"Oh my God, he looks like a Muppet."

"He does not." In fact, Eddie hadn't the faintest what he looked like. She'd never looked it up.

"Kermit de frog here." Chess pinched their fingers on their phone screen and zoomed in on the Safari image they were looking at. It annoyed Eddie more that the impression was damn near spot-on.

"Never say that in bed ever again, Chess, Jesus." Eddie tied the silk robe at her waist, padding across the hardwood floor toward the dresser where she hid her worst enemy: the box of cigarettes she told herself not to buy. Old habits died hard.

"I should've changed my name to Chess Jesus, that would've been wicked."

Eddie turned, put a hand on her hip after lighting a cigarette. A dirty fucking habit she had, saved purely for after sex. Blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth and coughed only once. "You chose the name Chess Chastity and you want me to believe you're still searching for a more unique name than that?"

"We can't all be Akuma," Chess said. Miming a couple punches.

"I didn't choose that," Eddie said, electing to ignore that Chess shouldn't have been tucking their thumb when they punched, even as a joke, "Coach did. With a little help from Rush. And he's sleep deprived and an idiot anyway, so who fuckin' cares what he discovers in the wee hours of the morning when he finally took a break from listening to Speak Now (Taylor's Version) on repeat?"

"Wee hours?" Chess asked. Running a hand through their short bangs. "God, you sound like my mum."

"And you sound like Oedipus," Eddie said. "Talking about your mom after sex? Should send you off to Freud."

Chess rolled over to face Eddie, leaning their head on their fist. A right nonbinary Kate Winslet if anyone had asked Eddie. "I think Freud would spontaneously combust if he ever met me. There's so much to work with."

"He'd have a field day studying you."

"I thought you quit smoking."

"I thought you quit asking."

"Nobody else diagnoses an Oedipus complex after sex, you know."

"No one else makes Kermit the Frog voices, either."

"Yeah, but I'm me."

"Oh, well—" Eddie blew another smoke cloud from her lips. "—in that case."

"Nobody else quite like me."

"Does he really look like a Muppet?"

Chess raised a bleached eyebrow. "Thought you didn't want to look."

"I don't want to look," Eddie said, "I just asked you a question."

Chess opened their phone again. Scrolled for a moment. Chuckled. "A little. But... but in like a sexy... Miss Piggy kind of way, not, like, a Gonzo way."

"Sexy Miss Piggy?"

"Funny how you're judging me," Chess said, "after sleeping with me. Multiple times."

"We've been sleeping together since we were eighteen," Eddie said. "This isn't news."

"Aww," Chess said. "Twelve whole years you've lowered your standards."

"I didn't think I'd lowered my standards," Eddie said. "Then you went and talked about fucking Muppets."

"I don't want to fuck a Muppet—"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"You're the one who asked about him."

"I was curious if you knew of him."

Ah, yes. The all-encompassing curiosity. The one that begged anyone to know who the hell Axel Canterbury was because Eddie had seen her interview; and the picture he took of her made her feel the most confident she had in a while. Compared to all the other ones covering her jailtime, this was the only one that picked a photo of her smiling. And there weren't many of those.

"Also, it's a good album."

"What is?" Eddie threw a hand up, cigarette balanced between two fingers.

"Speak Now (Taylor's Version). If you don't like Enchanted, we can't talk anymore."

"I don't like it when it's all Rush plays at the gym and when he sings along."

"I'd love to hear that man go hard on Better Than Revenge." Chess looked like they were picturing it; Eddie had unfortunately experienced it many times. Too many.

"His worst offender from that album is Haunted."

Chess laughed and clapped their hands together. "Amazing."

"Heinous when you've heard it a thousand times."

Deciding they were done with Eddie's negativity—who fuckin' wasn't—Chess turned their attention back to their phone. The screen lit up their long eyelashes and they smiled. "Oh, Eds, you're gonna kill him."

Eddie sighed in the middle of tying her hair up in a bun. She bit down on the end of the cigarette to keep it from singeing the rug if it had fallen from her lips. "Why?"

Chess unburied themselves from the tangled sheets. Walked over, rubbed a thumb along Eddie's jawline. Smirked as they pulled the cigarette from her lips and pressed it into the ashtray on her dresser. "You should really quit smoking."

Eddie crossed her arms. "You should really mind your business."

