Chapter Text
Scout’s leg is hammering against the floor like a pissed off jack rabbit, chattering a mile a minute with a broad grin stretching his features. Demo’s in with the racket, going off on a tangent at the slightest hint, one of Engineer’s whisky bottles at his feet with his arms draped around a box in his lap. Solly in the background giving what sounds like an impassioned speech that Pyro can only barely listen to. Spy’s in the corner of the van, sulking like the dour man he is as he guards precious treasures behind him. Something that the four of them don't rip away from his pincer grasp because today is the day where bubblepop is sold on every corner of town for cheap, that crackle underneath your feet. Where Engineer blesses the eucharist of barbeque and burgers with a sweet tea country song. Where there’s a fizzle pop, and the sky whistles and screeches in a flurry of bright, sparkling, color that arcs its wings and cracks out ‘be not afraid.’ in a booming voice. Heralding the rapture, heralding the grace of the heavens descending above to interlace fingers with hell and press a kiss to its forehead like saying goodnight. The highest of holy days.
The Fourth of July.
The van comes to a stop and they all burst out the back screaming. Trampling over Spy to snatch the fireworks from underneath him, Soldier barks out orders as to what, when, and how the fireworks shall be released into the sky. Heavy and Sniper emerge from the front of the truck, stretching from the long ride. After The Sparkler Incident, they’re not allowed to celebrate at the base for the sake of its structural integrity. This is fine, they’ve long made a game out of terrorizing the town residents anyways.
Engie’s truck rolls up with him and Medic stepping out, still holding a long argument about something that Pyro couldn't hope to make out. As they round the back of the truck, unloading various items, Pyro sneaks in a hug from Engineer who doesn't flinch and so much as pat Pyro’s head and comment a quick, “Love you too, Firebug.” Before turning back to Medic in the same breath as he unfolds his grill out onto the desert sands, “Why in the sam hill are you bringin’ up Marc Burrows, that man’s research was declared defunct since last year.”
Medic’s voice lilts as he hauls Jerry the dispenser out of the truck bed, “Well he has some good points-” “Now I know you’re just playin’ devil’s advocate.” Engineer sneers.
Medic giggles, rubbing the grease off his hands onto his lab coat, “What makes you say that, Herr Engineer.”
Engineer points a level finger at the smiling Medic, “Don't you ‘Herr Engineer’ me, mister. If we both know that you’re wrong then it means that I won this argument.”
The dove’s feet around Medic’s eyes wrinkle as he narrows his gaze at the blatant challenge, “Please, Engineer. We both know that’s not how this works.”
Engineer crosses his arms, just as brick-stubborn as ever, “How does it work then?”
Medic hops up onto the truck bed with little effort and stands up, looking down at Engineer like the doves in the rafters, “Where I’m right, you’re wrong, and the sun spins around the earth like always.”
“I oughta throttle ya.” Engineer’s nostrils flare at the provocation.
Medic playfully considers, “You really should, at some point.”
He turns around, calling, “Heavy! Come help move the generator, bitte!”
Engineer frowns until he finally registers that Pyro has begun to prep the grill with charcoal, “Hey, hey, no touchin’ that. You are still on parole, sonny.”
Right on cue, Soldier’s close enough to be in earshot of Engineer saying this. He and the racoon on his shoulder, immediately drop all their sticks in shock “Engineer! You dare infringe on Private’s right to grill on their own birthday like any god given American has a right too!”
Pyro does not know where Soldier got that one, but they will say anything to get Solly off on an impassioned rant so they back him up, “On my birthday, Engie!”
“It is not your birthday and we both know it.” Engineer drawls.
The racoon on Soldier’s shoulder lets out an offended gasp, “You dare offend Private Balloonicorn Sparkleshoes on when or when not their birthday is on their birthday in their suit that may or not be of a birthday variety that withstands birthdays that may or may not be birthdays!”
“Yeah, what he said.” Pyro points, not even bothering to repeat whatever the fuck Soldier just said.
Engineer’s brow furrows, familiar with this game, “I pick D, all of the above.”
“Dammit!” Soldier swears, kicking the dirt, “That infernal letter is always spoiling everything!”
Pyro peeks from over Soldier’s shoulder, glancing at the hearing aids that rest behind the curve of his ears, “Does this mean I have forever birthdays now?”
Engineer huffs slightly, rubbing his forehead, “Yeah, I guess that means y’got forever birthdays now.”
Soldier immediately brightens at the concept, he turns to Pyro and says, far too loudly, startling the racoon on his shoulder, “Y’hear that private!”
Pyro responds just as loudly, saluting, “Yes sir, yes sir, sergeant!”
“You’re gonna be immortal!”
“I’m already immortal, sir!”
