By Raletha
The night gnaws through the layers of denim and wool I'm wearing, bitter and hungry for my body heat. I shiver and scoot closer to Trowa. The wood of the boardwalk jars oddly against my cold-numbed backside, only the pressure felt, not the friction. Trowa leans against me in response. I guess he's cold too, but I can't see his mouth to judge his expression. It's covered by the fuzzy scarf I gave him for Christmas.
Beneath our boot clad feet, the sand lies like crumpled fabric. Behind, light from the bar we've recently exited casts wan light against our backs. Our shadows fall before us, over the rumpled sand.
I can hear the countdown of many voices, muffled by the walls of the building.
"Ten."
I turn my head to look back.
"Nine."
Strings of multihued Christmas lights line the interior of the bar's two square windows. Their colour bleeds through the condensation on the glass, framing the silhouettes of this year's celebrants with bright circles.
"Eight."
It's been nearly a year I've been living with Trowa in his cottage on the coast. It's been over a year since the war ended, since Quatre died, since I've seen any of the others. I'm disturbed that the year's passed already. It seems to me it should have taken longer.
"Seven."
But here we are, Trowa and I. Strangers first, then lovers, and now more. I shove my hands between my thighs, a last ditch defense against the winter night, though my gloves are fine things, soft leather lined with something softer than my boyfriend's lips, but, unfortunately, they're not quite as warm. He bought them for me this Christmas. I don't like to think how much they cost.
"Six."
A scarf for him, gloves for me. Were we cold this winter?
"Five."
I look back across the sand to the liquid obsidian of the ocean and lose track of the count.
"One!" the voices cry in drunken jubilation. "Happy New Year!"
Far above us colour blossoms before I hear the accompanying crack. A bright pink fountain turns gold as it falls earthward. Another, blue and green; and a third, pure white. The barge on the water below is illuminated by each flare. The sound surprises me. Explosions in space are silent, and what the fireworks remind me of most, with their brief, unnatural symmetry, are explosions in a vacuum.
People exit the bar. Their raucous laughter invades our moment. Trowa stands, and I follow. We take a short cut across the sand, pausing to look back at the fireworks. I look at my companion. His scarf is tucked beneath his chin now, his head tilted back. In the lightening of the pyrotechnics I see his wonder.
I feel it too: wonder, even hope. This has been a good year.
We continue our way home, each content with our own thoughts, but finding intimacy in the shared experience.
As we trudge up the beach to the back door, Trowa asks, "So what do you want to do next year?"
the end