. 

Osamu leaves work that evening with only enough tip money for two pounds of mochi ice cream. He gets home and curls up in bed with the ice cream. Yuuto only gives him a cursory glance as Osamu tugs a blanket over his head and pulls up Ponyo on his laptop. 

He makes it through all of Ponyo and about half of Spirited Away before Yuuto yanks the blanket off his head. “Hey, loser. Time for dinner.”

“Go without me,” says Osamu. “I’m tired.”

“I get it, you got dumped because you didn’t realize you were dating Suna Rintarou, but you need to eat.” Yuuto jabs his fingers into Osamu’s sides. “Something besides ice cream.”

“Ow, stop that,” says Osamu, grabbing the blanket back and wrapping it around himself. “Wait, how’d you know what happened?”

“Suna told me. He came by to give back my literature notes,” says Yuuto. “Well, he called you a bitch a few times, and I put two and two together.”

“Great. The news is spreading,” says Osamu. “Go to dinner without me.”

“You must be really depressed about it if you’re turning down food,” says Yuuto. He grabs Osamu’s wrist and tugs. “Come on. Get your ass out of bed. Let’s go to the dining hall.”

“What if he’s there?” says Osamu. 

“Then you avoid him like you always do,” says Yuuto. 

“But that’s what fucked everything up,” says Osamu. 

“Hey, you’re growing as a person,” says Yuuto. “You want him back, right?”

“Hell yeah I want him back,” says Osamu, sinking deeper into his blanket pile. “But he doesn’t want me back.”

“So make him want you back,” says Yuuto. He gives another yank on Osamu’s wrist, hard enough to pull him out of bed and onto the floor.

Osamu lies on the floor and stares up at Yuuto. “I can’t do that. I don’t have mind control powers.” 

“Come on, you’re more creative than that.” Yuuto kicks Osamu in the side. “Get up.”

Reluctantly, Osamu pulls himself to his feet. His knees crack as he straightens up. “Fine. Dinner.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Yuuto, tugging Osamu to the door. “You’ll think better with some dinner in you.”

*****

Osamu does not, in fact, think better after dinner.

Instead, after an evening of dodging Suna and his friends in the dining hall, he drops Yuuto off at the dorm and takes off in his pickup truck to the Kit Kat Club. The engine makes a new sound as he pulls into the parking lot. One more thing to worry about, he thinks as he enters the bar. 

It’s exactly as he remembers–packed with twinks and twunks and bears and smelling of fruity cocktails and fruity cocks. On the stage is a punk band, fronted by a blond man wearing a spiked leather vest and purple eyeliner, playing an English song that Osamu doesn’t have the mental capacity to translate. He walks up to the bar, dodging dancing men, almost getting hit in the face by a stray himbo’s sneaker, and sits in a pink plastic barstool. 

The bartender–Unnan, Osamu recalls–takes a minute to notice him. “Whiskey sours again?”

“Sure,” says Osamu, stunned. “You remember me?”

“Course,” says Unnan. “Pandora talks about you all the time.”

Osamu slumps forward onto his elbows. “Does he, now?”

“He send you packing too?” says Unnan, setting a glass of whiskey sours in front of Osamu. “What’d you do to him?”

“I’m just stupid.” Osamu takes a swig of his drink. “It’s my own fault.”

“Damn right you are,” says Unnan. 

A crash from the other side of the bar makes Unnan’s head snap up. 

“God-fucking-damn it,” he mutters. “Sorry, bestie.” He rises to his full height, which Osamu now realizes is extremely tall, and crosses in two fluid steps to the end of the bar counter. “ Hey!” he bellows, shocking the guests into silence. 

All except for one. “Evening, Keisuke,” bites back an equally tall punk rocker. The singer of the punk band from earlier. 

“You planning on behaving tonight, Nozomu?” says Unnan. “Or are you going to trash my bar again?”

“Depends,” drawls Nozomu. “‘Cause your bar looks just so trashable tonight.”

“Touch the liquor and I’ll beat your ass,” says Unnan. 

“Oh, really?” says Nozomu. “You promise?” In one swift motion, he vaults over the bar and delicately rests his hand on a bottle. “You gonna beat my ass?”

Unnan grabs him by the collar of his leather vest and slams him face-first into the counter. 

“Fuck!” shouts Nozomu. In retaliation, he reaches up and shoves Unnan backward. Unnan digs his heels into the floor, narrowly missing the liquor shelves on the back of the bar. He lunges forward and punches Nozomu square across the face. 

“Boys, that’s enough,” calls a female voice, and Nozomu and Unnan stop in their tracks. A woman with short hair steps out from the kitchen door. Nozomu and Unnan step away from each other, looking sheepishly at the ground. 

“Sorry, Kuzuri,” mumbles Unnan. 

“We’ll talk after your shift, Unnan,” she says, fixing Unnan with a death glare before turning to Nozomu. “Get lost.”

Nozomu scurries off to the stage. The woman slinks back into the kitchen, and Unnan rests against the counter. “Dammit, the bastard got blood on my bar,” he says. He reaches under the counter and grabs a rag to mop up the blood. 

Osamu downs the rest of his whiskey sours. He can’t help but chuckle a little. He and Atsumu used to settle every argument like that, until their mother came and broke it up. 

Unnan discards his rag and walks back over to Osamu. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says. 

“Don’t worry about it,” says Osamu, sliding his credit card across the counter to pay for his drink. 

“Still.” Unnan takes the card and runs it through the chip reader. “Anyway, I’m probably gonna be fired by the end of tonight, so unload your emotional baggage on me?”

“If that’s what you want,” says Osamu. 

Predictably, Unnan belly-laughs at Osamu’s emotional baggage. “You didn’t–” he grabs the edge of the counter for support, “--oh my god!” He wipes tears from his eyes. “You really are stupid. But Pandora likes himbos. You still have a chance.” 

“Thanks for the moral support,” says Osamu. 

“I don’t have any morals,” says Unnan, still chuckling. “God, but you’re gonna need something big to fix this. Some grand romantic gesture.” 

“You don’t need to tell me,” says Osamu. “Can I get another whiskey?”

