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Rean hated being the center of attention, despite the universe’s tendency to shove him into the spotlight. In fact, such events only fuelled his desire to withdraw further. At his lowest point, when he first rose to prominence as the Ashen Chevalier, he seriously contemplated retreating to a cave in the mountains and living the rest of his days in hermitude.
He decided against it—largely because it would betray Crow’s dying request—and so, he soldiered on, literally and metaphorically.
All of this was to say that Rean had never been comfortable with celebrating his birthday. In the years before his ogre power manifested, he was shy. He took to the Schwarzers quickly, but vicious gossip spread faster. He was too young to understand the meaning of the words, but he recognized the tones in which these hateful people spoke, and was cut by their sharp, scornful glares. He shrunk, tried to make himself small enough to go unnoticed, and stepped quietly to remain invisible, but it did no good. These attacks found him anyway. And when his parents shielded him, Rean blamed himself for their suffering blows meant for him.
He asked that his birthdays be quiet affairs: no parties or gifts or cakes. His parents grudgingly accepted the first request, but always insisted on having the latter two. Rean didn’t think it was right for his mother to waste a day baking a cake to celebrate a burden she’d been saddled with against her will. His father shouldn’t spend his hard-earned mira on a son who was an insult to a family name he’d been given but hadn’t earned.
After his power emerged, Rean began dreading his birthdays. He was an abomination who never should have been born, and it made no sense for anyone, let alone the people who had to live under the threat that he might snap and slaughter them all, to celebrate his existence.
Still, he forced a smile and thanked the family he adored but would never deserve, and he hated that he couldn’t refuse their love. He didn’t know why they continued to love him when all he did was bring them pain and embarrassment.
He was grateful when his 18th birthday came. He was eager to start school, to put some physical distance between himself and his family so they could start rebuilding their reputations. He thought he’d been subtle, but sensed his parents anticipated the disappearing act he had planned. His father gave him a talk about how proud he was of Rean, how sometimes a person needed to leave home to appreciate it, and assured him that he would always have a place to return to.
Rean loved them so much, but he couldn’t hurt them anymore. As he blew out the candles on his cake, he made a vow instead of a wish: “I’ll never celebrate my birthday ever again.”
Then, something strange happened.
At Thors, he found himself looking forward to his 20th birthday. Rean wasn’t even nineteen yet, but he knew he wanted to spend his 20th with Crow. He would take Rean out to his favorite bar, some little hole-in-the-wall hidden gem of a place with lively music and cheap drinks, where Crow would introduce Rean to all different kinds of alcohol until they found what Rean liked—then, he’d have the bartender mix Rean some kind of cocktail with a lewd name. Rean would roll his eyes and sigh, but he’d clink his class against Crow’s and they’d drink it together. They’d talk and laugh, and for the first time, Rean would have a reason to celebrate being alive.
Then, the civil war happened, and Rean clung to that dream even harder. He called upon it like a mantra when things got hard and he needed a reason to keep going. He couldn’t give up—no matter how badly beaten or outmatched he was, he was going to get Crow back.
But he didn’t.
Crow died in his arms, and Rean’s stupid little dream died with him.
When he turned 19, Rean breathed a sigh of relief that he was one year closer to death.
On his 20th birthday, Rean hid in his room and graded until he passed out, ignoring the pit in his stomach. He fielded calls from friends and loved ones, forcing the same, tired smile that somehow still worked. If he didn’t love them all so much, he might have been insulted by their inability to see that he was so obviously crumbling, but Rean was Rean, all he could feel was grateful that he hadn’t distressed anyone and another birthday had passed without incident.
Elise knew better, though. He couldn’t fool her as well as his friends, and she wasn’t nearly as willing to accept his isolation.
When she told him she was coming to Leeves with a cake, Rean felt sick. He wasn’t proud of how he lost his composure and begged her not to. He would meet her in Heimdallr and they could have dinner or she could give him a present; he just couldn’t stomach the thought of a birthday cake. Not when it would have more candles than Crow would ever see.
He was older than Crow now, and that felt so, so wrong.
