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By the time he’s thirteen, Miya is used to it.
He doesn’t expect anything anymore—not from anyone, even his parents. Not a hug, a pat on the head, a well wish, and certainly not a gift or cake or celebration.
He doesn’t expect a thing. But low expectations mean nothing to high hopes, even though Miya’s well aware that the days when his birthday were an exciting time have long passed.
Now, Miya observes his birthday with a pit in his stomach. He spends the day wringing his hands and trying to distract himself by skating or studying or playing video games. He reminds himself, over and over and over again, not to let himself hope for too much.
Every year, he hopes anyway. And every time, those hopes are painfully crushed. It never seems to sting any less, but Miya’s gotten used to how it hurts.
So, when he makes it to fourteen, and he’s learned what it feels like to have friends again, Miya doesn’t say anything. Maybe he should. He wavers, all throughout January and into February, between uncertainty and desire.
His friends throw a birthday party for Langa, and it’s small and nice and warm. Langa looks so pleased the whole evening, surrounded by so much more food than any regular human should ever be able to eat, and glued to Reki’s side.
Miya wonders if he should mention that his own birthday is coming soon, but he knows that’s a selfish thing to do during someone else’s party. Seeing everyone so happy, having so much fun, enjoying celebrating their friend, makes Miya want to say something. He decides to wait until the party’s over.
The night comes to a close, and Joe and Cherry are drunk and either flirting or fighting, and Reki and Langa are dozing off on each other’s shoulders, and Shadow is scrolling through his phone with a furious blush on his face.
Miya doesn’t say anything.
The next two weeks fly by. He thinks about the new game coming out that he’d love to have as a gift—he could just buy it with his own money if his parents would let him use it. He thinks about his favourite treats; things he never lets himself have because they aren’t nutritious or healthy enough. He thinks about how nice it would be just to hear someone tell him “happy birthday” for once.
He doesn’t know why he doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t.
And he watches as his clock turns to midnight on the twenty-second, and he hugs his stuffed kitten closer to himself in the dark, tears pricking his eyes.
He remembers how the group chat lit up at midnight two weeks ago, how everyone enthusiastically rushed to wish Langa a happy birthday. Even Cherry, who normally sleeps early on nights he isn’t at S, stayed up late to send a text.
“Happy birthday, Miya,” he whispers to himself.
He really should have said something.
Miya’s awoken by his phone buzzing. He pretends it’s normal how quickly he shoots up to grab it, and he desperately tries to swallow the hope rising in him when he unlocks it.
[Reki 11:43AM] yo dude are u coming to S tonight?
That hope is quickly snuffed out, just like always. In its place is a bitterness, a tight ache in his throat and anger that Miya knows he has no business feeling. Reki’s not intentionally ignoring anything. Miya’s the one who didn’t tell him, so he has no right to be angry.
[Miya 11:48AM] no
[Reki 11:48AM] whaaaat why?????
[Miya 11:50AM] don’t feel like it
[Reki 11:51AM] but why? 🥺
[Miya 11:54AM] I’m not in the mood, slime
[Miya 11:55AM] just leave me alone today.
He waits, after that, to see what else Reki might say. But ten minutes go by and his friend doesn’t reply, and Miya realizes with an awful wrench in his gut that Reki’s actually listening to him. And he understands that it’s his own fault, all of it is, but Miya can’t help how anger and desperation suffocates him, anyway. He tosses his phone to the foot of his bed and wraps himself up in his blankets, resolved to spend his day here. Disappointed and alone in the dark, wrapped up in his own self-pity.
For some time, that seems to be exactly how it’s going to play out. Miya drifts in and out of a light sleep, blinking tears from his eyes and trying to find nice things to daydream about, and an hour goes by—maybe two—before the doorbell rings downstairs.
Groaning, Miya pulls his pillow over his head.
“Fuck off,” he mutters.
The doorbell rings again.
And again.
And again, and again, and again, and again, and—
“Oh my fuck, fine!” He snaps, huffily pushing himself out of bed.
