#i imagine something like this is hung up somewhere in every store. Watching You Brew | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fakesurprise · 4 years

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The Devil’s Brew 1: Planting

The man pauses outside the entrance to the hotel as a smell wafts out that decades of industrial chemicals cannot hide. He is ordinary, in the way of someone who has put work into not being noticed. The expression that crosses his face is almost weary, but his sigh is far less so.

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

I wince as mom marches right up to him.

“We have been waiting to sign in for over one hour and no one is answering the door,” she snaps.

He blinks. I’d put his age around thirty, but his eyes seem older. His gaze flicks over mom, to me, back to mom. “If I worked here, I wouldn’t be wearing jeans and a -tshirt.”

“Especially not one that reads ‘Will Honcho For Hugs’?” I say, the words almost a question.

He looks down at the shirt. “..... likely not, no.”

“I don’t care about the slang on a t-shirt; I care about service,” mom says. She even crosses her arms. She’d been called a Karen six months ago and just looked the man dead in the eye and said, ‘What is wrong with my name?’ in a tone fit to peel paint. Some people have midlife crises; mom tends to cause them in others.

“I am afraid I don’t know why the doors are closed,” the man says. “I am rather familiar with hotels in general, and am a guest at this one.”

“Which means someone should be here since it’s only three in the afternoon. You expect my son to wait when he is -.”

“Mom! I’m okay,” I say.

Mom doesn’t quite glare at me.

I wheel closer to the man. “Sal Leville-Woolsey. This is my mom, Karen.”

The man crouches down slightly to shake my hand. “New chair?” he asks.

Mom steps off to the side to try and call the management again. On her cell phone

I feel myself blushing. “I’ve had it for two weeks.” I pull the blanket off my legs a little, revealing the casts and metal. “Mountain biking accident on the Azuki Llynn course. The doctors figure it will be about two months before I can even consider walking and we booked our trip to the hotel a good year ago. Dad is out at one of the golf courses with my sister. Mom wanted to check out the hotel.”

“I have been put on hold by four people,” mom says carefully as she hangs up her phone. “It is going to rain, and they expect us to just huddle in a rental van when the room should have been ready three hours ago!”

“I think they’re rather busy right now,” the man says. He pulls out a small flip phone which rings without him touching a key. He puts it to his ear, blinks. “Ah. Don’t come back to the hotel then. I doubt it is any safer,” and hangs up his phone.

“Safer?” mom says. “What do you mean, safer?”

The man ignores both of us and walks up to the front door, which opens as he tugs on it. Something uneasy creeps along the back of my neck, like the feeling of witnessing a magic trick that doesn’t look like magic.

The smell that comes out of the hotel sends mom into a coughing fit. I cover my mouth and gasp a little. The air is full of a deep, bitter aroma that tries to envelop every sense.

Somehow, the man hasn’t coughed and walks into the hotel calmly.

Mom is heading back to the van for her inhaler. Almost without thinking, I follow the calm even though it scares me.

The interior of the hotel has coffee cups covering the reception desk, all filled with piping-hot cups of coffee. To the left is the breakfast dining area, with coffee cups in every table and the chairs as well. Coffee is being poured out into sinks behind a counter by frazzled staff and a woman with a ‘I don’t get paid enough for this’ dazed look on her face is behind the reception desk on the phone.

“I know customers are calling, but we can’t let anyone in until -.” She pauses. “You don’t understand, Mr. Monet…”

The man scans the area slowly and shakes his head and walks up to the woman. “Elise. May I?”

She hands over her phone without thinking. He takes it, listens to the other end for a moment.

“Your hotel has become jaysome. If you don’t know what that means, call others. They will inform you,” and he hands the phone back.

Elise takes it, blinks. “He hung up! Mr. Money - ah, Monet -.”

The man smiles. The smile makes him seem a decade younger. “Mr. Money?”

“Money-Bags. He’s a bit - well. A bit,” she admits to him, then spots me.. “Wait. You are ?”

“Sal Leville-Woolsey. I think my mom has been calling you?”

Her face darkens. “There are coffee cups and mugs in every room on every table and chair. We can’t just let customers in!”

“Or explain that in a way that makes sense….” The man shakes his head. “Jay.”

A boy enters from behind me. He looks to be about eleven, with a grin so innocent and kind it almost makes me not notice the red tail and horns.

