Sora Ikeda never twerked a day in his life before Bandaids. Honest to God, hand on the bible, in front of the court, Sora Ikeda could safely say that he barely knew how to dance before Bandaids happened. And it certainly wasn't like he had an ass suitable for a strip club. It was all flat back there before Bandaids, and then the training started.

But before training, and before Sora could even dance, he did his research and found himself on the doorstep of Bandaids at the ripe young age of seventeen. He was barely over that seventeen-year-old threshold, but he was so goddamn done with the Ikeda life.

If he wanted his own life and his own college degree, he needed to make cash for it, first and foremost.

The first person Sora ever met at the club was Parley—Bandaids's best and brightest bodyguard. Sora would soon learn that when Parley was on duty, there was bound to be some form of shenanigans from newcomers underestimating her prowess. The dark side of Sora loved to stand and watch Parley bodyslam guys who made her dancers uncomfortable. The look of abject horror on the clients' faces... Priceless.

"This ain't the school yard, kid. Buzz off," Parley said from the doorway before Sora could even approach the hostess.

"You don't even know how old I am," Sora snapped. "Just because I'm Asian doesn't mean—"

Parley pointed to her own face, leaning in to go nose-to-nose with him. Sora leant back, startled, as Parley said, "Yeah, and how old do I look, pipsqueak? A day old?"

Sora, being the dumb bastard he was, rolled his eyes and reached for his fake ID. Milluki was a goddamn genius when it came to fake IDs, but in other areas—most areas, actually—he was an idiot. So, Parley took one, two, three looks at Sora's ID before handing it back, unconvinced, and gestured for him to get inside.

The second person Sora ever met at Bandaids was the host: Axel Atkins, otherwise known as the bane of Sora's existence and the blessing to his wallet. That godforsaken idiot knew the kinks of every rotten bastard in the Bay area and by God, he knew who was willing to pay.

"Aw, what a sweet little thing," Axel purred, a hand on his cocked him and the other on the banister overlooking the warehouse.

Sora's eyes were everywhere but Axel until that moment because holy shit, this place was the real deal.

Amidst the spiraling blue and pink lights, Sora cleared his throat and his vision of one of the dancers nearest the entrance. That initial walkway only then opened up after a narrow foyer with blacked-out windows to avoid onlookers from peering in.

Sora put his hands in his pockets to avoid touching anything. The action had that cheeky host grinning. "I, um, I'm here to talk to your boss," Sora said.

"Oh? And on what grounds."

"The grounds that say I'm looking for a job."

"Oh, hun, we don't hire," Axel said, and Sora rose an eyebrow at him. "We audition. If you want a stage, you gotta earn it."

"Fine, whatever. I'd like to schedule an audition."

And then, Axel was walking Sora up to the bar where he met his third Phantom member: David. David was at the bar that night and was there to greet Sora when Axel pulled him up, clasped a hand onto his shoulder, and said, "Have you seen our dear sweet boss around by any chance?"

"I think he's in his office," David said. He pointed to Sora and asked, "Who's this kid?"

"I'm not a kid," Sora snapped.

"Sounds like something a kid would say," David said.

Axel laughed as Sora clenched his teeth to keep from making another biting remark. Sora followed after Axel as they rounded the bar and slipped through the curtains that blocked off an archway to a back cooridor. Sora glanced back at the main room of the warehouse, where the blue spotlights cast silhouettes against the sheer curtain and blurred the face of David leaning over to peer after them.

The music was fainter back here but just as dense in Sora's chest where the bass throbbed in his ribcage. He followed Axel down a black lit hallway where cement-brick walls blocked off what appeared to be one long locker room. Sora nearly looked in until he saw a guy fully butt-naked across the room.

Ambrose's office didn't look much different from how it looked now. It was in one of the small cement-block rooms that likely served as a storage space back in the day, but was now transformed and disguised behind red velvet curtains and a desk that was mostly there to mimic some sort of superiority.

When they stepped into the room, it all seemed empty until a blanket rustled off to the side, and Sora thought they just walked in on two people fucking. Instead, it was just that dark-haired scum lounging on the couch, the blanket over his face, and his legs too long to fit beneath it.

