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Two years ago Ike would have said that celebrations are similar across all birthrights, but it seems that is not the case. The giant clock at the top of the grand staircase ticks down to midnight on the last night of the year and no one in the ballroom pays it any mind. When the time to celebrate the new year arrives, the Royal Master of Ceremonies will announce it and the castle help will appear with silver trays of crystal glasses filled with champagne, weaving through the billowing frocks of the partygoers like such a balancing act is unimpressive and indelicate. A few moments before twelve o’clock, Elincia will lead a toast to Crimea’s prosperity and all her good accomplishments. Then everyone in the room will count down from ten, give a great cheer alongside the clanging of the church bells audible all throughout Melior, and begin planning their escape back to their bedroom or to wherever else they may rest their head that night. Right now, the nobles and merchants and clergy Elincia has invited to her royal new year’s celebration either dance in pairs to the prim music of a string quartet, or stand around the edges of the room, gossiping and acting like they are above it all. Ike doesn’t gossip but he does stand and wish he were somewhere else.
This is nothing like how it was back at the Greil Mercenaries’ hideout. There, Ike would enjoy a special meal prepared with everyone’s help, complete with dessert rolls and a great pot of mulled wine. Everyone present—which is to say, everyone except Shinon and Gatrie, who went into town—would recite their favorite thing about the last year and a resolution for the next one, a wish for the year ahead. Ike always said he would keep training to beat his father in a sword fight. No one knew when midnight came around: there were no clocks or bells to tell them the time. When it got suitably late his father would declare it to be the new year, and the children were ushered to bed. Because Oscar told Boyd told him, Ike knows that after the kids left the adults would play cards and dice until the wine ran out, then sit together to talk until their tongues ran dry too. It is something he was looking forward to doing.
It is something he will never get to do.
“Ike. I’ve brought you third helpings. You can cheer up now.”
Soren calling his name is the only warning Ike gets before a fine porcelain plate appears in front of him, laden with succulent cuts of roast pheasant and sweet cranberry sauce. Quickly, Ike moves so his nice evening wear doesn’t get stained. He must also adjust for Soren, who teeters forward with some unknown momentum and nearly bumps into Ike himself. Taking the plate, Ike gives him the chance to steady himself. “How did you even get this? I thought the eating part of the party was over.” Much to his dismay. Over his many months serving in Elincia’s court, Ike has come to learn that noble gatherings are less about enjoying oneself and more about following a laundry list of unspoken social rules. This nonsensical posturing means that even celebrations are regimented, and tonight’s scheduled supper was cut short by some sort of musical performance he could not have cared less about.
With a wave of his hand that makes Ike glad he took the plate away, Soren explains, “They only stopped serving food then. They still have it. You only have to sneak down and get it.”
“And you did that?” Ike asks, taking in the state of him. On a normal day it would be easy to imagine Soren sneaking into the kitchen. Yet right now, he seems, well… conspicuous.
He nods, his high ponytail bouncing and swaying with the motion, his dangly earrings doing the same, chiming merrily. “I did. And,” he adds, shoving a hand into a pocket of his nice purple sage robes, specially tailored for noble events, “I got a fork too.” He holds the utensil up, prompting Ike to accept it, whereupon he dives back into his deep pockets. “And… a knife. Somewhere in here…”
“Um, Soren,” Ike interrupts, feeling nervous. “Maybe we should find a place to sit down first.”
Straightening up, Soren looks at Ike like he’s just had the most brilliant idea. “Yes! Let’s do that!” Grabbing Ike’s hand, he begins to drag him away from the edge of the dance floor, where he had been hiding by a decorative tree, over to the banquet tables. “Let’s sit you down so you don’t get anything on your pretty shirt.”
“Slow down,” Ike warns, pulling him backward. He does so gently, because Soren goes easily. He only hesitates for a moment before swallowing his nerves and placing a hand on his slim hip, beneath the sashes tied around his waist—sashes that match the light and dark and blues of Ike’s ‘pretty shirt’. Even though this only leaves him with one hand to carry his plate with, he feels much calmer now. “Don’t rush anywhere in your state. You’ll only end up falling on your face.”
