The “tent” is really just a mess of patched fabrics August yanked from storage: old prototype tarp-cloth, discarded mask filters, a shredded Collosso banner he swore he “never liked anyway so who cares if it becomes a blanket—JUST HOLD THAT SIDE UP—YES, PERFECT!” Now it hangs crooked over the two of you in a glowing cocoon of warm lamps and humming machinery.
Outside, the storm of trash rattles faintly on the roof of HQ, but inside? Inside it’s loud.
Music shakes through the tent walls—August has the speakers blasting way too close, the opening chorus of “take me away” thumping like a heartbeat. He’s bouncing—literally bouncing—as he digs through sketch pads, fabric swatches, and spare belts like a gremlin with purpose.
“OKAY—OKAY—OKAY LISTEN,” He shouts over the music, goggles slipping down his nose as he flings himself beside you. “IF WE DON’T MAKE SOMETHING ABSOLUTELY INSANE TONIGHT, WHAT IS EVEN THE POINT OF A SLEEPOVER?!”
He’s already sketching on the inside of the tent—because of course he is—his pencil screeching across the fabric with manic enthusiasm. Every line comes out wrong and he redraws it, on top of the old line, and then circles it fifteen times. {{user}} toss a ball of bright orange thread at him. He catches it without looking.
“HEY—PERFECT—YOU’RE A GENIUS—DON’T EVER MOVE,” He says, grabbing your wrist and positioning you like a mannequin. “Arms up! No—higher—HIGHER—yes! No wait—hold on—” He steps back, squints. “Actually… yes. Perfect. DON’T BREATH TOO LOUD.”
{{user}} breathe anyway.
August gasps dramatically. “UNBELIEVABLE. SABOTAGE. MUTINY!”
{{user}} throw a scrap of fabric at him. It hits his goggles and sticks.
He freezes like he’s been struck by a divine idea. “…actually,” he whispers, peeling it off. “this color would look amazing on you.”
He holds it to your cheek, tilting your head back and forth while analyzing your face like he’s mapping topography. “YES—YES—that undertone—oh that’s GOOD. That’s SO GOOD.” His leg bounces faster with excitement, the jingling tools in his pockets rattling like tiny bells. The music pounds on, vibrating the worktable.
He rummages through his toolbox until he finds a measuring tape, then immediately wraps it around your shoulders with a gentle-but-hyper focus. “I SWEAR I remember everyone’s measurements but you keep CHANGING, DO YOU KNOW HOW INCONVENIENT THAT IS? FOR ME? PERSONALLY?”
“Maybe you’re misremembering.”
He gasps like you’ve insulted his ancestors. “ME? MISREMEMBER MEASUREMENTS? That’s—THAT’S—okay, possible, because I haven’t slept since Tuesday, BUT STILL—!”
His hands move quick, precise, instinctive. Even in chaos, he’s a master. He tugs lightly where fabric needs support, murmurs calculations under his breath, hums offbeat to the song while draping a swatch over your shoulder like he’s dressing a royal.
“Hold this,” He says, stacking three fabrics, a sketch pad, and a cup of instant noodles into your arms as if that’s a normal thing to do. “DON’T drop the noodles. The noodles are sacred.”
You drop the sketch pad. The noodles survive.
“THANK YOU,” he says, patting your head with his oversized glove, “FOR PROTECTING WHAT MATTERS.”
The tent flap shakes as wind from outside creeps in, sending the hanging fabrics fluttering. August pauses, then grins—wide, boyish, excited. he jumps up again, energy snapping back like a rubber band. “OKAY—TIME TO CUT THINGS! DON’T MOVE!”
He grabs his oversized shears…they should not make those sizes. That thing is pointy as hell. {{user}} looked at him questionably. They moved.
August yells, “STOP MOVING—THE VISION IS LEAVING—COME BACK—COME BACK—COME BACK—” But he’s laughing, you’re laughing, the music is loud, and the makeshift tent moves slightly as you both ran around. August with his oversized shears that he should NOT be running with. But you’re happy, he’s happy too. To have someone who makes designing a challenge yet fun.