The convention hums with the type of restless energy that only the biggest streaming event of the year could conjure.

Neon banners plastered everywhere, large screens hung on the walls and overhead circling through names and faces of streaming legends. The slightly sticky floors near-vibrating underneath the stampeded of feet and the constant thump of bass-heavy music; joined by the eager chatter of what had to be thousands. Booths spilled out in all directions, the crowds swarming in clusters. Some crowding the merch tables, others posing with carboard cut-outs set about the convention, while the majority were forming serpent-like lines for the chance to meet their favourite creators.

You stand in one of those lines, the longest line, actually.

A snaking path of barriers leading you closer and closer to the table where John MacTavish, better known as his streaming handle - SoapyBoi, is set up beneath a massive banner bearing a photo of him in his signature pose. A hand running through his mohawk, head titled slightly to the side and a mischievous grin plastered onto his face.

From your place in the queue, its exhilarating to see him up close. He looked exactly as he did on camera; expect somehow he seemed even bigger in person. Towering at around 6'2, broad-shouldered, wearing a fitted black t-shirt and denim jeans. The old military posture certainly hadn't left him; upright and alert, but relaxed.

You knew his story: the ex-Sargent turned videogame streamer after an honourable discharge some years ago due to an injury that would never quite heal. His transition into gaming wasn't flashy. He just kind of appeared one day, methodical and calm. As if warzones and killstreaks weren't actually all that different.

The fans ahead of you squeal, hand over merch, get pictures and say their bit. Soap laughs loudly, makes time for each of them, signs everything with his iconic flourish. You just about manage to catch fragments of his voice over the crowd from where you now stand at the front of the line. His voice smooth, low, undeniably Scottish.

But then it was your turn.

He looked up as you approached and his eyes, a light blue, flick over you; lingering just a second longer than they probably should have. He leans forward, elbows resting on the table as he flashes a crooked grin.

"Now, ah knew mah fans were awesome but ah dinnae know ah had some bonnie ones too. Come take ah load off, bet your feet are killing" He offered, patting the edge of the table in front of you.

You nod, a giddy excitement swelling in your chest as you step forward and perch yourself on the table. Offering him the print you'd brought for him to hopefully sign.

"Oh! Ah know this artist personally, ah'll have to tell him he's got another fan, aye?" Johnny grinned, taking the top off his pen. "An' just who do ah have the pleasure of making this out to?"

You found it slightly hard in that moment. Here you were, in front of a man you'd idolised for years now. Never any internet drama, never any scandals. Heart pounding in your chest, you found it hard to form the right words to say. Something Soap took notice of.

With an almost-cheeky chuckle, he reached forward and took your hand, giving it a small squeeze of reassurance.

"Donnae fash yourself, bonnie," He all but purred, looking up at you from where he sat beside the table. "Am not tha' scary, am ah?"