YOU’RE GONNA GO FAR (C’s birthday special)
C took their usual seat in the second row of the lecture hall—close enough to catch every word, far enough to avoid the professor’s habitual spray of chalk dust. their notebook lay open before them, crisp lines and careful margins waiting for the ideas they would transcribe.
the class was on microeconomics theory—ECON 125a—with professor venkatraman, whose reputation as a brilliant but exacting teacher was only preceded by the fact that she was also a champion at chess.
C liked her, obviously. she didn’t waste words or time, and when she lectured, it was like watching a master craftsman at work, shaping abstract concepts into something solid and usable.
as students filed in, a faint vibration in C’s pocket broke their concentration.
they hesitated, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing their face at the interruption before they softened as they saw it was from you.
you: lunch at yardley’s after your class? my treat 😉
their lips quirked up in a small smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of their mouth reluctantly, as if conceding to some inner force they couldn’t quite resist.
C: Is this your way of asking me out?
it took you precisely fifteen seconds to reply.
you: is that a no then?
C rolled their eyes, but the smile was back, this time a little wider. they tapped out a response quickly.
C: It’s not a no. Meet me there at 1:00 pm sharp.
you: aye aye, captain 🫡
they exhaled a laugh through their nose, shaking their head as they slipped the phone back into their pocket. their mood felt lighter, buoyed by your irreverent charm. but now, there was work to be done.
the lecture hall quieted as professor venkatraman took the podium. she was a plump woman with jet black hair marred by streaks of white here and there. her voice, though soft, carried with it the expertise of twenty years of teaching, and when she spoke, every head turned toward her.
“good morning, class,” she greeted as she connected her laptop to the class’s projector. “let’s pick up where we left off yesterday. we’re going to talk about pareto efficiency.”
C’s pen moved almost reflexively, the familiar rhythm of note-taking grounding them as the professor explained the concepts of allocation and welfare economics. the terms flowed easily through C’s mind—pareto frontier, marginal cost, social welfare—like puzzle pieces slotting into place.
halfway through the lecture, professor venkatraman paused, her beady black eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
“who can tell me,” she said, her gaze landing on the second row, “what happens to the pareto optimal point if externalities are introduced into the market?”
C’s hand went up before she had even finished speaking, their confidence on display.
C cleared their throat, their voice measured but assured. “externalities, both positive and negative, distort the pareto optimal point because they create a divergence between private costs or benefits and social costs or benefits. for example, in the case of a negative externality like, say pollution, the private cost is lower than the social cost, which leads to overproduction relative to the socially optimal level.”
professor venkatraman nodded, a rare smile lighting her face. “exactly. well said, mr./miss lacroix. you’ve just summarized in under thirty seconds what most economists take pages to explain.”
the compliment settled into C like a small but bright ember, warming the corners of their pride. around them, a few classmates exchanged glances—admiring, perhaps envious—but C paid them no mind. praise from professor venkatraman was a currency more valuable than gold, and they savored it in silence.
the rest of the class passed in a steady cadence of discussion and note-taking. C’s notebook filled with precise bullet points and underlined key terms on top of what they’d already surmised from the slideshows. they didn’t just listen; they absorbed, dissected, reconstructed.
when the lecture finally ended, professor venkatraman dismissed the class with a wave of her hand. “don’t forget to review the slides for next week’s topics. and, C?”
C, already halfway out of their seat, paused and turned.
“keep it up,” she said simply, her tone almost warm.
they nodded, a faint flicker of joy crossing their face as they slung their bag over their shoulder.
outside, the crisp january air bit at their cheeks as they made their way to yardley’s diner. the thought of seeing you—of your bright smile and the way you made everything feel just a little less constricting—kept their steps light.
for all their snobbery and planning, there was a part of C that liked the unpredictability you brought into their life. it was like adding a splash of color to an otherwise perfectly shaded sketch. a risk, perhaps, but one they were increasingly willing to take as each day passed.
the sun hung low in a pale blue sky, softening the edges of new haven, gilding every building and tree. for once, the city wasn’t buried under the tyranny of snow. it was cold but breathable, as though winter had taken pity on the students trudging across yale’s sprawling campus.
