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In all honesty, Ayn wouldn't even notice the date passing by if it weren't for her.
For years he'd held onto the faint knowledge that he'd been born on a certain day in November, and he'd briefly wondered why he'd bothered. A child sold like cattle with only the clothes on his back and a tiny toy piano clutched in his hand had no reason to remember his birthday.
In a world like his, where friends and foes alike could die at a moments notice, sentimental trite shouldn't take up so much as an inch in his headspace. Survival was more important.
That mindset changed when she entered his life. Miss Painter was from an entirely different world, one that valued alien, lovely things. The type of things that allowed her to reach out thoughtlessly with affection where he'd shy away like a wary animal.
"You can't come downstairs into the tavern for an hour, okay?" she said sternly, holding up a finger for added menacing emphasis.
Ayn turned from his desk, arching a brow at her.
Her wide eyes, cute comfy sweater and long fluffy hair made her look more akin to an angry plushie than a force to be reckoned with. Lucky for her, he'd witnessed this woman take down monsters ten times her size with a mere flick of her powers.
"Why?"
She briefly faltered, glancing at the door. "Stuff is being prepared! Important stuff you can't see."
"If it's important, shouldn't the Master of Eden oversee it?" Ayn curled his lips into a smile, leaning back in his chair. "Besides, I wouldn't want to be accused of negligence."
"You're plenty responsible for everyone in Eden, not just The Order, no one could say that about you," she huffed.
"Mn, that wasn't what I was referring to. People might think I'm neglecting my girlfriend if I let her go downstairs with such a scary expression."
Miss Painter opened her mouth to retort, but Ayn was quicker. In a flash, he'd grabbed her by the wrist, tugging with enough force to capture her around the waist. She gasped, steadying herself against him by holding his shoulders.
The smell of fresh linens washed over his senses, along with baked goods from the market. When he tilted his head and pressed his face against her chest, inhaling a good lungful of her warm natural scent; familiar notes of oil-based paints ticked his nose.
"What if we just stay here for an hour instead, the two of us?" he mumbled softly, exhaustion washing over him now that his safe space was back in his arms, automatically lowering his defences. Hardly anyone tended to bother him when he confined himself to his office anyway. They could get away with it. "Whatever's going on downstairs can take care of itself without us, surely?"
Hands marked with numerous burns stroked along the contours of her back and waist, trying to tempt her to stay. A shaky inhale caught his attention, and Ayn privately smiled to himself, kissing her collarbone. She'd never minded his misshapen body. In fact, whenever he glanced at a burn now, he'd remember her lips pressing to it in the dead of night, rather than the agony of the mark.
Ayn teased his lips along her jaw, working his way up to her red ear. "I can think of plenty of ways to occupy our time," his voice dipped into low tones reserved solely for her, teasing the shell with a light scape of teeth.
She squeaked, shifting back slightly from where she stood between his legs. When gentle fingers began combing through his hair in silent apology, Ayn heaved a sigh, dropping his forehead to her shoulder in defeat. "Has O'Connor done something stupid again? You don’t need to cover up for him."
"...You really have no idea, do you?" she said quietly.
Ayn blinked, frowning in confusion. She'd almost sounded...sad.
By the time he'd pulled away to check her expression, she was smiling again, leaning into his body.
"We can save all that...other stuff for later. Just behave for once, please? Promise me you'll stay put until I call you. Promise me?" she held up her pinky between their faces, looking at him with a determined, no nonsense expression.
Drat. That meant he couldn't sneak out of the window with his grapple.
Cutting red eyes to the ceiling, Ayn hooked his pinky around hers and made the promise.
Grinning with adorable satisfaction, Miss Painter leaned in and pecked him on the mouth in a much too short kiss. She then extracted herself from his grip, ignoring Ayn's grumble.
"I'll see you soon," she said, pausing in the doorway of his office. "You can play your piano while you wait. I like hearing it."
Ayn smiled slightly, following her with his eyes as she left. Pulling out his pocket sized toy piano, he set it down on the desk. It looked old and worn in the fading afternoon light.
He could remember when his fingers were small enough to easily press the keys, creating a better melody than he could.
Now his fingers overlapped the keys. Obviously. The thing was meant for a child, not for him. Still though, even battered and worn by the elements, it had survived alongside him all those years, and as he played a little tune using one hand, he felt himself relax. In the old days, the little music notes produced by such a simple thing had been his only source of joy.
Now he had many joys, most of them linked to one woman.
