every awakening brings rebirth

He knew that expecting them to wish her happy birthday before noon was a long shot. That's part of the reason he took her out to breakfast in the first place - he knew that if he didn't, she would spend the morning sitting on her bedroom floor and staring at her phone, waiting for them to call the way that she had so many times before. Even the idea of them reaching out before dinner seemed far fetched. But it's almost midnight, now, and as Seven sticks the candles into her birthday cake, he wishes that her parents were here, if only so he could throw it in their faces. The cake. Not the candles. Actually, y'know what? He doesn't care either way.

"Seven?" Olive calls out from the living room. "Are you alright? You've been in there for like ten minutes..."

"Just be patient!" he calls back, hoping she can't hear the angry edge to his voice. Chill out, Duckstein. This is about her, not you. Although it doesn't really feel like there's a difference between those two things anymore. "I'm almost done!"

"Okay!"

As he finishes placing the last of the 18 candles on the cake, he's haunted by the mental image of her big, watery eyes, her quivering bottom lip. He knows for a fact that she's in there staring at her phone and, unfortunately, the only thing he can do to distract her from the reality of her parents being shitheads is to wave something else bright and shiny in her face. As carefully as he can - which is very carefully and very skillfully, thanks to the time he's spent working at the diner - he slides the cake onto his open palm and rests the edge of the tray in the crook of his elbow. Now that he's looking at it, he's realizing that he probably didn't need to buy a cake that's meant to feed 20 people just to split between the two of them, but ah well. She deserves it. Besides, her parents still haven't learned to leave her money for groceries when they're gone, so she can eat the rest of this cake for every meal until they get back from their work trip.

After nudging the kitchen door open with his socked toes, he peers out into the darkness of the living room. She's sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, which he only knows because her phone is lighting up her face, though she locks it quickly and drops it into her lap when he enters. "Seven," she gasps, "what -"

"Haaappy birthday to you," he sings, creeping across the room towards her because dropping a cake with 18 lit candles on it would kill the mood even more than her parents already have. "Haaappy birthday to youuu..."

"Seven, you didn't have to -"

"Happy birthday," he sings firmly, cutting her off, "dear Olllll-iiiiiiive... Happy birthday... To... You..."

He kneels in front of the coffee table and slides the cake onto the surface between them. She looks down at the cake, then back up at him, then down at the cake, her face breaking out into a grin, the white of her newly brace-free teeth shining in the candlelight. After a moment's pause, Seven angles his head towards her and whispers, "You're supposed to blow out the candles, van Cleve..."

If she were sitting next to him, he would've gotten a smack on the arm for that one, but he's safe from his position across the coffee table. She instead rolls her watery eyes before tucking her hair behind her ears and leaning forward to blow out all 18 candles in a single breath. His mom always used to tell him that however many candles you had left on your cake were how many boyfriends you had, and he knows it's dumb, but he's relieved that not a single flame is left flickering. Not that it would matter if she did have a boyfriend. (Okay, yes, of course it would matter, but he's been trying not to think about stuff like that lately.)

"What'd you wish for?" he asks. Hopefully not a boyfriend...

"I can't tell you. Then it won't come true."

"Bullshit! Come on, tell me."

"No! I can't!"

"Olive, you know that stuff like that doesn't count for us. We're, like, the same person."

She rests her chin in her hand. Her smile, previously so wide and so pleased, has turned small, almost embarrassed, and it's obvious she's trying to stifle it in her palm.

"Come on," he says, softer this time. "What is it?"

Even when she meets his eye, she doesn't move her hand away. "I wished that I could celebrate every birthday for the rest of my life like this," she murmurs. "With you."

He's glad that she so expertly extinguished the main source of light in the room. It means she can't see him blushing. "Well..." He plucks out the candle from the centre of the cake and hands it to her, knowing that she'll want to lick the icing off the bottom. "I hate to break it to you, van Cleve, but that's a waste of a wish. You were always gonna get that anyway."