Andrew hates exy galas.
They’re the most pathetic dick-measuring contests that he’s ever seen -- and he’s seen some shit. He hates everything about them, mostly the fact he has to abandon the comfort of casual wear for a stuffy suit, but also because there are only so many mini cheesecakes Andrew can devour before Wymack forcibly removes him from the snack table.
They’re boring, teams mingling as if they aren’t half a second from ripping each other to shreds, fair play be damned. Everyone is offering plastic platitudes through clenched teeth.
They have Josten this year though, and his self-preservation instinct always takes a backseat when he hears an insult, so maybe he will provide some entertainment.
A lanky body drops to the chair next to Andrew.
Andrew hates exy galas because Kevin always gets spectacularly wasted every time.
The taller man is nursing a flute of champagne that most likely isn’t his first or his seventh. His gaze wanders around the room, lazy, and his cheeks are slightly pink when Andrew looks closely.
He downs the drink in one large swallow.
“How many of these did you already have?”.
“How many mini cheesecakes did you have?” Kevin raises his eyebrow.
“Ten. How long have you been shitfaced?” Andrew keeps an eye at the crowd while keeping Kevin in his peripheral.
Kevin gives him a sardonic smile.
“I saw Riko”.
Andrew sighs. “Of course”.
He stands up, and after sending Kevin a stern look that he hopes conveys stay the fuck in your seat , he makes a beeline for the snack table. He comes back balancing three plates and three champagne flutes that Kevin quickly rids him of.
“Cheers” he raises one of them in a mocking toast and downs all of them like shots.
Andrew can only handle all of this for so long, so after finding Wymack in the crowd and shooting him a meaningful look, he gets up and fishes a box of cigarettes from his slacks.
“I need a smoke”.
“Oh thank God”.
He hauls Kevin up by the back of his suit jacket, paying little mind to the other man tripping over his legs like a newborn foal. Kevin loops his arm over Andrew’s shoulders and Andrew trades the death grip of Kevin’s jacket for a firm hand on his lower back and they make their way to the venue exit, trying their best not to look like they’re running away.
Kevin snatches a flute of champagne from a waiter somehow, and Andrew doesn’t even roll his eyes, instead focusing on holding the majority of Kevin’s weight without looking like it.
They almost make it outside. They’re so close to the exit they can taste the fresh air until Riko slides in their way from the shadows, as if he’s been waiting for them this entire time. Andrew’s startled double-take is overshadowed by Kevin’s bodily flinch.
The champagne sloshes out from the glass, dripping over Kevin’s hand and down into his sleeve.
“Charming” Riko drawls nasally, eyeing the arm Andrew has around Kevin’s waist with distaste.
He then hisses something in Japanese that makes Kevin go an unusual shade of pale that doesn’t resemble any color of drunk nausea.
Andrew really needs a fucking smoke.
“Did Naruto just threaten you?”.
Kevin laughs, sharp and loud, with a hysterical undertone. He bites his lip, trying to hold back a grin.
Riko’s face goes stony. His brow twitches for a millisecond before his expression slips back into that cold indifference that Andrew is pretty sure has been brainwashed into every single Raven as a default setting.
He raises his hand and brushes a tip of his finger against Kevin’s cheek, right over the brand inked into his skin.
Kevin’s head moves quicker than Andrew can comprehend, and in a way that probably happened without any conscious input from his brain, he snaps his jaw and closes his teeth around Riko’s finger, biting down savagely.
He keeps eye contact the entire time. When he lets go, his teeth are stained red and his eyes are a little wild.
Andrew really needs a cigarette, and maybe to kiss Kevin senseless.
Kevin grins, all bloody teeth and self-satisfaction. “Old dog, new tricks”.
“You’ll regret this”.
Andrew rolls his eyes, fed up with being left out of the conversation.
“Okay, we get it. Your father will hear about this. You’ll go all Alfred Hitchcock on us, and shit all over our windshields. I’m shitting my boots, truly”.
Riko’s eyes narrow, and he opens his mouth to say something undeniably charming, when someone interrupts.
“Is there a problem?”.
Andrew has never been, and never will be, this relieved to see Boyd.
“No” Riko drawls. “Not at all”.
“Good” Boyd smirks crookedly. “Then move it, you’re blocking the entrance”.
It’s not the commotion that lures them out of the secluded corner behind the venue, forcing them to break the fervent liplock that was just about to become considered public indecency, but Wymack yelling their names.
“What the fuck?” Kevin combs his hand through his messy hair, watching the team incredulously.
Boyd has Josten in a headlock. Josten is thrashing around with a strength surprising for such a scrawny motherfucker, baring his teeth at the Edgar Allan across the parking lot looking like a rabid chihuahua.
Wymack does them a favor of not mentioning the blush still high on their cheeks, the purpling bites blooming above the undone top of Kevin’s shirt, how wrinkled their fancy suits are, or that Andrew’s tie is missing.
“Josten almost got in a fistfight with Edgar Allan’s” Nicky smiles beatifically. “So they asked us to leave”.
“The fuck?” Andrew raises his eyebrows. “We leave for a smoke for five minutes and Josten throws down with Kentucky Fried Ravens? Did someone at least record that?”.
“You were gone for an hour” Aaron snarks, scrolling through his phone.
Andrew stares, waiting for an answer to his question.
“Reynolds had her phone out”.
Andrew keeps staring.
“Yeah, I got it”.
“Good” Andrew nods.
Wymack sighs, long, hard, and disappointed.
“Did Kevin bite Moriyama’s finger off?” Josten asks, all doe-eyed and stupid, unconcerned that Boyd still has him in a WWE chokehold.
“Of course that’s your priority” Boyd groans.
“No I didn’t, but it was really fucking close” Kevin shrugs.
Josten stares at him with newfound respect.
“Okay, so now that we established neither Day nor Josten are domesticated, can we leave?” Aaron groans, propped against the bus.
Wymack watches them clamor in, with all the coordination of spastic toddlers, Boyd still holding Josten like a bunch of grapes.
Later, when Andrew gets a hold of Aaron’s phone (snatches it out of his gym bag like a jackass, making Aaron look for it in a panicked frenzy for two hours), they watch Josten spit abuse at Moriyama like a Jack Russell with opinions.
“Josten really has this Feral Child of the Forest shit down to the T” Kevin hums, watching over Andrew’s shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist as they huddle on the couch.
“He’s funky” Andrew nods, pausing the video to admire how Moriyama’s face went so red it resembled a traffic light.
“You almost bit his finger off” Josten spits from the kitchen table, elbows deep in his textbooks.
Kevin rolls his eyes, but his shoulders draw up to his ears defensively.
“It was hot” Andrew murmurs into the skin of Kevin’s jawline, turning his head to press a quick kiss there.
Maybe these galas won’t be so fucking boring anymore.