“Damn right you are!” Soldier agrees, before grabbing Pyro by the suspenders and running off, “C’mon, private! Demo and Scout should be coming back with target practice! Demo even bought some prototype bombs and we’re trying to hit them hard enough that they explode.”
Pyro laughs, and they hear Engineer call out from behind them, “Y’got that Medigun charged up?”
“Nothing for über, no.” Medic sips obnoxiously from a plastic apple juice box as he sits on top of Jerry the dispenser.
“To the generator, Doc.” Engineer clarifies.
“Oh.” Medic realizes.
Pyro laughs, and they pick up the dropped sticks with Soldier. They leave them in front of Sniper’s empty lawn chair and run past some of last year’s remains. Scout comes rolling up in a car, half way leaning out of it in his excitement “Yo guys, you’re not gonna believe this.” He hops out, barely remembering to take the keys out of emission, “They had this one prepared for us when we got there!”
Demo hops out of the passenger seat, “Aye, they’re learnin’. Ain't that cute.”
“Where are the bombs!” Soldier cries out, throwing his hands in the air.
“Don't ye worry your wee little head, they’re right here.” Demo pats the box in the passenger seat.
“Now who wants t’blow shit up!” Scout yells.
They all respond with a resounding cheer. There’s not an immediate pay off at first, with the bombs hitting the car with a dull thud. It isn’t until Pyro tosses a bomb to Scout who bats it into the car do they get results. The car rocking underneath the force of the explosion, as the one bomb sets off the other duds. Scout lights up at that, eyes glowing with little baseball card stars underneath his hat, and grabs Pyro, “Didja see that! Didja see that!”
“I saw it, Boston.” They giggle, patting Scout’s arms.
He returns it with more force, drumming his hands on their shoulders. Demo takes a sip from his scrumpy, “Shit, lad. Y’figured it out.”
Soldier slaps a hand across Scout’s back, “Well done, kid! Now if only you had more bats for the rest of us.”
Scout picks at the skin on his chapped lips, pulling thoughts out of his mouth, “Had a mission from Pauling the otha day, somethin’ somethin’, you’re so hot Scout, same ol’ same ol’. Anyhow, so I bought some bats t’do some smashin’ and bashin’ y’know.” He rubs the blood off his lip with the back of his hand, “Might still have ‘em in the van, lemme go check.”
He races off towards the van and Pyro can tell from the stern line in Soldier’s jaw that he only comprehended half of what the fast talking Boston said. Soldier grumbles, “That man better not be deserting on the fourth of july, he’d be court martialed for it.”
Pyro shakes both their head and their hands for emphasis, “No, no, no. He’s grabbing some stuff for us.”
“Chill off, lad.” Demo puts a solid hand across Soldier’s chest, “,he just thinks he might ‘ave some extra bats in the van. Look, here he comes now.”
Scout comes running back with a proud grin, hauling six extra bats in tow, “Hey guys, hey guys, lookit what I found.”
He drops them at their feet, and they all begin picking at the bats and figuring out their weighting, “Whydja need five extra bats on a mission wit’ Paulie?” Demo asks as he holds his bat like a sword.
Scout twirls his bat around, “Look, my main numba one work bat already has a literal frickin’ dent in from how many skulls it's caved in. I’ve hit like seventeen mannmillion home runs on some BLU suckers head and this mission was gonna be a big one, so I thought ‘why not bring a few extras.’ I was practically carryin’ the whole mission anyways, what with Engie and Spy climbing on my back like they’re the heaviest friggin’ payload since that one time Heavy died on topa one.”
Pyro wonders how much trouble they would be in if they decided to hit Scout with his bat. Would it be funny? They’d think it’d be funny. But that’s not a very good gauge of things, Pyro finds a lot of things funny that normal people wouldn’t. Would Engie find it funny? No, but Medic would.
“ALRIGHT MAGGOTS!” Soldier shouts and they fall in line automatically, with Scout sneering next to them, “TODAY WE TURN THIS DESERT INTO A BALLISTIC FIELD WITH THE LIKES IN WHICH WAS NEVER SEEN BEFORE. SEE THAT CAR RIGHT THERE!”
“I see it!” Scout shouts, hyped.
“As clear as it can be, yeah.” Demo mutters.
Pyro grunts in vague affirmation. Soldier gestures dramatically, the straps on his helmet flailing as he continues, “TODAY THAT CAR IS BRITAIN AND TODAY WE ARE AMERICA. TODAY WE EXECUTE THE TRADITION OF DOING WHAT THE FOUNDING FATHERS DID ALL THOSE YEARS AGO AND BLOWING BRITAIN ALL THE WAY BACK TO HELL, SO THAT THE ROYAL FAMILY MAY FINALLY HAVE A FAMILY REUNION WITH THE DEVIL, HIMSELF.”
“NOW WHO’S WITH ME!”
