Ranboo waited nervously backstage fidgeting with his hands, messing with his hair to make sure it looked right and anxiously checking his phone in case he'd find something that could distract them enough to calm his nerves or some emergency more important than their first ever show. Applause from a relatively small crowd, but still one enough to get him on the edge of hyperventilating echoed from the rows of seats they'd be before soon. They were to go second-last in the small local show consisting of several young, up-and-coming performing artists that he'd managed to get a place in, followed only by an aspiring singer his age with a violently cheerful pastel getup, if he remembered their short glimpse of him correctly.

Ranboo Beloved brushed down his frilly, silky, elegant performance shirt one more time and managed his way to the stage, evening out their breathing the best they could. He wasn't sure how long the wall of red fabric stood as the murmurs following the last performance died; he couldn't even remember the music they'd paced around backstage to — it was better that way, focus on what he was doing now and he could watch the final performance unhindered later.

The curtains drew up and his heart might have stopped. They had that awful moment of wondering if they should have done this at all, if they could do it, but the music still came on and they still danced, exactly as they'd planned and learned and practised. The crowd clapped as it had for everyone else and Ranboo stood in their bow panting and sweaty and wanting to get off the stage already, but on top of it all relieved that nothing disastrous had happened — and proud. When they were finally able to leave he found his seat, reserved for him as one of the performers, just in time to catch the full performance of a blaring pop song as peppy and highlighter-pink as the boy on stage singing it. He was probably just as nervous as anyone would be doing this at the age of seventeen-ish but did a good job of hiding it, unless he just really was freakishly confident, and seemed to be handling the attention better than Ranboo, maybe liking it more… Had Ranboo looked nervous?

They noticed for the first time a blond-haired boy sat a few seats away from them with the audience, with a weird attentive look fixed on the little popstar, the only thing on him stick-out enough to be seen clearly in the dark hall a second-hand-looking thin rainbow jacket. Ranboo wasn't sure how much they liked the way he was studying the kid on stage, wondering if he was trouble. Whatever, they'd never see him again anyway.

The popstar kid was great, and although it was still loud and bright and the applause that followed was louder, Ranboo was glad to have something he could calm down to. At the end he stood up and clapped. The blond boy stayed in his seat but clapped and cheered enthusiastically – maybe they knew each other, maybe he was just the type to do that for everyone.


A blond teen loitered outside the performance hall as audience members walked in different directions and chatted their drowned-out opinions around him, looking for someone. The unmistakable pastel pink outfit would have been visible enough in pitch darkness, but 8 PM was basically evening in this kind of summer.

"Hey!" He called the popstar kid over with a friendly wave and his face, young and freshly wiped of vibrant stage makeup, looked confused, but he came anyway. "Hey, uh, were you at the show?"

"Yeah," he said with all the confidence he could feign. "I'm Tommy, I'm an independent fashion designer."

"Oh, cool," the other boy said, surprised. "Is that… an offer?" Hopeful.

"If you want," offered Tommy. He'd hoped this show would be a good chance to find his first customers and this guy seemed to have potential, maybe enough that he'd one day have the kind of money to help Tommy out.

"So what do you do, exactly?" the kid asked.

"Give me some ideas and I can design and sew whatever you want, for a price," Tommy explained.

"Hm. Well, I'll think about it." Popstar Boy pulled out a bedazzled phonecase and turned the screen on, shining a little light on brunet hair dyed in waves of pink and yellow at the ends. "What's your number, or do you have a website or something?"

"Hang on." Tommy managed to fish out a stack of sticky notes and a pencil and get his phone number decently legible. He ripped off the yellow note from the top and handed it to him; "Text me if you wanna go through with it, or you've got any business questions."

The boy took the piece of paper and kept his phone on. "I'll do it now, make sure I got the right one." He tapped the number in and Tommy's phone buzzed. "Is that what we're doing? Business?"

A text popped up from an unknown number.

XXX: This you from the show?

"Exactly," Tommy said proudly and typed his reply.

You: Yep

Popstar Boy looked down at his phone, looked up and smiled. He slipped it back in his pocket and leaned against the wall behind them in a friendly way. "So how long have you been doing this for?"

"I started figuring it out after I got out of school. You're the first person I might actually work with. I've been making clothes for a hobby for ages, though."

"That's so cool," the boy said genuinely. "I've liked singing since I was a kid, but that was only my second public performance, if you care."

