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Kisses so, so, so featherlight – marking, and taking, and giving at the same time; skittering vows that are loud, yet quiet. Butterfly wings and petals – skimmed over her pulse points, every inch of her in a fervor that never wanes, but this time softer like a quiet flame made to warm than to consume.
A breath of fresh air, oxygen in her lungs, and the blood in her veins – a dance, a rhythm that’s more gift than a demand, a pillowy crest against the shorelines, a tidal wave of affection and love that is insurmountable. Sunshine so soft, so true in an evening that is supposed to be littered by starlight, and dominated by the peering, lonesome moon – so out of place, and yet, so in place.
It erases – each kiss, each crest, each union – the rest of the years where sadness was more a friend than a fiend that held butter knives and forks, and a cake that was sloughing off the plate with icing that is more poison than anything sweet. Each attention to devotion a candlelight that flickers quietly, solemnly, than being consumed by flames that lap, and then laugh at her, at the years they represent erected – twenty-seven years of loneliness, of twiddling thumbs, of sheets upon sheets, and darkness that offers shoulders that are cold and too rigid.
It doesn’t exist now – not now when his lips are fire alone, flames alone that skitter so softly against her skin, that whisper devotion and companionship as though it is a language he has been so fluent all along. Yor chases it – the warmth, his arms, his length inside of her, and she whispers, melts against him like butter against the pan, like icing left too long out on the sun, and he catches her. He cups her face, and tilts it to him, and whispers a commemoration she often wishes to extinguish, to forget, not when there’s nothing special about it, not when it is a cupcake and one lonesome candle blown in the darkness, and the solitude of her one bedroom apartment.
“Happy birthday,” he says, whispers, stitches it into her soul as he holds her so reverently, so nicely, so warmly, so securely against him.
Yor presses her lips against his shoulder then his sternum as he moves inside of her, as he reminds her that she is not alone – that the candles she will be blowing are not for wishes that never come true. She feels his heart flutter against her lips, and she contents herself with the thought, with the notion that the beating sounded a lot like her name.
He threads his fingers through her hair – so pious, so reverent, so, so, so… And she leans onto his touch just as the grandfather clock by the living room resounds, announces another year to her age – another year, though not quite the same.
Not quite the same – there is darkness, yes, but the darkness is swallowed by this, by warmth, by love, by the silver slant of moonlight that are cast against the very man that brought her all that she has, all that she is keeping so very close to her chest that she’s carved a place for them in it. Loneliness oh so chased so profoundly away from her, so distant, so bygone that she has forgotten the taste of her tears against her lips, and the feeling of air in her eyes for gazing too long into the abyss.
“Will you promise,” she says, she whispers, she pleads, and she wishes, and he looks at her with those terrifying azure eyes that hold the constellations of herself and his devotion to her. “Will you promise to stay for more birthdays?” She ends, and she wishes, she hopes this is not the end of it, not a wick that is lonesome and burnt after burning too brightly, too ambitiously.
He looks at her like he is the candle, and the cake all the same, and Yor chases his lips for a taste before he can part them, before he can erase the fear as though it served no part in this. He delicately presses his forehead against hers, and he pours his soul into the kiss as he moves his hips in a promise he cannot say yet for his lips and tongue are tied with hers.
A chuckle escapes, muffles, and it vibrates through to her before he surfaces for air, for words, for promises he is sure to keep. He reaches out to her like she is the moon and the stars, and tucks the midnight of her hair behind her ear.
“I will,” he says, he promises, he states, he etches deep within the muscle of her heart where she can remember it, where she can reach for it when she needs to. “Until I’m grey and old – even at times you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever not want to,” she says, and she means it – she does, oh how she does. Yor has never held something she has sworn she will never let go to lose; something else to fight for after Yuri had grown and chased his own life, his own dreams.
Loid, Twilight, and the boys that he once was press their lips against the slope of her cheeks, the slant of her nose, and delights her with the feel of his laughter on her skin. “You say that now…” He trails off, and she rolls her eyes at the absurdity of the implication.
Yor threads her fingers through his hair that is sunshine, and tilts her hips to meet the slow slide of his cock inside of her. A sigh escapes her lips before an answer, and her eyes flutter close as though she is blowing on a birthday candle. Technically, she did.
“More birthdays, please,” she says again as she opens her eyes to gaze at him, to this man that is every bit of an enigma, but only the truth whenever he is with her.
“More birthdays,” he promises as he kisses her once again, and drives her to a climax that feels like falling, and being sure that there are arms to capture her.