A resounding chorus of people excited to blow up a car. There’s still a few duds, less than before, even though they don’t explode with a crack of Scout’s bat, something ends up getting dented. One bomb explodes on contact with Scout's bat, and his arms only fall off a little bit. Nothing a little time out in front of the medigun, attached to the humming generator, won’t fix. Pyro holds out a juicebox for Scout to drink while his arms get reattached.
They explode a bunch of other stuff once they figure out the trick to setting off the prototypes. Broken sentry parts, watermelons, an entire wedding cake, a plastic skeleton, and some furniture they picked up out of the trash. After the prototypes run out, the car, missing all of its windows, two wheels and a door by now, gets stuffed with all kinds of bombs and explosives of the real, tested variety. The kind consistent with the battlefield. They all duck behind the corpse of a melted car, courtesy of last year's sacrement, giggling like school children as Demo lays out the chord.
Pyro excitedly pats Scout’s shoulder, and he pats them back in an excited mirror. Soldier grabs them in a noogie that lasts a little too long so Pyro punches him in the stomach. Demo pats them solidly on the shoulder, “Alright lads! Pyro!” He hands them the detonator, “Would you care to do the honors? It is your birthday after all.”
Pyro giggles and swipes the detonator from Demo’s hands, bumping him on the shoulder, they turn to their friends, bathed in the golden light of the roaring sun, and shout from behind their mask, “Everyone ready!”
A chorus of encouraging whoops and shouts. Pyro laughs, deranged and manic, as they turn to the car and declare, “Fire!”
They hit the button and they’re thrown back by the blast, landing into Soldier who catches them, standing solidly as they all shout in glee. The car bursts open like a splattered egg, yellow-white fire and metal arcing across the sky. Lighting up the desert with a white flash of light that has their retinas burning into multi-colored madness that sends sparks of ghost touch across their skin. Their throat spasms from the noise, the shouting and screaming in victory and dionysiac euphoria. They laugh.
Stars fall from the sky, like bright, multicolored sugar grains that shatter the ground as they impact. Pyro has an urge to go to them, bathe in the warmth of its glow like a hearth. Shelter it, protect it. Make it grow, and it shall enrich the ground it treads with ash and gore. They’re reminded of growth after a fire. After death, all wrapped up between your ribs and down your throat. Cotton candy going up in flames across a field of honey electric white. All it takes is a little bit of fuel.
There’s a shadow in their vision, his helmet boggling as he asks “You good, private?”
“I’m great.” They rasp out with a lazy smile.
“Good, cause I’m about to remove the shrapnel from your shoulder.”
They can’t even utter out a ‘what’ before Soldier wraps a hand around the thick metal rod lodged into their shoulder and pulls it out. Their breath gets caught in their throat and their teeth crack as they grit underneath the sudden onslaught of pain. They grab Soldier by the collar, hauling him down to their level, “WHAT THE FUCK.”
Their voice jerks from the strain and Solly just grins, “I know, I’m great. No need to thank me, you can send me my medal in the mail.”
Pyro’s just about to skin him when Engie calls out, “Dinner’s ready!”
They drop him and outstretch their leg to trip Scout. He faceplants straight into the dirt and they giggle. He grumbles as he pushes himself out of the dirt, “Asshole.”
They laugh as they race towards the barbeque, safely hidden behind pop-up blast shields. Engineer eyes the wound in their shoulder and soot covered suit. “Go clean up. Doc’s fixin’ Sniper up near Jerry.”
“Wha-” their voice cracks and they put a hand to their throat, irritated.
Engineer clacks his tongs, “That’s whatcha get from screaming for hours straight. Go get fixed, I’ll save ya some ribs.”
Pyro grumbles, conceding their spot in line to a smug Scout. They push him and he kicks them in the leg. They inwardly plan to set his room on fire. Maybe not too much, because then he’ll be sad and they don’t want Scout to be sad.
Indeed, Sniper’s sitting on the truck bed, shirtless, with a medigun beam trained on him as Medic tsks at the gnarly gouge on his side, looking simultaneously like a bite and stab wound. Sniper turns his head in acknowledgement of Pyro’s presence and they wave. They point to the wound that Medic’s picking at and make the auslan sign for ‘Why’.
Sniper snorts, “Got a lil’ overexcited is all.”
They lean against Jerry the dispenser, feeling the pain ease up from all over as its own medical aura overlaps them. Medic sneers, pulling something shiny and white out of Sniper’s side, like he’s picking pyrite out of gold, “Overexcited is one interesting way to say getting mauled by a wild boar.”
“What?” Sniper huffs defensively “I landed not one, but three shots on the thing. It was layin’ down in a puddle of its own guts! Of course I thought it was dead.”
Pyro signs out a quick ‘Where’ in question. Sniper points over to the bonfire set up, “Over there. Heavy’s been dressing it for me while I get fussed over by his boyfriend.”
