2020-01-01 - Old Year's Eve

To a seven-year-old, the world is still full of wonder. Magic is still possible. Santa is still real. And New Year's Eve was still something reserved entirely for the grown-ups.

The Christmas holidays had been full of twinkling lights, tinsel, the smell of fir trees, and crinkly paper. The new year meant the end of the holidays, and only a few days before it was back to school. His parents were off at the party at Addington House, like they were every year, leaving Patrick in the care of - well, until this year, it had always been George; this year was Susan's first term as babysitter, and she was having a helluva time with it.

At 11:30, Patrick had finally consented to trudge upstairs, thrown himself in bed, and stayed there till he was sure Sue was convinced he was asleep. She would be downstairs, watching the ball drop on TV, and he was mad that she wouldn't let him watch.

So, at 11:57, he crept out of his bed, inched his way down the hall on bare feet, and started to descend the stairs. From the bottom of them, he could see the TV, and she wouldn't even know he was there. Carefully, gently, he worked his way down the steps and reached out to get a feel for his sister's mood. If she was mad, that meant she was probably on to him.

And, at 11:58, the rage that flooded into Patrick knocked him down the stairs. He landed at the foot of them, tasting blood, feeling as if something had snapped somewhere inside his body. Excruciating pain rang through him, and he opened his eyes to see the blurry shape of Sue rushing his way. Only, when she reached him, her face popped like a balloon. Only in slow-motion. The skin peeled away, shrank toward the back of her head, stuck there loosely, her hair hanging lank and lifeless.

At 11:59, he was looking up into the void where his sister's face should be, a void no child is prepared to confront. Stuck, trapped, enthralled, he felt for the first time how cold and dark the emptiness is. There was nothing on the other side, nothing inside the thing that had been his sister, no future, no past, no Patrick, no family, just emptiness. He felt it leeching the opposite of emptiness out of him, snatching the things in him that were made of life and warmth and cheer and brightness, flash-freezing them, turning them brittle, then blowing them away till they were lost in that void.

At 12:00, Sue was kneeling next to him, shaking him, sobbing. "Holy shit, Patty! Oh my god, oh my god. Are you okay? Oh my god, mom's gonna kill me."

At 2:00 in the morning, when mom and dad came home because - remember, folks, this was before cell phones! - Sue was proven wrong. Their mom didn't kill her. Her demise was still a ways off.

31-DEC-2015 - Kabul, Afghanistan - SSgt Gyre: Liberty

Damn near freezing, clear skies. Leon was bundled up, big coat, fatigues. With a balaclava and hood up, it was impossible to tell him from the locals, shoulders hunched in, walking down the street. Conversations filtered past him, garbled at a distance, clear when near. People were celebrating, talking about their lives, planning for the New Year, resolving to do better. Leon's hip stung like hell, a slight crinkle sound coming with every step. That was fine, he had two more days until his next assignment. The fresh ink needled into his skin would at least close by then. Tolerable pain. Were he to be honest with himself, as much as it hurt, it was also relief. He felt like he needed these marks, needed to paint his skin with the ugliness and doom he felt in his head.

He was passing a French restaurant, and a shoulder impacted his, a man hurrying by him toward the door of the place. Probably hungry and cold. Maybe he should get some food. There was a good kebab stand down the street, he could communicate enough to not get called out. He looks left, he felt...

Pain. Intolerable pain. Pain within and without. He was on the ground, ten feet from where he had been standing. Everyone else near him was the same, a strangely artistic arch of lain human bodies. Minds were screaming near him. Pain . It was insufferable, but he stumbled to his feet, clutching his side. He was ok, intact, what was was noise? Ringing, a pitch he couldn't identify. Then sound slowly came back in a roar. Mouths were screaming near him. His vision reeling, it was hard to focus on details. He was probably in shock. Pain There was fire. A building's face had almost completely collapsed. rubble was everywhere, people were half trapped beneath it. Leon stood stupidly as people milled, rushed, attempted to save eachother, went screaming away from the violence, ran shouting for help. Pain, then nothing. A mind stopped hurting so suddenly, Leon was jarred back into his own head, closing himself off from those screaming and that emptiness of a mind that was no longer.

His senses began to return. 'Le Jardin' had exploded. Somewhere in the distance, sirens were lifting their melancholy song, and a clock started to chime. Happy New Year.

Leon stumbled forward and started to lift rocks.

December 31, 1999 - Eugene, OR - University of Oregon Campus

"Mister Clayton, is that you?"

Alexander looked up over the stack of books he was gathering to take to the circulation desk, his shoulders set and wary. The voice was familiar, but it took a moment to place it; classes had ended a week or so ago. "Dr. Medan." A pause. "Hi. The library's still open."

The professor blinked at the sudden defensiveness, but offered a smile. "I know." He raised the book in his own hand. "It's just usually I don't see anyone but grad students here. And you're a freshman. You didn't go home for the holidays?"

"No." Why hadn't he? The thought of going back to Gray Harbor made him start to shake inside, even for a visit, even though he'd gotten straight A's that semester, and his parents had sounded...proud. Happy, when he'd called them. Invited him to come back. He'd made up some nonsense about having a job over the holidays. Realizing the professor was still looking at him, he said, "It's a small town. There's nothing to do. And my parents went to Seattle for the holiday." All true, although the last was only true after Alexander had turned them down.

Medan's smile took on a sympathetic edge, and Alexander realized that the professor had read it differently than he'd intended. He was going to correct it, but the man said, instead, "The Golden Bough? Are you interested in the occult, Mister Clayton?"

"Yes." Alexander felt himself turn red. "Not, not that it's real or anything. Just it's interesting. Thought patterns, logical fallacies, the idea of being able to shape and control the whims of fortune which are ultimately uncontrollable." Magic wasn't real, after all. He just had...problems, when he was younger. And maybe sometimes he thought he felt things, but they were just an unconscious method of processing what his senses - his perfectly normal senses - were receiving. Like right now, he could feel Medan's amusement and interest, but surely that was just because he could see the slight edges of his smile, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and the way he leaned into the conversation.

It still didn't prepare him for what the professor said, next. "What if you're wrong?"

Alexander blinked. "...what?"

Medan's smile widened. "Tell you what, Mister Clayton. I run a small, unofficial group on campus. It's mostly grad students, but I was very impressed by your work this semester, and it happens that we're meeting tonight to have a discussion about some classical works and a bit of fellowship for the new year. Why don't you come?"

"You...want me?" A pause. "To come." Alexander felt his face turning redder by the moment. "I mean, to attend your meeting? I'm not a grad student."

"I did say mostly," the professor said. "Unless you have other plans? It won't be the sort of rowdy affair you'll find anywhere else on campus, I'm afraid. Just a few talented minds drinking a bit of wine and talking about esoteric matters written by authors long dead. That probably sounds boring--"

"That sounds wonderful," Alexander blurted, entirely sincere. "I don't have other plans. I'll come. If you want."

Medan gave him a thoughtful, considering once over, then nodded. "Good. That's settled, then." He wrote down an address on the back of one of his business cards, handed it over to Alexander. "We start at eight, but come about an hour before that, and you can help me set up. I'd like the chance to get to know you better, Mister Clayton. Happy New Year." Then he was gone, waving his book in a casual goodbye as he made his way towards the circulation desk.

It was the first time anyone had voluntarily invited Alexander to any sort of social gathering (being forced by their parents didn't count). And by two that morning, it would be the first time Alexander had been introduced to demonology, been drunk, and had group sex, in that order. It was the best New Years Eve of his life, so far.

“Just leave her with your parents!”

Harriet turns away from the mirror where she’s putting on her earrings, looking to where Ciprian is standing, holding their daughter. She is three months old, and she is currently looking around with wide eyes and a very solemn expression.

“She’s your daughter, Harriet!” he replies, in that sort of voice that wants to be a yell but is attempting to be quiet. Quiet yelling. “Why do you want to leave her with my parents all the time? It’s one thing to do it once in a while, but you’ve barely spent any time with her since she was born!”

She lets out a little scoff, standing up to face him fully. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Ciprian,” she says, and in contrast to him, her voice is infuriatingly calm. Nonchalant, even. “I’m going out. You can come or not.” She turns away again then, starting toward the closet to retrieve whatever she’s going to wear, leaving her husband to stare at her with wide eyes.

"Look,” he says after a moment, trying to reign in his feelings enough to respond without losing control. “I think we need to talk about this. You know, the doctors--…”

His wife cuts him off before he can finish the thought. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” she says, still calmly, clearly anticipating where he’s going. “You wanted a kid, we had a kid. I’m just not going to stop my life because of it. If you want to do that, that’s your choice.” She takes a dress out of the closet, shutting the door just a little harder than necessary. It lends a sense of finality to the conversation, and she certainly doesn’t say anything more.

Ciprian looks at her for another second or two, and it seems like he might reply. Ultimately, however, he thinks better of it, and just turns to leave the room instead.

“I guess it’s just you and me tonight, Ashira.”

CW: Underaged drinking, sex

~*~

JANUARY 1, 2010
NEW ORLEANS, LA

While he didn't know much about her, there was something about Isabella Reede that ensnared his attention from the moment she stepped in homeroom as a transfer student two years ago. He wondered whether it was simply because she was contradictory: She tried out, then competed for their high school sports teams almost as soon as she landed, but avoided the parties that came with their victories; was attractive enough that several of the varsity jocks chased her, only for their overtures to be rebuffed and sometimes vociferously; achieved straight A's in her classes, spent much of her time in the library in between classes and practice, but avoided the nerds who asked her to join their clubs; friendly enough, always armed with a quick smile and a barbed comment or observation, but ultimately solitary. As if all she wanted to do was finish what she needed to do, and then leave. For almost two years, that's what he thought, at first.

At first.

The cacophonous sounds of revelry denoting the triumphant arrival of the new year filled his tiny studio apartment as he cleaned up, then bandaged the bleeding cut in her leg, trying his best not to notice the hem of her skirt pressing into her thigh. He didn't know how the fight started, just that he had to stop it before something happened, knew it deep down in his bones that he had to get her out of there, and all he could remember in the end was just how surprised he was that Isabella actually came to Marnie Chernier's house party that evening. It had been crowded, the entire school had been there, dancing and drinking the night away, but his eyes followed her wake as she chatted with a group of acquaintances before moving on.

