#❝𝔹𝕀ℝ𝕋ℍ𝕋ℝ𝔼𝕐 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟚.❞

[troisfleur]

"Felicitations, Mr. Clover," Luciano said with a faint smile. "Your wisdom has certainly aided me with my discoveries in science club, and I feel this may help you with your future endeavors."

He hands Trey a medium-sized present box and from the beginning, there seems to have a strong smell of moss. Inside, there is a small bag of plant fertilizer!

"I can assure that your next harvests are certainly going to be plentiful. May this birthday year be a fruitful one for you."

“NO NEED TO BE SO FORMAL—it’s really just any other day.”

Trey’s beaming, of course, but perhaps a little embarrassed. He’s simply more comfortable on the other side, offering out a present instead of being the one accepting a gift.

He’s not ungrateful, of course, and he takes the box from Luciano’s hands despite attempting to temper the gravitas, head canting to the side as he notices a particular earthy smell that follows.

Curious, although not unusual; they share a fondness for agricultural science, and Trey’s learned his fair share of handy things from his underclassman.

No hesitation as he removes the lid, and the smell becomes stronger—not unpleasant at all, mind, but certainly pungent.

Trey’s grin grows wider, and the humbled becomes far more interested. It’s something practical, of course, and definitely something he can use. The winter months mean that he’s already planted his share of violets and begonias to replace his summer berry patches, his gentle hand every day tending and dreaming of the edible flowers to carry Heartslabyul through the winter months—and to satisfy his own hunger for candied violets during longer study sessions.

“Sounds like more than a vote of confidence,” but Trey knows better than to look at any gift too deeply, and he knows Luciano’s good for it. “You didn’t have to, but I’ll put this to use right away.”

He can only hope it keeps till the spring—the strawberries that will come from this mulch will likely be sweeter than this summer’s haul. The bag isn’t large, but with some careful rationing it may be doable.

(But, then again, depending on the potency and what it yields, they can surely work out a deal—)

“And I’ll share some of the spoils, of course. Only fair, right?”

[troisfleur]

a recipe for midnight violets.

A SIMPLE AFFAIR;

1 egg white 3-6 drops 100 proof vodka Caster sugar 1 paint brush—round size 1 recommended Freshly-picked flower petals

1 egg white; hard-fought for in a kitchen where common refrigerator manners often take a back seat to secret midnight hunger pangs and all staples are needed to keep the peace. Keep both eyes on it for the rest of the day, known by heart the amount of eggs in the containers. Leave another note on the ones reserved for Halloween baking. Remember that you still need to get the menu approved. Vow to do that first thing tomorrow, or else it will get swallowed by class and the final science club meeting before the stamp rally is in full swing.

3-6 drops 100 proof vodka; strike this off the list, as there’s no easy way to sneak that onto campus without severe repercussions. Consider it anyway, for the briefest of moments, while you’re flipping through your recipe journal for ideas while assembling said Halloween menu that still hasn’t been approved. Remember that you’re behind on everything, not just getting the menu in front of the eyes it needs. Feel your stomach drop just that little bit more. Ignore the part of you that rankles at the idea of leaving a single thing off an already-short recipe list. Remind yourself that a Vice Housewarden breaking the rules would reflect terribly on your dorm. Remind yourself that it’s only an agent for flavor and to dry the flowers faster.

Remind yourself that compromises keep Heartslabyul running as smoothly as it does. Remind yourself you don’t really have the time to be picky or dawdle looking at a recipe that won’t be needed for Halloween.

Caster sugar; just refilled last weekend because you go through it as fast as anything in this house. Keep track of the glass jar for the sugar as much as you do the eggs. Be grateful that you are the only one whose hands usually reach for it. Silently pray that none of the freshmen decide they want to do a little extra baking on the side, for their own means.

Reprimand a group of them anyway for loitering while you’re in the process of checking it again—always with a smile, always with a firm voice. Lose the smile when they inform you, “We’re almost out of hedgehog feed,” and nod in understanding. Bemoan that hedgehog feed is the veritable smorgasbord of fruits and vegetables and seeds they get served on platters by those looking for a croquet edge. Decide it’s not worth it to shoo them out; you can’t, anyway, when they’re doing their job.