C walked with measured steps, their hands tucked into the pockets of their coat, gaze flickering across the courtyard. the sight of students sprawled under the bare trees was common, faces lit with laughter or bent over books. happiness, or the impression of it, seemed to float through the campus like dandelion seeds in the spring.
C had a habit of cataloging these moments, holding them up like fragile glass marbles to the light. once, not so long ago, this would have been unthinkable. not just the school—the ivy-covered walls, the gothic spires—but this feeling of ease, of being untethered from the gnawing dread that had defined so much of their childhood.
once upon a time, when they were still trapped under alain’s roof, they hadn’t dared to dream of anything better. there had been no room for ambition in that house, no cracks for hope to take root. alain’s voice, sharp and unyielding, had shaped their universe: you’ll always be my biggest regret. you’re nothing. you’ll always be nothing.
even now, almost a decade removed from that life, the nightmares still crept in sometimes, slipping through the cracks of their subconscious like smoke.
alain’s voice, alain’s fists, alain’s shadow—long and oppressive, reaching out even now. but when the dreams broke, when they woke gasping in the sanctuary of their dorm room, the reality was a relief. alain was hundreds of miles away. C was here, surrounded by dreams and ideas and people who cared, living for themself instead of just mindlessly existing.
the freedom still felt fragile, like something they weren’t entirely worthy of. but they clung to it all the same, afraid that if they let go, they might never get it back.
as they left campus and stepped into the bustling streets outside, C’s thoughts drifted to the people around them. strangers hurried past, bundled in scarves and coats, their faces a blur of anonymity. C wondered how many of them had stories like theirs—people who had clawed their way out of dire circumstances, who had fought to make something of themselves despite everything.
the thought surprised them. empathy wasn’t something they’d had much space for before. survival had been all-consuming, a fire that burned away anything extraneous. but now… now they found themselves thinking of others in a way they hadn’t before.
it must have been your influence, they reckoned. you, with your boundless curiosity and the way you seemed to see right through people, peeling back their layers without any hint of judgment.
when they reached yardley’s diner, C paused for a moment outside the door, letting the warmth of the scene inside seep into them.
it was a small place, cozy and a little cluttered, with checkered tablecloths and the faint smell of coffee hanging in the air. and there you were, sitting by the window, your head bent over your phone, a crooked grin playing on your lips as you typed something out.
the sight of you made C feel infinitely more happier. unbidden, a smile spread across their face, soft and unguarded in a way that would have surprised anyone who knew them. they pushed the door open, the little bell jingling above their head, and made their way to your table.
sliding into the seat across from you, C waited for you to notice them.
“sorry, that seat’s taken,” you said automatically, your attention on your phone. but then you lifted your head, and you broke into a wide, genuine smile as your eyes met their chalcedony green ones. “C! you’re here.”
“i did agree to this, didn’t i?” they replied, their voice steadier than they felt.
“i know, i know,” you admitted as you leaned forward, propping your chin on your hand. “so? how was class?”
“it was fine,” they said, trying to downplay it, but you could tell it was more than that.
you smirked. “if you say so. though i don’t think you’d be your professors’ favourite student with just being ‘fine.’”
they shook their head, a soft laugh escaping them. “and what about you? how was your class?”
you groaned dramatically, slumping back in your seat. “cancelled. i was bored out of my mind waiting for you to show up.”
the music from the speakers in the corner underscored your conversation and the clatter of dishes, creating a cocoon of sound that felt both intimate and distant, as though the world was temporarily focusing to just the two of you.
when the waiter approached, you barely glanced at the menu before ordering for both of you—nachos with salsa for you and eggs benedict with fries for C.
