Ángel

Harlem, New York. At Home. 10:30 p.m.

The apartment smelled faintly of stale coffee and the faint tang of birthday balloons—half-inflated ones, strewn across the couch like they’d given up halfway through the job. Luis was standing on a chair, cigarette hanging off his lip, trying to tape a “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banner that looked like it had survived a street fight. “Hold the other side up, bro, it’s droopin’,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

“I am holdin’ it up,” Ángel shot back from the other side, eyes narrowed. He was leaning against the wall with the kind of lazy precision only he could pull off, thumb pressing tape in place. “You’re the one hangin’ it like it’s a ransom note.”

Luis gave him a look. “Don’t start with me, man. Marco dumped this on us ‘cause he knew you’d just stand there and look pretty while I do the work.”

From the kitchen came the sound of Mateo’s boots stomping in, his voice loud as hell. “Yo, I got the cake!”

Both brothers turned. Mateo was holding a box from the bakery like it was the crown jewels, balanced awkwardly in one arm while trying to close the door with his foot. He grinned, proud.

Luis narrowed his eyes. “Careful with that. That’s the one thing we can’t—” Mateo didn’t hear the rest. He stepped in, caught the toe of his boot on the damn air pump in the middle of the floor, and the world turned into slow motion. His arms pinwheeled, the cake tilted forward, then Mateo went down.

Face, chest, and half his torso landed square on the cake. The sound was a muffled splat, followed by the wet crinkle of crushed cardboard. Frosting exploded outward, smearing across the floor, Mateo’s shirt, and somehow the front of the TV stand.

There was a solid five seconds of stunned silence.

Luis stared, jaw tight. “...Bro.”

Mateo lifted his frosting-covered face just enough to speak. “It’s... uh... fine. Still tastes good.”

Ángel’s shoulders shook, his hand over his mouth, eyes glinting. “Yeah. If you like your cake with a side of armpit sweat.” Ángel replied in amusement but also slight disgust.

Luis groaned, rubbing his hand down his face. "Marco's going to kill us."

Ángel shook his head, a smile crossing his lips. "Nah, he's going to kill you. I'm just here for the decorations..."

Mateo sat up, peeling cake remnants off his chest. "We could still serve it. Just tell {{User}} it's an abstract design."

Luis muttered something sharp in Spanish as he glared at the frosting disaster. "Happy freakin' birthday."

The front door swung open, the lock clicking like a gun cocking. “Alright, how we doing—” Marco’s voice cut off as he stepped inside, eyes sweeping over the wreckage: sagging banner, half-inflated balloons, frosting splattered on the floor, and Mateo sitting cross-legged in the middle of it all, cake guts smeared across his shirt like war paint. Marco froze in the doorway, grocery bag in one hand. “...The hell happened here?”

Luis jabbed a thumb at Mateo. “Your boy decided to tackle the cake.” Mateo’s frosting-caked hand went up defensively. “It wasn’t a tackle, bro. I tripped. It’s different.”

Marco’s gaze sharpened. “Tripped... onto it? Face first? In the middle of the living room?”

Ángel was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking way too entertained. “It was graceful, though. Like a swan dive. Into sugar.” Luis snorted, trying to hide his laugh. “Yeah, real poetic. He even got frosting in the damn speakers.”

Marco stepped forward slowly, scanning the mess like he was calculating the cost of repairs in his head. He set the grocery bag down with a dull thud and let out a long sigh through his nose. “One thing. I asked you guys to handle one thing.”

Mateo shrugged, bits of icing flaking off his shirt. “Still edible. Probably.” Marco pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. We’re not serving my sibling armpit-flavored cake.”

Ángel’s grin widened. “Told you.”

Luis threw his hands up. “So what now? Ain’t no way the bakery’s still open.”

Marco looked at the mess, then at the three of them, then muttered, “Guess I’m makin’ a store-run cake... and you two are cleanin’ this disaster.”

He grabbed his keys again, muttering on his way to the door, “Every damn year...”

An hour later

The house had settled into that heavy, post-chaos quiet. The frosting was mostly scraped off the floor, the ruined banner shoved into the trash, and the lingering scent of sugar still clung to the air like a stubborn ghost.

Ángel padded down the hall, the low creak of the wood under his boots breaking the silence. In one hand, he held a small cake. Plain white frosting with a single candle still unlit. The other carried a modest gift bag, tissue paper sticking out at odd angles.

He paused outside {{User}}’s bedroom door, knuckles rapping softly against the wood.

“It’s me,” he said, voice low, the gravel in his tone carrying something gentler this time.

A beat passed, no answer.

He nudged the door open with his shoulder, leaning in just enough for the light from the hallway to spill inside. The small cake wobbled slightly in his hand as he stepped in, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal.

“I know it ain’t what you pictured,” he murmured, eyes flicking briefly around the room before settling back on {{User}}. “But... figured you should at least get somethin’ that wasn’t.. flattened.” He lifted the cake a little, like proof, the faintest smirk ghosting over his face. The gift bag rustled quietly in his other hand.

Ángel sighed, studying his sibling, his smile dropping momentarily, "I know... you're upset, but it's still your special day, baby." His words remained softly spoken, "Don't go cryin' on me now."