Dinner's nice. Whole team's here. Yipee.
Demo idly pushes around the mashed potatoes with his fork, glaring across the table where his teammates are having a laugh. He shouldn't be irritated for not being in on the joke; it's his own fault for not paying attention.
In fact, even though he'd been staring directly at them when the three burst out laughing, his mind had been a bit preoccupied.
"And then," Engie continues, to Soldier and Pyro's barely contained giggles, "we get there, and there's two horses in the barn. So I look 'em in the eyes and say 'now can I have my hat back?'" Soldier brings one of his massive hands down on the table, making the plates shake and spoons rattle. Although his laugh is loud and booming, it dissipates in the large cafeteria, making it an almost private joke between them and their captive audience. With ease, Soldier drapes an arm over Engie's shaking shoulders, a casual touch that is in no way out of the ordinary.
Demoman seethes.
"You gunna eat that pally?" Scout interrupts, bringing Demo out of his foul narcosis. "Or you waitin' for Old Nick to take you somewhere where there's better potatoes?"
"Wha…?" Demo asks, not sure if that sentence made sense or if he was more intoxicated than he thought.
Scout gestures to his plate. "You've been tryin' to eat that same forkful for the past eight minutes."
"Uh, yeah. But what was that thing about Ole' Nick?"
Scout shrugs. "My Ma always said that Old Nick comes and takes kids who don't finish their dinner. That is why I am a member of the Clean Plate Club, and why I always beat you morons at eatin'."
Demo debates between telling Scout not everything is a competition, and making fun of him for still believing in Old Nick, but his tongue is thicker than normal. All he can focus on it the way the helmets click together as they pull away, the moment practically oozing relaxation and familiarity.
"Whoa whoa man! Okay jeez, you're the second best at eatin'. No need to have a freakin' aneurysm."
As he looks down, Demo realizes he's rendered his fork unusable, now a twisted little pile of metal and tines.
"I'm full," he says, standing up and tossing the former fork onto the table.
"What? You just gunna leave your dat there? Really sloppy man."
Engie and Soldier are already listening to one of Pyro's jokes—or in Soldier's case, pretending to understand—as Demo grabs his plate as he moves to the front of the cafeteria. He avoids looking at the table he just came from, instead running his eye over his remaining teammates, hoping to find some distraction. Sniper has absorbed his food, just like Scout, pushing it down the endless void that is his stomach. Heavy and Medic are auguring about something in Russian, either about their little book club or Medic practicing his grammar. It's difficult to tell, honestly. Spy listens to the rapid back-and-forth with a look of bemusement. If he isn't following, he's a very convincing liar.
Try as he might, Demo can't help but look back at the other table. It's no big deal. It's nothing. He knows he's overreacting.
After all, he himself is a very tactile person, even when sober. So what if Soldier hugs members of the team after a particularly good win? So what it he gives Scout a fond pat on the back for an intelligence hat trick? Demo doesn't care. Soldier can do whatever the hell he wants.
Okay. The whole "dinner's nice" thing a big fat lie.
Demo skulks back to his room, opting to tinker there instead of moving into the depressing lab. Maybe Engie didn't mind the black, sunless hole, but Demo preferred being able to see his own fingers and not smelling the human bodies buried under the concrete.
As he presses two wires together, he thinks back on dinner with a twinge of guilt. He was being childish, and, now that he's out of the bustling room and able to take a breather, he chides himself for his callowness. Maybe it was just the embarrassment, but he's sure he felt someone's eyes on him as he exited the hall. Either way, he should be more careful.
An unsubtle knock at the door yanks him back to reality, bringing the wires into focus.
"Aye?" he calls, gently insulating the wires with a bit of rubber.
Soldier opens the door, a grin on his face and a case of beer under his arm. "Hello Demoman! Ready for Grenades?"
Demo blinks, the gears turning in his head. That's right, it's Thursday. In his fit, the day had slipped his mind.
Soldier's grin falters a bit. "You didn't forget, did you?"
"O' course I dinnae forget," Demo lies. "I just thought I could get some buildin' done before then." He carefully places the wires back where he found them, pulling on his boots when he's done. In a moment he's ready to go, glad it's Soldier's turn to buy and he doesn't have to conjure up the missing beer.
"Good!" Soldier replies. "Because if I remember something and you forget it, that probably means I made it up. I do not want to make-up Grenades."
Demo chuckles, but he gets the feeling that wasn't meant as a joke.
They make their way up to the roof of BLU base, talking about the resident German barking up a storm over dinner. Apparently, there had been an argument after Demo left, something that Engie diffused before things got physical.
