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theofitzgeraldsing · 5 years

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The Road Chapter One Augusta, Georgia MAMA D Mama D called on all the ancestral spirits from before slavery time and way back before Africa was Africa, and the world had a name. She called back using her strongest meileke, oils, and herbs, reaching into the dark recesses of her spirit, something she didn’t often do, turning her insides out, and offering them to the ancestors in return for their intervention. Grey clouds swarmed above Mama D’s cabin as she prepared her poultice of mustard seed and High John the Conqueror root. Dogs howled and scratched at her door, possessed and curious all at once. Something was going on, something that compelled all of Augusta to sniff, snort, and acquiesce to the powers of the ancestors. Swallowing up towns, and gobbling down mountains, angry fog rolled over Georgia like a plague or wildfire. This was serious. It rolled on like thunder and made a sound like a rushing river crashing over rocks, knocking down trees to the stump and pulling the Earth. This was no time to be lounging around. Mama D's old alley cat Simon was slinking about scurrying at shadows, hoping to catch a mouse, or a mole, or a spider. Mama D was always going behind, cleaning up messes, and righting wrongs. When a husband abused his wife it was Mama who stared down centuries of pent up anger, rage, and male domination. Mama said, "somebody was always trying to get somebody else under the heel of they shoe," and that she was the "leveler of wrong doing." Folks knew Mama was real in her walk and real in her talk, she didn’t mix business with pleasure, and she didn’t cotton to ignorance or suffer fools. “Just be straight with me and we’ll be alright.” That’s what Mama always says. Everyone near Augusta, or far from it, knew Mama was the person to see and who could help when no one else could. Mama could heal the sick, locate lost loved ones, or mend family feuds and quarrels. "Sometimes folks don't know what's good for 'em, and have trouble getting out of their own way, so you have to lead 'em in the right direction like a horse to water. Just like a horse they have to realize that they are thirsty for themselves." Now Mama D wasn’t really my mama. She is my grandma and Miss Easy, Mama D’s sister, is my great auntie. I've been with them since I was born. Miss Easy and Mama D say I was a blessing sent on account of He knew He was gonna take my real mama away. Don’t ask me about my daddy. My mama wouldn’t tell who it was and Mama D says she has no idea who my daddy is. Now I look in the face of every man I meet on the road, or in town, for some resemblance, but it seem like they all favor me and I get confused. So, I just stopped looking. Mama D said that was probably best cause if my daddy wanted to know where I was he would of found me by now, and ain't no sense running behind, looking for something that ain't looking for you. Once I thought Reverend Prichart was my father but then I saw him pick his nose and eat a bugger, right then I decided even if he was my daddy I didn’t want to know about it. Soon after that is when I quite looking altogether cause you don’t know if you gonna meet up with a fool or a saint. I decided to just mind my own business and let well enough alone. It’s better that way. Mama's current mission was a secret to me. Sometimes I could tell, by the ingredients she used in her potions, or the posture of her body as she mixed the concoctions. If she was making a love potion or trying to bring back a lover that had strayed, undo what was thought to be a curse, a hex, or fix money problems. This was something different. Everything was laid out on a large bench in Mama's place but it was laid out in an organized manner and Mama kept going over it like she was taking inventory and she'd make a note in her book. She carefully measured the roots and the liquids from the hundreds of bottles that lined the walls and stacks of crates in the corner. Mama went to her shelf and took down her bible, the large one with the gold letters and the foreign language on the front that Mama said was Latin and Hebrew, looked like chicken scratch to me, but it must of been what she said it was cause she took care of it like it was a new born pup or an ailing kitten. She placed it on the bench and thumbed through the pages adjusting her glasses on her nose to be sure she was reading the right verse and on the right page. Then Mama D did something that in all my times spying, and peeping, and sneaking around I had never seen her do before. She took an envelope off the shelf, took out a piece of paper, unfolded it and threw it on the ground. Next, my mouth stood wide open, I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but Mama stood over the paper, lifted her skirt, squatted, and peed right there on top of it. The stream of urine continued, so it seemed, until a minute or two passed. A large puddle, with the paper in the middle, sat in the corner and Mama spit on it after she adjusted her skirt and then sprinkled it with what looked like sage, but could have been anything. It was green and leafy. After that Mama dripped candle wax, blew out the candle, and headed for the door before I knew it. I crouched behind an old barrel as Mama headed up the crooked, well worn path to the house, briefly pausing and cocking her head like she heard a whisper in the distance or a far off howl. She headed into the kitchen to the washbasin and called my name at the same time. "Lady!" My feet stood still and a wave of fever flashed across my forehead. What should I do? Go in the front door? Pretend I didn't hear? "Lady!" The front door seemed the only option. Mama opened the door before I could. "What are you doing sneaking around out here?" "I'm not sneaking Mama. I saw a doodle bug back by the privy and I was trying to catch it before it went deep in the woods." Mama cocked her head looking into my face. "Girl what did I tell you