It’s a comfortable evening. The sun set early, and since the night blanketed the sky, Klavier and Apollo have been lying on the sofa in the apartment that they’ve shared for a few months now, flicking through whatever they’ve seen a thousand times already on Netflix and sharing dinner.
“Hey, Apollo,” Klavier says. He passes Apollo his phone, open to Apollo’s Instagram page. “It’s December 14th tomorrow.”
“And?” Apollo says. “That’s not our anniversary.”
Klavier fakes a theatrical gasp, his hand poised over his heart like he’s giving it his all on stage. “What, are you really telling me you don’t know your own son’s birthday?”
“My… son?”
Apollo looks at the Instagram page open on Klavier’s phone; it’s the first ever photo he took of Mr. Worm, way back when he first rescued him from the sidewalk on the best rainy day of his life. And, sure enough, it’s dated on December 14th, which means that he almost forgot his own worm’s birthday.
He feels terrible.
“Oh my god, Klav,” he says. “I can’t believe I almost forgot. And after all that hassle with his depression, too… we can’t let him celebrate alone.”
“Should we throw a party?”
“A party…” Apollo thinks for a moment. “Yeah. A party. That sounds good. C’mon, if we leave now we can hit the store before it closes.”
Klavier smiles at his boyfriend. He’s similar to Apollo in that once either of them get an idea, they have to see it through, even if it means going to the store an hour before closing to buy balloons and streamers for a worm party.
A party for a worm.
There’s barely anyone in the store by the time they arrive—probably on account of the fact that most of the normal population of LA are well on their way to their own homes for the night by now, and not last-minute shopping for a worm who has no concept of time, or birthdays, or his own borderline-international fame.
Klavier drags Apollo down the party-planning aisle, picking out various colours of balloons and party hats; his face is lit up with excitement, and Apollo can’t help but laugh at how, this time last year, he’d been vague-tweeting about Mr. Worm out of bitter jealousy. He’s more than glad that the two of them get along now, because he wouldn’t know how to reconcile his beloved boyfriend not being Mr. Worm’s best-friend-slash-co-parent.
“Ooh, Apollo,” Klavier half-shouts. “What about getting these party poppers?”
“What if the noise scares Mr. Worm?”
“Good point, good point,” Klavier puts them back on the shelf and picks up a banner that says BIRTHDAY BOY! instead. “Then, how about this? It’s pink, which I’m assuming is his favourite colour since he’s a worm, and they’re usually pink. I don’t think he has a concept of gender, which, like, king shit, really.”
“Perfect. We’ll get that, and then these, too?” Apollo takes a rainbow set of party hats and puts them in the basket. “I think Trucy and the others would love to come, so we should probably set up a party that’s suitable for worms and humans alike.”
“So should we get a cake? We can browse the vegetable aisle for some fancy peels for the lil guy, and then get a regular cake for the guests?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
They manage to pick up everything they need just before the store closes, and then they drive back in the comfortable lull of Klavier’s sports car, listening to old 80s songs on the aux cord and discussing the logistics of how to throw a birthday party for a worm.
Klavier is just about to drift off to sleep when he feels Apollo nudging him back awake.
“Hey,” he says. “You awake?”
“Mm, I am now, schatzi. What’s up?”
“Do you want to sign Mr. Worm’s birthday card?”
“Sure, hand it over,” Klavier says. He turns on the bedside lamp on his side of the bed, taking the card from Apollo and reading the writing inside.
Dear Mr. Worm,
I know you can’t read, so I’m going to read this to you.
I’m so glad I met you. The moment I saw you on that rainy sidewalk, I knew I’d met my best friend. You’ve been with me through a lot—you helped me out when I got arrested and I’m so proud of your bravery every day. Thank you for being the best worm a guy could know!
Happy birthday, little guy. Here’s to many more.
Apollo.
Klavier looks over at Apollo, who looks so sincere that Klavier has to hold in his laugh at the sheer sentimentality his boyfriend has just expressed over a worm. He takes the pen that Apollo offers him and adds a message at the bottom of the card, simply saying:
Herr Worm,
I promise I won’t write any more diss tracks about you. Keep rocking and wiggling on!
Happy birthday king,
Klavier <3
Satisfied, he hands the card back to Apollo, who reads Klavier’s message with a slight smirk, before sealing the card into the envelope.
