Chapter Text
HARMONY
The bar was empty at this hour, soaked in a syrupy kind of silence that clung to the velvet booths and mirrored walls. Dust danced in the shafts of light filtering through the blackout curtains, casting lazy shadows over abandoned feather boas left draped like sleeping cats across the stage's edge.
That was when I saw her.
She stood alone on the stage—no spotlight, no sequins, no crowd to devour her with cheers. Just her. Track pants slung low on her hips, a black tank clinging to her dancer's frame. The bleached mullet haloed her sharp face like she'd walked straight out of a punk-rock fever dream. Her bare arms gleamed with sweat, tattoos shifting like secrets as she moved.
She was lip-syncing to "Pretty Please" by Dutch Melrose. But it wasn't just a rehearsal. It was a performance. Every beat throbbed through her hips, every flick of her wrist told a story I didn't yet know. She moved with that dangerous kind of confidence—the kind that wasn't for anyone else. Like she danced only to feel something, not to be seen. And yet I saw her.
My heart stuttered. My breath caught. My jaw, humiliatingly, dropped.
Who was she?
"Thats Edith," came Louis' voice from behind me—soft, amused.
The sound jolted me out of the trance, but only just. I turned to him, blinking like I'd been dragged from a dream. He was grinning, one perfectly sculpted brow arched, arms folded as he leaned against the wall like he'd been waiting for my reaction.
"That's Edith Levi," he said again, as if the name alone explained everything.
"Louis!" I piped up after a second of stunned, slack-jawed processing. Then I launched myself at him, arms flung around his glitter-dusted shoulders like a manic fairy had possessed me.
"Hey bitch!" he squealed, squeezing me back with all the drama of a camp resurrection. "God, you smell like vanilla and existential panic. I missed you too!"
I laughed into the crook of his neck, clinging tighter than I meant to. He smelled like expensive perfume and cheap gin, like backstage hairspray and secrets whispered between lipstick reapplications.
"I cannot believe you're here," I mumbled, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. "You look—wait. Is that latex?"
He held out a leg, posing dramatically. "Technically pleather, but thank you for noticing. This ass hasn't breathed since six o'clock."
His eyes sparkled behind lashes so long they should've come with a warning. "And you, Miss Brisbane Runaway? You just stroll into La Pervette, throw your coat on a chair, and steal my heart all over again?"
"I needed a job," I said, grinning. "And apparently you needed an emotional support waitress."
He gasped, scandalized. "Excuse me, I am the emotional support around here. You're here to smile, serve cocktails, and look hot in sequins."
"Sequins?" I arched a brow.
"Sequins or death, darling." He tossed a hand toward the bar like he was blessing it. "That's the rule. And speaking of death—"
He jerked his chin toward the stage.
I followed his gaze.
Edith was still dancing. Still lip-syncing like the stage was hers and the world should be grateful.
"—don't let that face fool you," Louis said. "She's terrifying. Like, gorgeous, broody, hot-as-hell terrifying."
"Lotta would've been here to introduce herself—she's super picky about new staff—but I showed her your socials and she has full faith you can hold your own," Louis said, steering me toward a stool at the bar like I was fragile cargo in need of gentle seating.
I perched nervously, crossing my ankles like I was back in a school assembly. "I hope my artist one?" I asked slowly, dread curling in my gut like overripe fruit.
Louis winced.
"Okay, well." He dragged the word out like a band-aid being pulled from a hairy leg. "I might have shown her both."
"Louis!"
"I had to! The thirst traps were essential context." He fanned himself dramatically. "Gotta show her the full scope of your skill set, darling. Range. Versatility. Ass."
I dropped my head into my hands with a groan, my ponytail falling forward like a curtain of shame. I had thirsts and rants on my private.
He cackled. "Relax, she loved it. Said, and I quote, 'At least she's not boring.' Which is the highest praise Lotta gives anyone who isn't covered in velvet and dripping in rhinestones."
I peeked at him through my fingers. "You're trouble."
"I'm your fairy godmother , actually. You're welcome."
We both turned at the sound of a soft thud—a stool knocked sideways on the stage. Edith had finished. She stood with her back to us, head tilted down, breathing hard, like she'd just danced something out of her that didn't want to leave. For a moment, she didn't move. Just stood there, statuesque in sweat and silence.
Then she looked up.
Right at me.
The stare hit like a thrown blade—sharp, unflinching, and impossible to dodge. I straightened without meaning to. My skin buzzed like I'd touched a socket. Her hazel eyes scanned me, lingered, then moved on like she hadn't just rearranged my bones with a glance.