Miya makes his way downstairs, a blanket still pulled around his shoulders, and debates between shrieking like a banshee or acting like a terrified little baby at the solicitor who is no doubt at his front door.
Except that it’s not a solicitor.
It’s Reki and Langa. They’re holding their boards and talking to each other in snappish, hushed tones when Miya opens the door. Whatever it is they’re debating seems to be instantly resolved once they both spot Miya watching them.
“Miya, hey!” Reki says.
“…What are you slimes doing here?” Miya grumbles, pulling his blanket tighter.
“We just wanted to check on you,” Reki tells him, “you seemed grumpier than usual in your texts. And you never skip out on S just because you’re in a bad mood. Are you sick or something?”
Miya honestly wishes that were all it was. It might not be any more pleasant to be sick, but at least it wouldn’t feel like this.
“No, I’m fine. I told you to leave me alone today.”
“Well- I know, but I was worried!” Reki protests indignantly.
And, ugh, damn it, Miya’s face feels so warm now. He can’t think of what to say. He doesn’t want to get angry at Reki for caring, or for not knowing, or for bothering to show up for Miya even though he was explicitly told not to. In reality, it means everything that him and Langa are here. It means everything to see the concern in Reki’s face, and Langa’s hand curled into the back of his boyfriend’s shirt—his own expression of worry.
He isn’t sure why it hits so hard or so suddenly, but this has been building up for a while now, so maybe Miya shouldn’t be surprised that he bursts into tears.
Though, he isn’t exactly surprised so much as deeply embarrassed. Miya’s not the type to cry in front of others, and certainly never so openly or grossly, like the child he tries not to be. But, today of all days, it’s just no use to try and hold it in. He’s so sad, so angry at himself, and so lonely.
“Miya?!” Reki reels back, gaping. Langa looks equally shocked, his expression landing somewhere between horror and revulsion, which Miya can understand, frankly.
Pulling his blanket over his head, Miya tries fruitlessly to hide the outburst and save some semblance of his dignity. This is all so stupid. He should just shut the door, ignore them for the rest of the day, then gaslight them about this whole crying thing later.
Instead, he hiccups and covers his face with fluffy green fabric.
“It’s my birthday,” he whimpers.
“What?!”
Miya presses the backs of his hands to his eyes, trying to wipe some of his tears away. His blanket slides to the floor.
“Wh- how- why- I didn’t know that!” Reki exclaims. He sounds frustrated and indignant and Miya doesn’t really get why.
Is he coming off as angry or something? It’s true that “annoyed” is sort of his default, and that he usually only cries when he’s mad, but that isn’t what he’s feeling at all right now. Miya just wilts under Reki’s irritated stare, crying still, wiping his eyes harder. He can see kaleidoscopes in the backs of his eyelids.
“Reki,” Langa’s voice is soft and steady, and it breaks through the unbearable noise in Miya’s head. He tells his boyfriend, “I don’t think he’s angry. I think he’s just sad.”
Which. Miya wouldn’t be able to say it if he tried—he’d choke on the words—so he takes the opportunity to let someone else speak for him and nods. He feels a bit shaky, probably from not eating yet, and his head is already starting to hurt from how much he’s cried in such a short span of time. He feels overwarm, tired, and caught up between wanting to tell his friends to leave and to beg them to stay with him today.
Reki hugs him.
Miya’s pretty sure it’s Reki, anyway. He’s still rubbing his eyes raw, so he doesn’t see him. But Reki is more the type to invade his personal space, and he’s always so warm. He hugs tightly, sometimes so much so that Miya feels like he’s being crushed, but it’s a welcome feeling. One he melts into now, finally removing his hands from his eyes just so he can grasp the fabric of Reki’s hoodie. He’s still crying. He feels pathetic.
“Dummy,” Reki murmurs. He sounds a bit choked up, too. Ugh. Miya hates himself. Reki asks, “why didn’t you tell me before?”
Miya just shrugs. He wishes he had a good answer. Reki rubs his back, and it makes Miya hiccup another sob.
