Scruffy's secretary

The Best Birthday Gift

The party at Quasartico's building was everything a summer birthday should be—loud, bright, and overflowing with chaotic energy. The air conditioning worked overtime against the July heat, but the real warmth came from the crowd packed into the event hall. Streamers in every color draped from the ceiling, balloons bobbed against the windows with their stunning view of Lumiose City, and somewhere in the corner, karaoke was happening with absolutely no regard for musical talent.

You'd spent the afternoon swept up in it all. Vinnie had organized the whole thing with military precision, his sunglasses firmly in place even indoors as he directed caterers and adjusted decorations with the same intensity he brought to Quasartico business. Urbain had taken over the karaoke machine within the first hour, his rendition of some pop song deteriorating rapidly as the drinks flowed. By mid-afternoon, he was draped over Naveen's shoulders, belting lyrics he'd clearly forgotten, while Lida filmed the whole thing for posterity.

The dance floor had been a revolving door of personalities. Jacinthe held court near the refreshments, her lavender curls bouncing as she critiqued everyone's dancing with Lebanne nodding dutifully beside her. At one point, she and Corbeau had nearly come to blows over something trivial—the exact nature of the argument remained unclear, but it ended with Corbeau adjusting his glasses with icy precision and Jacinthe laughing that particular laugh that meant she'd won, whatever the battle had been.

Canari and Gwynn had spent most of the party in a corner, heads bent together, Canari's two-tone pigtails brushing Gwynn's dark bob as they talked. You'd glanced over at one point to find them kissing, Gwynn's Chandelure-inspired headpiece slightly askew, Canari's face flushed beneath her tan. They'd separated quickly when they noticed you looking, but the secret was out.

And then there was the incident with Philippe, Vinnie, and Ivor. You weren't sure how it started—something about training regimens, perhaps, or who could bench press more—but it ended with all three men flexing in the middle of the dance floor, shirts hiked up, comparing pectoral muscles while Grisham watched with the tired resignation of a man who had seen too much. Griselle had cackled, egging them on, while Tarragon muttered something about "young people these days" and went back to his drink.

It was wonderful. It was exhausting. And through all of it, you kept glancing at the door.

L wasn't there.

You understood. Of course you understood. His journey was important—necessary, even. The atonement he sought couldn't be rushed, and you'd never ask him to abandon it. He'd sent a text that morning, short but warm: Happy birthday. Thinking of you. The flowers should have arrived—I hope they're to your liking. They had arrived, a stunning arrangement of blue and white blooms that now sat on your kitchen counter, and you'd smiled at them, touched.

There was a package, too, delivered the day before with strict instructions: “Do not open until your birthday”. It sat on your counter beside the flowers, wrapped in simple brown paper, waiting.

Grisham had found you during a quiet moment, standing by the window and watching the city glitter below. "He would be here if he could," he'd said, his voice gentle in a way that reminded you of late-night conversations and shared history. "You know that."

Griselle had appeared at his elbow, her flame-tipped ponytail swishing as she nodded. "And if he's not treating you right, I'll set his ragged jacket on fire. Just say the word."

You'd laughed, thanked them, and returned to the party. But the ache remained—a hollow space beside you where L should have been, his hand in yours, his quiet chuckle at the chaos, his steady presence grounding you.

Now, hours later, the party was over. You'd said your goodbyes, accepted hugs from Lida and Naveen, endured a tearful speech from a still-drunk Urbain about how much you meant to everyone, and escaped before Philippe could challenge anyone to another flex-off. The walk home was quiet, the summer evening finally cooling, and you let yourself into your apartment with a sigh of relief.

The silence wrapped around you like a blanket. You set your gifts on the couch—wrapped packages from the various factions, a handmade card from Team MZ, something that rattled suspiciously from Jacinthe—and made your way to the kitchen counter.

The flowers caught your eye first. You touched a petal, soft and fresh, and smiled.

Then, you turned to the package.

You opened the card first, sliding your finger under the seal. L's handwriting was familiar—elegant but slightly uneven, as if he'd written it in haste or by candlelight somewhere far from Lumiose.

My dearest,

Another year of you in this world. I find myself grateful for that fact every morning, no matter where my travels take me. You are the constant I never knew I needed—the light I didn't realize I was searching for until I found you.

This gift is small, but it carries meaning. You'll understand when you see it.

I carry you with me always. 

Happy birthday.

Yours,

L

You pressed the card to your chest for a moment, eyes stinging, before setting it aside and unwrapping the package.

Inside was a book. Not new—the leather cover was worn soft with age, the pages edged in gold that had dulled to a gentle shimmer. You opened it carefully and found it was a collection of Kalosian folktales, the kind parents read to children at bedtime. But this wasn't just any copy. Tucked between the pages were pressed flowers—the same blue blooms he'd sent you—and handwritten notes in the margins, his thoughts on each story, connections he'd made, memories he associated with them.

And on the inside cover, in that same elegant hand: For when I cannot read to you myself. Until I return.

You traced the words with your fingertip, throat tight. He must have searched for this for months—a first edition, perhaps, or a copy from a specific printer he knew you'd appreciate. The notes alone would have taken weeks to write. He'd planned this long before he left, before his journey had even begun, thinking of you sitting alone on your birthday and wanting to be there somehow.

The cake sat on the counter—your favorite, a light sponge with fresh fruit and clouds of whipped cream, ordered by Vinnie and delivered that morning. You'd been saving it, wanting to end the day with something sweet. Now, with L's gift clutched to your chest, you finally cut a slice.

The first bite was perfect. Summer berries bursted on your tongue, the cream light and not too sweet. You closed your eyes, savoring it, thinking of L and his quiet smile and the way he'd surely tease you for eating dessert before dinner.

Then, the front door opened.

You froze, fork halfway to your mouth.

L stood in the doorway, slightly disheveled, his white hair windswept and his beard a little wilder than usual. His traveling cloak was dusty at the hem, and he was breathing just a touch too fast, as if he'd hurried the last stretch. But his eye—his bright blue eye—was fixed on you, and his smile was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.

"Happy birthday," he said, his voice warm and slightly rough from travel.

The fork clattered to the counter.

You crossed the room in an instant, throwing yourself at him with enough force to make him stagger back a step. His arms came around you immediately, strong and sure, pulling you close. He smelled of the road, of the wild, of dust, and something indefinably him, and his laugh rumbled through his chest as you buried your face in his neck.

"You're here," you managed, voice breaking. "You're actually here."

"I couldn't miss it," he murmured against your hair. "I've been traveling for three days. The last train was delayed, so I—" He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "I would have walked if I had to."

You kissed him then, desperate and joyful, and he kissed you back with equal fervor. His lips were chapped from the wind, but they were warm and familiar and perfect. When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to yours.

"Did you open it?" he asked. "The gift?"

"The book," you whispered. "L, it's—I don't have words. It's perfect. You're perfect."

He smiled, that rare, unguarded smile that made his whole face soften. "I'm glad. I wanted you to have something of me, even when I couldn't be here." He glanced past you at the cake, the half-eaten slice, and his smile turned teasing. "Though it seems I arrived just in time for dessert."

You laughed, pulling him further into the apartment. "You can have all the dessert you want. You can have the whole cake. I don't care—you're here."