Unnan takes Osamu’s empty glass and refills it. “Sure. On the house.” 

“Oh, I can pay,” says Osamu before he takes a sip. 

“I know,” says Unnan. “But I feel bad for you, and I’m about to get fired. May as well be a good samaritan on my way out.”

“I didn’t realize I was such a pitiful creature,” says Osamu. 

“Oh, you are so pitiful,” says Unnan. “Bitchless behavior.” He glances over Osamu’s shoulder, and Osamu looks back to see a customer walking up to the bar. “Don’t get too smashed. Invite me to the wedding once you get your shit together.”

“Thanks, bestie,” says Osamu. Unnan nods and leaves to greet the new customer. 

Osamu tips back half his whiskey sours. A big romantic gesture… He goes over the facts in his head. Suna is pissed the fuck off at him. Suna’s broke, because he’s cut off from his rich family. Suna wants to go to his sister’s birthday party, but he can’t because of his rich family. A birthday party, which is rapidly approaching, held to celebrate a girl who would be totally down to have a drag queen crash her party. 

Or, thinks Osamu, dizzy from the whiskey and the euphoria of his brilliant idea, ten or fifteen drag queens. 

*****

Osamu really can’t hate Sundays anymore, not when he walks out swimming in tip money at the end of the day. The brunches are a hit with the community, and the amount of customers coming into the shop has more than doubled since that first one six weeks ago. 

As usual, Osamu watches the drag van pull up outside, watches the three queens unload their sound equipment onto the patio. Even after seeing it so many times, he’s always impressed that they can do it in heels. Memento and Miss Hooter drag their speaker to the power outlet on the outside wall of the shop and plug it in. Osamu sets the drinks he was carrying onto the customers’ table and inches to the door. The place is packed with impatient customers, but Osamu’s waiting for something too. 

Memento sighs and mutters something to Miss Hooter, then crosses the street back to the van. She reaches through the back doors and yanks on something. Out stumbles a bedraggled, wilting Pandora’s Fox. 

Osamu stares in disbelief. Her orange wig is crooked and the puffed sleeves on her dress are deflated, hanging limply around her arms. As Memento drags her by the wrist to the cafe, she stumbles in her low heels. 

He can’t watch any more. He slinks back into the cafe, ignoring the stink eye Gin gives him, and picks up the next order. This can’t be good.  

The customers glare at him as he delivers their food. He shoots them his fakest smile and says “Sorry for the wait,” resisting the urge to add If you’re so mad about it, come back tomorrow with an application. He darts off before they can admonish him further. 

The show starts at ten-thirty with Memento’s standard greeting booming through the sound system. Miss Hooter cycles through the shop and the patio, waving to the customers and letting some of the braver regulars stuff money into the neckline of her dress. She hovers in front of a blond college-age guy and bends down to peck him on the cheek. 

“Boyfriend,” says Akagi, leaning against the coffee bar. Osamu turns to him with a questioning look. “I went and talked to them last week. You’re not the only one who can pull a hot queen.” 

“Don’t be insensitive,” says Gin. 

Osamu ignores him and focuses back on the drag show. The music starts and Miss Hooter drops into a full split, earning cheers from the customers. She spins and twirls and does things someone that tall and broad should not be able to do in six-inch heels. Her boyfriend gets progressively redder in the face as her song goes on. 

She struts outside as the final notes of her song play, and the audience breaks into thunderous applause. Memento lets out a whoop into the microphone. Osamu’s amazed she didn’t blow out the sound system. 

“One more round of applause for our fabulous Miss Hooter!” she says, and Miss Hooter’s boyfriend screams himself hoarse. “Thank you, thank you.” A slow, chill instrumental begins to play, and Memento clears her throat. “Up next, you know her, you love her, you’d die for her, she’d kill you in a heartbeat–Pandora’s Fox!” 

The customers cheer again, but break off into confused murmurs. 

“Pandora’s Fox!” calls Memento again, and this time the customers shriek in ecstasy. “There she is,” says Memento, a note of exasperation barely present in her voice. 

“She missed her cue,” says Akagi. 

“Yeah,” says Osamu. 

“Love the song, though,” says Gin, a knowing smirk on his face. Akagi and Osamu stare at him. “TLC, No Scrubs. It’s appropriate for her.”

“Great,” says Osamu. “Am I about to be publicly humiliated?”

“Probably,” says Akagi. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Pandora’s Fox sweeps through the cafe door as the first chorus starts. Someone fixed her wig, at least. She weaves between tables and stops in the middle of the shop, shimmying and swaying out of time with the music, like one of those inflatable tube men in front of car dealerships. Her movements are stiff and unenthusiastic, and her face is blank. Her green eyeshadow runs down her face in a way that doesn’t quite look intentional. 

Miss Hooter’s boyfriend furrows his eyebrows. He stands up and creeps against the wall to the counter. “Michinari,” he whispers, “I need more tea if I’m gonna sit through this.”

“On me,” says Akagi, pouring a large cup of black tea at a much faster speed than he uses with any other customer. 

“Thanks,” says Miss Hooter’s boyfriend as he takes the tea. “Tatsuki was worried about this. Apparently she’s been slacking off all week. Won’t tell anyone what’s up.”

Pandora’s Fox twirls and bumps into a chair. 

“How weird,” says Akagi, staring directly at Osamu. 

“It is weird,” says Miss Hooter’s boyfriend. He’s still focused on Pandora’s jerky dancing. “She was so insistent on doing this song, too. You’d think she’d wanna nail the performance.” 

“Konoha, why don’t you come behind the counter?” says Akagi. “VIP seating.”

“Kita and Aran are gonna kick your ass,” says Gin. 

Akagi snorts. “They’re probably fucking on the kitchen floor. Why do you think I’m out here instead of Aran?” He points to the gate to the workstation, and Konoha comes through and settles beside Akagi. 

“So what’s the tea?” says Konoha.

“We have sencha, hojicha, matcha, oolong–” begins Gin, but Akagi holds up a hand to silence him. 

“Osamu, do you have a story to tell our friend Konoha?” says Akagi, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that Osamu does not like. 

Osamu sighs. “I may be stupid.”

