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It's loud in the bar on performance nights, and sometimes Kinjou wishes he could put earplugs in to drown out the noise.
He can't, though, not unless he wants to be plucking one in and out constantly while parsing drink orders. Kinjou is too much of a stickler for efficiency to allow his work performance to drop for something so paltry as the good of his hearing. And besides, it's part of his schtick to guess orders – cosmopolitan, long island ice tea, shot of whiskey taken straight, offering his supposition with just the beginnings of a smile as the customer keeps their words perched right on the tip of their tongue. He can't do that with his ears closed.
(And he's been told by his boss to push the bar's specialty drinks, so it's part of that schtick, too. 'Mmm, let me guess, you were thinking about a screwdriver? You should hear about our bar's spin on sex on the beach. We use gray goose vodka – it's very smooth, and hm, if you like that orange flavor, you'll love this.')
Worse, if Kinjou plugged his ears, he'd miss all the best performances.
The bar is busy on karaoke Thursdays. Kinjou makes good tips, constantly mixing drinks, making suggestions, and chatting with the half-drunk patrons who care to engage him in between his pouring waters and plucking out napkins and refilling the tray of indeterminate party mix which he's certain cannot be sanitary – and he's the one who stocks it, from a plastic jug he suspects was meant to store cat food. In between all the hustle, he has no choice but to hear the musical stylings of the crowd.
There's a woman who comes in most weeks who sings nothing but Madonna. Her voice is clear as a bell, high and haughty and confident enough to do the music proud. Kinjou knows it's her every time the opening bars of "Like A Virgin" begin to play.
There's an old man who comes in once a month at most, whose voice is gravely and rough and who always gets boos and shouting from the revolving crowd of college kids who drop in once through the door to try their bar and never return again. But every night that he's there, he cues up "Piano Man" and sings it with such heartfelt passion that Kinjou can't help but pause in what he's doing and begin to listen. As Billy Joel himself once said, "It's all about soul," which Kinjou can vouch that old gentleman has in spades.
And then there's the kid who comes in every week like clockwork – not very good, not especially musically gifted, but flashy enough to make up for it. He sings Aerosmith and AC/DC and Queen, picking big, popular songs he can shout along with and pump up the rowdier members of the crowd into singing with him. He's breathless whenever he comes off the stage (Kinjou has heard him wheeze into the mic once or twice, to the sound of awful feedback and booing from the same crowds who were just cheering along with him), and he always comes right to the bar after his number.
"Bartender," he always says. "Get me a drink."
"Show me your ID," Kinjou returns, good-natured but professional.
"Spoilsport," Naruko says, dragging one of the stools closer and hopping to sit up on it. "I was singing my heart out up there! Working for the people! C'mon, man, I deserve that drink."
"I'll pour you a glass of water," Kinjou says, already reaching under the counter for a glass from the racks.
Naruko rolls his eyes, but then he's grinning, shaking his head like it's a good joke Kinjou has pulled over on him. Kinjou supposes, after so many repetitions, that maybe it is. He fills the glass with seven-up instead of water, and squirts in just enough grenadine to stain the soda red.
Naruko's face lights up as Kinjou slides the drink across the bartop, and something caught tense in Kinjou's chest begins to unwind. Naruko drinks deep from the glass as Kinjou fields a different patron's order, before gasping sharp and and slapping the half-drained glass back down on the bar.
"That's on me," Kinjou points out, nodding toward the drink. "Consider it payment for your public service."
"Hah!" Naruko laughs, grinning wider than before and leaning in across the counter. "You're going soft. One of these days you're gonna give in, and then I'll get that drink."
"Maybe," Kinjou allows. "One of these days, you'll give me an ID I can serve to, and then I'll have no choice."
"Spoilsport," Naruko says again. "Where's the fun, if I can't wile one out of you? C'mon captain, admiral, keeper of the Cristal—"
"Kinjou," Kinjou reminds him, before he can get any further, and then, "We don't even stock Cristal here."
"Whatever," Naruko says. "The point is, I'm like, your best customer or something. When am I gonna get a little VIP treatment around here? When'll it be Naruko's time to shine, and drink wine?"
