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A shriek of laughter easily pulls Boil out of his doze, though he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. He can already tell from the echoing laughs that it was most likely Halo and Wooley; the two shinies had been nearly covered buckets to boots in glitter by the time Boil finally closed his eyes maybe half an hour ago.
“Mid-meal is served!”
Well, Longshot’s back.
Boil stretches from where he’s laid out in the open grass, a huff of a sigh leaving his lips. He’s warm. The sun on this planet is high in the sky, but with Boil only in his blacks and his armor having been off for hours, he doesn’t feel like he’s being cooked alive. No, just warm, like a tooka lying in sun rays–though he’s never say that comparison outloud.
Depths, he really can’t believe this is something this planet just does. Every year!
A day of nothing, of food and gifts and lying in the warm sun and—
A familiar body slides over on top of Boil’s, legs straddling his waist. Hands curl around the sides of his throat, tilting his head up until a pair of lips are sliding against his own.
Boil sighs, melting even more.
A day of nothing but the feeling of Waxer’s lips on his. It isn’t like Waxer is selfish with his kisses on a normal day–far from it–but a normal day usually involves them being shot at, or working on different sides of the ship despite Cody trying to keep them together, or scouting missions that are just too unsafe to risk lifting their buckets for even a quick peck.
The patch of land Ghost had taken up for their day of nothing and everything was sweet with flowers. The grass beneath him soft and springy, smelling of crushed clover and sap–sap Boil can still taste in Waxer’s mouth as the bald clone slides his tongue into Boil’s mouth. It’s a greedy kiss, entirely unhurried. The type of kiss that is more familiar with their bunkroom aboard the Negotiator. Waxer shifts his weight, draping over Boil’s chest in a way that makes the rest of the galaxy feel like a distant crackle of a fading comm signal. Nothing to worry about, nothing to stress about. Boil lets out a low hum of contentment, his own hands sliding up to rest on Waxer’s hips, tugging as if he could possibly pull Waxer closer.
A hand brushes over Boil’s temple, stroking the sun-warm skin as a quiet, gravelly huff of a laugh fills their ears.
“You two plan on actually eating the food Waxer and Longshot made?”
Waxer breaks the kiss with a laugh, his lips sliding over Boil’s jaw with a brief hint of a promise before sliding away from his spot on top of Boil. Boil finally opens his eyes and looks up into the eyes of their Commander. He adjusts his weight, feeling the solid, unarmored curve of Cody’s thigh beneath his neck. Their Commander is sitting upright, acting as a living pillow, his presence a silent sentinel over their rest. It had taken them ages to get Cody actually to agree to spend the day with them, but it was so worth the time. Cody actually looks relaxed; Boil couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Cody look like that.
“Like Wax is gonna let the food go to waste.”
The scar around Cody’s eye tightens as he chuckles, his fingers still stroking over Boil’s temple. “I was talking about before Gearshift eat it all.”
Around them, the rest of Ghost Company hums with the same warmth Boil has been lying in, though with a bit more energy. An arm’s length away, Halo and Wooley are still deeply absorbed in their artistic endeavors, the soft scratch of styluses on flimsi and the occasional hissed argument over a shared pot of orange paint being the soundtrack of their morning. Boil just hopes Halo’s done with the glitter he had been using.
Further out, Crys lets out an indignant shout, diving forward over his own gift as Gearshift darts around him for another successful stolen bite off his plate. Not that the tech has even touched his own food, having spent the better half of the morning hunched over his gift, desperate to keep it hidden. It isn’t doing much, seeing how Boil had caught sight of the familiar three-ray sun mirrored on the gift hours ago–and he does not doubt that Cody has seen it as well.
Longshot and Gearshift have been quietly betting on whether or not Crys would actually work up the nerve to give it to their Commander. Waxer seems to think he will. Boil is still not sure.
“If I find glitter in my bunk, I am leaving you to the Commander’s mercy, Wooley,” Boil calls out, though it is entirely void of any heat.
“You don’t even sleep in your bunk!” Wooley shouts back without looking up, his tongue poking out in concentration as he tries to peel a stubborn sticker off his thumb. Beside him, Halo is vibrating with excitement, his blacks shimmering with enough gold dust that Boil is certain he’s trying to signal his flyboy partner on the other side of the galaxy. The kid even has a streak of gray paint on his cheek. Boil doesn’t even know where he got gray paint.
