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vox hasn’t celebrated his birthday in a long, long time. approaching four hundred and twenty, actually.
(under normal circumstances, he would have laughed, but these circumstances are anything but normal.)
there’s something on your desk for you, ike texts him over discord. vox is currently on his way home from celebrating with luxiem, but when he gets home, there is, in fact, a battered box and a crudely folded paper origami on his desk; courtesy of enna alouette, judging by the handwriting on the wrapping paper.
(it’s bright pink and send him into fits of laughter. the wrapping paper, he means.)
happy birthday, vox! it says. a small, slightly crooked smile (the kind kindred would find extremely sexy) spreads across his face as he detatches the crane from the box. he isn’t expecting gifts from people other than luxiem, so this is a pleasant surprise to come back home to. he has no idea how it got there, though - he’s pretty no one has the spare keys to his house.
to his surprise, the inside of the box contains a photo album, filled with pictures taken by his own little brother - pictures of him with luxiem, noctyx, and a variety of other people, ranging from elira to aster. the final page is a note signed by the members of nijicancelled wishing him a happy birthday.
(fulgur’s says: vox, for all our differences, i hope your dreams came true.)
he should be glad, or happy, or maybe both. and he is.
but he can’t really remember the last time that something he asked for had come true. perhaps one might consider the bonds that he shares with luxiem - and by proxy the rest of the livers - to be wishes cast upon shooting stars later fulfilled, yet something lingers in the back of his mind that tells him it’s temporary. everything that he has now: his friends, this job, the current ‘clan’ that he looks after and so cherishes; within a century, at most, it will all be gone, with the exception of those that were here before him, and will be here long after.
so what can he wish on? what can he wish for? for the first time in a while, vox finds himself rather lost on what to do. in his defence, being mostly off-the-grid and alone for four hundred years, without only failure to remind him of his birthday, will cause one to come to dislike it. or perhaps resentment would be a better word. vox hasn’t felt the need to celebrate his birthday in a long, long time.
the first 100 years was because of how much it stung to remember; his birthday landed on the day of his clan’s anniversary, and it was better not to dwell on it. by the 400th, he just didn’t find it worth it anymore. there was no worth celebrating his birthday on a day when nothing was connected to it anymore.
there are three times, though, that he remembers wishing upon candle sparks shaped like koi fish, or on falling stars at opportune moments when he thinks no one is looking. perhaps one takes place on a barge in the 1980s after he ransacks a room; perhaps one of them happens only briefly after the biggest loss of his life, covered in blood and tears, and perhaps the last one takes place this year, just a few hours ago, closed eyes and fervent prayers beneath his breath.
but vox can’t bring himself to utter another wish under his breath this time, looking at the photos so lovingly taken by those who care about him.
—
the first time, it comes with a song of blood and iron.
it is in the clash of blades against spears, in the sounds of warfare and defeat, and it is the sound resounding in his throat, torn up and bloody, the cries of someone who has lost everything. perhaps it he tries hard enough, he can scream loud enough to reach the unhearing heavens and pead for the lives of his clan back.
but instead of singing, there is now only silence. his voice breaks like shattered glass, twisted and misshappen in the spring air, and falls silent to the ground, its impact nonconsequential, feathers in the grass shed by newborn birds. in the midst of the song of blood and iron lies its conductor, bloodstained, tearstained, katana by his side, blunted and chipped, tried and found guilty of murder.
the first time, it comes with a shower of ash and dust, and the leftover fireworks are lit up by sparks of clashing metal, illuminating the sky with patterns of flowers and dancing koi fish that swim around his weapon as he fights. yet what he once found beautiful he now considers cursed, and they mock his failure as his eyes trace their burning path through the heavens.
(his hands tighten on the hilt of his katana, as if it can slice through the skies and the stars and bring the dead back.)
vox akuma wants to lie down in the ash and the smoke and the dust and sleep forever. to close flat amber eyes dull with rage and sorrow, and to forget. to sink beneath the snows and new life on this peak of honshu, in the only place he had ever been able to call home, with the people he had grown to call family and lovers.
instead, he grips the body of a fallen child and buries his head into their hair – his hands are white-knuckled with panic and blame, and guilt and sorrow find permanent residence in his gaze, filling it with senseless melancholy and devastation.
in that moment, the koi fish in the sky are full of malice. they laugh at him, and their laughter sounds like the tinkling of rain falling to soak his haori, daring to clean away the blood that had watered the garden they were growing.
his voice breaks mid-cry: it still smells like the flowers that had been growing in the gardens until this very afternoon.
