ꨄ Nika ꨄ

Hugo had never felt betrayal quite like this.

Not when Charles lied. Not when Loki made him run extra laps. Not even when the bakery near his apartment discontinued his favourite éclair for three consecutive weeks.

This—this was something far more precise. Far more personal.

Birthdays, contrary to popular belief, were not something Vivian Hugo cared about. At least, that was what he told himself every year when the date of June sixth rolled around.

He was not a child.

He did not require external validation wrapped in ribbons or sugar or synthetic cheer. He did not need balloons bobbing uselessly against ceilings, or party hats slipping down people’s foreheads like failed attempts at joy.

And certainly not the attention of a certain someone whose opinion he valued far more than he would ever openly admit.

The attention of a certain someone whose presence had, against all rational explanation, begun to occupy far more mental space than any opponent analysis ever had.

No.

Vivian Hugo was a rational man.

An athlete.

A member of the New Generation Eleven.

A person of logic.

As such, he understood that birthdays were ultimately arbitrary.

The Earth completing another revolution around the sun was hardly a remarkable achievement on his part.

And yet… Despite his supposed indifference, his gaze had already flickered towards his phone six times within the span of ten minutes.

Not because he was expecting anything.

Of course not. That would be ridiculous.

His attention simply wandered there naturally. That was all.

“Good morning, Vivian!” His head lifted at the familiar sound of your voice.

Casual. Bright. Effortlessly present in a way that always seemed to disrupt the internal order he maintained so carefully around other people.

You didn’t look different from usual, which should have been reassuring. Instead, it made something in him tighten, because it meant there was no visible deviation from normal routine that could explain anything unusual.

Perfect.

You were perfect at appearing normal.

“Good morning,” he replied.

You noticed nothing. Or pretended not to. That was the problem with you. You made things feel normal even when they weren’t.

"Oh my God."

Finally.

Relief and vindication arrived almost simultaneously, tangled together in a way that made it difficult to separate one from the other. Of course you hadn’t forgotten. That would have been inconsistent with everything he knew about you. There had to be another explanation. A delay. A setup. A necessary misdirection before—

Yes.

This made sense.

His posture relaxed by a fraction.

“Did you know it’s National Donut Day?!”

The pause that followed was not theatrical.

It was simply the exact amount of time required for something inside him to stop functioning in the way it had been functioning a second earlier.

“I didn't.”

Your smile widened, pleased.

“Isn’t that exciting?”

“Thrilling,” he said flatly.

You nodded like that was a shared emotional conclusion.

Then you walked away.

No hesitation in your steps. No backward glance. No shift in tone suggesting unfinished intention. The conversation ended with the same finality as a door closing without warning.

Hugo remained where he was.

Still.

Perfectly composed on the outside, as always. Shoulders aligned. Expression neutral. Eyes forward.

But internally, something stared back at the situation in complete, silent disbelief.

Vivian stared after your retreating figure with the hollow expression of a man who had just witnessed the collapse of civilization.

Surely that was not it. Surely. Perhaps you were building anticipation.

Yes. That made sense.

Delayed gratification was a well-documented psychological phenomenon.

You were simply waiting for the perfect moment.

A surprise. There would be a surprise. There had to be.

Otherwise he’d spent twenty minutes carefully styling his hair this morning for absolutely nothing.

…

Not that he’d styled it because it was his birthday.

Obviously, that would've been pathetic.

The universe, it seemed, was not entirely devoid of mercy.

Not five minutes after abandoning him to wallow in the aftermath of his devastation, you returned.

A pristine white bakery box rested securely within your hands, the cardboard edges pressed lightly against your palms as you navigated through the training facility with the careful concentration of somebody transporting something fragile. The sight alone was enough to jolt Hugo from his increasingly gloomy thoughts.

His gaze immediately locked onto it.

A white box. A bakery box. A suspiciously cake-sized bakery box.

Slowly, almost cautiously, the storm cloud hanging over his head began to dissipate.

Of course. How foolish of him.

He should've known better than to doubt you.

He did know, technically. Somewhere beneath the irritation and the restraint and the carefully maintained neutrality, he had always known you were not careless. Not with details. Not with people.

In fact, if memory served him correctly, you'd once remembered the birthday of a coworker's dog and insisted on buying the animal a tiny party hat.

The likelihood of you forgetting his birthday entirely was statistically insignificant.

"You came back," the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

"Hm?" Your attention lifted from the box to meet his gaze. "Oh. Yeah."