He really didn't know what it was about her. Just that she burned like a star, and it was hard not to notice her, and wonder.

"You live alone."

Ethan stopped treating her thankfully minor injuries before looking up; her eyes looked like points of green fire in the faint lighting of his apartment. He smiled, faintly, dark-haired head bobbing once as he taped another wound shut. "Got emancipated last year," he told her, simply, blue eyes intent on his work. "Parents died when I was young, didn't feel the need to keep getting punched in the face by my uncle every time he was drunk."

Her expression changed at that, a flickering shadow slipping past that green-gold stare. "I'm sorry." Her voice was soft.

He shrugged his shoulders, and eased his hands away from her, his tall, lean figure folding by the waist to sit next to her on the bed that doubled as a couch, when folded up. He hadn't had the time to make it before he left, and looking at the state of his apartment now, he winced at how stereotypically messy it was. "Not a lot of people know," he told her. "I'd rather they didn't."

"Not even your friends?" Isabella wondered, face intent as she watched him sidelong. "You're always with them, Ethan. I figured if anyone would know..."

He was unable to suppress a grin, kicking himself internally as to how hopeful that made him. "So you do know my name," he teased her.

"Everyone knows," Isabella drawled, tone as dry as the Sahara. "You're captain of the soccer team, full ride to Notre Dame." Finally, a small smile played on the corners of her own mouth. "Hot shot."

He coughed, and turned his attention elsewhere. "Easier to hide if everyone thinks you're normal," he said, frowning at the blood in his hands. He busily wiped them off in his jeans.

"But you're not. Normal."

She seemed so sure of that, as if she knew something about himself that he didn't. His blue eyes lifted to meet her own, an inexplicable shiver running down his spine at how intensely she was looking at him; a diamond threatening to cut his skull open, somewhere beyond. And despite of that, he found himself fascinated by the defiance behind it.

"...does it bother you?" he asked, attempting to put a boot down on the growing sense of self-consciousness welling up from his stomach. "That I'm not?"

"No." Her smile suddenly speared through him at that single word, mercilessly bright. "Not normal is normal for me." She glanced down at her legs, testing the injured one with a heel against the floor. "Thanks, for patching me up. You didn't have to get in the middle of all that trouble for me, though. I could've gotten out of it on my own."

"Oh, I know." This time, it was him who sounded dry, and slightly exasperated. "I might not know much about you, but I'm pretty sure I was saving them from you."

He was surprised to hear her laugh; it came so suddenly, watching her serious, intense scrutiny change under the throes of it, highlighted and shaded in equal degrees by passing headlights from the sparse traffic outside of his windows. "Sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me," she quipped.

He found the dimple on her left cheek that he didn't notice before, and felt the sudden need to reach out and touch it, his thumb tracing the dent. He froze the moment he made contact.

But before he could say anything, Isabella closed the distance. There was nothing hesitant about her kiss, hot, humid, and open in ways he didn't expect from someone who gave the impression that she scarcely gave a damn about the more experimental aspects of high school life, but his astonishment didn't last long. He reached for her, twined himself with her, the rapidly deepening kiss shortening his breath, the crystal-sharp edges of his own want fueled by months of curiosity that he couldn't bring himself to deny, for all of his good intentions. His hands grasped her hips and yanked her into his lap.

"Have you done this before?" His teeth caught the side of her throat.

"Yes."

Masculine satisfaction filled him, then, the way that single word sounded so impassioned, choked at the back of her throat. Somehow, he knew she was lying, but he didn't care. It gave him an excuse to kiss her again, either to teach her a lesson about dishonesty, or forgive her for it. He hadn't decided just yet. His mouth drove at an angle, restless and hungry and hard while her fingers fisted into his hair and dragged him closer. She tasted like cherries soaked in vodka.

He wanted to know if what she imbibed permeated into her skin.

And after the way she gasped when he palmed her softness, he meant to find out.

The memory is dim, filled with flickering firelight. Snow is on the ground, and Cora's outside, staring up at a sky so full of stars that it seems absurd. Behind her, a bonfire burns bright in a field. There's the muted sound of laughter and chatter, and below it all the quiet crash of distant waves upon a rocky shore.

CW: childbirth mention, pregnancy

~*~

It's ten past eight on New Year's Eve, 2003, and August is on his way to join everyone at the Capitol Hill block party when he gets the text from his sister.

going to the hospital. probably just BH again.

He sits up in his bus seat, stares at his phone. Hannah's at 37 weeks, but has been in three times for what turned out to be Braxton Hicks contractions. So why is she going in again?

Unless his mom or Xavier want her to. Which means it might be labor this time.

this would be early, right?

yeah. should be fine though.

Then why are you texting me, he thinks but doesn't type out. He knows the answer.

"Shit." He rubs at his eyes, yanks the cord for the next stop. He texts Victor an apology, who texts him back to get lost and they'll be sure to fill his inbox with drunken dick pics once the vodka's really flowing. That manages to get a smile out of him.

He hops off the boss at the next stop, crosses the street, waits ten minutes to catch the next one right back to his humble apartment under the I-5 ship canal bridge. It's not a long trip, only another ten minutes, but it's a total of twenty minutes he wishes he could compress into twenty seconds.

It's too early. Well, not too early according to various experts, but as far as August is concerned the entire situation surrounding Hannah being pregnant has been one huge minefield. What would her insurance cover? Was she doing okay? What were all the potential complications even if everything went okay? Is she working too much? (Yes, he knows that's a yes.) He's been a mess for months. Thank God he's not in Portland or he'd be driving her insane.

Now here he is, on December 31, 2003, close to panicking because she's maybe going into labor three weeks early. The internet assures him any time after 37 weeks is okay, but Hannah's OB (the woman who delivered Zelda) is a staunch supporter of a full 40 weeks. So, it's early. Too early, though?

The first thing August does when he gets home is get out the Xanax and take a dose. Not for the drive to Portland, but for what's at the end of it: what could be days in and out of a hospital. The second thing he does is text her back.

omw

He's stuffing clothes into a duffle when he gets the next response.

really it's probably just braxton hicks

He pauses. He wants to believe her, desperately, but there's a knot in his gut that says she's wrong. He knows, in the marrow of his bones, in some part of himself that he can't explain or describe, that she's going into labor.

He texts Xavier instead. tell her I'm coming down there and I don't want to fucking hear about how it's fine

Ok. Between you and me? I think she's in labor. Don't think it's BH this time.

ok. be there soon as I can

Drive safe.

Speaking of things to thank God for, thank God for Xavier. He snaps his phone shut, tosses it on the bed next to his duffle. "It's okay," he says to himself. "Take a breath. Women have babies at 37 weeks all the time."

His studio flat is quiet around him. The muffled sounds of a proper Eastlake NYE getting underway reach his ears: loud music, laughter, cheering, car horns honking. He'd moved into this place for the final months of his last year, a sublet from another grad student on sabbatical in Puerto Rico, claiming a need for isolation to work on his thesis. In reality it was the constant noise of PTSD buzzing in his head, that ugly insistent reminder of Bosnia and the overwhelming certainty people were suffering and he couldn't help them. (Dear Universe, please let that USFS interview next month go well, he needed out of Seattle as soon as fucking possible.) Having roommates had been getting harder and harder, and at a certain point he had to face facts: he desperately needed his own space.

His phone buzzes with a text from Zelda. She's in the Bay Area, probably can't make it up for a few days and thus is no doubt going out of her goddamned mind.

Are you going down there?

yes. anything I should bring? do? NOT do?

She gives him a list. (She's an RN as well.) At the end of it: Mom's trying to be brave but she's worried. I can tell.

August swallows against a wave of nausea. Ilana Roen had been an RN for 45 years before retiring. If she's worried, things are dicey.

ok. will keep you posted

Drive safe.

He pockets his phone, runs his hands over his face. "Keep it together," he murmurs to himself.

After spending a few seconds just standing there, calming down, he finishes packing and begins the trip south to Portland.

~*~

The drive's a lot of darkness and quiet, just the engine and Chick Corea, Miles Davis, and a bit of Stevie Wonder. Very few cops in the spaces between; they're all setting up to nail drunk drivers heading back from NYE parties. He can drive a bit above his usual 10+ and not worry about getting pulled over. He only stops once, when he sees a text from Xavier.

She's in labor. Contractions are about forty-five minutes apart.

He takes a deep breath. At times like this August thinks he can feel the Xanax holding back a wave of panic. It's there, building, but then it never reaches shore, just drifts back into the ocean of his inner turmoil.

got it. hour and a half out.

He gets back in his car, grips the steering wheel. Thirty-seven weeks.

"It's fine," he tells his reflection in his rear view mirror.

Liar, a small voice in him replies.

He gets back on the road, and manages to get there in eighty minutes.

~*~

It's a tough labor. August's mom and dad are bastions of patience, which is good because the mere act of being in the hospital has him on edge, to say nothing of Hannah going through this. Xavier's usual calm grace is replaced with a tension that makes him stiff and awkward, so between the two of them they make for a great echo chamber of stress and freaking out. Fortunately, Fran the OB (an older Gujarati woman in her sixties) herds August and Xavier with ease, stops them any time they get too close to spinning out of control. August and Hannah's dad lends a hand when it's needed.

And still it's a torturous three hours. Midnight comes and goes; they watch the ball descend in Times Square on a muted TV in the waiting room.

Ilana, Fran, and Xavier come out a little after 2:00 AM. Xavier looks shell shocked but relieved; Fran and Ilana are beaming. "Well, that was a bit of a surprise," Ilana tells August and his dad, "but everything went smoothly. You can go in and see them in a minute, they're cleaning up." She gives Xavier a pointed look, which seems to wake up him up.

"Ah, we named the baby Eliza," he says.

*

There are phonecalls to make (Zelda and Joaquim, Uncle Jacob, Xavier's parents in Maryland and his brother in North Carolina), various things which need seeing to. August feels disconnected and floating until he gets to go into the room with Hannah and the baby. He settles on the edge of the bed, brushes his sister's hair back from her face. "Braxton Hicks, huh?"

"Fuck you," she mutters, smiling. Her thick, black, wavy hair is a mess; her rounded face is drawn and tired. But she's happy, he can feel it in some nameless place inside him, so this messiness is just more beauty.

