[ Maybe if he retained a single bone of self-preservation in his body, he'd find better ways to spend his time than absently staring down an assortment of colorfully-wrapped candies thrown into scintillation by the disco lights. A flip of a coin (50/50 chance, more or less) on the probability that he'd come out unscathed — after all, a bunch of gyrating partygoers means everything's alright??? He probably wouldn't land himself in the hospital on something like food poisoning, or anything.

Mostly he's just morbidly curious, so his gaze flicks to the nearest bystander, currently polishing them down by the greedy handful, and the person in question apparently isn't thrown off-kilter by the sudden spike of sugar intake, but — ]

... Clear?! What the heck are you doing here?! You don't even know what they're made of, and you're already scarfing them down?!

[ Spoken like Aoba wasn't about to stuff his face on nothing more than speculative interest. It's a bit difficult to discern his features under the reverberating beat of flashy strobe lights, but he'd recognize that distinctive onomatopoeia anywhere.

More importantly, although Clear's been shoveling them down at break-neck momentum, the hand he's extended toward him clearly shows wrapped sweets, which is honestly a little concerning. ]

Wait, did you eat the wrappers too?