"Your boy's from Bawstin," Chess said. For someone who had never shaken their English accent, their imitation of a Massachusetts one was pretty dead on. Probably came from being a damn dungeon master. Role the D20 to see which accent or impression Chess Chastity can do—odds were, they'd find a way to perfect it. "Poor boy doesn't know your adorable little San Fran ass is after him. He won't know what hit him. Literally."

"I'm not going to hit him."

"You might when he tries to pronounce pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd."

"I'll punch you if you keep it up."

"Oh, baby." They ran their thumb along Eddie's bottom lip, let their eyes dart down to look. Eddie's robe was tied loosely; there was enough to peek at. "It's funny when you pretend you're angry at the world."

"Are you calling yourself my world?"

Chess tilted Eddie's chin up to look them in the eyes. Half a foot taller had never felt like so much. "If the shoe fits."

Eddie bit her bottom lip gently. Fought a small smile. "Wrong size. Gotta return."

"Sorry, miss Yamaguchi," Chess said. They played with the tie on Eddie's robe. "Let me..." Dropped to a knee and untied the bow. "... remove those."

Eddie ran her hand through Chess's hair; let the silk robe drop around her shoulders. Lifted Chess' chin with her finger. "Look me in the eye."

Chess grinned. Pressed a kiss to her thigh. Other thigh. Stood up slowly, never broke eye contact. Placed a hand on the small of Eddie's back and spun her around. Backed her up toward the bed again. Laid her down, kissed her as they straddled her hips. Littered kisses down her neck.

"Eddie."

"You wanna..." Eddie kissed them again. Stifled a noise as Chess reached their hand down. "Talk... now?"

Chess pulled away from Eddie's neck. "You gotta quit smokin', baby."

"You—" Eddie put her hand on the back of their neck, pulled them closer. "—need to give up."

*

"Eds, dude." August sighed. Looking over the rim of her glasses. Turned away from the tattoo draft she was working on—a gorgeous but questionable choice for a tattoo Toad from Mario Kart. "I don't know what you want me to do."

"Can't you like..." Eddie waved her hand. "Give me a new tattoo and it'll satisfy the craving?"

"I don't tattoo nicotine, you fuckin'..." August rolled her eyes. "A tattoo won't help you stop smoking."

"I don't want to stop smoking," Eddie said.

"Well, you should. Because it's gross."

"I only do it when I'm being social."

"You're social?"

"Sometimes."

"Sounds like a lie." August turned back to her drawing. Started shading around the toadstool. "But sure."

"You doing a Mario Kart flash sheet or something?"

"This is client work," August said. "Believe it or not.. Because I actually have work. Five days a week."

"I work, too."

"Shouldn't you be at work? Or has Coach banned you from the gym again because you smell like cigarettes?" August looked at Eddie for a moment. "We're talking about that later, by the way."

"I have two more days to serve on my suspension for the arrest."

"You were right to hit him."

"Oh, Coach knows that," Eddie said. "WBA rules, not his. Coach told me off the record that I should've hit him at the start of the match when I wasn't tired."

"Why do you want me to tattoo you today?" August asked. "It'll still be healing when you go back to the gym."

"Because right now I can't go to the gym," Eddie said. "And I have all these endorphins and shit."

"Endorphins and shit are not a good reason to get a tattoo."

"You're literally drawing a Toad."

"Two toads, actually." August held up two fingers for emphasis. Like Eddie needed that. (August was always worried she'd had too many concussions.) "They're going to be matching. Clients wanted them to look at each other."

"Stevie and Mav?"

"Who else?"

"That feels fitting for them."

"Doesn't it?"

"Why can't I get a tattoo?"

"That'll put you back three more weeks," August said. "And that's if you don't pick at it like the first one."

That was unfair. It was Eddie's first tattoo and August was still practicing for her apprenticeship at the time. Wasn't either of their faults that Eddie scarred her foot by scraping at the itchy ink when it scabbed. Now her foot looked like she'd indented it with a hot pan and left a branding on it.

"I don't do that anymore. I know the aftercare."

"I have other appointments today."

"I'm your sister."

"All the more reason to not give you a spot. This is my brand, this is my work," August said. "You of all people should understand that. I need to keep my image. Cancelling paying customers' appointments for my sister isn't how that's going to work."

"I'll pay you."

"That's not the point."

"You have so many celebrity endorsements that I doubt cancelling one appointment would ruin you. I hope you know that."

"Why don't you go hang out with Lockwood or something? I think he's got late training today. I can pull up his calendar if you want."

"I'm not allowed near him until the suspension's over."

"He's not even part of..." August waved her pencil. "Whatever. It's stupid you were suspended anyway."