He smiles back, peers down at Eliza. Hannah offers her up, and August hesitates. "It's fine," she assures him, and he accepts the swaddled bundle as carefully as he might a sculpture of spun glass.

He's shocked at how big she is. He'd expected her to be tiny. His expression must be revealing, because Hannah says, "Twenty-two inches. Nine pounds, four ounces."

August blinks, stares down at the baby in his arms, at Hannah again. Hannah shrugs. "Yeah, Fran's as floored as we are. She thinks something might be wrong with the ultrasound they used on me. They're looking into it."

August shudders. How close to disaster had they come?

He decides to not think about it. Here she is, healthy and wiggling, her face red and pinched. Eliza Roen. She looks up at him with golden brown eyes. She doesn't seem too sure about this being born business. Nothing out here is an upgrade, put me back in, that face says to him. He can relate, he hates hospitals too. They already have that in common.

"Hey," he says, voice low. "I'm your uncle."

She makes a consternated sound. He frowns at her. "Excuse you, I just drove a hundred miles to come see you be born."

Eliza's not impressed. She continues her silent, wiggling contemplation of him. Hannah giggles. He turns his head to look at her, overwhelmed with relief. "Hey. Happy New Year."

She smiles, exhausted with joy, rests her head on his shoulder. "Happy New Year." She reaches out, toys with her newborn baby's hand. "And Happy New Year to you too."

Eliza's eyes narrow and she squirms. It's 2:55 AM, January 1st, 2004, and August lets himself breathe for what feels like the first time in years.

~*~

...and as Victor promised, when August checks his email around lunch time, there it is: an email full of drunken dick pics.

January 1, 1996
Somewhere outside of San Diego

Everyone cheered and clapped. Everyone was so happy. Everyone, except for Javi. He pushed the bacalao around on his plate, stirring up it's fishy odor and reinforcing his determination to not put it in his mouth. He could hear the popping of gunshots outside, accompanied by whistles and gritos to ring in the New Year. Las abuelitas kissed the cheeks of his primos, following with pinches and the crooning of little affections: "mi amor", "mijitos", "mis hijos". None for him though, not really. They'd kiss his cheek too or pinch his earlobe, but they did it out of pity for the boy. No matter how kind they were, he could feel it behind their faces and their words. Always pity, never affection.

Concepción Guadalupe, the only grandmother who really paid him any mind, came over and brought him a bunch of grapes. "Javier Tomás, don't be so sad. Your mamá is coming for you soon. Eat your grapes, you need the luck for later." The old woman takes the plate of dried cod stew from him and gives him an empty smile. As she passes one of her own grandchildren, she pulls a piece of candy out from somewhere in the folds of her skirt.

Javi took the grapes outside and sat against the tin shack he called home. Gun shots continued to pepper the night as he ate each piece of fruit, wondering when his mother would return. She missed his 7th birthday, Christmas, and now New Years too. He could feel it in his heart that she wanted to be here, but she was so far away. He cried himself to sleep out there and no one wondered where he was.

New Years Eve, on the cusp of 2013. Finch Celaeno is the very appearance of a normal high school senior. She has gotten straight A's, she is a cheerleader, she's active in school clubs and activities, and she's pretty with her long brown hair and big dark eyes. So why is she trudging up the drive to Mallard House thirty minutes before midnight, when she was supposed to be attending a party with that handsome young man who just moved here recently and didn't know any of her baggage?

Dove Celaeno watches her granddaughter make her way up the gravel drive from a window, and she grimaces. Someone told him. Someone must have told him about how her mother tried to kill her, and how her great aunt murdered a ton of family members. It never took very long for the mean girls to spread the word to new arrivals. This time she'd hoped Finch had made enough of a connection with the young man to have him ignore their idiocy. She leaves the window and goes into the kitchen, where she's prepared a New Year's Eve snack tray, just in case, and a small bottle of sparkling grape juice. Prepared may be a bit of an exaggeration, she bought it in town earlier in the day.

The elderly woman carries it into the living room, and turns the New Years Rocking Eve program on ABC. It is the first year without Dick Clark, but celebrating his life in-memoriam. She has everything ready on the coffee table when her grandaughter's key turns in the lock. "Finch! You wanted to celebrate the ball drop with your Gran! How sweet of you darling, come, I have snacks ready!" No questions about why she is there, just an out for the girl so she doesn't have to explain.

Finch moves to hug her, no tears, she's used to this by now. "Thanks Gran. You're way better company than high school kids anyway."

New Years Eve, about to become 2014. Eleanor Lake sits on the couch in her tiny apartment in Gray Harbor, and looks over the paperwork in front of her, spread across the coffee table. Her father is retiring from the GHFD and has announced he and her mother are moving to Florida. She will miss them, but the sense of pure relief is palpable. They will be safe there, where things here, intent on coming for her and others like her, won't bother them. They don't Glimmer. But they could be casualties in the predations of Them.

The paperwork is for purchasing the house from her parents. Not the house she grew up in, that one they left after the incident when she was 12. This is the one after that, where she spent the next part of her life until she moved into her own little apartment when she was twenty. Now she's approaching 30, has her Associates Degree and her own business, and is about to own her first house. It's a good feeling, this sense of accomplishment and achievement. It's only mitigated by the bad feeling of actually making her life here permanent. She'd hoped to get out someday, run away from the weird, but in all her research she's learned two things. Gray Harbor isn't the only place the Veil is thin, and Gray Harbor will always drag you back to it, no matter how hard you try to escape its gravitational pull.

She uncaps her pen and begins to sign the plethora of pages with the little sticky tabs on them, calling for her signature. The phone rings at midnight, her parents calling to wish her a happy new year, her little brother there with them. She shares their cheer and has a glass of wine in celebration after she hangs up. Another year she's survived Gray Harbor mostly unscathed. Hiding and not using her gifts, instead doing deep research, has been effective, if lonely.

Riika Korhonen is six years old on New Years Eve, and her parents are having a party to celebrate the dawn of 2003. There are many people, mostly from the dance and arts communities. Their daughter has been marked as a child with incredible potential at the ballet school, where she has been dancing for two years already. She's been groomed to be the perfect child, sweet, polite, always smiling whether she is happy or not. She is dressed in a pale icy blue party frock, with three layers of ruffles on the bottom, and golden leafy vinework embroidered on the bodice. Her wildly curly black hair has been tamed into a bun, and a little plastic tiara with rhinestones is carefully pinned on her head. Satin white ballet flats are on her feet.

The smörgåsbord has been set out for the guests. There is bread and butter, pickled herring, boiled potatoes, fish roe, shrimp, beetroot salad, cold and hot fish and meat dishes (including poached trout, meatballs, coldcuts, and oysters), sauces, and cheeses. For dessert, which she won't be allowed to eat, are coffee and tea, biscuits, pastries, and ice cream. Her weight has to be strictly maintained for ballet. Can't begin that too early. Tons of food to be piled onto plates and enjoyed, if you are not Riika.

There is also a table with cups turned upside down on their saucers, beneath which are set a variety of little objects. Each guest will choose one to lift and what is beneath will predict their future. Every year she can remember she has lifted a cup to find a coin beneath, signifying wealth. That has pleased mother and father. (12 years later, she will turn the cup that holds a stickpin, promising sickness or pain.) Some families do other traditional fortune telling on the holiday, but her parents don't want to cast tin in their house, it might ruin their new furniture.

The countdown begins in the other room. She takes in a deep breath. She will be asked to dance after the adults finish eating. For now though, she can slip away to look out a window at the fireworks over Helsinki.

It is about to be 2014 in less than five minutes. Rebecca Kincaid (nee Carr) is the hostess of the fancy New Years Eve party in her fancy condo, in her fancy San Jose, along with her husband, Frederick. There are at least 30 people here, eating her posh, expensive hors d'oeuvres, drinking her expensive champagne, and wearing their finest to celebrate and mingle with a bit of business schmoozing. Her boss, the CEO of a security software company, is here, along with his wife, several of his employees, and other financiers who tend to spend money on startups in the tech industry. This is important to Frederick, because he needs funds to build his fledgling gaming software company. So where is he? She opens up her mind to sense the emotions in the crowd, looking for him, but there are too many minds here, and she closes it off quickly. That has been getting stronger too.

Rebecca has been through the crowds, looking for him, and he's nowhere to be seen. He needs to give the toast after the countdown ends, and open the first bottle of champagne. She finds her phone and texts him quickly. <<Where are you? Ball drop in 3 minutes! Speech! People are looking to talk to you!>> It takes him a minute to reply but it comes back with <<BRT>>. He suddenly emerges on the staircase up to the bedrooms and beckons her over to join him. Just in time as always. As the countdown gets close he taps on his glass with a spoon. "And let's get to this! 10! ... 9! ... 8!" At the zero he declares Happy New Year, and pops open the champagne bottle she offers him. His toast is about new beginnings and prosperity in the new year, with a thank you to his beautiful wife for this party. Then they go to mingle and shake hands with important people. He keeps an arm around her waist, steering her this way and that, so she doesn't see the curvy form of her boss' wife sneaking downstairs after them.

L'espérance - hope, expectation, promise

New Year’s Eve, eleven fifty-five PM. The band is tight tonight. They’re always good, but tonight, they’re fucking transcendant. Itzhak, sweating, grinning like a lunatic, plays the hottest he’s ever played. He’s drunk. A lot of drinking is ongoing. Also a bump (or two) of cocaine and a few unidentified pills and several hits off various joints are making the rounds. Itzhak suspects the pills might have been molly; every ridge of his fingerprints pick up the resonance of the violin as he makes it shiver and shout under his hands, ecstactic as a maenad.

He and Pascal swap off the melody and rhythm. Sometimes Itzhak takes the melody, throwing rills and riffs like javelins. Other times he supports Pascal’s bright wailing electric guitar, himself pounding through chords like he’s John Henry proving the superiority of a steel-driving man over any machine. He and Pascal play like one brain with four hands and two instruments, swapping off with barely a glance at each other, weaving music and madness between them in a net that sweeps the entire crowd along. Sandy’s on the squeezebox, hoarse and rowdy. Damien came along tonight to play spoons, clack-a-click-a-clickity-clack! Paskha’s got the stompbox that Itzhak built him, too, and Itzhak himself is working the suitcase drum. They sound the way New Orleans will sound on that day all the saints come marching in.

