aa headcanon/prompt:
during the years they spent being friends with each other, phoenix realizes that not only has he never celebrated miles’ birthday with him, but also that he has no clue when it is.
he knows miles doesn’t seem much like a party person, but he would still like to have a small celebration with him. miles always comes to the parties for himself as well as maya, trucy, and even apollo and athena. he wanted to find a way to return the favor and throw a (small, casual) party for his favorite prosecutor when the time rolled around for his birthday.
the only trouble was finding out when his birthday was. for some reason, whenever he asked, miles would find a way to dodge the question or to just ignore it and divert phoenix’s attention to another matter. it was incredibly infuriating and only made phoenix more determined to find out when the man was born.
it took miles being injured for him to find out the answer.
during a crime scene investigation, a few series of unfortunate events resulted in miles breaking his arm. though the stubborn man insisted he was fine, phoenix insisted that he was not and took him to the hospital.
phoenix decided to be the one to fill out miles’ paperwork, since miles was injured. he was able to fill out most of the information with ease, except for medical history and date of birth. he asked miles for his date of birth, but miles remained silent. he asked him once again and miles sighed heavily before divulging the information to him. though phoenix had wanted to know this for months, he regretted it the moment he heard the date.
“december 28th, 1992.”
now he knew why miles didn’t celebrate his birthday.
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Title: Ascalon, Upturned
Ship: Dion/Terence
Terence-centric, Character Study, Terence & Bahamut, Implied Sensuality, Rating T+
“Have I overstepped? If I have not yet, then let me now.”
Terence wants a word.
part (1/2)
~1k.
---
"Terence," Dion teased. "I can hear you thinking."
So he was, though not for lack of trying. Sleep would have been far more welcome than thought.
It would be Greagor's Day tomorrow—or, if time had slipped past on quieter feet than either of them had realized, it was Greagor’s Day today. A holy day of the highest degree, so named for Her indomitable will. A day for prayers, for wishing, for bringing light to others during this, the longest night of the year, even if that light was as slight and fragile as a candle’s flame. The Goddess’ ceaseless war against darkness came to its head on this night, and Her people, loyal soldiers that they were, would only be glad to stand with Her.
Every year the great battle raged, and every year when it seemed that perhaps night would win at last, She would triumph again. Slowly, the days would grow longer, and surely, the darkness would retreat—by Greagor's sacred mercies; holy; holy.
Tonight Dion would pass over the capitol on Bahamut’s wings, a beacon to the people and a testament to Sanbreque’s might, its will, and its faith—glorifying the Holy Emperor, barely drawing the notice of Their dull and glutted Eminences, boring Prince Olivier to tears. The curse would crawl further up his arm for the privilege.
It didn’t bear thinking about, especially with Dion’s heart beating steady beneath his ear. Terence closed his eyes. He had decided a long time ago he would never ask anything of Dion on the Goddess's day, but…
"You should be far too tired for thinking.” Sensing imminent movement, Dion placed a kiss on the crown of Terence’s head. On any other day, the strategy would have been sound. "I have not left you wanting, have I?”
Huffing, Terence turned on his back. Let Dion see for himself how he had left him.
He could not even have pride at the sound of his soft inhale. With thought, disquiet had caught itself against him, like cloth on rough skin. He went still, anticipating the dip of the bed as his Prince settled beside him. Terence saw gold hair, the curve of his cheek. He turned from them and held his breath.
“Tell me,” he heard Dion say.
In all the years Terence had been privy to them, the Prince's rooms had been kept clean, orderly, and as tastefully appointed as the glory of Sanbreque might allow. That had not saved them from beautiful, sugared scenes of war, their subjects—victors and the vanquished—resplendent in their sticky frosting of plaster. Terence had long since committed every sickly detail of the frescoes surrounding them to memory. An idle mind could do far worse.
One sleepless night he had found a small golden dragon, tucked deep in the corner of the frame the walls made, quite beyond notice. The creature was not one of any special significance—there were fiercer wyrms, to be sure, bolder and more beautiful besides—but he liked the steady purpose he saw in its face, its rearing posture and clean white talons, the space it dared to take. That the painter had bothered with it at all when it seemed quite superfluous to do so had endeared it to him in the first place; the gilt scales, of course, took close second. He looked it in the eyes now, speaking low but true:
"I would ask an audience with the King."