“Aren’t your parents home?”
He shakes his head. At that, Reki pushes away, holding Miya’s shoulders gently. There’s this nervous half-smile on his face.
“Oh. But you’re going to celebrate with them later, right?” He asks.
Again, Miya shakes his head. He rubs at his sticky cheeks, sniffling, and blinks the wetness from his lashes. He hasn’t stopped crying, but there’s less now, at least.
He opens his mouth. Shuts it again when his lip starts trembling.
I don’t celebrate my birthday anymore.
He feels like he’s crumbling. And he’s sure he probably seems entirely unreasonable, crying like a baby over having nothing to do on his birthday, but it’s not about that.
It’s the fact that everyone his age gets to have birthday parties and presents, that they all have friends to celebrate with.
It’s the fact that his parents are supposed to care, but they don’t.
It’s the fact that a few years ago, Miya might have spent the day with Takashi and his other friends, but they’re all long gone, now.
It’s the fact that he’s jealous of Langa getting to have such a nice day, and he feels bad for being jealous, and he feels stupid for not asking for what he wanted, and he feels angry that nobody he loves could just know what he needed without having to be told. Which he knows is unreasonable, so he feels stupid for being angry, too.
It’s that, and the deep, aching loneliness that underlies it all. Miya sniffles, wiping hard at his wet face. Reki combs his hand through Miya’s hair. Sore, running eyes flutter at the sensation.
“So, you’re all alone today?” Reki murmurs.
Miya nods.
After a brief period of silence, and Reki stroking Miya’s hair, he stands up straight again, turning Miya around by the shoulders.
“Okay, come on.”
“What?” Miya frowns, glancing up at Reki as his friend pushes him gently through the doorway.
As the trio make their way inside, he struggles to bring his emotions back down to level. Miya can’t think of any other time he’s cried like this in front of his friends—or anyone, for that matter. The closest he’s gotten was a few anxious tears when Reki went up against Adam. Otherwise, Miya keeps his emotions in check. He prefers to remain cool and collected. Letting others see him like this makes him feel weak, needy, incapable. Like a child.
Reki deposits Miya on the living room sofa, and Langa follows close behind them, returning Miya’s abandoned blanket to its perch on his shoulders. Miya licks his salty lips and pulls the fabric tighter around himself. It’s not the same as a warm hug, but it’s something.
“I’m gonna go get you some water,” Reki announces. “Langa, sit with him.”
“Sure, just make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Miya grumbles. His tone fails to come across with the same level of snark as usual, and the sentiment is ruined by the hoarseness of his previous crying.
Reki doesn’t acknowledge this, though, sticking his tongue out at Miya instead (childish).
“We will, thanks.”
With that, he disappears into the kitchen, and Miya is left alone with Langa, who, ever the obedient boyfriend, plops down right at Miya’s side.
There’s a tense, awkward silence that passes between the two of them, until Langa sighs and bumps their shoulders together.
“I’m not sure what you’re supposed to say when someone is having a sad birthday instead of a happy one,” he admits.
Miya furrows his brow, wiping some of the remaining tears clinging to his eyelashes.
“Uh, you know ‘happy birthday’ means ‘I hope you have a happy birthday,’ not ‘you are having a happy birthday,’ right?” He says.
“Oh. I thought it just meant… ‘happy birthday.’”
“…Right.”
Langa makes this face—the emotion is too hard to discern, but he looks a bit like a pouting kid. Miya thinks, somewhat bitterly, that his friends, though older than him, have always been more childlike.
“Well… Happy birthday, Miya,” Langa says, pulling Miya out of his sullen thoughts.
He looks up at his friend, who’s swapped out the pout for a gentle smile, and it makes Miya’s face feel warm. He pulls at the edges of his blanket, hiding his nose behind the fabric.
“…Thanks.”
Langa pats his head, and Miya fights the urge to chase him away with a snap or shout. It feels nice, not quite like when Reki was stroking his hair, but close. And Langa’s not as warm as Reki, but he’s still warm, still here, still Miya’s friend, still cares enough to sit at his side and try to get it right. Miya swallows around a lump in his throat.