C’s eyebrows rose slightly, their head tilting just enough to signal their surprise.
“you remembered what i usually get for lunch here?” they asked, their voice laced with skepticism but softened by curiosity.
“of course,” you said with a wink, your tone light but your words brimming with affection. “impressed?”
C scoffed, their expression sliding into a familiar frown, but their words were not very convincing. “hardly.”
the moment lingered, warm and easy, before dissolving into conversation. you leaned forward, your elbows on the table as you launched into a story about your father. he’d been complaining about missing you already, barely two weeks into the semester, his texts riddled with over-the-top lamentations and dramatic declarations of loneliness.
C listened, nodding occasionally, their quiet chuckle slipping out at your more exaggerated impressions of him. the sound of their laughter, low and restrained, sparked something buoyant in you, urging you to draw more of it out. you gestured animatedly, embellishing the story just enough to coax another laugh, and then another.
when the food arrived, the smell of nachos and fresh fries filled the small space between you. you both dug in, forks moving between bites and pauses filled with you talking. it felt comfortable, a small pocket of time carved out just for the two of you, until the interruption came.
your phone buzzed insistently against the table, its vibrations breaking the fragile rhythm you’d settled into. you glanced at the screen, a smile tugging at your lips as your fingers flew over the keyboard.
C’s fork paused midair, their gaze sharpening as they took in your expression. “what’s got you smiling like that?”
your head snapped up, your smile faltering as though you’d been caught in the act of something illicit.
“oh, it’s just—” you laughed nervously, your fingers fiddling with the edge of your napkin. “it’s just one of my classmates. they needed my notes.”
C arched an eyebrow, their tone turning dry and sarcastic. “do you always look so thrilled about someone asking for your notes?”
you groaned, your voice tipping into exasperation. “they sent a joke with the request, okay? that’s why i was smiling.”
the explanation didn’t satisfy C, but they nodded as though it did. they turned back to their plate, their shoulders stiffening imperceptibly.
the jealousy that flared in their chest felt unwarranted, irrational, and yet they couldn’t tamp it down. of course, you were allowed to smile at someone else’s jokes. it wasn’t like they were particularly funny themself—most of their humor was accidental, born of sardonic comments that weren’t meant to make anyone laugh.
still, the sight of you smiling so easily at someone else left a bitter taste in their mouth, one they tried to ignore as they focused on their food.
the rest of the meal passed in a strained silence, you gamely trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground while C responded with clipped, one-word answers.
when the plates were cleared, you waved off C’s attempt to split the bill, reminding them that it was on you. the two of you then stepped out into the street, the sudden chill welcoming you back. the warmth of the diner had lulled you into a false sense of security, but now the cold pressed in from all sides, even worse than when you’d walked into the diner.
it wasn’t just the weather that felt icy though. C’s mood lingered like a shadow, heavy and unspoken. their hands were shoved deep into the pockets of their coat, their gaze fixed on the pavement as you walked side by side.
you glanced at them, your breath visible in the cold air. “you okay?”
C hesitated, their jaw tightening. “yeah. just tired.”
you didn’t press, but the silence that followed felt weighted, the unspoken awkwardness coiling between you. C hated the way they felt, hated the petty jealousy that gnawed at them, hated that they couldn’t just let it go. but more than anything, they hated the idea that they might not be enough—that their quiet presence, their dry humor, their carefully guarded affection might not be enough to keep you smiling like that.
while they kept brooding, they almost didn’t hear you speak up about going to edgewood park. they paused, mid-thought, and stared at you with incredulity. their dark brows pull together, a perfect portrait of skepticism.
“edgewood park?” they repeated, like the words were a foreign language they didn’t recognise. “you do realize that’s, like, thirty minutes away by foot.”
you rolled your eyes, the universal language of ‘you’re being dramatic,’ and folded your arms across your chest. “i thought you were from new york. isn’t walking everywhere your thing?”
