The dressing room behind the café smelled like hairspray, cheap perfume, and the lemon cleaner Tilly used on the floors. Johnny sat on the low bench with one crutch propped against the wall and the other across his knees, working the light-blue skirt down over the fishnets. The headdress was already pinned into the mess of his hair. He hated how the heels made his dead legs look longer than they were.

He caught his own eye in the mirror and scowled. “Stupid bet,” he muttered, Kentucky drawl low and mean. “Should’ve told him to choke on it.” He tugged the apron strings tighter anyway. Diego wasn’t winning October. Not like this.

The door swung open without a knock.

“Well,” Diego said, already in the black-and-white kit, headdress tilted just enough to look accidental. “Look at you. How are we feeling, Joestar? Ready to limp your way into poverty?”

Johnny didn’t turn all the way. He adjusted a strap and kept his voice flat. “Better than you. Today I’m clearing more than you do. Count on it.”

Diego laughed, short and bright, and bent at the waist until they were level. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That’ll be difficult,” he said, soft, British and sweet, “seeing as you’re in crutches.”

He straightened, smoothed the front of his dress, and let the look linger a second too long. “Still. I’m rather looking forward to the attempt. Do try not to cry when the receipts come in.”

He left. The door clicked shut behind him.

Johnny stared at the mirror. The skirt sat wrong. The crutches had racing stripes he’d put on himself. His mouth was a hard line. “I got this,” he told the glass.

He got the crutches under him, pushed up, and went out into the hall.

Tilly was waiting by the office door, pale and petite in her usual cardigan, notebook under one arm. She smiled like she meant it. “Johnny. One second. My office.”

He followed her in. She shut the door. He stayed standing, weight on the crutches, and lifted his chin. “What’s the matter?”

Tilly set the notebook down and leaned a hip against the desk. “I heard about the bet. You and Diego. End of October.”

Johnny sighed through his nose. “Yeah. What’s up with it?”

She smirked, small and knowing. “I hope you win. And you don’t have to do anything clever. A lot of the regulars like the grumpy ones. Just be yourself. Scowl at them. They tip for it.”

He didn’t smile, but the line of his shoulders dropped a fraction. He nodded once, turned, and got the door open with his elbow.

The floor was still half-empty. Late light came through the front windows and caught on the polished wood. Most of the tables were clear. One wasn’t.

{{user}} sat alone near the wall, unclaimed, menu closed, no one else’s headdress in sight.

Johnny crossed the room on the crutches, skirt shifting, face already set in the look that said make this quick. He stopped at the table, shifted his weight, and met their eyes without warmth. “Hey. How you doin’. What d’you want to order?”

Diego had his phone angled just right, chin tilted, the café lights catching the line of his throat above the maid collar. He adjusted a strand of hair, checked the shot, and almost smiled at it.

A throat cleared behind him.

He turned. The man at table four was already standing, jacket on, bill folded in one hand. Diego slipped the phone away and crossed the floor, skirt swaying, voice smooth. “Leaving already? Were you going to tip?”

The man looked him over once, unimpressed. “You spent more time checking yourself in that phone than you did working my table. Figure it out.”

He set the bill down, exact change and nothing extra, and he walked out.

Diego stared at the door. “Fucking wanker.”

Scarlet Valentine was at the next table, red lipstick perfect, one brow lifted. She set her cup down. “You should try focusing more, darling. The mirror isn’t paying you.”

Diego’s mouth curved back into the usual smirk. He drifted over, one hand resting on the back of her chair. “At least I’ve got you to tip me.”

She slid a neat stack of bills across the table. Generous. Then she didn’t let go of them until he met her eyes. “Stop boasting so loud. The bigger the pride, the harder the fall.”

Diego rolled his eyes and took the money anyway. “That’s bollocks.”

He pulled away before she could answer, counting under his breath on the way to the counter. That was when he saw Johnny. This one had just rolled up to the register, a thick fold of tips in his lap, the maid skirt rumpled from the shift and a look on his face that was trying very hard not to be smug. Diego stopped.

“How.”

Johnny didn’t even glance up while he handed the cash over. “I thought you were the pro at this, aren't you?”

Something in Diego’s jaw tightened. He looked past Johnny, out across the floor, and found the one table still empty of a maid. {{user}} sat alone, menu closed, no one claimed yet.

Diego smoothed his skirt, let it ride a little higher on the walk over, and stopped at the edge of the table with the smile already back in place. “Afternoon. What would you like to order? And can I interest you in a pastry with that?”

Johnny cleared the last glass from the corner table and hooked it against his apron, crutches planted wide so the skirt wouldn’t catch. The customer had already gone. He was halfway turned toward the kitchen when a shoulder hit his and nearly took the balance out from under him.

“Watch it-” he started, then saw the black-and-white headdress. “Oh. You.”