“The ko-fi for Charlie worked, Honcho!”

“.... you had coffee ordered for Charlie.”

“Uh-huh!” The boy practically radiates pride. “I even made sure not to get too much!”

The man - Honcho? - does not smile in the careful way of avoiding to. “I am certain Charlie will be impressed by your restraint, but she doesn’t need coffee this late in the day so perhaps you could store it somewhere else?”

“I can - wait, wait wait: people are throwing it out?” he demands.

“They didn’t know it was for Charlie,” the man says, fast and careful.

“Oh. Man. Getting all that coffee back might be hard.” The boy lets out a huge sigh. “I bet I can get souls for that, though!”

I have no words for the expression that crosses the man’s face for a moment. “Souls,” he repeats.

“Well, I am the devil,” the boy says, as if that makes all the sense in the world.

The man blinks, once. “What kind of devil?”

“The jaysome kind cuz did you know that people try and sell souls even though you can’t so I just accept lots of hugs and I”m making people better and soul-hugs are just hugs with some extra jaysome cuz people who want to talk to devils tend to have some weirdy problems you know!”

The man relaxes. “I imagine so, yes. Maybe you should take coffee to everyone who wants to talk to a devil?”

“That’s a good idea!” The boy vanishes. One moment in the room, the next not.

The silence from Elise matches my own.

“At least that is not going to be his halloween costume,” the man says to himself.

“What is -?” Elise shakes her head.

I make a noise and she turns and watches as almost every coffee cup vanishes one after another.

“Jay is - jaysome,” the man says. “He doesn’t mean any harm. He is just rather enthusiastic, and the concept of retrainst in lost on someone whose life exists around adventures. With luck, this is the only oddness other people will notice.” He smiles, and the smile makes me shiver just a little. “Call your Mr. Monet and let him know Jay will be here for one week, and the staff expect bonuses to compensate for jaysome. If he refuses, let me know.”

“Mr. Monet doesn’t give out bonuses,” the manager says.

“He will this week.” The man heads toward the elevator, then stops and looks at me.

I have no idea what to say.

“If your mom runs into Jay - try and protect her. Nothing a Karen does can touch Jay at all, but it’s best to avoid risking him being confused.”

“What is he?”

“A friend. Probably the best friend you’ll ever have, if you’re very careful to limit his visits.”

He heads into the elevator without another world and anything else I was considering asking ends as mom enters to demand why the hotel smells like coffee and what is going on here.

I tell her it was some flash mob the hotel wasn’t prepared for, which she somehow buys and we head up to the hotel room in the elevator.

“This has been a very strange day,” mom says with a frown.

“I hope it doesn’t get stranger,” I offer in reply, and if mom notices anything odd in my voice she says nothing at all.

#writing #prose #magician series #the devil's brew #1 of 8

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thetriggeredhappy · 4 years

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imagine,,, wholesome platonic pyro x team,,, -🦂

i’ll admit, this one is a longie. (no warnings)

The second the end-of-day klaxon fired off, Pyro was jumping to their feet and bolting back towards base. Maybe this should worry the team, but they could hear giddy laughter bubbling up from somewhere within the suit, so they weren’t all that worried.

When everyone else got back to base, there was a sign pinned to the swinging doors into the common area, done in five colors of crayon with various smiley faces dotting the empty spaces. “Everyone come back at 7 o’clock please!” it said cheerfully. There was some mild grumbling from Medic, who’d wanted to get something to eat before he headed to go set to work on a project. Heavy clapped him on the shoulder gently and assured him that he could have a sandwich from Heavy’s little fridge.

At a few minutes to 7, nearly all of the mercs had turned up outside the doors of the common area. Scout ended up darting off to find Heavy and Medic, and was dragging them both back down the hall to the place when the doors swung open and Pyro hopped forth brandishing a balloon sword and wearing a party hat.

They gave some incomprehensible cheer, and gestured for the team to go inside.

The vision before them as they filed in was met mostly with wide eyes and complete surprise. The entire common area and kitchen were transformed into a bright, technicolor scene, balloons and streamers and banners hung aloft and across the walls. The chairs, usually in dull, age-worn greys and greens and blacks, were draped in bright new fabric, and every table had a polka-dotted tablecloth. The harsh overheads were dimmed as their beams were inturrupted with dozens of balloons of various colors, and the large table they all so often sat and ate at was absolutely covered with food. A record was spinning away, volume low but immediately working as a wonderful final touch to transform the room, so often home to tiredness and bickering and infighting during their time off, instead making it a place full of light and life.

