the weight of the world is love

other visitors have gathered along the rail in clusters, awed by the spectacle. AALI and YUUJI stand a little apart near the far end of the pane, where the light pools deepest and the blue washes their faces in shifting, aqueous bands.

aali is pressed near the glass, one hand lifted toward it, not quite touching. her face is turned up—sweet, dark eyes wide with a sort of reverence she doesn’t attempt to conceal. YUUJI stands a half-step behind her shoulder, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching her.

AALI (softly, as though loath to break the spell) she’s a female! you can tell by the claspers—or, i guess, the absence of them. the males have these modified pelvic fins, here, near the base of the tail—

she gestures vaguely at the great pale belly drifting past. yuuji’s gaze follows her hand for a polite few seconds and returns at once to her profile.

YUUJI (quietly) yeah?

AALI mhm! and their spot patterns—every individual is unique. it’ like a fingerprint! researchers photograph the flanks and run them through pattern-recognition software to track their migration. there’s a whole open-source database where you can upload a photo and contribute!

YUUJI (smiling) that’s amazing.

AALI (warming, gesturing more freely now) and she’s a filter feeder... which is extraordinary, if you think about it, because she’s the largest fish in the ocean, but her throat is only about the diameter of grapefruit.

she turns her head toward him mid-sentence, to share the wonder of it. her eyes find his.

yuuji flinches faintly at that, caught. he laughs and ducks his head, lifts a hand to the back of his neck.

YUUJI sorry, i—

AALI what?

YUUJI (sheepishly, eyes everywhere but her face) nothin’, keep going. one-of-a-kind spot patterns, filter feeder, i’m with you.

she only tilts her head at that. the fish passes behind her, an entire universe in slow motion, though she doesn’t seem to have whale sharks on her mind anymore. aali regards yuuji with tentative curiosity.

YUUJI (a small, helpless laugh) ah, it’s just—

he scrubs at the nape of his neck, looks at her, properly, for an instant, and quickly looks away.

YUUJI (CONT’D) you, uh.... you make it really hard to pay attention. when you’ve got—

he gives up, and vaguely gestures at her face.

YUUJI (CONT’D) when you look at me like that. with those eyes.

the corner of her mouth lifts—something like a private smile.

AALI (gently, teasing) i was telling you something important, yuuji.

YUUJI (that crooked, helpless grin) i know, i’m a terrible student. i thought we all knew this!

she regards him for a long moment. the blue light moves over them both; over the dark fall of her hair and the flush rising at the tips of his ears. shyly, she reaches and takes his hand from the back of his neck. folds her fingers between his and returns it gently to her side.

AALI (turning back to the glass, voice soft) pay attention?

yuuji exhales a barely there laugh. he steps in closer behind her shoulder until she can feel the warmth of him at her back, and his thumb strokes tenderly along the side of her hand.

YUUJI (murmured, near her ear) yes ma’am.

the shark passes by once more, and aali resumes, flushed with heat and her little heart beating a little faster.

the bedroom door stands ajar and the sheets within are in considerable disarray. a trail of evidence leads from there to here: ENJIN's shirt slung over the back of a chair, ROMA’s stockings forgotten on the hallway floor, her hair-ribbon abandoned upon the kitchen counter where it has no conceivable reason to be.

roma pads in barefoot, wearing the shirt that belongs to him—too large, sleeves cuffed twice, the hem skirting her thighs. her hair is a riotous, unbrushed cloud about her shoulders. she’s humming to herself, dreamy and dazed and so, so in love.

enjin stands at the stove with his back to her. he’s put his trousers on but not bothered with a top. the long line of his spine is illumined in the morning sun, the muscle of his shoulder shifting indolently as he tilts the pan. a cigarette smolders forgotten in a saucer at his elbow.

she approaches behind him, slides her arms about his waist. presses her cheek between his shoulder blades, shifted slightly off center to dovetail his heart. he doesn’t startle, for he has been listening for her.

ENJIN (without turning) morning, birthday girl.

ROMA (muffled against his back) mm—mornin’.

ENJIN sleep well?

ROMA (a slow, scandalous laugh) i scarcely slept at all.

