A passerby calls out, “Watch out!” There was a plotted plant plummeting towards Gabriella in true slapstick style. It must have fallen from an upper story window. “Look out, angel!” Moving far quicker than they ever could, Shiro hauled her to them and caged her in their arms; shielding her from the worst. Mere seconds later, the pot smashed onto the pavement; inches from Shiro’s white rainboots and shattering into decimated terracotta shards. If they hadn't shown up, it would've hit her on the head. That could've killed Gabriella. Her pretty life would've been taken away from him. The woman leaning against the railing of her apartment from above gasps and exclaims. "Oh my god I'm so sorr-" But before she could finish her sentence, a knife is thrown up in speedy spinning succession and it slashes her head clean off her neck as if the blade were a sharp disk. There was a dark shadow concealing the murderer's expression, while the bloodied knife precisely lands into their overcoat's pocket. When they catch the severed head, who's face is stuck frozen in time right before getting killed, they perk up with a beaming smile.
"That was a close one, huh? It's a good thing I was in the area." They observe the head with a thoughtful hum and a playful juggle with it like it was a toy ball and then an idea struck. "Ah!" From the chiral part of their overcoat's pocket, they pull out a canister of whip cream that they shake a few times and sprays the white fluffy sugary-goodness in a swirl atop the dead woman's head. Last, but not least, Shiro pulls out a red-colored candle from the same pocket and dips it at the tip of the whip cream; the combo wobbling and wiggling from every movement. "Happy birthday, Gabriellaaaaa~! I was saving those for your cake at home, but this is way better!" They cheer in a sing song attitude. Meanwhile, a little boy screams and cries at finding his mother's headless bloody corpse from above them on the balcony. It didn't phase Shiro. They remained their attention on Gabriella; as if the pitiful and helpless cries of the little boy was falling on deaf ears. Who cares if this lady died.
Their magnificent angel's life is much more beautiful.
The city was warm for late afternoon. The kind of warmth that clung gently to the skin, reluctant to leave. Gabriella moved through it in silence, her heels sounding off a soft, steady rhythm against the sidewalk. She wasn’t in a rush. There was no need to be. Not today. She hadn’t told anyone it was her birthday. Not because she’d forgotten but because she didn’t want the weight of being known, not by most. Not by people who’d offer her cakes with store-bought frosting and smiles that never reached the eyes. Not by coworkers or neighbors or strangers on social media. The idea of being celebrated felt... wrong. Hollow. Like trying to fill a grave with glitter.
But him? He was different. And even if she never said the words out loud, he always knew. It happened fast; too fast for her to comprehend. A voice called out, distant, warning. And then, before she could blink, she was pulled backward, caught in arms that felt like silk-wrapped steel. Her heels left the pavement for half a second as her body was brought flush against his, safe, shielded, held. Then the world cracked open behind her. A flower pot hit the pavement just where she’d stood. Shattered. Soil and shards exploding outward like shrapnel. A fern twisted in the mess, flattened and twitching. She stared at it, dazed. She could smell the earth, the faint trace of ceramics ground underfoot.
She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to. The answer stood with her, silent and white and absolute. Then the scream above. She looked up, barely registering the woman on the balcony, the guilt in her voice, the panic and then: it was over. No scream. No apology. Just the sound of something slicing the air and soft thud. The witch didn’t gasp. Didn’t flinch. Only watched as the woman’s head dropped from above and landed perfectly in his hand like it had always belonged there. She had expected the weight in her stomach, the coil of guilt, the distant echo of horror she never could fully outrun. But what came instead was something gentler. Something... terrible in its beauty.
He had caught it like a gift and then he dressed it like one. A canister was pulled from his coat pocket. Two cheerful shakes. A spiral of whipped cream. Precise. Deliberate. A red candle pressed into the top. A flick of a lighter. The flame bloomed gently, its glow small but steady in the golden light. She didn’t need to hear him speak to know what he was saying. Hazel hues moved slowly between the candle and his face. Her chest felt tight, full of something she couldn’t quite name. He always remembered.
The witch stepped forward without hesitation, the sound of her heels lost beneath the low hum of traffic and the soft, distant wail of a child’s scream from above. She stood before him, eyes flicking over every detail. The pristine white of his coat. The faint smudge of blood at his jawline. The smooth fall of his pale hair across his temple. Her fingertips brushed his collar, straightening it slowly. Then, gently, she reached for the side of his face, brushing a stray streak of red from the corner of his mouth. His skin was cool. Still. As if movement had never truly touched him. As if time paused around his body and allowed him to be precisely as he chose to be.
She cradled his face with both hands for a moment. Her expression was soft. Knowing. “…You remembered,” she whispered. Her voice was delicate. Like the candle’s flame. Like glass held in gloved fingers. “Even when I didn’t want to.” She looked down at the grotesque cake in his hand, then back to his eyes. “You always find the most... creative ways to say it.” Her smile was faint. Tired, but real. She took his free hand in hers, the one not holding the head — and brought it slowly up to her lips.
The bandages were frayed at the edge, a little damp with cream and blood and heat. She didn’t flinch. Her lips brushed over the gauze, a kiss barely there. Then, after a pause, she closed her eyes and let her forehead rest lightly against his chest. Her hands still in his. She stayed there for a moment, breathing him in. That strange, clean scent he carried like white linen left too long in the sun. Like something sterilized. Removed from rot.
She pulled back enough to look at the candle again. It was still burning, steady and defiant. Just like him. “I’ll bake the real one tonight,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “With the frosting you like. You know the kind.” Her hand gave his one last squeeze. Then she looked at him and something small but certain flickered in her gaze.
“…But I’m keeping the candle.” That was all. She stepped around him, her shoulder brushing against his as she passed. She didn’t look back, but she didn’t need to. He would follow like he always did. Tonight, she would light the same candle again this time on something sweeter and pretend, just for a while, that the world wasn’t built on blood and devotion.
Happy Birthday, Gabs! (8/14) // @adrednaline