"I'd do it again."

"You should do it again," August said. "Do it until what's his nuts gets suspended for being a misogynistic douchebag."

"That's never going to happen."

"Why?"

"Grandpa built the arena. Owned the arena. Father owns the arena now."

"Fuckin' dickish nepotism." August threw her pen on the table. "Stupid as fuck."

"Hey," Eddie said. "You can't umbrella it."

"True. Fine," August said. "I fucking love those siblings. They at least acknowledge it. And they have the talent to back it up. They only get like... half a nepotism card. Because they know their shit."

"Those siblings?" Eddie asked. "You could at least say their names, you dickhead."

"Mick and Moxie," August said, crossing her arms. Both tattooed to the point that there was hardly any untattooed skin; she'd done it long before she'd found a way to love her vitiligo. Sleeves of family mementos and shoutouts to the greatest things in her life. Always the sentimentalist. "The Kings. Obviously. Don't you be a dick about it."

"Do you tattoo them if they walk in?"

"They haven't," August said. "But I probably would."

"Oh, fuck you."

"Fuck you," August said, "that's my integrity."

"I'll give you a bad review."

"No you won't."

Eddie sighed. "No, I won't."

"Why don't you call Checkers up?"

"Chess—"

"Whatever."

"I saw them last night."

"Oh, perfect. You're basking in afterglow. No wonder you're being so needy."

"That's mean."

August took her print off the light and grabbed her pencil from the table. "Funnily enough, I don't care. I have work to do before I see people later today."

"You're not even tattooing Stevie and Maverick today?"

"I don't like that you think I do work the day it needs done."

"That's not... like... standard tattoo practice?"

August was walking away and Eddie was following. Like a ghost haunting an old friend. Except Eddie was, unfortunately, extremely alive, and August was more than a friend and always had been. August was the one she called when things got shitty and August picked her up from jail and August was the one who let people shoot her in the back simply so she could shelter Eddie.

August Yamaguchi was a lot of things but she was never one to kick out someone who needed her, no matter how annoying they were being.

"I like having things prepped so that we can spend more time when we're together actually tattooing," August said. She walked into her section of her studio. Framed prints of August smiling with her more recognizable clients littered the maroon walls. She had a few with Maverick, spread out enough that no one could tell there were multiple unless they were a frequent visitor. She had pouches of Kool Aid and Capri Suns in wire baskets, tiny cans of Pringles and chocolate bars in a basket under those. Bottle of Wine tattoos never made anyone feel like they were alone; it was part of the reason Eddie wanted to be there. "It helps me build relationships that I need to get people to come back."

"People always come back to you," Eddie said. "You're you."

Even her now-husband had come back to her. They broke up for six years before they dated for another year and tied the knot in Vegas one night because they realized the last six years had been utter shit without the other one. Eddie was the maid of honour. Her twin, Indy, was his best-woman. Nobody could ever leave August forever; she wasn't one who could slip away.

August placed the tracing paper on her desk, gently dropped the pencil in a Cara Mia mug that was never once used for coffee. "Is that what this is about?"

"What?"

"You're thinking about what he said."

"Um."

The silence was filled with the faint sound of tattoo guns buzzing in other parts of the studio and the even fainter sound of what Eddie all-too-quickly identified as You're On Your Own, Kid. Thanks, Rush.

"You want a new, random tattoo?" August asked. "Seemingly out of nowhere?"

"Out of boredom."

"Boredom is nowhere."

"That doesn't sound right."

"You are perfectly fine being you," August said. "You don't need to be me."

"I'm not trying to be you."

"You've done this your entire life."

"I have not."

"Eds."

"What?"

"I need you to be you."

"I..." Eddie swallowed hard. "You're being mean."

"That's fine."

"I can't be myself right now because I'm banned from WBA sanctioned gyms."

"Then... go to Planet Fitness."

"Ew."

"Chase some chickens around a yard."

"This isn't Rocky."

"Do something, Eddie," August said. "The last thing you need is to be me. And don't go bugging Indy, either. I swear to God."

"Indy's in Paris."

"That's why I'm worried you're gonna bug her. It's like midnight there. And she's with Kai."

"I won't."

"What were you even going to get if I said I would tattoo you?"

"Devil horns on my ass cheek."

"Eddie."

"I don't know."

"You could've at least thought of a lie that didn't allude to me having to stare at your ass for an extended period of time."

"I feel..." Eddie sat down on the tattoo table. Tried to not feel bad that August was going to have to sanitize it the moment she left. "Like I've been floating around since the suspension. And I don't know how to ground myself again."

