part 1

Here’s the thing about this disaster, this whole mess with Minnie and Yuqi - you can’t even go for denial. Oh, it’s all documented: you’ve got all this picture proof. Photos, videos, hidden folders on computers - you’ve got Yuqi’s pink hair all over it, Minnie’s black bangs, skin on skin on skin-

“Wow,” says Yuqi, in front of Minnie’s laptop, with Minnie half in her lap and half in yours. “You’re actually really photogenic, now that I’m looking at all this. It’s kind of crazy.” 

“Thanks,” you say. “I’m glad that’s your main takeaway from our sex tapes.” 

It’s so crude. You’d never thought yourself the type for it: all the pornographic filth, the focus, the filmography. If you were a more creatively inclined person, you could probably find some art in it, but that’s not your style and you won’t bother. Every video is hard evidence that you three’ll permanently ruin each other one day, if you keep going on like this. 

“You know what my main takeaway is?” Minnie asks, a proposition in the way she looks between the two of you. There’s a danger to it, but - well, you can’t really bring yourself to give a fuck. 

Yuqi glances at her, lips twitching: there’s a smile she’s suppressing. “What?”

“I think we’d be really great in a sequel.” 

-

Well, if you wanna talk main players, settings and scenes, you should know that this is how it all begins:

It’s a weekend - isn’t it always? - and there’s a burlesque club - that one’s a little rarer - but Club Cosmic’s a classic, a stage pointedly set for debauchery. Call it a breeding ground for that kind of shit, or something like that. You’re behind the bar. You’re always a little removed from the action. You’re a professional, but then there’s nights like this. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” you tell Jeon Soyeon, as she hops up on a barstool. 

“I didn’t know you were working tonight.“ Soyeon’s unaffected by the patented customer service charm - you’ve been friends for long enough that you know all of each other’s tricks. “Is it usually this packed?” 

“Yep.” You’ve worked at Club Cosmic as a bartender for a few months now, and there’s always something for everyone, that’s their selling point: there’s the scantily clad women, and then there’s the music. “Saturdays. What are you doing here?” 

“My band?” Soyeon waves a hand behind her vaguely, like it’ll somehow summon the rest of her bandmates. “We got booked here because our keyboardist is friends with Lisa.” 

“Oh, congrats!” Saturdays, like you said: it’s Club Cosmic’s version of an open mic night, where they let outside performers take the stage. You really have to impress the manager to get a gig here - or at least exercise strategic friendships. Lisa’s the new rookie choreographer, but she’s brilliant, she’s got pull here. Hey, that’s showbiz: all about connections. 

“That’s so cool,” you say, and you mean it. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen your band play yet.” Soyeon’s busy, you’re busy: the stars never quite seem to align. 

Soyeon’s lips tilt. “Well,” she says, and they’re all aligning now. “I hope we don’t disappoint.” 

-

You get swept up in the rush of the night, easily. The music’s great, the club’s dark, the people are chatty and every woman wants something from you, and not just drinks. It’s the whole himbo thing you’ve got going on, Soyeon tells you, and frequently - you just seem dumb as shit, she’d said, and not meanly. Like, so clueless, but in a very well-intentioned way. It’s very compelling, to the right people. 

Is that a compliment? you’d said, at the time. 

I’d take it as one, Soyeon replied, so you did. 

“I swear I don’t mind filling in.” When you check back in with Soyeon, there’s a remarkably pretty blonde girl sitting beside her, barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “Plus,” the blonde girl’s saying, “my boyfriend’s never seen me play before, so for once she did me a favor by being such a flake.” 

Onstage, one of the regular performers is charming the crowd, doing some routine with a chair, a blazer she’s peeling off. She strips - the crowd goes wild. Soyeon notices you before the blonde does, says, “Hey, let me get your opinion on something.”

“Sure.” 

Soyeon ducks her head, leans in to combat the whooping audience. “Purely hypothetical, here,” she says. “If you were in a band, and you had a member of your band who ditches a ton of your gigs, would you kick them out?” 

You’d never be in a band because your musical talent is nonexistent, but that’s neither here nor there. “Well,” you say, genuinely considering. “It depends. Are they my friend? Are they ditching gigs for a good reason? If that’s the case, then I’d probably let it slide.” 