“It’s okay, buddy. You’re just face-blind,” says Akagi. “And stupid.”

Osamu repeats his story one more time and is once again met with full-body laughter. At least Konoha has the decency to try and keep quiet. 

“Sorry. It’s not funny,” says Konoha, tears forming in his eyes, “but–”

“But it is kinda funny?” says Akagi?

“It is kinda funny,” says Konoha. He wipes his face and takes a deep breath. “So, how are you gonna get your man back?”

Osamu grins. This time, he actually has an answer. “Well, you see…”

*****

Konoha eventually returns to his seat, but not before giving Osamu’s genius plan a glowing endorsement. The drag show wraps up with a performance from Memento, who kicks and flips and splits twice as hard as usual. Probably to make up for Pandora’s Fox and leave the audience with a positive impression. She shoots an award-winning smile at the customers and returns to her microphone outside to wish everyone a lovely week full of glitter and magic, or whatever it is drag queens eat. 

Five minutes later, Memento storms up to the counter, her round face compressed into a scowl so intense it’s deforming her eyebrows into crescent moons. Osamu backs away slowly. 

“You,” she barks, pointing at him, and he freezes. 

“Yes, ma’am?” he squeaks as he gingerly approaches the register. 

“Look,” she says, dropping her voice to a low growl, “I don’t know what the fuck you said to Rin, but if you don’t fix it in the next seventy-two hours, I’ll peel off your skin and make a dress out of it and wear it at next week’s–”

“Hey, random question,” says Osamu, far too loudly for the enclosed space. “How long does it take you to get into drag?”

“Like an hour and a half,” says Memento. “Two hours if it’s a long wig. What does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m gonna fix it, I promise,” says Osamu. “My plan might take more than seventy-two hours, though.”

Memento’s eyes light up. “A plan? Do give the details, please.”

“Give me your phone number. I’ll text you everything,” says Osamu, pulling his phone out of his pocket and sliding it across the counter. “I’m gonna need your help. And Miss Hooter’s help, if she’s down.” 

“Please, honey. Tatsuki will do anything for love,” says Memento. She picks up Osamu’s phone and creates a contact for herself.

“Great. Spectacular. Amazing. Tell her I love her.” Osamu walks through the gate to the seating area. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go grovel at someone’s feet.”

“Good luck, bestie,” says Memento, handing over Osamu’s phone. Osamu nods and sprints out the back door. 

He looks around the patio frantically. Customers are staring at him, and he realizes he should’ve clocked out for his ten-minute break, but whatever. Aran and Kita will understand. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a flicker of orange. 

He whips his head around, and there’s Rin, barefoot and holding his heels in one hand, walking on tiptoes across the sidewalk to the drag van. “Hey!” he shouts, and Rin turns his head. 

“What do you want?” says Rin, rocking back and forth on his toes. 

“I just wanna talk,” says Osamu. The sidewalk’s gotta be burning hot. He resists the urge to offer to pick Rin up and carry him to the van.

“Well, I don’t wanna talk to you,” says Rin. He turns around and starts walking again. 

“Please? Just give me five minutes to change your mind?” tries Osamu. 

Rin frowns. “One minute.”

“Three.”

“Fine.” Rin stops and leans against the drag van. “Shower me in excuses or whatever.”

Osamu takes a step back, then kneels at Rin’s feet. Rin’s eyes go wide, but the rest of his face remains impassive. “I’m stupid and faceblind and I didn’t know a bad bitch when I saw one,” says Osamu, face pressed to the ground in a deep bow. “I thought Rin the drag queen and Suna Rintarou from school were two different people, and Suna Rintarou from school had rumors going around about him that I mistakenly believed.”

“Did you practice this at home?” says Rin, suppressing a chuckle.

“Shut up. Maybe,” says Osamu. He’d spent the better part of last night rehearsing in front of his bathroom mirror, only stopping when Yuuto yelled at him to turn off the light. He clears his throat and looks up at Rin. “However, I am prepared to love both Rin the drag queen and Suna Rintarou from school, plus any other secret identities you might have. If you’ll let me.”

“I don’t have secret identities,” says Rin. “Stand up.” Osamu shoots to his feet. Shit, he’s down bad. “Love that you think I know myself well enough to have an alter ego. Every part of me I present to the world is me, fully.” He smirks. “I didn’t spend fuckin’ years trying to find myself just to split myself into pieces.”

“Why don’t you wear makeup at school, then?” says Osamu. 

“Bitch, I’m in college. I don’t wake up early enough for that,” says Rin. “And if you’re wondering where I get my threads, I rely heavily on the kindness of others. That’s all.”

“That would be my next question,” says Osamu. 

“Good. We’re on the same page,” says Rin. “Has it been three minutes?” He pulls out his phone. “Oh, whatever. You’re fine. The kneeling at my feet was a nice touch.” He frowns. “I don’t know if I’m convinced, though. You could just be a really good actor.”

“Your sister’s birthday party, where’s it being held?” asks Osamu. 

“My parents’ Osaka summer home,” says Rin. “Why?”

“I wanna come with you,” says Osamu. 

“What? I’m not even going,” says Rin. “I’m not allowed to come–”

“--unless you come in a dress and heels, I remember,” says Osamu. “And I remember you’re scared to go in drag, because your parents might be stupid about having a drag queen at the party. But.”

“But?” says Rin. 

“But, what if there was more than one drag queen?” says Osamu. 

“I did consider bringing Memento as a plus one,” says Rin. “But–”

“But what if there were ten drag queens?”

“You don’t even have ten friends,” says Rin. 

“Come on. You and me together can easily put together ten friends. Maybe more than that,” says Osamu. 

“Who said anything about my friends?” says Rin. He drops his shoes on the sidewalk and slides his feet into them. 

“Me. I did,” says Osamu. “We are gonna show up with so many drag queens, your parents won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Well, I don’t–” Rin stammers. “Well. Okay. Yeah.” He smiles. “Yeah. If you’re serious.”

“Why would I not be serious?” says Osamu. 

“I dunno, you could just be concocting some elaborate scheme to embarrass me–”

“I would literally rather die than hurt you,” says Osamu. “Also, Memento would peel off my skin and make a dress out of it.”

