#ini ;v; they have come sof ar

[exclted]

˚ · .  @laslow asked:

It is tradition, now, to bring her flowers on her birthday. He thinks last year's sunflowers were perhaps a bit overdone; all he'd wanted was to make up for the missed celebrations and maybe for his own mistakes, too. This year, he only asked the florist for a modest bouquet of morning glories, with a white silk ribbon tied around the vase. The flowers sway in time with his light steps across monastery grounds. She's likely in the training hall by now--Naga knows he'd tried convincing her, over the years, that relaxing on her birthday was perfectly acceptable, only to be met with disbelief. That stubborn streak works to his advantage, at least. He finds her with relative ease, a smile on his lips. "Hel-lo, Lucina! Happiest of birthdays to you, my fearless Exalt." She's looking radiant today. more so than usual, and he wonders what's made her so happy. (Even better, he finds there's no sting of jealousy or bitterness that he's not the cause.) Laslow sets the flowers down on a nearby bench. "I couldn't let this day pass without celebrating you in some fashion, eh?" With a wink, he hands over the small bag clutched in his other hand. "Such an occasion calls for cinnamon buns, don't you agree?" They've cooled a little, but should still be delicious. Some of his good cheer fades into something more somber, smile turning reminiscent instead of dazzling. Free hand reaches into his jacket, producing another small box, just like last year. "One last thing. I figured the butterfly must getting lonely. Everyone needs a friend, even tiny glass figurines." (When she opens it, she'll find a near-opaque gray songbird, crafted with the same care and precision as her butterfly.)

With every year that passes she sees him differently. It is time, perhaps, having finally slowed down around them enough that she no longer thinks first to mourn the childhoods they have left behind in favor of noticing where it has shaped him into a man instead.

No more awkward boy, fumbling to find a smile for her when neither of them knows what to say. No more nervous glances or too-quick touches. Just Inigo, the same Inigo she knew before the world fell into pieces.

She is unbelievably proud of him.

Lucina waves at his approach, jogs to stow away her training sword and then back to greet him. "You never relent, do you?"

But she understands what these little things mean to them. No matter how many times she would like to remind him that none of this is necessary, that she hardly has the need for any gifts, it's a special thing. Every year of theirs has been hard won, every celebration earned. And she has long since accepted that there is no arguing her way out of it.

One brow quirks at the bag, and she gives a cursory peek within. A little huff of amusement. "I hope you expected to share."

They wouldn't taste the same if he didn't, anyway.

She's just about to finally cave and begin to protest at the introduction of a third gift, but his next sentence stops her. Carefully her thumb nudges the top of the box open, and any suspicion lingering in her expression melts into something far more fond.

"Yes, I'm sure the two of them will get along well," the lid settles over it once more, and Lucina holds the little box gently to her chest. "Thank you, Inigo."