And then there’s Jean-Pierre. Pascal’s brother, the oldest of ten from a family with the bayou in their blood, he’s front man, lead singer, harmonica, and he is--Itzhak doesn’t have the words. Strutting with his shirt off, showing an awful lot of sleek muscle and smooth dark-olive skin decorated with pale scars, JP plays the crowd as if screaming, dancing people are his instrument. The colored lights of the little club gleam off his torso and his Jean d’Arc tattoo and his jet black hair. JP never sings the right lyrics. He’s always improvising, like the Cajun do down in the bayou. In a beautiful melange of French Creole and English, he laughs and sings and makes up the words in whatever damn way he feels at the moment.

He calls to Pascal and Itzhak and Sandy and Damien each in turn for their solos, and when he points at Itzhak, grinning the grin of the devil himself at him, Itzhak steps up and lets his fiddle soar. He hates being in the spotlight, and the boys all know he hates it--but when JP calls him, he goes. And he’s fucking brilliant, swaying and playing and he can’t hit a wrong note. He pushes himself as hard and fast as he ever has in his life and his fingers cannot fumble. The crowd roars for him as he plays, his curly forelock dripping sweat into his eyes, his tall lanky frame rollicking along with his bowing. The crowd roars for him while the band backs him and JP whoops him on. Itzhak feels like a prophet of old, the voice of God a wind sweeping through him to leap from his strings. He can do this. He can do this!

With JP by his side, he can do anything.

At the stroke of midnight JP grabs him and kisses the living daylights out of him right there on stage. The crowd goes nuts, stomping and screaming. Itzhak blushes blood red, just like JP knew he would, and everybody laughs.

The afterparty, believe it or not, is even better. Itzhak isn’t sure, nor does he care, how many people he winds up screwing. How many times he blows his load into a condom or someone’s mouth he doesn’t know. Whatever he did last night, JP was there for all of it. They shared men and women and themselves as if their bodies were cups of sacred wine. When he wakes up around two PM on January 1st, tangled in damp sheets and naked Jean-Pierre, all he’s sure of is he’s passed some kind of test, some turning point in his life. Somehow, some way, he hasn’t fucked this up.

“Mornin’, chere,” Jean-Pierre murmurs, lifting his head from the pillow. “Bonne année.” He kisses Itzhak, then gets up, all sleek musculature and swag.

“Hell yeah it is,” Itzhak mumbles, eyebrows up as he watches JP get up and walk away. That ass is proof of a benevolent God. His hangover, somewhat less so, but you can’t have everything. Smiling stupidly to himself, he wriggles onto his back and stretches out luxuriously. What a night.

Jean-Pierre comes back with a bottle of water, hands it over along with a couple few painkillers. Itzhak knocks ‘em back, and while he does, JP sits on the bed and looks at him.

“What?” Itzhak says, swallowing.

“Maman called couple days ago.” Jean-Pierre has a weird look on his beautiful face. It takes Itzhak a minute before he figures out JP is concerned. Worried, even. Serious.

A squirt of adrenaline hits Itzhak right under the sternum. “What’d she say?”

JP’s honey-whiskey eyes stay steady on him. “She say she sick. Real sick. She say she need help with the petites, and she need Pas and me. We decided. We’re gonna go.”

Itzhak stares at him. No! cries a voice inside him. No, everything was perfect, perfect!

Jean-Pierre goes on, quiet. “She say you family too, and you’re welcome if you want. A good man ‘round the place never go wasted.”

“What do you want?” Itzhak says, mouth dry, throat dry. His hangover is going to explode his entire head, pulsing ominously.

Jean-Pierre shifts close to stroke Itzhak’s curls out of his eyes. His expression is tender, and unhappy, and God he’s so gorgeous and he’s breaking Itzhak’s heart. “Want what you want. You want to come, why, that’s more’n fine with ol’ JP. But he don’t think maybe you will be so happy there, mon cherie.”

Itzhak knows what he means. They’ve visited the family in the bayou. People there live not too different than they lived a hundred years ago. They’re very poor. You want food, mostly you hunt or fish or grow it. None of the hassles of the city--but none of the pleasures or conveniences, either. Better not need anything in the middle of the night. You have it already or you go without. No coffee shops, no delis, no museums, certainly no Pride parades or gay bars. Even now gay men go in fear of their lives. That never stopped JP, of course, force of queer nature that he is, but…

But.

Itzhak rubs his aching eyes. Tears threaten like a thunderhead on the horizon. “When...when’re you going?” His voice is closing up. No, no, Itzil, don’t cry, don’t make this worse, just don’t, his ma is sick, what do you want him to do? Don’t be like this.

“Couple weeks, on the outside. Time, it’s important now.” Jean-Pierre’s looking steadily at Itzhak.

Time is important now. Even Itzhak knows the subtext on that one. He hates himself for making JP look at him like that, like he needs to be managed and handled carefully. Why can’t he just wish him well and send him on his way? Why does he have to BE like this?

“I. Uhm.” Those fucking tears well over and he tries to dash them away without letting on. Ha ha, as if. Itzhak mashes his face into his hands and hisses, “Shit!” furious with himself, furious with JP for being so wonderful and for leaving him, furious with the world. Why was he given such a beautiful gift as last night if this is the morning after?
Jean-Pierre leans in to hug him. Itzhak bolts out the other side of the bed, colliding with the wall, one hand held out to ward him away. “Don’t. Just, just don’t.”

Hurt, for the first time, flares in JP’s eyes. But he nods. “However you want it,” he murmurs.

He stands, gets dressed. Itzhak leans his pounding forehead against the cold paint of the wall, fighting not to break down, to beg him not to go. The room is silent except for the rustling of clothes. He doesn’t want it this way! He has to say something to JP, something to let him know he doesn’t blame him, that this is just the fucked up way life is and they both know that. And he can’t. He can’t make himself do it. If he opens his mouth, only pleading and recriminations are going to come out, and...he won’t. He won’t make JP take that. If he can give him nothing else, he can give him that.

Finally JP, dressed, stands there and looks at him again. “Call me, hmm?” He’s shorter by a good handful of inches than Itzhak, and has to crane up to kiss him. Which he does, sweet and soft and saying everything that Itzhak knows neither of them will ever say with words.

Itzhak kisses him, allowing himself to stroke his stubbly cheek, swallowing the taste of saline. “Yeah,” he manages to get out, voice a rasp. “Yeah, I will. Let you know.”

He knows he’s not going. Jean-Pierre knows it too. But all he says is, “Don’t take too long,” kisses him again, and murmurs something in French to him. Which he’s well-a-fucking-ware Itzhak doesn’t understand. Then he leaves, and behind him he closes the door.

There's no exact moment when a marriage comes to an end. Usually it's a slow death, a creaking of load-bearing walls, cracks in the plaster. Then one swift kick, and it all starts to crumble. Even then, the structure might buckle to its knees, slowly flake apart, creak, then finally give. And sometimes there's denial, an attempt to spackle over the cracks in a flawed structure.

"Do you really think I'd sabotage the evening on purpose, Bethany? That I sat here this morning thinking, you know what would be fun? To kneecap New Year's Eve. That sounds like good fun."

"You're drunk, Dante."

"Of course I'm fucking drunk. It's New Year's Eve."

It's just after 1 AM. Dante and his wife Bethany are back from a party hosted by Bethany's sister. It started off as a pleasant enough affair. Neighbours gathered, his sister-in-law Annie bring out plate after plate of hors d'oeuvres. Kids in the basement, having their own New Year's Eve party with candy and video games, rows of sleeping bags lined up for later that night.

It is, on the surface, the kind of night that gets etched into happy memories. And for a few, it will be. Just not for the Taylors.

"I'm sick of it. I'm sick of you flirting with half the room. You barely even looked at me all night." Bethany reaches down to pull off a silver pump. Its sister has already been discharged.

"Here we go. Bloody hell, Beth. For the thirtieth time, I was not flirting. And I hate to tell you, there weren't that many people to fancy at the party consisting of your high school friends and your sister's neighbours." Dante's shoes came off near the door. Unlike what will become his custom as years go on, he didn't even wear a suit to a party. Bethany says it makes him look like a strutting peacock, so he's in a simple button-up and slacks.

"So if we had gone to that cocktail bar downtown, you'd find plenty of people to flirt with, is that it?" Bethany angrily removes her earrings. One falls off her dresser, lost down in the dryer vent. The earring becomes a point of contention later, and the impetus for another fight.

Dante slumps on to the end of the bed. "I'm tired of this. I'm tired of this conversation. And you didn't start doing this until I told you I like men. Do you know how tedious it is to be assumed to be promiscuous because I'm bisexual?"

"It has nothing to do with that! It's because whenever we meet someone new, you give them that...look and that smile. And you look them up and down." But even as Bethany says that it's not his bisexuality, she knows it's not true. What used to be charming somehow became threatening when he revealed that detail of his past. "Forget it. I'm getting a headache. I want to sleep." She shrugs out of her plain black shift dress and tugs on fleecy pajamas with the coordination of a drunk and angry person.

Dante's jaw clenches, and for a moment, he consider prolonging the fight. But he's getting a headache, too. And a thought is taking root. If she's going to treat him like he's been unfaithful, then why bother with all this self-control.

That was the night when the load-bearing wall cracked. It would take a few months for the house to fall down.

December 31, 1999

The pills were the only things that kept her on the right side of sane and even then, she wasn't really all there. It was painfully obvious to all those who came in contact with the wild-eyed red head. Isolde Morrison had just gotten out of yet another stint at the local psych center. She had been sleeping better, eating better, taking her medicine regularly. All signs pointed towards improvement, but she knew better. Her parents knew better. Isolde could see it written all over their faces when they were driving her home. Wondering how long they had until she snapped again. Second guessing whether they should have picked her up.

Pulling up to the aging townhouse, Isolde's mother turned and smiled to the teen. "It's a new year tomorrow. A new start, mon cheri. I have good feelings." Her mother's voice was a comfort to Isolde. That thick French accent making everything sound better. "I'll make you cocoa and we'll watch the ball drop." Her father shut off the car and they all piled out of the car.

Isolde summoned up a smile as they headed inside. "Sure mom. Sounds good."

5 short months later would find Isolde packing up and leaving Portland for good. A new year with new terrors and new diagnoses. Anything had to be better than Portland.