ENJIN (a low laugh of his own) wonder whose fault that’d be.

he turns within the circle of her arms and looks down at her, stars pooling in his eyes when his eyes land on her face. his hand comes up to cradle her jaw—thumb tracing the pillow-crease along her cheekbone.

ENJIN (CONT’D) you look real pretty today, y’know...

ROMA (tilting her chin up, smiling sleepily) look like yours.

he kisses her, then. slow and languid, it’s a kiss with no destination. the sort someone bestows when they have all morning, and all afternoon, and all night, and all the days thereafter. when he draws back, it’s only to study her face. his thumb has not left her cheek.

ENJIN sit.

ROMA (reluctant, still curled into him) but—

ENJIN (firmly, with affection) sit. you need to eat breakfast.

ROMA ihad cake at midnight.

ENJIN (a single, amused arched brow) cake at midnight is not breakfast.

ROMA it is on my birthday.

ENJIN sweetheart.

she sighs theatrically, an elaborate, put-upon sigh that fools neither of them, and disengages herself from him with great reluctance. perches upon one of the little stools at the counter and draws her knees up beneath the hem of his shirt.

roma’s gaze is tender and watchful as her lover returns to the pan. he cracks an egg one-handed against the rim, with a practiced charm that she has always found unreasonably affecting. salt, pepper. a hefty amount of butter. he toasts the bread in the same pan, in the gilded fat, the way she has watched him do a hundred mornings before this one. and the way she hopes to watch him do for a hundred mornings still.

on the other side of the stove, the kettle begins to whistle softly and enjin attends to it without looking. pours, presses, sets her tea before her in the chipped mug she favours.

she takes the cup in both hands and continues to watch him over the lip.

ROMA (softly) you spoil me so.

ENJIN (not turning, smiling) well, it’s your birthday.

ROMA you spoiled me yesterday, too.

ENJIN (a moment of silence) yesterday... wasn’t your birthday. see what i mean?

she laughs quiet and helpless, into the curl of steam from her tea.

finally the egg sandwich is plated and slid across the counter to her. her man with a heart the size of the sun. he leans upon his forearms across from her, watching her take the first bite.

ROMA (through a mouthful, indignant with pleasure) this is unfair.

ENJIN (grins) what is?

ROMA that you’re this good at this, cariño!

he reaches across the counter and tucks a chocolatey curl behind her ear. his hand lingers at her jaw, it’s favourite place.

ENJIN (softly) eat your breakfast, doll.

while she eats, the morning unfurls slowly through the window. somewhere in the building above them a door closes; somewhere outside a bird begins to sing. all the little delicacies of their beautifully simple life. 

a gingham tarp is spread crooked under the tree, scattered with the wreckage of a small party long since dwindled to two. paper plates, melted ice in a bowl, a half-deflated balloon tied to a chair leg drifting in the breeze. on a wobbling card table sits a lopsided homemade cake, vanilla frosting piped in clumsy roses, a single candle burnt down to a stub of wax. the air smells of cut grass and sugar.

ZOIE sits cross-legged on the tarp in a sundress, barefoot, face framing strands coming loose from where she’d pinned it up earlier that morning. the scar across her nose catches the low sun. she’s watching the sky go peach-pink with a sleepy sort of half-smile (one that comes with being so well loved). MANJIRO is sprawled on his stomach beside her, chin in his hands, kicking his bare feet idly in the air behind him like a kid. he’s been staring at her for a full minute.

MANJIRO (whining, sing-song) zoooooie.

ZOIE (without looking) mhm?

MANJIRO you’re doing it again.

ZOIE (reaches a hand down to play with his hair without looking) doing what?

MANJIRO the thing where you go all quiet and pretty and i have to stare at you about it.

finally, she turns her head to look at him, slow. blue eyes, a little amused and very much fond.

ZOIE my, what a tragic affliction, indeed.

MANJIRO yeah, reeeal bad. doctors are stumped.

he rolls onto his back, arms flung wide in the grass like he’s been struck down by it and grins up at her upside-down. she huffs an endeared laugh through her nose.

MANJIRO (CONT'D) (sudden, sitting up) oh--wait, the cake. we forgot the cake!

ZOIE (quizzically) i already blew out the candle, silly.