Everyone ended up investigating something different. Scout, for one, immediately bounded over to the table of food. “Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ, Mumbles, this must’a taken you all night!” he exclaimed, shocked and enthusiastic all at the same time. He zeroed in on a massive stack of chocolate chip cookies, picking one up off the pile and eating it practically in one bite and talking through it. “I’m fuckin’ starving here though, thanks for—“

Then he stopped. Kept chewing, eyebrows furrowing together for a moment, energy freezing in its tracks as he did so, staring off into space like trying to remember something.

Suddenly, a very different energy. He looked at Pyro, who had their hands clasped together and was watching his reaction carefully. For maybe the first time in his life, he was entirely lost for words, for five, ten, fifteen seconds.

“Mumbles, this is... this why you asked me to get that recipe for you? For cookies?” he asked, quiet now, taken aback. Pyro nodded, asked him a question. He took a second or two to sort out what they asked, and then he nodded distractedly. “No, yeah, you nailed it, it’s perfect. Exactly right. It’s...”

He swallowed hard, swiped hard at his eyes with his forearm, laughed a little. Pyro opened their arms, and he accepted the hug immediately, pulling them into a tight embrace, lifting them up off the ground a little with it.

“Yeah. Tastes just like back home. My Ma would be real proud of you, ain’t anybody that ever gets it this right.” A harder squeeze for a minute. “Thank you. I... seriously, there’s not even words. Thank you. You’re the best, pal.”

Pyro squeezed him right back, and then released, moving away as he turned back to the table again, picking up another cookie and starting to eat it much more studiously.

They picked up a plate they’d set aside in the kitchen, hurrying over to present it to Heavy, who was investigating the balloons with some amount of amusement. He laughed the second he laid eyes on it, taking it from Pyro and looking more closely.

“Leetle Pyro, what is this?” he asked, clearly amused and pleased. “How did you make such leetle sandviches? Why is this?”

Pyro’s reply was cheerful, gesturing first to the sandwiches, then holding their finger and thumb close together, then gesturing over towards the rest of the team. Heavy gave a hearty laugh.

“Baby sandviches for baby team?” he asked, still laughing. Pyro nodded. “Oh, Doktor will love this. I go now to show him. Thank you, Pyro. Perhaps I make these and give to team more. Is very good joke.”

Pyro nodded, and Heavy wandered away, still laughing. They watched as he recounted the joke to Medic, clearly very proud of himself, laughing just as hard as the first time even as Medic fought down a grin and rolled his eyes. Heavy then moved on to the next teammate and repeated it.

Demo appeared to be talking Soldier down from popping every balloon on the same side of the color spectrum as the other team. Pyro moved over, jumping to grab hold of one of the strings, and handed one to Demo, who raised an eyebrow, already entertained by whatever they were on about. They grabbed another balloon and held it up to their own face, and inhaled exaggeratedly.

Demo’s expression lit up. “Och, now there’s an idea!” he said, and turned to Soldier. “Look here, watch this one!”

He pinched near the tail of the balloon, nipping a hole in the rubber and taking a deep inhale of it before pinching it back off again. He then turned back to Soldier and grinned.

“Aye, how do I—“ he started to ask, but promptly broke down in laughter at how high-pitched his voice had gone, only redoubling as he heard how ridiculous it was. Soldier and Pyro laughed as well, and within moments Engie had wandered over to see what the commotion was and was laughing as well. Pyro handed their balloon over to Soldier, who immediately moved to do the same thing, and soon the three of them were fully occupied with joking around with each other.

Pyro looked around and noted Spy looking at the sleeve that the record on the player belonged to, clearly trying very hard to seem bored. They moved over and took hold of the sleeve of his jacket, ignoring his protests and pulling him over to the table.

They promptly lifted a wine bottle from the wide selection of alcohol there at the end. They handed it to him, and he took it with a frown and started looking over the label.

His eyebrows shot up, and then he promptly narrowed his eyes at Pyro, a series of questions there in his eyes. The first was vocalized within a few seconds. “Not a particularly old selection, not to mention from some little local winery in France that I am quite sure very few people have ever even heard of,” he said pointedly. “And I’m sure very difficult to track down, even if you knew such an assuredly small backwater nowhere of a town existed. What would cause you to place a specialty order from anywhere like that?”