Ambrose peered over the hem of the blanket and, voice gruff with sleep, said, "What is it."

He stretched his arms over his head as Axel gestured to Sora and said, "Fresh meat. I'll leave you two to it."

Ambrose grunted as he sat up, pulling his feet back onto the couch from where they were dangling over the armrest. Sora rose an eyebrow at him and, once Axel was gone, said, "You're the boss?"

"I take it I don't look like it, do I?" Ambrose sighed. He stretched a hand out to Sora, who gave it a firm shake. "Ambrose Elton."

"Sora. Just... Sora."

"Looking for a stage then? And if you say you're a bartender, I'll have to politely disagree."

"Not a bartender," Sora agreed.

Ambrose looked him up and down, eyes lingering heavily with every ounce of judgement Sora had never felt outside of his the Ikeda estate. Sora resisted the instinctual urges to swallow, clear his throat, straighten himself, and fix up his hair. Instead, he stood, eyes dull and brooding.

Ambrose pushed his feet to the ground, elbows to his knees, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Too pretty to be a janitor..." he hummed, and Sora's ears turned pink. Were it not for the red lighting in that office space, it would have been abundantly obvious on his alabaster skin.

Little did Sora know, though, that most of the janitor duties were performed by the dancers anyway. The cost of hiring cleaning companies to scrub the surfaces of a strip club were far too pricey for Ambrose to care for.

"Host?" Ambrose asked, only then meeting Sora's eyes.

Sora narrowed his eyes. "Dancer."

Ambrose laughed. It just soured Sora's expression further. "Right, and where did you last perform."

"D-Does that even matter? Your host said you accept auditions."

"No where then," he concluded, and Sora thought he might burst into flames. Ambrose leant back on the couch, arms crossed, and stared a bit longer at Sora's face, and then gave a little gesture for Sora to turn around. Sora rolled his eyes and complied, facing the opposite wall as Ambrose checked him out.

He heard the springs on the couch creak and, a moment later, felt a hand on the back of his neck. He shivered at the cool, icy touch of Ambrose's hands pulling his shaggy hair up.

Sora shuddered a little when Ambrose's fingernails grazed his scalp. He twisted around and slapped Ambrose's hands off. "Oi, watch it," Sora hissed.

"What'll it cost to touch it?" Ambrose asked, and when Sora did nothing but stare, Ambrose offered a crooked grin and leant back against the armrest. "That's what you'll hear on the floor. Everyone's got a price out there. Customers talk, too, but they'll be willing to pay for... certain privleges with you."

"I'm not a prostitute. I thought this was a fucking strip club," Sora said, running his hands through his hair. He pulled at it, fervently, and glared when Ambrose's smile only grew.

"You're right, but everything that happens on the floor would be up to you. You decide how much it costs for a lap dance, for them to touch you..."

Yeah, no, no touching, Sora thought to himself, but he could already tell that was a boundary that would have to break here. He let out a low sigh and said, "Right, well, I'll figure that out. I take it the other dancers have ideas for that. So how does pay work?"

"Pay? Well shit, if only I knew," Ambrose laughed, only to hesitate, clear his throat, and reiterate since it seemed Sora was in the dark. "Whatever you make? That's yours to keep. This isn't an hourly gig—it never is, except for... Well, we'll get to that. At the end of the night, I recommend tipping the bartender, the host, and the bouncer mostly because they send clients to the dancers they like. The more you pay 'em, the more they'll like you, so the more customers flock to you."

Sora nodded, knowing that this would all preface the fact that he may or may not even be working at Bandaids. "So... what's this whole audition thing about?"

At that, Ambrose pushed off of the armrest and gestured for Sora to follow him out of the door. Sora trailed after, hesitant and altogether concerned about Ambrose's silence that followed them back out to the bar.

At the bar, Ambrose asked for a drink and David poured him a whiskey on the rocks. Ambrose gestured for Sora to get something, and before he could even consider saying no, Sora looked out at the stages and decided that the only way he'd be getting through this night would be drunk.