Medic clicks his tongue, “Be careful what you say, Herr Sniper, I could very easily disembowel you from here.”
“No offense, Doc.” Sniper politely dips his head, “I’m sure Heavy would prefer to undress you than dressing a boar anyways.”
Pyro bursts out a laugh and immediately regrets it, their throat crackling from the force. Medic turns his head like they just called his name, “Hmm? Pyro, is something the matter?”
They dismissively wave away his concern, opening up Jerry the dispenser and pulling out a case of wet wipes. They pull up their mask to their nose and wipe off the sweat that’s been accumulating all day with it stinging only slightly. Sniper rubs the back of his neck, “Sorry bug. Shouldn't have made you laugh.”
Medic chuckles good naturedly, “Shouldn't you be apologizing to me?”
Sniper rolls his eyes so hard they could see it behind his glasses, “Do I really needta?”
Medic pretends to consider for a moment, “Hm, nein.” He smiles, “That was really funny. You should tell that one to Misha, he’ll turn bright red like a tomato.”
Pyro chuckles lightly, pulling their mask back over their face. They point at Sniper and gesture to Engie dishing out food twenty feet away. “I’ll get there in a minute.” He assures, “Just gotta get the hole in my stomach fixed up.”
“Speaking of, all the tusk shards should be out by now.” He reaches over to flip a lever on the medigun, and the wound in Sniper’s stomach folds itself over like dough.
Medic tosses Sniper’s shirt back at him and turns to Pyro with a professional stance. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Pyro makes a big show of rolling their head, huffing in irritation. Medic narrows his eyes, “Don't you get sassy with me. I see that wound on your shoulder.”
Sniper hops off the truck bed and Pyro waves to grab his attention. They sign in auslan, ‘I’m good.’ They gesture to Medic and Sniper gets the message, rolling his head to talk to Doc, “Firefly’s fine, it’s pretty much all healed up anyways.”
Medic ignores Sniper and focuses on Pyro, “At least let me use the medigun.”
Pyro stares at Medic. Medic stares back, unblinking, which is honestly kinda impressive because his face isn't the one hidden behind a bug-eyed gas mask. They relent, waving for him to get on with it. Sniper pats their shoulder as he passes, and they churr a friendly response. Medic turns on the medigun and the pain drops out from underneath them like they’ve been dropped into cold water, sending them stumbling against the truck gasping for air that comes too easily now.
Medic’s brows furrow, unimpressed, “Have you not been drinking water, Pyro? Seriously, after last year’s debacle I thought you’d know better.”
Pyro gestures vaguely, and Medic shakes his head as he fetches a bottle of water from Jerry the dispenser. He hands it to them, and doesn't tell them to drink. Medic has learned not to after years of living with them, simply folding his arms in an odd display of patience, which sends a weird amount of affection towards the man. Pyro drinks from the water bottle, rubbing a trail of water off their chin.
Medic shifts his weight, “Now, how’s your throat?”
Pyro throws a middle finger in his direction before slipping their mask back on, he’s not getting a check up from them so easily. He groans, “Oh come on!”
Pyro smiles and walks over to the table that the others have set up, with a legion of mismatched folding chairs on each side. It’s nice, and homy, fitting with all the mismatched people sitting around the folding table. The sky is on fire, casting rivulets of red and orange light onto cotton candy pinks clouds. Delicious and flossy, straight out of the machine in the carnival. Ready to be deposited into the white cones of mountain distance and shared around the table like all carnival food is meant to be.
They sit next to Engineer, giving him a friendly bump on the shoulder. He smiles with all his cowboy charm and Pyro can't help but lean into it. He’s talking with Scout and Soldier on the other side of the table. Demo’s chatting with Heavy and Medic on the far end, with Sniper adding in his two cents on occasion. The sky’s on fire, and spending the day with the team on Fourth of July is all that they can ask for. These people, with crooked, manic grins, and calloused hands that split and crack underneath the work that they do. They bleed everyday, and today they bleed candy red sweets for each other. These are Pyro’s people, their horde that they’ll tenderly guard till the end of time. But somebody is missing.
Pyro takes their plate of barbecued ribs and things, tapping Engie on the shoulder to tell him that they’re leaving. He nods in acknowledgement and goes back to talking baseball with Scout. They go over to the van, on the other side of all the commotion, and sit down with their plate of food in front of them. They take off their mask and gloves, setting each down next to them. They lean their head back against the van and take a deep deep breath, lungs creaking with the effort.
They smell smoke.
“Bonjour, petite luciole.”
“Bonjour.” They croak, digging a spoon into their mashed potatoes.
Spy snorts, “Mon dieu, you almost sound as bad as me.”
They swallow the mashed potatoes and shrug, starting to chew on the ribs. Spy leans against the van, one hand in his pocket and the other nursing a cigarette lit with a sparkling ember “Let me get you a chair, at least.”