Pyro just looked at him, hands clasped behind their back.

Spy glanced around at their teammates for a few moments before he spoke again, his voice low. “I’m not entirely sure how you came into knowledge of my place of birth, but I assume I can trust you to make sure nobody else learns it,” he said, a weight to the word that implied it might not be trust, but instead a threat.

Pyro nodded without even needing to think about it, though, and Spy’s shoulders sagged momentarily. He then straightened, looking over the label for a few more moments, expression softening ever so slightly with each passing moment.

“And I’m sure there is not anyone who would be able to tell you this, but I do prefer red wine when given the opportunity of a choice,” he finally deigned to say, much lighter than before. He looked over at Pyro. “So thank you.”

Pyro nodded cheerfully, and edged a glass from the rest and towards him, then bounded off again.

Sniper was stood off away from the bustle to one side of the room, looking vaguely uncomfortable from his body language, even as his face was an impassive mask, revealing nothing. He visibly jumped as a balloon was popped by Medic on accident, frowning hard at it. Pyro moved over and greeted him, and he just nodded at them distractedly, gaze continuing to move between the record player and the table of food and the chaos of Soldier and Demo laughing themselves half to death over the helium and the bright, multicolored light filtering through the balloons. Pyro gingerly took hold of his sleeve where it was rolled up to his elbow and gently tugged on it, leading him through the door into the kitchen.

There were three overheads, but two had been blocked out almost entirely by a mass of black balloons, the final having a white sheet pinned over it to dull the light. Once through the door, the majority of the noise and commotion faded into the background. Pyro then prompted Sniper to look at a bag of coffee that was next to the coffee machine, which apparently already held a full pot of the stuff. Sniper investigated without fanfare, reading over the label.

“Some fancy fair-trade nonsense,” he said, even as his expression betrayed him being impressed, and somewhat surprised. “Leagues better than that tea nonsense our Europeans drinks, at least, and the bulk store buggery we’ve usually got.”

Pyro gestured enthusiastically towards the pot that had already been brewed. Sniper scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Don’t exactly have a mug for it, mate,” he said carefully. “Mine broke at breakfast a week or so ago, remember? Planned on headed out to a... thrift shop, or flea market or the like, sometime this weekend. Then I can give it a try. If, er... if there’s any left by then.”

Pyro put their hands on their hips, tapping their foot impatiently.

Sniper sighed, moving over to the cabinet where they kept cups. “I’ll just knick one from the other blokes, sure they won’t mind,” he finally agreed, pulling the doors open.

He froze for a few seconds, then gingerly pulled out a mug with a little ribbon bow affixed to the handle.

Sniper was at a loss for words for a moment, then laughed incredulously. “Mate, this was... in pieces, probably two dozen shards, this was long gone,” he marveled, looking over the tiny little cracks that showed up along the surface of it, just barely marring the surface that then read “#1 Sniper” bold and clear. “How bloody long did this take you?”

Pyro shrugged, a little bashful. Sniper appeared to be at a loss for what to do, and ended up putting the mug down, reaching over and giving them an awkward clap on the shoulder.

“Thanks, mate. I appreciate it,” he said, and maybe it would’ve been an underwhelming reaction for most people, but it was an awful lot more than Sniper generally gave to anyone, and so Pyro brightened immediately, bopping him right back.

Engie called them before they could even make it around to him. “Firebug!”

They left the kitchen right away, leaving Sniper behind to the relative quiet and dark and peace. Engie was by the table, looking over a bottle. They greeted him cheerfully.

“Now, this here says it’s sweet tea,” he said, holding up the bottle in question. “Now does that mean it’s some, uh, northern sweet tea that’s not much sweet of anything, or real sweet tea?”

“Maybe it’s Long Island iced tea,” Scout quipped from down the table. “You should chug it and see.”

Pyro waved Scout off and assured him it was real. They explained that they’d gone through all the steps to make the sweet tea the proper way, the same way he’d bemoaned to them every time they were stationed anywhere but in the heart of the United States’ South. Heating the tea up, adding tons of sugar while it was hot, and chilling it again. Engie nodded, apparently satisfied.

They then gestured him over a ways down the table, and directed his attention towards the center. He needed to lean up on his toes and crane his neck a little to see it over the mass of food there, but when his eyes landed on the centerpiece, he absolutely lit up, laughing a little.