They took their drinks to one of the booths away from the stages, where they could watch the dancers from afar amidst streams of light fog and colorful lights. The fog turned the light into white rays that fanned the figure on the pole as they reached a lithe hand high over their head and pulled themselves up on strong, lean arms.

Their head tipped back, blonde hair spilling over their shoulders as their legs walked up overhead, splitting into a long, straight line. Sora's jaw dropped. He couldn't imagine doing the splits like that, especially upside down like that whilst spinning in circles.

He felt Ambrose's breath on his ear, saying over the music, "Just watch for a while. I take it you've never set foot in a strip club, anyway."

"Don't be so presumptuous," Sora huffed so he wouldn't have to answer that. Ambrose laughed and took a sip of his whiskey as Sora nursed a Tom Collins, knowing full well that it looked like a Kiddy Cocktail. At the very least, he could drink vodka's classy superior—gin—and come across as older than he was.

He crossed his legs and watched through several performances with the blonde guy on the stage. Through five songs, the guy only performed one pole dancing routine. Sora wasn't sure why he expected more, but after the fifth song, the blonde dancer went to one of the patrons who had been tipping throughout the performance. Sora watched, sipping the lasts of his drink where the cherry syrup settled at the bottom.

The blonde guy nodded along with whatever the client was saying. Sora had already acknowledged the guy's platform heels, but holy shit, Sora didn't realize how tall they made the dancer until Sora saw him twisting his hair around his finger in front of a client. The dancer looked like a goddamn caucasian Amazonian.

The dancer took something from the client and, taking the client by the hand, walked him towards the staircase that split down the middle at the far side of the room, circling up and reconnecting at the second floor of the warehouse.

Sora pointed after them. "Where did they go?"

"VIP rooms," Ambrose said, leaning an elbow against the back of his chair as he faced Sora. He leant in to shout over the music. "One-on-one time with the dancers. Privately, but also pricey."

"What... do they do in there?" Sora asked, eyes wide.

Ambrose shrugged and said, "Whatever they want—with consent, of course, on top of a hefty dollar sign."

Sora nodded, eyes wide. He stared up at the VIP section balcony, where the blonde dancer was pulling the client through a crowd of what appeared to be a bachelor party dancing behind stained-glass windows overlooking the warehouse.

Ambrose sighed next to Sora, and when Sora looked, Ambrose gestured to the empty stage and said, "Alright then. Up you go."

Sora laughed. "Yeah, right," he said, but Ambrose merely rose an eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat. "You weren't joking. Well shit. I've never—"

"What, pole danced? You saw him up there. You don't need to suspend yourself seven feet in the air to get people looking, kid."

"I'm not a kid," Sora seethed as Ambrose took a drink and said, "Then prove it. You get up there now or you don't get a stage here."

___

Now, Sora loved the warm, quivering ache in his muscles after a long night of work. He loved to feel his muscles stretch from the dense weight of his quadriceps working in harmony with his warmed and flexible hamstrings when he hugged his arm around his extended calf at eye-level. His other leg curved around the pole beneath him, stretched into an oversplit that he curved with each rotation around the pole, twirling like the stripe on a candy cane.

He dragged one hand up through the radiant purple light that grew thick in the air where smoke curled in dense, nearly opaque stripes with the spotlights. He released his calf, bracing his dominant hand lower on the pole. With one smooth inhale, Sora put his weight onto it, his legs swinging gently in arcs behind him.

He rotated his center of balance, twisting until his hair fell over his head, and his eyes looked out at the patrons—all upside down and watching, enrapt by the grace of every muscle in his toned body on full display.

It took years for him to be able to do this—two years, in fact, and two years was certainly not enough to be an expert at this craft.

It was one thing to do an oversplit, and an entirely other matter to perform a Bird of Paradise just for a couple of bucks for guys who couldn't possibly comprehend how easy it would be for Sora to split their skulls between his thighs.

So Sora relented at that as the song drew to a close. He'd perform a Bird of Paradise one day, just not for a crowd of horny guys. Besides, Ambrose always did say that Sora didn't look so prim and proper in those extreme poses. Patrons weren't looking for a power play, a show of strength. They didn't want to know that Sora could snap their necks with his feet alone.