“first of all, i haven’t lived in new york since i was ten. and second,”—here they paused for effect, their voice dipping into that haughty sarcasm they wielded so well—“i lived in rochester, not new york city. people didn’t walk everywhere there. they drove. like modern human beings.”
you raised your hands in mock surrender, the grin on your lips refusing to be tamed. “fine, fine. we’ll do it your way. i’ll book a lyft.”
a few taps, a quick swipe, and it’s done. when you glance back up, C’s arms are crossed, their weight shifted onto one leg, the picture of reluctant participation.
the car arrived within minutes, a silver sedan that smelled faintly of pine air freshener. you slid in first, and C followed, their body folding into the seat smoothly.
as the car pulled away, you glance at them, your tone teasing. “we should’ve just walked, you know.”
“not exactly eager to ruin these,” they said, motioning toward their shoes—a sleek, pristine pair that practically screamed designer.
you pouted dramatically, letting the silence of the car stretch between you for effect. they ignored you, their gaze fixed out the window, but you didn’t miss the subtle way their lips twitched, as if suppressing a smile.
the ride was mercifully quick, the park looming ahead in a sprawl of trees and walking paths, its serenity at odds with the bustling city just beyond its borders.
as you stepped out of the car, C turned to you, their expression faintly triumphant. “see? way faster.”
you grumbled something unintelligible under your breath, and they smirked outright this time, the expression lighting up their face in a way that made you stop and stare for a while before you shook your head.
the park unfolded around you in muted greens and browns, the skeletal trees casting shadows over the paths. you walked side by side, your steps falling into an unspoken rhythm, the crisp air filling your lungs with each breath.
C didn’t say much, but that was pretty unsurprising. they’d never been one to wax poetic about nature or lose themself in the curve of a tree branch. and yet, there was something in the quiet that seemed to settle them, a softening at the edges that you can’t quite pinpoint but can’t stop noticing.
as you walked, your hand drifted closer to theirs, an instinct as natural as breathing. when your fingers finally brushed, their reaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, a barely perceptible flinch.
but C didn’t pull away. instead, their fingers curled around yours, hesitant at first but then firm, a gesture that felt like a question and an answer all at once.
you glanced at them, catching the faint blush spreading across their fair cheeks, the way their gaze flickered everywhere except to you. they were trying so hard to appear unaffected, but the way their thumb lightly stroked the back of your hand made you believe otherwise.
their grip was firm but hesitant, as though they were still testing the waters, still deciding how much of themself they were willing to offer at the moment.
if anyone in the park noticed, C didn’t seem to care. or maybe they did, their embarrassment at the mild PDA tempered by the faintest flicker of defiance. either way, they held your hand as you walked, and you couldn’t help but smile at the small victory.
by the time you reached the pond, you were both comfortably quiet. the water was still, a mirror reflecting the trees that bow down to its surface. ducks glided across it, their movements lazy and unhurried, and your face lights up as you pointed them out to C.
“look,” you say, your voice filled with a childlike excitement that makes C feel an immense amount of fondness for you.
they followed your gaze but didn’t exactly see the appeal. ducks were ducks—feathered and ordinary, their quacks grating on their nerves quite annoyingly. but the way your eyes shone, the way your smile curved upward like the crescent moon, made them reconsider.
you rummaged in your coat pocket, pulling out a small pack of slider rolls. they stared at you, bewildered.
“why,” they asked, their tone dripping with disbelief, “in the world were you carrying those in your pocket?”