In the end, Elise respected his wishes. She encouraged him to talk about his feelings, if not with her then with the friends who loved him and had fought by his side. Rean assured her she was being silly because he was fine; some people just didn’t enjoy their birthdays and Rean happened to be one of them.
He wasn’t going to trouble the people who loved him. The part of him that couldn’t stop loving his parents loved his friends the same way, and he refused to become even more of a burden than he already was—especially after he’d needed Elliot, Fie, and Laura’s help during last month’s field exercises.
All of his friends had established themselves and earned accolades in their fields during the year Rean spent being alternately yanked around on the government’s leash and paraded as a war hero like some kind of donkey disguised as a prize-winning pony.
He wanted to believe all the pain was for something, but Rean was never sure if that something was punishment.
So he let the hours slip away unnoticed as he graded essay after essay until his eyes were so heavy he flopped into bed and fell asleep in his clothes.
It was just as well, really. After what happened in North Ambria, a monster like Rean got exactly the sort of birthday he deserved.
Then, Crow came back.
Against all odds, despite the Goddess and reality itself, he returned to Rean.
And, by some miracle, he stayed.
Despite this, sometimes Rean woke up convinced he was still dreaming because Crow’s warm body was alive and breathing next to him. There was an intimacy in those moments unlike any other because Crow was unguarded and vulnerable, and he felt safe enough to allow Rean to see him that way. Things weren’t perfect—they were both still healing—but they were perfect for Rean.
He was learning to accept that he wasn’t, nor had he ever been a burden. That the best thing he could do to make them all happy was to allow himself to be happy first. It wasn’t easy and there were times when he found himself slipping back into the familiar patterns of self-loathing, but with Crow so close, Rean could no longer hide away.
And when mid-April rolled around and Crow asked Rean what he wanted to do for his 21st birthday, Rean knew exactly how to answer.
Crow was a little confused, unsure why Rean wanted to go to Crow’s favorite bar instead of somewhere Rean liked or wanted to try, but Rean insisted with so much passionate intensity that Crow couldn’t refuse (regardless of how confused Rean’s response made him).
It felt like a dream.
Rean thrummed with anticipation the whole train ride into Heimdallr, and for once, he didn’t try to contain his enthusiasm. He smiled wide and uninhibited as Crow led him down side streets and alleys until they came to a little spot tucked away from tourists.
They descended a flight of stairs, and Rean’s eyes widened. The walls were old and brick and the concrete floor scuffed and stained. A large bar stretched across the back wall and wrapped around the corner. There was a platform that could hardly be called a stage, where three people were playing music. Rean didn’t recognize the style, but the singer’s voice was raspy yet feminine with a distinctively sultry quality about it, and all of it washed over Rean like a baptism.
He tried to take it all in, but as always, his focus drifted back to Crow.
“It ain’t much,” Crow said with a sheepish, self-conscious smile. “We can find someplace a bit more lively—”
“I love it,” Rean interrupted, unable to keep himself from beaming. “This is perfect.”
Crow raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest further. He guided Rean toward two empty seats at the bar.
“What’s your poison, Rean?” Crow asked. “The usual?”
“I… kind of want to try something new, but I don’t really know what I like,” he admitted, scratching his cheek with a small, self-admonishing chuckle. “I’ve only ever had Marion’s rum, that stuff Sara likes, and beer.”
Crow gave him the smile Rean always imagined he would: the clever, wry one that meant he had a plan, and Rean’s heart swelled with it.
“All right, then,” Crow said. “We’ll start with the basics—don’t worry, we’ll split shots so you don’t end up shitfaced.” He winked at Rean and called the bartender over, and Rean was overwhelmed by so much emotion it hurt in the best way. A bright ache filled the spaces between his ribs as if a star were being born inside his chest.
The bartender set down two shot glasses half-filled with amber liquor in front of them. He slid a small dish with four slices of limes, and Crow nodded in thanks as he grabbed the salt.
“‘Kay, so to do a tequila shot right, it’s lick, shoot, suck,” he said, quite obviously emphasizing the innuendo.