“That’s true,” says Rin, chuckling. “And she’d look so fuckin’ good in it, too.”

“Yeah,” says Osamu. “Can you unblock my phone number now?”

“Shit, forgot I did that. No wonder I haven’t gotten any texts from you,” says Rin, pulling out his phone. “Okay, done. You may now text me.”

“Thanks,” says Osamu. “I’ll try and get a head count by tonight and text you.”

“Oh, you’re actually gonna go through with it.” Rin nods. “Yeah. I’ll see who I can talk into coming along. Memento has this cousin who would look so hot with eyeliner and lipstick…” He stares dreamily off into space. 

“I should go back to work before I get fired,” says Osamu. “Sorry.”

“Fuck, right. I forgot you had a boring food service job. Godspeed, baby,” says Rin. 

“Love you, too,” says Osamu. Rin smiles and pushes him back to the door.

When he comes back inside, Gin and Akagi stare at him like he’s just pissed in the espresso machine, but it’s worth it for love.

*****

“I don’t understand how you move so fluidly in this clothing,” says Kita, adjusting his bra strap. 

“It takes practice,” says Rin. “Let me fix your boobs.”

As Rin gets up and walks across the strip club dressing room to help Kita realign his tiddies, Komori plops down in the makeup chair beside Osamu. “Hey, king,” he says, dropping a bag on the counter and reaching inside. “My cousin’s running late.” He rolls his eyes. “How unprofessional. Want me to do your lashes?”

“I got it,” says Osamu. If he can tune out Akagi and Ginjima bicker-flirting two chairs over, he can do it. He just needs to focus. He picks up the falsie and brings it up to his eye.

“Be civil, you two,” says Aran, pulling up a chair in between Akagi and Gin. 

Akagi points to Gin with what Osamu deems to be excessive force. “He just said my wig looks like a dead spider!”

Osamu promptly stabs himself in the cornea with the edge of his false lashes. 

“Are you sure you got it?” says Komori.

Osamu sighs. “Fine.”

Komori picks up the eyelash and applies a thin film of lash glue to the edge. “Close your eyes.”

As Komori gently applies the falsies to Osamu’s eyelids, something crashes behind them. Osamu elects to ignore it. Probably Yuuto knocking over another dress form. He hears a groan from Yuuto and considers his hypothesis proven. 

“Okay, done,” says Komori. 

Osamu opens his eyes and checks himself out in the mirror. “Cute,” he says, batting his eyes. 

“Damn right, you’re cute,” says Komori. He pulls a tube of lipstick out of his bag and applies some to his lips in one smooth motion. He smacks his lips together. “Need any more makeup help?”

“I’m good for real,” says Osamu. He uncaps his own lipstick. “Might take me a bit, though.”

The door to the dressing room opens, and Komori snaps his head up. “Kiyoomi–” he starts, but cuts himself off. “Nevermind.”

Osamu glances at the newcomer. “Mornin’, Heisuke,” he says. “Glad you could make it.”

“Sorry I’m late,” says Riseki. “I was studying last night, and I stayed up way too late, but Kosaku’s notes were just so detailed and in-depth I felt like I was transcending knowledge itself–”

Konoha puts an arm around him. “Calm your tits and come pick a dress.” He nods to Washio, who’s reassembling the broken dress form beside a sheepish Yuuto. “Miss Hooter’ll help you.”

“I just want to thank you so much for inviting me here, I feel so honored that you would consider me for something so important. Wow! A grand romantic gesture, I’ve never been part of that before–” Konoha ushers Riseki over to the clothing racks before he can talk himself to death.

“Cute,” says Komori. “What do you think his drag name will be?”

“Fussy Bottoms,” says Osamu. 

“Eh,” says Komori. “Meaning-wise, it’s great, but he needs something that sounds cute and youthful.” He dabs blush onto his contoured cheeks. “Cherry Fizz? Something like that.”

“How’d you come up with Memento?” asks Osamu. 

“It’s a pun,” says Komori. “In English. Or Latin. Memento mori.”

“That’s clever,” says Osamu. “I don’t think I–”

Car tires squeal outside, and Komori stands up. “Damn it, that’s him,” he says, setting his makeup down on the table. He slides out of his chair and heads for the door. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

Rin laughs from across the room. “Wouldn’t dream of it, babygirl.”

“I trust you least of all,” calls Komori as he slips out.

Rin smiles. “Kita, your boobs look great.” 

“Thanks?” says Kita. 

“I mean it. They suit you.” Rin smooths out the front of Kita’s dress. Osamu can’t help but wonder how he’s so immune to the Kita Effect.

“Ah.” Kita turns to look at himself in the mirror. He spins, and his skirt flares out. “I enjoy this.”

“Good,” says Rin. He walks languidly over to Komori’s empty chair and sits down next to Osamu. “You look good, too.”

“Thanks to Komori,” says Osamu. “These eyelashes are a nightmare.”

Rin chuckles. “Thanks for getting this together.”

“We were lucky. Everyone was totally on board with it,” says Osamu, leaning forward to inspect his makeup in the mirror. “It all just kinda fell into place.”

“Come on, give yourself more credit than that,” says Rin. He reaches out and tucks a strand of Osamu’s wig behind his ear. “I’ve never had anyone plan a grand romantic gesture for me before.”

Osamu whips his head around. His wig jostles precariously on his head. “Seriously? Nobody?”

“Yeah,” says Rin, laughing sheepishly.

“Fuckin’ travesty,” says Osamu. “Their loss. You deserve a million grand romantic gestures every day for the rest of your life.”

“That might get a little expensive,” says Rin with a smirk. “I’d rather you just cook me food and tell me you love me.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you and I’ll make you salmon onigiri for lunch tomorrow,” says Osamu. 

“Not right now!” says Rin. A hint of blush peeks out from behind his foundation. “People might hear. That’s cheesy.”

“I’m cheesy,” says Osamu. He grins. “Why do you think I did this for you?”

“I thought it was just to redeem yourself,” says Rin. 

Osamu lets his smile fade. “That too,” he says. “I still feel like an idiot for that.”