MANJIRO you forgot to eat it. always silently fussing over everyone else that you forget to pay attention to yourself, even on your birthday.

he scrambles up onto his knees and shuffles over to the card table, lifting the cake carefully with both hands. brings it back, sets it on the blanket between them with a little flourish.

MANJIRO (CONT’D) behold.

ZOIE (soft, amused) behold.

manjiro digs through the picnic detritus and comes up with a single fork, then frowns at it, then tosses it over his shoulder into the grass. zoie watches this with a certain patience that suggests she’d been loong accustomed to his antiques already.

MANJIRO forks are for cowards. c’mere, baby.

he scoops a generous dollop of frosting off the side of the cake with two fingers--a fat curl that he holds up between them. he’s grinning giddily, so blithe and boyish, and she she cannot help but tilt her head, feel her heart drift towards him.

MANJIRO (waggling his iced fingers at her) hereeeee, kitty kitty

that gets a real watery smile out of her, and she leans in, takes his wrist gently in one hand to steady it, closes her mouth over his fingers. licks the frosting off slow and patient, and a little skittishly, the way she does everything. his grin falters into a dazed, drunk look of love.

she pulls back with her tongue running once across her bottom lip, and there’s still a smear of vanilla at the corner of her mouth. he stares at it, licks his own lips.

MANJIRO (quieter) you missed a spot.

ZOIE hm?

for once, manjiro doesn't answer in words. he leans across the cake--nearly knocking it sideways, has to catch it one-handed without looking--and kisses her. it’s the kind of kiss that starts off as just lips, summery and sweet, tacky with frosting, and then his tongue slides in curiously, and her mouth opens for him, and at some point she draws his tongue gently between her lips and suckles, just once, and he makes a small wrecked sound against her mouth that has a flame of heat licking up both their thighs.

when he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead against hers, eyes half-lidded.

MANJIRO (murmured) tastes really sweet.

ZOIE (brow lifting) the frosting?

MANJIRO no, you.

she laughs at that, really laughs, a low warm sound she doesn’t lend to many people--and shoves at his chest with her palm. he topples backwards into the grass, dragging her with him by the waist, and the cake sways dangerously but somehow survives in the tumble.

the sun’s gone lower by now. the string lights flicker on overhead, gooey and and golden and slightly crooked, like everything else here.

zoie props herself up on her lover’s chest. he’s still got frosting on two fingers. he raises them, considering.

MANJIRO (thoughtful, dreamy) you know what i think.

ZOIE (indulgent) go on.

MANJIRO i think the human mouth is, like--kind of a miraculous instrument. when you really think about it.

ZOIE (amused, very dry) profound.

MANJIRO what can i say, i’m a profound guy!

he offers her the two frosting-tipped fingers again, eyebrows wagging. she rolls her eyes at him and takes his hand, and lowers her mouth to it slow. it’s quiet between them again, as he watches her take the two digits down to the knuckles and pull off of them with a clean pop.

the candle on the messied cake has long since gone out, but neither of them remembered to make a wish, and neither of them seem to really mind. because what would either of them wish for that they don’t already have right here, grass-stained hearts teeming with hope for the future, and entirely each other’s.

@osamused ❤︎ HAPPY BIRTHDAYAYAY TO MIKEY’S TONGUE SUCKING SWEETHEART & MY ONIONLIEST!!!!!!! my darling friend i think so often about you and your faves . how they put on an appearance of being so much larger than life but are really individuals who have had the light go out of their eyes entirely . but how upon getting to meet our moon-hearted zoie that lil sparkle has been reborn anew :3 the way you simply sit down and stay!!!! perhaps there is no grand gesture or moving speech or salvation promised in the way the storybooks tell it, but with your hand finding theirs in the dark over and over again, somewhere along the way it started to shine a new light . the twinkle that lives in their eyes now is yours!!! thanks to you!! every flicker of it :-) just as you have brought so much hope to them, you have brought yourcoco so much inspiration--with your words and your art and simply your heart!!!!!! you have grown so so much not only creatively but also in many other senses of the world, and i hope that you will continue to flourish and blossom under the love that i wish with all my heart finds you time and time again <3333333 I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY

ps, song i was listening to on loop while envisioning this scene.......