Hover on the edges, because you rarely trust anyone with knives.

1 paint brush at the recommended size; found by combing through the unwieldy labyrinth of a storage room. Let it rest comfortably in your hands, and give your wrist a flick as if casting a spell. Feel how ingrained the movement is, easy as piping frosting onto a cake or painting roses red.

(Almost drop the brush when something loud clatters to the floor, and remember you’re in the middle of hunting for last-minute additions to costumes.)

Freshly-picked flower petals; select violets grown by hand in the past few weeks, a little magic worked into their soil to make them bloom a few weeks ahead of schedule. Find some small shred of time to be proud of your haul, having taken the place of your strawberry patch now that your berry harvest is finished. Be a little disappointed that they don’t want to bloom in full, and make a note to mess with the soil components next time, when you can afford more of this distraction. (Dwell only for a moment that the plot with your name on it is one of the few times your notes don’t seem to mysteriously disappear. Know that it isn’t on purpose, that there’s so much movement in the kitchen day in and day out that things get torn and lost. Decide you don’t have the time to consider malicious intent or sabotage, though you never leave the possibility behind—be confident that you can teach lessons later.)

Work around others while assembling your ingredients over the past week. Grow numb to the gentle chidings of how many things your hands are in, leading questions about what you want for your birthday. Give stock answers, because you don’t expect a follow-through, not out of apathy, but because there’s so much else to do. Be shocked, as you are every year, when you’re hounded for a proper answer. Repeat the same thing you’ve said for three years: do we have to do this? the party, the cakes, the song and sash?

Get an enthusiastic response in return, the type that almost seems affronted at the idea you might not want a celebration. Smile and shake your head in return. Get the same probing questions, looking for a proper response to the question of dire importance to everyone but yourself: what do you want for your birthday?

Give a stock answer. Highball it, just to see the way the grimaces get painted across your peers’ faces. Watch them nod—watch some of them mutter that’s not cheap or yeah, I figured as though you haven’t done this three years in a row.

Never tell them the truth: some peace and quiet would be nice.

Joke about the sophomores in charge of your birthday cake instead, and watch them defend your honor instead of probing further.

Remember to finally turn in the menu plan, both for snacks for those running their stamp rally booth, and for their own internal festivities throughout the coming weeks, and for November’s unbirthday party, as it will be here before anyone blinks—

Get a package first thing in the morning, and recognize the shape of the box before the cardboard’s even ripped off and your eyes glance at the return address. See the familiar embossed design, the script reading Patisserie Clover and the birthday card tucked on top underneath green ribbon.

Vow to open it later, because you’re halfway out the door and running later than usual to class, conjuring it away with a smile despite being pressed for time.

Forget about the package when sliding into your seat just under the wire to not be counted tardy. Let it slip out of your mind the moment you open your textbook to start taking notes. Let the morning fatigue drip into the corners of your mind, content that you’ve done what you can to catch up and your paper due today isn’t late, even if you stayed up later.

Lose track of the morning as it passes you by in a blur.

Skip most of lunch to return a book to the library. Get stuck in a conversation with one of the librarians as he asks how you enjoyed it, what books you had your eye on next. Feel your stomach punishing you for it as soon as you start suiting up for alchemy class. Sit with the hunger fighting at your stomach and head until you’re finally done for the day. Be thankful you’re not needed for stamp rally duty, and make a beeline for the kitchen as soon as you can.

Forget that per birthday tradition, you’ve been unceremoniously barred from stepping too deep into the action. Get an apple for your troubles, smell dinner on the horizon, and then be shooed out.

Eye someone’s hands on the caster sugar on the way back through the threshold; eye eggs being used—for dinner, for your own cake you’re barred from helping, for any other possibility. Smile and ask everyone not to burn the place down, to watch fingers and knives. Get shooed out before you can answer, are you excited for tomorrow?

Be thrilled you don’t have to answer that question honestly.

Walk halfway up the stairs until someone calls your name, looking for extra hands to tend to the flamingos since Heartslabyul is down so many hands. Shove the apple into your mouth and dig your magic pen out of your pocket, resign yourself to changing what you’re wearing to pink to assist.

