julius july dorothea hated children’s birthday parties. well, correction, he hated his little brother’s birthday parties.

being from a upper class american household in a quaint but idyllic neighbourhood, it was expected that events of such significance were more lavish than they needed to be.

while most children of eight years would be satisfied with a modest chocolate cake, a few stray streamers, and a medley of mismatched balloons, july’s parents had decided that little finch dorothea deserved only the best; namely flamboyant additions along the lines of an ungainly bouncy castle, wild west themed cactus floaties in the pool and an accurate to life cowboy hat cake.

unfortunately for july and his sisters, cleo and beatrice, older and younger respectively, this meant all hands on deck.

“i’m not wearing that fucking atrocity.” july snorted, his lips curling into a wry grin as beatrice nestled a cowboy hat on his golden blond curls; he was evidently a glorified mascot for the whims of the menaces.

beatrice simply shook her head. “finny will throw a fit if you don’t, do us all a favour and keep it on.”

you had found yourself in the expansive garden of the dorothea estate, initially only to drop off your cousin for the festivities, but cleo had insisted that you should stay for the sake of her mental health; two bruised knees later—the kids were literal war torpedos—you were sorely regretting it.

“i didn’t think you’d still be sticking around in knockoff hell.” july noted, sitting down on the bench beside you, where you safeguarded the cake from eager, grubby fingers. the aroma of his cologne, red wine and brown sugar perhaps, gave your senses respite from the chlorine and grass.

"well, the more the merrier." he looked as he always did, grin lopsided, and light brows gently pinched as he extended a hand to pass you a can of beer. “here, this might take the edge off. or make the yelling more repugnant, don’t quote me on that.”