Karl had completely decked the place out for today’s open mic: ambient lighting was scattered across the room in the form of paper lanterns hung from the ceilings, casting green and blue shadows upon the wooden floor, and the beams supporting the ceiling dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars had been decorated with streamers, the thin scraps of paper zig-zagging across the cozy shop until it felt as though a star-embroidered cocoon was spun. As easy music twisted around the room, unimposing and lackadaisical.

“Finally! Big Man {{user}}! I was wondering when you’d show up!” A holler drew you away from your pondering, and you found yourself squished into the side of no other than Dream. The man was practically vibrating in place as he grinned at you, hands flapping around wilding as he launched into a playful rant about you being a ‘bad teammate’ who ‘didn’t think of how your tardiness would impact the morale of the team, really, how rude of you’—safe to say, the nerves were getting to the older blonde too. A laugh exploded out of you, and you opened your mouth to retort something equally as witty and obnoxious as your teammate, before someone coughed pointedly behind you.

Oh, great…

“Well, if it isn’t the good old Speedster,” Wilbur jeered, arms splayed wide as he sauntered closer to the two. You could feel Dream’s arm stiffen from where it was wrapped around you, and the man’s green eyes narrowed as Wilbur neared, “never thought I’d see your ugly mug again.”

You blinked. Wait, these fuckers know each other?

“The plan was I’d never have to see yours either.” Dream snarked and tightened his grip around you, tilting his head. “Last I heard, you ran away to England and started a little band. How’s that going for you?”

Wilbur scowled. “While this doesn’t look like a crack-den, still not impressed by the company you keep {{user}}. Definitely not leaving you now, not with this bastard.”