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Another birthday passed, and you were feeling every bit of your age. Getting a year older used to feel like something to celebrate with partying and shots, but this year, all you could feel was wasted time and back pain. Going out didn't sound fun, so you stayed in bed most of the day and had a thin slice of cake that you hardly had an appetite for. Too sweet.
Aging changed nearly everything in that way, it felt. Things you used to enjoy seemed pointless and wasteful.
Who wanted to party all night, anyways? And what about the city sound ordinance? Loud dance music would violate it. What was the point of getting shitfaced drunk with friends if it would just make your usual morning migraine twice as bad? You would rather stay home and eat takeout, but even that was ruined by your slowed metabolism.
Even then, with your now softer tummy and legs, you were able to power through. Age was something that happened to everyone. It was natural. You tried to hammer that into your head. It quickly flew out, though, when a particularly deep wrinkle formed between your brows. It felt downhill from there.
Everything crashed down on you like a hurricane. The things that seemed to blend into the background—the warning signs—flashed vividly. The small crows feet at the corner of your exhausted eyes. The time-weathered, angry tilt of your eyebrows. Worst of all, smile lines. God, you never thought living such a joyous life would come back to bite you on the ass, but the tiny lines around your mouth were definitely there.
The mirror hadn't yet become your enemy, but the glass started to feel like an old flame. An ex you avoided when possible.
Why now? Just a few months ago, you felt young as ever. Not a care in your mind, nor insecurity in sight. The change came nearly overnight, it seemed, but you were resilient. You could stop it, you hoped. You could do something.
Anything.
-
You were getting ready for bed, a process that now took much longer than it used to. On a good night, you used to barely wipe your mascara off and take your day clothes off. Now you couldn't let your face hit the pillow without ten steps of skincare.
Serums, syrups, lotions, and endless potions. You had almost no idea what you were smothering your skin in at this point. Anything that read as anti-aging and wrinkle reversing found its way into your repertoire. Retinol. Fuck, it burned, but it was worth it. Collagen. Supplements and pills that had worryingly long names.
It all felt so pointless. Embarrassing.
You slathered on a plumping face mask and sighed, rubbing the creamy formula over the wrinkles between your brows. Old, old, old.
All Scandalabra saw, though, was sex appeal and elegance. He stood, perched behind you while you sat at your vanity. He stared into your reflection harder than you did, admiring every bit of it.
His pupils blew a bit. Everything about you screamed maturity now. Your curves were teasing him as they snagged the loose silk of your nightgown. Much nicer than any lingerie you owned, he thought. More fun to tear off.
"You know," he said, letting his voice roll over your shoulder like melted honey, "if I did not know better, I would think you've been hogging the fountain of youth from the rest of us."
You let out a tired snort, eyes dipping up to him. "Cut it out."
"Oh, but I mean it, love. How could you hold out on me?" he asked dramatically, arms wrapping over your shoulders from the back. He sneakily pressed his face into the curvature of your neck, huffing the scent with needless greed.
Scandalabra peeked up at you, hoping to see one of your smiles. It pained him how you seemed to bite them back more often, not wanting to exacerbate the lines they left in their wake.
"Time fights against so many, but you?" He pressed his lips against your temple, unbothered at how you tried to wave him away. He left smudged, faded marks of rouge with each peck, his makeup desaturated from earlier happenings that you still felt between your legs. "The odds are ever in your favor. And you are—"
"Do not."
"—Radiant. I want more than youth. I want elegance. I want beauty. I want maturity. You have all of that in spades."
"You don't know what it's like to lose so much of yourself, Scandy. I feel different." You looked up at him, turning away from the vanity. With a deep sigh, you closed the cap on the face mask. "I feel old."
He pressed a kiss to your jaw. With time, it too had softened. Your features went gentle and less defined. Rounder and set deeper.
"And I feel that aging is a privilege. Not just for you," he said, pressing another kiss higher, near your temple where your laugh lines branched out, "but for myself as well. Truly, I am blessed to see you change into the woman I see in front of me."
You leaned into his touch a bit, feeling slightly more reassured. "You don't age, do you?"
"No, but I guess that means I'll just have to live vicariously through you, then, won't I?" His haughty laugh thinned out a bit. He tried to act like your question didn't shake him, but it did.
He did not age. You did. For all purposes, he and the other objects were immortal, and every year, he too was reminded of your age. It worried him—the future—but your worries mattered more.
So every year, he put on a brave face, appreciated your beauty, and vowed to himself that he would enjoy every year he had with you, because he knew that time was eerily finite.
"I cannot wait until you get grey hair, darling. Very chic."
You groaned and pushed him away. "Damn it, Scandalabra!"