"S-Silver! What are you doing here?" David stammered in the face of a handful of patrons at the bar.

    Sora wasn't exactly sporting his Sunday Best—in fact, he was still in his clothes from class that day and wearing an equally dreary expression. If his head cold wouldn't get the best of him, dealing with patrons certainly would.

    He ignored the urge to sniff and cough at the same time. "I'm here to talk to Ambrose. He's not in his office, though. Know where I can find him?"

    One of the patrons—a familiar lad who had a habit of bringing his work friends around—leant back in his chair, eyed Sora, and said, "Barely recognized you with all those clothes on, sweetie."

    Sora offered a tight, restrained smile and said, "Unfortunately, I'm never in a good mood when I have clothes on. Let's chat again when I'm feeling less restricted."

    He moved on down the bar to chat with David, and his comment gave the customers enough content to keep themselves busy with laughter and lewd commentary that made Parley crack her knuckles threateningly at the end of the bar.

    Sora propped his elbow up on the edge of the bar top as David said, "There's a bachelorette party happening in the VIP room. He's friends with the bride so he's paying her a visit."

    Sora could have rolled his eyes. Ambrose had plenty of "lady friends" from his past life as a bartender at a standard strip club. Now all of the strippers he made contact with had either A) successfully swindled a rich gentlemen in their youth and was now happily married, B) making money through online gigs, or C) graduated with a PhD.

    And Ambrose wasn't a bartender for nothing: he was handsome, charismatic, and a manipulative bastard. Plenty of his "lady friends" were past conquests twisted to seem like she bested him.

    At the thought of Ambrose, Sora's eyes slid across the floor to Charlie's stage, which was empty that night. "Are you and Charlie talking at all?" he asked, turning back to David.

    David shook his head. "No, but I've heard he's been staying at someone else's place. Has he talked to you? I saw he helped you to the hospital the other day."

    "Yeah, and I'm still pissed about it," Sora said with a groan. He rubbed at the back of his throbbing head and said, "Now my sister knows where I live. It's just... super inconvenient, to be honest."

    "That's not Charlie's fault, though," David said, and rationally, Sora knew that. He understood the terror of accidental head traumas and Charlie and Ray just wanted to ensure Sora did have, oh, you know, a subdermal hematoma go unchecked.

    He could make all of the excuses he wanted, but the fact of the matter was this: That Sora wasn't ready to talk to Charlie. Not yet.

    "I'm... gonna go see Ambrose now. About that thing," Sora said, gesturing to the stairs.

    "Right. That 'thing'," David teased, and Sora flipped him off before making his way to the stairs.

    He hurried up to the VIP section of the club where, beyond the railing, the room was enshrouded in red lighting and deep, violet shadows from the blacklights. The state of Sora's drabby appearance didn't matter quite so much there.

    Sora crossed the room where a group of girls were downing blowjob shots off of a stripper's stomach. Impressive, he thought to himself at the sheer level of expertise at which the girls conducted the shots. Sora was impartial to downing blowjob shots like that—it tended to make him gag, no pun intended.

    Much to his surprise, though, Ambrose was the silver platter on which the shots were being balanced.

    Sora stilled at the image of Ambrose stretched out on the table, his hands clasped behind his head, looking more or less like a Greek statue come to life. Ambrose glanced over at Sora, only to startle at the sight of the last worker he expected to see that night.

    "What are you doing here?" Ambrose said, ignoring the liquor that spilled across his stomach when one of the girls failed to balance a shot glass on his pectoral.

    "I... came to talk about that party I was booked for this weekend," Sora said.

    "Oh, I've already taken care of it," he said. "Scheduled someone else to take your place."

    That was the opposite of what Sora intended. "No, I can do it," he said. "Which is why I came in to show you that I am, in fact, all right."

    "I don't care. You aren't performing, especially when it entails going to someone's house where we can't keep an eye on you in case you faint again," Ambrose said.

    Sora sighed. Sure, there were dangers associated with attending bachelorette parties as a foreplay spectacle, but it was good money and enjoying, for the most part. It thrilled the people who hired him—primarily women—and he had fun indulging in their opulent lifestyles for a night, especially when a sexy lady by the name of "liquor" was involved.

    It wasn't often that Sora was selected for such affairs. He didn't have the bulky physique of a body-builder who could double as a pseudo police officer just to satiate a horny woman's fantasies—that tended to be the go-to for such affairs.

    It was interesting how being selected for a bachelorette party made Sora feel infinitely more special than being oogled at by gay men at a bar.

    "The last thing I want is you giving our clients the flu."

    Sora rolled his eyes. "I don't have the flu," he said, and immediately coughed into his elbow.

    One of the girls gave him a gentle pat on the back and said, "It's better than giving your clients chlamydia."

    Sora gave her a weird look as she walked away and said, "Uh, thanks? I guess?"

    Ambrose plucked the glasses off of his stomach and offered one to Sora as he straightened up. Sora took it, still frowning from the news that he wouldn't, in fact, be working that night. Ambrose clinked their glasses together before downing his shot and saying, "I know that hospital run wasn't ideal—"

    "Yeah, pushed me back a couple grand," Sora muttered.

