homestuck; nycstuck part i; birthday.

[sleeting]

WHO: Roxy & Rose Lalonde
WHAT: Part I of NYCstuck ficlets. Based in Doorway-verse, only vaguely.
RATING: G for general, C for cursing.
WORDCOUNT: 2,151 words.

December 4th. A shared birthday between the two Lalonde girls, in Room 2205 of the Potts Tower. You're thrilled as punch, for obvi reasons. Sweet sixteen with your daughter/mom, sitting pretty livin' it up in NYC. It could be better, yeah, cause your bffsies ain't about, but all things considered you'd be damn spoiled if you asked for more. It's like a Christmas miracle— no, a Thanksgiving miracle, since the two of you popped up here the day after it. The two of you decide to have less of a party (since there's no one who would come— everyone here is strangers and half of them steer clear once either of you show/tell about your crazyass world) and more of a miniparty, ordering Chinese food and hanging in your apartment by yourselves. That doesn't stop you from making it the best miniparty that has ever been seen. While Rose is out during the afternoon, you drag out the supplies you procured for the occasion. Streamers, construction paper for party hats, those weird roll up paper blow things, some colored Christmas lights (they were there), a fuckton of ribbons. You grabbed a bit of everything, almost clearing out the party aisle at the local store. Against your better judgment, you decided to bake a cake— not from scratch, you aren't a Crocker. It should be easy, right? Directions on the back of the box. Despite that, the kitchen is somewhat disastrous by the time you're done and the cake is slightly underdone. It's slathered messily in purple and pink icing, with a white HAPPY BIRTHDAY, mercifully untypo'd. You couldn't get a hold of anything alcoholic, but some Sprite in champagne glasses should suffice for fanciness. And, all right, you don't really want alcohol. You haven't been this sober in years, and every time you crack a joke about wanting vodka Rose gets this look in her eyes, the kind of look that makes you want to stay sober— for her. When Rose gets home, her surprise is slight at best. Her eyebrows raise slightly as she takes in the colored streamers and lights and the Christmas music playing from the stereo. She has the bag of Chinese food in one hand (how can they fit everything in one bag, you've wondered, but there is no answer to be found) and sets it on the coffee table as you prance your way over to her from the kitchen. "Happy birthday!" You say, whumping the orchid-colored party hat onto her head. It clips to her headband and your pink one is held in with clips as well, because the strings would have cut into your skin and it'd be terrible if the hats were to fall off in the midst of "partying". "Happy birthday." Rose adjusts her party hat to sit at an angle atop her head. "You had a busy afternoon, I see. What happened to 'just hangin' with egg rolls'?" "Nothin' happened, I just figured that the egg rolls needed the company of streamers and a cake." "You bought a cake?" "Made a cake. Look, see!" You grab Rose by the arm, hauling her into the kitchen to see your grand creation, and she actually is surprised when she sees the purple-pink-and-white frosted chocolate monstrosity, misshapen and lopsided on a plastic platter with cats on it. You both settle down on the sofa with your Chinese food, bubbly clear soda, and Rose decides you'd both be served better by more reading of Homestuck than by trashy TV. This lasts ten minutes before Rose relents and realizes that you would, in fact, be better served by trashy TV. You both enjoy shaking your heads and tutting at stupid people doing ridiculous things, with the occasional exasperated sigh from Rose and "ooh, girl, no" from you. When the fine and salty supper is finished with, it's time for presents. Neither of you had much time to shop (and, admittedly, you wasted a ton of your funds on party supplies vs gifts), plus your acquaintance of one another is still in early days— all things considered, you probably know more about each other than someone might expect, but you don't really know each other know each other. Rose insists that you open one of the gifts she got you first, and you oblige without much complaint. It's very neatly wrapped in pretty shimmery paper, whatever it is, and while you're tempted to shred it to pieces like a four-year-old on Christmas morning, you very carefully tear at the tape holding it together. Besides, your slowness in unwrapping serves to make Rose twitch just so slightly, slightly enough that anyone else wouldn't notice it. But in a passive aggressive war, one quickly picks up on those tell-tale-signs of aggress. "Am I unwrapping too slow?" "Oh, no, of course not," Rose waves it away, even though she clearly thinks otherwise. "Because if I am…" "You unwrap at your own pace, Roxy." You continue with your snail's-pace until your curiosity can no longer be contained and you rip the rest of the paper off in one fell swoop. Carefully folded inside the paper is a scarf— no, two scarves. One a perfect pink, and the other a perfect twin to the purple striped scarf you lost. "They were a bit of a rush job, so they may not be quite as well-knitted as they could have been, but— oof!" You glomp her into a hug from your side of the couch, crushing the scarves and wrapping paper between you. "They're perfect, Rosey. The most perfect perfection to ever perfect it's way into any universe. I can hear a choir of angels singin' to their perfection in the distance. They're singing 'fuck yes those are some awesome scarves that Rosey made, holy shit, stop dem presses, we got awesome scarf alert twelve o'clock news'." Rose smiles then, a full-on smile with teeth and everything. You're pretty sure that's rare, Rose seems more the light smirk type of girl. "I'm glad you like them." "Girl, like does not even begin to describe my feelings right now." You wrap them both around your neck, even though wearing