The slick city street reflected street and building lights; the flashing Mo el sequential neon advertisement shone off the wet asphalt between flicks of light downpour to give the near midnight city, drowsy but not asleep, the illusion of being clean. Streaks of grease grime and oil caught the water streams and headed towards city sewer drains.

She giggled, her wet Doc Martins blacker when drenched, and splashed the puddle that caused the cityscape to blur and vanish as she sprinted across the street. With one hand, she held her DeMarini baseball bat, low enough that the blunt end of it ricocheted off the road, or pavement, transferring watery red in the wake of her dash. In the other hand, her protector.

She dressed in fishnet nylon, a pair of silver booty shorts, and a tight tee shirt that sported ‘Babydoll’ in blue over the gray of the damp shirt; she kept it covered with a silver and pink baseball jacket. Her blonde hair in ponytails. She had been accused of dressing in costume play a number of times and each of them ended in a fight, verbal if not physical. Those ponytails bounced while they laughed, and ran towards their destination.

Her protector was much larger than she was and had his own cliché attire. It was all dark, save the dark army green of his wet tee shirt. Jeans, boots, and leather jacket that sported his biker affiliation. His armor. He trailed a footstep behind her, holding on for everything he held dear, his long wet hair whipping to his face, leaving drops, which he had to use his other hand to occasionally clear but water and hair.

She brought him to the nearest shelter, an empty bus shelter. The inside advertisement was torn and sported graffiti, written in black marker and by the more impatient, knife. The tear bore a portion of the bare bulb behind the half-smiling Caucasian face: a half forgotten dental advertisement. Once she got inside the shelter, she turned around, still grinning broadly, looking up and up at her companion, pulling him in with her hand; not that he fought her. He only stopped when their bodies touched, then their hands released and his rested at the small of her back.

Maybe it was only because she couldn’t reach, not to wrap her hands around his neck, not comfortably, that she dropped her baseball bat on the dirty, cigarette butt laden ground, turned around and climbed on the single metal bench and turned back. They both grinned broader when she slide her arms around his neck. A smile that was short-lived when she used her new handhold to pull him closer; and he pulled her. Their heads canted, lips touched, and tongues wrestled. She gave a soft whisper and then climbed him, his hands moving with either practice or unconsciously to hold her small frame but only for the time it took to turn and press her against the torn ad, firmly. Hard enough to knock the breath out of her with a whoosh. The kiss escalated, desperate, finally giving in to something held back for so long.

He reached down to interlace his thick fingers with hers and slide them up, pinning her like a beautiful butterfly.

Just then, a car’s headlights further illuminated them. It drove by, taking with it the extra light, but adding a fading red until, then they heard the squealing of wet breaks. Together, they laughed and he dropped her to her feet. She grabbed his hand once more and started to dash away, only to double back, letting go of his hand. While he glanced towards the four-door sedan, whose reverse lights turned on and started to advance, she picked up her bat, grabbed his hand again, and led him back into the wet.

31 December 2019

5!

The door slams, locks. The young woman all painted up like a glass of sparkling champagne slumps against, trembling. She's not losing it. She's not. Its just.. its just in her head. That's what Dr. Hines said. Just.. delusions. Hallucinations brought on by her poor medication habits. Rushing towards the sink, Kass grips it in both hands, tightly, letting the porcelain bruise into her palms and create divots along the edges. She stares into the mirror, choosing to ignore her own haunted gaze. "You didn't see anything, stupid. You're wide awake. Its not real, you're just making it up."

4!

There's a knock at the door, the knob rattles. Kass's head whips around, calling out in a strained voice even as she backs up against the wall, "Its occupied, go away!" The panicked breathing renewed as she tries to press back into the wall. "This isn't real, I'm not asleep. This isn't real, I'm not asleep!" Something in the knob's hardware snaps and the door slowly creaks inward.

3!

"NO! Nononononono! You can't BE here! I'm not sleeping! This can't be a Dream, I'm not sleeping!" Her voice driven up an octave as fear freezes her in place. Its not the darkness that's come for her, though, its the light. That sterile, harsh white light that's expected to be found in hospitals. Their faces are unclear, blurred, like a painting that was smeared before it fully dried. But the crisp white outfits are crystal clear. They approach, slowly, steadily. Menace in their body language, menace disguised as caing, hands reaching out towards her.

2!

Kass lashes out, Glimmer rolling off her in waves as she tries to hurt them, to keep them away. The mirror cracks, the plumbing creaks and rattles. "I won't go back, I'm not going back!! Stay away from me!" Dust and debris drifts from the ceiling as the figures in white keep to their steady approach, rips and tears appearing in the clothing to expose nothing but more of that blinding white light. Hands extended, nearly to her.

1!

A shrill, terrified scream echoes down the hall and is swallowed by the dull roar of the patrons beyond celebrating the start of a new year....

The young woman jolts awake, the scream still stuck in her throat, flailing wildly at the hands reaching for her, only to have a familiar voice letting out a 'tch' and telling her to get her ass back out on the floor, her fifteen minutes were up three minutes ago. Kass looks around, wild-eyed and panicked only to recognize that she's in the staff area backstage, huddled on a chair in a corner with a cheap table and other chairs nearby. She lets out a breath and gives a nod to the other waitress, enduring the strange look as she winces and looks at herself. Body paint smeared in places, a few rhinestones have been knocked from their wig glue moorings.. bruises starting to fill in underneath with scratches overlaid in thin read lines. Sighing, Kass goes to fix herself up as best she can before getting back out there before the other waitress really kills her...

10!

She sighs and braces herself. Here we go again.

CW Suicide

John was the first person Beth took care of that she had been close to before death.

He had been her first boyfriend starting her junior year of high school. They dated until she went off to college and as is typical they drifted apart, broke up because of the distance, and moved on with their lives. She had seen him casually since she returned to work for her dad. They smiled and had small-talk when they ran into each other, but it was never anything deep. She didn't feel guilt over knowing how he would end his life, their time together had been over for quite some time, but there was some sadness for him. Sadness that he had lived with so much misery without letting anyone else know. Sadness for his young family. He had a three year old son and an estranged wife who was wracked with guilt.

Beth is not a miracle worker. Gunshots to the head are tricky. She stands on one side of the table and surveys the damage while her dad looks down at John with a critical and trained eye. He looks up at Beth. "You okay?" Beth nods her head once. "Yeah. I'm okay." A pause and she adds, "His ear is going to have to be reconstructed. That's going to be a pain in the ass."

And then they got to work. John's funeral was closed casket, but the reconstruction at least gave his wife and parents a chance to see him one last time without confronting the horror that had been his face. It took hours to do but they didn't charge the family extra. It just felt wrong.

Beth didn't expect taking care of John would effect her like it did, but weeks after his funeral she would wake up and find him standing at the foot of her bed staring down at her with the wax ear and plaster of paris head she had made for him. She decided it was just a nightmare even though she knew damn well it wasn't. John was looming over her bed menacingly night after night. Finally, New Years Eve rolled around. Beth stumbled in at 3 am drunk. By 6 in the morning it was still dark, and there John was. Looming.

Beth had been frightened before, but now she was hungover and annoyed. She sat up in bed and snapped, "Oh my god you creepy motherfucker! You are dead! I don't even know why you're haunting me I haven't fucked with you since we were kids! Seriously John. Fuck off!"

And then John did just that. He turned and walked into the wall, vanishing. Beth didn't see him again. Although sometimes?

Sometimes she wakes up in the early morning when it's still dark expecting to see him looming over her.

There were still boxes that needed to be unpacked, but Clarissa had managed to instruct the help to pull out a few extra bits of tinsel and leave the tree up in order to enjoy the holiday. They'd only been in Seattle for a couple of weeks, but it had been hard not to notice how most of those boxes were Pierce's, stacked outside of his office door like some kind of wall to ward off the world. She'd tried to get him to go out, gotten a half-hearted promise that he'd see if he could move some work around, but she had realized early enough that he wasn't going to make it to one of the swankiest french restaurants in town for a nine course prix fixe New Year's menu and tried to make the best of it. She'd still dressed up and gotten the champagne ready, put on festive music and lit the candles. And then she'd sat there for three hours, drinking wine and watching the door to his office remain closed. Just before midnight she stood up and moved towards it, anger and resignation roiling within her. She already knew what he'd say, that he'd just gotten so caught up in work, but none of the other partners ever seemed to be this busy. They certainly were going out and enjoying parties with their spouses. She lifted a hand to knock twice, very insistently. No response. She knocked again, more irritated. Nothing. She reached down for the handle to open the door, but it was rather predictably locked, "Pierce, it's nearly midnight, are you going to come out?" She asked to no response. Frowning, she pressed her cheek to the door to listen. She could hear him in there, moving around, papers shuffling, muttering to himself. He'd been doing more and more of this. Something was definitely stressing him out, but he never wanted to talk about it. Seemed annoyed that she was noticing. It was all the same too, something about how they were out to get him. How they'd stop at nothing to ruin his life. "Pierce?" she called out again, still listening at the door, but the only thing that changed was that the muttering stopped.

Pushing away from the door, Clarissa stalked back to the couch to sit back down and lift her glass of wine as the grandfather clock they had shipped from Germany chimed out that the new year had begun. She finished the alcohol and leaned back, staring grimly at those unpacked boxes. He'd never unpacked them in California either. It meant they wouldn't be staying here. And god knew where he'd want to drag them next. "Same old year," she muttered, standing back on her expensively heeled feet to head to bed. Alone. Again.

December 31, 2010 - New Year's Eve - Gray Harbor - Elias Weber

The bed that he woke up in was unfamiliar, but that was nothing new. He'd dozed off briefly, pleasantly buzzed, more than a little bit high. There were fairy lights draped all around the room, and a smattering of glow in the dark stars. It was too warm, and the room smelled of booze and sex and pot. He'd planned to count down the New year, but then Reese had gotten other ideas, and one thing lead to another, and another thing lead to waking up in this room. He glanced over and noticed that Reese was still wound around the athletic redhead who'd introduced himself as Jody from Hoquiam, both of them passed out.

The sounds of the party outside the door were loud enough to suggest that it was still in full swing. There were the occasional peels of laughter, the throbbing beat of the music coming up from the floor below, and the sporadic thump, crash, or other collision indicating that the crowd had not thinned.

