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Percy hated his birthday.
He always had.
Birthdays had never meant much to him, not really. They were usually loud, crowded affairs at the Burrow where someone forgot his favorite type of cake and one of the twins inevitably hexed the candles to sing off key. As a boy, he'd pretended to like them, sitting stiffly while his mum tried to fuss and his dad gifted him some new Ministry related gadget. He’d always blown out the candles quickly, always smiled politely, always gone to bed with a headache and a growing certainty that birthdays just weren’t for people like him.
Now, in adulthood, Percy liked to spend them quietly. A walk. A book. A little order. And this year was different it was the first year he and Oliver were celebrating it as a couple.
So when he stepped into the flat after his Saturday shift at the Ministry, the last thing he expected was the smell of smoke.
And cinnamon.
“Oliver?” he called, unwrapping his scarf as he stepped into the narrow corridor. There was flour on the floor. A lot of flour. Footprints tracked through it. Merlin help him.
A bang from the kitchen answered him.
“Bugger!”
Percy arched an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”
There was a pause. Then Oliver shouted, “NOPE! Absolutely not! Everything’s great!”
Percy sighed and walked in.
He stopped in the doorway, momentarily stunned.
The kitchen was an unmitigated disaster.
Flour coated every surface. Mixing bowls were stacked precariously on the counter, some still half full of batter. The sink was overflowing with charmed utensils scrubbing themselves. Something unidentifiable was burning in the rubbish bin. And in the middle of it all stood Oliver, shirtless, dusted in flour, with icing on one cheek and an expression like a first year caught with a banned broomstick.
On the table sat a cake sort of. It was round ish. A little sunken. Slightly charred on the edges. Decorated with what looked like chocolate frosting and a crooked attempt at a Quidditch pitch. The broom drawn in icing sagged in the middle like it had given up halfway through the match.
Percy blinked.
“Happy birthday?” Oliver said, wincing.
Percy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then burst out laughing.
Oliver groaned. “Don’t laugh! I tried.”
“I can see that,” Percy said, wheezing. “Did you bake the cake or duel it?”
“Bit of both, maybe.” Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I wanted it to be a surprise. You’re always so grumbly about parties, so I thought I don’t know. Something small. Just us. A cake.”
Percy walked slowly into the kitchen, sidestepping a cracked egg. “You remember I hate birthday parties?”
“You loathe them,” Oliver said. “You tense up every time someone mentions streamers.”
Percy smiled faintly. “It’s the noise. The attention. People pretending they know you just because they know your name. Mum trying to make everything perfect. Dad getting overly sentimental. I always feel like I have to perform.”
Oliver stepped closer, dusting off his hands. “So, no surprise guests. No singing candles. Just me. And this… tragic cake.”
Percy picked up a fork and carved off a crumbly edge. He tasted it. Winced.
“Awful?” Oliver asked.
“Truly terrible,” Percy said, then smiled. “I love it.”
Oliver’s grin lit up his whole face. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Because it’s you. And because you remembered. And because it’s so bad it’s charming.”
Oliver wiped his hands on a dishtowel and crossed the space between them. Percy didn’t pull away when floury fingers cupped his jaw.
“You’re beautiful,” Oliver said, voice low and intense, eyes darkening with something fierce and tender all at once.
Percy blinked, startled. “I’m covered in soot and Ministry paperwork.”
Oliver’s grin softened into a smirk. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still beautiful.”
His hand slid from Percy’s jaw down to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until their breaths tangled. Oliver’s lips brushed over Percy’s slowly at first, teasing, testing the heat building between them like the sun breaking through clouds.
Then the kiss deepened, fierce and hungry, warm hands threading through Percy’s hair as if trying to hold him together. Percy’s arms wrapped around Oliver’s waist without thinking, pressing their bodies flush. There was a slow, heated grinding between them, breath hitching as the tension and desire pulsed.
When they finally broke apart, breaths heavy and mingled, Percy rested his forehead against Oliver’s.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You like ridiculous.”
“Unfortunately.”
They stood there in the mess, wrapped in warmth and cinnamon and each other.
And for once, Percy thought
Maybe birthdays weren’t so bad after all.