Work Text:
Augustine wakes to heat already pressing against his skin like a warning. The fan in the corner hums weakly, doing little more than stirring the heavy air, and the light through the blinds cuts sharp lines across the floor like the bars of a cage.
Right, it was his birthday.
He doesn't check his phone. There won’t be anything there. The last few years, he’s managed to train the world into forgetting. And he prefers it that way. Quiet. Still.
He doesn’t expect the knock.
It starts soft. Then again- louder. Not urgent. Not panicked. Just persistent. Familiar.
He knows the rhythm before he even gets up.
Winnie.
Augustine doesn’t bother changing. He swings the door open in a tank top and sweats, fully prepared for some absurd story. Maybe about a raccoon in a laundromat or an exploding soda machine.
Instead, Winnie Bosko is standing there in the sweltering hallway, grinning, holding a plastic cake container like it’s a newborn kitten.
“Happy birthday, sunshine,” Winnie says, grinning.
Augustine stares. “Why are you here?”
“That’s a hell of a greeting,” Winnie mutters, nudging past him like he lives here. “Also, this thing is melting. You got room in the fridge?”
“I didn’t remind you it was my birthday. I was hoping you’d forget.”
“Yeah, well. I’m annoying, not stupid. Well, for the most part.”
Winnie pops the container open like he’s unveiling treasure. Inside: the sad remains of what was once, presumably, a peach upside-down cake. The syrup has pooled to one side. Several peach slices have migrated off the top entirely and now swim freely like goldfish in a pond.
Augustine blinks. “Is it safe to eat?”
“Listen, I baked that with intention,” Winnie says, offended. “And also a lot of butter.”
He slides the cake onto the top shelf of the fridge, then kicks off his sneakers like he plans to stay. Augustine didn’t bother trying to stop him because he wouldn’t listen.
Definitely not because he wanted him to stay.
Augustine folds his arms. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“You say that every time I do something nice for you.”
Augustine exhales through his nose, slow. “Because you don’t have to.”
Winnie shrugs. “I know.”
He pulls a bottle of cheap lemonade from his backpack, the condensation already puddling around his fingers. There’s also a bundle of napkins, two plastic forks, and a portable fan that looks like it hasn’t worked since 1973.
“You brought your own party favors,” Augustine deadpans.
“I brought life-saving technology, ” Winnie corrects, fiddling with the fan until it wheezes on. It rattles violently, but Augustine has to admit the breeze feels like mercy.
They end up on the kitchen floor because it’s cooler than the couch. Winnie pours lemonade into mismatched mugs. One was from a yard sale that says “World’s Okayest Teacher,” the other is plain glass, chipped at the rim.
The cake, once removed from the fridge, is somehow even sadder than before. Winnie tries to reassemble it with his fork, as if nudging the peach slices back into place will restore its dignity.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, stabbing a slice and offering it to Augustine. “It tastes better than it looks. I think.”
“That’s endearing…” Augustine sighs but takes a bite out of politeness. Then another, because it actually does taste good. Syrupy and cool in a way that made it melt on his tongue.
Winnie watches him chew like a hawk, blank blue eyes staring into his soul.
“...What?”
“You’re not making your usual ‘this offends every sense I possess’ face.”
“I didn’t say it was bad.”
“You also didn’t say ‘thank you,’ but I’ll let that slide.”
Augustine says nothing. Just chews. And swallows. And avoids looking too long at the way Winnie’s hair curls at the edges, still damp with sweat, or how the sunlight coming through the window hits his cheekbones like something out of a painting.
They talk about nothing for a while. The heat. The neighbor’s dog that never shuts up. A kid Winnie saw biking with a live chicken in his backpack. (“Swear to god, Auggie. Beak poking out and everything. It blinked at me.”)
It’s strange, Augustine thinks, how this has become something normal. Winnie showing up like a stormfront, uninvited, leaving a trail of noise and sugar and warmth. And somehow, Augustine doesn’t mind.
Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the sugar. But something in him softens.
“Why’d you really come?”
Winnie blinks. “I told you. Cake. Fan. Celebrating your birthday like the well-adjusted adult I pretend to be.”
“I don’t like birthdays.”
“I know.”
“So why?”
Winnie doesn’t answer right away. He takes another sip of lemonade, then reaches into the depths of his backpack like he just remembered something. From beneath a very questionable assortment of items, he pulls out a folded scrap of notebook paper, crumpled around the edges.
He hands it over without meeting Augustine’s eyes.
The drawing on the front is childish. A cartoon peach with sunglasses. A sun wearing a party hat. Two stick figures that are unmistakably meant to be them. Winnie grinning with jazz hands, Augustine scowling with crossed arms.
Inside, it reads:
“I know you hate attention. And I know you hate birthdays.
But I like that you were born.
So, sorry. You’re stuck with me caring.”
Augustine stares at the card for a long time. His throat feels tight, like something’s caught there.
He doesn’t say anything.
Winnie shifts. “You can set it on fire if you want. Just maybe not in here. I’m sure that’s against your lease.”
“I’m not setting it on fire.”
“Okay, now I’m worried.”
Augustine folds the card carefully and slips it into his back pocket. He still doesn’t look up.
Winnie huffs out a laugh, his smile a little crooked. Yet another quirk that made him unbearably adorable. “You’re not used to people doing stuff like this, huh?”
“No.”
“Okay.” A pause. “Want me to stop?”
Augustine thinks about it. The cake. The lemonade. The awful little fan. The card.
“No,” he says quietly. “Don’t.”
Winnie nods. Like he expected that. Like he was just waiting for Augustine to say it out loud.
The sun’s starting to lower now, the gold of it turning amber. The air is still hot, but not aggressively so. Just thick. Still.
They clean up in silence. Winnie insists on washing the plates. Augustine pretends not to watch him do it wrong.
When they’re done, Winnie grabs his shoes like he’s ready to go. “Alright. I’ve fulfilled my civic duty as best friend-slash-cake-deliverer. Unless you want me to perform a birthday dance before I leave.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late, I’m already choreographing it in my head-”
“Winnie.”
He turns with a curious hum and a teasing smile on his lips.
“Stay,” Augustine says, voice low. Hesitant.
Winnie freezes. Blinks. “Yeah?”
“Just for a little while.”
Winnie kicks off his shoes again. “You got it.”
They sit on the couch this time, side by side. The fan rattles in the corner like it’s about to explode, but by some miracle, it’s still going.
Eventually, Augustine leans to the side. Just a little. Just enough to touch.
Winnie doesn’t say anything. Just leans, too.
And for once, the world doesn’t feel like it’s ending. It feels like August. Warm, and a little sweet. Like syrup clinging to the corner of your mouth.
Like something worth staying for.