the remnants of a picnic lie strewn between JAY and YUUJI. there’s a half-full bottle of wine sweating in the shade, two coupes, a wreath of wildflowers jay has been weaving and abandoning by turns. most significantly, a small cake with one candle already burnt to a stub. a ribbon-wrapped parcel rests forgotten near her elbow.

she reposes on her back with her head pillowed in her lover’s lap. one of her hands rests on her stomach, the other trailing lazily through the grass, plucking at clover. the hem of her sundress has ridden indolently up past her knee, though she’s not bothered to fix it.

yuuji sits with his back against the willow’s trunk, one knee drawn up, the other leg extended beneath her. his hand moves over her hair in slow, absent passes, fingers combing from her temple to the crown, smoothing then returning. he’s grinning down at her like he can't quite believe his luck.

YUUJI you’ve got a leaf in your hair.

JAY (eyes closed) leave it.

YUUJI yeah?

he plucks it out anyway. twirls it once between his fingers and raises it to his mouth to give it a kiss of sorts, before flicking it into the grass.

YUUJI (CONT’D) sorry. couldn’t help myself.

JAY (a coy smile) hm.

yuuji then reaches for the small punnet of strawberries beside him, plucking one in his fingers, inspecting it with faux solemnity.

YUUJI (CONT'D) okay, this one’s a good one! open up, baby.

she does, still without opening her eyes. he lowers the strawberry to her mouth, and she takes it from his fingers--lips closing around the fruit and grazing the pads of his fingertips in the same gesture.

at that, yuuji goes very still, his grin faltering at the edge.

YUUJI oh.

she chews and swallows. the visible bob of her neck makes him swallow thickly too.

JAY another, please?

YUUJI (recovering, that grin sliding back into place--a little crooked now) bossy.

he picks another, but this one he holds higher, makes her wait for it. his eyes glitters with mischief. when at last he lowers it, a bead of crimson juice wells at the stem and trails down his thumb.

as if sensing it, jay’s eyes open.

she catches his wrist and guides his hand back toward her, turning her face into his palm. her tongue, when it traces the path of the juice along his thumb, is languid. almost contemplative. her eyes do not leave his.

yuuji exhales, slow and uneven, the hand in her hair stilling entirely.

YUUJI (softly) that’s--okay, that’s not fair.

JAY (releasing his hand by degrees) what isn’t?

YUUJI you know what!

JAY (a pause, then smiling up at him with teeth, sun-drunk) happy birthday to me.

helpless and a little dazed, yuuji’s grin returns at twice the size and he shakes his head at her like she’s the most ridiculous, impossibly gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.

YUUJI (with no bite whatsoever) you’re trouble...

JAY (giggling) who, me?!

he cannot help but bend towards her in an unhurried descent, bracing one hand in the grass beside her head, cradling her jaw with the other. his thumb strokes loving lines along the corner of her mouth, where a faint stain of juice still lingers.

that’s where kisses her first. then he murmurs something against her skin that sounds suspiciously like "still not fair", and she’s still laughing softly when he kisses her properly, and she tastes of strawberries and wine.

when he draws back, it’s only by inches. his forehead rests against hers.

YUUJI (quietly, smiling) i didn’t even give you your present yet.

JAY (eyes closed again, smiling) didn’t you?

KORA reposes on the floor in a pool of diaphanous fabric, legs folded beneath her and ribbons of her pointe shoes loosened but not yet untied. her hair has come undone from its chignon in pieces, ginger strands adhering to her temple. a sigh, as she tilts her head against the leg of the piano bench.

SUGURU sits above her at the baby grand; sleeves furled to the elbow and hair tied messily at the nape, a few errant pieces falling forward as he inclines into the keys. he’s improvising, kora can tell, something in a minor key that’s seemingly always on the verge of resolution.

he plays a phrase, pauses, plays it again an octave lower.

KORA (eyes closed) please, don’t stop.

suguru hums, honey in his throat. the successive phrase meanders somewhere more languorous now, like he’s adorning it for her. she can sense him glance down her way, but still her eyes do not open.

SUGURU you’re weary.

KORA mm.

SUGURU (pausing, reaching down to tuck a curl behind her ear) you ought to go home.

KORA (an weary smile) and miss this?

the melody resumes again, more softly now. quite softly indeed, as though loath to startle her from whatever reverie she’s sunk into. kora lets her head loll sideways until her cheek rests against the cushion of the bench, not a few inches from his thigh. she can feel the warmth of it through the thin fabric of his trousers. her heart rabbits gently in her chest.