“I’m not in any state,” Soren protests, his arms circling around Ike like they’re meant to be there.
That more than anything proves that something has lowered his inhibitions. “You’re drunk,” Ike corrects, nudging him in the direction of the exit.
Soren vehemently shakes his head. “No. I’m barely even affected. I’m perfect. Perfectly fine.” His gaze follows a servant they pass who carries offerings of red wine. “I could have more…”
“No.” Ike tucks him closer to his side, using the excuses that it’s crowded, and the ladies’ dresses are voluminous, and Soren can’t be trusted with wine to keep him there even after they’ve skirted past a large huddle of noblewomen speaking with Begnion accents. “Let’s get you somewhere safe where we can eat in peace.” He’s taking this opportunity for what it is: an escape.
Soren doesn’t stop him, only mumbling, “I’m not drunk” again in the pouty way he does when he is either very tired or very intoxicated. He is probably both. Anyway, Ike is exhausted, and he’d like to sit somewhere quiet and nurse Soren closer to sobriety. These parties always give him a headache, and as anxious as the nobility makes him, he’s not even comfortable curing what ails him with alcohol. He goes to Elincia’s events for Elincia’s sake, but after almost two years of this, he’s not sure how much more he can take. Everything is far too decadent. It makes him want to crawl out of his skin.
The all-too-familiar ache of homesickness fills his throat again, and he forcibly swallows it down. “You want any water?” he asks Soren.
“The Chamber of the Senate will have some to drink,” Soren affirms. Neither of them look back as they leave the ballroom, their steps echoing in the sudden, dim quiet of the hallway.
Ike feels ever closer to Soren here. He is overly aware of how careful the two of them need to be in public, how being entwined like this at a formal event would be inexcusable if not for the explanation Ike had already crafted in his head. When they are in front of other people, even the most careful of Soren’s touches burns. Yet when it is just the two of them, wherever they may be, Ike feels him all the more. He regrets that Soren’s hand has to leave him for the briefest of moments to open the Chamber door. “You’d think they’d guard this place,” he muses, his eyes darting across the gold frames of the paintings on the walls, shining even in the moonlight.
Soren hums, plucking a magelight from the wall. The crystal immediately grows bright, shining from the seat of his palm. Using the light, Ike is able to find the barrel of water where it always is, standing sentry near the balcony doors. “They’re all busy handling the ballroom. Two castle residents are the least of their concern,” Soren says as they walk across the room.
“Maybe.”
“If someone robs this place, the only concern I’d have is for your safety.”
“Same,” Ike agrees. None of the artwork in this room is of any importance to him. There is very little in Castle Melior that is.
“And I’m here to protect you anyway.” Separating himself from Ike, Soren opens the top of the barrel and trades the magelight for a cup from the nearby table. “My position as your retainer is inconsequential. I’ll always protect you. No matter what.” Using a ladle, he scoops water into the cup, which he then passes to Ike.
“Thank you,” he says, wrapping his hand around Soren’s. “You know I feel the same about protecting you. I’d do anything.”
Soren meets his eyes. “Yes,” he answers. “I’d do anything.”
Ike takes the cup.
Once Soren gets himself a glass—Ike first makes him empty it where they stand, then fill his cup a second time—the two of them maneuver a couple of the heavy senators’ chairs through the balcony doors, settling them along the stone castle wall. Ike finds the pilfered table knife beside the other blade in Soren’s pocket, one of three hidden daggers on his person. Then he begins on his third helping of roast pheasant, offering a bite to Soren whenever he wants one. It tastes just as good cold as it does warm. It is cold outside, but Ike doesn’t mind it because Soren’s got his robes on. Those heavy fabrics should keep him warm. Just in case, Ike lets him know he can have his dress coat if the midwinter weather gets to him. Soren was always much more sensitive to cold than him.
