As rehearsals kicked into overdrive and every hallway echoed with panting, sweating, and at least three breakdowns per hour, one trainee was spiraling.
Bobby sat alone in the cafeteria, poking at his food like it had wronged him in a past life. He looked one sad blink away from face-planting into his rice.
Enter Aqua and his merry band of beautiful disasters.
"Hey Bobby," Aqua chirped. "Is it cool if we sit with you? This place is packed and some people are deep in their 'do not look at me or I'll die' energy."
"S-sure, no problem. I was just about to leave anyway—"
He didn't get to finish. Kitty's hands landed on his shoulders like two affectionate anvils.
"Oh honey, no. Sit. You haven't even touched your damn food," Kitty scolded gently.
Kitty, Swedish, cat-obsessed, gay enough to turn eyeliner into a personality trait, hisses when someone calls him Kevin. And he absolutely will scratch you if you test him. Small but deadly.
"You look like the sky is falling," Pink chimed in, crossing his arms. "C'mon babe, talk to us."
Pink—drag queen from New York, hair the shade of 'if Barbie got electrocuted,' and attitude for days.
Javi sat down already munching tacos like the world wasn't mid-crisis. "You having trouble with your song, papi?"
Javier: proudly gay, Mexican, former Cirque du Soleil aerialist, the man could climb a pole like nobody's business.
Bobby stared at his tray, looking like a kicked puppy.
"Bobby," Aqua said, soft but firm, "we're not leaving until you talk."
Finally, Bobby sighed—heavy, defeated. "I'm… second-guessing my decision to do another original. I don't know if I'm making the right choice going solo again."
"Is something wrong with the song?" Kitty asked.
"No, the song's fine. It's just… my gut keeps telling me I'm making a mistake."
Pink's eyes widened. "Baby, you ALWAYS listen to your gut. My mama used to say, 'child, your gut knows before your brain clocks in for work.'"
"But what can I do? I can't just walk up to someone and ask to join their group. Everyone's already way ahead…"
"We can take you in," Javi said.
Bobby snapped his head around so fast he nearly pulled something.
"Right, gurl?" Javi nudged Aqua.
"Obviously! It would be such a gag!" Aqua squealed, clapping like a seal in love.
Bobby blinked. "I… I don't know what that means?"
Pink patted his hand. "The bitch said yes."
"Really?" Bobby asked, voice wobbling dangerously close to tears.
"Yasss daddy," Kitty purred.
"But are you sure you can handle our song?" Javi added. "We do be booty poppin' the entire damn time. Like… all of it."
"I'm fine with that!" Bobby said quickly. "As long as you're patient with me. It's gonna be my first time… uh… popping booty."
Aqua leaned forward and winked. "Oh honey, trust us. By evaluation day, you'll be throwing it back so hard someone might need to hose you down."
****
The moment lunch was over—and after Aqua and the squad personally supervised Bobby's plate like four glittery prison guards—they marched straight to practice.
The song itself wasn't complicated. Clean melody, easy harmonies, nothing that required a throat blessed by Bayoncé. Just a few tasteful high notes sprinkled in like seasoning. Cute.
The real beast? The performance. The attitude. The expressions. The choreo.
This song demanded confidence, sass, and hip mobility that bordered on illegal.
Bobby learned his lines in record time, and that meant only one thing:
Twerking lessons.
The squad lined up like coaches about to run a football drill—if football drills involved booty physics and controlled cheek velocity.
They demonstrated, slowly, dramatically, with technique so refined it could've been taught in a conservatory.
Then all eyes turned to Bobby.
Face beet-red, dignity hanging by a thread, Bobby inhaled… and attempted his first booty pop.
And sweet baby Jesus—he actually had something going on.
"Ohhh you're a natural!" Aqua squealed, clapping like an excited dolphin.
"Why did I JUST notice you got cake?" Javi gasped. "Hot DAYUM, papi!" He snapped his fingers like Bobby was fresh out the oven.
Pink stepped forward like the general of a gay army.
"Alright, bitches… and Bobby. We about to serve."
"PERIOD!" the rest of them cheered in perfect chaotic harmony.
"P—period!" Bobby tried to mimic them, tripping over the slang like a newborn deer in glitter.
The squad immediately melted, cooing at him like four proud aunties watching their baby's first steps.
****
Saturday arrived faster than anyone wanted, and with it came evaluation day. Nerves buzzed through the entire building as trainees squeezed in whatever last-minute practice they could, scrambling to refine every beat, note, and choreo.
Bobby, meanwhile, sat quietly with his eyes closed, meditating while the makeup artist worked on him. He always conserved his energy on performance day — no frantic rehearsing, no panic spirals, just quiet focus.
Wardrobe was easy for him: a loose pineapple-print Hawaiian shirt, pastel pink micro–beach shorts, and mint green slip-ons. Simple. Breezy. Low-effort fruity excellence.
He stepped out of wardrobe feeling oddly calm… until he saw the rest of the squad.
He literally stumbled.
Crop tops shorter than moral decency, micro booty shorts that could be legally classified as "air," g-string garters proudly on display, glittering fanny packs, sequins, rhinestones — basically four gay hurricanes dressed to commit crimes.
"Bobby, you look so hot, daddy," Kitty purred, doing the little wrist-flick flourish he always did when he was in full menace mode.
"T-thanks. You guys look great too," Bobby replied, blushing like an overripe tomato.
"Bitch, don't scare the man," Pink smacked Kitty's arm. "And stop flirting. He's too pure for your corrupt Swedish ass."
Javi didn't even look away from applying his eyeliner. "So, papi, you ready to slay?"
"I—I think so," Bobby breathed out.
Aqua, already fully beat and glowing like a disco cherub, stepped closer. "I'm really proud of you, Bobby."
Bobby blinked. "For what?"
Aqua's voice softened with a tremble. "For not running. For not hesitating. For not treating performing with four gay men like some kind of threat." His eyes watered. "You never made it weird. You never once acted uncomfortable. You just… showed up. You let us teach you how to twerk for God's sake — that alone should get you canonized."
Bobby felt his own chest swell. He pulled Aqua into a hug. "No, thank you. You all welcomed me without question."
"Don't cry," he murmured, carefully brushing away Aqua's tears. "Your makeup looks too good."
"I think I might be in love," Aqua sniffed dramatically.
"Sorry babes, I respectfully decline," Bobby teased. "But I can help you slay the house down boots."
The whole squad BURST out laughing.
"Oh, he learning, ain't he?" Pink snapped proudly.
And just like that, the room glowed — acceptance, warmth, confidence, camaraderie. Five people from five different worlds, but damn if they didn't look like a team.
A sparkly, chaotic, ass-shaking team.