“to feed the ducks, duh,” you answered, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
their brow furrows. “were you planning this all along?”
your eyes widened, cheeks burning. “no! the park was a spur-of-the-moment decision. the bun was for a snack during the morning class which was cancelled.”
it was clear that C didn’t really believe you, but they didn’t press further, resorting to just shaking their head in bemusement.
you then tore off a bun and held it out to them. they recoiled like you’d handed them a live snake. “oh, no. no, no, no. you can’t possibly expect me to—”
“C A Lacroix, you will feed the ducks,” you interrupted, your tone commanding but your eyes sparkling with mischief.
for a minute, the two of you were locked in a silent standoff, your determination clashing with their resistance. then you unleashed your secret weapon: your best puppy-dog eyes, the kind that could topple empires and dissolve even the hardest of hearts. or at least, C’s heart.
C’s eye twitched, their resolve crumbling under the weight of your gaze. they groaned, dragging a hand down their face. “fine. but only because you’re being insufferable about this.”
you beamed, victorious, as they took the bun from your hand. together, you broke off pieces and scattered them across the water.
they grumbled the entire time, but you caught the way their gaze softened when they spotted the baby ducks trailing behind their mother, their tiny bodies bobbing like cute, fuzzy corks.
you tapped their shoulder and pointed to a pair of ducks swimming side by side. their movements were synchronized, their affection evident in the way they preened each other.
“that’s us,” you said with a grin. “if we were ducks.”
C rolled their eyes, but they didn’t directly dismiss it entirely. internally, they were feeling far more tender than they’d ever admit with the image of the ducks—and your ridiculous comparison—embedding itself in their mind.
they didn’t do sentimental. they didn’t do silly and adorable. but for you? for you, they didn’t mind being one of those quacking creatures forever, fated to swim by your side.
when you reached your suite, the faint scent of your lavender and laundry detergent welcomed C like an old friend. you’d taken turns showering and watched netflix in your room until it was nighttime.
“what do you feel like for dinner?” they asked, their tone casual.
you blinked at them, surprised. “you’re cooking?”
their lips tugged into a teasing smirk. “unless you’re planning to poison us both with your diabolical cooking skills, yes.”
you laughed, the sound light and easy, and gestured toward the tiny kitchen that was part of the suite. “knock yourself out, chef lacroix.”
C made quick work of surveying your pantry. they pulled out ingredients with the care of someone handling a sacred ritual: spaghetti, crushed black pepper, a wedge of imported pecorino romano that you had bought on a whim.
at some point, you found yourself behind them, your arms looping around their waist as they stirred the pot with practiced ease. they tensed for the briefest moment, caught off guard, but then they relaxed into your touch, leaning back slightly. the pulsing beat of their heart reached you where you were in contact with them.
the smell of black pepper and pecorino filled the air, heady and comforting, and you close your eyes, inhaling their scent as much as the aroma of the food.
as the cacio e pepe came together, you felt a pang of gratitude for this moment, for the ease of being with them, for the way they made even the most ordinary things feel so extraordinary and sweetly domestic.
“should we save a plate for V?” C asked, their voice low but clear.
you stiffened slightly, your smile faltering for a fraction of a second.
“probably not,” you said, a touch too casual. “they’re staying at a friend’s suite tonight.”
C’s hands paused, mid-motion, and they turned their head slightly, enough to catch your expression. their gaze sharpened, their green eyes narrowing just enough to let you know they’d noticed.
“uh-huh,” they said, their tone laced with quiet suspicion. but then they sighed, shaking their head and letting it drop. the lunch at yardley’s was awkward enough, they didn’t want the dinner to be a downer as well.
the weirdness dissolved over dinner, the cacio e pepe proving to be as perfect as you’d expected. the pasta was creamy and peppery, the sort of meal that makes you feel cared for in ways words can’t.
C watched on you as you eat, their expression warm, and you can’t help but wonder if they’re thinking the same thing you are—that moments like this are worth pausing for to just savor.
as you cleaned up after yourselves, you teased them about how they’ve ruined all future meals for you, and they smiled a tad smugly, their confidence worn like a second skin.
later on, the two of you settled in your room, books and laptops spread across the bed. you’re supposed to be studying, but your eyes kept wandering to C—their furrowed brows, the way their fingers tapped rhythmically against the edge of the book, the way they occasionally bit the inside of their cheek when they were concentrating on a particularly complicated topic.
