Chapter Text
When Cry thinks too hard about his birthday, his lungs seize with the memory of frostbite and panic. Only three to his name, and all gifting him a guilt-fuelled breakdown and the allure of a grave with his name on it.
Maybe the ones before were better, but they’d melted away with the spring of Mariposa and didn’t count. He doesn’t even have the correct day, just the new one the fairies chose for him. Too much a burden, they’d decided, sharing a birthday with a dead person.
Belgrave knows this too.
His birthday tomorrow is not the one of the long-gone prince. A new day, just for him. Cry wonders how Bel chose the date, if it was special beforehand, significant in some way he wanted to commemorate. He hadn’t said anything, didn’t seem super excited about it when he mentioned the date all those months ago. Maybe he just likes the warmer weather.
Warm weather is an understatement. Still only morning, the suns are beating down, killing all the moisture in the air in their tandem journey across the sky. Softened slightly, but not nearly enough, by the shade of the rustling canopy overhead. Cry knows it’s rude, but he really doesn’t think both gods need to be present today. One would suffice, and he’s sure they could survive a day apart.
Cry is sure to keep his complaining to a minimum. He is extremely grateful he doesn’t have to trudge along with a heavy pack like everyone else. He counts himself blessed to be sitting still on Bel’s shoulder, and isn’t about to say something stupid that gets him booted off and forced to fly and suffer even more.
By the time the suns are at their peak, the party arrives on the outskirts of town to make camp. No delays, no monster attacks, no bandits. They have arrived on schedule, thank the stars!
There is still so much Cry has to do. He doesn’t want to think too hard about what he’d have done if things had been derailed. He’ll spiral just thinking about the possibilities and will somehow bring a disaster to fruition.
He won’t focus on the bad. Not now. It can all be kept at bay for another day. Tomorrow has to be perfect. Bel is so important, so special, and tomorrow is a way to prove it to him.
Cry swivels on Bel’s shoulder to look at Val and Petkas, both dropping their packs and taking a moment to rest. Bel is important to them too. As much as part of Cry relishes the idea of pulling Bel away for a private and intimate gift giving, sole witness to his delight and gratitude, Cry knows it would be incomplete without his other friends. Extra love for Bel is not a bad thing. Cry keeps reminding himself there’s enough to go around. Val and Petkas’s inclusion will only make it better for Bel, and that’s what matters most.
Cry slips off Bel’s shoulder with a quick ‘I’ll be back’ that he hopes sounds nonchalant and casual. Bel doesn't question him and Cry leaves him to set up the tent, flying over to the other two who have begun gathering rocks for the fireplace. Absurd, in this heat, until Cry reminds himself of the existence of cooking.
Hushed enough so Bel won’t hear him, and weeks later than he should have, Cry says, ‘I have something important to tell you both.’
The pair stop and lean in closer.
‘What is it? Is everything alright?’ asks Val.
Cry nods and waves away the concern on both their faces. ‘I just wanted to let you know that it’s Belgrave’s birthday tomorrow. Since I don’t think he’s told you.’
Their surprised expressions confirm it – Cry had been the only one Belgrave had shared it with. He pushes down his grin at the fact and continues. ‘I was thinking we spend the day relaxing here. No work, let him sleep in. I have some presents and a cake. Well, not a cake but a crumble, and I don’t have it yet, but anyway…’ He waves his hand again, this time at the technicalities he knows he shouldn’t need to explain.
‘I think that sounds great,’ says Petkas. ‘I’ll get some food for the day. Can’t have him living off rations on his special day.’
Val nods. ‘We’ll go into town and find something fresh.’
Cry’s stomach drops. He hadn’t thought of that. His ideas of food had stopped at the human tradition of birthday cake. He would have had Bel eating one fancy dessert and a lot of old, dry camping food. Such a stupid oversight that nearly came to pass.
