Author's Note: Wrote these pieces as gifts for three of my wonderful friends. Decided to publish them when I realized that I've basically written the same character with two drastically different voices without realizing it, lmao.

I hope you'll enjoy them as well.

Let me tell you about brioche.

I never had any, y'know. Not in this lifetime at least. But sometimes I remember the fluff, the crunch, the sweet creamy filling...

(Brioche has filling, right? Ah well. It doesn't really matter now.)

I would serve it up to the Gardener and he would say, "Waiter, there's nothing there," and I would throw the plate in his stupid face because fuck you, Gardener, THAT WAS GOOD NOT-BRIOCHE I DIDN'T MAKE, JUST FOR YOU. AT LEAST LOOK HAPPY ABOUT IT.

Then my brother would walk up to me and put his hand on my shoulder, shaking his head. I'd calm down, but not really. Another failed delivery from an ex-Postman.

And on a side note, no, I really do not care about Gardener's opinion. I don't know what you're talking about. That plebeian couldn't appreciate brioche even if I shoved it in his face. Was there even brioche still out there, at that time?

I think there was.

There was brioche in that dead man's pocket. It came wrapped in clear cellophane, tied in a nice red ribbon. I liked the red ribbon. I put it in my hair and asked Ma how it looked on me. She said she'd rather have me wear a white ribbon. Fuck her too.

Allen was a lot nicer about it anyway.

I couldn't eat that brioche though, as Gretel took it away from me, horrified. All food, she said, especially the rotten lump I apparently held in my hands, should go to her Mistress' table. I said, "Gretel, I know you care about me, but this brioche is the freshest I've ever seen!"

(It was the only brioche I had ever seen, but shhhh. She didn't know that.)

She only looked at me sadly, and pried it out of my hands. At least she let me keep the ribbon.

Gammon burnt the cellophane. It melted into oil, burning nice and hot even if the smell was just a bit funny. As I warmed my hands, I couldn't stop thinking that I could've baked brioche with the hot flame.

Ugh. How long do I have to wait in this brioche-less existence?

I was a Postman, once. Always in transit from one location to another. That was all I did, all I ever knew, before Gretel finally took a good look at me and gave me back my soul. No matter what happened, to me, or to anyone else, the mail must go through.

(Unfortunately, the mail was never brioche.)

I wasn't used to staying in one place all the time. Not in this lifetime at least.

Allen's very annoying about lifetimes. I know, Allen, I know that to the rest of the world, you do not exist right now; but you did once, and you wouldn't let me forget that.

I wouldn't let me forget that.

But can you at least give me some brioche instead of just leaving me here to twiddle my thumbs and kick the Gardener around, yapping at me about how "if we could be reborn?" At least the Gardener can do his job, mainly, my chores. What can you do?

I even tried to make some myself.

I did that once, right?

Except I tried to serve that to the Gardener too and he would say "Waiter, this is just worms and dirt," and I would throw the plate in his face again because damn you, Gardener, this was GOOD ACTUAL BRIOCHE THAT I DID MAKE, JUST FOR YOU. UNGRATEFUL BASTARD.

And now there's no brioche at all, anymore, anywhere.

Hey Allen, when we remake the world, there better be some fucking brioche in it.