9th of Janus

It is the month of Janus, a time for reflection and new beginnings. The cold winter air nips at the edges of Alexandros’s modest cottage. Today marks Syrus’s twenty-first birthday, and despite the icy wind stinging his bones, Alexandros is determined to celebrate.

He knows Syrus won’t approve. Birthdays unsettle the young man, reminding him of what he’d rather forget. Syrus often claims his birth brought misfortune, that his existence carries a shadow he can’t escape. Alexandros has heard it all before, the self-accusations, the quiet guilt. But this year, Alexandros refuses to let him retreat. This year, there will be joy, even if Syrus resists.

When Alexandros steps into Syrus’s room, he finds him slumped over his desk, light snores escaping amid scattered papers. The sight draws a smile to Alexandros’s weathered face. Syrus’s hair, dark and slightly unruly, brushes just past his jawline. An ink stain marks the tips, evidence of a late-night study session. His features are sharp and angular, his hazel eyes, when open, striking with quiet intensity. At twenty-one, his tall, lean frame reflects the years of training, battles fought with both body and mind.

Careful not to disturb him, Alexandros tiptoes out, leaving Syrus to rest a bit longer. Today is special, and Alexandros wants everything perfect.

Outside the cottage gates, Annabeth waits, emerald eyes gleaming in the morning light. Now also twenty-one, she stands tall and poised, her long, dark curls gathered in a loose bun. A few strands frame her aristocratic features, softening her sharp cheekbones. Her olive-toned skin glows in the crisp air. She wears a practical yet elegant tunic, cinched neatly at the waist. Many suitors have sought Annabeth’s hand, though she’s turned them all down, much to her father’s frustration. Her heart, unspoken but steadfast, belongs to Syrus.

Alexandros approaches, and Annabeth greets him with a warm hug, the ease of years of shared trust. “Is Syrus awake yet?” she asks, smiling knowingly.

“Hunched over his desk, fast asleep,” Alexandros says with a chuckle.

Annabeth laughs, a bright sound, and Alexandros marvels at how she cares for Syrus. “He’ll complain of a sore neck,” she quips, picturing him massaging his neck in annoyance.

“Undoubtedly,” Alexandros agrees with a grin. “Now, let’s gather the last things. He suspects nothing.”

“Does he really not?” Annabeth’s smile fades a little. “You know how he feels about this day.”

Alexandros sighs, brow furrowing. “I know. He’s called this day cursed since he was a boy, convinced his birth brought calamity. But he’s wrong, Annabeth. It’s not the day that’s cursed, it’s those who lied to him about it.” His gaze softens. “I think you’re the one who can prove that to him.”

Annabeth’s eyes gleam with resolve. “Then we’ll make this a celebration he can’t ignore.”

Syrus groans as he stirs, muscles protesting every move. He stretches his tall frame, rubbing an ink-stained cheek and muttering curses under his breath. Catching sight of himself in the small mirror, he notices black ink smeared across his sharp cheekbones and even tips of his hair. He grabs a cloth and scrubs at his face, but the stain only seems to spread.

Light footsteps and a familiar giggle reach him. His heart leaps as the door creaks open and Annabeth steps inside, hands clasped behind her back, grin teasing.

“My, my,” she says, crossing toward him, emerald eyes dancing with amusement. “What have you done to yourself?”

He turns, heart pounding. “Would you believe I fought an ink monster and barely survived?” He tries for a joke, hoping to coax her laugh.

Annabeth tilts her head, grin widening. “A valiant struggle, I’m sure.” Her gaze strays to the desk, the scattered papers, the telltale ink spill. She moves to the bowl of water near his bed, soaking the cloth before wringing it out. “Come here.”

Syrus obeys, compelled by her presence. He stands still as Annabeth dabs the ink from his skin, her touch gentle, her fingers brushing his jaw. He can’t look away from her.

“You’re fortunate,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

“How so?” he manages, throat tight.

Annabeth leans closer, her emerald eyes locked on his hazel ones. “That the ink didn’t stain your soul,” she teases, though her voice carries a warmth that makes his chest ache.

Their lips hover inches apart when Alexandros’s voice cracks the moment. “Happy birthday, my boy!”

They jump apart, cheeks flushed. Alexandros strides into the room, grin wide, and pulls Syrus into an embrace. “Come. You must see what we’ve prepared.”

The cottage’s main room transformed into a modest feast. Seasonal fruits, honey-drizzled bread, and wine adorn a wooden table. Syrus pauses in the doorway, a hint of unease flickering across his face.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he whispers.

“Nonsense,” Alexandros replies firmly. “We will celebrate, whether you like it or not.”

Annabeth slips her hand into his, fingers entwining. “Happy birthday, my love,” she whispers, voice soft.

The three settle at the table, sharing a simple meal. Syrus feels the usual stab of guilt and doubt, yet surrounded by their warmth, he lets himself imagine, if only for a moment, that this day might be a gift, not a curse.