about running behind doodle bugs, and salamanders, and what not playing around by that Johnny house! You gonna find out what I'm talking about soon enough. Keep on you hear." I was hearing Mama but I wasn't listening. It was as if I was having an out of body experience and could see the wheels turning in Mama's head and see what she could see in her eyes. She was looking straight through me. She knew the truth and knew I wasn't out chasing doodle bugs behind the Johnny house but peeping into her business, not minding my own. The ringing in my ears met up with a cacophony of horns, drums, and bells like the complete opposite of a Chinese water torture, not subtle but bold and brazen until it felt like something reached down in my throat and just pulled the words out, "I'm sorry Mama I was outside spying through the window looking at you in your shack and watching what you did with the paper and squatted and did your business on top of it, that's what I was doing Mama!" Mama starred at me unchanged, just like she could see again all that I was thinking and not saying. "Well I hope you learned something," Mama said. "It's a fool that don't smell his own self and thinks his tail don't point straight down to the ground just like everybody else's." When Mama said that instead of slapping the taste out of my mouth, I knew God answers prayer, I had learned my lesson for the moment. My curiosity was still high and my mind would not let me turn loose the thoughts, visions, or imagining that invaded my mind like termites invade the fallen branch of a tree. What, or who, was Mama fixing? I was feeling guilty for sneaking around and nosing about, but I still wanted to know. Why was she still closed mouthed and secretive? Mama was born right here in Augusta, right here in what is now her place we call her shack. Her mother and father were escaping the mud of Mississippi and all of the memories it held. My great grandparents, Tom and Pearl, were slaves on the Percy plantation, had been born there, lived most of their lives there, until a war declared that they could come and go as they pleased and they pleased to get up and leave from there as soon as they could. The old master looked hurt and surprised that they didn't want to stay, "After all I've done for you? Fed and clothed you, took care of you when you was sick." He failed to remember the part about, "I beat you when it suited me and worked you from cain't see in the morning to cain't see at night. Raped your friends and neighbors, was father to many of your relatives and sold them for a profit when I felt like it and just because I forgot all about that part doesn't mean that you did, and never mind that it may not have been Christian, but justified in my mind because I said it was so and I had the bible to back me up." He had a very selective memory. He never stopped to consider all of the things he had received in return, or the countless number of times he had been nursed on his sick bed, cleaned, and bathed, and fed, and fawned over, his children nursed at the breast of a slave, suckled, while the slave's children cried from hunger and the absence of its own mother's touch. No mention of his fields that were planted and harvested, his home cleaned, floor boards polished, silver shined or brass brushed and rubbed so they could gleam in the candlelight to impress the guest that came from as far away as Mobile and nearer than Natchez. No mention of his wealth that came from cotton raised on the bended and broken backs of slaves. Fertilized with their blood, sweat, tears, and marrow of their bones. None of that was ever considered. Only what he had done for them, and how they were ungrateful and with their thanks and gratitude. Most of the slaves left quicker than the bat of an eyelash, or the strike of an overseer's lash. Mama's parents packed their belongings, a ragged quilt, one spoon, one plate, one saucer, a cup, the things they shared between them, a milking stool, an iron pan, and a bible. Their belongings were tied in small bundles, strapped to their backs or loaded in the creaky, rickety wagon that was pulled alternatively among them. They walked and walked and occasionally hitched a ride from strangers passing by, going the same direction, splitting off and going their own way, or when they felt a need to part. They walked nearly all the way from Mississippi to Georgia and found this spot that a recent immigrant, Erwin Palmer, from somewhere over in Europe had decided was better than where he came from and tried to tame the land, tilling it, and farming it. Having never been a farmer or ever lived on a farm, milked a cow, or shoed a horse, this presented a challenge for him. Luck, opportunity, and providence met when my great grandparents arrived. Grandpa Tom showed the man how to sow in the spring and harvest in the fall. He showed him how to shoe a horse and milk a cow. Granny Pearl worked right along with them knowing a thing or two about using a hoe and a shovel to till the soil. They shucked corn and snapped peas together during the harvest, working from sun up 'til sun down, eating together, sleeping together in the one room shack that was now Mama's work shack with the raggedy quilt they brought from Mississippi hung across a rope used to divide the space and provide a teeny weeny bit of privacy. This went on for nearly two years until the man from Europe stepped on a nail that went through his foot and into his heel bone. By the time the doctor came in from town to look at it, it was too late and the man had to have his leg cut off near up to the knee. Grampa Tom and Granny Pearl nursed and cared for him until he started hobbling along on a wooden leg but his spirit was broken and he spent most of his days looking at the wall reminding Granny more of a lost bird or a wounded lamb. "You know it's a sin to rebuke what the Lord has given you. You're still of this life, you have to live in it. Don't look and see what you lost, look at what you still got." Granny tried to lift his spirits. "What have