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It is the eve of June Twentieth, and you do not. . . know quite what to do with yourself.
You and Pollux had kept the significance of the date to yourselves — a birthday wasn't anything worth getting excited over, not. . .not really. (It was the day you were born. It was the day that two gods from outside Kadath were invited inside ofit. It was the day that Juliette had gotten her wish, for twins that would tear open the Gate.)
You sit on the edge of the windowsill, where the stars shine brightly even amidst the evening sky.
"Cas?"
You blink, slowly, wings twitch. Turn your head, carefully (don't strain your neck, it made a weird noise last time you turned too fast), to see your twin walk through the doorway. "Lux?"
Pollux frowns at you, brows furrowed. "What're you thinking so hard about?" The syllables are almost drawled, with a twang in them that isn't from Kadath at all. (Even in this world so distant from the home of those gods you both were Vessels for, the Appalachian accent would not so easily be lost. Even if your twin and you had learned to hide it.)
You shrug a shoulder, wing carefully wrapping around your side. (It's cold, the glass of the window. You don't want to leave it, though.) "Birthdays, I guess."
"Oh?"
You huff. Turn back to look out the window. (Quietly pat the plush padding on the bench on the windowsill, so your twin can sit by your side if wished.) "It's just. . . odd."
"You'd think we'd have gotten used to it after so long, right? Having a summer birthday." Pollux hears the words unsaid. (Pollux always hears the words unsaid.) ". . . do you miss it? Our old birthday?"
A slow blink. A twitch of wings, pressed tightly against your back. Breathing, kept carefully controlled. "I miss January." You admit. "We've never gotten to taste red velvet cake. I saw miss Doll getting gifts on the eleventh of January and I was jealous." Quieter, softer, with words that taste like shame — "I got so mad I had to go down to the Black Pool and pull my feathers out so I could get the wrath out somehow."
Pollux doesn't say anything for several long, quiet moments. Clouds start to drift in. A weight, pressing against your shoulder — Pollux's head, Pollux sitting by your side and nudging you until you lift your arm and wing and Pollux can press against your side, can curl up against your side the way you'd both used to sit as cygnets, the way you'd both been Cas-and-Lux instead of Castor and Pollux. "It hurts." Pollux says, just as quiet and just as soft. "I wish you wouldn't hurt yourself over it."
You sigh. Tuck your arm and wing closer, tuck Pollux closer against your side. (Pollux is warm, pressed against you like this, but both of you have always been warm — it is simply part of being so swanlike.) "Better me than you." You say, softly. "Better me than someone else."
"You're too quick to tear yourself apart."
A snort. "That's always been true, even before we were gods."
Pollux's hand finds yours. Squeezes it hard. No words are said, but they don't need to be. You understand. Instead — "are you going to tell anyone? Next year?"
It takes a moment to recall what Pollux speaks of. "About our birthday?"
"Mmh."
"Hmm. . ." you're. . . not sure. Is it worth it? "Maybe. . . Ramona?" You suggest, tentatively. "She's. . . kind."
"Kind of scary."
"Good scary, though."
"Yeah. Good scary."
Silence falls again, comforting and almost cold. The clouds have drifted in fully, and though the starlight can no longer be seen, you don't mind. There's a smell of petrichor, and it's pleasant — the rain, as a whole, is pleasant. (Even in this world, in this body, the heat is your eternal, loathesome enemy.)
"Will you tell Sylvester?" Pollux asks, quietly.
You can't quite stop the flinch. "I. . . want to." You admit. "But I don't. . . want him to make a big deal out of it." He wouldn't, if you asked, but that requires asking, and you are — far, far too anxious to ask anything, even if just right now. "And he — what if he gets mad? That we didn't tell him, and we missed it?"
"That. . . yeah." Pollux agrees, voice picking up that careful, controlled tone that hides anxiety skittering down the spine like a rabbit bounding across tile. "Yeah. I get it." (Of course Pollux gets it. You're horribly anxious, but Pollux is just as anxious, if not more so.)
Your twin sighs, shakily, before pressing their head more firmly against your shoulder. ". . . happy birthday, Cas."
You twist your torso, slightly, to press your chin against the top of your twin's head. "Happy birthday, Lux."
"It'll get better, won't it? It'll be better next year?" There's a fragile note in Pollux's voice, and you — twins you may be, but you're the older one. You've always been the older one, the one that tears yourself apart so your twin won't be torn apart under your claws.
"It'll be better next year." You promise quietly, softly, pulling Pollux closer so you can nestle your twin's head against your chest (the best place to hear your heartbeat, to remember you're still alive and there). "Juliette will be dead this time next year, remember?" (You're not. . . actually sure, if she will be — neither you nor Pollux remember the fine details of timelines, of when exactly Mythag's fog barrier will be breached and when exactly the Gate will be opened and Sylvester will be sent into slumber. But — probably, probably, it will have happened by next year. Sylvester, dear Sylvester, will be gone, and you will have to work to get him back, but Juliette will be dead.)
"Okay." Pollux says softly, shifting to put you both into a slightly more comfortable position. "Okay."
The rain falls, softly. You can almost hear a piano falling, somewhere, the sound of crystal rain and haunting fog in an aetheric sky.
"We should sleep." You say, eventually, shifting to try and nudge your twin to stand.
"We should." Pollux agrees, but only clings to you tighter. (Ah. It's one of those nights, then.)
With some effort, you hook one arm beneath Pollux's legs, and carefully scoop your twin into your arms so as to be carried to bed. The separation anxiety is strong this evening, it seems, and — well. You don't blame Pollux for not wanting to part. When you are twins, born from the same womb and sharing a body at odd times, it's strange to feel the other heartbeat when it should be within your chest.
Besides. It's not as if you both haven't made a nest of bedding for occasions such as these. Setting Pollux into said blanket nest, you stretch your wings out, comb through your feathers to loosely comb out any down feathers that've shed, to add to the nest. You molt often enough for it to be worth doing on the daily.
Pollux trills, soft and swanlike, and you can't help but laugh, finally laying down beside your twin and nestling down into the many blankets like Pollux has already done. "G'night, Cas."
"Goodnight, Lux." You close your eyes, let the rain lull you to sleep. (You can figure out what to do with yourself tomorrow. Tonight. . . tonight you can just be yourself, broken wrathful swan-rabbit that you are.)