"Mmm, not until after this order, at the earliest," Kinjou says, moving past Naruko's place at the bar to serve a different customer.
It gives him the opportunity to hide the smile he's sure he shouldn't be wearing, smoothing his amusement over into the polished salesperson veneer that earns him all his best tips. His hands are practiced as they pour and mix, quick to offer up any drink requested of him. He's aware of Naruko just behind him, sipping at his Shirley Temple and turning in his seat just enough to watch the stage.
He's equally aware that he should be telling Naruko to knock it off with pushing for alcohol, when they both know he isn't yet of age. Kinjou never does. He has no difficulty sidestepping Naruko's demands, and why should he put a stop to the routine, when it's as Naruko says – where's the fun in anything else?
(It's not that he's going lax, not that he's giving Naruko any special treatment, never anything like that.)
Kinjou takes a moment to watch Naruko in between customers, while his attention is riveted on the latest performer and he's directing none of his boundless energy Kinjou's way. There's an intensity to him even at rest, with his bright red hair standing out even from the dim of the bar and his body held tight as an arrow drawn back against a bowstring, perpetually ready to leap into motion, and Kinjou is certain he's only the latest of tough targets Naruko has chosen to batter himself against.
"Are you doing another song?" he asks, so Naruko's attention snaps and again rivets on him. "Or has the public not earned another service?"
Naruko shrugs. "There's a hell of a wait tonight, y'know, but that's never been enough to stop me. Since you've gotten me almost socially lubricated—" He pats his now-empty glass . "—maybe I'll give this audience an encore."
"I wonder what they'd do, if you missed a Thursday," Kinjou says.
"Probably pour one out for me," Naruko shoots back, "and assume that I died. It'd be such a damn shame! You'd finally pour me a drink, and I wouldn't even be here to appreciate it."
Kinjou laughs, the sound startled out of him by Naruko's sheer tenacity. "Maybe I'll pour one in your honor, after I get off my shift."
"Really?" Naruko says, eyes brightening up as he leans too far forward across the bar. "You're the best fuckin' barkeep in the world, and hey, no one's telling if you're off-duty, am I righ—"
"Not for you," Kinjou cuts in. "For myself. After the, hm, 'customer service' I've provided to you, I think I will have earned it. And in that situation, who else would I drink to?"
Naruko deflates as fast as he'd puffed up, folding his arms on the bar and sinking back down onto them. He shoots Kinjou a reproachful look. "That's not even spoiling, that's just being a jerk."
Kinjou pauses for a long, thoughtful moment, expression bland and unapologetic. When he speaks again, it's more carefully than he lets on, "Of course, you could still meet me after work. For some, watching a man drink is nearly as satisfying as imbibing himself."
"God, Kinjou, you're such as ass," Naruko says. But he's grinning again, pushing up from the bar. "So what are you drinking? If you're not sharing, at least get fucking smashed for me."
That something curled up tense in Kinjou's chest eases just a little bit looser.
"I hadn't decided," Kinjou says. His hands are reaching under the counter for another glass. "And I wasn't planning on drinking heavily. These things are best in moderation."
"Fuck moderation," Naruko declares, with vehemence. "Drink till you're drunk, sing till you're stupid, and party till you're dead!"
Kinjou slides a second Shirley Temple onto the bar in front of Naruko, and is gratified when Naruko immediately grasps fingers around it and pulls the glass close. He comments again, "Free of charge."
"You're the best!" Naruko says, before sucking down half of it. "I gotta go put in my next song request in a sec, but — I'll meet you at the back door if you get busy, yeah? My public awaits."
Kinjou cracks a smile back, just the upturned corner of half of his mouth, looking on as Naruko polishes off the rest of his drink and pushes up from his stool. He's off like a shot with no more than a wave over his shoulder, leaving Kinjou to collect the empty glasses left to accumulate along the bar.
He isn't planning on drinking heavily, but knowing what Naruko is like when it's only in five minute bursts, he wonders whether he'll feel driven to. And — he realizes, all at once and only after the moment has passed, that he really has made an overture at someone whom he'd been uncertain for months about whether they'd been hitting on him. He's uncertain even still.
Kinjou isn't planning on drinking heavily, but he finds that he is entirely looking forward to the chance.
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