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Felix is giggling. He's giggling because you're standing there, frozen, covered in the sticky confetti from a trap he set up with little confetti launchers, and you completely and stupidly fell for it. It's not even nice confetti, even by Felix's standards; it's a glaring neon mix of orange, yellow, and red paper, and it clashes horribly with your stripes. Even with his helmet on, you can tell he's grinning that wide, toothy grin of his.

…You're missing something, aren't you?

“What is the occasion?” You ask the question as you closely examine the back of your glove and pick some of the sticky paper off, somewhat confused. The solid gray walls on either side of you are covered with whatever didn't attach to you, and you're sure the other can see your eyebrow quirk under your visor.

Felix stands and waits a full minute before answering, which is something that he knows gnaws away at your patience. He's having fun, messing with you. You've learned to ignore most of it, but he's never done this before.

“Five years,” he finally says. You must tip your head, because he pauses, then takes the opportunity to go on. “Five years since our first job.”

Oh. You get it now. It was such a stupid job; you never bothered to remember the details, but apparently Felix remembers the day. He's always been a sucker for celebrations.

“And we are celebrating this.”

“Hell yes, we are!” He suddenly takes a few quick steps and jumps forward and up into your face. As you pull your head back to avoid bumping helmets, the shorter mercenary braces a foot on your hip armor, and then he's over your shoulder, punching you in the back, and running before you can react, laughing and not caring about the confetti sticking to his gloves and boots.

You snort when he turns the corner, out of sight, before turning to follow.

Let him have his fun.

Something's changed about both of you since that first job. Celebrating, you've found, always helps forget the pain of that something you can't explain, at least for a short while, anyway.