“You should,” says Rin. He looks away from Osamu. “I didn’t know you hated me. I didn’t even know you.”

“I’m…sorry,” says Osamu. Rin straightens up like he’s about to say something, but Osamu continues. “I was…bitter, I guess. I was working all those hours at that stupid coffee shop and it wasn’t enough to pay for school.” He laughs darkly. “And I saw you walking around campus in your designer-branded clothes, and I Googled your name and your family business came up, and I thought ‘Damn, that guy never had to worry about anything like that.’ Like, I got this idea about you that you were just cruising off of Daddy’s money.” He turns to Rin. “But you’re right. I didn’t know you.”

“I get why you thought that,” says Rin with a humorless smile. “My name follows me everywhere unless I change it.”

“Pandora’s Fox,” says Osamu, eyes widening.

Rin nods. “Pandora’s Fox. She’s not just a job to me. She’s my way out.”

Osamu opens his mouth to make a bold declaration of love, but the door to the dressing room flies open and Komori saunters in. “Party’s here!”

Standing in the doorway are two guys, dressed to the nines, with dark hair and chiseled cheekbones. The taller of the two exchanges a nod with Rin. “We are pleased to be here,” says the taller one. 

“Speak for yourself,” says the other guy, his curly hair bouncing as he shakes his head. 

Komori elbows him in the side. “Kiyoomi, don’t be a dick.”

Rin turns back to Osamu. “Friends from school,” he says. “That’s Sakusa Kiyoomi and Oomimi Ren. See, that’s what real rich guys look like.”

“Yep, I see that,” says Osamu. 

Rin stands up and walks over to them. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “How much did Motoya pay you?”

“Not enough,” says Sakusa.

“I could never accept money from him,” says Oomimi. 

“I don’t understand how you two are even friends,” says Komori. He grabs Sakusa by the wrist and begins to drag him to the dress forms. “Anyway, time to get sparkly!”

Rin comes back to the makeup counter. “Okay, they’re all here.”

“How many queens is that?” says Osamu. 

“You tell me. You’re taking business math.”

Osamu sighs and quickly gets a head count on the queens. Fourteen. Not bad, he thinks, glancing over at Rin. Not bad for a grand gesture.

*****

After everyone is bedazzled with sequined clothes and painted with glittery makeup, they split off into groups to drive to the party. Ginjima and Washio also have cars, so they each take a gang of people, and Osamu figured from the start he’d offer his truck to the cause.

Osamu assembles a small squadron of drag queens in his truck and hits the road. After much begging, he gives Rin the aux cord. Kita and Aran hold hands in the back seat. Yuuto, squished in that same back seat with them, is not too happy about that, but bless his heart, he doesn’t complain. 

The engine sputters to life, and with the guidance of the GPS on Rin’s phone, they’re off.

They encounter a problem about three miles into their journey. 

As Osamu stops at a red light, the engine squeals like a metal chair leg on a linoleum floor. 

“Shit, what was that?” asks Yuuto.

“It’s fine. Just the truck.” Osamu checks the dashboard. His oil change light has been on for months, but nothing else is lit up. His gas tank is full, for fuck’s sake. 

The light changes to green and the engine groans as Osamu spurs the car forward. 

“That’s a new sound,” says Yuuto. 

“It’s probably fine. The weird clicking noise only started happening a few months ago, and so far nothing’s happened,” says Osamu as he accelerates down the road. 

“You oughta get that checked out,” says Kita.

“You think I have the money?” The groaning noise gets louder. Osamu scowls. “Come on, buddy.”

“Yeah, buddy,” murmurs Rin. “Take us to the party.”

“Yeah,” says Osamu. The engine starts to click and sputter. Rin’s GPS orders Osamu to turn on to a side street, and as he does, the engine squeals again. The wheels skid against the road. The truck slows to a crawl.

“I ain’t a mechanic, but I know that ain’t good,” says Kita.

“I said, it’ll be fine.” Osamu pushes down on the gas. “Go, you stupid piece of shit.”

“Be nice to the truck,” says Aran. 

Osamu grunts and floors the accelerator again, with minimal results. He squints at the road in front of him. Either it’s a foggy day out, or there’s steam coming out from under the hood. “Shit,” says Osamu. 

He jerks the wheel to the right and wills the car to the side of the road, not even bothering to use his turn signal. The wheels scrape against the curb as he slams on the brakes. The truck takes a worryingly long time to stop. 

Osamu slams the breaks again. The truck plows through a row of trash cans before finally stopping just shy of a fire hydrant. It lurches and shudders, releasing a puff of steam from the sides of the hood. 

“Dude,” says Yuuto.

“Don’t ‘dude’ me. I figured this thing had at least another six months in it,” says Osamu, unlocking the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

Rin follows him out. “Can you fix it?”

“Dunno,” says Osamu. “Maybe.” He reaches back into the front of the car and fumbles around for the hood’s release latch. He grabs it and tugs. “Go try and open the hood.”

“Sure thing.” Rin walks to the front of the car and lifts up the hood. The midday sun lights up his biceps. Osamu forgets what he was supposed to be doing until Rin clears his throat. “Hey. Earth to ‘Samu.”

“Sorry.” Osamu looks under the hood. It looks like an engine, all right. The underside of the hood is speckled with water damage. Rust has eaten away at the inside walls. He unscrews the cap to the antifreeze reservoir and peers inside. 

“What am I looking at?” asks Yuuto from behind him, and Osamu nearly elbows him in the ribs.

“Jeez, don’t do that,” he says. “I dunno what’s wrong with it. The water level’s fine. I don’t need to change the oil or nothing.” He tugs at one of the spark plugs. “I might need to change these, but I don’t fuckin’ know how.”

“So we’re fucked?” says Rin, his jaw tight. Osamu wants to cup his face in his hands, but he’d rub Rin’s foundation off. 

“Kinda,” says Osamu. Kita and Aran step out of the backseat, observing the scene but offering no commentary. How helpful, he thinks. He figured Kita would at least know how to fix a car.

“Great. We’re fucked.” Rin’s chin quivers. “This is totally amazing. Wonderful. Exactly how I wanted to spend my afternoon.”