August leaned against her desk. Crossed her arms after tying her hair up; a messy bun that would've impressed Pamela Anderson, truthfully. The white streak in her hair was bright in the light of the studio. Leaned a knee on the seat of her rolling stool. "I love you, Ed. But I can't do this right now. I'm at work."

"I know, I'm sorry..." Eddie sighed. "I didn't know where else to go."

August's expression softened and Eddie wanted to take it back. That look wasn't anything she ever wanted from her sister. She'd grown up with that look. She was raised by that look.

"No, never mind. It's—" Eddie got up. Scratched at her the patch of eczema on her forearm that wouldn't quite go away. "That was too much. I'm sorry."

"Lockwood's making dinner tonight," August said. "I—um—you're welcome to join."

"No, no—"

"Please."

"I don't think I'm allowed."

"He's your brother-in-law. Tell the WBA to fuck off."

Eddie let out a hollow laugh. "Think I did."

August managed a small smile. "And you should've."

"I'm sorry."

August waved her off before pocketing her hands. Always the caretaker. "It's fine."

"I can make my own dinner."

"You sure?" August asked. "You're looking..."

Eddie swallowed hard. "I'm fine."

"Before you go—" August pointed to her before cracking her thumb loudly. "I think I have a lead on your mystery photographer."

"Really?"

"Well. I looked him up," August said, tilting her head back and forth. "For curiosity's sake."

"Sure."

"He's cute."

"Is he?"

"You didn't look him up?"

"I don't want to blurt something at him only Google would know."

"That's..." August considered it. "That's fair."

"What's your lead?"

"Did you know he has a single out?"

"I haven't looked him up, August."

"Okay, well. It's doing really well on streaming platforms right now. Like. Phenomenally well. Might get nominated for best new artist kind of well."

"Right..."

"So, I listened to the song. And it's good."

"That isn't a lead."

"It is when you know that Taylor Swift wrote the best Hannah Montana song in the world."

"You might as well be speaking fuckin' Yiddish, Auggie."

"You need to look into song credits." August snapped her fingers. "Phone out. Now. Look it up."

"I don't want to see what he looks like. I don't want to be creepy."

"Oh, please," August said. "The song is in like the top fifty of the Billboard 100, it's not creepy to have heard it. And you don't even have to listen to it. I just need you to look at who wrote it."

"He didn't?"

August rolled her eyes. "Go on your phone, Eddie."

Eddie sighed and pulled her phone out, quickly opened Apple Music—sue her and shut up about it. "He doesn't use a stage name or anything, does he?"

August shook her head.

Eddie held her phone out. "Can you get the information up you need, please?"

"Oh my God—" August snatched the phone from her and typed quicker than she needed. Tapped the screen a couple times before handing the phone back to her sister. "Writer information. Look at it. There's no pictures."

"Written by Axel Canterbury and..." Eddie made a face. Looked up at August. "Pete Mitchell?"

August nodded encouragingly. "There you go."

"Who the fuck is Pete Mitchell?"

"I've really failed you as a sister if you haven't seen Top Gun, Eds. It's, like, gayer than Mamma Mia. It's a gay movie for straight people."

"Are you telling me that Tom Cruise wrote the song?"

"No."

"Stop being so cryptic."

"Are you kidding me, Eddie?"

"What?"

"I think you've taken one too many blows to the head."

"How am I supposed to know who the fuck Pete Mitchell is?" Eddie asked. "I could go to Pier 39 right now and find four Pete Mitchell's riding skateboards down the boardwalk. It's a frat boy name."

"Oh my God," August said. "In Top Gun, they have callsigns. Right?"

Eddie's blank stare was surely enough of an answer.

"Do you know who Tom Cruise plays in Top Gun?"

"I'm guessing Pete Mitchell."

"Who's callsign is...?" August waved her hand. Tried to get the ball rolling. "Come on, Eds, even if you haven't seen it. You should know the name."

Eddie could see the red and white stripes on the helmet. Everyone knew that helmet. Almost as well as they knew Marlon Brando's prosthetic jaw in The Godfather. But a nickname? How the fuck was—

Oh God.

The letters were in the stripes.

On went the lightbulb.

Eddie looked at August, jaw dropped, eyes wide. "Maverick?"

"I'll give you one guess as to which client of mine lands in Oakland tomorrow."

            "Why Oakland?"

"He's good at many things, but planning his own trips isn't one of them."