Not to overshadow the heaviness of 9/11, but I do believe this is relevant. There needs to be something happy, and a birthday is just the thing.
It's someone's birthday, and this he knows. But he doesn't know whose birthday it is. Perhaps it's the Arab's, simmering quietly in the back of his mind. Of course, not many people back then celebrated birthdays. It was more of a, "Well, another year ahead," kind of affair. Plus, the Arab was always too busy to notice his own birthday come and go.
Perhaps it's the Italian's, he muses, the one whose skin fits. The apprentices always celebrated him in the hideout. They loved to thank him. He was their savior. He was always sure of himself. This was the life he knew and knew well. It might have been his birthday. It probably was.
Perhaps it was the birthday of that stranger he saw—the same stranger he saw whenever he looked in water or in a cloudy window or piece of glass. That stranger with the tired eyes, the defeated look, and the pale, sickly skin: he was least familiar with this one. He didn't know who this man was, or how he came to be, or even why this sickly looking man was still alive. Perhaps it's the stranger's birthday.
It's hard to tell, in all honesty, because the skin he's most familiar in, the Italian's, is always jumping about from place to place. There would be some days he do something, then the next time he woke up, it'd be three years in the future. At least the man was happy with his apprentices. He hoped it was the Italian's birthday. The man needed some happiness.
The Arab was never extremely prevalent, always more of a quiet hum in the back of his head over the familiar stretch of Italian. He knew the Arab was always working, whether absorbed in that glowing metal orb or spending time with the people in his fortress. That one-armed man always seemed to remember it. Perhaps he should ask him if he got the chance to meet him again.
Even less prevalent was the skin of that stranger, whose skin he was in now as he sat on something uncomfortable and watched more strangers mill around. They didn't seem to notice him, even though they would talk to him on most days. Of course, it probably would've helped if he had started the conversation. But this skin was unfamiliar to him. He would simply wait until he was back in the Italian's skin, then ask around. Perhaps there would be a surprise party.
The blonde woman kept looking over at him, and he looked right through her. This skin was terribly unfamiliar, but the blonde woman insisted he stay in it. He hadn't had the chance to go back to the Italian's in a while, and he longed to be back somewhere he belonged. The woman with the black hair kept muttering to herself, and he wondered if she was nice. The Arab likened her to the crazies that he found stumbling in the back alleys, and he pitied the woman. She should've tried to work as a water carrier for a richer man. The man with the glasses had been gone most of the day. He slept with him when he was forced out of the Italian's skin. There was something almost familiar about him, and the unfamiliar skin of this dying man reacted to it. He would lie beside him in those warm little bags, and things would become a shade clearer for him.
He could remember the names of the strangers around him as he curled up with the man with the glasses. But, that man wasn't here, and he was left perched on this odd chair and wishing to be back in the Italian's life. There's a warm pass of skin against his, and he blinks, looking down to see a hand covering his own. He follows the arm up, and there's the man with the glasses, holding a grocery bag and looking concerned. He smiles.
"Shaun," he thinks he says, and the worried look eases up a little bit.
"That's right mate. Lucy says you haven't moved all day long."
He blinks, looking around to see the blonde woman and the black-haired woman gone. He didn't know they had left. The man with the glasses lets go, and he trails behind him as the man pulls out a small tin can with some sort of bright label on it. He opens it and cooks it over a small fire that comes out of some sort of contraption meant for cooking. He thinks briefly this unfamiliar skin should know what it is, but it's too unfamiliar to know for sure. The man with the glasses offers him a spoon, and soon enough, the two of them are eating from their own can of noodle soup, their legs twined together and suddenly, the world is a little bit clearer in this strange body.
He looks over at the sleeping bags to find Lucy and Rebecca asleep, curled up inside the bags. The shelf with all of Ezio's things is still untouched, and he glances over to Shaun's sleeping bag, and suddenly, all he wants to do is sleep forever with the man. He looks back at Shaun, who is eating quietly, his eyes flickering over some document, one hand holding the can of soup and the other lightly rubbing his thigh. He likes the way that feels. He likes this man.
He slowly finishes the can of soup and pulls the other man into his lap, and he nuzzles against his head, smelling deeply. It smells familiar, despite the grease and dirt he can feel on his face. They're all dirty in this place. He wraps his arms around Shaun's waist and smiles. The man makes no noise of objection and settles back.
He looks around the room again, the Animus looking much more foreboding in the dim lights of the technology. He doesn't want to go back in it. He wants to stay here, with Shaun, eating soup and dreaming about a better life. Maybe it's Shaun's birthday.
"Happy birthday," he mumbles against the skin of his neck.
"What are you joshing about?" the man scoffs back.
He was wrong. That was nothing new. "Sorry. I thought it was your birthday."
He grins when he feels Shaun roll his eyes and move. The man stands up and holds out a hand.
"Come on, you big lummox."
He grabs the hand and holds it tightly as they walk out of the familiar place. The place that is familiar to Ezio—not to him. They walk up into the dark night, and he thinks he can see millions of stars out there. He wants to grab one and keep it forever. Shaun takes him to the rooftop. There's a small blanket, decorated with a small cake and some odd amount of candles. He looks at Shaun: it must have been the Arab's birthday.
"No, it's not," the man says, pushing his glasses up his nose and walking him over to the blanket.
He must have said that aloud. It wasn't as if he knew what was said and what wasn't said, anyway. He counts the number of candles as Shaun lights them. There are twenty-six. There are two brightly colored cans of Coke sitting there as well.
"It's your birthday, you moron," Shaun teases gently, and he grins in return.
Across the small cake, written in a beautiful dark red, is the word "Des." That's right: his name is Desmond.
"I'm Desmond, aren't I?"
"No, you're Dolly Parton," the man responds, and Desmond looks at him before they both start laughing.
He watches as Shaun pulls out a lighter and lights all twenty-six of the thin little candles. Once he has, he holds the cake up.
"Okay now, you tiny child, I know you have a massive lung capacity—let's see you blow them all out in one go."
He does not disappoint and is quick to stick his finger in the icing and lick it off, enjoying that overwhelmingly sweet taste of chemical sugar. He smirks when Shaun makes a face.
"You just ruined the whole bloody cake, you pillock."
He chuckles and helps him pull out the candles before he's given a fork. There's the sound of the can being opened, and he mimics the action, knocking it against Shaun's when he raises it.
"Happy birthday, Desmond."
He grins widely. "Happy birthday."
They dig into the cake without further delay, and the two of them quickly get drunk off the night air, the late nights, and amount of processed food going through their systems. They kiss and goof around, letting the chemically treated cake take its toll. Eventually, in the wee hours of morning, they pack up all the trash and head below. Lucy is waiting there, scowling, but Desmond is too busy laughing at whatever Shaun had said about how Kate had actually had a bit of a mustache, and they set the trash down and worm inside the sleeping bag. He pulls the man close, grinning as they face each other in the small sleeping bag. He likes this skin, he decides. He likes everything it comes with.
Especially when he gets to lick the icing on Shaun's nose he may or may not have put there after he insulted motorcycles and forgotten to wipe off until Lucy pointed it out just now. There was a smudge along the man's cheek, too, and he smiles when Shaun closes his eyes as he licks it off. As they settle down to sleep, he realizes his birthday was better than he could've ever imagined.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ARDX. I KNOW IT WAS SLIGHTLY SAD, BUT EVEN DESSIE NEEDS TO CELEBRATE. Either way, I hope you enjoyed it.
...what is with me and icing? I don't even like the stuff.