New Year's Eve is the most fun when you are wasted, his friends told him.
The most fun, my ass; when your plans were ruined, and you had to babysit a drunk, then no, thank you very much, grumbled one Commander Johnson, all while glancing at his table companion. He hadn't even gotten remotely tipsy, yet she was already starting to get intoxicated.
In contrast to how she would usually carry herself with dignity, at that moment, Prince of Wales didn't look dignified at all. Her once pristine, neatly done hair had become tousled, and she looked out of it as she rambled about things he did not want nor need to hear—especially the bit about cucumbers and the itch she could not quite scratch.
For all her constant complaining of having to suffer Prinz Eugen's drunken antics, Wales turned out to be just as bad as her friend—a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, if you will.
"Hey, are you listening? A lady's talking, and you…you are ignoring her? No wonder you got stood up."
Wales's rebuke brought his full attention back to her; he heard her loud and clear despite its slurred delivery.
He coughed before answering, all while ignoring the twitching on his forehead. She just had to remind him of that, didn't she? But he was a reasonably patient man and could afford to keep himself from getting mad over that. And besides, she was drunk. Most people would become fools when drunk, no matter how much they would try to deny it.
"Oh no, you are simply too charming to ignore, madam," he said, surprised the words did not come out as sarcastic as he intended. Either way, they proved to be pleasing for Wales because she broke into a smile—a rather big one, which she'd certainly never show without the influence of alcohol.
"Hmph; bloody Americans…" she muttered as she rocked her nearly empty glass back and forth. Her smile didn't seem like it would be gone anytime soon; in fact, she looked as though she was about to laugh.
"Look, Wales, don't you think you have been drinking enough whiskey? How about some…less intoxicating alternative?" Seeing that she was in a good mood, he figured he would attempt to steer the conversation back into something less embarrassing for them. And for that, he would first have to keep her from getting even drunker.
"Nonsense. For a Brit, New Year's Eve is all about getting legless," Wales promptly shot down the suggestion and slammed her glass on the table as if to punctuate her point. He wasn't entirely surprised she did, as her stubborn streak was known to everyone in the base, him especially.
"Okay, you are already dangerously close to it," he countered, but Wales was still unwilling to surrender her drinking privilege so easily.
"Are you insinuating that I, Prince of Wales, cannot hold my liquor well, Mr. Johnson? That I am weak?" She hissed, her half-lidded ruby eyes narrowing even more.
"I'm not saying you are, Wales," he replied, trying to sound appeasing instead of frustrated. "But you're …ah damn it; listen, I'm just concerned, okay? If you keep this up, you might get in trouble."
The smile that was gone before returned to Wales's face along with a deep, rosy blush, which he couldn't tell if it was induced by alcohol or something else.
"Your concern is unfounded. Waiter, another bottle! And make it Macallan!" she called out.
"What a way to welcome the New Year," he griped as he planted his face into the table. He had little doubt that the place wouldn't have anything fancier beyond Macallan 12 Years Old, but even one bottle would cost him more than he was willing to spend, even if he could afford it.
"Don't act like a killjoy. It's on me."
Looking up, he saw Wales beaming at him, and he wondered if, somehow, she had read his mind. Before he could think of an answer, an eager-looking waiter returned to their table with a bottle, which, as he had guessed, was indeed that very Macallan.
He could not help but scoff a bit at that—of course, they would always be quick when serving something expensive.
Wales wasted no time pouring herself a glass, but instead of drinking it, she offered it to him, and while it left him stunned, he immediately noticed the glass was his, taken without him knowing.
"Drink up, old chap, and be merry."
It was supposed to be easy—just a friend offering a drink. All he had to do was to take it, and that's it.
Yet, somehow, it felt like he was taking advantage of her.
But damn it, she looked so sincere.
As he hesitated, Wales decided to be more assertive, to the point she nearly shoved the glass against his chest. He soon realized he had only one choice—to receive the offering.
Satisfied that he gave in, Wales poured another shot into her own glass. Seeing that he hadn't downed his, she raised it.
"Cheers."
Wales still looked just as sincere as she spoke. His glass soon met hers in a quiet toast.
"Cheers."
She had enough sense to appreciate a good quality drink for someone not entirely sober, choosing to sniff gently before sipping the liquid. She seemed peaceful—at least until she let out the moan that sent him shivering and forgetting he was supposed to do the same.
To distract himself, he decided to down his glass in a single gulp with a trembling hand. It didn't go unnoticed.
"Well, impatient, aren't you? Guess you need the drink more than you would dare to admit…"
She was smirking, and he could guess what she was about to say next. Still, he hoped she wouldn't.
Don't say it. Please don't say it.