When morning comes, Apollo wakes first. He usually does, but today of all days, his body clock jolts him awake a little before six, and he’s straight up and into the shower. He already texted Trucy and the rest of the Wright Anything Agency last night, and they all agreed to come to the party at midday, so he’s got time, but everything has to be perfect —which involves a lot of preparation.
Deciding that his Chords of Steel could do with a different workout, he spends at least half an hour blowing up balloons and scattering them across the living room. Putting up the birthday banners is a little too hard for someone who stands at all of five feet (without the hair horns, which are important, thank-you-very-much), so he decides to leave that task to Klavier when he eventually surfaces from the bedroom at around 10am. He sets the vegetable peels out in a vaguely cake-like shape, covering all of the party buffet with aluminium foil and surveying the room with his hands on his hips; it’s a job well done, he thinks.
As predicted, Klavier gets out of bed at 10am, which means that he’s actually ready by 11:15, by which time Apollo is already stressed about the possibility that the party banners won’t be up by the time the guests arrive in 45 minutes. With a smile and an eye-roll, Klavier tells him that he worries too much—which might be true, actually, considering that he has them plastered on the walls within five minutes.
Still, Trucy turns up five minutes early, with Phoenix in tow. She’s beaming with excitement as she brandishes her top hat and tells Apollo that she’s got a very special surprise for Mr. Worm; he can’t even ask her what she’s planning before she walks over to his enclosure and pulls out a mason jar filled with soil, inside of which is a fat, fuzzy caterpillar.
“A friend for Mr. Worm!” She says enthusiastically.
“Let me guess,” Apollo smirks. “Mr. Caterpillar?”
“No! I’m not that uncreative. He’s called Glumf.”
“Glumf?”
“You got it! I thought they could hang out on Mr. Worm’s birthday. And look—I brought party hats!”
Trucy reaches back into her top hat and pulls out two of the smallest paper crowns, which she’s obviously made herself. Glancing over, Apollo sees Phoenix smiling with pride as she places them atop Mr. Worm and Glumf’s heads.
“There!” She says. “Perfect!”
Athena arrives next, holding a bag full of vegetable peels, with an irritated-looking Simon Blackquill following behind. Quite how Simon was allowed prison-release to attend, Apollo has no idea, but he's learned not to question Athena Cykes' influence in the months he's been working alongside her. Plus, he knows that the LA legal system has something of a soft spot for its prosecutors, and he's not exactly worried about Simon doing anything criminal—as terrifying as he is, he doesn't seem the type to commit crimes for fun. At worst, all he offers are comments about the stupidity of a birthday party for a worm, which are quickly drowned out by Athena’s lively cheers of “Happy Birthday!”, directed at Mr. Worm.
Apollo serves them all birthday cake, dropping a few vegetable peels into Mr. Worm’s enclosure. A round of badly-sung Happy Birthday later, and everyone is ready for karaoke—a simple affair that involves pulling up YouTube on Apollo’s laptop, connecting it to the television, and blanket-banning Gavinners songs for the next few hours.
The moment Klavier finishes his dramatic rendition of ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!, Apollo puts on an upbeat instrumental song and holds the microphone out towards Mr. Worm’s enclosure. As he approaches, Mr. Worm pokes his head up with his worm-version of a smile, beginning to wiggle around the moment the music picks up; he’s met with a chorus of cheers and shouts, to which he dances even more vigorously.
Just as the song is about to hit its peak, Simon’s bird sweeps down and narrowly brushes Mr. Worm’s head—Apollo lurches forwards, throwing himself on top of the enclosure and enduring a barrage of beak-attacks against his back.
“Not my fucking worm!” He yells. “Simon! Get your fucking bird, bitch!”
Simon calls Taka back to rest on his shoulder, and Apollo tentatively steps away from Mr. Worm’s enclosure.
Mr. Worm, unbothered as ever, is still dancing.
Making sure that Taka is far away from the enclosure, Apollo gathers everyone around as he holds up a banana with a candle stuck into the middle of it.
“Everyone, Mr. Worm is going to make his birthday wish now! Klav, dim the lights please.”
Klavier turns the lights off as Apollo holds the banana in front of the enclosure. The guests sing Happy Birthday, at the end of which Apollo gently blows out the candle and tells Mr. Worm to make a wish.
Mr. Worm—being a worm—wishes for nothing.
Apollo, however, wishes for many more years of exactly this. Friends, parties, worms.
His home.