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"Remind me again why this weapon inventory is so bloody urgent?"
"Ach, come on Gaz, isnae that much work," Soap grins, lightly punching into Kyle's shoulder while he half-walks, half-shoves him in the direction of the armoury, "besides, ye got any places tae be? 's just a Thursday evening like all the others, we'll survive."
Kyle sighs inwardly, but makes sure not to let anything on. He doesn't really know why and how he failed to share the date of his birthday, but here they are – no one in the 141 has shown any signs of being aware that it's Kyle's special day today. Not Ghost, not Soap, not even John. If anything they've been even more busy.
But it's fine. Kyle has never really celebrated it that much, and his confidence is solid enough to know the three of them appreciate him. A lot, actually. More than anyone else; he knows they would quite literally walk through a fire for him.
Still, it does sting little.
And he had kind of hoped to convince Soap to rally their superiors for a movie night – better than going on a surprise inventory duty of all things.
"Ah swear tae ye, we'll be out of here in no time!", Soap announces loudly, an exceptionally wide grin adorning his open face while he shoulders the door to the armoury open.
Kyle follows closely after him, making his way to the far corner of the room to start their task. The quicker this is over the better. Maybe he'll get a bit of self-care in this evening? He doubts John has time for him, holed up in paperwork as he's been these past weeks.
Suddenly, a click echoes through the room and Kyle stops dead in his tracks when the lights go out.
"What the fuck, Soap?", Kyle hisses incredulously. It's bloody fucking dark, and without any windows in this godforsaken room he cannot see his own hand before his face.
"Ergh shite, ah– ah'll fix it, just giv'es a second–", Soap grumbles, rummaging around, clearly retreating from the light switch at the entrance of the room.
"What are you doing, mate?", Kyle snorts out a chuckle while he moves back to the door, careful not to tip anything over, "I know these night vision helmets are fucking A, but you know damn well where the light switch is without those"
His fingers hit the wall, and it only takes Kyle a few seconds and an educated guess to turn the light back on with a satisfying click.
"There we go," Kyle mumbles to himself and turns around to get to work.
Only to be met by the sight of three all-too familiar men, a makeshift table with three gifts strewn over it, and a fucking cake with candles cradled to the man in the middle.
"There we go indeed," John Price drawls, wholly unable to hide his wide smile under the fuzz of his mutton chops.
Kyle is frozen for a few seconds. He was so sure they didn't know, but apparently– they very much knew, and are in the process of throwing him a surprise celebration.
He loves them so much he forgets to breathe.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YE NUMPTY!" Soap exclaims, jumping forward and landing right in Kyle's arms, who loudly protests the sudden weight threatening to throw both of them off balance. A few dangerous moments of struggling against the inevitable pull of gravity later though, a solid, strong arm around Kyle's back relieves them from impeding doom.
"Careful, Johnny," Ghost grunts in his dead-pan, flat, all-too-fucking soft tone that's practically see-through for how much affection it holds, "the man just got 30, ya won't want to push him into an early grave."
After Soap has pressed a few overly ambitious, slightly wet kisses to the sides of Kyle's face and his forehead, the ambushed man laughing and trying to bat him away because he can barely handle so much love at once, Ghost pulls Soap away, locking him under his right shoulder.
"Happy birthday, Garrick," Ghost grumbles, patting his shoulder and running a surprisingly tender hand through Kyle's short curls, "have a good one. Won't be here without you."
And even though Kyle is already speechless, it doesn't get better when the two of them retreat and the third in their team is left to extend his birthday wishes.
John is standing in front of him, the birthday cake held cautiously in his bear-like hands, cradled with more care and caution than any live grenade that was ever grasped by his fingers. His expression is soft and gentle as his eyes flick over Kyle's face; what he sees shining back at him out of these stormy-blue eyes warmer than the burning candles on the cake.
The brown, plentiful hair on his hair looks soft and inviting to touch, creases and folds and moles littering his skin; so many beautiful little details Kyle wants to map out with closed eyes some day. His stature is broad and solid and warm and still – he's not only muscles and efficiency. There's plush fat smoothing out his shape, showing John's a man who lives for more than just efficiency. There's softness under all that grim determination, and Kyle couldn't be more glad he's allowed to see it.
What he sees is just – so, so beautiful.
"Happy birthday, Kyle," John murmurs, holding up the cake as he steps closer, "I believe there are wishes to be made."
He holds up the cake, motioning Kyle to do the honours and blow out the candles. Kyle follows his lead, as always, a reflex at this point of their relationship – professional and… unprofessional alike. Kyle closes his eyes when the air blown out from between his lips kills the last flame.
His wish is stupid. Immature and silly, even, but sometimes it's the small things one truly desires. The small things that are able to really make one happy.
And truly–
When Kyle opens his eyes, John sets the cake to the table on the side, the smoke of the dying candles wafting through the air between them. The inhales taste like John, smoke and softness between them.
A strong, solid palm cradles Kyle's jaw, rough callouses a antithesis to the reverence and gentleness with which the finger cradle Kyle's cheek.
He's pulled in to the warmth, going gladly as he doesn't want anything more than to taste the satisfied little smile curling around John's lips. Kyle tips forward, his own hand reaching out to sneak around John's neck, grabbing as well as he can into his brown hair; pulling John's head in the position he wants.
It's always a push and pull between them, both doing the pushing as much as the pulling.
Kyle cannot say who sets the pace, but their lips meet – soft and gentle and warm and rough with beard burn, but still perfect. The breath in his lungs is full of John, his body cradled closely; his own arms cradling John closely as well. Kyle licks into the kiss, grinning when he pulls a satisfied, yet unexpectedly needy noise from John's lips.
Cute.
And something for later.
Now, Kyle just wants to spend an evening with his team. Watch a movie, eat something nice, maybe have a fancy drink. Mostly though, just bask in the happiness, the comfort, the love from his family.
Kyle pulls back from the kiss, nuzzling his forehead into John's fuzzy jaw with a sigh, breathing in his absolutely favourite smell.
And god, does he love them as well.