“do you ever miss prep school?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
C looked up, their expression blank for a moment before they tilted their head, considering. “not really. why?”
you grinned, leaning back against the headboard. “i just think it would’ve been fun to have study sessions like this with you back then.”
they snorted as they shook their head. “yeah, no. you used to be so annoying back then. i don’t think i would’ve lasted five minutes into the study session.”
“annoying?” you repeated, feigning offense. “i think you mean charming.”
“if that makes you feel better,” they countered, their tone flat but their eyes sparkling.
you opted to toss a pillow at them. “what about now? still annoying?”
they didn’t answer immediately, their gaze lingering on you in a way that felt almost searching, as if they were trying to explore some uncharted waters. then, without warning, they leaned in, their lips brushing against yours in a kiss so brief, so light, it felt like you might’ve dreamt it up.
when C pulled back, your jaw hung slightly open, words failing you.
“i hope that answers your question,” they said, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of their mouth.
you laugh, breathless, your heart a riot in your chest. “yeah. yeah, it does.”
the hours slipped by unnoticed after that, the two of you lost in the quiet flow of study and being with each other. by the time you glanced at the clock, it was nearly midnight.
C sighed, closing their laptop with a quiet click and beginning to pack their things.
“i should go,” they said, their voice reluctant but also resigned.
you stood, stretching before grabbing your suite’s keys. “i’ll walk you to your room.”
they hesitated for a moment, then nodded, their smile genuine. “thanks.”
the walk to their suite is quiet, the halls lit with lamps on the wall but hushed because of the late-night hour.
when you reach their door, they turned the knob and stepped inside, the darkness swallowing them whole for a moment.
then, suddenly, the lights flicked on, and the quiet erupted into a chorus of voices shouting: “happy birthday, C!”
the explosion of sound was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a moment, C froze where they stood, their hand tightening reflexively on the brass doorknob of their suite.
their green eyes scanned the scene before them—the lopsided birthday banner, the array of grinning faces, the confetti-strewn floor—and their first instinct was to turn around and leave, to vanish before anyone could make a fuss. they hadn’t even processed yet that it was january 12!
D bounded toward their best friend with a grin too wide for the hour, a garish party hat in their hands. before C could sidestep, protest, or even scowl in proper retaliation, D clamped it firmly onto their head. the elastic strap snapped against their jawline, the hat—an awful shade of neon green with glitter that caught the light—resting at a crooked angle. it was a ridiculous thing meant for children’s parties, not for someone like them.
“D, what the fu—” C started, but D waved off the growl of indignation with ease.
“lighten up, birthday kid,” D said, a smirk tugging at their lips as they stepped back to admire their handiwork. “it’s your party, not your funeral.”
C glared, their brows furrowed in defiance, but the moment was too heavy with warmth and something almost like joy. they harrumphed half-heartedly, the hat swaying slightly as they crossed their arms over their chest.
the glass table in the center of the room caught their eye, and their breath hitched, caught somewhere between their throat and the hollow ache in their chest. the cake was unmistakably french apple—their favorite—the golden crust glinting faintly in the candlelight. it was simple and homely, something that their mother had always baked for their birthdays.
M must have baked it this time; there was no other explanation for how it had come out so flawless. their questioning eyes darted to them, and M’s smile was unassuming and secretive.
C’s throat tightened. “thank you for the cake, M.”
the royal nodded in acknowledgement, silent way of telling C that it wasn’t a big deal.
“don’t just stand there,” V said softly. “come on, blow out the candles.”
as if in a dream, C moved toward the cake. the room seemed impossibly full—faces they knew, voices they trusted, warmth radiating from every corner. for someone who had spent so many years perfecting the art of solitude, the sheer presence of all of them was overwhelming in the most welcomed way.
the candles in the cake gleamed—18, a number that was supposed to feel like a milestone, a subtle reminder that they were crossing into something larger than themself. the wax dripped slowly down the candles’ sides, pooling like tiny tears on the surface.
you were by their side now, pushing them gently towards the table. “come on, my love, make a wish.”