Which he had thought about.

On more than one occasion.

It was late into Sora's shift and by now, only regulars were left. Sora resumed an upright position, dragging his hands down from where they had been gripping the pole above him. He pulled his hands smoothly down from his shoulders, across the bare planes of his chest, and down to his hips as he surveyed the remaining few guys in the club watching him.

He gave a dramatic bow, laughing as they clapped. Despite the texture of the remaining powder residue on his hands, he kissed his fingers and sent them out to the customers with a smile on his lips. It was natural, now, to act fluffy on the stage.

As he stepped off of the stage with a sway in his step—mostly to avoid any more chafing—one of his first regulars was there to compliment him. "You've improved a lot," he said. "You never cease to amaze me."

"Oh, thank you. Lot of practice," Sora said, thinking to himself, Maybe a bit too much, as he rubbed at his inner thigh. He put his hands on his hips and asked, "But enough about that—came all this way to see me, so I might as well hear about how you've been."

As he listened to the guy talk, he was vividly reminded of what it was like to be on the stage for the first time. Unexpectedly, Sora had stripped down to his underwear like he was at some ridiculous frat party he never experienced before.

That night he had pretended he was on a pool table in the middle of a house party and the entire time, that regular customer was there, looking at Sora like Sora was actually good at it. Granted, he was a shit dancer at the time, but the encouragement was enough to stroke Sora's ego a bit and boost his confidence up on the stage. That, and also the very first tip he had ever received was from that guy that very same night.

And then, that same night, he got his first VIP room booked for fifteen minutes—five songs, and private space for Sora to find out that people didn't, in fact, have sex willy-nilly in the VIP rooms. At least, not all of the time. That night that same client made Sora feel like he had what it took to be a dancer all while making nearly five hundred bucks in just under an hour.

It was the end of Sora's scheduled stage time, so he took to the bar with the client at his side and sat there, listening to his day, and acting like he retained a word of it.

When the conversation lulled, Sora circled his finger around the rim of his glass. The germs didn't bother him, not when the alcohol content would be enough to burn them all into oblivion.

"You know, Hill," Sora said, looking up at the client, "I still think about my first night a lot. I don't think I would've kept dancing if you hadn't... you know..."

"Bribed you into it?" Hill said, and Sora laughed with a nod. "I like amateurs."

"Explains why you don't stick around me anymore," Sora teased, grinning at the cheeky way Hill looked down, lidded eyes glancing up at Sora. "I can always pretend I suck at dancing—for you."

The guy stood with a sigh. He was still dressed in his business casual attire despite it being so late at night—or rather, early in the morning. "You'd be better off at your best, Silver. I'll buy you a drink next time."

Sora scoffed, leaning against the bar top as Parson Hill left him to his own devices. He took another drink and, after polishing it off, sent it off to David's waiting hand. Along with it, he slapped down a tip for David's sake. "That's for tonight," Sora said.

"Thanks man. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Nah, Saturday."

David rose an eyebrow at him. Sora rolled his eyes and gestured towards the steps, where the dancing cages were. "For the concert," he said, begrudgingly.

"A momentous occasion indeed," he chimed with a hearty laugh.

"Maybe for you," Sora seethed, fingers clenched around the glass. "I'm dreading every second of it."

"I seriously doubt anyone you know is gonna be there."

"You don't know what music liberal art kids are into, dude," Sora said, shuddering at the thought. The only thing keeping USFC kids from this concert was likely their parental funding and country music. And since country music wasn't on the roster, Sora had to hope and pray and make sacrifices to the gods that everyones' parents will simultaneously collapse their children's bridge to an excessive allowance.

This will either be interesting or atrocious, Sora thought, studying the center cage that was pushed back beneath the VIP balcony. He looked over at David, who wished him good luck and went back to work.

Sora left shortly after and took a bus back to his apartment. On the bus, he pulled a makeup wipe out of the chest pocket of his coat and rubbed away at his eyelashes where clumps of stubborn mascara refused to relent during his initial face-wash at the club. He watched the black smear on his cheeks in the window reflection as street lights passed by.