As if nothing about this moment required emphasis.

As if you were simply returning from a routine task rather than approaching the scene of emotional instability you had accidentally left behind earlier.

You placed the box down on the table between you both with careful precision.

The sound of cardboard meeting surface was deceptively soft, but Hugo heard it too loudly.

"The greatest thing known to mankind is inside this box," you announced, far too confidently for someone holding what was clearly about to determine the emotional trajectory of his entire day.

Hope, against all reason, began to resurface.

He hated that about himself.

A cake. It had to be.

What else could possibly warrant such a dramatic introduction?

The cardboard shifted. The lid lifted.

And suddenly, before his very eyes, every remaining shred of hope inside his body was brutally strangled to death.

Inside sat donuts.

Perfect circles. Glossy icing. Powdered sugar dusting like a deliberate mockery of expectation.

Chocolate. Strawberry. Glazed. Sprinkled. Filled.

An entire collection of cheerful pastries sitting there with the confidence of something that had never once considered emotional timing.

An entire army of circular pastries stared back at him with what felt like malicious intent.

For a long moment, Hugo simply looked at them.

Then he looked at you.

Then back at the donuts.

Then back at you.

His expression remained perfectly neutral throughout the entire process.

A remarkable feat, truly.

“What?” you asked, blinking at him with genuine confusion, entirely unbothered by the collapse of expectation occurring in front of you. “It’s National Donut Day.”

The words pierced straight through his heart.

They did not register as explanation.

They registered as replacement.

As substitution.

As something that had stepped into a space it had not been invited to occupy.

National Donut Day.

Of course it was. How could he forget?

The holiday that had apparently usurped his birthday and stolen every ounce of attention that rightfully belonged to him. A concept that apparently carried more immediate relevance than anything else occurring within the same temporal frame.

"Uh huh."

"You don't sound excited."

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"I am."

"You look like somebody just told you your family died."

Hugo briefly considered telling you that something very dear to him had, in fact, perished today. Namely his expectations.

Instead, he settled for a long exhale.

"I assure you," he replied with the patience of a saint enduring divine punishment, "I'm overwhelmed."

You seemed pleased by that answer. Unfortunately.

"Oh! Did you know donuts probably originated from Dutch olykoeks?"

His eye twitched.

"No."

"Apparently, they're one of the earliest forms of fried dough."

"I see."

"And donut sales increase by around forty percent during National Donut Day promotions!"

You sounded genuinely delighted by this information. Positively radiant, even. The enthusiasm in your voice was almost painful to witness.

"Interesting."

"I know!"

You plucked a chocolate-glazed donut from the box and held it up as though presenting a priceless historical artifact.

"People really love donuts."

People really loved birthdays too.

Or at least they were supposed to.

Hugo stared blankly at the pastry in your hand.

A strange sense of betrayal settled over him.

Not because of the donut itself. The donut had done nothing wrong.

It was merely existing. A victim of circumstance, much like himself.

Still.

He couldn't help but feel that the two of them were now rivals.

"You want one?" His gaze dropped to the donut you were offering. Then lifted to your face. Then dropped back to the donut.

Objectively speaking, he did not want it.

Emotionally speaking, accepting a National Donut Day donut on his birthday felt dangerously close to admitting defeat.

Unfortunately, there existed a third factor. You.

And Vivian Hugo, despite all evidence suggesting otherwise, was ultimately a very simple man when it came to you.

"...Sure."

Your smile immediately brightened.

His stomach betrayed itself with an embarrassing flutter. And just like that, all resentment towards the donut vanished.

Because the donut had come from you. Which, annoyingly enough, made it precious.

It was not long before Charles appeared.

Of course it wasn’t. Hugo should have anticipated this.

Charles, like a persistent narrative curse, had a habit of appearing precisely when suffering reached its most delicate stage of balance—just stable enough to be survivable, but fragile enough to collapse under the slightest touch. At the exact moment reality lost respect for him.

Hugo had just begun to regain something resembling composure.

He was seated now, donut untouched in front of him, fingers loosely folded as though he were a man capable of emotional restraint. Around him, the noise of training continued in the distance, the familiar rhythm of shoes against flooring and shouted instructions offering a kind of false normalcy.

He could almost forget. Almost.

Then Charles leaned into view. “Hugo!” Charles called brightly, far too brightly for someone who had never respected peace in his life.

“Happy—”

He stopped. Deliberately.