They rub the barbeque sauce off their face, “‘M good.”
A moment of silence between them, only punctuated by Pyro’s muted eating sounds. Spy leaves briefly, returning with a folding chair that he sets down next to them. He leans forward, the glow of his cigarette reflecting off his slick, salt and pepper hair. Pyro does not know when he took off his mask. They do not need to.
“Issit a lot?” They ask from in between bites.
“Hm?” He looks down at them with a raised eyebrow.
They swallow a chunk of rib, clearing up their diction, “I asked if it’s a lot. The, the uh,” they gesture vaguely to the table, “them.”
Spy smiles, “They always are. But I’m fine, if that’s what you’re asking. Just a little bit of a smoke break while they eat.”
“Have you eaten?” They dip some steamed broccoli in the barbeque sauce left behind by the ribs.
“The remnants of which stain the roof of this van, yes.” Spy replies with a careful lilt.
Pyro carefully rolls this reply over in their mind. It could be a lie. Carefully crafted with evidence they're unable to check. They hold out a roll for Spy, “Can you hold this for me?”
He takes it, his expression starting to get lost in the darkening shadows, “What for?”
“Just in case.” They respond, finishing off their broccoli.
Spy knows better than to ask just in case for what. He knows why. This is the reason he sighs dramatically and takes a bite out of the bread roll. Pyro smiles, scars pulling and stretching their features. Spy catches their grin and rolls his eyes in return. Together, they watch the blue rasberry stars crawl across the sky in mutual silence. A word isn’t shared between them until Pyro’s plate is empty. “I'm going to help with the bonfire. À bientwat!”
“À bientôt.” Spy corrects.
They tug on their mask, “Bientôt.” They repeat.
“You know I can't understand you very well underneath your mask.” He idly remarks, exhaling a plume of smoke.
“That’s the point.” They retort before leaving.
Soldier’s in the process of setting up the structure of the bonfire and they can feel energy lighting up inside of them again. It takes everything they have to not just light it right now, but the bonfire comes after the angels come. They flap their hands and start setting up kindling, slapping away Soldier’s nosy hands when he messes up their work. Engineer must’ve sensed them planning to cut off Soldier's hands when he distracts him by helping clean up the tables. Leaving Pyro to their process, arranging newspaper and laundry lint, followed by saccharine sweet kerosene. A methodical prayer that has them humming, teeth vibrating underneath some invisible hymn.
The angels are ready.
There’s several blankets laid out on the ground, with the mercs all sitting around a cooler filled with alcohol. Sniper and Spy are a handful of feet away from the group, sitting in their own lawn chairs with alcohol too expensive to have been brought in the communal cooler. Engineer pats the blanket next to him and Pyro slots into place, arms wrapped around the man. The firework show starts.
It starts as small, fizzling things that hum a quiet entrance. Pyro vibrates against Engie’s chest, head craned up to the sky. Quiet things, sparking and flashing with rolling light across the sky. Long bright arcs of fire hurl up into the sky like a spireing candle, Pyro wonders if they should keep some for Medic’s candle nights. Then Demo calls out, hand on his hip, “Al’ight, Firefly, come on out an’ help. It’s time for the big boys.”
Pyro giggles and springs up from their seat. Excitement burns inside of them, eager and hungry. Their mind crackles under the pressure, eating itself as the automatic process of think think thinking occurs. They smell sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal among the plethora of choices in front of them. They smell life. All it requires is a single light.
A firework starts to smoke, and Pyro moves on to the next one. How long, they think. How long until it comes to this world, screaming? Demo added longer fuses to some of them and they can't decide if they love or hate him for it. They add more to their mental timer and there’s a glorious s h r i e k.
It goes off like a series of pop rocks, shattering the sky with a flurry of punches and fizzling, fuzzling, cracks that reminds Pyro’s of a building foundation creeking out its last will and testament. The next one goes off then, caramel bright and just as sticky. Dripping down sparks that fall into Pyro’s outstretched palm. It needs more. Pyro craves to pay the angel’s tithings, prays to feel its touch. (They know that the touch of god hurts, like fingertips hooking between your ribs, checking for wood rot. Maybe once upoun a time, Pyro died in a way that was a little bit more real. But tonight, the garden is empty. Tonight, in the self made sacrament of bourbon and barbecue, laid out on picnic blankets between the nine apostles, tonight, they shake hands with angels.)
The firework show ends.
They all retreat to a circle around the bonfire, which lights easily. They lean against Engie, nursing a bottle of bourbon as he talks with Medic who sits adjacent to him. Soldier thinks Spy has not drunk enough tonight, and keeps on handing Spy various cans of beer. Spy discreetly hands it to Pyro, who tips back their mask and disposes of the drink in an easy fashion. They notice a small conversation happen between Sniper and Spy however, and suddenly all of their free beer gets rerouted to the australian. They don’t know if they’re angry at him or not, but they wave at him until they grab his attention and sign, ‘I have something to show you.’