“Should we just, like, call an Uber?” says Yuuto.

“We can’t all fit into one Uber,” says Rin. “This is a fucking disaster. I can’t pay for two Ubers.” He leans against the truck door and buries his head in his hands. 

Osamu reaches out to pull Rin’s hands from his face. “Honey, your makeup–” 

Rin bats him away. “I don’t care.”

“Did you just call him ‘honey?’” asks Yuuto.

“Shut up,” says Osamu. He closes the hood and pulls out his phone. “Do you happen to know where we are?”

“Konohana Ward,” says Yuuto. “I think. Somewhere around there.”

“Okay, cool,” says Osamu. He looks over at the nearest street sign. The main street they’d just turned off of is called Chuo Road. Chuo Road… where’s he heard that before?

“Yeah, my new place is sick as fuck. Just go straight down Chuo Road and turn left.”

“Guys,” says Osamu, turning to look at everyone, “Atsumu lives near here.”

“Your estranged brother. Great,” says Rin.

“He’s not estranged,” says Osamu. “It’s not like he actively wants to kill me.”

“Knowing Atsumu, he might actually be planning your murder,” says Kita. 

“Don’t say that. You’ll manifest it,” says Osamu. He looks at his phone screen. Calling Atsumu might be a terrible idea. Atsumu might yell at him and hang up, and the situation would get even worse. On the other hand, Atsumu has a car. 

Osamu opens Atsumu’s contact and hits the call button. 

The others stare at him as he holds the phone to his ear. It rings once, twice, three times. At the sixth ring, Osamu begins to think he’s made a mistake. At the seventh ring, Rin slumps back against the car and rubs at his eyes. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, ‘Tsumu,” says Osamu, and Rin’s head snaps up. “How’s it going?”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘how’s it going?’” snaps Atsumu. “You miss my game and ghost me for months, and you wanna ask how it’s going? You better be on your knees, groveling at my fuckin’ feet over there.”

“I’ve prostrated myself against the hot sidewalk as we speak,” says Osamu, leaning against the side of the truck next to Rin. “I’m begging for your forgiveness.”

“Seriously,” says Atsumu. “You’re such a fuckin’ piece of shit. I get you hate volleyball now, but you could at least bother to show up to my games. You know, ‘cause I’m your brother and all.”

“I don’t hate volleyball, and I don’t hate you,” says Osamu. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Okay, then why didn’t you come?” says Atsumu, his voice cracking. 

“I…had a midterm presentation,” says Osamu. Saying it out loud makes it sound so insignificant. “I scheduled them the same day as the game because I forgot when the game was.”

“That’s it?” says Atsumu. “That was it the whole time? You literally could have just texted me.”

“I’m a fuckin’ piece of shit,” says Osamu.

“Damn right, you are,” says Atsumu. “So, why now? Is Kosaku holding you at gunpoint until you get your shit together? Tell him thanks.”

“I can’t just call you out of my own free will?” says Osamu. Rin snorts.

“Fuck no. You have an ulterior motive,” says Atsumu. 

“You may be correct,” says Osamu. 

“I’m always right about everything,” says Atsumu. “You need money?”

“Do you wanna go to a party?” asks Osamu, glancing at Rin, who nods back at him. Quickly, Osamu puts his phone on speaker mode.

Atsumu pauses. “What kind of party?”

“A party with a four-course menu,” says Rin, leaning over to talk into the phone. “And a–”

“Sick. I’m in,” says Atsumu. “What’s the dress code like? Business-casual? Formalwear?”

Osamu and Rin exchange a look. “He can borrow one of the spare dresses,” says Rin. 

“Hold up,” says Atsumu. 

“It’s a cute dress,” says Rin. “It’s red, with a boob window.”

“You’d look good in it,” adds Osamu. 

Another pause on the other end of the line. “Fine,” says Atsumu. “But only for the four-course menu.”

“Bring your car,” says Osamu. “I’ll send you our location.”

“Oh, so that’s your ulterior motive,” says Atsumu. “Your junk pile finally kick the bucket?”

“Yep,” says Osamu. 

“Knew it. You really oughta change the oil in that thing every once in a while,” says Atsumu. “See you in fifteen or so. Love you.”

Osamu ignores the matching smirks forming on Rin’s and Yuuto’s faces. “Love you too,” he mumbles, and hangs up. 

“Crisis averted?” says Kita.

“Crisis happened, but crisis solved,” says Osamu. He fires off a quick text to Atsumu with his GPS location. Thx bestie, come get me fast. And wash your face.

Atsumu does, in fact, come fast. He pulls up to the curb in his obnoxiously red sports car, rolls down the window, and shouts, “Hey, ladies. I’m looking for a guy. ‘Bout six feet tall, looks like me but uglier–”

“Hey, dumbass,” says Osamu, leaning against the window frame. 

Atsumu’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit, ‘Samu. Nice boobs.”

“Thanks. Rin picked ‘em out,” says Osamu, pointing to Rin. Rin waves. “We’ve got a dress for you in the trunk if you wanna be pretty too.”

“Damn straight I wanna be pretty,” says Atsumu. “Now get in the car. I thought I heard something ‘bout a party?”

*****

As they pull into the parking lot of Suna’s family’s summer home, they’re greeted by the rest of the drag queens.

“Nice car,” says Riseki. His wig is crooked. Rin reaches over and straightens it out. 

“Thanks,” says Atsumu. He struggles to stand up in his tight pencil skirt. 

“Dude, you need to get more graceful,” says Komori, walking over and giving him a hand. Atsumu straightens up and immediately wobbles on his heels. 

“Everyone here?” says Osamu. A chorus of nods and “yes’s” fill the parking lot. He does a quick head count. Fourteen drag queens. “Well, then.” He motions for Rin to lead. “Let’s go crash this party.”

Rin smiles. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They approach the front door, a procession of glitter and magic and whatever it is that drag queens eat. Their heels click-clack against the marble steps leading up to the house. When they reach the door, they fan out on the porch like a muster of peacocks. Rin grabs the doorknob and takes a deep breath. 

“Ready?” says Osamu. 

