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Birthdays used to be big.
Maria would bake a large red velvet cake; there was singing, a family outing, and glittery cards. Frank remembers the last birthday that was truly his—a birthday that didn't feel like another year of stolen air. He had just returned home from fighting the war in Afghanistan, and his family was delighted to have him back.
Maria had bought him a store-bought card and tucked two Springsteen concert tickets inside; that had made Frank practically pick her up and spin her around. Meanwhile, the kids had made their own cards. Lisa had created a big, sparkly dinosaur card, there was enough glitter on it to power the nation. Frank Jr.’s card featured trucks and tanks, along with a stick-figure soldier that Frankie had labeled in wonky chicken scratch: My Dad.
They had gone to the park after having breakfast together. He remembered being wrapped up in his wife as their kids ran around their picnic blanket with a kickball. The kids played for about twenty minutes before Lisa begged Frank to take her to the carousel. Frank had always been a sucker when Lisa made puppy eyes—the eyes she had inherited from his beautiful wife. So, Frank got up and let the kids ride the stupid carousel with its cheesy ice cream truck music until they were so dizzy they could barely stand. Maria laughed as Lisa and Frankie got off the ride, unable to walk more than a few steps without spinning.
They went for lunch afterward at a diner where the kids ordered pancakes. Lisa loved hers with chocolate chips, while her brother favored the art of drowning his in maple syrup. They sat in that booth while the kids talked about school and art projects; Frank listened quietly, eating his burger and drinking his fifth cup of coffee, for which Maria had already playfully berated him.
He remembered the joy of that diner as the kids talked animatedly and Maria smiled at him warmly, her brown hair glowing golden from the midday sunlight streaking through the windows. After lunch, they took the kids to get ice cream because Frankie had heard the truck.
Frankie had ordered chocolate on a cone and got it all over his nose, making him look like a baby panda; Frank had teased him about it before gently wiping the sticky cream from his son's face. Lisa fervently licked at her strawberry ice cream, her pigtails swinging around with their sparkly ponytail holders.
After that, they had gone home and let the kids play for a bit before feeding them dinner and putting them to bed. Lisa had asked Frank to read to her, and Frank had promised to do so soon because he was tired; she had hugged him goodnight tightly. Once the kids were asleep, he and Maria opened a beer and enjoyed the beverage and each other's company. Frank played the guitar quietly, spending the night with the woman he loved before they finally retired to the bedroom.
It was an eventful birthday and if you asked Frank, one of his best. Then, the world blew up.
That was the last time Frank had actually celebrated a birthday. Frank Castle was dead; there was only the Punisher now. Besides, what was the point of celebrating another year of living when his beautiful girl would never go to college, when his wife would never kiss him again, and when his son would never ask him to play ball?
Birthdays were just another year he remained alive while the people who loved him enough to celebrate were gone. He didn't have loved ones anymore; they were all six feet under.
Micro had even tried to buy him a cupcake with a candle a few years after they met, and Frank had threatened to stab him before taking the cupcake and chucking it out of the van. Micro had quietly muttered, "Jesus, don't need to be such a dick about it," as he continued to wipe security camera footage clean, and Frank had pretended not to hear him grumbling.
After fifteen years of silence, Frank didn't expect to ever celebrate again. He had expected to die having celebrated his last birthday at the age of twenty-six. But then again he had also thought he would never be romantically involved with anyone after Maria.
Yet Matt Murdock, with his stubbornness and Catholic guilt, had chipped away at his defenses until Frank didn't want to be further than a mile away from the blind lawyer. He wondered every day why the goody-two-shoes altar boy wanted him, until he realized he didn't care why Matt had picked him; he would be damned before he let Matt go. As far as Frank was concerned, Matt was his, and he was Matt’s.
And so somehow, they had gone from crime-fighting partners who grudgingly accepted each other to moving into Matt’s shitty, cramped apartment in the span of six months. Frank even found himself cooking meals for Matt and taking a construction job just to make the Man Without Fear happy.