Hugo’s head lifted slowly, suspiciously.

Because Hugo, unfortunately, was not immune to anticipation. He had been trained—whether by fate, delusion, or repeated psychological injury—to recognize when something important was about to happen.

The pause stretched.

One second. Two. Three.

The silence sharpened.

Hugo felt it. A shift in probability. A branching of timelines.

In one universe, Charles finished the sentence correctly.

In another, Charles ruined his entire day.

“…National Donut Day!”

For a brief moment, everything stopped.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.

Even the background noise of the training room seemed to hesitate, as though reality itself needed a second to confirm what had just been spoken.

Hugo blinked once.

His expression did not change, but something behind his eyes quietly disintegrated. “What.”

Charles tilted his head, completely unfazed by the collapse of the human spirit he had just triggered. “National Donut Day.”

Hugo stared at him. Unmoving. Unblinking.

A man witnessing the final erosion of meaning.

“What,” he repeated, softer now. “The fuck.”

Charles laughed, utterly unconcerned with the emotional damage inflicted. “Relax, it’s just donuts. Look—everyone’s talking about it.” As if summoned by narrative cruelty itself, the rest of the team seemed to take that as permission.

“Hugo!” someone called from across the room. “Happy National Donut Day!”

“Dude, did you get yours yet?” another voice added, far too cheerful to be morally legal.

“They’re on sale today, forty percent off!”

“You like donuts, right?” someone else chimed in. “We saved you one!”

A box was waved in his direction. Another appeared on the table beside him. Then another.

It was as if the concept of donuts had multiplied overnight, infecting every surface, every conversation, every possible route of escape.

“I see,” he said at last.

Nobody heard the warning in it. Nobody ever did.

Because Charles, far too pleased with himself, only clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s your favorite day, man!”

Hugo turned his head slightly, just enough for the room to feel it. “My favorite,” he repeated.

“Yes!”

A heavy, uncomfortable silence stretched again. Then Hugo exhaled through his nose.

And somewhere deep within him, something stopped resisting.

Defeat, in its most elegant form, is quiet.

Hugo had always considered himself a patient man.

Not in the emotional sense, of course—he was not some sentimental fool waiting idly for fate to deliver him happiness—but in the practical sense. He understood timing. Probability. Human behaviour patterns. The slow unfolding of cause and effect.

Which was why, at first, he did not panic.

Because surely, there was a system to this. There had to be.

People did not simply forget things like this. Not important things. Not statistically significant dates. Not events that, under normal social conditions, would be acknowledged within the first few hours of the day.

So when the morning passed without incident, Hugo simply observed.

When the afternoon arrived with no change, he adjusted his hypothesis.

And when you walked past him without so much as a suspicious glance, he began to reconsider his entire understanding of human reliability.

Still, he refused to act prematurely.

That would be irrational.

Instead, he approached you with the careful precision of a man testing an equation.

“So,” he began, voice even, controlled, as though this question had no emotional relevance whatsoever, “did anything important happen today?”

You looked up at him.

“Hm?”

A pause. Not a meaningful pause.

Just enough silence for his expectations to rise slightly.

“No, I don’t think so,” you said finally.

“…Right.”

Hugo nodded once. And then left.

It was not until later—after practice drills, after the team had begun to devolve into their usual chaos—that he tried again.

This time, more carefully. More specifically.

He approached you once more, adjusting his tone into something that could not, under any circumstances, be interpreted as desperate.

“Any significant anniversaries, perhaps?”

You blinked.

“Anniversaries?”

“Yes.”

You thought about it for a moment.

“Hm… not really?”

“…I see.”

Again, the nod.

Again, the retreat.

And again, the quiet internal adjustment of variables that no longer seemed to produce a desirable outcome.

The third attempt came later still.

By now, something in the air had changed. Enough that Hugo had begun to walk with the restrained energy of someone forcing composure through sheer willpower.

He stopped you mid-conversation.

“Any notable events occurring on this date?”

You stared at him.

Charles, who had been listening nearby, leaned in slightly.

“Dude, why do you sound like a calendar notification?”

Hugo ignored him. He could not afford distractions. Not now.

You shrugged, “I don’t think so?”

“…Interesting.”

He turned away again.

But this time, he did not leave immediately. He stood there for a second longer than necessary, as though waiting for reality itself to correct course.

It did not.

By the time he reached his final attempt, Hugo was no longer behaving like a man participating in casual conversation.

