Work Text:
Gregor used to enjoy his birthdays.
Back when he was little, when life was still normal, it was the thing he looked forward to the most in the world. More than his mother's precious smile at a good grade on his tests. More than her hand in his hair when she was pleased with him. Birthdays meant cake; gifts and celebrations.
And birthdays meant home. Love and family and unconditional belonging. A special day, because she would always give her full affection to him. Even when it wasn’t really his birthday, his mother always made sure to celebrate it.
A gift in the form of a book and drawing. Love in the form of his sister’s laugh and mother’s smile. Grete would always excitedly tug at his sleeve while his mother set down a thick slice of cake.
“Thank you,” she would always say. “For being born to me.”
And he’d feel nothing but the happiest kid in the world. His sister loved him. His mother loved him.
Gregor used to wish every day was his birthday.
It takes a little later to realize what she was truly celebrating. Longer for him to learn how to accept it. Live with it.
Many of his birthdays come and go, and neither of them are important or worth celebrating. Gregor spends his 27th birthday alone. He spends his 28th, 29th alone.
He spends his 30th birthday alone. And he's fine with it. He has to be. Like his arm, his life, his worth, everything—they’re ugly, tarnished things. Nothing that was ever his.
He spends his 31st birthday alone. He spends his 32nd, 33rd, 34th alone.
He spends his 35th birthday alone. Gregor wakes up with a bittersweet memory. A day he used to enjoy. A little sister he used to have. A mother he thought loved him.
It doesn’t matter. It never did. He's not a kid anymore, and he hasn't been one in a long, long time.
There’s no home to go back to now. Nowhere he belongs to now.
His 36th birthday starts out a little bit differently.
Gregor wakes up to the sound of rampant chaos. Objects being flung, shouts and giggles trailing in the distance. Heathcliff’s voice rings through the air, and Don Quixote’s booming tenor quickly follows.
A typical Saturday morning, which means he should go back to sleep. Pretend he hears nothing. Except…
…He smells cake?
It’s not burnt either, which means Meursault or Outis must be baking it. And the fact that it’s cake means something is going on.
He wrangles with his self-preservation before curiosity takes over. Cautiously, he steps out. Couldn’t hurt, right? Just a peek or two. He can always retreat if he sees something he doesn't like.
But what greets him isn't a life-or-death fight over the cake, but colorful decorations instead. Strewn all over the bus like confetti. Ishmael is astutely fixing each one in place while Faust hovers near, pointing out each discrepancy.
Gregor stares and stares. He can't look away, especially from the sight of a comically large cake in Don Quixote’s hands.
“W-wait, Greg?! You’re not supposed to be here yet!”
”He has awoken approximately 32 minutes earlier than usual."
“Verily! It seems like thou could not contain thy excitement of such a wundorful day!"
He's not sure what's to say, and what comes out is terribly embarrassing: “Uh… you fellas know it’s not my birthday, right?”
Heathcliff rolls his eyes as he carefully places a candle on the cake. ”C’mon, Stubbles, you’ve been with us for over a year. We've celebrated everyone else's. Really think we were just gonna skip yours?”
Gregor opens his mouth to say something like no, I didn’t think anybody would care or why wouldn't you? But he’s quickly ushered to a chair before any of it can come out.
Rodya eagerly wrangles a small thing onto his head, which, through his wincing and grimacing, he realizes is a little birthday hat. It's itchy and doesn't quite fit, and it's adorned in all the Sinners' colors.
An old feeling tugs at his chest, tight and warm and familiar.
“Aw, Greg’s blushing!” Rodya coos and sings. Hong Lu laughs along, beaming like the sun.
Gregor closes his eyes—reflexively, because he still can't believe it. Maybe it is a dream. Sometimes, his best and worst ones could be like this. Giving him everything he wants, only for him to wake up and remember.
But when he slowly opens them again, he sees the Sinners still there, smiling.
Suddenly, his eyes are aching. Maybe his well of tears haven't dried up after all.
“Dunno how you fellas did it, but I’m feeling like the luckiest guy in the City right now," he says. He tries to sound casual, but his voice still wobbles. His age must be finally catching up to him. Quickly, he rubs away the ache with his good hand.
”Hmph, you better!” Outis says with a smugness only she could give. "As ordered by our Executive Manager, me and this young soldier spent all morning baking the perfect birthday cake!"
<You really should've seen how hard they were working away... they kept adding layer after layer after layer-->
"Courtesy of my generous advice, of course~"
Gregor grins. He looks at his friend's faces, their smiles. At how they’re looking at him, so full of warmth and love. They’re celebrating his birthday. Celebrating him.
For once, he feels like he's at home again.
"C'mon, hurry up and blow out the candle!"
"And a wish so that it may take root and bloom fruitfully."
"Make a good ONE, BG."
Quietly, he thinks what he hasn’t felt since he was a kid:
I’m glad I was born.