Help until the sun is streaked pink enough to match your magicked shirt. Wipe the sweat off your brow and play keep-away with the apple core and a green-feathered chick.

Make your way three-fourths of the way up the stairs to your room before your hear someone else calling your name.

Feel your shoulders rise. Feel them fall when it’s just one of the sophomores telling you dinner will be ready soon.

Make it to your room. Take your shoes off. Take your glasses off and set them by the nightstand. Run a hand through your day-disheveled hair and decide to sit for a minute.

Close your eyes for a fraction of a second.

Open them to complete darkness and dried drool at the corner of your mouth.

Fumble for far too long to turn on your lamp, rub at your eyes until sleep’s pushed back and your glasses are on. Fumble around the bed for your phone and scroll through the couple of messages you’ve missed. Decide nothing is dire, but it’s later than you want it to be.

Have a sinking feeling in your stomach when it growls. Remember your plans that kept getting halted.

Slip your shoes back on and tiptoe through the halls as quietly as possible. Know if anyone catches you, they likely won’t bat an eye unless they’re sharp enough to remember what tomorrow is. Bet on it as you make your way down the stairs, walking faster through the threshold of the kitchen and making a beeline to the fridge.

Let your stomach growl.

Let your stomach sink.

Stare at the empty egg container with your note nowhere to be found. Forgo even bothering to look at the amount of caster sugar leftover. Take note of the bottom of the fridge cleared out, taken up by a cake container. Take note that the semi-opaque container can’t conceal the fact it’s leaning to one side.

Resign yourself to frustration and sleep before a box and gold embossing catch your eye. Remember the package from earlier you conjured away, shoved in the back from the shuffling of ingredients and food to make way for the cake. (Feel a little bad for the envelope you spirited away with it, as it’s now partially squished.)

Know what rests inside on green parchment paper before you open the package on the kitchen counter, illuminated by the glow of your magestone. Let the smell of sugar send you to a different kitchen, or resting your elbows on the counter on rainy days between customers. Make out the signatures of your parents as you open the birthday card, Tripp and Tressa’s signatures smaller and hastier below it.

Let the sweetness of the first violet melt on your tongue.

Hear the floor above you creak; decide after no footsteps follow it’s just an old building settling. Check your phone, notice that the time has rolled past midnight, the date underneath the time proclaiming it to be October 25 to bleary eyes.

Steal the peace and quiet while it lasts.

[troisfleur]

One of Sam's friends from the other side materializes from the shadows, holding a small piece of paper. It leaves just as quickly as it appears. The paper is small, with large, flashy words -- on the bottom is Sam's logo.

" Happy birthday, Trey Clover!

I extend my most sincere greetings to you, my little imp! As it is your birthday, I would like to invite you to a FLASH SALE being held at Mr S's Mystery Shop! For one day only, we will be offering you 80% off ANY 1 (ONE) ITEM in my store! All of us here at the shop extend our congratulations to you for making it though another year. "

NO ONE’S AROUND TO SEE IT, probably for the best: Trey catches the paper but jumps a little all the same, shoulders rising and adjusting at the last minute so flamingo feed doesn’t go flying all over the floor. The evening has come and gone, the birthday celebration’s wound down—Heartslabyul still needs to keep running. It doesn’t stop just because it’s a special day. Only slows, and now that it’s at a crawl and the party’s tapered off, Trey can use his remaining hour or so before bed in relative peace however he found fit.

Which was, of course, immediately met with a task once his eyes landed on something that wasn’t just cakes. Their latest shipment of pellets had come in today, what supplements their diet with the colorful shrimp they catch on their own time, and no one’d taken them up to the storehouse yet. Their excitement to shirk duties for a day in favor of celebration will get them in trouble later, and he’s one of the few people who can carry it without feeling out of breath later.

Once Trey gives the text a quick once-over, he has to chuckle, just a little: subtle advertising it isn’t.

A pause, to adjust his glasses when they threaten to slip and cause further disarray, and he shoves it in his back pocket for the moment, to finish the task before an overeager freshman tries to win his favor by taking it off his hands and spilling it everywhere in the process.

It’s a pain, but it keeps everyone happy and things running smoothly, and some hapless peer from losing their head over leaving it overnight.