Loid looks at his daughter caked with flour from head to toe, viridian eyes the only thing unblemished as she balances herself on the stool. There is batter on her forearms, and a slice of apple on her left hand, the other holds onto a whole apple that she has successfully dipped into peanut butter in a span of a second he had to turn away to preheat the oven. She looks, he thinks, every bit of a menace that has forgotten what she wants to do for her mother’s birthday.
He watches her decide between the apple slice, and the one slathered with peanut butter before biting onto the latter with a crunch. Loid winces, and he shakes his head as he walks over to her.
“I thought you wanted to help,” he says, admonishes, but the sternness in his voice dies down so quickly as she blinks up at him with emerald eyes – the only thing that has color on her now. It will be a great feat trying to get the flour off her, and off whatever furniture gets dusted with it.
Loid feels the start of a migraine coming, but he quickly focuses on something else to prevent it. It’s not too much of a headache, anyway, he thinks. He can simply hose her down with the shower – he has gotten rid of blood on white sheets before, this should be easier.
“Anya got hungry,” she simply says, munches on the slice in her hand then bites on the apple once again. “Papa, is the cake ready?” She asks as she hops off the stool, and almost slips on the flour on the floor – Loid reaches out to her quickly to steady her.
“Be careful,” he reminds her as he dusts off whatever he can before she is making way to the oven to watch the cake they have – well, mostly he has – have been working on since six in the morning.
Anya ignores him and makes a face as she crouches in front of it, Bond suddenly awake and strutting by her side. “Sorry – how long?” she says, and then she is tilting her head to blink up at him. Raw flour falls off her like snow, and Loid thinks he may have just have enough time to tidy up before Yor wakes up.
“Forty-five minutes,” he replies, and she pouts at him before she is lowering herself down to the floor to sit with a thud and a cake of flour sent to flounder on air like dust motes, Bond, ever the mirror, following after her. At this point, he would have to clean him up as well.
Loid charts it up to the growing list he has to accomplish before his beloved wakes up, and decides to focus on the icing. Lips pursed, tongue peeking out, he reaches for the bowl of cooled down apple jam, and adds, with a very keen eye, two cups of powdered sugar, two tablespoons of butter, a dash of vanilla extract, and a hefty dosage of the love he holds and will continue to hold for her.
“Papa,” Anya pipes up once again after five minutes of silence, and he cranes his neck to the side to give her attention as he focuses on whipping the frosting to shape. “Is there going to be a party?” She asks, eyes wide, so filled with tenderness and excitement.
Loid allows himself to smile as he fully turns to their daughter, fingers wrapped around the bowl, the other on the whisk. “That’s up to your mama,” he replies, and he watches his daughter’s face scrunch up in thought. Knowing Yor, it will just be the three of them, and maybe Yuri if he manages to wrangle himself out of any tasks he has been assigned for the day, and knowing Yuri, he definitely will. It’s a surprise that he hasn’t yet.
“Will Unkie be here?” She asks, and there’s a tiny frown there, on the crease of her brows, but there’s also an amusement. She had always found entertainment in whatever chaos Yuri brought home, even when she had been half-asleep most of the time. Loid doesn’t know whether or not he should find comfort in that.
“He might be,” he replies as he turns to add a half cup of sugar, and then he is facing her again.
Anya brightens up, mischief clearly written in the greening stars of her eyes as she stands up, and dusts herself off the flour. The apple sits on the tile abandoned, the core and seeds peeking out. Bond sniffs at it, his nose white with flour he has already nosed earlier. Loid watches him for a moment, curious before Anya tugs at him to steal his attention away, probably to ask for the bowl and the whisk to take over.
“Can I bring breakfast to Mama?” She surprises him with the question instead, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise as he watches Anya plate an apple, and a large serving of apple pancakes.
“I don’t think you would be able to manage,” Loid replies, already envisioning the breakfast ending on the floor with a broken ceramic and tea.
Anya frowns at him as she reaches for the wooden platter that he often uses when he wants to delight Yor with breakfast in bed, her hold on it sure, lacking the shake that Loid is watching out for. “Am a big girl, Papa,” she argues back as she places the plate on top of it followed by the apple, and cup of tea.
“I can help,” he says as he brings down the bowl on the counter, and makes a move to stop her from making further messes.
Anya frowns as she carefully trots away from him, her hands steady, sure, her steps paved by flour as she makes a move to their now shared bedroom. “Focus on the cake – “
“ – Sis! – “
“ – And on Unkie, too.”
“Give me the batter, Loi-Loi,” Yuri says as he makes a move to reach for the bowl of frosting that Loid effectively and swiftly moves away from his reach, turning to face the wall instead, two steps away from his brother-in-law.