Running his fingers through his hair, he pushed the long strands back from his eyes and reached around in search of his pants, dragging them on without bothering with the rest, and made his way out into the hall. He closed the door behind him, making note of which one it was to find the rest of his clothes later, and wandered down the stairs. The keg had run dry, but there were plenty of unopened bottles stashed everywhere. He picked one, not exactly paying attention to what it was, just that it was unopened, and poured himself a glass, wincing with the first sip and sucking in air past his teeth.

On the giant flat screen in the living room he could see that the ball hadn't dropped yet. He'd managed to doze off for less than an hour. Leaning up against the wall he watched the people flooding Times Square and wondered idly what it would be like to visit New York City at New Year's, to be lost in the middle of that sheer mass of humanity. He was lost in his own thoughts, when he suddenly felt an arm slip around him from behind. Leaning back, he glanced over his shoulder as Reese reached around to steal his glass and take a sip.

Together, they watched the ball begin its descent, and counted down the end of 2010 and the beginning of 2011. Reese leaned in and kissed him, hard, and deep, pressing him back into the door frame and when the kiss broke, murmured three words that Elias was not ready to hear. It was the first time anyone had said those three words to him, anyone he had dated, anyway. He hadn't been expecting it. And for a moment, he saw the flicker of hurt in Reese's eyes when he didn't say them back.

"Come on," Elias said, "Let's go back upstairs and see if your new friend is ready to ring in the new year as enthusiastically as he finished the old one."

December 31, 2013 - New Year's Eve - Los Angeles, CA - Justin

Justin Cooper had everything he could have ever wanted. 2013 was his year. He'd graduated with honors, he'd made his mother happy by taking a role in a film that had wrapped shooting over the fall, and his little company that he'd formed with a few friends a couple of years earlier when they were in the middle of their undergrad years was finally beginning to bear fruit. Lucidwave was on its way toward its first major release, and he'd proven that he could not only make his parents happy, following in his mother's Hollywood legacy, but that he could do something of his own, build something with his own two hands that he didn't just inherit. He was happy, and things couldn't look brighter going into 2014.

The flashing lights of the cameras didn't bother him, or the questions about his mother. The photos as he got out of the limo in front of the club where he intended to spend New Year's Eve showed a brilliant smile, a cheerful wave, and he stopped to answer a few questions here and there: yes, he planned to do more films in the future as time allowed; no, he wouldn't be leaking any secrets about Lucidwave's debut title coming out in the Spring; no, he wasn't seeing anyone; yes, his folks were very proud; no, the rumors about one of his father's clients suing him were not true; and a slew of other questions about his co-stars, his parents, his company, and other celebrities. He was riding the wave of a year of hard work and successes, and he felt invincible.

And when the cannons filled with confetti rained down silver glitter on the dancers on the floor, with the lights of the city all around, Justin shared a celebratory kiss with a model who had introduced herself only an hour before. Rumors that they had been secretly dating for months and that he was the reason for her recent breakup would be plastered all over the tabloids the next morning, but he didn't care. It was a night for celebrating.

It was only in the quiet of the limo on the way back to his apartment alone that he noticed that there were three messages on his phone. Glancing at the texts, he'd expected random drunken nonsense, or perhaps some stray Happy New Years from friends he hadn't talked to in ages. What he hadn't expected was the message from an unfamiliar number that read: October 5, 2007 - Gray Harbor, WA - You don't remember, but I do.

New Years Eve, 2004 - New York City

The morgue had been a place he was familiar with, a few visits here as part of the first year and a half of medical school, but tonight? It felt like such an alien, foreign place to the med student. His tuxedo was still worn, the bow tie undone to slacken, the top button of that shirt left undone.

"Yule, we can do this tomorrow instead," Doctor Graham spoke softly, the emotions of the student that clearly etched on his features. The doctor had served as a mentor to many of the pupils who came through the school, a familiarity with the face that now stood before his slab. That much, at least, gave Yule a touch of bravery that he needed at the moment.

"Show me." Dr. Graham carefully pulled down the sheet, just enough to reveal the face of the dark skinned woman who was close to the same age as Yule. Her springing, curly hair still looked so vivid, compared to the still, motionless features of the corpse. It had been just hours before he saw Marie as they prepared for the evening festivities at her apartment. The memory of her teasing him in his pure inability to manage to do up his own bow tie. She'd taken him to countless charity events, but tonight was supposed to be something truly extraordinary.

"That's her," His voice cracked, and then a series of sobs came, a good minute coming and going before his arm wiped along his eyes, trying to focus on the medical examiner. "What happened?"

Dr. Graham crossed around to Yule, a hand lifting to grip his shoulder gently, "I'll find out. It's what we do here. I can't bring her back, but I can help find answers for you. You have friends you can stay with?" It was a somber, absent nod that the med student gave to the examiner, who continued on, "Good. I'll call in the next day or two." The rest of the passage of 2004 into 2005 was a blur for the man, not a single other conscious thought recalled.

11:40pm, 2013 December 3, Queens NYC

Ignacio is standing in the hallway of a tenement building turned mass building party and the Spanish peacock looks damn good. He’s not his cousin Ernesto but he’s got his 7&7 in hand and wanders the second floor running into people treating this place like a dance club looking for some more of his crew. One of those situations where more people know him from racing than he knows the name of and leaves the question Did I never formally meet them or am I an asshole and forgot their name?!

His phone buzzes and there’s a text waiting for him. There is a DJ set up in someone’s living room and the text reads:
Hey Guapo, Look up. There might be a present for you.

Taking a drink he swipes message closed with a wry grin of amusement. Looking up coming down steadily is a purple balloon with something inside?! Huh! He drinks his drink and sure, it’s clever and he’s curious. Setting the drink down he wrinkles his nose popping the balloon to find inside a key labeled 4D and a thong?! Both eyebrows go up and his focus swivels back up up up the stairs seeing a hand drift away from the railing wiggling a ‘hullo’ Jaw slightly agape he murmurs, “Dios Mio.” He checks his phone that reads:
Dropped something. I’m going to need that back. There’s a lost & found reward.

Still something felt off. It wasn’t even Anita sending her unmentionables to him via balloon. Something else feels like it should merit attention; heavy and implacable. Of course he had two drinks too. Something inside told him to keep looking. He stops in across the hall to his friends and there is Marissa, his ex but god don’t they make better friends for it. She asks, “Anita was looking for you. I think she’s going to eat you alive, Nacio. Careful.” The grin is entirely unworried.

Everyone’s here… except… Rico? “Oye, Donde estas Enrico?” The slight blush that comes to her ears and looks down at her drink indicates some shy disappointment at not knowing. Looking up Ignacio looks around frowning. His hand lifts to the side of her arm giving it a squeeze telling her, “You going to be here a while, Marissa?” There’s a gesture of either why would I leave, or where else would I go?

Sneakers start up the stairs; unmentionables crunched in one hand and checking his phone, expecting an impatient text from Anita, and there is one in the form of a really not safe for work picture just enough to not actually show anything but enough to mess his reason up a bit. There’s another from Rico that reads:
“Lo siento. No quise decir eso. Toma un trago para mi”

Ignacio’s spine goes cold and his feet pick up on the stairs to the 4th floor, and keep going up two steps at a time moving like a monkey on a mission up up up. Pushing the heavy steel door open at the top, winded he looks around with a desperate worry, “Rico!” There’s a cold sweat on the back of his neck as the usually jovial Puerto Rican stands there on the edge checked out.

Rico stops and looks o Ignacio with regret, some shame, and weariness. “You shouldn’t be out here, Iggy.”

Ignacio extends a hand with- oops. He pockets Anita’s thong for now and tries that again extending an open hand to him moving slowly. In his usual glib casualness he asners with concern across his face, “Well you leave me unsupervised for too long I wander off and find trouble. I’m a problem. I know.” This is not the Rico he knows but like anyone in this situation he realizes he’s only being shows what Rico wants to be seen. He walks slowly and asks, “Can… can I come join you?”

Rico’s jaw tightens, “Haz lo que quieras.” He looks back to the street 8 stories down. Slowly Ignacio walks over and carefully steps up on the ledge and sits. Rico watches him boogling, “The hell you doing? Your balance is shit man you could get hurt.”

Keeping one hand behind him and slowly letting go swinging his legs over he holds his breath and looks down into the yawning ally below. “Estoy Mi hermano esta lastimado.” He looks up and lets Rico process this and offers a hand up to him. “Diga.” Talk to me.

The look goes from angry and frustrated in the wake of Ignacio’s earnest expression to grief as tears well up in Rico’s eyes. He takes the hand and squeezes it hard. Ignacio pulls him to a sit pulling his arms around him. He listens to Rico talk of having lost his dad earlier in the year and how he can’t get enough money to help his Auntie keep her apartment and now she has to move back. A story on how he should have been there making the delivery so his pop didn’t get hit by that driver, and done more. Always more. The tighter he holds his best friend, his hermano, the more words come out so he does just that. Ignacio’s phone buzzes again. And another time. He mutes it.

Quietly Ignacio says, “Bro, you are 20 years old. Some shit happens. Some things we’re not going to be able to fix. Tomorrow we can try again, together. Maybe the change ain’t forever.” He pauses and kisses his temple slapping him on the cheek twice. “Look, Raf’s...moved out. I ain’t told no one but if you need a place to go I can talk to mama. You need to pick up some hours I can try to help you but I can’t…” he looks down and back to Rico, “If you are en pedazos pequeños, si?”

Feeling Rico slouch his weight against him, fingers digging into his shirt holding on Ignacio just holds on. “Lo resolveremos mañana juntos, hermano.” Taking a deep breath he says with a tightening in his throat sniffling, but smiling in that lop-sided fashion, “Besides I really don’t want to give Marissa that news. Yooooou know she’s downstairs a lil disappointed you took off man. You should ask her out..” He mutes his phone again.

“Marissa? She’s your girl man.”

“Uhhh she’s her own chica, and was, and she’s my friend so, ya know, she deserves to be happy. Just because things didn’ work for us doesn’t mean she’s not a great person, Rico.” His phone rings again and he looks at the message. He look at Rico. He looks at the message he will never let his mama see and sends a message back.

“Anita?”

“Siiii. Momento.” He kicks off the text with a sigh.

“She been waiting to take a bite out of you man.”