He was behaving like a man conducting an intervention with fate.

He approached all three of you at once—yourself, Charles, and Loki—as though consolidating witnesses would somehow increase statistical clarity.

“So,” he began. His gaze shifted between you all.

“How old do you think I am?”

Silence.

Charles looked him up and down. Loki glanced briefly from his tablet. You tilted your head.

“Hm… you do look older today,” you said thoughtfully.

That landed.

Immediately.

Hugo’s posture stiffened.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Charles added, far too quickly. “Like… mid-twenties energy.”

“…Interesting.”

Hugo absorbed this information with extreme seriousness.

As though it were data. As though it mattered.

“How old do you think I am?” he repeated, carefully.

“Uh…” Charles hesitated. “I don't know, Twenty?”

“I was going to say thirty-five,” Loki added without looking up.

Hugo stared at them.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Interesting.”

There was a shift in him then. Something subtle. Something final. The kind of stillness that arrives right before a system shuts down.

He looked at all three of you once more. And for the first time that day, he did not attempt subtlety.

“It’s my birthday.”

The sentence landed cleanly. No ambiguity. No testing. No rationalization.

Just truth.

A beat of silence followed. Then Charles blinked.

“Oh.”

Loki looked up.

You nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

Another pause. Hugo waited. Expecting impact. Reaction. Realization.

Something. Anything.

Instead, Charles tilted his head.

“Yeah, but it’s also National Donut Day.”

The silence that followed was not peaceful. It was catastrophic.

Hugo stared at him.

“…What.”

Charles shrugged.

“I mean, donuts are kind of the main event today.”

Hugo remained still for a long moment, perfectly still.

Then, in the same tone one might use to accept a deeply disappointing diagnosis, he exhaled once.

“…Right.”

And somewhere in the distance, a box of donuts was opened again.

Practice ended earlier than expected. A convenient conclusion to a session that had drifted just slightly ahead of its intended structure, the kind of minor temporal deviation that no one questioned because no one had any reason to.

In professional environments like this one, time rarely announced itself—it simply loosened its grip and allowed things to conclude when they were ready to, rather than when they were told.

The team began to disperse almost immediately after.

Equipment was packed away. Conversations broke into smaller clusters. Laughter echoed down corridors and faded into the distance in uneven waves, like something slowly being switched off.

Hugo remained behind for a moment longer than the others.

Not because he was waiting, or because he expected anything. Simply because there was still something unfinished about his presence in the space, as though leaving too quickly would acknowledge a shift he was not prepared to define.

So he lingered. Quietly. Composed. Sitting with the faint residue of exhaustion that comes after effort has already ended.

“Hey.”

Your voice cut through the quiet.

He looked up.

“Yes?”

You were standing near the exit, already dressed to leave, posture casual in a way that suggested nothing important was about to happen.

“Can you stay back a bit after everyone leaves?”

Hugo blinked once.

“…Why?”

You shrugged slightly.

“I just need help with something. It won’t take long.”

His gaze shifted briefly toward the door where the rest of the team had already disappeared. Charles was gone. Loki too. The building was emptying fast, the kind of empty that made the silence feel more complete than it should have.

“…Alright,” he said.

You smiled.

“Perfect. Thanks, Vivian.”

What Hugo did not know—what he had no reason to know, and therefore no mechanism to suspect—was that the day had not ended when the team left.

They went somewhere else entirely.

His apartment.

It started with it being your idea, of course, because it usually was. Then Charles followed. Then Loki, because he had been informed rather than asked. Then the rest of the team, dragged along through a combination of curiosity, obligation, and whatever strange loyalty had formed between them.

They moved quickly.

Efficiently.

Hastily, even.

Banners were unfolded and pinned slightly crooked against walls. Streamers were taped across corners with varying levels of success. Someone inflated balloons too aggressively, and someone else immediately told them to stop because it “sounded like war.”

A cake was placed carefully on the counter.

Donuts were added beside it, because Charles had insisted it was “symbolically important.”

There was a strange focus to it all. Not because they were particularly good at decorating.

But because they were trying to finish before he came back.

And so when everything was finally done, they hid.

Behind furniture.

Behind doors.

Behind anything that could obscure the fact that a group of professional athletes had just turned a quiet apartment into something resembling a chaotic celebration of questionable taste.

And then they waited.

Hugo arrived home later than expected.

The hallway outside his apartment was quiet in the way it always was at this hour—thin, hollow, stretched out by absence rather than darkness.