(they are the same flowers braided into his hair, scattered about now like a final tribute to his fallen soldiers, his fallen kindred, his fallen family.)
those same flowers dance, pink and purple and red, sakura, camellia, shinso leaves, lovingly to land on gaping wounds on faces and torsos and on missing limbs, hiding the ugliness of war in a blanket of tranquility.
the first time, it comes with a carpet of flowers and a crown of thorns for a king.
and if you closed your eyes and bilnked a few times, the corpses would be buried under the leaves and flowers, honoured by a singular figure in the field with fiery red hair and equally red eyes.
if you looked carefully, the ash and dust of yesterday would look like the new snows of tomorrow.
perhaps somewhere in the future there will be a happy ending for him - perhaps in the near future he can laugh, and forget what it feels like to be scared for once. perhaps in the future he can call people his family again, but not yet. his lungs ache from the cold air, and it feels like a thousand souls screaming unfair, unfair in his face. unfair that he lived, unfair that they followed him like sheep to the slaughter.
he gasps, and there are finally tears tracking down his face - shining, silvery liquid guilt. his hands dig into the blood-soaked ground, muddy from the rain, until his nails are bloodstained and tender and sore. his voice, too, is sore and scratchy, and he briefly entertains the idea of never speaking again, a silent tribute to the voices he stole so early into their existence.
the first time, it comes with the sound of birdsong and the light of the rising sun.
he has lived to see another day. his katana by his side, crying into his hands, members of his clan laying in his lap, residing in his heart.
and that day, his birthday cake is made from blood-soaked mud, lit with the starry koi fish of the heavens. his eyes reflect hopelessness and sorrow, and his wish is for nothing but the revision of time, for the sands to return to the upper chamber of the hourglass.
vox akuma’s first wish that he ever makes, on this, the anniversary of his clan’s death, is nothing but a pathetic plea to the heavens for their lives.
—
the second time, it comes with the sounds of loneliness and waves against metal.
it is the sound of the crickets in the trees, in the sound of water rushing agianst the sandy shores of the river, and in the fluttering beat of his heart, nervous and furious and fragile. bitterness sweeps over him, a choking feeling that rushes down his throat the same way salt water does as he jumps into the ocean. bubbles in the shape of koi fish appear in his vision, stealing his breath, disappearing as quickly as they appear, reaching one hand futilely to grasp at what is not there.
betrayal does not feel like a stranger, but it is not familiar, an accquaintence at best that vox has gotten tired of meeting on the road. they shake hands and cordially nod to each other, and vox is left with nothing but a bleeding heart put on full display because still, he chooses to trust. still, he has not learned his lesson. the sly smiles and sweet words of the japanese yakuza sit heavy and hard in his chest, and it feels akin to the hollowness in his lungs and throat that make breathing so hard, the night air burning and tearing down his throat to put out the fires of his aching heart.
cynical laughter rings out, tinged with sorrow, and he raises a hand to cover his eyes, treading water and hiding the eyes that stare with hatred into the night sky’s shooting stars, swimming through the inky blackness like fish in a river.
there is a boat approaching him. the man on the boat is concerned, reaching a hand out to him, and there is such an aura of kindness around him that vox nearly sobs; the last time he had trusted people, he had been betrayed. the last time he had trusted people, they had been killed.
perhaps he is cursed, and perhaps those who follow him, then, are cursed as well.
perhaps his curse is loneliness and isolation, perhaps he is destined to wander, forever, alone, throughout the world. perhaps he is destined to fill his life with nothing more than shallow relationships that are nothing more than physical altercations.
for he has always been alone, for three hundred years, and he was a fool to think it would change - the hope in his heart sputters and dies, put out by smokey tailfins and fish as black as the night sky and the feelings of despair in his chest. it feels hard to breathe, and he can barely reach one shaking hand out of the water to grab the hand offered to him.
he is warm, and he asks vox where he would like to go. his hands are around the cords on his neck, pulling until they are taut against his fingers. he opens his mouth to speak, and smoke and ashes come out.
