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Velveteen Dream stood slouched uncomfortably in the buffet line, observing the rest of the room. He felt a bit like a decorative background character in a movie, which he supposed was optimal.

Velveteen had aimed for both elegance and subtlety in his look today, choosing a gray pin-striped suit jacket and cropped slacks, a light black shirt (with just one button undone), a popular side-swept hairstyle, and shiny, expensive-looking standard dress shoes.

He may or may not have been inspired by a certain late pop-singer.

Should Velveteen attract the attention of an executive, he would be the image of an excellent future representative of the WWE brand. Even his sole earring was potentially attractive, its design coming from motifs used in the WWE shop.

A few executives had, in fact, been interested in speaking with Velveteen. And Velveteen was sure he had won them over. In a way he had already done it months before.

This freed him to concentrate more on his secondary goal for the dinner: gathering information on the rest of the roster. This was an unfamiliar setting, one that would bring out new and unfamiliar faces. If Velveteen was going to stay ahead and reach the top, he needed to understand them all.

Thus, Velveteen’s subtle outfit to let his bare face shine through, and his (mostly) unnoticed observation of the other attendees. It just wouldn’t do for them to realize they were being watched. The Velveteen Dream never shows his hand before the time is right.

He had found a right time during his night of the UK tournament. Velveteen pondered when the next right time would be chosen as he watched EC3 unsuccessfully attempt to talk to Adam Cole. He wasn't imagining the lingering anger in EC3’s eyes, it was too obvious in contrast with his expected usual charm.

Regardless, EC3’s suit was too showy to be taken seriously, especially combined with his tall hair and his loud, open gesturing. ‘I’m the victor,’ he seemed to be saying, even though he had yet to prove anything to Cole and the others.

Velveteen remembered once again how truly pathetic he found EC3’s overconfidence. This was a man who lost to No Way Jose at house shows.

Did EC3 work hard? Sure. But even as his baby fat melted into muscle, he never lost the soft entitlement he had been born with, or developed beyond his two-bit personality and catchphrases.

And yet everyone else loved him. Velveteen knew better than to see EC3 as anything but a threat. He needed to fully humiliate him before the universe’s perception of EC3 got out of control.

Meanwhile, Adam Cole was trying to talk to his lackeys. He did the bare minimum to humor EC3, switching back and forth awkwardly out of either politeness or the desire to avoid confrontation. Even this paled in comparison to the awkwardness of the lackeys. They were only half-responsive to their leader and mostly acting creepy, talking to themselves and glaring at anyone who made them look up, all while each wearing one or two of what looked like randomly selected bargain bin versions of classic Dream accessories.

At least Cole had the class to stick with plain black clothing and avoid extending himself beyond his stylistic capabilities. Velveteen wasn't interested in playing fashion police, but the rest were just disturbing. The lackeys’ loss of the tag-titles couldn’t fully explain it, because this was more or less what they had always looked like. Roderick Strong tied with Kyle O’Reilly in terms of feverishness, but he was also going through a midlife crisis. On the other hand, O’Reilly had always been the scariest of the group. After watching for while as his beady eyes flit around the room, and as his teeth stayed clenched between bites of meat, Velveteen decided it was intentional. Clearly this group was one he would have to watch extra carefully.

Then there was a group of tag teams and Nikki Cross, hard to ignore as they engaged in enthusiastic reunion game sessions. Velveteen was glad Cross’s interest remained in their corner.

Across from them, Johnny Gargano was rocking what could be best described as a ‘middle-aged salaryman with three children’ ensemble. He had slicked back his hair, and for his outfit he (or perhaps Candice LeRae) had picked out a flimsy purple tie that reflected his sunken eyes and a pink patterned shirt that did not at all go together with his dark gray suit. Velveteen thought it fit with Gargano’s current headspace, all bursting at the seams. As long as his single-minded focus on Ciampa remained he wouldn’t be someone Velveteen had to worry too much about. Getting one over him while he was in this state, though, was something to consider.

Next to Gargano, LeRae looked professional and a bit too cheery. Was this really the LeRae of the tales of death match glory he’d heard? She was at least trying to manage her husband’s career. Lerae seemed to be the one guiding the conversation every time someone approached him.

Soon enough that person approaching was Ricochet. He gave his perfect smile to LeRae, then belatedly adjusted his expression midway through acknowledging Gargano. Velveteen hated watching them talk.

