not a sidekick!

    if nothing else at least griffin has some fuel to tease rizavi about later ( you should’ve seen your face when matt holt hugged you – classic ), watching matt give them all a mock salute and slip back into the mess of the party. griffin clears his throat, scooting forward a little bit so he can’t feel the burn of kinkade’s palm through the back of his shirt. perhaps no one will notice his own flaming cheeks. 

    “cheers, then.” it’s kinkade reaching over griffin’s shoulder, tapping his cup to rizavi’s that spurs griffin back onto the defense, eyes wide as he looks to both of them.

   “but you guys, if we get caught they’ll boot us. or worse.” 

    leifsdottir finishes her cup with a final tilt back of her head, done with no flourish or pomp, like this is something she’s done before, she’s used to. her lips are wet when she speaks. “thursday nights are the designated officers’ gambling night – personnel not participating take advantage of the vacant captains and commanders lounges. we will not be caught. drink.”

"there you go!” rizavi taps her cup to griffin and tilts her head back right as kinkade does. it’s disgusting, but she’s not about to admit that. she swallows and wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. her cheeks are still pink, but at least she’s not sweating as much anymore, matt holt far gone and lost to the crowd. 

with a grin she links her and leifsdottir’s arms, dragging her forward. leifsdottir follows, lips quirking into a smile. 

“i  won’t!  not  a  word,  i  swear!”  romelle’s practically bouncing. her grip shifts to hold one of rizavi’s hands instead of two as she starts off down the hallway, tugging her along. “let’s go! we can — oh, wait.” romelle stops in her tracks, brow furrowed, and glances around. “which way is it?” 

    the room is stifling, crowded and too-hot, air stuffy and thick as they enter. it had taken a while to convince him to go at all ( but what if we get caught? ) and even as griffin shuffles in, shoes sticking to the floor, he isn’t sure this is going to be worth it. 

    and that feeling is only compounded when matt holt ( the matt holt ) arrives, seemingly out of nowhere, red solo cup filling his vision. he stumbles back a bit into kinkade, face already flushing as he takes the cup, if only to keep it from spilling. 

    “o-oh, thanks, but i’m not – none of us are – ” 

    griffin’s voice comes out cracked and high, something akin to a squeak, but matt isn’t paying attention. already he’s obtained more cups, offering them to leifsdottir and rizavi, glasses askew on his face when he grins. 

    “ah, to be young and breaking curfew for the first time.” matt’s contemplative sigh blows at the bottom of his bangs as he stares off to some point in the middle distance, dreamy. his arm slips from the top of rizavi’s head down to her shoulder, pulling her in for a one-armed hug. “enjoy your cadet days, nerds. shit only gets harder from here.”

no, it’s not enough that matt holt used rizavi as a personal arm rest. no. he just -- had to hug her, like they’re pals, and this is something she’d write in a diary if she had one. she’s sure she’ll never hear the end of it from griffin later, especially as she squeaks and jumps a little, a bit of beer splashing onto the front of her shirt. 

the room was warm before, but now it’s sweltering. rizavi glances at leifsdottir for help, but she’s already chugging at her drink like it’s water. kinkade’s no better, having settled a hand at the center of griffin’s back as he sniffs at his own drink. 

the room practically pulses along with the volume of the music. leifsdottir takes a second: by the corner, a couple a few years older than them all, entangled in a way that would have iverson yell and force them into laps for a week straight if they were caught; a ping pong table decorated in red solo cups, lieutenant shirogane laughing with his head thrown back at one end with lieutenant west at the other, clutching at his hair; a group of older teenagers taking selfies by the sofas. it’s too many people stuffed into a room. it’s the only explanation for why no one seems to recognize the small gaggle of tiny first year cadets huddled by the door.  

rizavi’s standing all too proud, hands on her hips in that self-satisfied way she does when she pushes past regulation speeds in the simulator. leifsdottir says nothing, content to stand next to her, arms crossed. 

“ok, so here’s the plan --” rizavi starts, except she’s interrupted by matt holt, stinking of beer, resting an arm on her head. her face turns an interesting shade of red.  leifsdottir raises an eyebrow. 