Fatigue sat heavily in his shoulders, not the sharp fatigue of exertion, but the dull kind that accumulates through repetition, through routine, through days that follow their own logic without consulting him.

He unlocked the door without thinking too much about it. His bag hung loosely from his hand as he stepped inside.

Click.

The door closed behind him. And the silence that followed was immediate.

“…Right.”

Normal. Of course it was normal.

He didn’t move immediately.

Just stood there, letting the stillness settle properly, as though it needed time to establish itself. No sound came from inside. No indication of disturbance. No deviation from expectation.

It was, logically speaking, exactly as it should have been.

He should have turned on the light. That would have been the correct action.

His hand lifted slightly. Then stopped.

A thought arrived—quiet, uninvited, and entirely irrational.

He hesitated, lowered his hand again.

The darkness felt… appropriate, somehow. As though the day itself had extended into the room and decided not to include illumination.

As though he were undeserving of light in his life for how pathetic he was.

Ridiculous. He exhaled slowly. There was nothing unusual here. Nothing at all.

He did not move forward.

He remained in the dark, still holding his bag, as if standing there long enough might eventually make the emptiness feel less deliberate.

It did not.

Minutes passed. Or maybe less.

Time was difficult to measure when nothing changed.

His grip on the bag tightened slightly.

“…I see,” he murmured to himself, like a conclusion reached.

No variables remaining to test.

His throat tightened in a way he immediately ignored.

Of course nothing was waiting. Why would there be? He was being irrational.

He lowered his head slightly. And stayed still long enough that it became something else entirely.

Not waiting anymore. Just enduring.

It was fine.

truly.

Birthdays were arbitrary. A meaningless social construct.

Logically speaking, there was no reason for him to be upset.

...

He was going to cry.

His breathing remained controlled, but slower now, as though the room itself had begun regulating him instead of the other way around.

Then followed a crack. It wasn't loud, not physical. Just internal. Something small giving way under accumulated pressure.

A tear slipped out before he could intercept it.

Then another.

He turned his face slightly away, as though that could make it less real.

Less visible. Less humiliating.

“…Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath.

Because that was what it was. There was no logic to this reaction. No justification.

His hand moved slightly, brushing against the wall without intention. As if anchoring himself to something external might stabilize what was happening internally.

And without warning, the light switch clicked. The apartment exploded into brightness.

“—HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!”

The sound hit him all at once.

From everywhere.

From nowhere.

From behind the couch, the kitchen counter, the hallway, the edges of rooms that had been empty seconds ago.

You appeared first, then came Charles, far too pleased with himself. Loki stood slightly behind him, expression composed in a way that suggested mild regret for participating but not enough to stop. The rest of the team filled the space in uneven clusters of grins, laughter, and badly concealed excitement.

Banners. Lights. Balloons. Cake.

All of it.

Hugo did not move. He couldn’t. His body had frozen somewhere between shock and something far more dangerous.

His face was still wet.

He hadn’t wiped it.

He hadn’t had time.

And everyone was looking at him.

At all of him.

At the tears he had not managed to hide.

At the moment he had not been prepared to be seen in.

A 6'2 athlete stood in the middle of his apartment.

Crying.

Surrounded by his entire team.

Because they had 'forgotten his birthday.' And they had no idea he had already decided they had.

Not a single person spoke for a full second.

Not until Charles, very quietly, said:

“…Oh.”

And Hugo, still not wiping his face, still caught in the light he had just turned on, just stood there—completely visible, completely exposed, and entirely unable to pretend anymore.

For a moment, nobody moved.

The apartment felt too bright in a way that didn’t belong to light alone. It wasn’t just illumination—it was exposure. Everything that had been carefully hidden, carefully timed, carefully held in place suddenly existed all at once, with no soft edges left to blur it back into normality.

Hugo stood in the centre of it all like a man who had walked into the wrong timeline.

Still.

Frozen.

Face damp.

Completely unprepared for the fact that reality had decided to acknowledge him so loudly.

The kind of detail that cannot be filed away into abstraction once it has been witnessed.

And worse—he knew it.

He knew all of you knew it.

That awareness sat behind his eyes like something heavy, pressing down on whatever remained of his composure.

And then you stepped forward, carefully at first. Like approaching something volatile.

Then, seeing him properly—seeing the full picture of him standing there, visibly overwhelmed, visibly embarrassed, and still very much crying—you lost the battle entirely.

A laugh slipped out. Then another.