A good thing, he reassures himself, to have told Val and Petkas, who look like they’re already ruminating ideas. They could help him make this perfect. Cry looks back at Bel, lets out a breath to settle his nerves. It has to be.
─── ⋆⋅❅⋅⋆ ───
After asking a few locals for directions, Cry finds the town’s bakery. He’s pleasantly surprised to find a fairy-sized door cut into the entrance, and even more-so when it’s a fairy who greets him behind the counter.
‘Good afternoon! Escaping the heat?’ The fairy is the perfect postcard for spring. Skin pale pink like cherry blossoms, and long lavender hair tied up and out of the way in a bun. A smattering of freckles, thrown like seeds in a field, decorate his face and exposed arms. Soft around the edges and a warm smile, he is undeniably pretty.
‘Trying and failing to.’ Cry smiles back and fans his shirt to cool himself. He catches the fairy looking. ‘An issue I’m sure you don’t have.’
‘No,’ the fairy admits. ‘Today’s weather is perfect. But, come winter and I’m practically freezing my wings off. If I’m out in the snow, trust that it’s against my will.’
‘You’re missing out then, Cry says back. ‘When frost covers everything and the snowflakes fly on the wind, that’s a perfect day.’ The fairy puts on a shiver at the thought and Cry laughs.
‘I think we’ll have to agree to disagree and say no more,’ he says. ‘Otherwise I’ll never be able to serve you, Mr…?’
Cry scrunches his nose at ‘Mr’. He’s only heard it when it’s a kid tugging on his arm, pleading to show him something exciting. It feels too odd and formal hearing it from an adult. ‘Just Cypress.’
He nods. ‘Juniper.’
A pretty face and a pretty name. ‘Charmed to meet you.’
‘You stole my line!’
Cry shrugs unapologetically and Juniper’s grin is one Cry could melt into if he let himself. But he is here on a mission. He looks away to the desserts and can feel Juniper’s gaze lingering.
‘I need an apple crumble. Human-sized.’
‘Of course.’ Juniper flies to one in the display and Cry beams. It’s perfect. The top is latticed beautifully, with rich red fruit peeking through the gaps, all baked to a masterly golden brown. He’s sure Bel would applaud then devour it.
‘Exactly it. Thank you.’ Cry fishes for his coin, the very last bit he had set aside. He’d checked in the last town what the cost was and knew he’d be fine with his exact 14 silver.
‘That’ll be three gold,’ says Juniper.
The beginnings of a storm start to sail in Cry’s chest. What? No, that can’t be right. ‘It’s not supposed to be that much.’
‘A blight got to the orchid. We lost half of the apple harvest.’ At least Juniper is kind enough to sound apologetic as he delivers the crushing news. ‘But we have multiple other options for one gold!’
Cry shakes his head, fist tight around his inadequate silver. It has to be this one. It has to be Bel’s favourite. He’d planned so carefully for it to be perfect, and now it’s going wrong.
He must have done something to bring on the blight. Some sin, some ripple-effect wrongdoing that has hunted him down, dooming him before he’d even set foot in town. He knows he is destined to be punished, but why did the universe have to bring Belgrave into it? He doesn’t deserve the world’s judgment. But in his proximity to Cry, perhaps it’s inescapable. And isn’t it fitting, here in this bakery, for Cry to receive his just desserts?
Just desserts? That can’t be right, can it? But there’s some other saying about food and revenge, so maybe this one is right too? Odd, but Cry supposes he can follow the logic of bad people not deserving dessert?
Somehow, the absurdity of it all is enough to quiet his thoughts from a roaring downpour to a quiet drizzle. Enough for Cry to bring his focus forward, back to the cool and sweet air of the bakery. Away, for now, from his role in the end of the world.
‘Can I work for it?’ Cry asks. A proposal, a grounding solution for the problem in front of him.
‘Work for it?’ Juniper echoes.
‘Yes. I have fourteen silver. Can I work for the difference?’
