“We didn’t know what you wanted, Chaps,” Romano says, smiling with teeth. “But we figured even you couldn’t hate screwdrivers.”

David opens his mouth — to say what, he doesn’t know — before Lourdes cuts him off before he can say a word.

“Awesome, I love screwdrivers,” he says, leaning over David, a hot line down his side, to pull the pitcher closer.

Romano blinks.

“I’m fine with beer, thanks,” David says quietly, and Romano rolls his eyes, but pours everyone their drinks, biting his lip in concentration while he does, glass tilted, like it’s a fine art to pour a drink, and David gets a pint of beer in front of him in the end.

“Do you think I could just stick a straw in this?” Lourdes asks. “Maybe they have some of the cool twirly ones.”

“Dude, that’s like, double strength,” Benson says, hasty. “Maybe stick with beer.”

“I’m not a lightweight,” Lourdes says, but doesn’t argue when Romano pours him a pint as well, leans back into the booth, knee knocking into David’s under the table, accidental seeming, though he doesn’t move it after, and his thigh presses warm against David’s. David feels his face heat, embarrassment and some anger, and he looks away from Lourdes, the line of his jaw as he swallows, and over at Benson, who’s looking back at him, frank, a little mean.

“Didn’t know you and Chaps were friends,” Benson says.

“Didn’t know Chaps had friends,” Romano mutters, half under his breath but still clearly audible, and Samuels snorts.

“Yup,” Lourdes says, wraps an arm around David’s shoulder, which David doesn’t flinch at only because it’d prove the assholes right. He squeezes David’s shoulder, showing no sign of dropping his arm any time soon, so David’s bracketed by him, the line of his thigh, his arm tucked over him, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, watch digging in, a little, to David’s shoulder. David wants to shrug it off, but he doesn’t do that either. “We figure the media shit about us being enemies is stupid, so.”

David takes a long sip of beer.

“Dude, I’m pretty sure Chaps is out for your blood,” Benson says, through laughter.

David takes a longer sip of beer. No one’s asking him anyway.

“Are you sure I can’t just stick a straw in this?” Lourdes asks, and when the conversation devolves into chirping Lourdes for trying to shirk beer, David’s never been more grateful to him in his life.

Which still means he’s more pissed than not, but Lourdes is all warmth against him, his thumb nudging David’s pulse, and David’s human, despite all the chirps he gets from opponents who say otherwise, so all he can think about is how Lourdes’ mouth felt around him, the way his hair fell in his eyes, how badly David wanted to push it out of the way, so he could see. He didn’t, though. He has that, at least.

They don’t continue to needle David, thankfully. Mostly they just act like he isn’t there, asking Lourdes about Florida, Benson and Lourdes trading laughing stories about pranks they pulled at US Development Camp. The only real attention paid to him is Romano refilling David’s glass practically every time he takes a sip, asking, faux-polite, if the beer’s not to his taste because he’s drinking slower than everyone else, who are putting it back like it’s water.