"She doesn't talk much," Louis murmured beside me. "But when she does, it's either hot or horrifying."
"Great," I whispered back, throat dry.
"She also doesn't date."
"Wasn't asking."
"Uh huh." He grinned, smug and knowing. "Sure, Harmony."
I elbowed him, but it lacked conviction. Because even as I turned away, even as Louis launched into a breakdown of the drink menu and what not to touch in the staff fridge, I couldn't stop thinking about her.
The way she danced like no one was watching.
And the way, somehow, she knew I was.
"Come on!" Louis said, springing off the barstool with theatrical flair. "I'll show you around!"
He grabbed my hand before I could protest, tugging me off the stool and into a tour that felt more like being swept into a musical number. His heels clicked with authority on the polished floor, and I had to half-jog to keep up.
"This—" he announced, arms flung wide like a game-show host, "is the main arena. The Colosseum. The belly of the glitter-drenched beast."
We stood in the heart of La Pervette: a velvet-and-mirror wonderland. The bar curved like a sensual spine, gleaming with bottles and fairy lights. The cabaret seating spilled out around the stage in half-moon booths, all plush velvet and gold trim. Each table held a tiny lamp with a red silk shade, casting the kind of low light that made everyone look like a scandal waiting to happen.
To the left, near the wall of mirrors, sat a cluster of low, intimate couches—arranged like gossip circles from hell. Lipstick-stained wine glasses and crumpled napkins still littered a few tables from the night before. A feathered fan lay abandoned on one seat like it had simply given up.
"This is where the heartbreak happens," Louis said solemnly, gesturing to the couches. "The drag fights, the eye-fucks, the breakups, the accidental threesomes. Sometimes all at once."
"Noted," I said, trying not to stare at the lipstick on one of the wineglasses. It was shaped like a kiss and vaguely threatening.
He looped his arm through mine and steered me down a dim hallway. "Bathrooms are here. Don't use the second stall—it's haunted. Or leaking. Honestly, hard to tell."
I made a face.
"You'll get used to it," he said cheerfully. "Or you won't. Either way, keep hand sanitizer on you at all times and never trust a queen who says she 'cleaned up.'"
We turned another corner and arrived at a door covered in glitter stickers, cracked mirrors, and a faded sign that read: Dressing Room – No Crying Unless It's Sparkly.
Louis threw it open with a flourish.
Inside was organized chaos. The giant backstage dressing room was lit by too many bulbs, all buzzing faintly. Racks of sequined costumes, feather boas, leather harnesses, and lace corsets lined the walls. Vanities overflowed with makeup, lashes, rhinestones, and half-empty bottles of hairspray. The air smelled like powder, sweat, and citrus vodka.
A velvet couch sat squished between two racks, sagging in the middle like it had heard too many secrets. An ancient-looking coffee machine coughed quietly in the corner. Someone had written I WILL CRY IF I WANT TO in eyeliner above the sink.
"This," Louis said, sighing fondly, "is where the magic happens. And by magic, I mean quick changes, meltdowns, and emergency tequila shots."
I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. "It's perfect."
He grinned. "Of course it is. Welcome to the chaos, Harmony"
Edith appeared from behind a stack of lockers like she'd materialized out of smoke and mirrors. Her black tank top was slung casually over her shoulder, and she looked like she'd just stepped out of a fever dream photo shoot for Punk Witch Magazine. Her bare chest gleamed with sweat—no, glitter. Or maybe both. It caught the dressing room lights like stage magic, clinging to her collarbones, trailing down between the sharp cut of her ribs.
And her breasts—Jesus.
Perky, unapologetic, absolutely there, and pierced through with silver rings that glinted like tiny moons. Her tattoos sprawled across her chest and down her arms, a symphony of ink—snakes, anatomical hearts, safety pins, constellations I didn't recognize. It was the kind of body that told stories without ever needing to open its mouth.
My brain short-circuited. I meant to look away. I really did.
But my eyes lingered one second too long.
"Oh," I blurted, voice cracking with the grace of a dying instrument. "Sorry!" I spun around so fast I nearly knocked over a rolling rack of fishnets and fringe. My cheeks burned. My soul left the chat.
Edith didn't seem fazed. She walked toward the vanity like I hadn't just mentally melted into the floorboards, snatching a towel and dabbing at her chest with deliberate, unfussed movements.
"Great find, Lou," she said, tossing the compliment over her shoulder like it weighed nothing.
Louis lit up like a disco ball. "I know, right? Isn't she the cutest little existential crisis in a dress?"