“Alright, here we go!” Reki’s voice pierces through the silence, and Miya peeks up just as his friend sets a glass of water down on the coffee table. He turns to Miya and says, “drink all of that. You cried a lot.”
The heat in Miya’s cheeks flares up, and he glowers, “n-no, I didn’t!”
Reki shrugs, “okay, man. Just drink it. Hurry up, we’ve got places to be.”
With a confused frown, Miya shifts his blanket around so he can poke his arm out to grab the glass.
“No, we don’t,” he says, taking a slow sip.
“We do now,” Reki retorts. “You think we’re just gonna leave you alone here all day? Or sit around doing nothing?”
Miya rolls his eyes. He knows Reki means well, but his frustration is at an all-time high today, so it’s hard to avoid the lump growing in his throat and the burning in his eyes.
“I’m not in the mood to skate,” he mutters.
“That’s okay,” Reki tells him, “we don’t need to skate at all. I was just thinking we could go get some food at Joe’s.”
And, as difficult as it is to work past how sour and down he feels, it is true that Joe makes amazing food, and it always cheers Miya up when he’s sad. Or, at the very least, fills his belly and tempers his poor mood a bit. So he takes another long sip of water, then nods.
“That’s fine, I guess,” he says.
Reki sits on Miya’s other side while he finishes drinking, and the way his fingers sift through Miya’s hair leaves him warm, calm. He doesn’t bristle how he usually would, and it’s all he can do to not lean into the touch. Neither Reki nor Langa comment on his subdued state, or the way he accepts Reki’s affection without so much as a snarky comment.
He’s thankful.
The walk to Joe’s restaurant takes a bit longer than skating typically would, but it’s surprisingly nice. Miya feels warmed by the sun on his face. There’s a breeze and some clouds in the sky, so it isn’t overly hot out. The fresh air is soothing to his irritated eyes and nose. Reki and Langa talk to each other, and to him, about nothing. They don’t pay mind to Miya’s lack of participation.
When they arrive at Sia la Luce, the first thing Miya notices is that the restaurant is completely empty, unusual for a weekday afternoon. There’s normally a steady hustle and bustle, enough so that Joe can’t really make the time to chat with Miya until after closing.
The next thing he notices is Cherry and Shadow, seated at the table their group normally shares, nursing glasses of water and talking to each other quietly.
“Hey guys,” Reki announces their presence.
Shadow and Cherry both turn to them, smiles aimed at Miya. Cherry’s smile is soft, elegant as the rest of him always is. Shadow’s is more of a grin, all teeth. As Reki, Langa, and Miya join the two at the table, Cherry places a firm hand on Miya’s shoulder.
“Happy birthday, Miya,” he says.
“Happy birthday, twerp,” Shadow echoes.
Again, words fail him. Miya can feel overwhelming heat in his cheeks, a burn behind his eyes, and where he might normally have something sarcastic or witty to say, he can only just barely return his friends’ smiles before his eyes land on the surface of the table and stay there.
He’s embarrassed. So, so embarrassed. Yet, he is equally relieved to be out of his house, out of the darkness of his bedroom, surrounded by the savoury smells of Italian food, the warmth that emanates from his closest friends, and the sounds of their voices as they chat all around him.
“Hot plates incoming!” Joe’s booming voice draws Miya out of his head.
He sits up straight, giving his older friend space to set down the plates and bowls of food he’s brought to the table. A generous plate of pasta is set down in front of Miya, and when he looks up at Joe, the man winks at him and ruffles his hair.
“No vegetables, just for you, birthday boy.”
Miya wants to melt into the floor. He’s also really looking forward to eating, his stomach angrily reminding him that he’s yet to feed himself today. It smells amazing.
He waits for Joe to take his own seat, then for everyone else to dig in. Only then does Miya allow himself to eat, and when he does, he sighs softly through his nose. The burning behind his eyes increases. It tastes as good as it smells, like the food he’s become used to being served by Joe, like home.