SUGURU come here.

her eyes open.

KORA what?

SUGURU (patting the meager space of bench beside him, not yet looking at her) come here. i’ll teach you.

she regards him.

the line of his shoulder, the cascade of hair at his nape, the small curve of his mouth that he is feigning isn't there, and then she rises slowly, settling onto the bench. conscious of every place her body aches and how he observes her in the mirror without seeming to.

there’s insufficient room--her hips press into his, and her thigh, bare beneath the chiffon of her practice skirt, aligns against the dark wool of his trousers. neither of them withdraw.

SUGURU (taking her hand, turning it palm-down over the keys) this one... and then this one, together.

her heart does a funny little thing in her chest--she notices his hand is awfully warm. even more so are his fingers, which fold around her knuckles with an absent, proprietary ease. he has done this a hundred times in his imagination. he first guides her index finger to a key, then her ring finger to another. presses, gently, through her hand. the chord blossoms. and then the next, and then the next. a dance of four hands.

KORA (careful) what is it called?

SUGURU hm?

KORA the song.

SUGURU (a beat passing, playing the chord again, alone this time. his mouth is very close to her ear.) it... has no name yet.

kora swallows thickly, her thighs pressing together. she hopes he does not notice.

KORA what are you waiting for?

suguru turns his head at this and looks at her properly for the first time. his eyes are very dark and very amused--

SUGURU (softly, with acceptance. like he has found what he has been waiting for) inspiration, perhaps.

the hour of being seen in the daylight, 09:00

he insists on going to the market because it's your birthday and he wants to pick flowers with you, not for you. oliver is not interested in handing you a finished thing, a love pre-arranged. he wants you in it, elbow-deep, choosing between peonies and wildflowers with soil beneath your nails. you reach for something pale and ordinary and he says, are you sure, what about the bold ones. they remind me of you. and all you can do is roll your eyes, because how does he keep doing this? how does he keep finding the luminous thing in you that you've spent years trying to convince yourself isn't there.

the hour his sisters call, 11:00

his phone rings, but the call is for you. his sisters, singing happy birthday in overlapping unison, fighting over who gets to tell you about the gift they sent, asking when you're visiting next. oliver's leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you laugh with his family and there it is again--that ache of a sprout bursting through the ground, a chick hatching from its shell. he'd once told himself that if you ever fit into his world this seamlessly, he would know. you hang up and all he can say, with his heart in his eyes, is: they love you more than me.

the hour of the quiet argument, 13:00

because even on a birthday, a life shared is not a life scrubbed clean of friction, and you wouldn't want it to be either. you find the tabloid piece with another careless headline, and your hands shake with a fury so protective it steals his breath away, defending him before he can even open his mouth. (you've always done this. stepped between oliver and the cruelty of strangers as though your body alone could be a wall; he watches you and tries not to cry).

the hour of cooking in conversation, 17:00

your lover makes dinner and you're sat on the counter beside him, passing him things he doesn't need just to be part of it. oliver is loud in the kitchen, you've noticed, narrating and tasting and insisting you try this, no, open your mouth, trust me! you laugh and the sound fills every corner of the apartment. he's thinking about how you love him in a way that makes him feel more free and capable than he has ever been, and how he wants to be that for you, too--no, more than that. a competition he'll never tire of. loving you louder than you love him.

the hour of returning to the body, 22:00

your head is on his chest and orbit has been restored, the satellite has come home. i love you, it comes from you first, whispered against his pulse, and oliver holds his tongue a moment to let the words dissolve into his marrow, let them reach the places inside him that have been told, his whole life, to play for others, to manage alone. your love reaches those rooms of his body. opens the curtains in those rooms.

the last two minutes of your birthday, 23:58

he whispers it now a third time, i love you, into the dark, your hair, up the knobs of your spine and into the space between your shoulder blades where you carry your withers and woes. he believes he was made to say it, to you, stitched and delivered to this exact coordinate on earth for the sole purpose of pressing those three words into your skin until you believe them.

oliver aiku knows well of loneliness, and with the full force of his monstrous, stubborn, impossibly generous heart, makes sure that you won't have to.