“It’s not batter,” he corrects as he places the bowl on the counter just as the oven pings, and catches Yuri’s attention, crimson eyes determined as he reaches for the oven mitts Loid had to steal away from him as well.
“I will have you executed!” Yuri exclaims as he watches his brother-in-law open the oven.
Loid raises a brow at him as he takes the cake from the oven’s heat, and places it next to the bowl. “And risk your sister’s unhappiness?”
“Oh, don’t be so smug, you – you spy.” Yuri frowns deeper, but there is no intention in his eyes as he decides to stay still and watch him.
“Help me with the table; I’m sure you’d like to arrange the breakfast you bought and brought yourself.”
Yor opens her eyes to sunshine, cotton candy pink hair, and green eyes that are wide, and beaming at her like emeralds. Flour falls on her face like snowfall, and she sneezes into the duvet before she is bringing herself upright just as Anya bounces on top of her, the tray set at the foot of the bed.
“Mama,” Anya exclaims as she places both caked hands on her Mama’s cheeks, staining them white before peppering her with a thousand kisses.
Yor giggles as she leans onto her daughter’s assault, her hands reaching to her to secure her properly on her lap. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she greets as she tries to remain the kisses in kind, but then stops short when Anya decides to snuggle into her with a tight embrace.
“Happy birthday, Mama,” Anya says against her chest, on her sternum, where her heart beats against Anya’s cheek in the sound, Anya thinks, sounds a lot like love. She likes the sound of it, and decides that it sounds a lot like her Papa’s, too.
Beside them, with a trot, Bond comes forth and deposits the core of an apple like a gift. He flashes what looks to be a grin at her, and Yor’s heart swells as she reaches for it, and studies it with appreciation as though she received a diamond.
“Borf,” he barks in that warbled bark of his that always puzzled them, chin raised, obsidian irises sparkling with pride and affection, and if Yor listens closely, closer, she would be able to decipher a happy birthday in between.
“Thank you, Bond,” she says, and she means it, before turning to her little flour fairy, and kisses the top of her head. “And thank you, Anya,” she adds, her tone filled with emotion, eyes filled with tears that are asking to be shed.
Yor feels her heart thud in the shape of love, loneliness casted aside, turned as though it never existed at all. There has been a time, a time so long, so different where her hands have been cold, filled with red, and good for nothing but weeding out the bad. Now, her hands hold her world, something so fragile, something that equally loves her so, so, so…
Anya looks up at her once more, and cups her face once again as the tears streak, litter the expanse of her face, trace the apples of them. “Mama, Anya loves you so, so, so much, okay? Don’t be sad.”
Yor shakes her head just as the door opens, a hinge, a shock of sunshine behind them, then joined by midnight the same shade as hers. “Mama is not sad,” she says, and she is smiling even when the tears are falling as she kisses Anya’s rotund cheeks that are white with flour. “Mama is happy, and mama loves Anya, too.”
Anya erases each tear as she purses her lips. “Then why are there tears, Mama?”
“I’m just,” she pauses, feels the tug on her heart, so careful, so aching, but not in the way she used to know, in the way where it’s warm and filled with love that is reciprocated. “Very happy,” she adds just as the bed dips with Loid’s weight, and Yuri’s.
She glances over at them, at the men in her lives, at the man who has brought her everything that she has. He smiles at her, eyes of cerulean glinting with a shimmer of his own tears and joy and the love that he bears for her, pronounced by the flame of the candles – twenty-nine.
Twenty-nine, and yet the age does not bear any weight, no lonesomeness, no melancholia, no wishes, no ambitions – just this, this quiet joining, this quiet celebration, this morning filled with all the love that she bears, and the love they equally bear for her. Yor sobs, and Yuri is quick to hand her a napkin as though he has already anticipated it.
“Happy birthday, my love,” Loid says as he shifts closer, the cake beaming up at her than glowering, a huge contrast from the cupcake she used to hold, and the lonesome candle she attached her wishes on. “Anya and I baked the cake,” he adds, even though all Anya had done was eat the batter and try to add peanuts.
Yor kisses Anya’s cheek before leaning to kiss Loid on the lips chastely. It elicits a grunt from Yuri and Anya, and Loid decides to kiss her again just to get on their nerves, especially his brother-in-law’s.
“Thank you, my darlings,” she says, the tears still clinging onto the edges of her eyes, her heart so, so, so full.
“Make a wish,” Yuri says, and the impatience is gone, even as he pushes the gift he has gotten her closer to her.
Yor shakes her head, her smile unwavering. “I have everything that I need,” she whispers solemnly to herself, and then louder to everyone in the room before she blows the candles.
Another year, yet not quite the same. She loves, and she is loved equally in return.