“Yeah well cannibalism is wrong. I told her I had something important came up.” Looking up to Rico he asks, “Wanna get out of here and go take a walk?” Swinging his legs back over he moves the belongings and the key under a garden rock up there.

She never does text him again.

December 31, 2009 - New Year's Eve - Gray Harbor, WA - Tobin Gilford

Off-season was always a bleak time. Bills kept coming even though there was little to no income coming in, and they still had to be paid. This was the first year that he'd had to take care of all of them himself, too. It had been six months after his mother disappeared before he finally sat down with the lawyer and they made arrangements so that Tobin could take over everything until she either returned, or was declared missing and presumed dead.

Missing and presumed dead.

Some part of him knew she was still out there. He could still /feel/ her out there if he reached out. Somewhere. He couldn't /find/ her, but he knew that she was still alive in his heart, even if no one else believed him.

But it didn't keep him from feeling deeply alone as he sat in the livingroom, watching the people in Time's Square on the television celebrating with rosy cheeks and noisemakers, singing and cheering and getting into the excitement. He had a bowl of microwave popcorn that he'd managed not to burn that was slowly getting cold, and a bottle of coke that was slowly getting warm on the side table next to him. He'd forgotten about both as he got lost in his own thoughts.

This time last year, he had graduation to look forward to, maybe a road trip with friends, a summer off before deciding his next big steps. He'd gone to parties, hung out with his friends from high school, drank even though he never did, and spent the night laughing, and feeling the promise of a new year full of possibilities. Sure, life in Gray Harbor was filled with strange, and he struggled with all the secrets that he kept firmly shoved to the back of the closet, but he wasn't an unhappy kid, and he had a pretty comfortable life even if it wasn't a wealthy one.

This time last year, he hadn't expected to be the one left behind when everyone else moved on with their lives, and he felt that he couldn't leave. He had to be here in case she came back, in case she came looking, in case she needed some sort of beacon to find her way home. He hadn't expected to be eighteen with a house, and a mortgage, and bills, and debts, and barely enough work to pay for any of it.

He picked up his phone and sent off a text to Byron, one of the few who still kept in touch with him even after having left town. "Happy New Year's, Thorne. Hope you're having a blast out there." He looked at the message for a moment before hitting send and smiled just a little bit. He was glad for the others, who were out pursuing all their plans and moving on with their lives, even if he felt stuck. At least he could live vicariously through their social media pages, and photos, and text messages about all the adventures they were having.

The house was too quiet, though, and the joy he could take in other people's adventures could only last so long, before the waves of emptiness washed over him again. The creaking of the eaves in the wind, the way the furnace pinged to life to kick on the heat, every little tiny familiar sound that was the house's breath felt like a sighing, mournful cacophony of sad and tired sounds.

He wondered whether anyone would notice if he simply wandered off and never came back. He glanced toward the front door, as though he could see the darkened Bayside Road beyond, the path down to the rocks, and the dock, and the boat. He could get in the boat and just go until it ran out of gas, and end up wherever it took him. He could walk off into the woods and just keep walking until he had no idea where he was or maybe even who he was anymore. He could leave. No one was making him stay, except himself. He could vanish, himself, and likely few would notice except the bill collectors when everything eventually got shut off. Then, it would all just be auctioned off, disbursed, and he'd be declared missing and presumed dead. Because that was how he felt, like a ghost of someone who used to feel a part of the world, but felt that way no longer.

Missing, and presumed dead.

CW: Domestic Violence, Language

He had been silent the entire drive home, seething behind the wheel that he was too drunk to be behind. She sat in the passenger seat as he maneuvered the Charger through the streets, somehow avoiding hitting anyone or anything. She tried to make herself small, pressed against the door, though the seatbelt had her strapped in. It wasn't a far drive, really only twenty minutes or so, but it seemed to give her a lot of time to think.

How did they end up here? How did she end up here? Why couldn't she just leave?

Like many women caught in this situation, she knew it wasn't right. She knew she should get out... but, she loved him, didn't she? Not only that, where would she go? She had nothing, really. Nothing that wasn't paid for by him. She was too scared to leave. Besides, they were good for a long while. He's just under a lot of stress. Things will get better...

They pull into the garage and as the automatic door starts to roll down behind the car, he growls. "Get in the house."

She doesn't hesitate. Grabbing her shoes from the floor of the car she undoes the seat belt, opens the door and pads quickly in bare feet to the door and into the house. The television is still on in the living room, and at this time of night, the party is loud from NYC. Some band is playing, fans cheering, the camera pans over the crowd who are all decked out in NYE regalia, waving, screaming, grabbing the person next to them and kissing them. Is it even midnight yet? A quick glance towards the kitchen and the microwave inside where the blue-green digital lights shine '11:58' tells her no. Not yet.

He burst into the door, slamming it closed with such force, she jumps with a gasp.

"What the fuck, Nikki?" he screams at her and she backs up a bit towards the counter.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Matt. Please... just calm down and tell me what's wrong?"

"You Goddamnwell know what the fuck is wrong! Don't try and play innocent with me. I saw you looking at him like that in your slinky little dress, flashing those sexy eyes at him! I saw you! Were you lining him up for that precious midnight kiss you wanted so much?"

"What... Who?" Nicole asked, truly confused. "The kiss I wanted from you?!?" She screams back, forgetting the rules. Don't make things more tense, Nicole. Stay calm!

Matt stalks towards her in his heavy boots. The sound that would echo in her memory, in her nightmares, for years to come. He lifts his hand, fingers taut up near his face, prepared to backhand her. "Your fucking BOSS, Nikki! Don't fucking deny it! That look he had as he looked you up and down. I could practically see his dick getting hard. You fucking him? Huh, Nikki?" That hand reaches out, grasping her neck as he shakes her. "Banging him in the backroom?"

Nicole's feet are trying to find traction on the floor as she attempts to get away from his squeezing hand. He's not choking her, at least not yet, but it hurts, and his eyes... his eyes are black with rage. "No..." She rasps out, tears dragging streaks of black mascara down her cheeks.

The countdown begins from the living room, the crowd calling out loud, their voices filled with excitement, joy, even hope as more of Nicole's own hope slips further away. '10......9......8......7.....'

"What did you say, bitch?!? I can't hear you!"

'6......5......4......'

"No!" Nicole cries out, sobbing and clutching at his hands. "I'm not fucking him!"

'3......2......'

Matt sneers at her with disgust and pushes her away at her neck, his hand pressing hard against her windpipe.

'1! Happy New Ye---'

"Lying cunt," is spat out venomously as he winds up and clocks his fist into Nicole's temple. Her body crumples beneath her as the world went black.

She'll wake there sometime later, curled up on the tile floor. From the living room, she'll hear a replay of the celebrations, but her eyes won't be able to focus enough to make out the numbers on that clock. She'll get herself up, gingerly, and make her way to the couch, laying on it as she reaches for the remote to silence the festivities and cry herself to sleep.

That was the first time he actually hit her.

December 31, 2018 — Southern California

"Four! Three! Two! One!" chorused the room, or at least the vast majority of it, at the top of their lungs, managing to find a few extra decibels to exclaim, "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" before the kissing broke out, couples and recent-strangers finding each other's lips to the accompaniment of car horns and— is someone really shooting off guns?— in the far distance.

"And a happy new year," Vyv murmured to no one in particular as the others yelled, and he watched some of the various celebration over a sip of champagne. Not really anyone handy to kiss, or rather certainly not anyone he was willing to soberly entertain the idea of kissing, which was a shame, really, since he was still essentially sober. This made him a definite exception to the rule. And he was just as definitely starting to wish he weren't.

Well. That, at least, he could do something about easily enough. And by halfway through the... second? No, third, of the overtly festive cocktails being served, the idle thought that he could probably do something about the other issue too had given up on periodically wandering by and planted itself firmly down to drink with him. You do own a phone, you know, it pointed out.

He did. That was true. It was also, what, 1:30am?

It's New Year's. And earlier than last night. Or the night before. Go on, everyone's awake tonight anyway.

The phone was in his hand, somehow. Fine, all right. It'd been 2 when they'd run into each other the nights before. Surely no one was more likely to sleep early tonight.

He considered a moment, then added:

Vyv found himself smiling, and dealt with it by finishing off his drink. All right, then. Champagne was doable.

Time ticked onward, the taxi pulling up right before 2, parking half a house down from the actual destination. Emerging, Vyv paused by the rear of the car, using the trunk as an ersatz counter to fill a pair of champagne flutes before he headed toward the house, bottle dangling by the neck from one hand, and the glasses carefully gathered in the other. Wait, he'd instructed the driver after paying, the tip generous enough to buy him a good five minutes at least. And that should be plenty for what he had in mind, after all. A drink, a kiss, and a new year wish, then disappear into the night. Well, the taxi. Always leave them wanting more, yes?

Not enough hands; he set the bottle gently on the doorstep to free one to ring the bell, and left it there for the moment, just waiting with the glasses. Plastic, sadly. But needs must. At least what was in them was pretty good.

Perhaps half a minute, and the door opened. Black silk pyjama pants and an impeccably toned torso; even Vyv couldn't bring himself to criticize that ensemble. Especially accessorized with that smile. "Right on time," Sebastian greeted him, and promptly spoiled the plan by wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him for that kiss right then.

Best laid plans, as the poet said, but it was difficult to care. Probably for the best the glasses weren't filled all that full; one ended up held out neatly to the side, perfectly safe, but the other arm found its way around Sebastian's neck, and that flute developed a seriously dangerous lean as the kiss went on. Everything a new year's kiss ought to be, except on time: warm and lingering and filled with all the promise that a new year ought to hold.

He could feel the other man's smile before he could see it, a hand plucking the precariously angled glass from his own as the kiss broke. "It's cold out here," Sebastian said, though it wasn't particularly, and scooped up the bottle as well. "Come in."

A drink, a kiss, and a new year wish, that was the plan.

But he wanted more.

"Happy new year," he murmured, with a flicker of a genuine smile, and stepped inside, leaving the taxi to disappear into the night alone.

New Year's Eve 2015, New Mexico

"Aidan!"

No answer.

"AIDAN!"

"What?!"

"The fuck are you doing on the roof?"

"Making the year change." As if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"What?"

"Making the year change!" As if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and all this questioning were really getting in the way.