MORNING, EARLY ; the tending lingsha has made congee. plain, soft and salted, with pickled greens and a slow-cooked egg split open on the top like a golden eye. she sets it before you with both hands, and her rings catch the lamp-light. there are sliced xianzhou pears beside it, because she says you can never eat too much fruit, and a teapot of something warm and fragrant she has blended herself. when you ask what is in it, she says: things that are good for artists who do not sleep enough.

MID-MORNING ; the occupation it is your birthday, and you have chosen to spend it at the low table by the window, cross-legged on a cushion, because the rain makes the light arrive silver and even, and you have been waiting for this light for a week to paint under. your supplies are spread around you in the organised chaos she has learned not to disturb. pigment dishes, oil-stained rags, the brushes you keep in a clay jar you bought at market for cheap. the turpentine opens its sharp green throat into the room and the rain falls on the commission's tiered rooftops and makes the eaves sing.

you don’t notice your woman behind you. she stands in the doorway for a long, long time, simply watching you. admiring. she can smell the work before she sees it: the vegetal sweetness of your medium and beneath it, the faint wet-stone scent of rain through the cracked window. you are humming something. your braid swings gently as you lean forward. the blades of your shoulder pulse as you place your strokes. the light catches on your skin and hair...

and lingsha wonders (she will think this every time, with the same bewildering specificity) how it’s possible to be so devastating while doing something so ordinary.

NOON, OR CLOSE TO IT ; the interruption she comes to sit behind you on the cushion, fitting her knees on either side of yours and wraps her arms around your waist so gently you almost do not notice, until you jolt, and she’s cooing in your ear—it’s only me, shh. her chin finds its place on your shoulder and you feel her breath stir the fine hairs at your neck. she looks at what you have made, and does not say it's beautiful, because she knows you would deflect it. instead she says: tell me about this colour here, pointing to a shade you mixed yourself, and so you do, and her arms tighten slightly as you speak.

her lips land on the hibiscus at the top of your spine. a kiss pressed into the ink of it, deliberate and soft and over and over again. you keep painting, trying to keep the quiver of your hand unnoticed by her. (a failed attempt, for she only smiles into your skin and kisses you harder.)

— even after all this time, you are still just as nervous as the first.

AFTERNOON, THE SLOW HOURS ; the lap, the rain the rain intensifies and the room goes silvered. lingsha sits on the daybed and places your head in her lap. relieves you of your burdens, drawing them out with her fingers on your cheek—tracing idle, absent spirals like the ones alchemists draw in the margins of their notes. she hums something without a melody, a low vibration you feel more than hear, travelling from her body into yours through the bones of your skull. you are aware that she is reading you, her diagnostic touch memorising the tension you carry in your face, the places where you clench without knowing. she smooths each spot and says nothing. this is how she heals the things she cannot name.

EVENTIDE ; the birthday dinner by both of your hands. steamed bass with ginger and spring onion, a broth that smells like the mountains of another planet, rice cooked so perfectly it is an argument in favour of patience as a virtue. there is a single lit candle. no need for grand gestures here. lingsha pours you tea and you’re reminded in this moment that the quiet way she fills your cup exactly to the place she knows you like it, the way she has remembered which dishes remind you of somewhere you have never been but carry in your blood is the whole of it.

she gifts you a small parcel wrapped in indigo cloth: a new set of pigments, ground by hand at a shop she had to take three starskiffs to reach. she does not tell you this.

NIGHT ; the fragrance she lights incense in the bedroom, something she blended for you alone, a formulation she has given no name and written in no ledger. 

you asked once what was in it, and so she listed off the ingredients, and then added and one thing i will not tell you, because a healer must keep some secrets, and also because it would ruin the mystique. the smoke unspools in the dark and you lean against her, nuzzle your nose affectionately against the pointy tip of her ear, and breathe, and the scent enters you gently. a lullaby with no words. warm and clean and a little sweet, with something deeper underneath it, something that you can only quite describe as home, which is only another word for her.