I got? A tree stump for a leg, that's what I got!" He started to drink distilled spirits, and cussed, and mostly felt sorry for himself until Gramps and Granny sent a telegram to somebody over in someplace called Germany or Austria or Prussia or somewhere, and told them that the man was in poor shape and needed some help. After the telegram, a telegram arrived with some money saying a ticket had been purchased on a ship to England and to get him on it quickly. Grampa Tom could only get Mr. Palmer to the depot to catch a train up north. He wasn't too happy about going and he let Grampa Tom and Granny Pearl know it. "What the hell did you think I came here for? If I wanted to go back to Scotland I could have damn well stayed there! I don't need a black son of a bitch like you getting in my business." They knew it was only the man's anger and feeling sorry for himself that made him talk the way he did. His insults were ignored as they did what they knew they had to, to keep their friend alive, to keep him from harming himself. They said their goodbyes at the train station and when he handed Grampa Tom an envelope and told him to do what he wanted with the land, Grampa Tom was confused, unable to read Grampa Tom put the envelope in the bible for safe keeping. Grampa Tom, Erwin Palmer, and Granny Pearl never saw each other again but every now and then a card or a letter would arrive addressed to Mister Tom and Miss Pearl. Gramps and Granny, both being illiterate, had to ask the postal clerk to read it to 'em and tell 'em what it said. The clerk read the letter but bristled at reading and addressing them as Mister and Miss, however being a show off he wanted to read as best he could and so he did. It was about a year after the man left that the first letter came and it said, "Dear Mister Tom and Miss Pearl, I've arrived here in Scotland at my brother's poor excuse of a farm and it is even drearier and grayer than the place I tried to escape when I met you in America. My brother and his wife, bless their souls, have tried to make a life as best they can by raising sheep on a patch of land that seems to be nothing but jagged rocks, desolate gravel, and dirt not fit to grow potatoes. When I left Georgia I was heavy in heart, and I'm sorry for all of the mean and unkind things I said. I am also sorry that I stole the rabbit foot that use to hang by the door of the cabin, but I had to take with me something to remind me that I had once been a man of independence and courage with hopes and dreams of independence and freedom. Free from things, some of which I have forgotten and abandoned. I've never stolen a thing in my life but I hope that you will forgive me. The train ride to New York was difficult, being on my own without the kindness of friends or the family that I considered you two to be. I experienced the cruelty of one human being to another and I never hope to see again. I met a man traveling to New York to meet a banker to discuss the sale of some property. On the passage across the Atlantic we were met with rough seas and by the time we docked in Liverpool I looked and smelled like the beggar and pauper that I was. Standing was trouble enough and the seas knocked what semblance of balance I had out of me for nearly the first day until I got my sea legs. My brother met me at the dock and although he didn't say it, I could see in his eyes the pity he had for a man that wasn't a whole man anymore in spirit, or in body, but a troubled soul lost, tortured, and broken. I'm telling you this, but you already know it is true. If it hadn't been for the kindness, love, and caring of the two of you I could not be writing this letter today. For two years I lived in my own self pity and I will say that I have been twice blessed, and a lucky human being to have a loving brother with a kind wife and a gentle soul to love me when I didn't love myself. When I first returned if I wasn't at the local pub drinking the fine Scotch whiskey this country is known for, wishing my sorrows away, or laying in the bed looking at the wall, I was feeling sorry for myself, hating the world and everyone in it. Scotland, for all its dreariness and confined thinking, I was able to see some beauty in it. My brother, an adventurous soul, I guess it runs in the family, decided to try his hand at breeding horses in a way that only a Scotsman can do, insisted that I help out in the barn and in the corrals. "Get your arse out of the bed right this instant,” snarled only the way that a brother could snarl at a brother. I felt no brotherly love of my own and much more pity for myself. "Kiss my ass! I'll do what I damn please and get out of the damn bed when I damn well feel like it." My brother lived up to his promise as I underestimated the strength of a man that labored from sun up to sun down, whatever the weather or whatever his state of mind or physical condition healthy or no. With one swoop I could feel the plank floorboards under my back as I felt the knuckles of his hands, hard as stone and cold as ice, connect with my flesh and bones. After his encouragement and the exchange of words that any man should be ashamed to call his own brother, negating the legitimacy of his birth and my own, his children's birth, and the chastity of his wife that has shown me nothing but kindness and patience, I felt the shame of my actions and my own self pity. A wave of shame also crosses my face when I think of the unkind way that I spoke to you Mister Tom and treated Miss Pearl before I left. I hope that you will find it in your hearts to forgive a man that had forgotten his manners. I can't thank you enough for showing me the kindness and affection I didn't show you. My only hope is that the gift of the one hundred acres can express my gratitude and allow you to forgive me in your hearts. I'll never forget the time I spent sweating in the Georgia sun and enjoying the kindness of two loving souls. If I never see you again know you are forever in my prayers. Your brother in life and forever, Erwin Palmer.