There was a long pause. "That's. Not a thing you gotta do."

An uncharacteristically irritable sigh, some rustling, and a head full of curls poked over the edge of the roof. Most of a torso, too. "Okay, so, a year only happens if the Earth completes its circuit around the Sun." The words came fast and urgent. "So it's kinda important I make sure it finishes and does it on time so the sun comes up tomorrow, okay?"

"Where are your clothes?"

"What? ...over there, that really isn't important right now. Pretty sure half the theatre's naked by now anyway; can I get back to work?"

Another pause. "You don't need to do anything, Aidan, the planet just does it."

"That's what you think 'cause you don't have to make it happen."

"You didn't do this last year."

"Someone else was doing it! But she's dead now, so it's me. Leave me alone and let me focus!" The frustration on the last word seemed underlain by a soft crackling, somehow.

"Fuck!" Footsteps, silence, footsteps, the fwshhhhh of a fire extinguisher against burning shrubbery. "Okay, get G," the voice said quietly to someone else.

The countdown had ended and the ball dropped by the time the stage manager and a couple paramedics got the currently-self-proclaimed-mage down, and by morning he was several hours into another 72-hour hold.

But the sun did come up.

Dicembre 31st, 2010 New Years Eve - Palermo, Italy

They were supposed to be in Paris today to celebrate New Years Eve. That was the original plan made before they even set out on this European vacation over winter break. Then Tommy broke his leg in a moped accident in what should have been a brief stint in Rome, followed by the fact that Vivian's parents were doing a tour of Italy, themselves. Both of those events combined is what brought the group of wealthy young university students to Palermo for a few days, before taking that flight to France.

This was Byron Thorne's first trip to Europe. Hell, it was his first trip out of the United States. He really was living his best life. In the eyes of his peers, he was just like them, even if some couldn't overlook the fact that he was some small town kid from Nowhere, WA. All that they could see was that he had money (from investors and other entrepreneurial endeavors, so they've been told) and big ideas. His charismatic nature didn't hurt either.

The Glass Family had rented the rooftop space above the posh hotel they were staying at for a spectacular New Years Eve party. With champagne in hand, the group of internatinal students recount their adventures over the last few days with laughter and smiles. With one arm around the always beautiful and elegant Vivian Glass, Byron really did feel like, even at this young age, he had it made. Yet, amidst the teasing banter and boasting between the other young elites, there was something on his mind that he just couldn't shake. Something unpleasant.

---

"We can't leave Palermo without paying our respects to their tomb of corpses." Keith said as he lead these wayward adventurers towards the Catacombe dei Cappuccini. "They'll be insulted and come back to haunt you otherwise." Sure it was a terrible joke, but the idea of going into a cold, dark tomb surrounded by dead bodies didn't deter the group at all. They were young, entitled and invincible.

It was shortly after lunch and they had a few hours to kill before heading back to the hotel for some rest and to freshen up for the New Years Eve party that night. Keith was the son of some fancy shmancy shipping magnate and had used his family's money and influence to rent The Capuchin Catacombes out for the whole afternoon. With how crowded Palermo was during these celebrations, he wanted the place all to themselves.

Decembers in Italy was something that Byron was still trying to get used to in L.A. The temperature was a lot warmer, so while it should have been that cold point between Christmas and New Years in Gray Harbor, here he was wearing a turtle patterned hunter green silk camp shirt worn open over a plain white tee and a pair of grey sand cargo shorts. Dark sunglasses are worn on his head, keeping his near chin-length long bangs up and out of face.

Obviously, there was drinking to be had and loud and boisterous conversations through what truly felt like a sacred place. What started as fun and games for the group, somehow left Byron feeling uneasy. Maybe the wine was getting to his head, but as they wandered through the dark and narrow paths with the faces of the dead completely surrounding them, he just had this feeling that they were being watched. Not only that, but he could hear-- no feel this anguish around him mixed with other more fleeting emotions like joy, fear and even lustfulness. It was as if he could feel the emotions that everyone around him fel--

"Byron? What's wrong?" Vivian asked him.

---

He could feel a tug on his arm when Vivian pulled him along. "Byron?" Her free hand snaps a couple of times near his face, a sound that breaks him away from his thoughts. "Come, we're going to get a group picture with everyone with the beautiful views as our backdrop."

In fact, the others were already waiting for the pair, all gathered together at one corner of their rooftop party. The best corner, apparently, as you could see the festivities happening off in the distance on the streets below. "Thorne!" Heathecliff called out, "There you. If you ended up missing for whatever reason, I was going to try my hand at Viv." This is followed by laughter by all, including Byron who shares this amused smirk with the group.

"I think Antoine had dibs after me." Byron then adds as a retort, to which more laughter followed.

With the eleven of them standing with their backs to beautiful Italian view, some of them with their arms hung over the shoulders of their friends, while others angle themselves in a way to ensure that they get prime real estate when it comes to where they are position within the picture so that their heads (or their whole bodies) aren't cut off at the edges. Byron and Vivian are near smack center, grinning these larger than life smiles at the camera. At the last moment, Vivian sneaks in a kiss to Byron's cheek just as the flash goes off.

---

The summer wear in winter was gradually coming back to bite Byron and his friends in the ass for the longer they remained in this dark tomb of death, the chillier it felt. In the beginning, the group all stuck together, making jokes about their surroundings and just being total assholes trying to scare each within the confines of this place. Eventually, however, some forged on ahead while other lingered behind, becoming far more scattered.

Byron never really had an intense fear of the dark or confined spaces and in the beginning, he was merrily chatting along with the others, but every so often something would catch his eye. He found a sense of familiarity in some of these mummified faces when he really shouldn't. The first time he'd felt it was when he came across the corpse of an infant. The next, it was a child slightly older, then another. "There's quite a few of these that look incredibly intact and well-preserved." He made a comment to the rest of the gang, his own pace beginning to slow due.

With the many, many bodies being kept in this catacombe, only a few of them call out to him, though he's unsure of why they stood out. Some of them had evident injuries to their faces or skulls and the further he went along, the older the corpses that stood out, that... shone became. Where had he seen that light before? And these people were dead, why were they still shining?! Were they special in some way? Holy?

Moving from face to face, of those that stood out, the older the corpses, the more recognizable they were becoming. The darkness, just this place, they were playing tricks on his mind. There was a moment where he had to stop because he thought that the dead, lifeless face staring down at him was... These dead who stood out were far more preserved than the corpses around them. They were long dead, to be sure, but you could just see (or sense, perhap) the terror and anguish on their faces. The faces screaming back at him were his own in different stages of life.

He began to take notice of this when he could've sworn that twisted death mask looked the way he did back when he was eleven or twelve. It was a horrifying revelation, nevermind that this sense that the was being followed began to amp that paranoia up. The heavy footsteps dragged themselves through the dark chambers and on looking back from whence he came all that he could see was the dark silhouette of someone standing beneath one of the archways. Immediately, his heart began to race and though he recognized this figure as well, he still called out in a slightly nervous tone, "...Hello? 'Cliff? Martin?" It wasn't either of them and he knew it. The thing following him was his father. His dead father.

Quickly, his pace began to pick up, finding himself alone with the corpse of his father moving with heavy steps in an awkward manner as if his body were mangled or decomposed. Byron is practically sprinting pass the hanging dead on display, watching his own face age up with each deathly face that he comes across. Some of them with cracked skulls, missing eyes or who had their entire jaw removed altogether. Some were missing limbs. One of them even looked completely charred, his mouth wide open in this scream of anguish. The eerie thing is, it didn't stop there. Not when he reached near mirror images of himself the way he looked now, but these dead went even beyond that.

He saw these death faces that looked how he might in the next few years with the change in style and appearance. And his father just kept trailing behind him. But why? His father was DEAD by now! That menacing presence should have dropped off, vanished when he saw his twelve-year-old self with the crushed skull. Yet Stephen Thorne was still plaguing him even now and he couldn't find his way out. There was no end to this madness! The idea that he would die here among the rest of his bodies terrified him, but what scared Byron the most was what would happen if he stopped running and allowed his father to reach him.

"Earth to Byron?" It was Vivian again.
This was then followed by a long and drawn out, "Thooooooorne!" Heathecliff... "Where'd you go, man? Got lost?" Yeah, that was hilarious. Good ol' 'Cliff was laughing it up right now.

Shaken and pale, having lost the sunglasses he'd worn atop his head somewhere behind him, Byron felt as if he were awoken out of some bad Dream. His hear beat furiously within his chest, wanting to tear itself out of there. To escape. He had only this one moment to act. "Thought I saw your mom making out with one of the security guards back in a crevice. Had to do a double take. I mean, your mom'd be getting more action than you, man." That was enough of a distraction and while the whole ordeal had slipped from everyone else's mind, despite the jokes and laughter that Byron is portraying now, this madness continued to eat away at his mind.

---

"...You still there?"

That was Tobin's voice on the other line. Byron had just sent a copy of the group shot they'd taken earlier over to his friend in a 'Just look at this shit man!' sort of way. This was an exciting time for Byron Thorne and yet he sounded distracted, having lapsed in the conversation for that moment to gain some of his best friend's concern.

"I'm still here. Vivian... Vivian asked me something." Byron lied. "Anyway, Tobin. Happy New Year, man. Even though, it's what? Still several hours more before ya'all are celebrating, right? Time zones." Breathing in deep, he ends with, "Glad to hear your voice too. We gotta catch up later, alright? Take care."

"It's only a couple of minutes until the New Year." Vivian says, having just stepped up behind him and nearly making him jump. She had a couple of glasses of champagne in hand and wanted to lure him over to watch the fireworks display for when midnight hit.

It was all just your imagination. He kept silently telling himself. You were there. Nothing happened. It was just the darkness and the fact that you were standing in that darkness while in the middle of some God damn tomb surrounded by dead people. Pull yourself together, Thorne. And for some reason, just that one hour of being in that god forsaken place was beginning to open up his mind to something.. something that he'd long forgotten.

"Come, let's get a selfie together while the fireworks go off." Vivian suggests. With one arm draped across her shouder, the both of them huddled together to fit in this one shot, Byron sticks his tongue out right before the flash goes off a few seconds after the first fireworks begin to light the sky.

Luckily for Byron, he'll eventually forget this nightmare too on their way to Paris and beyond.