LATE ; the confession you feel her fingers in your hair again. she is re-braiding it loosely for the night now. when she finishes, she holds the end of the braids for a moment, holding a thought before releasing it. she whispers your name into the dark—just your name, serin. once again, with a kiss to your nape, serin.

you press your back into her warmth, and the rain goes on. 

tomorrow there will be the commission, the market, the fanny pack, the smoke bombs, the running. tomorrow you will tuck contraband into the hollow of your bodysuit and smile like a girl who has never done a dishonest thing in her life. but that is tomorrow's woman. tonight's woman is here, braided and clean and held close by the cauldron master tracing the shape of a hibiscus on her back from memory. and, of course, the bed is warm on both sides.

— @bladieplease BITTIIIIIIIIIIII!!! 💝💘💕💓💗💖 happy (belated;; -w- urk.) birthday to my sweet friend... i know i wished you yesterday but here is me saying it loud and proud because i want everyone to know how i adore you so!!!! i hope this next turn around the sun will be peaceful and fruitful and everything you wish for it to be!! you deserve it so much for being a cute, kind, special soul on this GODDDD forsaken app!! you never fail to make us smile and laugh and feel important... when you send in asks or lil messages and express your curiosity about things!!! when you share with us lil life deets!! it fills me with such a warm fuzzy feeling... admittedly i feel shy at times interacting with you because i just think you are so. so cool :’) all your art and seeing you try new things over the past few handful of months we’ve gotten to know each other!! from collaborating on that cnc blade piece all that time ago up until neow... i am filled with so much heart and awe for you mybitti :3 WE (I) LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!! enjoy this next year doing everything you’ve ever desired of doing :3 have some cake!! on me!! 🍰💘⭐️🧸

— @ariiadnes // happy birthday to the gentlest, most extraordinary smoosh in the world, our big sis ianna!!!! AND PENNY!!! i love you both so so dearly, i don't think the english language has quite caught up to the feeling yet!!!!!! >u<

i am always in awe of you, my friend!! you are so smart (in every sense of the word) and so hardworking and you have carried so much that you don’t share with us here and yet you still choose goodness every single time <3333 not everyone can walk through the things you have walked through and come out the other side still so tender and reaching out your hands to help others so selflessly like you do!!!!!! i think that is one of the most remarkable things about you--the way you make people feel so safe and so seen!!! i think back very often on you sharing with us that your patients ask for you by name, and that itself is such a testament to your character and how your love scatters through the world!!!! :D

i still cannot quite believe someone like you exists and that i get to know you WAH;; i am so proud of you for everything you have survived!!!! every long night, every difficult thing you have come through still soft, and still tender as ever!!!!!! you have made a home in so many of our hearts, mine especially, and i do not believe you could be uprooted from it now even if you tried hehe . you’re stuck with me for life, sorry!!!!!!!

PANTALONE: [voice thick as caramel] you're tormenting me.

LILITH: [innocent] it's my birthday, am i not allowed to enjoy my cake?

she takes another bite, slowly and obscenely. the fork tines catch the candlelight.

he is losing the war against his own eyelids. she sees the way his head dips, catches, dips again. a sated cat drowsing while his bride devours confectionery in his marital bed.

lilith sets aside the plate.

THE DRESSING ROOM--MOMENTS LATER

silk and lace, pale as the inside of an almond. she slips into the nightie, and it glides over her, smooth as water. the mirror shows her a creature she barely recognises. bridal, of course, but something hungry, too.

THE BEDROOM--CONTINUOUS

oh, the sound pantalone makes when he opens his eyes to his bride. a sharp intake, a syllable that might have been her name, and then his composure shattering like sugar glass struck with a spoon. his hands reach for her, greedy, needy.

she laughs. never the cruel kind, but delighted, eager to climb into his lap to kiss his heated mouth and relieve the throbbing ache in his slacks.

THE BATH--LATER

the steam curls around their embraced limbs, the water perfumed with something floral and clearly expensive; the harbinger would accept nothing less. she leans against his chest, his arms draped around the most luxurious of his debts, and he presses his lips to her damp hair.

PANTALONE: [a murmured confession] happy birthday, my little bride.

to that, lilith hums. content, replete, and married.

SATORU: [pulling the shawl around them both, cocooning] come here, birthday girl.

she shifts into his orbit with zero hesitation--of course, with five years having created a language of their bodies. the way she knows exactly how to fit against his side, how to let her head find the hollow of his shoulder and her hand spread over his heart to feel the steady thrum beneath expensive fabric.

his arm comes around her waist, fingers splaying against silk.