       “the place was low on cosmic wolves,”  he dismisses with a snort, but his gaze lingers fondly at rizavi for a second longer, watching kosmo nuzzle closer to her.  “plus, i didn’t know what earth’s policy was on declaring intergalactic mementos.”

       he sighs comfortably and anchors his head into his pillow.  he’s missed her more than he thought, the pilot with a penchant for adventure.  “but, if we’re talking presents — when's my welcome home party?”

“well now you’re just ruining the surprise.” kosmo’s all but on her lap at this point despite nearly dwarfing her. she falls back across the foot of the bed, letting him lay on her chest as she scratches at his ears, beneath his chin. “i tried convincing griffin it’d be a good morale booster, but, well, you know him.”

    even before rizavi’s lips meet his, james thinks he could die right now and still die happy.

    he thinks he doesn’t believe in fate, doesn’t believe in some overarching force controlling the world, controlling them, but if there was something out there that led them to each other, something that brought him together with these three, he’s not sure he wants to argue with it. 

    every point of contact on his body feels like it’s on fire – nadia settled low across his hips, ina’s fingers circled around his splayed leg, ryan’s hand on his, guiding it to rizavi’s waist like james has forgotten how to do this, needs to be helped. kissing nadia feels like a team effort, like everything in their lives up to this point was leading here, now.

    there’s no point trying to hide the way his breath hitches as she tips his head back, or the way it catches, staccato in his throat, his mouth, as nadia starts up the underside of his jaw. griffin is content with letting her lead, prefers it, he thinks, because it frees him up to wrap his arms completely around her, pulling her flush against his chest as she finally gives in, fits her mouth into his.

    it’s strange, how kissing all of them feels so different. rougher with ryan, because they know there’s no point to pretending to being soft. slower with ina, because she has always been methodical, even when taking him apart. faster with nadia, because they’ve been racing each other for years, but now he doesn’t even care who wins.

    he’s cold when they pull apart, anchoring nadia on his lap, arms unrelenting, even as they break the kiss. james isn’t ready for this to be over, any of this. if he could, he’d spent his whole life in tonight, right here with the people he knows he’d do anything for.

    it takes ina clearing her throat for him to laugh, high and bright, unwinding his arms from around nadia. the air is still charged, still full of an electricity he wants the world to run on, but it doesn’t feel as daunting, as unconquered. he clears his throat before speaking, burning once more as three sets of eyes meet his.

    “i don’t know about you guys, but i think it was pretty evenly tied.” 

it’s only after ina clearing her throat and james letting go that nadia can muster the energy to let go. she could stay like this, she thinks, on james’ lap, or ryan’s thigh under her hand, or ina on her, hips in nadia’s grip. her lips tingle; her limbs buzz with a restless sort of energy, eager and ready and wanting for the warmth of them in her arms again. 

she’s clumsy as she gets off. she plops down pressed against ina and rests her head on her shoulder, wrapping an arm around her waist. the fuzzy sweater ina wears hangs three sizes too large. it hangs off a shoulder, revealing a prominent collarbone and freckled skin. nadia turns her head and plants a kiss on a fading brown freckle. 

“i guess,” rizavi says. 

kinkade chuckles. he moves, body slow, until he’s laying with his cheek pressed against james’ thigh. his drink is somewhere long forgotten. he reaches a hand out and ina intertwines their fingers. 

it’s a wonder, really, that it hadn’t happened before. that it took ina leaning over with that calculated precision she applies to everything and kissing ryan sweet as anything for james and nadia to catch on. some things are easier: recognizing a team effort; registering that these people hold your life in their hands; that they stand before, besides, and behind you, at ready for whatever may come. this: the electric rush of lips on lips, stacking action over action -- it comes after, like falling into step together.

the garrison hadn’t been his first choice, but ryan can’t fathom any other life. thinks that they were meant to be here, knees knocking, rizavi leaping into action perpendicular to every analytic pause on ina’s end. thinks that in here, without the two stripes curving his shoulders, james can lean back and let others take control.