"he's getting better at decorating." their child beams up from the ground where he clings to gladio's leg as his father holds out the cake with both hands. there's been an attempt to smooth over the frosting some, parts of the cake exposed where small hands failed to cover every inch with (chartreuse?) color. "happy birthday, love."
“would you look at that!” it is an improvement, and a far cry from the first attempt at decorating ( one smear of frosting and a charred cake, they had appreciated it all the same ). “can’t believe you’re still making our son do all the work, though.” they kneel down to press a kiss to their son’s forehead, grinning when he shoves their face away. they bring him up with them when they stand back up, and being mindful of the cake, they stretch to press a quick kiss to the corner of gladio’s mouth. “thank you. y’wanna cut the cake for us?” they heft their son up higher on their hip, and try not to think about the fact he’s getting just a little too big for that. “my hands are full.”