SATORU: [lips brushing her temple] best birthday dinner of your life, right? i outdid myself.

PIXIE: [soft amusement threading her voice] you took me to the same restaurant we went to last year.

SATORU: [grin audible] well, consistency is romantic.

PIXIE: [turning to look up at him, chestnut eyes luminous] it was perfect.

and the way she says it--simple and true, without requiring embellishment--makes something behind his ribs tighten. she sees through every layer of bravado he wears, sees the man behind infinity. loves him anyway, loves him because.

his hand comes up to remove her glasses with careful reverence, folding and setting them aside. then his fingers find her face, and his thumb traces the high curve of her cheekbone. she catches his hand and lays a kiss to the palm. their fingers intertwine, and the sapphires on their middle fingers align; twin stones in parallel, catching light like captured starlight.

wear this. so they know. so you know.

SATORU: another year in the books... five years...

sapphires for loyalty. for faithfulness that doesn't waver. for wisdom enough to choose each other every day.

PIXIE: [studying the matched rings] where else would i be?

it's not a question, but rather an answer to every unspoken fear he carries.

that power isolates, that infinity creates distance. that being the strongest means being alone.

but her hand in his, sapphire against sapphire, proves otherwise.

SATORU: [lifting her hand, pressing his mouth to her knuckles] you're too good to me.

PIXIE: [the smallest smile] mm. probably.

he laughs, surprised and delighted, and pulls her fully into his lap. the shawl falls away and copper silk pools around her thighs. her knees are tucked against his thigh and suddenly the air between them thickens, something to sink in.

his hands span her waist, thumbs stroking the curve of her ribs through whisper-thin fabric. at the same time, her palms find his chest, feel the quickening of his heartbeat.

SATORU: [tilted back to look at her, voice dropping] have i told you how devastating you look tonight?

PIXIE: [fingers working his tie fully loose] three times at dinner. and then twice in the car.

SATORU: [smirking, leaning in for a kiss] allow me to make it six.

when he kisses her, it's nothing short of reverent. his mouth slipping against hers with such slow deliberation, a moment where the ticking of time comes to a pause. he tastes her bottom lip. the corner of her smile. smirks at the sharp inhale coaxed out of her when his teeth graze her jaw.

her fingers thread through white hair, nails scratching lightly at his nape, and he makes a sound low in his throat that vibrates through her.

PIXIE: [pulling back just enough to breathe] satoru--

SATORU: [chasing her mouth] say my name like that again.

PIXIE: [laughing softly against his lips] we should--the dishes--

SATORU: [hands sliding up her back, finding the zipper] screw the dishes.

PIXIE: [owl-wise even when flushed with desire] you're impossible.

her eyes, those endless brown depths that miss nothing, soften impossibly further. she cups his face between her palms, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, and looks at him like he hung the moon. the gentlest of cradles. a look that reminds him that infinity is just another word for home.

PIXIE: i love you.

the words land like a blessing. they're the only truth that matters in a world of curses and endless, exhausting strength.

he pulls her forehead to his and breathes her in.

birthday girl. his girl. five years and counting. sapphire promises on matching fingers.

SATORU: [barely a whisper] happy birthday, pixie.

she kisses him again--slow and deep and endless as the night stretching before them. devotion is a slow burn, and they're both content to let it consume them.

— @pixiespond my sweetest girl!!!! i think when the stars align just right, there will be moments when someone sends an anonymous ask on tumblr dot com about the scent profile of bakugou's cologne (OF ALL THINGS!!!) and suddenly!!!!!! the trajectory of your life shifts just a little, to let someone extraordinary in. and that extraordinary someone is you!! my pixie!!!!!! gah... i cannot help but think what a gift that moment turned out to be;; to meet someone like you meant being reminded of the existence of all the quiet and steady sources of love in this world. you've taught me, without ever really meaning to, how to really observe. how wisdom comes in the thoughtful pauses before speaking!! in the careful attention you give to everyone and everything you love <33333 truly i think you love the way an owl watches!!!!! so patient and perceptive and never missing anything, and with that i think you make everyone in your life feel truly seen and cherished (gojo is nodding along with me!!).