"I'll never understand their fascination with a bunch of smelly old books," Soldier says, swinging his legs over the edge of the roof. "There are much better things to start a fight over. Like Rock and Roll! And the proper usage of band-aids!"
"Have you ever really gotten intae a fight over band-aids, or are you just bein' facetious?" Demo asks, sitting on the other side of the case.
"I have gotten into a fight over band-aids, and also I do not know what that word means!"
Demo pulls out a bottle, a poor brand that Soldier probably just picked up from a gas station. Demo doesn't mind, though. Tonight isn't about that.
"'Facetious' means makin' light out o' a serious situation," he said, cracking open his bottle.
"I wouldn't call 'Medic trying to tackle Heavy' a serious situation."
Demo laughs. "Got me there. Man would probably just bounce off like a flea."
Soldier opens his own beer, lifting the bottle to his lips before remembering to toast. He clinks the neck of his bottle against Demo's, to a cheerful, "Happy Grenades."
"Happy Grenades," Demo repeats, and takes his first sip.
To the causal observer, 'Happy Grenades' seems like a strange toast. But a casual observer would be thrown off the roof, so it is not a question that is asked often. High over the battlefield, this particular rooftop spot is Sniper's preferred daytime hidey-hole. But, when the reclusive Australian returns to his camper for the evening, it is free to be discovered by the energetic members of the team.
Which is exactly what happened.
It started out innocently enough, Soldier wanting to practice his grenade throws, but getting bored with such a small training yard. That was when he spied the perch above him, the perfect place to spice up his usual regimen. Of course, his initial attempt got him a kukri gash a cross the arm, and the next time he was smart enough to wait for Sniper to leave.
Soon, Demo joined in on the fun, realizing how much better the view was for watching dummies explode. Then came the booze. (It's amazing how something can go from 'two idiots on a roof' to 'just a couple of mates hanging out' with just a touch of alcohol.) Eventually they had to stop with the grenades after being written up for 'wasting valuable ammunition.' (This was particularly insulting because the whole war seemed like a waste of ammo.) Then, when they tried using dummy grenades instead, they got told off for keeping the team up in the middle of the night. Nothing seemed to please BLU.
Eventually, 'Grenades' degenerated into sitting on the roof every Thursday getting smashed. The name stuck, however.
"Ah, Cassiopeia's all upside down right now," Demo says after a lull in the conversation. He points up at the constellation, gently connecting the dots with his finger.
Soldier squints, trying to make her out.
"No, no more that way. She looks like an 'M'. See that?"
"So she looks like a 'W'?"
"What? No!"
"You said she was upside down."
"She's upside down 'cause the gods stuck her up there as punishment. Said she was more beautiful than the sea nymphs, and you know how well that sorta thing blows over with those hens."
Soldier gazes at the constellation, making out the shape against the backdrop of starlight. He huffs. "She's not that pretty. Your Scottish gods are too easily offended."
"She's not a Scottish constellation. She's Greek."
Soldier huffs again. "Let's look at some American constellations. I'm sick of all these olive-picking stars."
"There aren't any American constellations Solider. They're all Greek."
"What?" Soldier balks. "Why?"
Demo shrugs. "The Greeks scooped 'em all up before America was even invented." He shoots Soldier an impish grin. "Suppose you should be a wee bit faster next time, eh?"
"Unacceptable! If there are no American constellations then I will make one!" Soldier jabs a finger into the sky. "There! And there! And…there! That is a turkey, America's Vice-National bird."
Demo laughs so hard he falls backwards, having drunk enough to substantially impede his balance. "You…" he wheezes, "you just stole stars from Cassiopeia, Andromeda, and Perseus!"
"Well that's what America is all about. Stealing stuff and then making it better."
Demo laughs even harder at that, his overly full belly shaking in mirth. Soldier flops next to him, a smile on his face despite his supposed seriousness. When he finally stops laughing, Demo glances over at his drinking companion, whose helmet is tilted back to reveal his eyes. They're staring up, admiring Soldier's new addition to the galaxy, reflecting every burning sun thousands of light years away.
Seeing the world through Soldier's eyes is better than any telescope.
Demo knows he's staring, but he can't help it. He watches Soldier watch the sky, and he feels that familiar bubble of peace whenever they're out here together. Out here, it's impossible to be jealous. It's just the two of them alone in the universe.
Eventually, they polish off the case and stumble back to their respective rooms. There's a familiar ache in the Demoman's heart as he falls back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling that separates him from the night's sky. He places a hand on his chest.
"God I'm so fucked."