The table is lively, though Miya is not. Nobody calls him on it. They’re kind.
He wonders if this counts as a party. He thinks he doesn’t really need it to. It’s just this that he needed; the warmth, the kindness, the presence of all of his friends holding him up on a day that’s become a difficult and painful one.
When the food is gone and Cherry’s moved on from water to wine, Joe and Reki clear the table of all their dishes. They return with a white box, opened to reveal a cake. Reki has a packet of candles in hand, and he begins to place them on top.
“Sorry it’s just store-bought,” Joe says. “I didn’t have time to bake one. But next year, yeah?”
Miya just stares at him, mouth agape, cheeks aflame.
“Uh, yeah,” he nods, voice hoarse.
When was the last time he ate cake, even from a store? Let alone had any candles to blow out?
There is nothing about this day that hasn’t overwhelmed Miya. Listening to his friends sing to him—terribly, out of tune, pitches all over the place—is no exception. He hopes nobody notices the few runaway tears that escape his eyes, or the way his breath trembles when he prepares to blow out his candles. There are hands all around him, squeezing his shoulders, patting his head, placing a slice of cake much larger than he should probably eat in front of him. It’s warm and lovely, and Miya wants to cry.
The day rounds off at Joe and Cherry’s apartment. After learning that his parents wouldn’t be home until tomorrow at the earliest, Joe insisted that Miya stay with them for the night, and the rest of their friends tagged along as soon as the offer of a movie night was brought up.
While everyone sets up in the living room, Miya sits on the counter in the kitchen, “helping” Joe prepare hot chocolate and tea. He kicks his feet listlessly. His eyes are tired, and so is he. Miya doubts he’ll even make it through the first movie. Secretly, he wonders if he might be able to squish himself between Reki and Langa, fall asleep there while they whisper back and forth.
“Hey, kiddo,” Joe catches his attention, and when Miya looks up, he’s smiling.
“Yeah?” He asks.
“I have something for you. Pick a hand.”
Only then does Miya notice that Joe’s hiding both hands behind his back. He furrows his brow, watching Joe suspiciously.
“…Left.”
Grinning ever-so-mischievously, Joe brings his left hand out from behind his back, presenting Miya with a sleek plastic case.
It’s the video game he’s been wanting. The one Miya can’t remember ever mentioning to Joe.
Miya takes the game from his friend, turning it over in his hands. His lip is quivering and his vision is blurring again. He sniffs hard, wiping his arm across his face to try and force the tears back.
“Thank you,” he squeaks.
“Aw, Miya,” Joe sighs. He takes the case from Miya gently, setting it on the counter beside him, and pulls him into a hug.
Miya doesn’t want to cry anymore, but it just comes out anyway. He’s filled with relief, with love, and still, there is an undercurrent of sadness. Of guilt. But mostly, Miya is grateful for the friends he has, for the care they show him, for the fact that they’ve stayed with him this long.
“Do you even realize how important you are, kid?” Joe says. He’s rubbing Miya’s back. His hands are warm. “You’ve gotta understand how much we all care about you, you know?”
Miya nods. He gets it, now. More than before, at least.
“None of our lives would be the same without you,” Joe tells him. He withdraws from their hug, but only enough that he can look Miya in the eyes, “and you deserve to be celebrated just as much as any of us.”
Again, Miya can only bring himself to nod. Joe is much more direct than any of their other friends. Though they all may share the same sentiment, it’s only Joe who is likely to verbalize it in this way, and it’s a lot for Miya to take in. He’s just not used to such overt love. But it feels warm.
Joe smiles at him.
“Okay, well, how about we go watch some movies now, huh? Your pick.”
Miya smiles back. “Okay.”
And, as he settles in between Reki and Langa—all according to plan—Miya finds that the heavy, dark pain in his chest has all but melted away. He’s left only with the sound of the television, the whispers of his friends, and the warmth of the hot chocolate in his belly.
He drifts to sleep on Reki’s shoulder. He believes this year will bring something better.