Shotaro was looking. He wouldn’t be looking for any other reason. Eunseok asked Wonbin if he knew to which Wonbin replied, “How should I know?” Suffice to say, he knew.

Shotaro figured out when Eunseok faked a stomach virus after a long weekend of boozing and had offered, squeezing Eunseok’s bicep like an old friend, to help him keep it a secret from their boss. His preternatural ability to know everybody’s business and stay out of it for the most part was impressive — when Wonbin submerged himself into every customer’s drama, getting wet-eyed and empathetic when throngs of drunk clients told him about cheating boyfriends sending dick pics to their best friends, Shotaro soaked it all up surreptitiously, but Eunseok was different.

Eunseok worked in peace for two hours. Two hours, then deft-on-his-feet-never-clumsy Shotaro managed to spill a cocktail shaker’s worth of ice down Eunseok’s black t-shirt. Wonbin glanced over his shoulder from the other corner of the bar, nodding along to somebody’s woes while he tried to look at the recipe for an espresso martini on his phone, but didn’t react. Shotaro blurted out an apology, mostly to the client, and found Sion looking aimless to shove onto screwdriver duty.

Naturally, Eunseok refused to take his t-shirt off in the backroom.

“It’s not against policy,” he said. “Wonbin said.”

Shotaro shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“I don’t care either.” He met Shotaro’s eye, grinning and hungry. “For your information.”

“Just take off your shirt and I’ll get you a new one.”

“It’ll dry off,” Eunseok said, glancing down. Shirt on or off no longer mattered.

He looked at Shotaro. Shotaro looked down, then up at him. Shotaro’s fingers were long and delicate and quick, offering no more than one slight flick to Eunseok’s left nipple as his bracelets jingled lightly.

“They’re not healed,” Eunseok said.

“Spit is sanitary,” Shotaro laughed.

“Literally shut up,” he said, still blushing to his ears. “What? You’re going to tell me that our boss can’t find out about these?”

“No,” he said. “I wondered who it was for.”

“Not for you.”

“Obviously.”

“And not for Wonbin.”

“I never even suggested that.”

“So for myself,” he said. “Being a bartender is gay and e-sports has failed me, so I’m considering all my options.” Eunseok bit his lip but he was mainly teasing; this stuff didn’t come naturally to him. He was attractive to who he was attractive to and everyone else found him various shades of greasy, occasionally a megalomaniac, and beyond saving, even for all the candles and Divine Mercies in the Vatican. “And anyway, I’ve heard shit about you.”

“Like what?” Shotaro laughed.

“Things,” Eunseok said.

“My reputation’s squeaky-clean…” Shotaro scratched the back of his neck. “...Aren’t you the kid with pierced nipples and a habit of jerking off his coworkers for a Get Out Of Jail Free card?”

Eunseok stuck out his tongue.

“Let me see them,” Shotaro said.

“For how long?”

“One second for every minute you’ve been late to work this week.”

“Not fair,” Eunseok said. He rolled up his shirt anyway. The bars were small, simple silver, nothing gaudy or out of his realm of non-existent style, and his nipples were a little swollen from the studs. Shotaro ran his hands across Eunseok’s bony chest but refused to make contact with the piercings. Even the proximity was tender. “Ah, be careful, it’s seriously sore…And I only jerked you off because I chose to, OK?”

“Not Sion? Not Wonbin?”

“Not Wonbin because that’s sick,” Eunseok said. “And not Sion because I think we look too alike.”

“Like hot twins.”

“You are fucked up,” Eunseok said. He pushed Shotaro away just to pull his t-shirt off completely. “Seriously fucked up. Never speak to me again. I’m reporting you to the ombudsman or something. Ugh. Fifth-degree harassment.” Then he kissed him so hard their teeth knocked together and he could feel Shotaro’s smile up close. “Pervert. Hentai.”