The senators’ balcony looks down into a private courtyard, surrounded on the other three sides with windows and walls. Above the steep slope of the copper roofs lay the stars. The sky feels close enough to be a blanket, a quilt of clouds come to shelter them from the outside world. The barely distinguishable murmur of laughter and music dances through the night. It is much nicer out here than inside, even if Ike misses the forests of the countryside. Suddenly, everything gets quieter: Ike and Soren have finished eating, and the sounds of the party have spun into silence. Ike feels the urge to reach for Soren’s hand. Because they are alone, he does. The silence becomes soft, willing to be broken. “Hey, Soren?”
“Yes, Ike?”
“What was your favorite moment from this year?” he asks the stars.
Soren squeezes his hand. “I… I rather liked kissing you.”
“Oh,” Ike says, his cheeks growing warm despite the chill.
“Every time, every single time, but especially the first time when you said you could be mine and I could be yours,” he continues. “That’s the most important thing to me. I just wanna be yours and I wanna have you. I’ll always be yours.” His free hand grips Ike’s arm. “I love you. You’re my favorite thing.”
Ike pats his fingers. “I love you too.” So very much. “I forgot you were drunk.”
Slumping, Soren knocks his head into Ike’s shoulder. Ike huffs. “Shut up, shut up.” He’s adorable. Ike could pick him up and spin him around, if he weren’t so comfortable with him here, and if it wouldn’t make Soren dangerously nauseous. “What’s your favorite moment?”
“Mine? Well, I can’t beat yours…”
Soren looks up, his cheek squished against Ike’s coat as he pouts. “Pick something else. That one’s mine.”
Ike thinks for a moment, returning his gaze to the sky. “I like that time we went for a picnic. You read all afternoon, and I got to go for a run. Then we took a bath in the creek. It was nice.”
“Nice?” Soren repeats. “Just nice?”
“Very nice.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended. He doesn’t want to reach for his glass, though, because that would require untangling himself from Soren.
“We’ll have to do that again when it gets warmer,” Soren promises.
“Yeah.” Another year in Melior seems pretty bleak, but Ike can look forward to that at least.
“Do you have a new year’s resolution?”
A new year’s revolution… he doesn’t. Still, he can make one up. His eyes flicker between the stars, remembering the stories of the constellations his father would tell him as they sat around a campfire with warm mugs of tea. “I just wanna get out more. Do something that makes me happy. Feel like… me, again.”
He worries he has said too much, but Soren’s earrings ring with a nod. “That’s a good resolution. We can do that.”
“What about you?” He doesn’t want to linger on the heavy feelings inside him. He’d rather just focus on Soren’s soft hands and slight warmth.
“I want to receive my Wind Sage promotion.”
That’s a good wish. Soren will certainly achieve it. “You will.”
He huffs. “I hope so. I’ve been slaving over Thunder tomes for the past two months. I’m ready to be done with them.”
“Will you bring them back to the library, or burn them?” Ike jokes, knowing how much Soren dislikes Thunder magic.
“I will drop them from the northeast tower and Elwind them to bits,” he answers, then shifts, readjusting so his head is on Ike’s shoulder. He plays with Ike’s hand, tracing his palm. “I couldn’t destroy them really. Their knowledge is far too important to go to waste. I feel that way about most books, even if they aren’t of particular interest to me.”
Ike is not a reader, but he understands where Soren is coming from. “Yeah. I guess one of the best things about living here is that you’re so close to the Melior Library.”
“I just like to be close to you.” Ike watches a cloud swallow a star. “I… I also like the library.”
The sound of shouting echoes over the walls, repeating in a regular rhythm. Ike cannot make out the words, but he can imagine what is being said. The countdown to midnight has begun.
At three, Soren raises his head. At two, Ike cups his cheek. At one, they hold their breath.
Right on time, their lips meet. Cheers erupt from the ballroom, but Ike hardly hears them. He and Soren part with a sweet pop, staying close. “Happy new year,” Soren whispers as church bells begin to toll. He tastes like cranberries and wine and something to wish for, something to look forward to.
“Happy new year,” Ike replies, then smiles in spite of himself, the beat of his heart just as full as a bell. “And happy birthday.”
They kiss until Soren says he’s cold, then return to Ike’s chambers to warm up.