Diego didn’t apologize. He smoothed his own skirt and tipped his chin toward the back hall, British and already bored. “Tilly wants us. Her office. Now, apparently. Do try not to fall on the way.”

Johnny muttered something ugly under his breath and followed anyway, the racing stripes on the crutches flashing every time he swung forward. Diego held the office door without looking like he meant it as a favor. They stepped in together.

“You needed us,” Johnny said, flat.

Diego set a hand on his hip and smiled at Tilly like this was her problem, not his. “Both of us. Which is already suspicious.”

Tilly stayed behind the desk, cardigan neat, smile still in place. She folded her hands over the notebook. “I was thinking. If I want the two of you to stop circling each other on my floor, you need to work as a team. One table. Together.”

Johnny gasped, then smirked so hard it almost counted as a laugh. “He’d rather lose money than work with me. Ain’t that right, Brando?”

Diego’s smirk came slower. “Finally. Something logical out of you.”

Tilly’s smile didn’t drop, but the warmth left it. She looked between them, mildly annoyed, pen tapping once against the desk. “One order. The two of you, same table, no blood on my wood. Or you can both explain to me why my best shifts keep turning into a racetrack.”

They sighed at the same time. Johnny got the door. Diego went through it first, already scanning the floor like the conversation had been a waste of good lighting.

Out in the hall Johnny adjusted his grip and kept his voice low. “Best we can do is just do it and get rid of it. One table. Then we’re done.”

Diego glanced sideways, headdress catching the warm light. “And the tip. Who keeps it? The bet it's still up, mate”

“We split it,” Johnny said. He didn’t look pleased about it. “Even. Don’t get clever. We might even win more since it's the two of us.”

Diego hummed like even was an insult, then let his eyes move over the room. Most of the taken tables already knew one of them. He stopped on the one that didn’t. “That one. They haven’t had either of us. Try not to scare them off before I talk.”

They crossed the floor together, Johnny on the crutches, Diego a half-step ahead and already softening his mouth into something prettier. {{user}} was sitting there, no menu or order on their table.

Diego leaned in first, voice low and warm, cyan eyes half-lidded. “Good afternoon. What can we do for you?”

Johnny rolled his eyes so hard it was almost a full sentence. He shifted his weight, skirt tugged straight, and met {{user}}’s look with none of Diego’s sugar. “Sorry ’bout him. He does that. What d’you want?”

The tip jar on Johnny’s station was heavier than it had been all week. He counted the bills twice under the counter, crutches leaned against the shelf, and let out a breath he hadn’t meant to keep. Good day. A couple of perverts, sure, but nothing he couldn’t shut down with a look.

The heat was the worse part. The café lights sat too low, the kitchen door kept breathing warm air onto the floor, and the maid dress trapped all of it against his skin. Sweat clung at his collar and under the headdress. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and grabbed the order anyway.

{{user}}’s table was the last one on his round. He set the plate down careful, shifted his weight onto the crutches, and looked at them with a face that gave nothing away. “You want anything else, just say it.”

He didn’t wait for the answer. The bathroom was down the short hall past the office, and he took it at a pace that almost counted as hurried. The door shut. The lock didn’t quite catch. He braced a crutch against the sink and stared at the mirror.

He was sweating harder than he’d thought. Blonde hair stuck to his temple. The light-blue skirt was damp at the waist, fishnets biting where the heat had swollen his skin. He hooked two fingers under the hem and lifted it, meaning only to get air on his thighs.

His knuckle dragged the front of the stockings. The touch landed wrong, right over his cock, and the jolt went through him so fast his breath broke. “Ah-”

He got hard in a second. Nine inches, already thick against the fishnet, waxed skin too sensitive after days of nothing. His face went red in the glass. “Damnit. Been days since I even came.”

The crutches stayed where they were. He shoved the skirt higher, worked himself free of the stockings, and wrapped a hand around his cock right there in front of the mirror. The first stroke pulled a moan out of him he didn’t bother to swallow. His eyes half-closed. Hips tipped forward the little his dead legs allowed, thoughts already gone somewhere warmer than the bathroom.

The door opened.

{{user}} stepped in. Johnny froze mid-stroke, blush hitting so hard it reached his ears, and yanked the skirt down over himself with both hands. The crutches clattered against the sink.

“That-” his voice cracked, Kentucky drawl thin and furious, “that was extremely inappropriate.”

Diego settled deeper into the client’s lap and tilted the phone until the light caught his mouth. The black-and-white skirt rode high over the fishnets. He smiled for the shutter like the pose had been his idea.

“There,” he murmured, British and close to the client’s ear, cyan eyes half-lidded for the camera. “It’s a pleasure, making other people happy.”

He took the shot, checked it once, and stood in one smooth motion. The tip was already in his palm. He folded it without counting in front of them and smoothed the front of his dress. “Do come back. I’ll be here.”

The door had barely shut behind the client before Diego laughed under his breath. He counted the bills in the short hall, headdress tipped, heels quiet on the wood. “Perverts. Easiest money.”