    "But that's no reason to work yourself ragged again," Ambrose said. He shrugged and added, "We'll figure it out—after you stop sniffling."

    "I'm not sniffling," Sora muttered, voice thick with mucus. God, he hated being sick. "Thanks, though. I mean it."

    "Any time," he said.

    The girls came back and one was wearing the wedding veil. She plopped it on Ambrose's head and passed her phone to Sora, saying, "Could you take a picture of all of us?"

    Sora agreed, stepped back, and waited for the group to consolidate around a shirtless Ambrose. He focused the camera on the lot of them and said, "Okay, three... two... one—!" and snapped the photo.

    He left shortly after was one check on his list of errands to run, and the next would take him downtown. He hopped on the next bus heading in that direction and, with his backpack secured squarely on his shoulders, he made his way to the address listed on his messages with Parson Hill.

    He wandered around a block of brightly lit store fronts and elegant jewelry. Down the row of shops, he found his target: a men's apparel store, specifically for suits.

    Sora hadn't been fitted for a tux in a while, but he remembered the experiences well enough to know that he would automatically be targeted as a newbie based on his appearance alone. Bleached hair, backpack, and a hoodie—ah yes, the epitome of class.

    He could articulate what he needed, though, and the materials he preferred, so it was only a matter of obtaining the measurements. With his backpack and hoodie set aside, Sora stood on the platform in nothing but his jeans and t-shirt while the tailor tallied off the length of his arms, his waist, chest, and neck. The man stretched the tape measurer over the back of Sora's shoulder blades, and then again down the length of his torso. With Sora's arms stretched out, he measured the circumference of Sora's biceps, which seemed more intimidating in the foreign mirror standing across the platform from him. He wasn't used to seeing himself under florescent lights—maybe that was it.

    He lowered his arms after the tailor finished. He rubbed a hand over his bicep and down to his forearm, massage the muscles as the tailor gave him an estimated pickup date, as per Parson's request.

    "So the fitting was a success?" Parson said over the phone that evening as Sora left the store.

    "I'd say so," he said. "Are you sure you don't want to coordinate on colors?"

    "Colors aren't really my forte," he said, and Sora rolled his eyes. He supposed not all queer men were adamant fashionistas like Sora was. But even he wouldn't even consider himself all that inclined to—

    The image of Ray trying on clothes in the dressing room came to mind.

    Bare minimum effort, he rationalized. Sora caught himself staring across the street just as Parson said, "—sound good?"

    Sora shook his head, clearing his throat and mind of Ray's graphic tees. "I- um, yeah. Could you repeat that for me?"

    "I'll be back next weekend. Both of our suits should be in by then. Does Saturday morning sound good?"

    "Yeah, that sounds good. I'll put it in my calendar," Sora said. "I'll talk to you soon."

    "Have a nice night, Silver," he said before hanging up.

    Sora lowered his phone with a vague sense of confusion muddling his senses. He stood there long after the walk signal chimed, simply studying what had to be frayed wires in his brain that brought that image up in such startling clarity. He really should not be thinking about his roommate right now in the middle of San Francisco.

    "Fucking hell," he decided, and hurried across the street before his time was up.

    Sora's trip back to the apartment would have been uneventful had Ray's day not been so eventful. He didn't expect his day to get worse after being grouped up with Sora and Alice for an essay project, but God decided to throw him a solid bitch-just-you-wait move.

    Ray wandered up the stairwell to the second floor of his apartment complex, yawning with exhaustion. He had an entire set to plan for the coffee shop, dinner to make, and homework to start. Because of this, he grew too distracted to look up from his set of keys to realize that someone was waiting outside of his apartment door, perched on the windowsill at the very end of the hallway.

    Ray sifted through his keys only to drop them the instant his name was called from the end of the hall.

    "Jesus H. Christ!" Ray squeaked, terrified, as his keys slapped to the ground.

    He looked up and found Erin Ikeda standing there, dressed magnificently, and concern etched on her brow.

    "E-Erin!" Ray cried.

    Erin's eyes dropped to the keys on the ground, which Ray swiped up, only to freeze at the realization of what this must have looked like.

    "I... came to check in on Sora," she explained as Ray straightened back up, the teeth of the keys biting into his palm. "Which begs the question: Why are you here with a set of keys to his apartment? I thought he's renting a studio."

    "He is! I mean—"

    Fuck, Ray thought. Sora doesn't want people to know we live together. That's the number one priority here!

    Right?

    "I just... have his spare key," Ray lied through a feeble smile that could have been snapped in half by Erin's stiletto heels.

    Instead, Erin studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing just a fraction. To diffuse the situation, Ray hurried to the door and started opening it, stumbling through the motions of inviting her inside. "I-I'm sure Sora wouldn't mind if you came in. As long as you take your shoes off, I mean—"

    He opened the door wide and stepped aside. The instant he did, Erin leant in, close enough for Ray to smell her flowery perfume.

    A squeak escaped him. Erin rose an eyebrow at him before leaning back with an amused grin. She folded her arms over her chest, cocked her hip to the side, and said, "I can only picture Sora giving his significant other a key to his place. You two are dating, aren't you?"