#theofitzgeraldproductions

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land-of-frogs-and-dragons · 6 years

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This is the fic for the Reverse Hunk Bang at @hunkbigbang !!!

My artist is the very talented @artbymaryc and a link to their art is at the bottom of the post!!! @ze-zir was also a partner for the bang. I'm on mobile so I can't put this fic under a readmore, so I'll fix that once I'm on a computer.

Hunk padded through the hallway, bayard at the ready. He heard his blood pumping in his ears, unease slipping down his spine like water droplets sliding down a window pane during a storm.

He thought back, remembering the looks on the faces of the little ones, the children who were stolen from their home. He knew they were here somewhere, knew that it would be hard to find them, but he had hope that he’d find them before getting found.

Determination clear in his stance, he continued further into the belly of the base. Harsh metal swapped for rock, then back to metal. He descended into lower levels of the base, unease growing the further he went. Where were the guards? Where were the other Galra? Why did this feel so much like a horror movie waiting to happen?

The deeper he got, the more the soft purple lighting shifted, changing, becoming closer and closer to a harsh red. He knew that he was running out of time, but he kept his pace slow. He didn’t need to run into any Galra, and the faster he moved the more likely it was that he’d be seen and heard.

His skin crawled, unease shifting to fear, then to concern, then to anger, and back to unease. It was the lighting, he realized, that was so off-putting. It was close to a blood-red now, a color that was abnormal for any sort of normal lighting scheme. Except that the Jharrot were a species that lived underground. It was designed so that the Galra would be able to see and fight with ease, but the Jharrot would be at a disadvantage.

A soft noise pulled him from his thoughts, making him pause. It was coming from in front of him, but he didn’t know exactly where it came from; the Galra base was laid out like a maze. He waited, praying that the sound would happen again.

A soft whimper echoed through the hallways, a sound so quiet he’d have missed it if he’d been moving. It was definitely coming from in front of him, but off to the left. He made his way forward again, doing his best to remain quiet. He headed towards the sound, praying that the children were okay.

He made his way down a few more hallways, careful to listen for Galra footsteps ad for the noise he’d heard. Slowly, he made his way closer to what he hoped was the missing children.

