Seventeen
A Mirror, Mirror fanfiction
~August 12th, 1996~
He still couldn't quite get used to how changed the wharf was.
Of course, back in 1919, Nicholas had only seen it twice. First in a hurried blur as he disembarked from the Neptune and was smuggled into a privately commandeered cab by Sir Ivor and then, later, under cover of darkness when he went with Jo and Louisa to try and rescue Louisa's father. But even with so limited a glimpse, he could tell it was different – so much cleaner and polished-looking, and populated with people who, even in the off-season, were there to take in the view rather than for any business having to do with the docks or unloading boats – and he could smell the food coming from the open vents of restaurant kitchens instead of just that stale, raw, fishy scent.
Some things were the same, of course – the air was still briny, foghorns still blared – but, nonetheless, he thought the transformation absolutely remarkable, to have occurred this thoroughly in only seventy-six years.
"Nick!" He felt a light but firm jolt to his arm, sloshing the styrofoam cup of hot chocolate he was holding in his other hand. "Don't stare."
(A drop of liquid cocoa rolled down the side of the styrofoam and fell into an icy patch on the ground, where it made a sizzling noise as it melted a tiny hole in the ice and sent a teensy curl of steam travelling upward.)
Without even fully realising what he was doing, he had been gawking – slightly bulge-eyed – at a small group of Japanese tourists, bundled up in parkas and scarves, passing them.
Jo, seeing his gawping face, and aware they were beginning to notice his look, had nudged him back into coherency.
Nicholas hadn't meant any harm. He'd only been fascinated because he hadn't seen many Japanese people before. Russia had been at war with Japan the year he was born, and there had been an unsuccessful assassination attempt on his father years prior to this war, by a Japanese fellow with a sabre.
Although he had no lingering prejudice towards them now, was even taking a Japanese language class at school with Jo and Tama, he couldn't help being interested.
He coloured apologetically before giving them a smile and turning away – he hadn't meant to be rude. A couple of them smiled back, then whispered something to each other, apparently finding his stare more charming than offensive, once they saw he was harmless.
As he walked along the waterfront – free and content, able to make mistakes as well as new discoveries, Jo at his side, tendrils of thin sunlight filtering through softly grey clouds which occasionally dropped smatterings of tiny snowflakes on them, which fell on his jumper sleeve and onto his nose and eyelashes – Nicholas thought this was one of the best birthdays he'd ever had.
"Jo," he said thoughtfully, turning to look at her, the corners of his mouth curling upward. "Are you aware that I'm ninety-two years old today?"
"You don't look a day over eighty," Jo teased. Then – when he chuckled at that, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement – added, "For real, though, you aren't actually ninety-two."
"Of course I am – I was born in 1904."
Jo shook her head. "The other you – the one who gave me the mirror – he would have been ninety-two today."
It was true that nearly seventy-seven years had gone by since Nick had been sixteen and a prisoner in Sir Ivor's house, guarded by Campbell and Bullseye, but – since he had come through the mirror and moved in with her family – the boy standing in front of her was only a single year older.
"How old would you say I am, then?" he asked, leaning closer to her.
She closed the small space left between them, rocked forward onto the balls of her feet, pushing her slim weight against the rubber edges of her sneakers, and kissed him.
Pulling away, she murmured they should just call it seventeen.
The spitting flakes falling from the sky grew larger and fell down more thickly, melting into little icy patterns on their sleeves and in their hair.
Nicholas smiled and wrapped his free hand around hers.
Seventeen.
He liked that.
Ninety-two felt like an antique. More ancient than anything the older version of himself would have kept in his shop. Like he should be indoors, watching this scene from a window in some care home instead of living it himself, breathing in the frigid, briny air and gazing at the beautiful girl whose hand he was holding.
Seventeen was the right age to soak up the world – to be in love for the first time.
Seventeen felt like you were still at the very beginning of everything.
And that was exactly where he wanted to be.
Better still, he was certain it was where he belonged.