Waxer lets out a bright laugh, already migrating back with two mismatched plates piled high with the local goods he and Longshot had tried their hand at making, as well as a few strips of Longshot’s not-so-secret contraband jerky he usually keeps in his pack. He drops back into the grass, setting one of those plates on top of Boil’s chest and handing the other to Cody.
“Commander,” He grins, leaning back on one of his hands so he can look down at Boil, occasionally picking bits from the plate on Boil’s chest. “Open up, before Gearshift realizes I took the good stuff.”
The three of them eat in comfortable silence, Waxer alternating between feeding Boil and feeding himself. As the food dwindles, Boil looks back over to Crys, still hunched over his project. “He’s going to vibrate out of his skin before the day’s up,” Boil mutters, moving the cleaned plate so that he can sit up, though he doesn’t move from where he’s leaning against Cody’s side. Waxer slides in behind him, wrapping his arms around Boil’s chest and hooking his chin over his shoulder.
“Cut him some slack, Boil,” Waxer laughs, nuzzling Boil’s neck. “He’s been working hard on it all day.”
“It’s a card. Not a system he has to hack.” Boil glances over to Cody, trying to gauge his Commander’s opinion on the situation. The poor tech’s crush on Cody was probably the worst-kept secret within Ghost Company–maybe even all of the 212th, if Boil was to be honest–but watching Cody right now, watching how Cody’s eyes softened just slightly, the same way he often looked at Waxer and Boil.
Maybe Crys was in a better position than Boil had thought.
Suddenly, Wooley shoots up from his spot next to Halo with a shriek of triumph. “Finished!” He bounds over towards Longshot and Gearshift, the pair finally leaving Crys to his own devices as they continue sharing their own food and hushed whispers. Wooley bolts towards them, clutching to his most recent masterpieces of orange paint, glitter, and what looked like actual pressed flowers. “For watching my back in the last battle.”
The pair startles–Longshot choking mid-bite while Gearshift reaches for the shiny and tugs him down with them. Wooley laughs, happily snuggling into the pile as he launches into a lecture on the flowers he used for the card. Wooley has been making the most gifts, having already given Cody, Waxer, and Boil theirs. Boil had tucked his in the plates of his armor when no one was looking, in hopes of keeping it safe.
By the time the sun was finishing its trek across the sky hours later, sleep having already taken over most of their group. Orange bleeds into the darkening sky as Crys finally stands up, his cheeks burning with intensity. He hesitates for a moment, then forces himself to walk over to the trio. Boil watches as he opens his mouth to say something, immediately gives up, and just hands over his gift decorated with Cody’s sun motif.
“For the collection. Sir.” Crys finally manages, his flush clashing with the blonde of his hair.
Cody takes it with the same gravity he handles tactical data and direct orders–and even more care than he gives his own armor plates. He doesn’t open it, just strokes the painted sun-rays with the same thumb that had been stroking Boil’s skin hours ago. “Thank you, Crys.”
Cody reaches out to take Crys’ hand, tugging him to sit down on his other side. Boil watches as Crys leans into Cody’s touch. The tension he has been carrying all day finally bleeds out, his eyes fluttering shut. Behind him, Waxer’s breathing has slowed into the steady, deep rhythm of sleep, his head tucked into the crook of Boil's neck, one hand still possessively curled into the fabric of Boil's blacks. Further down the slope, the shinies are curled in a tangled pile of limbs, the glitter-coated blacks catching the fading light like dying embers.
“He did good on the sun-rays,” Boil whispers, voice soft so as not to wake Waxer.
Cody looks down at the card in his lap, slowly lowering his head to rest on top of Crys’s head. “He did.” His hand had slid away from Crys’ neck to instead curl around the tech’s shoulders, desperate to keep him close. He was the center of their messy, complicated web, the north-point where all their lines of affection stretching to reach.
Boil tilts his head back slightly, looking up at the unfamiliar stars. Tomorrow, they would be back on the Negotiator. Tomorrow, their buckets would be back on. Tomorrow, the war will find them again, and they will go back to being numbers and tactical objectives, to the stolen kisses in their rare moments of downtime and lights out. But for now, in the cool grass of a planet that had given them today, they were just men.
And for the first time in a long time, just men was more than enough.