From the very corner of his eye, Terence saw Dion stiffen, then masterfully recover. If Terence did not know his Prince so well, so attuned to any sign of stillness in him, he might not have noticed it at all.
"He will not hear of it," Dion said gently. He reached for the fine, freshly shorn hair behind Terence's ear. "I—"
Will not, Terence wondered. Was he truly so particular? So proud? What of the people, then, who spent their prayers each day on—
He shut his eyes for a moment to think, allowing himself the fullness of the pleasure of Dion’s touch. He was always wanting. It couldn’t be helped.
"You do not want His attention," Dion added, even gentler. "Much less His regard."
Terence's right hand gathered, trapping his heartbeat inside his fist. It would be ridiculous to try to play it off, or to hide it from Dion, whether beneath a pillow or sheet or a lie. He placed it instead over his chest, clasping it tight to better hold his peace.
Dion reached for him again, tracing over the prominence of his knuckles. As he did, as he ever had, he made a space for himself, threading his fingers between Terence's and bringing his hand to his mouth for a kiss.
"It's a day for wishes, Terence,” he began, his voice tender as his touch. “Here is mine: stay. Sleep. To have you like this is a rare gift. A chance to weather the night with you by my side—I would be the worst sort of fool not to take it."
It was clumsy, but Terence had not exactly been fleet footed and sure himself. He was satisfied that he had at least broached the subject of permission. Without that, only forgiveness—if it were granted—remained. He told himself the scriptures held that ambition was sacred. Whatever Greagor had not given, She meant as a test of will, of love. He was resolved.
"I will wake you before first light," Dion promised, pressing close. “I would see the sun rise with you by my side.”
Terence relented. He put his back to the window, rolling the half turn he needed to bring Dion into the circle of his arms. It was easier than he expected to give himself over to sleep that way, even with the twinkling blue light of the Mothercrystal and the solstice decorations reflected in the warm brown of Dion’s eyes.
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(personal vent about my sack of shit father ruining christmas again)
me, my fathers only "daughter"/child:
helps my grandmother for weeks to prepare for his christmas party that neither of us wanted (he goes way over the top. invites his friends that are all loud drunks. cooks food we don't like. keeps the whole house up partying into the early hours of the morning. makes a mess and refuses to clean up after himself. doesn't spend time with us and instead hangs out with his friends, even for family holidays and events. etc.
me and my grandmother are disabled, constantly in pain/have stomach issues, and generally just want to be left on our own for holidays, so the whole event is just awful for us)
has been up since 6* in the morning, continuing to prepare for his party so he doesn't throw a hissy fit, running on only a few hours of sleep*, running around from store to store, cleaning, cooking, decoaring, etc.
spends hours trying to wake him up.
after doing everything I am capable of skill/strength wise, I took a two hour power nap before guests come.
helps serve dinner, makes drinks, fulfills every task my father gives me to maintain the delicate peace in the household, cause my grandmother wants to murder him*.
does all of this with no complaint.
my father:
promises his full and undivided attention and help the day before the party (this is the only day he's offered the slightest help outside of making a huge dinner no one but he and his friends wanted), he then breaks this promise, does nothing, delegates every task my grandmother has given him to me, and then leaves at 6 at night to go party, ignoring the amount of cooking he needs to finish.
doesn't come home for almost 12 hours (he came home at 6am), waking me up*, sleeps till 1, leaving me and my gradnmother do 90% of the things that needed to be done today (as his guests are coming at 4).
invites more friends than he originally told us about, ditching us after dinner (which we served) to go hang out outside and blast music so loud it shakes the house.
and then complains that I "slept all day" and "did nothing" so now I need to clean the whole kitchen and all the dishes of over 15 guests, not him, the reason there's such a mess to clean.
he continues to demand this even after something he cooks, knowing I hate it and it makes me feel ill, and stinks up the whole kitchen, making me go lie down because it made me nauseous and gave me a migraine.
I then get to spend the rest of my christmas eve cleaning, doing dishes, while barely holding back tears.
thanks dad, for ruining an already awful christmas, you fucking asshole.
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