Hugo’s head snapped slightly to the side.

“It’s not funny.”

The words came out tight. Controlled. Strained at the edges in a way that suggested he was holding on to dignity with both hands and refusing to let it slip further.

You covered your mouth, still smiling.

“No,” you said, failing to suppress it again. “No, it is a little bit funny.”

His glare sharpened instantly.

“It is not.”

“It is,” you insisted, stepping closer now, eyes soft despite the amusement. “You were genuinely upset because nobody remembered your birthday.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him.

“That’s kind of… cute.”

That word landed worse than anything else that had happened all day. Hugo went still.

“…Cute?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He looked away immediately, as if refusing eye contact could undo the sentence.

“I hate all of you,” he said flatly.

From across the room, Charles made a delighted sound.

“Awwww.”

Hugo turned his head slowly. Dangerously slowly.

Charles, completely unbothered, leaned against the wall with a grin that could only be described as criminal.

“What?” he said innocently. “Is little Hugo upset?”

Silence.

Hugo stared at him. His eye twitched. Long enough for the temperature in the room to change.

Loki sighed quietly. “Charles, don’t provoke him.”

“I’m not provoking him,” Charles replied, far too pleased with himself. “I’m emotionally supporting him.”

Hugo took one step forward.

Then another.

The kind of movement that suggested he was actively reconsidering the structural integrity of nearby furniture. Each step was controlled, but there was something unavoidably ominous about the fact that he was choosing to move at all now.

“You are all unbelievable,” he said through gritted teeth.

Charles gasped theatrically.

“Oh no,” he said. “He’s angry.”

Hugo turned sharply toward you instead. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

You blinked, then grinned. “…Perhaps.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I should throw you out the window.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “I feel like that’s a strong reaction for someone who just got surprised.”

Hugo exhaled sharply through his nose.

“You owe me a kiss.”

The room collectively reacted to that sentence. Charles made a disgusted noise.

“Ew.”

Someone else immediately echoed it.

“Ew.”

“Ew.”

Hugo did not look away. Neither did you. Instead, you tilted your head slightly.

“…Would you take that as your birthday present?”

“Yes.”

Immediate.

No hesitation.

You sighed lightly, like you were considering logistics.

“Okay, but then you don’t want the actual present I got you?”

That landed. Hugo blinked once.

“…What?”

You gestured vaguely toward the couch.

“I hid it over there. I can just return it if you dont want it.”

A silence. A very specific silence.

The kind that contains sudden regret, confusion, and the immediate recalculation of priorities.

Hugo turned his head slowly toward the couch.

Then back to you.

“…You're joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh my God, he fumbled both options," Charles whispered from across the room.

Hugo ignored him. “Why would you—”

“Because you said you wanted a kiss,” you replied calmly.

And then you walked toward the couch. Unhurried.

Like the situation had already been decided and everyone else was just catching up.

“Alright then,” you added. “I guess I’ll just—”

“WAIT.”

Hugo moved so fast it was almost offensive to physics.

“No,” he said quickly, stepping in front of you. “No, I can have both.”

You raised a brow.

“I don’t know…”

“I can,” he insisted, now visibly distressed. “I can absolutely have both.”

A pause.

You looked him up and down.

“…Fine.”

The word barely left your mouth before Hugo leaned in. The kiss was quick. Simple

Like immediate relief disguised as impatience.

When you pulled back, Charles made another gagging sound.

“Okay, I hate this.”

Loki clasped a hand over Charles' mouth, "Let them be."

Hugo did not care. Not even slightly.

Because for once today, nothing was missing anymore.

Except—

He immediately glanced back at the couch.

“…The present?”

You smiled sweetly. “Later.”

He exhaled. Defeated. But not unhappy. Quite the opposite, actually.

Then, after a pause, you clapped your hands once.

“Okay,” you said brightly. “Does anyone want cake?”

A chorus of yeses followed immediately.

Charles leaned back against the wall, grinning again.

“I think Hugo would prefer a donut.”

Hugo turned his head slowly. Charles just smiled wider.

And so, no one was ever again permitted to appear within three feet of Vivian Hugo while holding a donut.

What a dramatic man he was.

a/n: yes I know, I’m a day late bla bla bla blame timezones or something🙄🙄 got this idea from my own reposts IM LAUGHING SO HARD

he’s so dramatic what’s his problem. he’s so cute cute cute cute cute wtfwtfwfwtwfw can I bite him