He signs a dismissive ‘what.’
They make a big show digging around in the pocket on their belt and pull out a middle finger. He makes an affronted gesture, and Pyro bursts into a fit giggles.
Scout hands Pyro a bottle of Scotch Whisky fresh from the cooler and they grin. He’s been hopping around, yanking his seat from this way and that. Guess it’s their turn to entertain him. They kick their legs up onto his chair and he leans forward, face flush with alcohol. He’s rambling, slower paced than his unusual nonstop jabbering as words take a minute to crystalize in his mind. Their mask is pulled up to their nose as they casually sip at the whisky, pleased in how it burns down their throat. They gently kick him in the abdomen when he starts picking at the skin around his nails, and he jolts, cusses them out, and stops picking at his nails as he struggles to remember where he left off in his story.
They’re not really keeping track of what he’s saying, just watching him and how he holds himself. He’s leaned forward over their legs, hands gesturing with whatever tall tale he’s trying to sell. Tape had long since been torn off after he couldn’t stop fidgeting with it once it started to peel. He keeps on rubbing at his hands though, right on the area between his forefinger and thumb, like he still expects it to be there. There’s a scab on his lip, almost sparkling in the firelight. They want to kiss him, but that involves getting up and they’re so so so comfy.
With that conclusion they realize that he’s wearing Sniper’s hat, and a quick glance tells Pyro that Sniper is wearing Scout’s. Are they that drunk already? Quick check, Medic is in Heavy’s lap, and Spy’s foot is touching Sniper’s leg (which is Spy speak for: I want you carnally.) They lean their head back towards Engineer and crow out, “Engieeeeeeeee.”
Scout immediately takes offense, “What? Whadya want from him, I’m literally in tha middle of tellin’ ya of how oranges are whores.”
Pyro kicks him in the stomach a little bit harder than necessary and looks up at Engineer, who makes eye contact. “Firefly.”
They hand him the empty bottle of whisky, “How drunk am I?”
Engineer takes the bottle in his own hand, peering over the ingredient list, “Well, it’s from one of the brands that Demo introduced ya to, which automatically spike the alcohol's content though the sugar added in this variety reduces it slightly. Eighty? Ninety five proof? And add that to all the beer cans that y’had. With all this information, I do have to formally conclude that,” He playfully clinks the edge of the bottle against the lenses of their mask, “You are one very drunk pyromaniac.”
They laugh, long and lazy. Scout snorts, “Seriously? I coulda told ya that, you’re the only one ova us besides Demo that can, that can even drink that stuff, it burns like being raw dogged by Hell itself. That’s why you sound like crap!”
“I’ve been more drunk.” They casually state.
Scout leans back in his lawn chair, a little defeated, “Honestly, I should be pissed off cause you’re ova here gettin’ drunk off your ass and y’don’t even have fun with it?”
“I am having fun.” They snuggle closer to Engineer and he throws an arm over their shoulder, who’s having his own, separate conversation.
He sips at his can of beer, “At least when Demo gets drunk he does crazy shit, like invent a new way to spill chemicals all over our food.”
“He’s always drunk.” Pyro responds.
“Yeah, that’s why he’s so fun to hang around with!” Scout insists, slapping the arm of his chair.
The fire inside their brain crackles. There’s the implication that Pyro isn’t fun in that sentence. Most likely unintentional, knowing Scout. If Pyro were more sober, they would’ve felt threatened, angry, another golden weight on the scale on whether or not they were going to have a meltdown. But right now, they are very drunk, with Engineer’s hand thrown around them like they’re his favorite teddy bear. Instead, they take their legs off of Scout’s legs, scooting farther into Engie’s hold. They roll their head to look over to Medic, seated upoun Heavy’s lap. “Hey, Doveface.”
“Hm?” He turns, looking very pleased with himself.
“Could you cut off Scout’s balls for me?” They rasp.
“Gladly.” Medic pulls out a bonesaw and hops off of Heavy’s lap.
Scout scrambles back, knocking his chair over, stammering, “Wait, wait, wait, wait.”
The fire reflects across Medic’s glasses as he brandishes the bonesaw, “You heard Herr Pyro. Off they go.”
Normally, Scout would be able to outrun Medic anyday. But upoun drinking themselves silly, Medic gains a stubborn refusal to do anything in a speedy manner, and Scout loses all motor control. Leading to Scout scrambling around the bonfire, with Medic walking towards him like a determined serial killer.