“Firebug, where in Sam Hill did you manage to find bluebonnets?” he asked, absolutely delighted. “Those are a full month or so outta season. And those are fresh—bless your heart, did you grow these?”

Pyro nodded, and Engie laughed, drew them into a hug, clapping them on the back as he did so.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, honest you are,” Engie said, and Pyro laughed. “Doin’ all of this for everyone.”

Pyro shrugged, assured him it wasn’t any trouble, and drew back enough to point out to him that they’d made some food that he in particular would probably be excited about, and moved away as he picked up a plate and started digging right in.

They moved over to Soldier, and ended up tugging on his jacket until he finally abandoned where he and Demo were attempting to peer pressure Heavy into inhaling some helium. Pyro dragged him out the back door, making sure to prop it open behind them and saving a balloon from escaping and flying off into the stratosphere. They led him to the dumpster they’d dragged a few meters closer to the door, and flipped open the lid, quickly reaching inside and coming up with two armfuls.

Soldier could not have possibly looked any more excited than he did in that exact moment as he processed the sight of Lieutenant Bites and Lance Corporal Chompers wearing little party hats and covered in little pieces of paper confetti. He promptly set about informing those two—and the several other raccoons rapidly starting to escape from the dumpster—about just how goddamn adorable they looked in their tiny hats and rainbow confetti. He ended up seizing the Lieutenant and holding him tight to his chest, bringing him inside to show to Demo for the five minutes he managed to keep hold of him for before he darted right back out the door and joined his raccoon friends in tearing their cute little hats into shreds. Soldier brought the entire container of sour cream off of the table to give to them outside, and nobody stopped him.

Inside, he picked up one of the records and moved over to Medic, who was busy watching Heavy and Demo go lightheaded from inhaling helium, rolling his eyes the entire time even as he didn’t stop them. Pyro tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention, and handed over the record.

Medic looked pleased, glancing over the record, flipping it over to look at the specific music on it. “I was not aware that we owned any records of classical music,” he mused, visibly cheered up. “I thought that our Soldier had shattered most of them last time we attempted to play board games as a team bonding exercise.”

Pyro nodded, and Medic looked over the album again.

“Ja, this is new. Did you buy this specifically for this, er... occassion?” Medic asked, eyebrows drawn together.

Pyro shook their head, gesturing fro the record to Medic.

“It’s for me then?” Medic asked, starting to grin, and Pyro for one didn’t comment on how worrying he looked when he was pleased with something. “Danke, how very kind of you! It is very much appreciated, my friend. Might I play it now?”

Pyro nodded, and he did. The first swells of a symphony filled the room, and Scout and Demo briefly bemoaned listening to “boring fancy-pants music”, but the tunes were so lighthearted and cheerful that they quickly forgot about it, letting it fade into background noise.

The change of music to something more calm and the general mood of the room settling down were enough to coax Sniper out from the kitchen, and soon Soldier had returned, his and Scout’s moods significantly mellowed out following what they’d been given by Pyro. Soon enough, they were all sat around the table, digging in and talking cheerfully. It was an eclectic assortment of options, and everyone was surprised to find foods specific to their own tastes, and all talked excitedly about their own meals, the stories surrounding the times when they’d eaten them. Heavy, for one, wouldn’t stop repeating his new favorite joke about baby sandwiches for baby teammates.

And then plates were being passed around. Spy was trying brisket, and the Engineer was trying clam chowder, and Scout was trying brautwurst, and Medic was trying crocodile jerky. Some of them collectively bemoaned the favorite food of the others—only Sniper seemed to enjoy the stew Heavy so much liked, saying it had some weird spice combinations, and the corn on the cob that Soldier was ripping through had far too much salt and butter on it according to the entire Support team as well as Demo and Heavy. And only Scout was brave enough (or rather, dared) to try the family recipe venison pie, but upon him saying it actually wasn’t that bad, Medic and Soldier we’re inclined to try, the reception lukewarm and positive respectively. Others were enthusiastic, Scout in particular being surprised that the quiche was something that “Mister hoity-toity” Spy himself claimed to be a favorite, and there being a unanimous consensus at the table that the chocolate chip cookies were downright delicious. Pyro assured Scout that they would make more for him when he seemed a little worried that everyone else would clear that plate and not leave any left over.