So many months later at 10:30 on November 14th when Micro pulled a facial recognition lead for a cartel, Frank was hunting. While waiting for Matt to come home from a late night at the office, Frank pulled on his Kevlar suit, texted Matt to let him know he was out on patrol, and headed out—not thinking they had any plans for that night or the next day.
The lead Micro dug up ended up being two hours of beating up people and being splattered in far too much blood. When the clock hit 12:30 AM and Frank didn't feel any closer to a breakthrough than he did a few hours earlier, he called it quits. He was tired and didn't want to risk injury; he had someone to go home to for the first time in a while, and he didn't need to get stabbed while fighting exhausted.
By the time Frank reached the apartment, it was 1:00 AM. He had traveled all the way back from the cartel location and tried to wipe as much blood as possible from his face and body with a cloth from his van, just in case Matt was still up; the smell of blood would likely worry him or start an argument.
As the clock struck one, Frank unlocked the door. The house was deathly silent for about three seconds until he heard rustling in the kitchen. The apartment was dark, as Matt was practically a bat who thrived in darkness, sight being unnecessary to him.
“That you, Red?” Frank asked, his voice coming out gruffly. He walked through the dark passageway to the hallway and turned toward the kitchen. The sight that met him caused him to almost choke on his breath, throat tightening.
“Happy Birthday, Frank,” Matt smiled softly. In his hands lay a red velvet cake with black candles. The flames created a warm glow in the darkness of the dingy apartment, lightening Matt’s features and making his glasses glow softly like Chinese lanterns. Frank’s voice hitched and his heart raced, his fingers shaking slightly.
“Your heart is racing. You're starting to scare me with the silence,” Matt whispered into the darkness, trying to encourage Frank to say anything at all, even if it was just yelling.
“D-did you make the cake yourself?” Frank stuttered, unsure what to say. He felt paralyzed, watching Matt stand in the kitchen with that cake like some sort of angel in disguise. Frank had forgotten how to react to a loved one giving him a cake.
Matt just nodded, looking unsure if he should speak again given Frank’s reaction.
“Thank you,” Frank finally whispered, smiling as he walked toward Matt. His heart rate began to slow. When Frank got close enough, Matt placed the cake on the counter. Frank gently took Matt’s hand and kissed it.
“Okay. Make a wish, love,” Matt said, his voice soft. Frank smiled gently at him. This wasn't a replacement for what he had lost, but a second chance to earn something new—to find happiness even if it didn't involve white picket fences and children running around like he had imagined. So when he blew out the candles, he didn't wish for his old life back; he wished to keep this one.
“Happy Birthday, old man,” Matt giggled as darkness spread back into the room.
“I’m forty-one,” Frank protested. Matt let out a proper laugh, and Frank knew by the sound of it that soft crinkles had appeared near Matt’s eyes.
“You’re nine years older than me,” Matt argued. Frank grumbled and gently elbowed Matt in the chest, causing him to laugh even more. Frank then wrapped an arm around Matt’s waist, his calloused fingers resting on Matt's silk shirt. He pulled Matt close and kissed him; the kiss tasted like sugar and happiness. Matt smiled into the kiss before trying to wriggle out of Frank’s grip.
“Ewww, you smell like sweat and blood,” Matt whined. Frank just pulled him closer, causing a whine of protest to tumble out of Matt’s lips as his limbs wiggled, trying to escape the embrace.
“I wiped all the blood off before I came home, Counselor.”
“I can smell you from across the block.”
“You and your freaky senses are going to kill me one day, Sunshine,” Frank stated half-seriously before pulling away to head for the shower. The red velvet cake, Matt’s smile, and the thought behind it meant everything to him. It wasn't the big celebration he used to have, but Frank was grateful; he didn't think he could have stomached a big party.
The two of them in the dark with a glowing cake and the silence of the night was all the celebration he needed.
“Matt, I—um...” Frank turned, trying to say something, but he stumbled over his words.
“I know you do, Frank. You don’t need to say it,” Matt replied gently, like someone who knew Frank’s soul and understood every bit of it. Frank let the warm feeling envelope his heart. He wasn't ready to say those words yet, but that was okay. He had this moment, and many more years to make memories with the man who had celebrated him for the first time in fifteen years.