two scarves at once looks ridiculous and it's cozy warm in the apartment. It's ridiculous, and you don't care. They're just scarves, after all, and most people would dread getting clothing items for any holiday, but you can feel tears coming to your eyes. Because they're not just scarves, they're scarves knitted by your mother slash daughter and they're perfect and you never imagined that you'd get to sit next to her on a sofa, eating Chinese on your shared birthday. You're so happy that your heart hurts, because it's just so perfect. "All right, my turn." Rose reaches for the little purple gift bag, but you stop her. "No, not that one— hold on." You stumble off of the sofa. "I hid the good one— well, not hid— just wait here, k? You're gonna be thrilled as peaches and ice tea." Without waiting for a response, you dash off, leaving Rose on the sofa. And Rose can't help but think for a mad moment, She got me a pony, didn't she which is wild and outlandish. There is no way they would have let you keep a pony in your apartment, and Rose would have noticed if you'd stashed one in the flat. Rose is surprised to find she wasn't that far off the mark. You walk backwards into the living room, careful not to stumble over your own feet, holding your package precariously in front of you. Very slowly, you spin around. "Ta da! Happy birthday, Rosey." Rose's breath is caught in her throat. She's truly well and surprised now. In your arms is a little black kitten. He doesn't look much like Jaspers, but he does have a red bow tie on. You don't know it, but Rose is flashing back to a similar scenario from her childhood— her mother holding out a little black feline as a gift to her, standing up over her like you are know, with little wide-eyed Rose sitting on the sofa peering up in amazement at the most sensible gift her mother had ever gotten her. "I was going to get you a kitten for Christmas, anyway, but I found this little meowcat just yesterday and it was great timing, so." You shrug. Rose is still silent, and you wonder for a moment if she doesn't like the cat or doesn't like that you got her a cat, but then she takes the black fuzzball from your hands and smiles. Not a toothy smile, but a genuine smile that lights up her eyes and you know you did good. "How— Where did you find him? Is it a him?" The little cat is pawing at Rose's sweater now, fascinated by its new human. Rose has the kindest and most patient smile you've ever seen on anyone plastered on her face. "Well, after I picked up the streamers and shit, there were these kids— I don't know, like, younger than us— with a box full of kittens and at first I was just gonna 'ooh' and 'aww' at them but then I spotted this little cutie and they were free and I had to." You reach over and give the fella a scratch behind the ears. "They said he was a boy, but t-b-h they did not look like super trustworthy meowcat vendors, so he could be a she for all I know." (A quick look verifies that mini Frigspers (unofficial name) is indeed a male.) After the two of you open the other small gifts you got each other— you got Rose some lovely lavender soaps and a nice red leash/harness for Frigspers (he will not keep this terrible name, Rose informs you); and Rose got you a pink wristwatch "So you aren't late for things again", the sassy little shit. Next is cake, which is cut into eight uneven pieces and dug into while Frigspers ("If you keep calling him that, it'll stick, and that'll be a travesty, Roxy," after which you start calling him Gandalf, which is barely better) plays with the wrapping paper on Rose's lap. You're on your second piece when Rose decides to be the responsible one ("Are you sure? I could do it." "No, it's fine, I'll do it." "Really, cause I could." "I'm already doing it, so." "Oh, I didn't want you to have to clean up on your b-day." "Oh, well, oops.") and clean up the food containers from dinner. "Roxy?" "Yeah?" you ask through a mouthful of cake. "What brand of cake mix did you use?" "Duncan Hines." You remember because it's primary color is red, and they were right next to that other major brand— as if trying to trick you, which you are 100% sure that they were. "Why?" Rose doesn't say anything as she strides from the kitchen and hands you the red cake mix box. You stare at it, just staring. It's emblazoned as "Super Moist" and it so, so was, but that so longer matters. There's a red spoon on the across the top of of the box, and in white letters, cursive BETTY CROCKER. You accidentally swallow the bite in your mouth, nearly choking on it. You grabbed the wrong box. You grabbed the wrong box. Now there was money in the Batterwitch's pocket from you and you and your daughter have Batterwitch makings in your stomach and oh god cat. You take a deep breath. You set the red box aside. You dump the rest of your piece of cake back onto the platter, and pick it up as you stand and head toward the window. Rose doesn't say a word during this, because she knows exactly what you're doing and that you cannot be stopped. You open the window, and slide the cake out into the cold New York air. The chocolate plummets down twenty-one stories to splatter below. Deciding, ah, fuck it, it's been tainted, you fling the platter with it's cute cats out the window like a frisbee and it flies away. Maybe some homeless man who doesn't care about the Batterwitch's taint can enjoy it. You go and sit back down on the sofa, cakeless and feeling annoyed and sick. You had one job, Roxy, and you fucked it up. (That isn't true in the least but, fuck, Betty Crocker just decided to pop up on your b-day and that shit ain't cute.) Rose sits down beside you with Gandalf-Isn't-His-Name, turning up the volumn on the TV just as some trashy ho starts yelling at the police. And you realize, the Batterwitch can't take this. Your mom (daughter, but it doesn't matter, not really) is sitting next to you on your birthday, on her birthday, and no one can take that from you. Not ever.