“Oh,” Rean replied with mock enlightenment and a nod. “It’s not lick, suck, shoot?”
Crow’s eyes glittered and he grinned. “You’ve got a filthy mind, Rean Schwarzer.”
“Filthier than yours, at least,” Rean teased.
“H-Hey!” Crow protested. “I sure as hell ain’t no prude.”
Rean hummed thoughtfully.
“Just wait till later,” Crow said. “I’ll have you singing a different song.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” Rean asked, eyebrows raised in interest.
Crow winked. “You’ll just have to wait to find out, princess.”
Rean hadn’t imagined they’d have this sort of a conversation when he used to daydream back at school, which made the reality so much better than the fantasy.
“If you say so,” Rean replied with a shrug, then turned his attention toward the shot glass. He reached out and slid it closer. “So how do I do this?”
“First, we gotta get you some salt. Just put this part of your hand,” he said, showing Rean the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, “in your mouth so the salt has something to stick to.”
Rean contemplated making a show of it, but he really did want to spend time at the bar before they got impatient to tear each other’s clothes off, so he followed Crow’s instructions without fanfare.
Crow sprinkled some salt onto Rean’s skin, then did the same for himself. “You wanna lick the salt, drink the shot, then suck on the lime. Sounds weird, but trust me on this.”
“I always trust you,” Rean replied automatically.
Crow flushed slightly, turning his attention to his shot glass. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” Rean nodded.
“‘Kay then,” Crow said, holding his glass out for a toast. “Happy birthday, Rean.”
Rean smiled, acutely aware of just how fucking lucky he was, and clinked his glass against Crow’s.
He did as Crow told him: dragged his tongue over the salt on his hand, threw the shot back, then sucked on the lime.
The liquor was strong, but the salt and lime cut the bite.
“So, what’d you think?”
“Pretty good,” Rean answered. “I think I liked it.”
“Gotta be careful around that stuff. It’ll fuck you up good. There’s drunk and then there’s tequila drunk.”
Rean gave him a stern look. “And when exactly did you learn that?”
“Aw, c’mon, you don’t get to ask those questions where you’re reaping the benefits of my delinquency,” Crow whined.
Rean laughed. “I suppose you’re right. What’s next?”
“Slow down, there, partner. Gotta pace yourself.”
Rean frowned. “That wasn’t even a whole shot.”
“Hard liquor sneaks up on you,” Crow lectured. “Sure, you don’t feel it at first, and before you know it, you’re six shots in, the world is spinning, and you’re pukin’ your guts out into some back alley.”
“Sounds like someone’s speaking from experience,” Rean replied with the look he typically gave misbehaving students.
“Ain’t that where wisdom comes from?” Crow countered with a grin.
Rean rolled his eyes.
Crow chuckled, shaking his head. “I was literally a terrorist , but it’s the underage drinking you have a problem with.”
“I understand that, Crow,” Rean said. What else was Crow supposed to do? Not be angry at how most of the adults in Jurai failed him? Should he have just quietly wasted away? He was an angry, grieving child alone in a vicious, indifferent world. He needed a reason to stay alive—so he found one. Maybe it wasn’t good or moral or healthy, but it allowed him to survive.
Rean never had to worry about where his next meal would come from or when. He and everyone like him had no business judging the things people like Crow and Sara did to feed themselves.
“I guess I just don’t see the draw of doing something that you’ll be able to do legally in a few years,” Rean mused with a shrug. “It’s not like you ever hear people say ‘I got drunk and made such a good decision’, you know?”
Crow looked at Rean as though he’d suddenly started speaking in gibberish, as though he had said something utterly incomprehensible.
“Oh, come on. Grown adults wreck their lives with alcohol every day. Kids aren’t going to be responsible and figure out their limits,” Rean explained.
“No, I get what you’re saying about that part,” Crow replied. He exhaled and offered a smile. “Never mind. You’re one-of-a-kind, Rean.” With that, he pushed their empty glasses toward the bartender and raised a hand to get his attention. “Ready for another drink?”
Rean nodded eagerly. “What should we try next?”
“Since you’ve already had rum, we’ll see how you like whisky,” Crow replied.