Hissing a breath through his teeth, Ayn paused, touching his throbbing shoulder.
His girlfriend had bumped into that second story corner on the stairs again. He really needed to have a talk with her about spatial awareness.
As he continued to play, the red mark on his hand flared in time with hers, signalling their joined pain, before settling down again as the throb turned into a dull ache.
One hour passed by painfully slowly, not helped by the tedious amount of paperwork Ayn decided to muddle through. He sent a mental apology to Miss Painter, flexing his stiff fingers with a faint wince and blowing air lightly on a new papercut.
When it was finally time to wander downstairs, Ayn moved swiftly, passing by the second story corner on the stairs and giving it a glare in passing.
Curiosity and a faint sense of concern hastened his steps. What was so important that she felt the need to hide it from him for an hour? Ever since they'd joined forces so long ago, he didn't like being kept in the dark about important things, especially if they concerned her.
Finally descending the stairs and turning a corner, he opened the aged wooden door that opened out into the lively bar.
“Surprise!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BOSS!” a chorus of voices rang out.
Ayn startled, quickly extinguishing the flame that erupted from his hand.
O'Connor was the first to greet him amidst a sea of faces, slapping him good naturedly on the back. “Good thing I said no cameras, that expression of yours just now was priceless, Chief!”
Expression flattening, Ayn moved forward passively, ignoring the scent of burned hair and O'Connor's subsequent squeal behind him.
Sparrow and other subordinates from the Order greeted him warmly, shoving a drink into his hand along with a few small handmade gifts. Others had also joined them inside the tavern, people not part of their original group but had banded together with them in light of Ayn taking up the Master of Eden mantle and having to collaborate with so many different sectors inside the space and out beyond in the desert.
Their voices blending into a dull roar of happy noise would’ve been unthinkable a year ago. Everyone had lived in silence back then, gunshots and explosions the only backdrop of noise.
How strange it was, to see people so changed. Warm. Lively. Close. His group had always been anomalies like that, rowdier than most, but he could see the visible happiness and contentment in their faces now; holding a glow from relaxation and better food supplies.
Ayn smiled a little, glancing around. He kept searching for a particular person amidst the sea of faces.
“Oi, give Little Leaf some room, guys!” O'Connor bellowed across the crowd.
People quieted down and shifted, parting left and right to leave Ayn a clear path through to see who was waiting for him.
And there she was. Standing there in a red dress, his painter smiled.
She then turned and gestured to the large brown structure beside her. “Everyone banded together to make you this," she said in a soft voice, breaking out into a smile that was just for him. "Happy Birthday.”
Ayn stopped just as he reached her, fingers skimming her waist. It took a moment to register exactly what he was looking at, but once it clicked, something stole his breath.
His heart tripped in his ribcage, trembling.
Slowly, carefully, as if in a dream, Ayn set his hand on smooth polished wood. It was solid. Not a hologram or trick, but tangible and real under his touch.
He ran his fingers over the surface of the fallboard, taking a moment to admire the structure, the empty music rack. There was even a leather seat waiting for him.
Taking in a tight breath and feeling something hot sting his eyes, Ayn lifted the fallboard to reveal crisp black and white piano keys. Brand new and gleaming in the orange glow of the lamps.
Soft warmth pressed against his side. Miss Painter's arm around his waist grounded him. “Do you like it, Ayn?”
He nodded stiffly, ghosting his fingers over the ivory keys. “You…” he swallowed, and cleared his throat, fighting back an unnamed emotion. “You made this?”
“We all did. I helped out with sketching and planning, and we managed to find some carpenters for the wood. The tricky part was the keys and innerworkings. I'm not very familiar with pianos. Luckily, I managed to pull a few strings,” she said.
Pull a few strings. That usually meant something had happened.
“Play a tune for us, boss!”
“Yes! Like your smaller piano!” another of his subordinates chimed in.
Ayn set one finger upon a key, noticing for the first time that he was shaking.
A kind hand slid around his palm, shifting up to cup the tops of his fingers. She guided his hand down, a high note ringing out into the bar the moment his finger pressed a key.
The patrons cheered.
The shock was beginning to wear off, steadily making Ayn aware of the sensations lighting up inside him; different from producing flames from his fingertips. This feeling was similar to his rapid, elated heartbeat when Miss Painter had kissed him on the train that one time, yet different. His eyes kept stinging, breath catching raggedly in his throat.