He noticed the floor changing the further her went, splotches of what he hoped were dirt and scuff marks becoming more and more frequent. There was an odd scent in the air, the iron tang of what he pretended was rusty metal. The whimpering was louder and more frequent now; the sound tore his heart into two. He followed the noise, heart growing heavier the farther he went.

He passed a doorway and stopped. The whimpering seemed to be coming from inside the room, but he didn’t know for sure. He’d just have to look.

The door didn’t have a window, so he had no idea what he’d be walking into. But he needed to look, needed to find the children and bring them home. Hesitantly, he placed his palm on the door.

With a soft woosh, it opened.

He was greeted by the strong scent of sulfur, lights in the room dim. Horror filled his soul and his heart, tears filling and spilling from his eyes. His disgust at the sight so strong that he had to fight back the urge to vomit, to cry for his mother, to do anything except save the children.

Dull, crusty yellow coated the room, covered the floor and the walls and every flat surface. Knives of various sizes were scattered throughout the room, placed as if Easter eggs for the children on Earth. The opposite side of the room had chains hanging from the wall, placed as if designed for the Jharrot. Currently, there were none trapped there.

What horrified him the most, what shook him to his core and made him re-evaluate his stance on many issues, was the machine in the middle of the room.

It was the only object not splattered with Jharrot blood like it was paint. Instead, it was kept pristinely clean, its purpose clear from the knives and scalpels and needles and spatula-like objects attached to it. Its purpose was made clear from the dying Jharrot child currently attached to the machine, bleeding out as its innards were scooped out and stored within the machine for some sort of odd purpose. Its legs had been removed entirely, pinned down solely by gravity and its forearms.

Now it made sense. It made sense why he’d thought of the Galra armor when he’d first seen this species. Why he’d instinctively never touched the fancy fish egg-like food that Allura had offered him. The Galra, they were harvesting the Jharrot. He wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been trying to breed them.

The Jharrot child whimpered softly, empty sockets where eyes should be pointing feebly towards the door. The machine whirred softly, even as the sickening squelches of its purpose filled the room. Absently, he noted that the insides of the Jharrot were littered with the fish-egg-like stuff.

“Shhh, little one. I’m here.” He murmured softly, closing the distance between himself and the machine. “I’m gonna get you our of there, okay?”

He got a whimper in response. A pained whine, one that expressed more raw emotion than could ever be properly expressed.

Later on, he’d remember that he’d been so scared for the child. That he’d been scared that the child would die unfreed, that he wouldn’t shut the machine off, that he’d get caught and made to watch more and more Jharrot die as a result of his faults. Now, though, there was only what needed to be done.

He studied the machine, gears turning as he figured out how to turn it off without harming the child. Shooting it would stop it, but the child would die…

That’s it.

He pried a panel off the side, exposing wiring. He eyed it, praying that what he was about to do would work. And began cutting the wires.

The machine slowed, then creaked to a halt. The cuffs released, impaling the child on the spatula; the only indication of the new and unfamiliar pain was a loud whimper.

“Shhh, I’ve got you. It’s okay now.” He murmured softly, kneeling as he set his bayard to the side to gently lift the child from the machine. He cradled what was left in his arms, ignoring the way the blood coated his arms, his legs, his everything. “I’m gonna get you home, I promise.”

He gently shifted how he held the child, a new sense of determination filling his bones and his soul. It was as if every fiber of his being, every atom and iota of what made him who he was, knew what had to be done.

He held the child one-handed, grabbing his bayard and shifting it to its usual form. He noticed that it modified itself for his situation, allowing him to hold and shoot it with one hand instead of two. Slowly, he rose to his feet, jaw set.

He moved to leave the room, but turned to face the horrendous machine before doing so.

“Little one, what is your name?” He asked softly, gently, so as not to startle the slowly dying child.

“It…” He was surprised that the child could still speak; it showed exactly how determined this little one was. “It’s Anter.”

He fired his bayard at the machine, setting it ablaze and destroying it for good. Anter twitched at the sound, but relaxed; they had guessed correctly at what the noise had been.