Rin turns to face him. “Am I ready?” He laughs. “Course I am. I just…got an eyelash in my eye, that’s all.”

“Take your time,” says Osamu. 

“Speak for yourself. This wig is itchy as shit,” grumbles Yuuto from the back of the group. 

“Oh, fuck you,” says Rin, opening the door. 

Instantly, all eyes are on them as they pile into the living room. It’s festooned from floor to ceiling with white and silver streamers and balloons, but if Osamu’s being honest, it doesn’t need the decorations. That gold leaf wallpaper speaks for itself. 

A few high school-aged kids sit on the crushed velvet couches, conversations dead on their lips as they take in the drag queens. Across the room, more kids surround what looks like a well-stocked buffet table, their food forgotten. In the middle of the group, holding a paper plate piled high with hors d'oeuvres, is a tall, dark-haired girl with the same pointed chin and thin lips that Osamu has grown so used to fawning over. Must be Akari, he thinks. 

For a tense second, nobody speaks. The queens watch the kids carefully, waiting for a reaction, while the kids stare at the drag queens. Then–

“ Rin?” shouts Rin’s sister, her hors d'oeuvres tower leaning dangerously to the side as she sprints forward to greet him. 

“Happy birthday, Akari,” says Rin. Kita surreptitiously takes the hors d'oeuvres plate out of Akari’s hands and sets it on the coffee table. A puff pastry slides off the edge. He sets it back on top of the stack. 

“You look–” begins Akari. 

“Great? Stunning? Sexy as shit?” says Rin. 

“All of the above!” she says. “Although. Maybe not sexy. I don’t think I wanna go there. But holy shit, you came.”

“I came,” says Rin. “Where’s the parents?”

“Upstairs,” says Akari. “But they probably heard the door alarm. They should be down here–”

Footsteps thunder from the second floor, shaking the chandelier. 

“Right about now?” supplies Rin.

“Right about now,” says Akari. “Everyone scatter. Act natural.”

The gaggle of drag queens glance at each other and disperse. Gin and Akagi slide onto one of the couches and smirk threateningly at one of the kids. Washio and Konoha slink off to the corner of the room and join a conversation. Osamu beelines for the buffet table, and he doesn’t need to look back to know that Rin is close behind. 

“So how’s this fancy-ass food work?” asks Atsumu, and Osamu realizes he should’ve looked back. 

“When the parents aren’t here, just fuckin’ help yourself to whatever,” says Rin, grabbing a chocolate-covered strawberry and biting into it. His lipstick stays perfectly in place. “When they are, don’t bother with the food. They’ll find something about your manners to be appalled at. No matter what you do.”

“Good to know,” says Atsumu. He picks up an onigiri. “What’s inside these?”

“Probably umeboshi,” says Rin. 

Atsumu bites into one, then freezes. He opens his mouth, revealing a piece of gold leaf stuck to his front teeth.

“Oh, gross,” says Rin. “Never mind.” 

“Now I’m suddenly reminded of why I hated you in the first place,” mutters Osamu. 

“ What, pray tell, is going on here?” 

Rin slowly looks to the top of the stairs. Standing there is a middle-aged couple, tall and dark-haired like their kids. Rin’s parents. “Afternoon, Father,” calls Rin, immediately throwing on a layer of false bravado. 

Rin’s parents are too stunned to speak. Their eyes trace the fourteen drag queens around the room. “These… people …” forces out Rin’s mother, “were not invited.”

“I invited them,” says Akari. “It’s my birthday, and I’m an adult. I can do whatever I want.”

“Akari, be quiet,” says Rin’s father. “This does not concern you.”

Akari moves to stand at the base of the stairs. “Actually, it does concern me. It’s my party. And I thought I talked about this with you yesterday.”

Rin’s mother scowls. “You have to realize this is an extenuating circumstance–”

“Nanami,” calls Akari over her shoulder, “you’re getting all this, right?”

“Sure am,” says the girl between Gin and Akagi, her cell phone raised high into the air. 

“Oh, you can’t be serious,” says Rin’s father. “Get these degenerates out of here.”

“Degenerates,” repeats Akari. “Nice word.”

“Akari, this is the final warning,” says Rin’s father.

Rin snorts and walks to Akari’s side. “I don’t see the problem,” he says. “You asked me to wear a dress and heels.”

“Obviously we didn’t mean–” says Rin’s mother.

“--for me to actually show up?” says Rin. “Tough luck.”

“I’ve had just enough of your smartassery. Get out of my party!” shouts Rin’s father. 

Akari storms up the stairs, coming eye-level with her parents. She’s taller than them both, Osamu realizes. “Your party?” she growls, barely audible to the guests downstairs. “This is my party.”

“I paid for it,” says Rin’s father. 

“Please. It was pennies to you. You spend more on stationery,” says Akari. “Anyway, you said I could invite whoever I wanted to my party.”

“Within reason,” says Rin’s mother, her lip curling. 

“No, you said whoever I wanted. No stupid little vague condition at the end that gave you all the control,” says Akari. “Anyway, we’re all adults here. So why don’t you go back upstairs and mind your own business instead of ruining my party?” She tilts her head to the side. “Unless you want the tabloids to hear all about the poor little girl whose mean parents ruined her birthday party. People eat that shit up, you know.”

Rin’s father huffs. “Akari–” He crosses his arms. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Sure, we will,” says Akari. “Go on, now. Get out of my party.”

Rin’s parents exchange a pointed look and trudge back up the stairs. “This isn’t over,” barks Rin’s father over his shoulder as he disappears into a hallway. 

Akari turns around and bounces down the stairs, darting in between Osamu and Rin and grabbing a mini croissant off the buffet table. “Are you, like…good?” asks Osamu. 

“Nope,” says Akari. She takes a bite out of her croissant. “But it’s fine. After the party’s over, I’m transferring all my savings and getting on a train to Shizuoka. There’ll be a scandal, the tabloids will be all over it for a couple weeks, then everyone will forget and it’ll be business as usual.” 

“Shizuoka?” asks Rin, a mini croissant of his own halfway to his lips. “Thought you wanted to go to Kyoto and become a stand-up comedian.”