Rean knew whisky was commonly fancied among the nobles and that his father somewhat enjoyed it. He watched Crow order two half-shots with the ease of a man who knows his way around a bar, and the image might as well have been pulled from his imagination.
The bartender prepared their shots in no time at all, and Crow handed one to Rean with a smile.
“Is drinking whisky like tequila? Do we need more salt?”
“Nope. There’s real expensive shit made for sipping, but it’s a waste of mira you're just doin’ shots. This ain’t cheap swill, though. It should go down easy.”
They clinked their glasses together again, and Rean swallowed the liquor, which burned down his throat. The burn itself wasn’t bad; it was warming in a weird way. “Why does it taste like firewood and gasoline?” Rean lamented, his face contorting in disgust.
Crow laughed. “Not a fan?”
“That was awful.” Like drinking sickly-sweet honey and the ashes of a forest fire mixed with dirty mop water.
“Well, let’s see how you like vodka, then,” Crow offered.
Rean did not like vodka.
“Ugh, why are you making me drink rubbing alcohol?!” Rean complained, chugging down water to get the taste out of his mouth. “Ugh, people pay to drink that?”
“It ain’t my favorite, either,” Crow commiserated, doing the same thing as Rean. “It’s good for mixing drinks ‘cause the flavor is pretty neutral, but I hate it straight.”
“Good thing we both hate things straight,” Rean joked, snorting in amusement.
Crow laughed. Goddess, Rean would never, ever grow tired of that sound. It might be his favorite noise in the whole world.
Rean probably looked like a lovestruck fool, and that was fine because Rean was every bit the part.
“C’mon, you’ve only had a shot and a half,” Crow said, clapping a hand on Rean’s shoulder, likely mistaking Rean’s fond expression for drunkenness. “You can’t be drunk on me yet.”
Rean felt a little warm, but not drunk. “I’m good. Don’t worry. I want to remember this.”
With that, Crow ordered some gin.
“Gin isn’t great by itself,” Crow cautioned. “You should try sipping this one. Even if you don’t like it straight, it makes some pretty good drinks.”
Rean nodded, and with another gentle tap of their glasses against each other, they took a sip.
The alcohol was a little strong for Rean, but he did like the flavors. Citrus and pine, and… was that juniper?
“I think I’d prefer it in a drink,” Rean said but finished the shot anyway.
“Well then, let’s get you a drink, birthday boy,” Crow said with a wink. He gestured to the bartender, who asked what he wanted. “Two pornstar martinis, please.” He ordered casually, eyeing Rean with that smug, sly little grin Rean always imagined he’d wear, though he was more beautiful tonight than Rean ever could have predicted.
Crow scratched the back of his head and chuckled. “Sure as hell didn’t expect you to swoon over that one,” he remarked. “What’s gotten into you tonight?”
“It’s nothing,” Rean replied, lacing the fingers of one hand with Crow’s. “I’m just really, really happy. We’re here, and this is… really happening.”
Crow blinked. “Are you sure you’re not drunk?” he asked with traces of concern. “We’re at a totally ordinary bar and you just hated half the drinks you tried.”
“It’s exactly what I wanted, Crow.”
Rean couldn’t imagine anything better. It may have taken a year longer than he planned and there was more heartbreak in between than Rean thought he could bear, but he survived. He kept his promise, he moved forward, and now, they were moving forward, together.
The bartender set their drinks in front of them, and Crow thanked him and offered a tip. Rean took his glass by the stem and examined it. Bright orange-yellow liquid with a layer of foam at the top. Both of them raised their glasses again, the rim of Rean’s glass kissing Crow’s with a bright chime before Rean took a sip. It tasted like passion fruit with a hint of vanilla, bright and bubbly from a kick of champagne.
It was delicious.
There were so many things Rean wouldn’t know without Crow in his life: passion fruit cocktails and Blade, fish burgers, and the true value of a fifty-mira coin. That something didn’t have to be perfect to be right. That love transcended time and space, life and death. That if you tried, sometimes you could make your own miracles with a little help from your friends (and a 600-year-old witch alongside some Divine Knights).
