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The garden is empty during the hour Nadia sets aside for the fireworks. There are a few test fireworks that shoot off from the other side of the palace's lake; none of them are big enough to do more than cast orange and red light in the fountain’s reflection, but you find yourself enjoying them nonetheless. These aren’t the colors Nadia had you choose. Those won’t be launched for at least another thirty minutes. You are grateful Nadia, Portia, the courtiers, and the rest of Vesuvia thought it appropriate to celebrate your birthday. It was an honor, it was also a lie. When Nadia had asked the date, you had guessed, looking to Asra as though he would have some type of answer for you. When he just smiled, you accepted the fact that this day would be your birthday for the rest of your life.
You sit against the tree, under the letters of your name, and hope that Asra is distracted enough to let you watch the fireworks in this garden alone.
“I should learn to not underestimate you, curly q. It’s impressive you managed to seclude the most lovely view in the palace,” Asra says, sitting beside you. The nickname is one Asra has used since your memories began; they never give you a reason. They just smirk like the nickname is an inside joke between the old you and them.
“I didn’t come here because of how pretty it was. You can’t even see the test fireworks from here.”
Asra watches the sky with interest, humming when more fireworks launch; this time they are green and yellow. They blow up at a higher point, but it is only the very edges of their explosions that are visible past the walls of the palace.
“The lights are still beautiful,” Asra says. “You can see them in the reflection of the fountain.”
You don’t bother looking; these fireworks aren’t for you, they are for the people of Vesuvia: a celebration of the person who gave them peace of mind, who gave them the answers they needed for everything they had been through with their count. “You should go back, I just need a break. It’s too hot in there.”
Asra reaches up, moving his hand closer to you. You think he is going to cup your cheek, but reaches for your hair, stopping to wait for your permission. When you nod he undoes the braid Portia had done for you. The relief is immediate, and you can’t help but lean into Asra’s shoulder.
He says, “Today is your real birthday.”
“You told me you wouldn’t lie anymore. I guessed a random day, I know it's not my birthday.”
Some more test fireworks go off, this time more of the fireworks are visible, their patterns clear in the fountain, reminding you of Asra’s eyes.
“Why did you come here?” Asra asks.
“Because no one would be here.” In reality you don’t know why you came here. One moment you were watching the ballroom with all of its colorful dances--A purple Asra whispering to a crimson Julian, a golden Nadia swirling around a vermillion Portia, a million other colors combining like fireworks instead of gowns and suits--the next you were calming yourself and breathing in the cold Vesuvian air.
“No one would be in your room, or back in the shop. I am here for you. I wouldn’t mind leaving early, curly q.”
“Stop calling me that,” you say.
Finally Asra shuts up.
There are no more test fireworks. No stars shine in the sky because of how bright the lights of the palace are. You try your breathing techniques again, but find yourself picking at the edge of your nails. Asra isn’t smiling or smirking, or even looking at you; he’s watching your hands. When you catch their eye, they stare at the fountain water.
“I didn’t mean that,” you say.
Asra scoffs. “We agreed to stop lying.”
“You lied about it being my birthday, this is something I don’t understand. I can’t lie about something I don’t even remember.”
“Guess the reason for the nickname.”
“I can’t. I can’t think of a single reason. Just like I don’t know my birthday and I don’t know why I came to the garden. I don’t want to play these games.” You dig into a loose piece of skin, pulling it. Blood pools in the bed of your nail.
Asra, doesn’t give you time to react, grabbing the nail you injured and licking the blood away. Once cleaned he murmurs words to a healing spell, and the cuticle stitches itself back together. “It’s not a game; I mean it. I want you to guess.”
You pull your hand away from him and shut your eyes. “Our first kiss was in this garden. Maybe we watched fireworks then? Maybe one of them made a curl shape.”
“You are right about our first kiss, but no. Not the fireworks.” Asra picks themself up from the ground, and offers you their hand. They say, “Show me how our first kiss went.”
You almost reject, but a firework behind them goes off--another test firework because the music is still playing. The light has no color, but it illuminates the soft wisps of their hair and the purple of their eyes. You take their hands. Despite the heat wafting from the palace, Asra is cold. When you are standing he lets a smile spread over his lips and presses a cold kiss to the finger you had made bleed.
“I don’t remember our first kiss,” you say.
“Kiss me in the place that feels most right.”
You lead Asra further into the garden, past the fountain, where no one from the inside could catch a glimpse of the two of you. A tree covers the space where two walls meet, it is the perfect space for stolen kisses and whirlwind romances. You pull him into the corner, run your fingers through his white hair, and when another firework goes off you press a kiss to the center of his lips.
He hums into it, but doesn’t deepen it, giving you all the control. You pull back. “Here. We kissed here, but not like that.”
You try to come up with another way to kiss outside a peck. You imagine the physical techniques you had learned from Asra: closing your eyes, resting your arms around his shoulders, making your lips soft, turning to the right so your noses don’t brush.
“Don’t overthink it, curly q. Our first kiss was hardly perfect.”
You step away from Asra, who just watches. He’s pretty like this: hair mussed from your fingers, your blood staining his pretty lips red, his eyes half lidded, watching you with no expectations. He doesn’t care if you get this right. He just wants to kiss you.
So you kiss him. Maybe you are too rough. Maybe you push him into the stone wall. Maybe the kiss hurts. You know that he tastes like pumpkin bread and magic, you know somehow you made his skin warm, you know he touches you and kisses you, like the main part of this night is this kiss rather than the fireworks you can vaguely hear going off behind you. The music has stopped, and when you peek through your lashes you catch the way the lights play over his skin and on his hair. This is the show Vesuvia had created for you.
However long the firework show is, you keep Asra pressed against the wall for longer, stradling their hips, pressing your lips to their neck and ear, and mouth and everything because Asra is Asra. You are you.
When the fireworks finally slow, you rest your head against his shoulder. And watch all of them, even the few that are covered by the walls of the palace.
“I still don’t understand the nick--” As the words leave your lips one last firework shoots into the sky, making a broken loop before falling back to the ground. “What happened to no more lying? You said it didn’t have to do with the fireworks.”
That just made Asra smile, “I should have said it wasn’t just the fireworks.” He reaches up, tugs a strand of your hair fully out, it had curled around itself in a pattern that was familiar to both you and Asra. When he lets the strand bounce back into place, he giggles. “It’s your hair too.”
You think it is fine if you fall asleep on him. It’s fine that you spent the firework show kissing him behind a tree.
It is your birthday.