Chapter Text
Rocket woke up with his face buried in Sword’s hair.
For a few long seconds, he remained perfectly still, suspended somewhere between sleep and consciousness. The world felt slow and distant, like his brain had been stuffed full of cotton.
Then the headache hit.
It arrived all at once—sharp, throbbing, and absolutely merciless.
Rocket groaned into the tangled mess of Sword’s hair and tried to lift his head.
Bad idea.
His skull immediately protested with the intensity of a rocket detonation.
“Ugh…”
He pushed himself upright anyway, squinting against the bright sunlight bleeding through thin curtains.
The room slowly came into focus.
Cheap carpet. Small coffee table. A couch that felt like it had been manufactured from compressed sandpaper.
Rocket blinked.
“…This isn’t my couch.”
He looked down.
Sword was still half-curled against him, face buried in a pillow and one arm hanging off the side of the couch like it had given up on life entirely.
Rocket poked him.
“Hey. Sword.”
The response was a muffled groan.
“Stop… moving…”
Rocket rolled his eyes and shoved his shoulder again.
“Wake up, dude.”
Sword cracked one eye open.
Without warning, he elbowed Rocket directly in the ribs.
Hard.
Rocket wheezed and toppled off the couch.
“HEY—”
He landed on the floor with a dull thump, clutching his side.
Sword stared down at him sleepily.
“…Serves you right.”
Rocket glared up at him.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He slowly pushed himself upright, still rubbing his ribs.
That was when he noticed something strange.
The room didn’t look familiar.
The couch wasn’t either of theirs.
The furniture had that bland, lifeless look that screamed hotel room.
Rocket squinted around suspiciously.
“…Why are we in a hotel?”
Fragments of memory flickered through his mind.
Music.
Crowds.
Bright lights.
Someone shouting about a drinking contest.
The Phestival.
Right.
The afterparty.
Rocket winced.
Flipside parties had a reputation for getting out of control.
Apparently that reputation was well-earned.
Before Rocket could think about it further, his stomach twisted violently.
The nausea rose fast.
“Oh no.”
He sprinted toward the nearest door.
Thankfully it was the bathroom.
From the couch, Sword groaned.
“I told you not to drink that much…”
“SHUT UP,” Rocket yelled from inside.
Several unpleasant minutes later, Rocket staggered back out looking slightly less miserable.
Sword was still lying on the couch.
Rocket leaned against the doorway.
“You know,” he said hoarsely, “I still beat you.”
Sword didn’t even open his eyes.
“You’re literally the one throwing up.”
Rocket scowled.
He grabbed the nearest throwable object.
An unopened roll of toilet paper.
Perfect.
He threw it.
It bounced directly off Sword’s head.
Sword shot upright instantly.
“HEY—”
Rocket was already laughing.
Sword grabbed the second roll and launched it back.
It narrowly missed Rocket and bounced off the wall.
Rocket ducked dramatically anyway.
“Wow,” he said. “Terrible aim.”
Sword opened his mouth to argue—then stopped.
Sunlight had caught something shiny.
“…Rocket.”
Rocket was still grinning.
“What?”
Sword pointed.
“What’s on your hand?”
Rocket blinked and looked down.
First at his normal arm.
Then at his prosthetic one.
A gold ring sat neatly around the ring finger.
It gleamed brightly against the polished silver metal of his mechanical hand.
Rocket rotated his wrist thoughtfully.
“…Huh.”
Sword leaned closer.
“That looks expensive.”
Rocket squinted at it.
“…Do you think I stole it?”
Sword stared at him.
“…Why was that your first thought?”
Rocket shrugged.
“Experience.”
He stood up and stretched.
“I’m making breakfast.”
Sword blinked.
“…Okay?”
Rocket had already wandered into the kitchenette.
The stove clicked on a moment later, followed by the soft sizzle of butter hitting a pan.
Sword sighed and rubbed his face.
This morning had already been weird enough.
It was about to get worse.
“Hey!” Rocket called from the kitchen.
“What?”
“I think we have matching rings!”
Sword froze.
“…What?”
He stood up and walked into the kitchen.
Rocket held up a polaroid photograph.
Sword leaned over his shoulder.
The picture showed the two of them at the party.
Rocket held the camera out for a selfie.
Sword had an arm slung around a one-eyed guy in a teal suit.
All three of them were grinning like idiots.
And on both Rocket and Sword’s hands—
Gold rings.
Sword stared at the photo.
Then at Rocket’s hand.
Then at his own.
There was a ring on his finger too.
“…Rocket,” Sword said slowly.
“Yeah?”
“I think we got married last night.”
Rocket stared at him.
“No way.”
Sword held up the photo again.
Rocket looked down at his hand.
“…Huh.”
He turned off the stove.
“Well,” Rocket said, plating the eggs, “I guess we’ll deal with that later.”