‘I mean… I suppose I could use the extra hands, if you really wanted to.’
Relief settles in Cry’s stomach. ‘Yes, please. Thank you.’
Juniper leads him to the back kitchen, explaining that he has lots of cakes that he needs to decorate, and that Cry can help mixing and dyeing the frostings and creams. It’s tedious, tiring work, and Cry keeps his complaints in jest even when it feels like his arms are going to fall off. Juniper takes them in good humour, welcoming Cry to a day in his life as the sole one responsible for all fairy desserts.
It’s not all bad, though. Cry gets to see an expert at work. Juniper layers the cakes with the perfect amount of frosting in between, and decorates the tops and sides with pretty swirls and coils all perfectly spaced. He knows the perfect ratios to get the colours and consistencies he wants, pouring ingredients into bowls like an alchemist before instructing Cry to mix and mix and mix.
‘You’re an artist,’ Cry says at one point, and it’s gratifying to see Juniper blush. Cry mentions his own drawings and potions and Juniper muses that a winter and spring fairy have something in common after all.
When Juniper offers for Cry to try decorating a cake, and puts his hands on top of his to guide him, Cry knows exactly what he’s doing. Their sides are touching, faces closer than they need to be as Juniper gives directions in a quiet murmur that Cry attempts to follow. It feels comfortable and nice. And when Juniper tries to compliment Cry by saying his attempt wasn’t ‘that bad’, Cry accepts the lie with a smile and is met with one back.
It’s easy, being liked by Juniper. An open and earnest interest, a familiar song and dance Cry can slip into. And flattering, to have someone else make the first move.
It shouldn’t have surprised Cry then, when Juniper offers him an iris alongside his hard-earned apple crumble at the end of the day.
‘For now, if you’d like. Or later, if you’re staying in town a while.’ Juniper’s cheeks are tinted a shade darker and he looks at the purple petals instead of Cry’s face.
Cry’s glad, because he’s not sure what expression his face holds. Juniper wasn’t wrong to ask. If anything, it was natural to gauge interest in something more after the last hours of not-so-subtle flirting. And Cry had played along, had enjoyed the affection and attention of it all. And yet he hesitates now, when offered a kiss and whatever dalliance followed.
There are so many things to like about Juniper. He is pretty and sweet and friendly, but Cry can’t help but feel that something is just… off slightly. His skin is nice and warm but unnaturally so. His freckles are lovely but the constellations are wrong. His hands are calloused from hard work but he smells too much like sugar and not enough like sweat and soil.
He is easy to like, and would be easy to kiss, but Cry can’t shake the lump in his throat as he realises he’d spend it thinking about a paladin back at camp. Focusing on all the ways Juniper is not him, and all the ways Cry wishes he could be. It wouldn’t be fair to him.
For the first time in his remembered life, Cry declines the offer. He has to clear his throat as his voice catches. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m already…’
He can’t say taken. Feelings for someone who has sworn off relationships hardly made him spoken for.
Juniper says it for him, withdrawing the flower. ‘You already have someone.’
‘No. Well, I mean…’
There would never be anything with Belgrave. Cry has worked hard to be okay with that. He cherishes everything he gets to have with Bel. More than he deserves, more than he thought possible for someone like him to find. As long as Belgrave wants Cry to stay, he’ll never ask for more. It feels like it counts for something.
‘Someone on your heart, then?’ Juniper asks.
Cry feels the blood rush to his ears. It was so embarrassing when Juniper put it like that. On the heart, like he’s some starry-eyed poet dedicating their art and songs to their love. But his pages of drawings and latest compositions can't deny it, so neither can he.
Juniper smiles softly at him, different now but still kind and sweet amongst his disappointment. 'I should have guessed, really. When you offered to work half a day just to buy the crumble. They must be special.’
‘He is.’ Even though Cry can’t manage more than a whisper, it deserves to be said.