Edith turned just enough to glance at me sideways, one brow lifting.
"Where'd you find this one? Disneyland?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, flailing in my mind for something witty, sharp, not humiliating. Instead I squeaked out, "Technically I was working at a play café, so... kinda."
Louis lost it—bent double laughing.
Edith didn't smile. But something about the corner of her mouth twitched. Barely. Like the ghost of amusement passed through her.
"Hmm," she said. "Figures."
Then she turned back to the mirror, picked up her eyeliner, and began painting sharp, perfect wings on her already-perfect eyes like I hadn't just seen her nipples, died inside, and been reborn as a clown.
Louis nudged me with a grin. "She likes you."
"I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm twelve."
"Bitch, no one could think that with your assets," Louis said, slapping my ass like we were backstage at a Vegas revue.
I squeaked, more in mortification than protest, but he just winked and kept talking like it was a perfectly normal part of onboarding.
"So what's your talent then, Disney?" Edith asked, still facing the mirror as she swiped black across her waterline.
My stomach dropped.
Was Disney gonna be my nickname?
I really, really hoped not.
"Oh," I said, flustered. "I sing."
"Figures." She said it without turning, like the answer was both expected and underwhelming.
I blinked. "I mean, I perform too—cabaret, mostly. Burlesque, sometimes."
No response.
Just the delicate scratch of eyeliner pencil against skin and the low hum of bulbs buzzing like tiny, judgmental bees.
Undeterred—or pretending to be—I took a small step forward, still holding onto the faint, possibly delusional hope that friendliness might work.
"I really love the space," I said softly. "It feels like... I don't know. Like it's got a soul or something."
Edith capped her eyeliner and finally turned. Her eyes were like stormclouds—calm, cold, and ready to strike. "It's a bar."
I flushed. "Right. Yeah. Of course."
Edith stared at me for a second too long—long enough for my brain to spiral and rebuild itself into something smaller. Something bite-sized and manageable. Then she turned back to the mirror without another word, as if my existence had already outlived its usefulness.
Louis gave me a look like yikes, but also delicious, and flounced to one of the vanities, humming something vaguely threatening under his breath.
"Baby cheeks," Louis cooed, slipping effortlessly back into his role as my flamboyant emotional support animal. "You can take the spot next to mine."
He gestured grandly to the empty vanity beside his—wedged between his glitter-explosion setup and a wall of wigs that looked like they were plotting something. The counter was wiped clean, the mirror still smudged with someone else's mascara tears. But it was mine now. A little patch of chaos in the kingdom of queer glamour.
I nodded, grateful, and moved toward it with a nervous kind of reverence. Like maybe if I sat still enough, smiled wide enough, breathed soft enough, I wouldn't rattle the fragile backstage ecosystem I'd just stepped into.
As I slid onto the stool, I risked another glance toward Edith. She was leaning close to her own mirror, dragging a comb through the damp parts of her bleach-blond mullet, like every strand had personally wronged her. Her ribs still glistened faintly from sweat or glitter or witchcraft, and the tattoos along her arms shifted with every movement like they were alive.
"Hey," I tried, gently. "Do you want the fan on?"
She didn't look at me.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
For a second, I thought she hadn't heard me.
Then she said, flat as a cutting board, "If I wanted the fan on, it would be on."
Oh.
Cool.
Excellent.
I nodded a little too quickly and turned back to my mirror, heart jackhammering in my chest like I'd just asked her to borrow a tampon in prison.
Louis appeared behind me in the reflection, chin resting on his hands like a proud mom at a recital. "Don't take it personally. That's just how Edith says welcome to the family."
"I think she wants to burn me alive."
"She probably does," Louis said brightly, rifling through his makeup bag. "But she'll do it stylishly. In docs."
I reached for my own bag and started setting out what little I'd brought—lipstick, compact, some eyeshadow palettes I'd rescued from my life back in Brisbane. As I unpacked, I kept sneaking glances at Edith, hoping for a flicker of softness. A smile. A nod. Anything.
Nothing.
She lined her lips like she was preparing for battle.
So I tried again.
"I really loved that number you were doing before," I said, softly, trying not to sound like I was gushing. "The Dutch Melrose song. You moved like—" I paused, fumbling. "Like the music was dragging you under and you were letting it."
Her eyes flicked to mine in the mirror.
Just once.
Like a blade slicing through butter.
"Stop watching me," she said, calm as a guillotine drop.