And then he foolishly stared long enough that Ricochet turned around and noticed him.

Velveteen did a quick parody of Ricochet’s smile and slid his attention to the buffet.

A few minutes later, Velveteen realized he had wasted too much time examining the vegetarian options. The crowd had spread out across the tables, leaving him without a place to sit alone to eat like he had planned. Velveteen wished for a moment he had taken the Ciampa route and not bothered to attend.

He regained his discipline and pushed the thought away. Unlike Ciampa, he cared foremost about his career and would never pass up an opportunity to advance it.

Still, Velveteen was trapped. Who could he tolerate spending free time with on the NXT roster? Bianca Belair was promising, but all the seats at her table were taken by the young talent hanging on her every word. It was times like these that Velveteen came close to questioning his decision not to have friends. He didn’t, because it was the best choice for his career.

It was at this point that Velveteen decided to go with the epitome of his career’s upward direction: Aleister Black, who was sitting alone.

Might as well antagonize the champion, he thought. It made the most sense. If you’re looking for a title shot, it wouldn’t hurt to go to the person with the title.

Velveteen sat down gracefully in front of Aleister. Aleister said nothing, still eating.

He looked great. If Velveteen didn’t know the man well, he’d be surprised he had no one who wanted to sit with him.

“Hello, Aleister,” said Velveteen.

“You’re wearing my emblem.” Aleister was looking at Velveteen’s earring… which was, admittedly, in the shape of Aleister’s pyramid symbol. The third eye part had matched well with Velveteen’s three-lense tinted glasses.

“Sure.” Velveteen took a slow bite of his red beet salad. “Or, maybe I wasn't aware it was yours, and just found it aesthetically pleasing. Not everything revolves around you, even if you are the champion.”

“So my shirt is aesthetically pleasing to you as well?” said Aleister, sounding faintly amused.

That was harder for Velveteen to answer. It was hardly his style, and Aleister knew it. And yet he had taken the time to buy one of Aleister’s shirts, to sit down and cut tassels in it, and then went around that day with it burning under his own shirt, ready to grab Aleister’s attention during their match.

Aleister was really asking why he had done that. Velveteen couldn’t just say he was afraid Aleister had forgotten about him.

“That’s hardly relevant. The Dream is always attentive with his opponents, and on that night you happened to be one of them.”

Incredibly, Aleister’s stare was solely on Velveteen as he listened, and it wasn't even a match, wasn't even the idea of one. The intensity of it made it difficult for Velveteen to maintain his presence without the room fading into the background.

“Cool, you can do what you want,” said Aleister. “I just thought you had another purpose for it. Or, that's what it looked like.”

Velveteen scoffed. “You’re acting no different from any of them. What else would it be? I’m not some mark, getting your shirt because I like you and coming in with it to get compliments.”

A beat.

“Have you seen the comments on our social media?” said Aleister. Velveteen had a bad feeling rising in his throat.

“That the Velveteen Dream is a prodigy and put on earth-shattering matches with you and others, yes. That the Dream has an amazing attention to detail. And you have those… tarot cards.”

“I meant the ones saying we have. Sexual tension.”

“Ha ha ha. So funny, Aleister. I bet that hurt.”

“It doesn’t bother me at all, actually.”

“What?” Velveteen already felt sick, the beating in his chest too fast. Why hadn’t he directed their conversation towards the title? “It’s obviously not true. Nothing from my end, anyway.”

“Didn't say it was, but I mean…”

“I’m not gay.” Velveteen couldn’t believe this was coming from Aleister. “Maybe I’d let someone else think that, but I thought you knew better. You never saw the valet I had, the girls I’ve tried to date?”

“Wow. That’s-” Aleister paused, looking down and smiling thinly. “That’s not too surprising, that you’d say that. You’re trying to be Prince, right? A straight guy pushing boundaries to get attention?”

“No,” Velveteen answered automatically.

He was just.. trying to confuse and distract his opponents, maybe get people talking, but mostly go for a win the easiest way he knew how. Also, who wouldn’t want to be like Prince? But then, that wasn’t far off from what Aleister had said. Velveteen gathered himself.

“It’s nothing like that. The Dream acts honestly and the people interpret that how they like. Unlike you, I feel no need to cloak myself in shadows and lock down my emotions.”