Soyeon laughs, like you’re predictable. “That’s sweet,” says the blonde girl, tipping forward. “Hey, you go to our college, right? I’m-” 

“Oh my god.” 

Like it’s nothing - like she’s not interrupting a damn thing, and if she were, she’d be completely justified - a girl plops herself right into the seat next to Soyeon. “Literally,” she pronounces, smacking both hands palm-down on the bar like she’s readying for war, “the only reason we got the gig is because of her connections - or what-the-fuck-ever - and she can’t even be bothered to show up?” 

This is obviously related to Soyeon’s hypothetical - and this girl obviously disagrees with you, vehemently. That’d be enough to strike up a debate, but there’s one thing that’s keeping you from words, from a fight waiting to happen, and it’s the only point more obvious than your conflicting opinions-

See, she’s a huffy whirlwind of pink hair and wild hand gestures and this smoky perfume that carries even across the bar - and she’s unbelievably, insanely, mind-numbingly beautiful. You’d argue your position, but you can’t even speak. You shouldn’t stare but you’re staring. She’s all dark eyes, sparkly eyeshadow, eyebrows furrowed ferociously - she’s got the face of an angel, the cadence of a goddamn chainsmoker - she jams one of her nails straight to the lip of the counter, parts her pink-glossed lips-

“She needs to die,” the girl says. “The next time I see her, I’m beating the shit out of her.” 

She’s got this vicious edge that shouldn’t be nearly as captivating as it is. She’s being loud, overdramatic, aggressive, antagonistic. She’s clearly a little batshit, and it’s so fucking stupid - but you’re kind of obsessed on sight. 

“Chill,” says Soyeon, admirably unfazed. “I know you’re a lunatic, but dial it back a little.” 

“Fine, okay.” The pink-haired girl rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, throat bobbing as she swallows: you’re caught on every single move. “Death is too far. She just needs to get kicked out of the band, stat.” 

“You think you could beat the shit out of her?” the blonde asks, mouth in a delicate curl. “Please be serious.”

“I am.” The pink-haired girl leans her elbows back on the counter, suddenly perfectly smug. There’s an visible arrogance to her that shouldn’t be charming and somehow is anyway. “I could do a lot of things to her.”

“Oh, gross-“

Without any warning - and you think there should be, alarms wailing, lights flashing; no one should be expected to face her without at least some prior tip-off - the girl shifts on her stool, and zeroes in on you with sniper-shot precision. 

“Eavesdropping is fucking rude,” the girl says. “I should report you to your boss.”

“Uh,“ you say, because she’s so hot head-on that your brain forgets how to string together a sentence. 

“Jesus Christ, Yuqi.” Soyeon swivels on her stool. “He’s not eavesdropping. I was having a conversation with him and then you just barged in, so if anyone’s being rude, it’s you.”

“Oh,” says the girl - Yuqi - and she’s delightfully, wholly unapologetic. She shrugs a shoulder at you, unperturbed. “My bad, man.” 

“No problem,” you say, and you don’t know how anyone in the room is looking at anything but her. 

“I wouldn’t have actually reported you to your boss.” You’re stuck on those night-sky eyes, the alluring fix of her mouth, the way her lip gloss complements the pink of her hair like she’s straight out of a painting, a pointed example of color theory. “I’m not a snitch. Just - you know, making threats is pretty fun sometimes. All the drama. Hey, you’re kind of cute - has anyone ever told you that before?” 

You’re not blushing - you don’t do that - but it’s sort of close. You can’t help it; she’s just such a production, the hair and the mouth and the attitude. 

“Oh my god,” mumbles the blonde to Yuqi, hands over her eyes, appalled. “Be normal, I’m begging you.”

“Sure,” you say to Yuqi, miraculously keeping your cool. “I’ve heard it once or twice.” 

Yuqi’s very conspicuously eyeing your biceps in your shirt. “Do you work out a lot? You look like you work out.”

It’d be flirtatious in any other context - and maybe it still is, in this one - but there’s this matter-of-fact way that she says it that makes it slightly hilarious. You don’t know where you’re going but at least you’re getting somewhere. “Yeah, pretty often.”