"So…what happened? Who is she, anyway?"
Damn it.
"…Nobody important," he finally replied after a long silence, sounding way more bitter than he'd like. Truth be told, he usually wouldn't dare to call a daughter of his superior 'nobody important,' but he felt like being spiteful.
Hearing that, Wales looked like she was holding back a cuss. But she left whatever she was thinking unsaid, placing her glass back on the table and turning to him instead.
"If I kiss you, maybe you would feel better."
The place, with all its noise and the chatter around them, suddenly went silent that very moment the remark left her mouth as though time itself had stopped.
Prince of Wales offering someone—him, of all people—a kiss was too surreal.
"Wales… don't tell me you have completely lost it," he met the offer with an incredulous stare—she stared back with an expression he didn't quite expect.
It was one of melancholy.
He looked away, finding the sight too painful to look at, knowing that he had just hurt her feelings.
He had thought of apologizing, but before he could do so, Wales had already reached forward, touching his cheek and turning his head towards her before bringing their face closer—the myriad of emotions came back crashing all at once as it happened.
Despite circumstances, when their lips met, it was surprisingly chaste; it came and went like fleeting snow, not lingering—though he could still feel the taste of the Macallan mixed with the cheap bourbon they had sipped earlier.
He wasn't sure if he was already drunk without realizing it because he didn't resist. He didn't push her away, even though nearly half the bar was catcalling and whistling at the sight.
What he was sure of, he didn't regret it. He didn't even question why. Wales was genuine in her intentions, and that was enough.
And looking at her right now—flushing with lively red and occasionally bursting into brief laughs—he was sure she didn't regret it either.
He felt a little guilty for not giving Wales enough credit. She might be intoxicated, but she was aware enough of her limits. After they were done with that one bottle, she surprised him by declaring she would call it a night. She paid for the drink as she had promised—much to his embarrassment and her amusement—and gladly took his offer to walk her back to her apartment in the Lower East Side, where she'd usually spend her nights off-duty.
Still, the way she walked, wobbling left and right like a ship battered by waves, served as a telltale sign she had not quite sobered yet.
But he could see that she had been able to keep herself pretty much steady all on her own despite that. She was in no danger of falling, but he decided to keep an eye on her regardless, if only out of a sense of responsibility as the less intoxicated one—he wouldn't want her to end up in the drunk tank.
As he watched Wales going about, breezy and carefree, his mind wandered back to the kiss; only now did he start wondering just what was behind it. He was almost sure it wasn't a mere drunken whim on her part. If it was a friendly one, were they really that close, to begin with, despite him having known her longer than anyone?
Then again, it was a more plausible explanation than the other reason, which he dared not think any further. There's no way that one could be possible.
People had been talking about how stern she usually would be, even for a member of the Royal Navy delegation. He wouldn't deny it, but the longer he knew her, the more he could see there was something else beyond that. Nevertheless, he had never tried to pursue the subject further, even when she'd let the mask slip time and again.
Now, though, it was getting painfully challenging to overlook.
Wales spinning around—remarkably without slipping—and calling out to him brought his thoughts to an abrupt end. She was still flushed, still sporting the winning smile as if she were on top of the world.
"Here I thought…you are walking me home," she scoffed, and he realized he was trailing behind her, too lost in his thoughts to notice.
"Must I take your hand to make sure you stay by my side…and not get lost?"
He was about to retort about how she's the one more likely to get lost, but she wouldn't allow it—she promptly took hold of his hand, putting him under her mercy.
Her laugh as she did was soft but self-assured—soon, what he'd wanted to say was left forgotten, his walls torn down with the simplest of gestures.
It wasn't a bad feeling, not at all. Not even when her hold was a little too hard as she led him, swaying around the streets like they were dancing and having the time of her life.
He cracked a smile. Maybe he was starting to feel the same, after all. It was difficult not to.
That smile she noticed and made hers wider—and soon the chill didn't matter, sober or not.
Freedom was such a beautiful thing.
And it wasn't just her.
The walk felt longer than he thought it should. No sight of their destination yet; if anything, it seemed to be further and further away. Or maybe it wasn't. Perhaps the drinks had messed him up more than he was aware, distorting his sense of time and distance. Maybe she indeed took the long way.
Odd stares, indifference, and amusement followed them as they walked, hopped on snowbanks, and half-stumbled along the way; he was there to catch her every time she fell, and she did the same for him.
She'd laugh and hum at things he didn't catch. This time, he laughed, too. He only wanted to. His thoughts had become scattered, and his head felt like it was made of cotton, and he couldn't care less.
For he was hopelessly drunk, yet not on the whiskey nor all other drinks he could possibly name.