"You in school?"

"College."

"For music?"

"Predictable?" The kid grinned. "How about you, you're not in school anymore, so have you got a job?"

"Customer service, which is about as predictable." Tommy said it through a sigh. "It's pretty shit. I'm hoping to quit if I can make this enough of a thing." By now most people from the show had left, it was just the two of them leant against a wall talking.

"I was hoping if I had enough beginner's luck with my first couple shows I could live off music. It's probably not smart, but it's been my dream for a while." He stared smiling off into nowhere, with a wistful breath in his voice that matched his eyes. Then he looked at Tommy — "Oh, I never gave you my name, by the way."

"I assume that means you're going to?"

"I'm Tubbo." The boy held out his hand and Tommy shook it. "Tommy, right? I should put that in my contact, or I'll forget." He took out his phone again.

"I'll probably remember," Tommy said half to himself.

"Weird name?" It didn't sound like an accusation, Tubbo was smiling again.

"And memorable conversation."

"Well, that makes me feel bad. My first ever business offer probably should be memorable."

"It's fine, I'm a names person, anyway," Tommy said lightly. He checked a watch on a rainbow band. "And should probably be getting home, shit."

"Nice talking," Tubbo said. "I'll see you next time we're doing business."

"Bye!" Tommy called. He was already hurrying back home.


Tubbo got home from school to his half-finished apartment the day after the show and texted Tommy.

You: Hey so should we figure something out? How do you wnat me to do this?

Tommy: Tell me what kind of thing you want, what item of clothing, keywords, pics for inspiration, whatever

You: Actually first off how much will it be coz im kinda living off what I got atm

Tommy: 50 or more probably? I'm still figuring it out and it depends on how complicated

You: K I can probably manage that once I get paid but sorry if It takes a while to get back to you, I really need to get this music thing off the ground before I start spending on anything nonessential

You: Or get a job

Tommy: That's all good. You're my only customer so I can't really drop you

You: Haha yeah

Tubbo threw his phone down on the bed. Maybe he shouldn't have agreed to this before he had any idea what he wanted. He had said he'd think about it, but it felt a bit like a responsibility now. He'd figure it out.

For now he opened the composing program on his laptop and stared at it. He'd performed his first original song last night and was working on a second, right now finding himself strapped for inspiration. He spent most of his afternoon alternating between trying to do what was meant to be his job and scrolling a few different apps, and realised he didn't have enough food for dinner. He felt like getting something done today and maybe getting a chance to clear his head. He'd walk to the grocery store and meal plan when he got there.

Two steps out of his apartment he noticed — couldn't help but notice — a person who looked like they were on their way to the one next to it. Tubbo recognised him — the dancer from last night's show, dressed in a monochrome silvery outfit just slightly less stage-ready than what he'd last seen them in with clashing red and green-lensed glasses and a devil horn headband. he would've been eyecatching enough; he was enormously tall and one rough half of his face and neck, along with splotches on his hands, were dappled in pale vitiligo spots. By the look on their face, they recognised Tubbo as well.

"Hey," the dancer stopped him, a little nervous but friendly. "Uh, you were at the show, right?"

"Yeah," Tubbo answered, smiling, "You too?"

"Mhm." They nodded. "You were really good, I– didn't know you lived here."

"What room are you? We might be neighbours."

"Fifty-five?"

"Oh, yeah, that's next to mine," Tubbo said. "I've been here for like a week, it's weird I've never seen you."

"I, uh, don't get out much?" He shrugged. "I was working late today, so." His face changed and he looked like he was wondering whether they should say something. "At– the show… there was someone– staring at you? It's probably not a big deal, but it was kind of bothering me."

"Oh," Tubbo replied, surprised. "What did they look like?"

"Um — I don't remember? Masculine-looking, I think. They were wearing a rainbow jacket."

"I might have met him," Tubbo recalled, remembering his conversation with Tommy. "It's probably fine. Thanks for telling me, though."

"No problem," They said, both of them soon going their separate ways.

...

Tubbo succeeded at making and enjoying his dinner and while eating scribbled ideas in a notepad he usually used for lyrics, something he had no experience in. He poorly drew designs he might be able to give Tommy, writing in the colours in pen since he had nothing to colour with, until he looked at something he was happy with. Once again he messaged his designer and– friend wasn't the word.

You: Okay let's do this :D