That love didn’t have to be earned or deserved. All you had to do was accept it (which was often easier said than done).
“How did you find this place?” Rean asked.
Crow swallowed a sip of his drink and smiled. “Funny story, actually. I ducked in here to shake a tail—intel collecting mission went sideways. The music was good that night, so I hung around. Caught some dipshit trying to spike a girl’s drink when she went to the bathroom. I got in his face about it. While I was tearing him a couple new assholes, the bartender called the cops. He got arrested. I got free… non-alcoholic drinks whenever that bartender was working. I came here a lot while I was at Thors. Not to drink—I mean that. It was the only place I could really go to disappear. Didn’t have to be anything for anyone, you know?” He brings his glass to his lips. “And the music is usually pretty good.”
Learning new things about Crow always made Rean unreasonably happy. No detail was too small, and no anecdote was too inane. Rean hoarded these things in his mind like treasures, because Crow was the most valuable thing in the world to Rean.
Even if it meant risking his cover, Crow did the right thing. He kept a person safe and exposed the one who had tried to hurt them. No matter how hard he had tried back then, he couldn’t kill the goodness inside of him.
Rean leaned against Crow with a dreamy sigh. “I love that about you,” he said. He was probably starting to feel the buzz; his thoughts had gone soft and warm. “I love everything about you.”
Crow chuckled. “Even when my socks don’t match?”
Rean exhaled wearily. “Even then. Against my better judgment.”
“Far be it for me to complain about your taste in men,” Crow replied. “So, how does it feel to be 21?” he asked, clapping a hand on Rean’s shoulder.
“I don’t feel any older, if that’s what you’re asking. But… it feels good,” he said, smiling.
“Elise told me you hated your birthday growing up. According to her, you didn’t even want a cake.”
Rean nodded. “She’s right. I always felt so guilty. I was this huge burden shoved into their lives—what was there to celebrate , you know?”
“You were just a kid,” Crow countered.
“Yeah, but kids aren’t stupid. I picked up on things. Made me feel really self-conscious.” Rean took a long sip of his drink.
“Wait—Rean, did you ask me to bring you here ‘cause you feel selfish or something?” Crow asked with serious concern, all traces of humor gone.
Rean shook his head. “No, not at all. Actually, this whole thing was one stupid, selfish indulgence.”
Crow clearly didn’t believe him. “Rean, you haven’t picked anything tonight.”
Rean bit his lip, watching Crow’s face for a sign he’d let this go, but he remained stubborn. Rean finished his drink and sighed. “This… it’s going to sound really lame, but back at Thors, I had this stupid idea that you’d take me out when I turned 20. I had it all planned out in my head.” Rean fidgeted with the round, smooth base of his empty glass sheepishly. “Really lame, I know, but… it was the only time I ever wanted to celebrate my birthday.”
Rean felt Crow’s fingers tuck a strand of his hair back and finally looked back up. Instead of teasing delight, there was raw tenderness and regret.
“We’re here now, and that’s all that matters,” Rean explained, pressing a soft, quick kiss to Crow’s lips to alleviate his melancholy. “And it was worth the wait.” He took Crow’s hand. “Dance with me?”
Crow finished his own drink and wordlessly let Rean guide him into the small area where a few couples were swaying together. Rean wrapped one arm across Crow’s shoulders and adjusted his grip on the hand he’d been holding. He felt Crow respond a moment later, his palm against Rean’s lower back.
They didn’t waltz. They barely moved, opting to press close and sway gently with the music, and Rean let it all wash over him: the blue notes weaving their melody through the air, mingling with soft words about love; the taste of passion fruit on his tongue; and Crow’s strong, warm body in his arms.
Maybe next year, they would have a quiet night in for Rean’s birthday. Crow could make something special for dinner and they could try their hand at mixing cocktails at home. They could even try baking together, then play some music and dance just like this.
“What are you thinking about?” Crow asked.
“What I want to do for my birthday next year,” Rean answered.
“But you said this was an exception and you hate celebrating your birthday.”
Rean kissed him.
“Not anymore.”