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Goro could still remember when his birthday was special. When his mother woke him up with kisses and happy birthday wishes, a candle dripping stearine onto a glazed muffin, a second-hand toy wrapped in newspaper and tied with twine. He remembered laughter and singing and pillow forts, laying beside her on the floor with her hair all ruffled and her lips split into a brilliant smile, her crimson eyes warm and soft and tender with fondness.
Happy birthday, baby
, she’d say, voice low and musical and gentle.
I love you
.
He could still remember the day he turned five, waking up to an honest-to-god cake with a brilliant, glittering candle shaped like a 5 in the middle. He could still remember scrambling out of bed, eyes glittering with excitement and awe, unsure if he could really have it, hesitant to touch it because it had to be too good to be true. It just had to be.
They’d sat on the floor in the living room, eating so fast their stomachs hurt, teeth aching from all the sugar and lips stained blue by the frosting. He’d been in some sort of shock, still half certain he was about to wake up at any moment, watching his mother’s beautiful, weathered face bright with joy, knowing it had to be a dream because it was all too good. And then she’d brought out a box wrapped in shining paper with ribbons spilling over the sides, and when he’d finally gotten it open, careful not to rip the paper because it was finer than anything he’d ever owned, he saw the Proof Of Justice ray gun he’d stared at every time they passed the toy store next to their apartment inside and cried.
His mother had held him, gentle hands stroking his hair, whispering that she was sorry she couldn’t give him more, sorry he’d been stuck with her, sorry he didn’t have a better life and that she was so,
so
happy he was hers. That he was alive. That he’d been born. He still hadn’t believed it was real until the day after, when he woke up with the plastic toy next to his bed and realised it really was
his
. He’d kept it with him every single day for the next three years. Until he found his mother’s cold body and got dragged away by uncaring police officers, crying his eyes out and screaming his throat raw all the way because that was his home, his mother, the only joy in his life. The ray gun laid abandoned on the floor where he’d dropped it.
The past few years his birthday had been an uneventful affair. He spent most of them trying to forget it even existed to begin with. The orphanage had tried to get him to celebrate it, but after a few years of staring mutely at anything they gave him, they stopped trying. Stopped remembering entirely. Of course that all changed when he stepped into the spotlight as the brilliant, sparkling ‘Detective Prince’. Suddenly people couldn’t
stop
throwing gifts at him. He hated every single one. Hated the shallow, naive being they believed him to be. Hated how they all thought they knew him
so well
when really they didn’t know him at all.
It wasn’t until his first year after being released from prison that he remembered how special a birthday could make you feel. He’d managed to entirely forget about the day, until he woke to the flicker of a candle at the edge of his senses and a voice singing ‘happy birthday’ in the stillness of his room. It was Akira. Of course it was Akira. Akira, with hair even more of a ruffled mess than usual. Akira, with a cake covered in frosting and enough candles to be a fire hazard in his hands, smiling bright enough to light up the room all by himself.
“Happy birthday, Goro.” He’d said when the song was finished, crouching before his bed and holding the cake out between them. “Make a wish.”
And Goro hadn’t really been able to do anything but obey. They’d sat on his bed talking and eating cake, Goro still trying futilely to wrap his head around the whole thing, the way Akira was looking at him, all tender fondness, like he was glad he was there, glad he was alive, glad they were together, like no one but his mother had been in so, so many years. He’d managed to keep it together until Akira set the plates aside and brought out a gift wrapped in shining paper, with glittering ribbons on top.
Goro had scoffed and opened it, more careful than he wanted to be because, for some reason, after all these years, the paper still felt like a luxury. The sight of a toy ray gun stopped him in his tracks. Akira watched him nervously, reaching up to fiddle with his hair as he stared and stared and stared. “It’s a Proof Of Justice ray gun.” He told him, like he didn’t already know. “A vintage edition. I remember you said your mom got you one when you were younger. I… I thought you might like it. Like… a memory of her. Even though it’s not the one she gave you.” He gave a nervous chuckle, shifting uneasily. “It might be overstepping. It’s okay if you don’t like it. I have the receipt so I can return it easily.” He fell silent, glancing over at Goro who was still frozen. “It… was probably a stupid idea, huh?” He mumbled.
“No.” Goro found himself saying, voice far too soft and weak. Right then he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He looked over at Akira, eyes wide and lips parted. “No. It… I… I love it.” He whispered, fingers tightening around the box. “I love it. Thank you.” He felt his lower lip wobble and promptly turn away, tears burning in his eyes just like that day all those years ago. “I’m happy. Thank you, Akira. I'm so happy.”
And then he’d cried. Cried and cried and cried until his voice gave out and his eyes dried, held in Akira’s comforting embrace, his hand running up and down his back, whispering soft words he couldn’t make out in his ear. And for perhaps the first time in eleven years, Goro let himself mourn his mother. And later, when the Thieves were all gathered at Leblanc, eating curry as was customary on a birthday, Goro held Akira’s hand tight under the table, and let himself feel loved and cared for in just that one, short moment.