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Twenty-one is a number Tuha thought he wouldn’t reach.
Twenty-one years alive meant he had survived countless diseases and injuries to be considered a full fledged adult. It was a precious number to him, one that the sailors and whores of the port town where he spent much of his childhood had given to him. He was grateful for that. It was one of the few constants in his life, even if it was just a number with little importance in the grand scheme of things.
Spaghetti had taken them to Italy at the turn of summer, when Tuha fancied himself turning twenty-one. The country was in full Renaissance swing, though it had only been a few years since the endemic war between city-states had concluded. There were still remnants of the battles, scars that would take many more years to heal, but as Tuha had understood a while back, people were tenacious no matter where they were from.
Tuha took in all the sights, the sounds, the culture of yet another new place that their travels have taken them. Venice, the city was called. Though the architecture of Venice was far more grand than what he remembered of his beloved kingdom, it reminded Tuha of Semutar Putih in a way with its proximity to the water’s edge and the various waterways.
Venice was crowded, with locals and tourists going to and fro. Petty crimes were common, but something he expected with the population during the summer. At least the children of the streets didn’t find him or their group easy game to pickpocket. They’d dress to blend with the crowd of locals as well, as they had often done when they crossed borders.
There was also something amusing about the way Spaghetti conversed freely and animatedly with the local populace, like he felt right at home amongst the pompous hoi polloi, as the redhead had described the state of Venice.
Tuha was enjoying himself, even if he was given the job of escorting Borscht on her errands. It was more fun spending time with her anyway, since he was closer to her and she had more things to say. They made a few stops here and there, exchanging one wrapped package for another, a few coins or both. By the afternoon, they had a short break and ate slices of crostata and shared a bag of zippuli.
Everywhere he went, he turned a few curious stares. He’s grown used to it by now. He could be mistaken to be from the Middle East, from Central Asia, but there was always just that strange oddity about him that doesn’t quite make him from any of the places people guessed.
Borscht would tease him that it was because of how handsome he looked, with his sun-kissed skin, dark eyes and soft slightly wavy hair. He was already surpassing her in height, and he was developing a lean build as a result of the various training and traveling he’s done for the past several years. The compliments often brought a smile to his face, even if it embarrassed him with how much she doted on him.
Their errands ended well into the night, and Tuha was exhausted and hungry. They made their way back to their room at an upscale inn and he was about to make the last order at the tavern when Borscht stopped him.
“Come up. Spaghetti and Oyster should be expecting us. But we need to change first.” She said and led him by the arm. Bemused, he followed her up and made a quick detour to his room to change. After which, he went and knocked on the biggest room on the third floor, which Spaghetti naturally occupied for himself.
When he entered, Tuha saw a table laden with food enough to be considered a small banquet. Pastries, bread and slices of ham and cheese, with meat stew, baked fish and roasted fowl. Some of the food he wouldn’t be able to lavishly eat on principle, but the sight and smell made his mouth water and stomach grumble all the same.
Spaghetti and Oyster had both changed into something loose and cool for the warm evening, and was in the middle of a hushed conversation by the balcony when he walked in. Borscht followed shortly behind him and immediately went to fiddle with something that was out of sight.
“What’s the occasion for the spread, foreign bastard?” Tuha chuckled, his eyes never leaving the food even as he took the seat nearest to it.
Spaghetti turned to him and smiled in that smug sort of way that Tuha found to be his default. “Ah, and here I thought the food would grow cold with how late you and Borscht arrived.” He said.
“Oh hush, mister Spaghetti. Tuha and I had to make a little detour on our way back.” And Borscht came into view, carrying the item they had taken a detour for to pick up.
A cake. It was small, with a single thin wax candle lit in its center. Candied fruit and shredded chocolate decorated the top. Tuha had thought Borscht was buying it for either Spaghetti or Oyster. In many ways, it was an expensive cake. Back in Semutar Putih, such a thing would be reserved only for the sultan and the families who could afford such a confectionery.
All at once, in varying phrases and tones of voice, he heard a ‘Happy Birthday’ directed towards him.
He froze, and was left speechless for a moment. “I… my birthday? You don’t even know when it is.” He muttered softly when he finally found his voice.
Spaghetti studied him with a sharp look. He crossed his arms and spoke, “You were an orphan. Do you remember the date of your birth, or have you chosen a specific date?”
“No— No I actually don’t have a date in mind.” Tuha was quick to answer. Because what importance was a birthdate when there was no one to celebrate it with? If he didn’t have a family, then simply remembering the number given to him to mark his age was good enough.
Tuha froze for the second time that night. Spaghetti didn’t seem to care about his sudden epiphanies and went to his side and ruffled his hair, a strange soft gleam in his usually smug expression. “Then consider tonight to celebrate it. We don’t need to make it the same every year.” The man spoke, his tone uncharacteristically gentle.
Borscht adjusted her hold on the cake and said, “Here’s a little birthday tradition, Tuha. You make a wish in your heart, then you blow out the candle.”
He looked between the cake and her. ‘A wish? Then…’ He made the wish silently, then blew out the candle in one go. The flame went out quickly, and Borscht leaned in with a congratulatory kiss on his cheek before she moved away to put it among the spread.
He felt something warm trail down his cheeks, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve when his sight became too blurry. No one teased him for his tears, though he heard Spaghetti scoff somewhere to the side. Oyster handed him his plate and grumbled, “Birthday boy gets first dibs on the food.”
Tuha grinned, clutching the plate to his chest. His heart felt awfully warm and full at their gesture. For once, he thinks he’s realized what having a birthday feels like. And he likes it quite a bit.