For hours, they sat, they ate, they talked, they told stories. Some from their childhoods, and growing up, and traveling, others simply the product of their going on tangents of tangents.

There was only a cake left on the table at the end of the night, luckily a very small one, most of them two steps past full. They agreed that everyone would at least attempt one slice of it, and Pyro stood up and fetched a cake knife and some fresh plates from the kitchen.

“Hey, hey Mumbles,” Scout said upon their return before they could even sit down. “How come you did all this, anyways? Like, seriously, this—this had to be like, days of work.”

“Weeks, even,” Spy chimed a few chairs down.

“Entire weekends,” Engie agreed.

“Awful lot of work to go to, aye?” Demo asked, blinking curiously at them.

Pyro shifted, a little nervous, set the knife down to fidget with their hands for a few seconds. Their reply was so mumbled that nobody could pick up on it.

“I beg your pardon?” Medic asked, leaning in a little, brows furrowed.

Pyro repeated themselves slightly louder.

“Afraid I didn’t catch that,” Engie said from their right.

Pyro repeated themselves slightly louder.

In an instant, Scout was on his feet, openly shocked. “Woah, hold on, are you fuckin’ serious?!” he all but shouted, absolutely aghast.

Questioning noises from around the table.

“They said it’s their fuckin’ birthday.”

An amount of chaos. Some were incredulous, some shocked, others apologetic, others mostly just confused.

“Jesus H. fucking Christ, Mumbles, how come you didn’t tell nobody?!” Scout demanded, voice rising over most of the others and cutting through the noise. “I mean, shit, I don’t even have a gift or nothin’!”

Pyro’s response was drowned out by the rest of the team carrying on, and Scout gestured wildly at them to make them shut up, and silence fell again. He gestured at them, then, and they repeated themselves, speaking slowly and clearly and loudly to be understood through the mask.

“Well, maybe the only gift I really wanted was to give something to all the rest of you guys. To thank you for being my friend.”

Silence, and then chaos again.

A few voices could be picked out. Heavy, exclaiming “Of course leetle Pyro is friend, is credit to team!”. Sniper exclaiming, “Look, we don’t—no need to thank us, we like being mates with you, you lunatic!”. Demo exclaiming, “Cut it with the thanks lark, all these gifts, you know we love ya to death, lad!”. Soldier exclaiming, “We aren’t friends, we are brothers! Metaphorically!”. Similar sentiments echoed, mercs pointing at each other end agreeing heartily, and they carried on for quite some time before they all started falling quiet again, apparently noticing the sound coming from within Pyro’s suit, hands clasped across the bottommost part of their mask.

The crying sound.

“Hey, hey, c’mon now Firebug, what’re the tears for?” Engie urged gently, hand on their shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” they assured, sniffling. “I just love you guys.”

Scout stood up again, apparently making a decision. “Okay, that’s it. Stand up,” he said, and Pyro did. “Alright, group hug. Everyone get in here.”

The team started rising from their own seats within a moment, for once not arguing with the unusual show of affection and camaraderie.

“Hey, that means you, Legs,” Scout said, pointing an accusatory finger towards Sniper as the man stood up. “Get the fuck in here. You too Spy, don’t be a dick.”

“I’m just moving to get around the table, don’t be an animal,” Spy deadpanned, and Sniper murmured an agreement, and then the whole team was there. All just stood, practically crushing Pyro under the weight of eight men’s worth of embraces, and they returned it as best they could, still a bit sniffly.

But then, “Happy birthday to Leetle Pyro,” Heavy said decisively, and the sentiment was immediately echoed by the rest of the team, and then the waterworks were back in full effect. This apparently prompted Soldier to decide they weren’t hugging Pyro tightly enough, at which point he started hugging at maximum strength, surprising several mercs and almost sending them toppling into the table. Once they decided the sappiness was over, and Demo asked if anyone actually had any room left for the cake and largely got a chorus of “no”s in response, Scout picked it up and shoved it directly into Spy’s face, and the mood was back to a cheerful version of normal as Medic reminded them idly that they still had plenty of alcohol left to consume.

Pyro wouldn’t be hard pressed to call it the best birthday ever, especially since their being the one celebrating it meant they were informed that they didn’t have to help with the cleanup afterwards.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #shut up me #my fanfiction #the fiendship tag

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