I flushed so hard I thought my ears would combust. "I—I wasn't. I mean, I was. But not like—like in a creepy way—"
"Everyone watches." She capped her lipstick. "You're not special."
I stared at the mirror. My reflection stared back—soft cheeks, hopeful eyes, heart in my goddamn hands.
I let out a breath and nodded again, trying to keep my voice from wobbling.
"Okay," I whispered.
Then I smiled. Not for her. For me.
Because I could be sweet.
But I wasn't soft.
I'd worked cafe shifts hungover and glittered. I'd danced through heartbreaks and strapped on heels through grief. And I had survived Brisbane.
So if Edith Levi wanted to be a stormcloud, that was fine.
I'd be the sun.
Right next to her.
Every damn day.
"All the BookTok girlies come in for Edith," Louis said, rifling through my makeup bag like a raccoon with high standards. He held up my concealer, squinted at the label, then gave me a slow approving nod. "She does drag. Like, drag king drag."
I would have said that was cool.
I wanted to say that was cool.
Normally I'd have squealed, clapped, asked what kind of numbers she did, maybe made a joke about fake moustaches and internalized gender envy. But instead, I just pressed my lips together and nodded.
Because she'd slightly pissed me off.
No—correction—she'd fully pissed me off.
I was trying. I was trying so hard to be nice. Sunshine. Sweetheart. Polite new girl energy. And she'd hit me with the emotional equivalent of a slammed door and a middle finger.
Rude.
The attitude was not called for. I didn't care how hot she was, or how hot she thought she was—which, let's be real, was probably a lot. Because that? That was dramatic starlet energy. Like she thought she was the main act and we were all lucky to orbit her glitter-sweaty solar system.
I wasn't here to fawn. I wasn't here to beg for her approval like some wide-eyed cabaret intern desperate for a nod of validation from the queen of eyeliner sharpness.
I was here to work.
And maybe find a little joy. Make something beautiful. Start again.
So I took my lip gloss from Louis's hands, uncapped it, and applied it with slow, steady precision. Peachy shimmer, high shine. Deliberate. Sweet. Unbothered.
"Well," Louis said, patting my shoulder with the gentle theatricality of someone sending their child off to war, "I'll let you settle, sort yourself! I'll be at the bar doing stock, so come through when you're ready and I'll show you the tech system and how to send through any audio files and stuff—there's a rack there with your name on it for any costumes you might have."
He paused in the doorway, one hand on the glittered frame. "And don't worry about Her Royal Ice Bitch. She warms up eventually. I think."
Then he flounced out, humming something off-key and dramatic, and the room fell into silence.
Not cozy silence.
Awkward, sharp silence.
The kind that made you hyper-aware of your breathing and the sound of every zipper, every drawer click, every brush being set too gently on the table.
The kind of silence that sat between me and Edith like a wall I couldn't knock down, climb over, or set on fire without HR getting involved.
I turned to my vanity and began unpacking with almost obsessive care.
I had a thing for organization.
Not in the cutesy Pinterest way—but in the this is how I stay sane way.
If I didn't do it now—meticulously, deliberately—it would stay a mess forever.
The chaos would grow like mold, like a parasite in sequins, and every time I clocked in I'd feel it clawing at me.
So I let my hands move on instinct:
Lipsticks in chromatic order.
Brushes upright in a rinsed-out peanut butter jar I'd spray-painted pink.
Mini sewing kit to the left.
Perfume to the right.
Glitter puffs in a container I'd labelled with a sticker that read: EMERGENCY GAY DUST.
Behind me, Edith didn't say a word.
She didn't look at me.
Didn't acknowledge my presence beyond her earlier glare.
She just kept brushing out her hair with slow, deliberate strokes like she was thinking about something sharp and cruel and beautiful, and I was none of those things.
Fine.
I pulled out a few small costume pieces and draped them across the vanity:
A lilac mesh robe with pearl beading.
A black bustier with detachable sheer sleeves.
A sequinned shrug that caught the light like a disco ball having a breakdown.
They were all well-loved, slightly camp, unapologetically me.
Soft and a little silly. Sweet, with edges. Sunshine dipped in sugar and corset boning.
I hung them carefully on a portable rack by the wall—my name already labelled in curly black marker on a star-shaped tag.
It felt real now.
I was here.
I was in.
I turned back toward the mirror and adjusted the angle slightly. Just enough to catch a glimpse of her. Edith. Still painting her face in silence, like it was war paint. Or maybe armor. Or both.
And when I dared to glance in her direction, her eyes met mine in the reflection.
Not soft.
Not friendly.
Not cruel.