At his stop, he walked to the front of the bus and stepped out onto the curb. There, he could see the roof of his apartment complex two blocks down. He stared at it as the bus drove off. He didn't want to go to sleep, so he lingered around the neighborhood a bit in the dead of the night until he was reminded of his sore muscles and the burn on his inner thigh. By then, it was nearly three in the morning.

And, when he stood in front of the building, breath fogging in front him, he stared up at the only window in the building with the lights on: his and Ray's apartment.

"Perfect," Sora sighed, still just a little, teensy bit drunk from work.

He slumped up the stairs slowly but surely, his thighs stinging every step of the way. He rubbed his sweatshirt sleeves over his eyes once more, just to check for makeup. He did this until he reached the door.

As quiet as he tried to be, there was little that could escape de Lucía' scrutiny. When Sora snuck in and locked the door behind him, the click alerted the guy from across the apartment.

"Welcome home!" Ray chimed from the floor in the living room.

Sora sighed, staggering over the step as he kicked his shoes off. He leant a hand to the wall and, in doing so, got a glimpse around the corner—just barely. The foyer archway frame blocked most of it, but it looked like there was a blanket on the ground.

Sora said nothing, mostly because his brain was flitting away with each second he spent vertical. By the time he came within full view of de Lucía and his shitty contraption, Sora's brain had melted all along the foyer hall and ceased to exist.

"What... the fuck," Sora said, dropping his keys. They clattered on the floor, incredibly loud compared to the incredibly quiet apartment.

There, on the floor in the blank open space of the living room, there was now not only a circular carpet, but also a circular kotatsu.

Ray leant back, peering at Sora upside down with his feet under the quilt and his hands braced behind him. Ray stretched his legs out so his toes poked out the other side and wiggled about. "What do you think?" Ray asked.

What do I think? Sora thought, brainless.

He shuffled over, silently, and went to stand on the fluffy rug adjacent to where Ray sat, their theory textbook spread out on the table in front of him.

He stared at it, sitting on the now-occupied wood flooring in view of the floor-length window overlooking the street below. Their reflection was in the window, staring at the table until Ray looked up at Sora, a nervous smile on his face, his hands braced on the carpet between his legs.

"I got... one-day shipping," Ray said. "If you had another plan, or a couch, or—"

Sora lowered himself down. He felt more than heard his knees creak as his thighs, knees, and calves gave out. He slumped onto the ground with a tired groan and tugged the fluffy comforter up. Fuck, his arms were shivering through the fabric of his sweatshirt. It was oh-so warm under the kotatsu, though.

He closed his eyes and sighed again, sniffling a little as he took a deep breath to relax. With the comforter pulled up to his shoulders, Sora became content.

"You aren't mad?" Ray whispered. Sora peeked open one eye to glare at him. Ray swallowed hard.

"Do yourself a favor—" Sora started. He shuffled closer to the table, to the heater beneath it, and settled back with his head on the very edge of the rug, "—and stop acting like you're always in the wrong. You aren't. And even if you are, you fess up after someone calls you out."

"That's what bad people do," Ray grumbled.

"And do we look like bad people?" Sora said. Ray frowned down at the book, rubbing a finger over the glossy pages. "No. So don't worry about it as long as you're a good person."

Ray put his forehead on the textbook and groaned. It was too early in the morning for existential bullshit. "How do I know if I'm a good person though," he said, dragging his hands through his hair. He flopped his arms down and looked over at Sora, who was still lying on the ground, eyes closed, and hands covered beneath the kotatsu comforter.

Ray straightened a bit. "Sora?" he said. When Sora remained about as still and silent as a rock, Ray picked up one of his pens and reached out to poke Sora in the hip. It did nothing to rouse Sora.

a/n: I found out on Friday that I completely missed a day. Like, I straight up thought it was Thursday the ENTIRE day, so my schedule got a bit thrown off. I'll probably post again tonight to make up for the missed upload!! :D Hope you guys enjoyed this!