Once his hands are free, slotted into the storehouse next to the giant feed tubs—after a brief moment of looking around the place, considering the fact they really should organize the veritable maze of stuff—is when he fishes the coupon and reads it in full.

And chuckles again. “I admire the hustle,” is said to no one in particular—just in case it carries. And, hey, he can think of a few things a sale would do good for. (Hey, a deal’s a deal, after all.)

[troisfleur]

Every year his upperclassman seemed to go through the same procedure on his special day. Firstly, he’d tell his dormmates that there was no need for a huge party, even if it was his birthday. Secondly, he would be met with a clear disapproval of such a request, with everyone insisting that this day should be celebrated. An occasion as such happens only once in a year, with the other days spent meticulously preparing for unbirthdays, or other events organized by their school. To the Heartslabyul dorm, it was of utmost importance to commemorate this day, especially when it came to its vice-housewarden. With this in mind, the lounge was soon transformed into a birthday venue, filled with Heartslabyul students and guests alike, enjoying themselves.

The party was in full swing by the time Ace had arrived, unexpectedly and at a much later time than most. He approached Trey, still catching his breath as if he had run all the way to the lounge. “Happy birthday, Trey~!” he calls out to him in his usual bright tone, once he regains his composure. The broom he was holding onto tightly this whole time, is presented to the third-year with a look of what could be described as oozing with pride. “It was a pain, but I did exactly what you asked for as your birthday present and all.” he states, though there was more to this statement than the redhead realized. Trey did indeed suggest taking care of his broom for him, but in a tone that didn’t sound too serious with his request. Ace didn’t catch the lightheartedness with which his upperclassman spoke prior to the party, resulting in him doing as he was told — and so the broom was cleaned, brushed, and whatever he thought would be appropriate ( whether or not it was true, was up for interpretation ).

“Must be nice for someone else to take care of your broom for once. Aren’t I the best underclassman~?”

—DID ACE SERIOUSLY RUN ALL THE WAY HERE?

He makes an entrance, no doubt, stopping short of Trey, all smirk and no breath, nearly barreling over his peers and knocking someone upside the head with—that’s definitely his broom, isn’t it?

It comes back in a flash: Ace’s grin in the lounge, prodding Trey while dealing cards. Trey, already tired from a day of being asked the exact same question, choosing to be cheeky.

Maintain my broom. Make it shine, even, if you’re that eager!

It’s a necessary component of flying, after all, even if it’s a right pain in the ass, several applications of wood polish and magic varnish and making sure the bristles of the brush aren’t tangled and frayed beyond repair. (Vargas docks points for it, and Trey would wager Ace has already been on the other side of one of his ear-splitting lectures to that effect.) It’s a great idea, he thinks. It rebuffs his eager junior, and on the off chance someone decides to pick up the slack, it’s one less thing Trey has to do over the weekend.

Mind you, Trey promptly forgot about this conversation the moment he’d made his way back to his room. He meant it as a joke—winked, even, offered a smirk to Ace’s insistence that should have given him away.

Apparently not.

“Thanks,” Trey starts, the smile on his face a mixture of amusement and bafflement. “Although most people would leave out the part where their request was a pain.”

He’s not refusing, though: Trey takes his broom as presented, holding it up and—hey, there’s honest effort put into it. The thing does look relatively brand-new, despite having two years of use behind it. There’s a low whistle of appreciation for Ace’s troubles, casually passed from one hand to the other so Trey can clamp a hand down on Ace’s shoulder.

“Good work, though, gotta say.” He’s laughing, too, because of course he’s fishing for praise. Just because he knows it will make him bristle, Trey chooses to pinch one of Ace’s cheeks, mildly sincere, fully condescending: “Keep it up and you’ll be at least in the top 5!”

