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Birthdays, Past Lovers, and Things Forgotten

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Geryon steps into the inn, dark eyes drifting over the room until he sees a familiarly flowered skeleton. It took long enough to find him again… The anti-divination charm seems to be doing well enough. To the warlock’s detriment, evidently. He sits down on the edge of one of the tables Larry has covered in flower crowns over the past couple of days, and an almost heartwarming smile dons his expression as he holds a small bag out to the skeleton, who just eyes him. And Gery just shakes his head. 
“It’s a birthday gift, sweetheart. Don’t tell me those kids of yours have gone and let you forget the date, have they?”
Another moment of stillness and staring before Larry reaches out, pausing to read the small note taped to the side of the pouch, and he tosses it to the floor, jumping to his feet as if it were about to attack him. Or explode. Or both. 
“Don’t worry, they’re not cursed. Not this time…” Gery is evidently amused, and he chuckles at the caution with which the skeleton returns to his gift, opening it almost hesitantly. And after a moment of just staring inside, he shakily tugs in the drawstrings of the bag, tying them together to make opening it a little harder, and putting it into the vines wrapping around and throughout his ribcage, holding it against the hull he’s grown around his core. The action is so careful, as if he were scared he might break something, and it starkly contrasts the sudden jerk as he throws himself at the warlock, dragging him into a crushing hug. The skeleton’s ribs crack a little with the force even. There’s a moment of Geryon standing there awkwardly, staring ahead with wide-eyes, before his gentle smile returns and he gives Larry a gentle hug in return. 
“Happy birthday, hon. And… You can let me go now, I’ve-“
He cuts off in a grunt at the sudden squeeze before Larry pushes himself back, signing something. It’s enough of a mess between overly elegant English, phonetically spelled Texan lingo, and Latin that it’s hard for even Geryon to understand it. And he grew up with the man. Skeleton. Larry. But after a pause to register, he chuckles. 
“I can’t promise anything… Trouble’s just what I do.”
Then, a salute, an abrupt turn, and a wave before the warlock is striding out the door, robes billowing behind him. And Larry sits back down, lightly touching a hand to his sternum. Gods, even after all of this, he’s too much of a romantic for his own good. So much so that a little nostalgia can get him all fluttery inside. 
It’s going to be the thing that gets him killed again, he just knows it. 
But wouldn’t that be fitting? Romance dragged him away from a comfortable life. Romance ended his mortal life. And it would be almost poetic if it’s that same romance that ends his afterlife. 
Or maybe that’s just Larry looking for some sort of grim symmetry. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

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