Happy birthday, @true0neutral - hope it’s been good to you!
“Y’know, my country is way more sensible about holidays with fireworks.”
The Qiin-Whites were sitting on the roof of their building, wrapped up in one of Addie’s latest quilting projects while they watched small-scale backyard firework displays erupt like hyperactive multicoloured fireflies over the London skyline. They were using Chewie - their superbig, superdumb Newfoundland - as a backrest, mostly because it was the only way to keep him calm during fireworks displays. He didn’t get scared; he simply wanted to chase the ‘explodey squirrels’ and restraining him by main force, not to mention cuddles and scritches, was the best way to keep him from running out a window or off the roof.
Chris looked over at Mychae a little taken aback, and Mychae grinned at him in clearly ersatz innocence as he asked, “How do you mean? I thought you said you liked Guy Fawkes’ Day. That it was ... ‘hardcore’.”
"Dude, you celebrate someone trying to blow up your government building and everyone in it by setting off fireworks and having massive bonfire parties in honour of his massive failure. That’d be like Canadians doing the same thing for the War of 1812.” She shrugged and looked a little disappointed as she added, “I am a little disappointed you don’t do the ‘penny for the Guy’ thing anymore.”
Chris couldn’t help but chuckle. “You want to see people burn Guy Fawkes in effigy?”
“Eh, the Guy could be anybody,” Mychae countered with a lofty wave of her hand. “And you know I could craft up a good one. Plus I think it’d make people feel a little better about their chances to effect real change if they got to burn their asshat leaders in effigy once in awhile. That kind of thing takes balls.”
After a moment’s thought, Chris nodded. She had a point, as these things went. But once again, one of her trains of thought had taken them away from his question, and while he always enjoyed the mad scenery she led them through on her conversational joy-rides, he still wanted an answer. “So if you like Guy Fawkes’ Day, even without the effigies, why ‘not sensible’?”
Mychae looked at him with an arch expression, mostly trying to keep her glasses adjusted to let her see his face from a fairly awkward angle. “Fireworks displays and outdoor parties in November? Hardcore, sure, but a pain in the ass. You know, because cold and all?”
“You like Halloween, and that involves running around at a similar time of year, sometimes in skimpy costumes.” Chris knew he wasn’t winning this argument, but he would have fun trying. “Not just the trick-or-treating thing, either. I recall your birthday date being three hours in a supposedly haunted corn maze this year.”
“And I thanked you perfectly adequately for that when we got home, I thought.” Mychae gave him a cheeky grin and a wink, eliciting a blush and a minor ‘gnarp’ noise from her husband at the memory. “But at least that’s running around and moving. Bonfire parties are standing around a field or something, hoping you can get close enough to the fire for Jack Frost not to nip your nose clean off your face. And the food is fiddly. Who eats baked potatoes with baked beans standing up in the middle of a field?”
“Well, I apologise for Mr Fawkes not having the decency to try to blow up Parliament at a less inimical time of year, then.”
“And the baked potatoes?”
“Perhaps we just haven’t got the hang of hot food eaten standing up. The spectre of Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, perhaps.”
As Chris had intended, Mychae laughed at that, then extricated herself from the quilt. “So, we ready to add our own light show to this thing? It’s about that time.”
Chris nodded and rose, draping the quilt carefully over Chewie, who was vibrating with the need to go chase exploding squirrels clear across the night sky if that was what it took. Then they moved to the exact centre of the roof, stood facing each other, and counted off.
“Three...” Mychae winked at Chris as she started the countdown.
“Two...” Chris reached out and adjusted her slightly crooked glasses before booping her on the nose.
In unison, they channeled their anima into the vibrant display of the Ophanim. The manifestation of their wings added a particularly intense burst of light and colour to the fireworks cornucopia of London’s night sky, and the protective and healing magics they left in their wake spiderwebbed the building in blue and gold, making it seem as though they’d got a head start on their Christmas decorations but hadn’t had the right colours on hand.
When their feet finally returned to the ground, they held each other for a long moment - as much with their illusory anima wings as with their arms, at least until the former faded from sight.
“Happy Guy Fawkes’ Day, angel.”
“And you, my beloved lunatic Cuisinart.”
Then Chewie knocked them both over, eager to get in on the cuddle-pile again, and romance was more or less lost to the adorable and hopelessly nerdy chaos that made the Qiin-White house a home.