─── ⋆⋅❅⋅⋆ ───
The sun is setting when Cry finally leaves the bakery, crumble carefully wrapped and shrunk into his bag. His head is spinning and the wave of hot air makes him baulk.
He didn’t think it would go like that. A flower, an offering, a rejection. Because of Bel.
His feelings are not new. He’s had a long time to make a home for them within himself. He’s settled into the steady warmth of it, allowed himself to thaw in the glow that is Belgrave. Accept that, despite everything Cry is and isn't, he might be capable of love if it’s him. Without ever needing it in return, some part of him is made good. He is content and grateful and rich beyond measure to have Bel as his best friend.
He had yet to contend with how it would change things when it came to others, not until this moment with Juniper. Would this be his new normal? Unable to touch someone else without thinking of Bel?
Cry slips into the shadow of an eave and hides his face in his hands, still burning from the heat and embarrassment. He tries to convince himself it was a once-off, that the next time could be different. He could fuck the next pretty person that came along, thoughts Belgrave-free. He could!
It’s a lie that demands to be acknowledged. A strained, bark of a laugh escapes him at the mortification. Bel has unwittingly cast a dry spell on him, and Cry doesn’t know how he’s meant to deal with that.
Today is fine. But what about months from now? Years? Is he falling down into his own oath, a twisted mimic of abstinence? With Belgrave, the vowed, sole recipient of his affections?
Cry pushes his palms into his eyes until he sees stars and focuses on the dizzying swirls. He tries to find shape and reason in it, an easier task than attempting to sift through the emotions that have surfaced at his latest predicament. He will deal with them later. Find his way back to ease and contentment.
But now, he should probably get back to camp.
─── ⋆⋅❅⋅⋆ ───
Neither Val or Petkas bring attention to Cry’s long absence when he returns. Bel, however, takes note as soon as Cry flies back into camp, looking up from poking the small fire.
‘How was the town? You were gone for ages.’
‘It was good. I was just doing some shopping.’ Cry flops himself down across Bel’s shoulder, letting his tired arms dangle like branches in the wind. No follow-ups, please.
A moment of silence, and Cry thinks he’s safe in Bel’s disinterest. Until he says, ‘You smell like sugar.’
Oh no. He’s going to figure it out. If he asks Cry directly, he isn’t sure he could lie to hide it. Distract! Deflect!
‘Oh? And you’re a fan?’ Cry coats his tone in flirtiness and suggestion, and from his vantage point he sees Bel redden, feels his shoulders stiffen.
‘Oh, I wasn't… I was just commenting. An observation.’
‘If you like it, I can make a habit of it.’ Cry walks his fingers along Bel’s shoulder, near the base of his neck, for added effect. ‘For you.’
Bel responds, predictably, with a stuttering backpedal. He doesn’t brush Cry off him though, choosing to look firmly away. ‘You can do whatever you like! I’m not gonna tell you how to— I don’t care how you smell, that would be weird. I’m not—I don’t care.’
Cry smiles and hums in response. ‘Okay, whatever you say.’ Said like he doesn’t believe him, enough for Bel to harmlessly stew in it a bit longer. Enough to keep him from asking why Cry had brought sugar back with him.
Crisis averted.
─── ⋆⋅❅⋅⋆ ───
Despite being exhausted, the final step in a gift for tomorrow has Cry set up with his potion kit on a flat patch of dirt after dinner. A clear potion bubbles in his cauldron. The perfect base he’s spent months perfecting.
He takes out a magic scroll from deep in his bag, tucked away safe and hidden. The reason he’s been broke for months, carefully talking around it so no one would question where his gold had gone. He knows it’ll be worth it. It just has to work.
He rereads his notes, checking again and again that everything is in its place. He only has one chance. If the scroll doesn't take to the potion, he’ll have no way to replicate it.
He unfurls the paper, reads the description of the magic, the exact wording something he’s memorised in his obsessive study. He checks, like every other time, that the ink still has a golden sheen when tilted into the light.