“So what was all of that between us?” Aleister was leaning over Velveteen now, clearly wanting to make eye contact. Velveteen wished he would stop. It almost always felt like this, like Aleister was looking down at him even when Velveteen was the one on top.

“The Dream wanted respect,” Velveteen began.

“Is that all?”

Velveteen gave Aleister a quelling look. “Okay. Honestly, you seemed different, above all the rest. The person I could use to show I belong at the top.”

That wasn’t exactly it.

“You can’t blame me for anything that happened. You were the one who wouldn’t even let me talk to you.”

“That's true. I made the wrong choice. I am sorry I misjudged you,” said Aleister. “But I’m not sure it matters. Are you even interested in that anymore?”

“I...“ Right, the title. “Yes. I did just sit down with you. You sure made me regret it, though, with all that crazy shit a minute ago.”

Aleister reached for his bag. Like half the things Aleister owned, it looked vaguely occult. What would he pull out? Would it be some mist to mess with Velveteen’s will or confuse him so he could disappear? An enchanted amulet, gems and instructions for a spell? A fucking messenger owl?

“Here’s my number, for when you’re comfortable talking.” Aleister held out his phone, waiting for Velveteen to take it.

Velveteen hesitated, staring at Aleister’s pale, tattooed fingers. It felt wrong to take it. Then again, wouldn’t it be good to have the NXT champion on dial, even if he never did get a title shot?

Velveteen cautiously reached out and took the phone from Aleister, their hands brushing. Aleister had warm, soft hands. They didn’t feel how Velveteen had thought they would.

As Velveteen was inputting Aleister’s number, he thoughtlessly looked up and their eyes met. Aleister had a confusing expression, almost relaxed and tired in a way he hadn’t looked all night. Velveteen found himself handing Aleister both their phones. Found himself touching him again. This was normal. Velveteen noticing it was just him being hypersensitive, a valuable trait.

“What was your favourite wrestler growing up?” Aleister asked after sliding Velveteen’s phone back to him. “Assuming you were watching then, I guess.”

“You kidding? Of course I was watching then. My favourite was probably the first wrestler I ever saw, the Undertaker. He was so good, like nothing I had ever seen before.”

“Shawn Michaels. Easily. Of course I also had a lot of different favorites, but-”

They went on like that for a while. It was refreshing to Velveteen, freely talking with someone who experienced wrestling like he did, and had such a passion for it.

Aleister ended up going home soon after the first few people started leaving. Velveteen had gotten in a title conversation. More hinting at himself while they were talking about dream matches than anything else… which was really good, actually, this way Aleister would think it was his idea and feel in control, not get stubborn and combative about it like he might have if Velveteen was direct.

For some reason Velveteen felt like he shouldn't leave their interaction on a bland note, so he ended up walking out the door and down the halls with Aleister, a bit bemused, until they reached the lift.

They stood there for a moment, watching the buttons flicker. “You know…” Velveteen trailed off. “Don’t forget, the Dream may have broken bread with you here tonight, but he won't hesitate to take your title when the opportunity arises.”

“I know,” said Aleister. He looked unguarded in that moment, too nice. “I think I’d be disappointed if you didn't. Dream over.”

The lift opened.

“Goodnight, Velveteen Dream.”

He said it. Aleister stepped in the lift. Then the lift closed, taking Aleister’s too-soft face with it.

Aleister using his line had probably just been a taunt. And yet… whose dream, Velveteen thought, leaning against the wall across from the slowly crowding lift. What dream, even. Aleister wanted him to take away his most important possession? That only made sense if he was also wanting to leave, rise up to the main roster. But then, he wanted Velveteen to do it. Not just anyone. Lars Sullivan clearly hadn’t qualified. Aleister had put Sullivan in the hospital after his challenge.

Maybe this meant Aleister was his destined opponent, his ‘wrestling soulmate’. Velveteen wasn't certain what it was supposed to feel like or how you knew you had found them, but it sounded right, and did know everybody loved them. Not to mention, it was hardly a rare thing. There was the legendary rivalries, like Nagayo and Matsumoto, Taker and HBK, Misawa and Kawada… even today there was Owens and Zayn, Banks and Bayley, Ambrose and Rollins, Ibushi and Omega… They produced good matches, real career-enhancers.

Velveteen hoped that was the case. Otherwise, he would have a hard time explaining why he had been itching for so long to stand in the ring with Aleister, for a match, or a title, or for no reason at all.

Ruthless aggression, maybe?