[troisfleur]

“ TREY CLOVER. ”  in the midst of lunchroom chatter,  his voice is  still  impossible to drown out.  if they were loud,  he was  simply  louder.  parting from his usual circle,  he told them he would make this quick.  members of their dorm didn’t deviate from their habit of dining together,  no matter the occasion.  

before his upperclassman can fully turn to face him,  a  small black box made of dark - colored wood was thrust into his grasp.   enough force behind the movement to give little choice as to whether he would  accept  it or not.  the box is embellished with a lightening bolt on the lid,  faintly carved into it.   the contents were something he  anticipated  would strike trey’s fancy.  while not the originals,  it was a set of  hand - replicated  recipe cards from his grandmother’s collection.  after he’d vocalized an interest in learning about different sweets,   including those of briar valley;   sebek took to looking for his own family’s collection.   the cards were written in his own gothic,  all - caps  hand - writing.   perfectly legible,  he ensured that was the case.  

“ enjoy yourself today,  it’s special. ”  he says with smile,  leaving as abruptly as he appeared.  

NO NEED FOR GUESSWORK; Trey’s ears are already ringing at the sound of his name, the usual ambience of the cafeteria easily cut through by one booming Diasomnia freshman with no concept of an inside voice. He doesn’t typically stray from his own dorm, especially not during lunch hour, so he can’t say this necessarily bodes well, but Trey’s willing to hear him out. Likely, it’s just a cursory Happy Birthday, delivered with the same severity and timbre of something of far more grave importance.

—Trey’s face almost becomes acquainted with the gift, the very act of something being thrust towards him enough to jostle his glasses and give him pause from a friendly greeting. Thankfully, the delivery goes off without a hitch otherwise, and the lacquered box makes it to his hands without falling to his lap or on his plate.

“Hey, no need to be so uptight—” goes the same protest as always, falling on deaf ears when Trey turns to look at Sebek, catching the second half of his delivery but not the freshman fast enough to spare a thank you.

Trey’d expect his own freshmen to do something—no matter how many times he’d asked otherwise. But he supposes there’s a certain order to things; Briar Valley seems like it enjoys its formalities, and Sebek seems to enjoy that order even more than most. He turns back in his seat and opens the box, and, truth be told, can’t believe what he’s seeing when he begins to leaf through its contents.

There’s formalities, and then there’s blatantly overdoing it. Any one recipe card, judging from the ingredient list and approximation of measurements, contains a recipe that’s at least a generation or two before their time. The cards can’t be old, crisp and prim as the lettering and cardstock is, but each of them is clearly handwritten.

This is—beyond generous, actually. Trey’s own hand aches in sympathy, noting how many there are. Trey would have been content with far less; a singular happy birthday would have almost been too much.

But, hey! Trey won’t look a gift horse in the mouth—especially considering the impressive fangs of the courier.

[troisfleur]

“ What in Wonderland... boy, this must be a tough week for Mr. Clover. ”

He tuts, inspecting the state of Trey's room. As Vice Housewarden of a dorm that prided itself upon the severity of it's strict punishment and rules, it was unheard of for the guy to let chores slide.

An all-too-familiar tingle of magic fades away from his fingertips, the residual sensation of using the spell that gained him entry into his superior's room.

It's an unfavorable tactic, yes— one that could potentially get him in a lot of trouble, but anything to help a fellow Heartslabyul out!

After all, it was his special day. Unbirthdays are common, but a birthday was something to cherish and enjoy.

“ Whew, even on his messy days Mr. Trey manages to keep his stuff clean. ” Kalen comments, quietly, as he arranges a hat back onto it's stand. “ I might have to ask for lessons someday! ”

When he's finished, the room literally sparkles. In his haste, Kalen found the extra time to polish Trey's floors, and dust off the furniture.

Just as he heads to walk out, Kalen places a box ( the kind that's pre-wrapped. the guy wasn't the neatest wrapper. ) onto Trey's desk, with a 'Happy Birthday!' card attached to it.

Inside the box is: New baking pans, green oven mitts, a cook book from the Scalding Sands, and a scarf ( decorated with a simple clover pattern for the incoming cold weather ) .

He leaves before anyone notices he's there, running off to help who-knows-who do who-knows-what on the other side of the campus.

These two just never know when to stop, do they?

—SOMETHING ISN’T RIGHT.

Trey’s room is clean: the bed’s neatly made, every hat hangs where it should, no rogue textbook or suit jacket or sock sticks out. Trey would never consider himself a proper neat freak anywhere outside of the kitchen, but he prefers to keep a certain level of order in his room. (Partially by design—the Vice Housewarden of Heartslabyul ought to set the best example possible for the standard of living expected of the inhabitants; partially by elder brother pettiness—it feels nice to be made a proud example of when younger siblings get brought to task for refusing to do any chores.)