He wasn't a believer in fate, yet he now wondered if perhaps he had been in the wrong. For how else could she happen to be there, at that very specific moment and place, by her lonesome, when he was alone himself?
How could that brief, chance moment turn into one that lasts?
Despite the blur and the haze and the questions, one thing he was certain of.
It was wonderful and a little scary.
He wouldn't forget, not in a lifetime.
When, at last, their destination was within sight, she was no longer leading him and he wasn't trying to keep up with her anymore.
But Wales wasn't letting go.
And he couldn't, either.
She was stealing glances, and he knew because he was doing the same. She wasn't shy about it, and her clasp would tighten when their eyes met.
They didn't talk, and they didn't have to. They could do that anytime, any day.
But this probably wouldn't happen again.
That side of her, this side of him.
Uninhibited.
Unguarded.
Her abrupt pause brought another equally abrupt halt to the thought before he could mull over the impending loss.
"Wales…?"
"Ah, a block party. It's been a while…"
He looked around in a daze, and sure enough, Stanton Street was bustling, even with children who were usually not allowed to stay up late. But then again, it was New Year's Eve, and hardly surprising. The crowd was of lesser magnitude compared to those coming to see the Ball Drop at Times Square, but they and their carousing were nothing to joke about.
There were dancing, singing, eating, drinking, laughing—all at almost the same time.
"'Any Way You Want It?' Is that even a song you normally play during New Year's Eve?" He frowned but then chuckled as a band started playing their number.
"Who cares?" Wales shrugged and let go of his hand, only to circle her right arm around his afterward and make a beeline towards the gathering around the stage.
He could only pray he wouldn't slip and fall onto her.
Among the crowd, Wales was just like everyone else, without putting up appearances—her tone-deaf attempt to sing along could attest to that, as did her near-slip as she grooved along to the tune, nearly taking him with her. She recovered and laughed it off, along with the others.
And she had never been more beautiful, in and out.
She drew him in and made him dance along with her and everyone else. Celebrate what they had, no matter how little or simple. Forget who you are supposed to be or what you are expected to do at other times.
She probably didn't notice that the corners of her eyes were wet or that his were, too.
If she did, she was pretending she didn't. He was the same. When it ended, and his head was spinning but the clouds clearing and parting, it was already close to midnight.
"Here's to another year, old boy," Wales beamed as he tried to steady his feet—and his heart. She had removed herself from him, and he realized that things would soon go back to the usual, again filling him with that feeling of having to lose something.
"What's wrong?" She inquired, noticing the lack of an immediate answer.
She may forget what he was about to say with all that hangover she would surely get tomorrow. But this she must know before the year's ending because by then, what he said would be even more pointless.
Or so he thought, anyway.
"...You know, Wales, I'm happy you get to be like this...like you've no burden at all. That you could lighten up. They say that you will do whatever you do on New Year for the entire year to come. I hope it's true that you could be like that for the rest of this year, too."
As Wales stood dumbfounded, the rosy tinge that had left the sides of her face long ago returned; she brought a palm up and gave her right cheek a gentle caress.
"...So that's your wish, is it?" She murmured, actually sounding completely clear-headed and coherent.
"...Well, I would be, ah, lying if I denied that."
"As long as you promise to stay by my side, Johnson, I could give you that."
"Wales…?"
"What? Think I'm still drunk? You don't really think I'm that weak, do you? I meant it."
Before he could think of something—or anything, for that matter—Wales had closed the distance between them and again drew his face closer to hers amidst the thunderous welcome for the new year.
Unlike before, it lasted significantly longer. They were lost in it, not noticing the disapproving look of some mothers—who had to frantically cover the eyes of their cheering children—or the amusement of others.
He still didn't resist—only this time he had already realized why, a feeling made more potent when she whispered into his ears. Those were the words he would never expect to hear from her—before or in the future. But she truly meant it; he could tell.
And that's why he swore to let that growing, heady feeling be instead of denying it anymore.
When they eventually parted—something he regretted—Wales smiled gently, the color of her cheeks now matching that of her eyes.
It was matching his.
He was the one reaching out to her now, and she welcomed it.
They stayed there for a long time, almost unmoving, an anomaly amid all the jubilation.
But their hearts were no less joyous.
That, and more.
The door opened, and Wales stepped into her apartment. But unlike what he had expected, she didn't say goodbye, and the door remained open.
"Come on in."
"Huh?"
"You know, there's this British tradition of the first foot. The first person to enter someone's house on New Year's Day will bring good luck for the coming year."
Though puzzled and nonplussed, he did as he was told anyway, and Wales nodded in approval.
"Shouldn't I bring a gift?"
Wales closed the door behind them and locked it.
"You're enough."