Everyone laughs at it for a good long while, until Engineer stands up, letting out a good long sigh like one of his machines. He grabs Medic by the scruff and drags him over to Heavy, who latches onto Heavy with a contented hum. Engineer drags Scout, wheezing like he just ran for his life, back to his chair. He stands between Pyro and the bonfire, the only way to keep their attention, “Py, why’dja do that?”
Pyro knows there’s a right answer and a wrong answer. “Cause it’d be funny.” They rasp.
Engineer glares down at them, though his gaze softens some what, “And it was. But you should apologize to Scout.”
“I’m fine.” Scout slurs, stretching his shoulders, “Just needed ta--ta get some blood pumping. Woo! Nothin’ like tryin ta not get neutered to get your steps in.”
Pyro gestures vaguely at Scout trying to get the fear out of his bones. Engineer sighs, “I think we should start closin’ up shop.”
“I think that’s a good idea, labourer.“ Spy concurs.
“I would prefer not tae see Soldier get drunk enough to start peeling clothes off.” Sniper agrees.
“What?” Soldier alerts, head jerking from side to side, “I heard my name. Who called me!”
“Just wonderin’ what drink you’re at mate.” Sniper recovers.
“I am at number-” He turns to Demo, who’s been passed out for the better half of an hour now, “How many beers have I drank?”
Demo blinks, rousing slightly from his slumber, “Eh? How many?” He slurs, “How many wot? Livers? I’m on my thirty second, Doc says it’s a novelty.”
He passes back out with a bottle of scrumpy in his hands.
Engineer puts his hands on his hips, “I’ll get my guitar.”
And so the mercs start the campfire song part of the night. By now, after years together, they’re all passingly familiar with the music, and some of them sing along. They pull their mask back down as they sing, pulling Scout’s chair closer. They spend the length of the entire next chorus folding themselves into Scout’s chair, who just puts his hands into the air like he’s unsure of what to do. Eventually they settle, and they can hear Scout hissing questions and demands to Engineer. There’s giggling. They like giggling. They like these people. These people are nice. Happy. Safe. It’s why Pyro keeps them.
Scout is nice. He’s hard and boney. Solid in a different way then Engineer. Like a cliff edge, or the ground beneath your feet. They want to feed both of them to the hearth, watch its colors change. But they are not things to burn, these are things to keep. Things to hold. Things that cause fire in a way that a flamethrower does. Like nail polish does.
They’re being moved. What’s happening? Where are they going? There’s Engie, brick solid, warm like a kiln. They curl up into his chest, and he chuckles like a revving engine. “Don’t worry, I gotcha.”
“Oh man, didn’t realize Py’s this sloshed.” There’s Scout, he sounds jittery.
“Eh, Demo’s scotch’ll do that t’ye.” Tall, raily, and sun scorched. Sniper.
“I’ll watch over them while you pack the truck back up.” This one’s easy, cigarette smoke Spy.
“Y’do realize that means that they’re gonna touch ya right?” Sniper asks, “Like, we all know Pyro gets clingier than a koala bear on these kindsa nights.”
“It will be fine.” Spy dismisses.
Something creeks. “Hand them over here.” The french lilt of Spy’s voice.
They’re handed over and there is his suit. His tie. They wrap their arms around his thin waist and press their face into his chest, feeling the solid shape of his cigarette case pressing against their cheek. He puts a hand onto their back, and they let out a pleased hum.
There’s a moment of prolonged silence. They feel Spy gesture slightly, clearly communicating something to the rest of the team. Pyro does not care enough to even wonder what’s happening, content to snuggle up against his red, pinstriped suit. Footsteps walk away, mumbling and grumbling. They look up at Spy, his handsome features cut into the night sky.
“I want to wear your skin.” They say from behind the mask.
He pats them on the shoulder, “That sounds nice.” He presses a cigarette to his lips, “Do you have a light?”
Pyro produces one from their pocket and flicks a low flame out for Spy to light his cigarette. “Merci.”
The fabric of his mask would make nice kindling. By the sight of it, it looks like Spy’s already on fire. Blowing out a clear plume of smoke. They reach up, running their hands through the blackened soot, flying like black crows fluttering out of Spy’s breath. Their lungs are tight, underneath their suit and ribs. There’s a cinder of a memory, passing through in the wind. Some degree of familiarity of this, the smoke, the comfort, the people.
Nausea rolls in their gut. They groan, and Spy’s brow furrows, “If you throw up on me, I’ll slit your throat and we’ll find out if respawn truly does go this far.”
Spy might be serious. He might not be. Pyro doesn’t think it matters. They like the thought, even. If, on some imaginary, distant, final call, they are killed by a friend. This seems like the only right way to die in such a way. They wonder if Pauling will kill them, then, in some distant future. They wonder if she’ll burn the corpse.
They blink slowly. They reach up and touch Spy’s face. He pushes their hand away, “Hey, I agreed to cuddling, not,” he waves their hand around, “whatever this is.”