“I’m going to get you out of here safely, but you might hear some things you won’t like.” He spoke calmly, leaving his room and making is way to the exit. He pointedly ignored the way his boots squelched with Anter’s blood, the way it seeped into his armor and onto his skin and made everything small like sulfur.

The duo ran into Galra rather quickly. A soldier on patrol, blasted and killed before they could make a sound. Soldiers laughing and joking before looking at them in horror, killed before an alarm went off. Perhaps it was the blood, perhaps it was the determination of his features, perhaps it was Anter clinging to life the way the last leaves cling to the trees in winter, but the Galra always needed a moment to take in his appearance.

But he had to leave quickly if Anter was going to get to see their family again.

He carefully made his way to where he entered, moving faster as Anter’s whimpers became softer and softer. He refused to accept an alternative, he was going to save at least one Jharrot. He would, even if it killed him.

He emerged from the hole he’d made in the Galra base, stepping foot from the eery quiet and into what could only be described as a war-torn hellscape.

The others had been busy in his absence. They had torn down the Galra defenses, fought off their enemies, and were in the middle of an aerial battle. But that didn’t matter to him; he had to get to the ship. To the healing pods. Anter whined, a sound so quiet he could have missed it, and his determination soared to new and previously undiscovered heights.

“Allura.” He spoke into the comms. Silence echoed his words; he hadn’t realized he’d been tuning out the teams chatter until it was gone. “Get the medbay ready. I don’t know if it can handle this.”

It was the Red Lion that spotted him first; Keith’s shocked sharp inhale spoke volumes for how horrifying he appeared.

Pidge followed next; he pretended not to hear her throwing up in her lion.

Shiro saw, but said nothing. He knew; the Black Lion wouldn’t get faster and more deadly for no reason.

It was Lance who broke the silence, sent the noises of the battle back into his head and became something he needed to register.

“Dude—what the hell happened to it?!?”

He didn’t answer.

The blue lion landed before him, scooping him and his charge into its maw before flying as quickly as possible to the Castle. Allura was ready when he arrived, sparing some of her magic to make them get to the medbay faster. A pod was ready for Anter, though he knew their survival was unlikely. Still, he had to try.

“Hunk,” Allura began, voice quivering with emotions unspoken. “I don’t normally say this, but… Kill them. Leave the leader for the rest of us.”

“Of course.” He knew that Allura knew that he would kill as many Galra as he could. That he’d scour the base for surviving Galra and kill them for even thinking to harvest another sentient species in this way. He knew that she knew that he’d be expressing kindness by killing the leader, and he’d run out of patience for it when he’d entered the room.

They would be successful. They had to be.

#my writing #voltron #voltron hunk #tw blood #tw gore

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heroesarelife · 7 years

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Could I request for a scenario/imagine of Aizawa finding out his s/o's b-day is a few days after his? Like Hizashi was asking what he was gonna do his s/o b-day. Aizawa asked why did he asked all of a sudden. Hizashi deadpan that their b-day is on the 13 November. Just 5 days after his. What would Aizawa do after knowing their b-day? Sorry if this is too self-indulgent. My b-day is at 13 November so I'm really excited and I love how close both our birthdays are since he's one of my favourites

YEEEEET HAPPY BIRTHDAY MATE! (I will cal you uuuuh 13-non? I am so not creative with anon names i’m so sorry)

I am so sorry this gotten so long omg. My preference for aizawa is showing.

Word count: 1834

Warning: Too much fluff, risk for diabetes ahead.

To describe what he was currently feeling as tired would have been an understatement.Exhaustion filled his bones and joints with surgical precision; heavy ironsattached to his ankles and wrists, weighting his every step and tampering hismovements. Any and all sensations numbed, turning them into nothing but faintexperiences, too distant to feel real. He had work to do. A lot of it. A hellof too much of it for all he was worth.

“E…ser!”

He had approximately two whole stacks of papers to grade andexactly null disposition to do so. However, such was the life of an adult. 30years old as of yesterday, no celebration allowed. With a heavy sigh, Shoutatook the first paper of the bundle, exhaling his entire soul upon seeingKaminari’s anarchist handwriting. This one promised to be a train wreck. Hecould feel the beginnings of a migraine creeping in on him; not that his friendseemed to care about making it worse.

“Oy, Eraser!”