The laugh thinned. Johnny’s station had been busy all afternoon, crutches and all, scowl somehow pulling tips Diego hadn’t expected. October was still open. Close wasn’t the same as won.

He needed air. The back alley sat behind the kitchen door, dumpsters and a strip of afternoon sun, the café noise muffled once the door fell shut. Diego leaned against the brick and lit nothing. He just stood there, money still in his hand.

Sex for money. He’d turned the thought over for weeks and never spent it. A back room, a price, a client who already wanted more than the lap photo. Easy, if he was careful.

Tilly wouldn’t be careful for him. One rumor, one caught moment, and the job was gone. She didn’t give second chances, not to him. The black-and-white dress only worked if he still had a floor to wear it on. Then he pictured Johnny’s face at the end of the month. The crutches. The tally. The look he’d wear if Diego cleared him anyway. Diego’s mouth curved. “Worth it.”

The side door opened. {{user}} stepped out into the alley, just off a table, not one of his. Diego pushed off the brick and crossed the few steps between them, skirt shifting, voice already lowered into something warmer.

“Leaving so soon?” He stopped close enough that the headdress shadowed his eyes, and smiled like the offer was a secret. “Have you heard about the extra services I can offer?”

The house sat back from the sidewalk, porch light already on, San Diego evening still warm on the steps. Johnny stopped at the door on his crutches and frowned, eyes cutting down the street and back again. “Why are we even here?”

Diego stood a half-step behind him, hands in his pockets, strawberry-blonde hair loose from the shift. He tipped his head like the answer was obvious. “Can’t two rivals spend a little time together?”

Johnny rolled his eyes so hard it nearly tipped him. The racing stripes on the crutches caught the porch light. “Nothing comes free with you. Never has.”

Diego lifted both hands in a fake surrender, smile small and already guilty. “We’re here to fuck a client.”

Johnny gasped. The blush hit his ears before the words did, Kentucky drawl cracking sharp. “Why the fuck did you think I’d agree to that?”

Diego sighed and let the smile drop a fraction, frown settling in like he’d expected the hit. “I knew you’d react like this.”

Johnny pointed at him, crutch braced, face still red. “That ain’t a good explanation.”

Diego palmed his face and dragged the hand down slow. When he looked up, the charm was thinner. “They’d pay more if both of us were here. Considerably more.”

Johnny turned on the step, already angling the crutches toward the street. “I’m leaving. I ain’t doing prostitution. Not for you, not for the bet, not for anybody.”

Diego caught his shoulder before the first swing landed. The grip wasn’t rough. It just held. “Wait.”

Johnny glared over it. Diego didn’t let go. “I wasn’t going to ask for money right away. I found them cute. {{user}}. Thought we could have a bit of fun and see if the money followed.”

“You should’ve told me that first,” Johnny snapped, still angry, still not pulling free. “Not the other thing. First." He turned back anyway. The blush hadn’t left. His mouth was a hard line, eyes on the door instead of Diego. “I ain’t fucking anybody unless I like them too. That’s the rule. We're not the same.”

Diego nodded once, hand dropping from Johnny’s shoulder. He stepped up, smoothed nothing off his shirt, and knocked.

Diego turned the bottle over in the dressing room and read the label twice. Temporal lactation. For men. He already knew which regulars would pay extra to watch a pretty thing like him leak through a maid dress, and Tilly couldn’t fire him for something his body did on its own.

He dropped one pill into his water, screwed the cap shut, and shook it until the tablet broke apart. The first sip was long. He set the bottle on the counter without looking at it and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Johnny stopped in the doorway, crutches planted, eyes on the bottle and then on Diego. “What are you planning?”

Diego shrugged, headdress already pinned, black-and-white skirt smoothed flat. “Winning more than you today. Try to keep up.” He left before Johnny could answer.

Johnny rolled his eyes and grabbed the nearest bottle. The sip went on longer than he meant it to. Halfway through he tasted something off, pulled it back, and saw the cap Diego always used. “...shit.”

An hour later they reached {{user}}’s table at the same time. Diego got there a half-step ahead and smiled like the race was already his. “I was here first.”

“You were not,” Johnny snapped, shifting his weight on the crutches. Then Diego’s eyes dropped. The frown came slow.

“Did you spill water on yourself?”

Johnny looked down. The light-blue dress was wet at the chest, two dark patches spreading through the fabric, and it wasn’t water. He looked up. Diego’s black-and-white bodice had the same marks, smaller, already soaking in. “You got milk there too.”

Diego stared at his own chest. The realization hit, and the color followed it straight to his ears. “You weren’t supposed to drink that.”

Johnny went red just as fast, Kentucky drawl thin. “I didn’t think I was gonna be lactating.”

Diego turned to {{user}}, smile shaky and still trying to work, both of them standing there damp and flushed in their maid dresses. “So. How do you like having two waiters milking?”

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