Eight year old boys met as strangers, became childhood friends in elementary, then quarreled as enemies in between a love triangle, before proposing as lovers on their 18th birthdays. In their quaint treehouse during a midnight snowfall, the warm song of happy birthday vocalizes the forest and tunes in the squirrels to listen.
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“Ha~Ahh~haa~pee~birth~day~tooohoho~youuuuuhoot!” They asked for a professional singer and she slayed Mariah Karrie dumpster version “you guys, I cannot believe I am standing here right now. Me? The only witness, good gosh. I really, really, support you both!” Emily, the girl who once they chased after, blows in tears as both—once childhood strangers now love birds peck each others hesitant lips while holding their cake.
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Rupert and George written in cursive on the delicious vanilla fondue. They exchange smiles, their blue and green eyes sparking purple. Feeling themselves as royalty in this small birthday in a tree house. Relishing the moment fully with their friend clapping and cheering wildly like an odd noisy bird. “DO THE DEED LATER WOO!”
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Both went silent, their eyes wide and cheeks flushed. Rupert winces—-gesture telling George to shut the woman up. But his partner overly curls his shameful head, love tinted ears twitch by whatever he is thinking. And from Rupert’s 3 years of being with his partner, he can only lean in and whisper that causes the poor young man to stiffen.
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“DO IT, DO IT, DO IT, haha look at George. He can’t wait! Kyaahaha!” She must be drunk by all the water she is drinking
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“Shut up, woman” George finally musters out of embarrassment. “Come on,” clearing his throat, before returning back to his low, husky voice, “let’s blow the candle already” trying to hurry the celebration,
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“You really can’t wait?” Rupert teases, fixing his boyfriend’s stray hair then rubbing their foreheads against each other. He closes in, making sure that he feels how many hairs are standing on his.
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“Bo—stop it. Stop it and let’s just blow this candle”
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“I can blow something else later too~” whistling playfully, “if you want”
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“Kyaaaaaa” the shrieker jumps in their romantic spark, “you two are for real, BL Material. Amma really write a bl story when I get back home”
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George says nothing while Rupert agrees to Emily on his behalf. The phones are recording and ready to take as much picture as they like. Three, two, one, flash. They blow their candles, sing more songs, tell to each their own stories—no more secrets and the celebration end with their solemn loving wishes for love and friendship. Hands on top of each other, steadily dancing under the white cake’s sweetness while Emily records everything. Pressuring herself to make sure, that this moment is preserved forever be. They drank until their heads drop before the first light. Emily jump down the treehouse as if she is skydiving, magic carefully propping her landing. The drunk George, on the other hand, stumbles from wall to wall. Cluttering everything in his path, yelling loudly by how much he wants Rupert and everything he wants to do to him before he gets forcefully carried like a princess, and gets thrown onto the bed like a sac of potatoes. He snored three seconds later. And Rupert enters shortly after, sharing under one blanket, interlocking his finger with his new husband and breathe into a gentle sleep.
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