Grunting in what could pass off as a sound ofacknowledgement, he attempted to ignore Mic’s strident voice. He couldn’t catcha break.

“Eraser, say. You have time to karaoke this weekend?”Midnight’s velvet voice reached his ear, with its ever present mischievousundertone. Aizawa failed to answer, running his eyes again through the paper.He must have made a mistake. Having a negative grade was impossible to achieve,even for one with such an outstanding capacity for failing exams as Kaminari.

“I’m saying he probably has plans for [Name]’s birthday.” Micwhined, sighing much more audibly than strictly necessary. Right there, he hadmarked one of the questions incorrectly. Not that this would help the boy’s caseovermuch. Maybe if he offered lessons… Wait just a second.

“Birthday?” Shouta finally raised his head in something of asurprise, only to squint angrily at the cigarette between Mic’s fingers. “Takeyour shitty smoking outside.”

“[Name]’s birthday is this weekend. You know, your s/o.” Notabashed in the slightest, the other hero placed the cigarette behind his own ear,seemingly happy enough with himself. “Aren’t you going to celebrate with them?”he smiled up at Shouta, somewhat wickedly, obviously having noticed that he hadforgotten. Damn it. It had completely slipped his mind. What, between thegeneral consistency of his fatigated state and his personal disregard of hisown birthday, he had failed to notice that theirs was nothing less than 5 daysaway. No, correction: 4 days away. Well, shit.

That explained why they had made a point of telling him,with all airs of importance, that they had no plans for that weekend. Despitehim not having asked them. Things suddenly clicked in his brain and he pressedhis fingers to his eyes, feeling like a dumbass. Of course they were expectingsomething. And he had forgotten.

“Hey, no worries, Eraser!” Mic’s overly excited voicestormed his eardrums, much too close for comfort, as he felt his friend’s armrest amicably on his shoulders. “You still have 4 days to think of something.”

“Shut up.”

—-

The light is what wakes them up. Eyelids fluttering gentlyopen, they look around in confusion, still slightly lost on the dense mist ofsleep. The telltale way in which the sunlight filtered through the room, withalmost devastating clarity, gave away exactly how much they had overslept. Itshould be almost noon at that point. All heavy limbs and fuzzy mind, theystretch languidly, revelling on the soft feel of the sheets tangled aroundtheir body. Trying to pretend the absence of Shouta didn’t bring sadness totheir heart.

Because it did, more than what they cared to admit. Thespace besides them was empty and cold, which by itself felt like a ratherlonely birthday gift. Shouta probably left for work, on a Saturday of all days.At this point, they were convinced that he had forgotten. They could all buthear their own heart breaking just by remembering last night. How they hadwaited awake, because they enjoyed to just wait for the clock to turn midnightso they could just welcome their special day. And how Shouta had arrived frompatrol shortly after, only to promptly collapse in bed, absolutely oblivious asfor what reason his s/o would be excited at such a late hour. Not even a modest‘happy birthday’ before falling into a deep slumber. Nothing.

Already drained of all the possible excitement they mighthave felt for the day to come, they get up slowly, staggering into the livingroom in a daze. At the exact same time as Shouta came in through the front door.He scoffed in half amusement, apparently finding something funny in their dishevelledappearance. “Sleeping much? Sit you down, sleepyhead. I will press some coffeefor you.” He jested through his customary sarcastic demeanour.

Huffing irritably, they sat down on the couch, tellingthemselves that it was absolutely notbecause he told them to, but rather because they still felt just too dizzy fromexcess of sleep. Yes, that was it. As it was, they almost jumped out of theirskin when something suddenly fell unceremoniously onto their lap. A small box.

They looked up at the culprit, namely Shouta, who was nowplacing a hot mug of coffee on the side table, looking as unfazed as always.Feeling their hearts swell with renewed and bright hope, they opened the smallgift. Inside there was the new album of one of their favourite bands, accompaniedby a sweet note signed with the flashy handwriting unmistakably belonging toPresent Mic. The disappointment was so strong that they could swear they heardthey heart die a little bit, almost like a wounded animal attacked by surpriseby a hunter in the woods. Fatal injury. It wasn’t Shouta’s. He had trulyforgotten.

