Does it have to be this dark in here?

Pinpricks of topaz, amethyst, and chrysoprase dot the ceiling like fine-cut stars, but with the house lights out, shadow consumes the masked and painted faces surrounding me. Carefully crafted homages and stiff, die-punched facades blur together in a sea of indistinct bodies, writhing to the amateur cover band.  

Somehow, there’s a waist-high sheen, highlighting the display of bared thoraxes, stacked cleavages, and rotating hips. Guess we know what the judges consider for the costume contest.  

It’s a cheap grogshop on Loxirus night; what did I expect? 

I shouldn’t have come here. The sign out front proclaims I’ve found the best cruising spot in three light-years, but whoever carved that lie can kiss my speckled ass. I spent hours plaiting my fins into a reasonable facsimile of Chura the Nilo’s feathered mane, yet gave no thought to my décolletage. The Rigolian dancing next to me draped cheap beads over three rows of tits. My efforts are wasted on this crowd.  

Where the song should build a melodic climax, the house musicians send the tempo crescendoing towards 5/8 chaos, and the faceless torsos surrounding me capitulate. Beads and accessories whip about, clacking into one another. My defenses fly up, scales flaring, as I try to creep away from multiple directions at once. My head’s spinning too fast to absorb anything I see, so I flop into shoulder after shoulder. I trod incautiously on a dangling tail, and the Weflurian attached to it yowls with triumvirate windpipes. The masses love this idea too, and every throat opens wide. Their combined effort out-cacophonizes the band.  

With another twist and turn, my elbow hits the copper edge of the bar. I haul myself in what seems to be the safest direction without looking and slam into something solid. Glass smashes, the cartilage in my legs wobbles, and my whole dorsum gets wet.  

“Fuck! Hold still!” A webbed hand wraps around my waist and steadies me under a rain of soft pelts, like a barrage of rags thrown at my scythe to dry me. It’s not my style to listen, but a tongue of flame flits down my sleeve, only to be extinguished by a towel snap. When the beating stops and the grip loosens, I’m left staring at a puddle of sticky confusion.  

I whip toward whatever that was. Potentially the biggest mistake of the evening, but I have to know what just happened. 

Standing behind me is the best rendition of Stura I’ve ever seen. Anger fades from the thickly lined eyes, and real cheekbones distort the amber and carnelian snout makeup. It’s all I can do to wave and twirl into Chura’s characteristic curtsy.  

My counterpart hops and reaches out to me, answering in cartoon dance steps. I can’t tell if the feathers are real, but they look amazing, precisely fixed to mimic Stura’s exaggerated coif.  

“I wasn’t watching—” 

“—but it was a flaming cocktail!” 

“—should’ve paid more attention—” 

“—hope you’re okay.” 

 We huddle together laughing and shift into adjoining barstools. Between the lighting and cell-shaded paint, I can’t tell, but Stura’s smile seems cute.  

“I’m sorry about your shirt.” E gestures helplessly, then turns the movement into a salute to the robotic bartender, who pulls out two tumblers and begins mixing.  

“I wasn’t watching where I was going.” I chew my bottom lip. 

“It was my fault,” we offer in unison as the bot deposits the new drinks. I laugh despite the dancing flames. 

“Loxirus special.” E nods at the topaz concoctions. “Good thing your fins are all up.” E wraps eir arms around me, drawing me in close, and reaches for the nape of my neck. Eir fingers flutter across my scales, sending trills as e checks for damage.  

“Yeah,” I breathe against eir cheek, making em shiver. My fingers flex toward the feathers, tempted to test their texture. “And I was beginning to think the costume was a waste of time.”  

E leans back just far enough to scan my face, hands streaming down my dorsum. “I think you look great.” 

My face tightens; I must be glowing phenolithic, but e doesn’t flinch or pull away.  

Instead, e smiles again, lopsided and toothy. “Chura and Stura are never a waste of time. Haven’t disappointed me since they taught me to count.” 

 “My favorites were the science segments. Naming the stars, watching experiments!” I slap eir chest without thinking. “Remember the eclipse episodes?” 

Eir eyes flare wide enough to glow sapphire, and e catches my hand, not seeming to mind. “Some of the most fun you can have in the dark.” 

My mouth opens, but my voice catches. The comment hangs, begging me to mention other fun dark-time activities. The glow dances playfully, suggesting e’s fighting the same temptation.  

Out of ideas, I snag my drink, its flaming topper trailing into smoke, and raise it. “To Chura and Stura?” 

E picks up eir own glass and clinks the side of my cup. “May their example continue to bring us wisdom and happiness.” E upends it, downing the elixir, and I follow suit, skimming the sweetness and letting the burn flow to my core.  

As soon as the empty tumblers clank against the counter, e slides out of the barstool and sashays three steps to the right. Every episode ends with the same animation; I know these dance steps by heart. Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right; my blood thickens with each step. We skip and hop in tightening circles that lead us to each other’s arms. Eir hands skim my fins as e dips me, sending waves of anticipation to tickle my scales. I know the kiss is coming, but that does nothing to quell its explosive impact.  

Editor: Seth Corry