Just... unreadable.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And then, finally, she said—flat and effortless—
"You hang that robe like you're in a Disney Channel coming-of-age montage."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
She didn't even smile. "You know. 'New girl in the big city, montage music plays, cue slow motion robe hanging.'"
My lips parted. "That is—rude. And specific."
"Accurate, though," she said, tossing her eyeliner into her makeup bag without looking.
"I always felt like I gave Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen," I bubbled, slapping on my brightest smile like warpaint. It was the kind of smile that could steam clean a grudge, charm a Karen, or at the very least, disarm one moody cabaret tech bitch.
I was gonna be so nice to her, it would kill her.
Edith looked at me, deadpan.
Then she huffed.
Not a sigh. Not a scoff.
A huff.
Like air escaping against her will.
Was that... was that a laugh?
I blinked.
She turned back to the mirror a little too fast, like maybe she didn't want me to see it—but I saw the tiniest tug at the corner of her mouth. A twitch. A crack in the ice queen casing. I wanted to throw a confetti cannon in victory.
"God," she muttered, pulling her lips taut as she lined them with near-clinical precision, "you're one of those girls."
"A straight girl," she scoffed, dragging her lip liner along her bottom lip with surgical disdain. "Hoping for a gay best friend."
I blinked at her. "What the fuck?"
She didn't look at me. Just smoothed the liner with her thumb, completely calm in her smug little misread of my entire existence.
Did I really give off that energy?
Was the lip gloss too shiny? Was the pastel cardigan a betrayal? Was my face just... cursed with heterosexual vibes?
I stared at her through the mirror, stunned. A little insulted. A lot aroused.
The last time I'd even been near a cis straight man was when I was fifteen and still thought a hoodie was enough to make someone interesting. One single awkward date. One nervous kiss that tasted like energy drink and disappointment. One glimpse of a penis under trackpants and—
Yeah. That was enough.
Trauma.
Canon event.
The moment I knew I liked pussy and only pussy.
I was a lesbian through and through—certified, sanctified, and spiritually verified by every bad Tinder date, queer heartbreak, and sapphic playlist I'd ever cried to in the shower. I hadn't touched a dick in a decade, unless you counted the one in my strap drawer.
So when she said it—that smug little straight-girl jab—I didn't even flinch.
I plastered on a smile. All teeth. No warmth.
"Wow!" I chirped, syrupy sweet. "Thanks for the very inaccurate read. You sound like my mother."
It slipped out—too fast, too sharp—but I didn't take it back. My tone was still technically friendly, but the words landed with the precision of a stiletto heel to the neck.
Edith paused. Her lip liner hovered mid-air, half a breath from her mouth. Then she blinked. Just once. A slow, deliberate blink like a feline reassessing a threat.
"Unfortunately, I'm just a dyke," I smiled at her, voice sugar-sweet and glitter-sharp.
Edith's brow twitched. Her head tilted slightly, like she wasn't sure if she'd heard me right—or if she liked that she had.
"You're a lesbian?" she said, flat as ever, but there was something under it now. Not warmth exactly. Curiosity, maybe. A hairline crack in the cool.
"Much to my very religious parents' disdain," I said breezily, snapping my compact shut. "You should've seen my mum's face when I came out. Like I'd pissed in the holy water."
A beat.
Then another.
Then Edith let out a sound I hadn't heard from her yet—a real one.
A laugh.
Sharp, short, surprised.
"Nice," she said, almost like a compliment. "God trauma. Classic."
I leaned my chin in my hand, suddenly braver. "Got any?"
Edith didn't answer right away.
She uncapped her mascara like it owed her money, leaned in toward the mirror, and blinked once—long lashes meeting the wand like they'd choreographed the moment.
Then she said it, deadpan: "Strict Vietnamese grandparents."
It was a confession and a threat. A badge of honour and a battle scar. She said it like it explained everything, and maybe it did.
I placed a hand over my heart and gasped like I'd just been personally victimised by the queer trauma gods. "Wait—you're a lesbian too?"
She blinked at me in the mirror. Just once. Then—
A smile.
Not a big one.
Not even a full one.
But the corner of her mouth tugged upward like it had forgotten how and was just now remembering.
Holy shit. I got through to her.
I straightened a little in my seat, resisting the urge to pump my fist in victory like a Disney underdog who just got noticed by the cool skater girl in the hallway.
She didn't say anything else. Just finished her mascara, tossed the wand into her bag like she'd won the war, and said, casually:
"Don't make it weird."
"Oh," I said, biting back a grin. "I would never."