(he does not remember using his coersion on the boatman that takes him back to shore and gives him directions out of town. he does not remember the hotel and its low-quality coffee.)
the second time, it comes with the sting of emptiness and disappointment for a forgotten legend.
he sheds tears, and they burn on the way down. they burn like fire against his cheeks, painful and hot, and despite how quickly he tries to brush them away, flick them, shining like jewels, into the air, they are replaced by more. they fall, thick and fast, to wet his cuffs and his shirt and between his fingers. they sting against his flesh, and he desperately tries not to cry out, choking back the familiar feelings of loneliness and despair.
no one came. no one cared.
once again, vox akuma is utterly, completely alone.
foolsih, foolish demon.
the second time, it comes with moth wings beating at a lamplight, and the sunilght shining on the surface of the water.
he is alive, and maybe he should be glad. he is alive, but he is alone. he is alive, but he cannot call it living.
he picks himself up and buys a cake from the nearby cafe. the candles are lit by the heat of his tears, illusory fires made from water. the cake is made from buttercream and strawberry frosting, but it tastes like salt water and red wine. he blows out the mirages of the candles and wishes for familiarity and comfort in his arms.
his second wish, to black koifish of the sea, is to stop running. to stop living every day with fear in the back of his mind hidden by a layer of charm and seduction. his second wish is for something - someone - to call his own. home.
—
the third time, it sounds like champagne corks and crackling fireworks.
a corporate party celebrating his birthday - as far away and blurry as it might seem to him now - is hardly what vox expected; in reality he expected to spend it alone, or to just not celebrate it at all. but he is rudely awakened from that fact by the sounds of loud screaming and a cork flying through the air to hit him square in the face. someone slips a party hat over his head – it hangs lopsided on his head. a banner flutters in the air: happy birthday vox! written in big black block letters he knows can only be petra’s work. there are koi fish drawn on the banner, golden and pink and red. they match the colours of his eyes. they look like fireworks swimming through the air in front of him.
he hears the sound of a camera in the distance, and he looks towards it, caught off guard. fulgur’s fingers are poised on the trigger, and he smiles, gentle and full of contentment, looking at vox, confused and daring to hope for the first time in hundreds of years.
(this photo is later carefully printed and set in a frame within the photo album, - and it looks like a haze of sorrow hangs around him, eyes bright with disbelief.)
happy birthday, someone says to him. it echoes around like a beautiful sentiment, a quiet prayer into the noise of the room, and there is so much going on, so much overflowing happiness and joy that he is numb, shocked into silence. they remind him of a similar party four hundred years ago with similar people and similar festivities, a blue-haired novelist pressing a card into his hands, his kouhais wishing vox-senpai a happy birthday, enna’s voice singing happy birthday as they set off firecrackers outside and watch them turn into sparks that land upon an equally brightly lit cake with - and he counted later, no fewer than four hundred candles on it.
(now this is definitely selen’s idea.)
the third time, it is full of red velvet sponge and white frosting and cake on his nose.
sonny pushes his face into the cake with a loud happy birthday, and he can hear reimu’s laughter somewhere in the distance. and between weak laughter that doubles as crying, he wipes away the frosting and tears that fall from his eyes, reminiscing, caught in the past, seeing children running in the fields and his coworkers lying on the grass at the same time. the sun sets in the background, and its last dying rays look like a solar flare reflected in his gaze.
he smiles and allows himself to be taken back to the party, content to remain in the present rather than think about the past. shu ruffles his hair with a grin before dashing away. elira wishes him a happy birthday, yelled from across the field. for once, his lungs are not filled with ash or smoke, and he can breathe in fresh air like the rest of them.
vox’s third wish is made in the midst of streamers and firework-koifish and a smile brighter than the sun. it is made squished between luca and selen’s hugs. his third wish is for ‘forever’.
—
perhaps it cannot last. perhaps, like all things, happiness, like his clan, like the semblance of a home - perhaps they are all simply ephemeral and transient, beautiful only in their fleeting nature. but he pulls the photo album to his chest - rather like a shy schoolgirl receiving a love confession - and sighs.
(because in some way, this is sort of like a love confession, isn’t it? in some way, this is vox akuma’s love letter to those he has grown to love and call home, and their love letter to him and his now permanent role in their lives.)
happy birthday to me, he sings softly, by himself for the first time today.
happy birthday to me; his heart is unbearably full, and he feels like he might start crying at any moment.
happy birthday to vox; there is neither betrayal nor tragedy, neither choking waves nor fields of flowers. there is just contentment sitting lonely in his chest.
happy birthday to me.
and for the first time in a long time, vox smiles on the advent of his birthday. outside, the clocks chime twelve for the rebirth of the voice demon.