…Which is what’s wrong. He made his bed this morning, but he’d done himself no favors in tidying up or even properly prepping for class the next day for the past… well, since the weekend, generously. Halloween Week’s begun, and all other efforts get derailed.

He can usually get away with a little bit of indulgence: no one comes into his room but him; and if someone had stopped by to chat or even let themselves in while he was resting, he’d have at least picked up while they’d chatted.

None of that has happened this week, and due to festivities (both spooky and mundane), Trey hasn’t stepped foot in his room once since waking up and making the bed.

Which is, again, the problem. It’s spotless. Nerves climb somewhere in his throat, and in the pangs of aggravation he immediately feels building, he overlooks the box at his desk until a second pass across the room. He’s at the desk in two long strides; Happy Birthday-emblazoned envelope is shredded in two to free the card and put a name to the culprit, and—

—He could have guessed. Should have, actually. Head tips upward, and eyes close for several long moments with a sigh.

Kalen. Always something with that guy.

The box is opened in short order, and to his credit, it’s all far more generous than he’d ever expect from anyone, much less from someone who let himself in for the purposes of cleaning his room unprompted. The scarf, the pans, the cookbook—all lingered on long enough that the panic slowly dissipates, and is replaced with a smile.

He’ll thank him later, of course—and at the end, lulled into a false sense of security, ask, with a smile, to never see a trace of him in his room again uninvited.

[troisfleur]

A small unassuming box oddly wrapped in jackolantern theme halloween gift paper instead of usual birthday wrapping paper. Somehow having appeared on the kitchen counter in the Heartslabyul dorm without anyone knowing how or where it came from.

The black and orange glittery bow sat innocently on top of the counter though dropping glitter onto the smooth surface to be annoying later during clean up. A simple label reading Trey from R as the only clue for who it was for.

Unwrapping the paper to reveal the tupperware box inside one that Trey might note was designed to constantly cool the food inside when charged a little usb point on one side and a warning to only wash the removable inside and lid. When the lid was lifted he would see four thick slabs of fresh honeycomb cute from the hive. Oozing with fresh honey to the point it filled part of the box it was held in. Sticky and sweet with a slight sharp tanginess due to the magic flower nectar these bees feasted on.

Maybe not the most exciting present but hopeful something the baker would enjoy.

YOU HAVE A PRESENT ON THE COUNTER isn’t exactly telling, but it’s lobbed at him sometime in the rush of Happy Birthdays with a sash draped around him for good measure, and promptly lost in the shuffle for a while. Heartslabyul loves an excuse for a celebration, and even if Trey attempts to rein it in, three years have gone by without success. Eventually, though, he can make his way to the kitchen, observing the wrapping with interest when it hardly looks like suited for a birthday. (Not that it even matters; wrapping is wrapping and it ends up torn and on the floor—)

—Is it… sticky?

Trey’s nose perks up before the wrapping’s even shredded, but he takes the time to parse the card for a second longer before curiosity gets the better of him.

Something fresh and sweet is tempered by a rather unusual tupperware container. There’s instructions, which he carefully places outside of the wreckage of Halloween wrapping paper, and the lid’s pried open without a second thought.

Brow raises, interest definitely piqued as the scent has a source. The honeycomb looks downright magical—a tad more vibrant than he’s used to, too. Every compartment oozes honey, a tempting sight all but beckoning for just one bite, and another, and—

One look over his shoulder, then another. There’s very little time to himself, today of all days, so Trey has no more hesitation when one hand plucks one slab and he takes a sizable bite for himself.

Delicious. An interesting tang in the back of his throat, the perfect amount of chew. Compliments to the keen eye, and his mysterious honey benefactor.

Heartslabyul will get its share… later. Maybe. Or it could stay the secret of the birthday boy; he’s under no obligation to share today.

Trey’s mind is elsewhere, either way, considering glazes and meats and what he could make, as one bite becomes two, parsing the instructions on its curious container and sending mental compliments to his honeycomb benefactor.