C hesitated. a wish? what was there to wish for when the ache of wanting had been burned out of them so long ago? but then their eyes swept the room again, lingering on each face—on W with their camera poised, on V as they gave them a thumbs up, on M’s irrepressible smile, on D’s proud grin, and finally, on you and your starry eyes, bright and kind.
this is what they’ve always wanted. this is what they wish for. to never losing the people who care for them so damn much, the feeling that C returns wholeheartedly.
you started the song before everyone joined in—off-key, chaotic, and too loud. D’s voice cracked on purpose despite them easily being the best singer amongst you, drawing groans and laughter.
C bent over the cake, their face half-lit by the glow of the candles. they then closed their eyes and blew them out. the room erupted in cheers, the sound washing over them like a wave, and they felt themself smiling despite the tightness in their throat.
the cake was cut, slices passed around amid laughter and chatter. W snapped pictures of everything—V gathering the gifts in a neat little stack, C handing you the first slice, D trying to stick frosting on C’s nose, and you laughing at the scathing glare that M threw at them for wasting the cake.
and then it was time to open the gifts.
they were thoughtful, impossibly so—a leather-bound book of rilke’s poetry from V, a bottle of vintage wine from D, a pocket watch with C’s initials on the back from W, a customised hand-made journal from M.
finally, it was your turn. you held the box out to them, your smile soft and encouraging.
“you didn’t have to,” they started, but you silenced them with a look.
“do not embarrass me in front of our friends, lacroix,” you warned jokingly. “just open it.”
C ended up obeying, their long fingers untying the ribbon and lifting the lid, their fingers trembling slightly. inside was an antique chess set, its craftsmanship exquisite. the pieces were hand-carved, each one unique.
the pieces gleamed like polished bone, their details impossibly precise—the bishop’s sharp corners, the rook’s sturdy base. and then C recognised the signature carved on the side: bobby fischer.
their jaw dropped. they looked at you, at the chessboard, and back to you, words momentarily failing them. “you... how?”
you smiled, a little bashful. “your mom helped. and professor venkatraman. it wasn’t exactly easy, but we thought it was worth it.”
C placed the box down gently, their chest heaving with a breath they didn’t realize they’d been holding. the room blurred again, not from the lights this time but from the tears welling in their eyes.
“i…” they trailed off, not really knowing what to say.
you smiled, stepping closer. “happy birthday, C. i love you.”
they didn’t think. they didn’t plan. they simply reached for you, cupping your face in their hands and pulling you into a kiss that was as much a thank you as it was a confession. they poured everything they wanted to say into it: their gratitude, their affection, their hope.
i love you, the kiss seemed to tell you. i love you and i’m never going to let you go. you’re a dream that i never want to wake up from. mon ange. mon étoile. mon tout.
the room erupted again—cheers, laughter, D’s unmistakable wolf whistle.
“get a room!” they shouted, and someone (probably V, judging by their mutterings) smacked them on the arm.
C ignored it all. they let themself be selfish, let themself feel everything without holding back. when they finally pulled away, you were smiling uncontrollably.
“thank you,” they whispered, their voice cracking.
you squeezed the hands that were still on your cheeks. “you’re worth it.”
C hadn’t expected much from their birthday. they never did. the date, january 12, was more a marker of time passing than a celebration. the earth would continue spinning, the sun would rise and fall, and they’d wake up the same person they were the day before.
but they were wrong, weren’t they? their birthday wasn’t just another mundane day. it was this—the laughter, the love, the moments they never thought they’d deserve but somehow found anyway.
in blackthorne hall, surrounded by their friends and the love of their life, C Lacroix happily turned eighteen.