Pyro giggles and Spy’s mouth turns into a fine line, “You think this is funny.” He waves their hand around and they chuckle even louder.
“You see, this is what happens when you drink too much.” He explains as he plays with Pyro’s hand, “You become entertained by the most inane things. Tell me, how is this amusing?”
Pyro doesn’t have the words to tell him. They just laugh, nuzzling into Spy’s abdomen. He looks down at them, the darkness covering his face, and he sighs, petting their head. “You really are just a…gigantic teddy bear, aren’t you?”
Pyro lets out a pleased hum. They almost see Spy smile. They hear Engie approach, steel toed boots adding a certain thrum to his gait. “A’ight, got everythin’ put away.” He announces, “Hand ‘em over.”
“Not everyone can pick up la luciole like you can, Engineer.” Spy huffs, “I do not believe I could move if I tried.”
That’s a correct belief.
Engineer lets out a breath and approaches, hands rolling underneath Pyro’s side. “C’mon,” He grunts, “Let’s getcha to the van.”
“Not the truck?” Spy inquires.
Yeah, why not the truck. Pyro loves Engie time. Engineer huffs, adjusting them into a more comfortable position, “Can’t exactly have Py here clinging on ta me while I’m tryna drive.”
“Could I ride in the passenger in that case?” Spy inquires, “Medic’s going to want to cling to Heavy anyways, he’s so inebriated and I do not want to deal with obnoxious, drunken, pda.”
Engie shrugs, “Fine with me, lemme just drop Py off with Speedy first.”
“I’ll meet you at the car.” Spy walks off.
Engie steps over to the van, and soon they’re handed off to a different set of hands, “I got ‘em, soldier.” Solly affirms.
Soldier thrums underneath Pyro’s touch, like some inherent song is trapped within. They bury their head into his neck to get a closer listen to the music. Strong, like a marching beat. He sits next to Scout and Pyro sprawls across the both of them. Languishing on top of their horde like any proper dragon. Scout keeps on glancing at Medic and Heavy in the corner, trying to ignore it by rambling on and on. Soldier’s loud enough to cover the sounds anyways, his impassioned rants more nonsensical and slurred now that he’s drunk. Sniper’s playlist goes on in the front, despite Soldier’s loud protests about hippy music, and Pyro has half a mind to crawl into his lap too.
The team rolls into town, and they all spill out of the vehicles like a broken fire extinguisher. They all lounge around the entry, with Soldier and Scout putting pens up their noses as the most sober members of the team, Spy, Sniper, and Engineer, try to figure out how many rooms they need to book and whether or not Sniper would be allowed to camp outside. Their chest is still tight, and breathing is only getting harder. They think the filter in their gas mask is clogged with smoke, between the fireworks and the bonfire it makes sense.
So they exit the hotel and out into the parking lot. It takes a bit of wandering until they find Engie’s truck, and they throw themselves over the edge into it. They find Jerry the dispenser, and stare at him for a good long moment.
“Whatcha looking for?” Jerry the Dispenser asks.
Give Pyro a minute, they’re trying to think in the right order.
“Take your time, buddy!” Jerry the Dispenser chimes.
Pyro peels up their mask in time to throw up off the side of the truck.
“Yay! Parking lot vomit! That’s always fun!” Jerry cheers.
Pyro thinks they remember what they’re here for.
Jerry smiles. “What’s that? Good ol’ Jerry here has everything you could ever need.”
They’re looking for filters for their gas mask, this one’s clogged and they can’t breathe.
“That’s an easy fix!” Jerry declares, “Filters are in the middle left up drawer index b378. Your inhaler is in the middle left side drawer index b377.”
Thanks Jerry.
Pyro fumbles through the navigation, but they find what they need. They take off their mask and the night air feels like a balm against their scalp and overheated scar tissue. They sit down on the inactive generator, gas mask in their lap. They take a deep breath of their inhaler and their throat is soothed by the action. They put off to the side and start dismantling their gas mask.
They fumble through the motions slightly, their fine motor function not intact after the bottle of scotch they drank. It certainly isn’t helping that it’s dark, the street lamp attempting to light up the parking lot not doing much. They pull out their lighter and use it to squint at what they’re doing.
“You know Boss keeps a flashlight on me.”
Shut up, Jerry.
“Sorry.”
Pyro rubs at their eyes, feeling the exhaustion pulling at their head. They sway side to side, struggling to do this simple task that usually comes so easily to them. They let out an involuntary whine, tears starting to prick at the corners of their eyes. They need this to work, they need this to work, they need this to hide.
A noise.
They look up to see a civilian woman, staring at them with big, brown eyes. A short red haircut, a denim jacket with jeans. What’s worse is that she has a friend, who is pretty in all the chain and satin black.
Poor things. Looking at a monster and not moving as if that’s going to stop them.