The rumble of footsteps stops him, and he looks up to see Bel walking over, crouching down so he doesn't tower as much. Even though there’s no way Bel can read it, Cry brings the scroll protectively to his chest. Just in case.
'What're you working on?’ Bel asks.
‘Just a potion,’ Cry says, though the dismissive nature of ‘just’ tastes sour. This wasn’t just anything. It was important. Perhaps the most important potion yet.
Bel smiles his gentle smile. ‘I can see that. Something new?’
‘Yes. I haven’t done it before. But it’s not ready yet! So I can’t tell you about it.’
'Alright, alright. I won’t ask. But I look forward to hearing about it when you’re done.’
He’s so sincere. Always asking his questions, inviting Cry to talk and talk and talk. Always seeming genuinely interested, never getting sick of it.
‘You’ll be the first to know.’ Cry says. This time tomorrow, Bel will know. Cry finally won’t have to keep it to himself.
‘I'm heading to bed?’ Bel inflects it like a question, the actual unspoken ask of ‘will you be long?’ hanging in the air. Cry hears it clear as day.
‘I’ll be there soon,’ Cry promises.
Cry expects Bel to get up straight away, but instead he lingers, rooted. Cry watches his fingers unfurl, reach forward slightly like a flower chasing light. But then they’re back on his knee, pushing him up to his feet, and Bel is gone in long strides across camp, vanishing into their tent.
Once he’s gone, Cry looks at the scroll again. Gingerly holds it out and lowers it slowly into the cauldron. The ink glows gold and lifts itself off the page, blurring into light that swirls in the liquid without Cry having to stir. The blank paper dissolves and Cry waits, fists clenched and wings ablur, too anxious to stay on the ground. He prays, for Bel’s sake and not his own, so that the gods might grant him this, for the colour change that proves success.
After agonising seconds that may have been minutes that may have been a lifetime, the gold shifts to blue and Cry can breathe again. He adds a drop of concentrate to improve the bitter taste. Then, in a mark of a poor alchemist, he has to wait for his hands to steady before bottling it. Ridiculous, he wants to call himself, but he lets it pass with the wind. This is reserved, all things considered.
In truth, he wants to shoot up to the canopy, whoop and holler and brag to the stars that he’d done it. Months of effort have come to fruition, and everything Cry imagined that moment he first saw the scroll in that dusty magic shop, can now be a reality.
He is being very mature, really, keeping that joy contained to shaking hands.
Everything is ready. No disaster had struck. He just hopes that what he’s done is enough. A couple gifts will never make up for what Bel has given him – he’ll always be indebted to the kindness and humanity spared for him.
But at least tomorrow he can show his thanks. Make sure Belgrave knows how important he is to him.
Cry methodically packs up his kit, nerves joining his excitement and he knows sleep will evade him a while longer, despite his body’s exhaustion.
He wishes a good night to Val and Petkas sitting by the fire, and slips into the tent. Bel is already settled and soon Cry joins him, taking his usual spot on the pillow.
Bel rolls to face him and his murmur tickles Cry’s skin. ‘Did your potion work?’
‘It did.’
Cry isn’t sure Bel will respond, fading like a candle at the end of its wick. But then, after multiple long, slow breaths, ‘You’re so impressive...’
A smile takes Cry. He nearly reaches out to brush Bel’s cheek, trace the freckles he knows the homes of, even in the dark. But instead he tucks his hands into his chest, cradling the warmth of Bel’s compliment, giving it permission to stay. ‘Good night, Bel,’ he whispers.
‘Sleep well, Cry.’
Cry hopes he does, once his mind eventually calms. But even if nightmares seize him, Bel will be here when he wakes and good will come with the morning. Belgrave’s birthday will be nothing like his own. Bel will be loved, and it will be perfect.
─── ⋆⋅❅⋅⋆ ───