“It’s from Hizashi” their boyfriend explained, rather unnecessarily.Acquiescing silently, they bit down their lower lip, fighting back the sillytears that threatened to spill. It’s not that they weren’t glad with Hizashi’s thoughtfulgift – it’s true that they had been blabbing about that musician nonstop forthe last few months – but it hurt them so to know their own boyfriend would soblatantly overlook their birthday. And he must know at this point, surely. But the cold disregard and lack of acknowledgementfelt a bit much at this point. They sniffed, lightly but still more audiblythan they had intended, and they heard Shouta clicking his tongue, as a clearshow of his own discomfort.

They heard the shuffling sound of clothes and the faintingsteps as Shouta walked away. Well, great. The day was going downhill barely 30minutes since waking up. It was a talent of theirs, apparently. Maybe they shouldput it on their CV and get a job as a day-destroyer, as they were clearly inwrong profession.

Absorbed in their thought, they didn’t hear he come back,and were snapped out of their thoughts by the deep sound of his voice. “I alsodon’t have any plans for the weekend.” Even through their upset haze, hesounded a bit awkward.

Surprised, they raised their eyes to meet his, not quiteunderstanding where this was going. He was sitting on the couch’s armrest.Close enough to be touched if they so much desired, while still giving themenough breathing space. He placed his hand behind his neck, scratching the areaas if in embarrassment, somehow managing to further mess his already sloppylocks.

“What I mean is…” he went on, taking a deep breath as iflooking to gather himself. “I took the weekend off. To spend with you.”

It took some seconds for the information to sink in. Theirheart behaving wearily in fear of further disappointment. But this was a verbaladmission. He had freed his days, to spend only with them.

“So we can do whatever you like. I know it’s not ideal andnothing much but—”

“You remembered.” They croaked, stupidly emotional over thesimple conclusion. Shouta’s eyes widened, and pressed his lips together,letting his hand drop to his lap in some sort of defeat.

“I had… In truth, I had forgotten. Hizashi reminded me.” Headmitted, voice dropping ever-so-slightly to what could be described as anabashed tone. “I’m sorry. I—” He was suddenly interrupted by a soft and muffled‘meow’ which came from some location within his person.

Their mouth fell open, in an almost comical surprise. “Isthat a…?”

Had they not known any better, they would have sworn that thechange of tone in his cheeks was that of an embarrassed flush. However, Shoutamost certainly didn’t do blushing, so it was probably a result of roomtemperature. Right? Right. Despite that, their boyfriend reached somewhereinside the coat he was wearing, revealing the most cute, fluffy, and small kittenthey had ever laid their eyes upon.

Unable to suppress an enthusiastic squeak, as well as thebeautiful warm feeling that began to spread through their heart and stomach,they stretched their hands eagerly, receiving the little thing with carefuladoration. The kitten blinked lazily, apparently confused with the change ofenvironment, rolling over on their palm carelessly and proceeding to adorably pawtheir finger. It had a black and silky fur, and was wearing a loose red ribbonaround its neck, almost as if it was placed there in an afterthought.

“That’s why I left earlier. You said you wanted one for sometime now. And Kayama has a friend whose cat just had a litter and, well, Ithought you would like.” He trailed off, noticing they were barely paying himany mind.

“But… You said you were too busy to care for one.” Theysaid, feeling their heart twist painfully at the mere thought of having toreturn the lovely creature. They loved it already. “Or would I take it to myhouse? You can maybe visit it sometimes? Or it stays here and I will visit itsometimes?”

“That won’t be a problem if you move in.” He put in, withappalling simplicity, as if answering that obviously the sum of two plus twoequals four. Not as if he had just invited his long term partner to live together.They felt their heart stop, the air leaving their lungs altogether.

“Do you mean this?” They said quietly, emotion taking overtheir soul in strong waves as the kitten bit at their thumb softly.

He nodded, a rare gentle smile touching hislips. “Yes, I do. If you will have me. No don’t.” He added in mild panic, asthe tears threatened to spill down their eyes. He closed the space between themboth, wrapping his arm around their shoulder, allowing them to bury their faceon the crook of his neck as they tried to regain control. “Happy birthday,[Name].” He said lamely, sounding mildly afraid to cause another emotionalburst. But they knew now: he meant it.

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