Forcing a confident smile (and squeezing his girlfriend's hand tight), he took a breath and turned to address the crowd. "Consider tonight an open bar. Put everything on my tab."
"Wha- you serious?!" someone cried.
Ayn lifted a shoulder. "Drink to your heart's content," he paused and reconsidered. "Just bare in mind our supplies."
Another chorus of cheers rang out, the former mercenaries excitedly chattering or hurrying to the bar.
Even though they'd grown to be boisterous group of wolves amidst a year of relative peace (sand swimmers were still a thorn in their sides), his group seemed to sense that he wanted to be left alone.
Turning back to the piano and sitting down on the bench slowly, Ayn glanced to his side. "Come sit with me."
She didn't need to be asked twice. Miss Painter slid onto the spot beside him, placing their linked hands up to rest near the keys. Ayn didn’t hesitate to lean down, unable to stop himself from pressing a firm, ardent kiss to the back of her hand.
When he straightened and looked her in the eye, he hoped she understood everything he couldn’t verbalise. Ayn could rally people, organise them, strategize, but opening his mouth and saying heartfelt words of love was still a challenge.
This was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him, and he didn’t think a simple ‘thank you’ was enough. He swallowed thickly and shifted, wrapping his free arm around her shoulders and hiding his face in the depths of long thick hair.
“I don’t deserve you,” he mumbled, breathing in her good smell. “But thank you.”
“What are you talking about, Ayn?” she leaned into him. “Besides it wasn’t just me, everyone pitched in. It was a group effort.”
“You made the blueprints, didn’t you? This has your idea written all over it.”
She fell quiet, bashful. “I…may have cashed in a favour from an old friend from my world. He doesn’t like to speak to me anymore, doesn’t want to draw any attention to himself…but anyway- I don’t regret contacting him for the blueprints. The look on your face when you saw it was completely worth it.”
Pulling away, Ayn let out a breath, brushing her bangs away from her forehead and tugging on the ends sharply to make her squeak. “Hm. Risk taker. Really feels like we’re cut from the same cloth sometimes.”
And then in others, like right then, it was more apparent than ever that they were from entirely different worlds. One valued recreation and hobbies and laughter, while the other…was limping along, trying to catch up to hers after spending so long soaked in sand and bloodshed.
Finally resting both hands on the black and white keys, Ayn stared at his misshapen, burned fingers on the spotless instrument.
“What's wrong?”
Crimson eyes flicked to her. “...The keys are…bigger.”
His painter burst into bright, relieved laughter, bumping shoulders with him. “It’ll take some getting used to, hm? Don’t force it, just have fun.”
He pushed down, playing some keys in a sporadic and unpleasant sounding melody. No one in the bar commented, and he kept trying, using different combinations. Sheet music was provided by O'Conner, something they'd apparently found in the archives from the old days, but it did little good. Ayn couldn't read it.
“I only know one song,” Miss Painter said gently, reaching out and looking at him for permission. Ayn smiled and nodded, watching her tap one key five times before shifting her finger to press the key next to it once. “Catch a falling star- and- put it in your po-cket,” her words came out as a soft murmur, a secret only he could hear under the buzz of the rowdy bar. She continued onto the next key and tapped it some more, “ne-ver let it fade away~”
It was probably something kids learned when they were just starting out with piano playing. Nonetheless, Ayn watched her and quietly began to mimic her movements further down the piano with a different set of keys, a fierce wave of affection flooding his chest. It didn’t matter if they weren’t professionals, just being able to play with her and hear such tenderness in a simple tune was more than enough.
Giggling, she turned to him with a pleased sparkle in her eye. After a moment she sobered, tilting her head with a quizzical smile.
The look on his face must have been telling. He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear and feeling her shiver. “I had the impulse just now to hoist you up onto the piano,” he confessed lowly, “but that would probably damage it, and you.”
“Oh.” She glanced behind him, cheeks blooming red. “How about the bar instead?”
He thought about it, picturing her body draped across it, before nodding decisively. “The bar is good.”
“We’d also um…better save it for later, when there’s less people around.”
His warm eyes glinted, becoming crimson crescent moons. “That too.”
They turned back to their piano practice, continuing to play long into the evening. The previously violent streets of Eden outside became home to their gentle notes, soaking in the music. Some people outside stopped to take in the strange sound, unfamiliar with it, before gradually carrying on about their business.
This too, like everything else in their Eden, was a small symptom of change; rebuilding what was familiar brick by brick.