“That was last week,” says Akari simply. “If you want, I can get into your old college fund.” She curls her lip. “Although, all the money’s probably been put back into Dad’s main bank account.”

“It’s fine,” says Rin. “You’d get in trouble for it anyway.”

“If you say so,” says Akari. She takes another croissant. Then a third, for good measure. After unhinging her jaw and stuffing them both in her mouth in a grand display of gluttony that Osamu has to admit is pretty impressive, she pulls over a chair and stands on it. “Hey, bitches,” she shouts. Half the heads in the room turn to look at her. “Are we gonna party or what?”

Akari’s friends stand up and cheer. Rin smiles fondly. “Hell yeah, let’s party,” he says. 

Nanami puts her phone in her pocket and darts off to the corner of the room, where a speaker and a microphone is set up. “Karaoke?” she offers.

Immediately, Komori darts to the microphone. “I would kill to do karaoke right now,” he says. 

“Good?” says Nanami. 

“How’s your sound system work? I can set it up, I’ll make it super bass-boosted and sexy-sounding–” Komori crouches down next to the speaker. Nanami hovers over him. 

Rin chuckles. “Of course. Toya is the karaoke king. Or queen, I suppose.” Suddenly, he lets out a snort and points to the ceiling. “Osamu, look.”

Osamu looks up. Hanging from the ceiling is a disco ball. “Dude,” he says.

“Akari,” calls Rin. “Do you know how to work the disco ball?”

Akari groans. “That thing was totally not my idea.”

“Please?” says Rin. 

“Fine.” Akari trudges over to the corner where Komori and Nanami are untangling a mass of wires. She says something to Nanami, who nods and straightens up. 

“Your sister’s really cool,” says Osamu, helping himself to a custard tart off the buffet table. 

“Tell me about it,” says Rin. “She’s been planning her grand escape for years.” 

“And now she gets to go out with a bang.” Osamu bites into the custard tart. Some of his lipstick comes off. “This food’s so good.”

“Right?” chimes in Atsumu, his mouth full of gold leaf onigiri. 

“You’re still eating that shit?” says Rin. 

“It’s good. A little metallic,” says Atsumu. 

Rin rolls his eyes. “You’re gross.”

“And you love it, babe,” says Atsumu. He shoves another onigiri into his mouth. 

“Back the fuck up,” grumbles Osamu. 

The lights dim. Beside Osamu, Rin bounces on his toes. “She’s setting it up.”

Osamu squints at him. His lip gloss glimmers in the low light. His long purple wig frames his tiny waist, silhouetted by a pale pink mermaid dress. Suddenly, Osamu’s self-conscious of the crumbs on his own sequined tank top and his smeared green lipstick.

“What’re you thinking?” asks Rin, smiling softly at Osamu.

“That I could never be as beautiful as you,” murmurs Osamu. 

“Not true,” says Rin. “Not true in the slightest. You’re a hot girl and a hotter boy.”

“Same to you?” says Osamu, chuckling. Rin grins back. 

The room suddenly goes bright. Descending from the ceiling, rotating slowly, spilling freckles of golden light across the walls, is the disco ball. Akari stands by the speakers, wearing a pair of sunglasses and a sharklike grin. “Let’s get fuckin’ lit!” she shouts, tapping on her phone screen. 

A Backstreet Boys song starts to play. Osamu knows it’s a Backstreet Boys song because Ginjima immediately snaps to attention. Akari’s friends stand up and move to the center of the room, swaying to the beat. Gin pulls Akagi out with them, chattering excitedly into Akagi’s ear. Akagi flashes Osamu a satisfied smile, then pulls Gin into a dip on the dance floor. 

The rest of the queens follow. Kita and Aran start a slow waltz in the corner, away from Konoha’s frantic, gyrating breakdance routine. Washio watches Konoha with stars in his eyes. “I love young love,” says Rin, smirking as Washio ducks to avoid Konoha’s outstretched foot.

“Dance?” says Osamu.

“Of course,” says Rin.

Osamu takes Rin’s hand, trying his damn best to suppress the tingles that spread up his arm, and leads him into the middle of the dance floor. Rin puts his hand on Osamu’s hip, and Osamu almost combusts on the spot. They fall in step with the song, circling around each other to Nick Carter’s soulful crooning, and Rin shuts his eyes. The disco ball lights Rin up the way he deserves to be lit–bright lights flickering across his shimmering eyeshadow and catching on the metallic sheen of his silver jewelry. Osamu has to disagree with what Rin said before. There’s no one more beautiful than him. 

He glances down at Rin’s lips, and Rin smirks. “Oh?” he says as Osamu spins him around. “Is there something you would like to do, ‘Samu?” 

“There’s a lot of things I’d like to do, believe me,” says Osamu, smiling. 

Rin locks eyes with him. “Then do them. Don’t be scared, I won’t bite.”

“Unless I’m into that?” says Osamu. 

“Unless you’re into that.” Rin steps back and pulls Osamu into a dip. Osamu’s high heels skid across the floor, and he sticks out a leg to right himself. 

He takes one glance at Rin’s triumphant grin, and furrows his brow. “Evil.”

Rin pokes Osamu between the eyebrows. “Yeah.”

Osamu sighs. “You’re so impossible.”

“I am?” says Rin. He pulls Osamu closer to him, maneuvering Osamu’s hands onto his shoulders. “But I believe you’re withholding something from me. What is it?”

“For fuck’s sake,” grumbles Osamu. 

He extracts his hands from Rin’s grasp and cups Rin’s jaw. His jawline is razor-sharp. Rin chuckles. “Yeah?”

Osamu pulls him forward into a kiss. 

Somewhere in the crowd, Atsumu whoops, but Osamu will deal with him later. Rin smiles against Osamu. His mouth tastes like lip gloss and the croissant he ate earlier. Osamu knows he’s not much better, and he finds that thought comforting. He presses closer to Rin, his hands brushing the edge of Rin’s wig. 

The disco ball spins directly over their heads. Around them, drag queens shimmy and shake, and teenagers shout the lyrics to I Want It That Way. Yeah, thinks Osamu as he pulls away to gaze at Rin’s face. This might be all right.