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The first and only New Year’s that Beatrice spends in Japan with her grandparents is when she’s nine years old. Her grandparents live in a quiet residential area outside of Tokyo proper where the houses are centuries old, the roads narrow and made of curves and alleys with secrets waiting to be discovered: stray cats, potted plants, old windchimes (you hear these more in the summer, her grandmother had explained as Beatrice had accompanied her on her daily morning walk, Beatrice enamored with a calico stray the neighbors had named Mimi-chan. But I think they’re just as well for winter, don’t you think? Beatrice had tipped her head up from where she was kneeling and the moment had crystalized: her grandmother’s smile, the ringing of the wind chimes, the purring of the cat under her palm - soft and gentle and kind).
Her grandparents’ house is of traditional design, the food traditional too. They’d prepared for each family a three-tier ojubako filled with traditional food for the new year. Her older cousins all complain that they all taste the same and Beatrice agrees somewhat, but it doesn’t stop her from picking out her favorite: sweet chestnuts, bright yellow and soft, a sun in her mouth, she tells her grandmother when they’re in the bath. Her grandmother laughs - not at her, but with delight as she tells her there’s extra hidden in the fridge. The sound echoes off the walls, warm in a way that Beatrice’s home in London never does, no matter how hot she turns the taps above the modern bathtub adjacent to her room.
There are “proper” baths in her grandparents house - a renovation financed by Beatrice’s own parents - but her grandmother still enjoys taking the short walk to the public bathhouse down the block. There’s a couple families already there, several generations washing and squealing and sighing into the water.
None of Beatrice’s other relatives had opted to join them and Beatrice is fine with that. Likes being the one to sit next to her grandmother, helping her wash her back and then, once they’ve rinsed off, carefully guiding her down the steps into the waiting hot water. As they soak, her grandmother chats with several other women, regulars who are also being visited by their families. Beatrice sits across a young mother and her child, strangers that she doesn’t know and likely won’t see again. But in the steam and echo, they feel like family. (The child splashes a wave at Beatrice and Beatrice laughs, sends a gentle wave back.)
They walk back slowly, her grandmother pointing out different constellations every other step. There’s a bowl of soba waiting for each of them at home and on the television - her grandparents’ own purchase, they’d told everyone proudly - Kouhaku is playing and Beatrice hums along with everyone even though it’s her first time hearing the songs. She stays awake just long enough to hear the temple bells ringing in the new year in the distance, falls asleep tucked into the warmth of her grandmother’s side.
(Before they return to London, Beatrice’s grandmother hugs her close, calls her beautiful, calls her handsome, gifts her a pair of slacks. Later when Beatrice is older and remembers that stay, she’ll wonder how her grandmother had known; will wish they’d had more time.)
*
Beatrice snaps awake with a knife in her hand but a blinding light forestalls her strike. “It’s just me,” the intruder whispers and the light dims. Beatrice blinks away the afterimage, finds Shannon at her bedside.
“Something happen?” Beatrice asks as she sets down the knife, sleep still heavy on her tongue. She turns to get the glass of water she always keeps atop the end table but Shannon’s already holding it out to her. She takes it with equal parts gratitude and surprise (Shannon has always surprised her, how much she sees, how much she knows).
Shannon grins. “Not yet.” The words are few but it’s spoken in that tone that Beatrice has come to know despite her attempts not to - not to know anyone, not to let anyone know her. But somehow, Beatrice had made friends, had come to mean it when she says ‘sister’ - not just a title, but a reality; truth.
Beatrice frowns into her water. Glances over Shannon’s shoulder at the clock on her desk. “It’s the nearly midnight, what -”
“Exactly, we’re going to be late.”
Beatrice doesn’t have a chance to even ask what they’re going to be late for when Shannon tosses Beatrice’s habit onto her lap. “The others are already waiting.” She turns around to give Beatrice a bit of privacy but she notably doesn’t leave. Beatrice sighs. Does as she’s told.
She’s fairly certain who the ‘others’ are but she’s still not sure why Shannon continues to seek her out, especially now that she’s the halo bearer. The others she could understand: with Lilith, there was a connection from boarding school; with Mary, an understanding that came from being on the outside, from being other. But Shannon is brilliant, sharp, forgiving. She is the Warrior Nun and she’s pulling Beatrice out of bed at a quarter til midnight.
“Don’t make me pick you up, Beatrice,” Shannon warns and the halo flares once in support of her threat. Beatrice knows she can, knows she would, even though it’s Beatrice and the others who are meant to carry her. But Shannon cares so much.
Beatrice isn’t used to it, is used to being left alone, used to her attempts at isolation being respected. Or rather: no one deeming her worth the effort of testing what had always been weakly fortified walls. Her parents hadn’t tried; neither had her mates at boarding school, nor had the sisters at the convent where she’d first taken her vows.
In a way, it had been easier then. She certainly hadn’t been woken in the middle of the night for mischief. The last time Shannon had pulled her into something like this, it’d been a prank on Mary that had resulted in her covered in syrup. (Mary surprisingly hadn’t yelled - Beatrice suspects it had something to do with the way Shannon had giggled and swiped a thumb across Mary’s cheek and licked it off with a grin. Sweet, Shannon had teased and Mary had blushed, softened; Beatrice had quickly looked away.)
Shannon leads her down the dark hallways of Cat’s Cradle, their footsteps silent, their shadows indistinguishable from the statues, the walls. It’s all familiar to Beatrice until Shannon suddenly turns down a passageway Beatrice has never seen before, climbing into a stairwell that goes up and up and up - and then opens up to the sky.
She’s stunned. Beatrice hasn’t had much of a chance to see the sky at night due to her strict routine. It’s been so long. The sky is clear and the stars feel sharp, near. She traces several constellations with her eyes; when was the last time she’d stood like this, just looking at the stars?
“Took you long enough.” Beatrice turns and Mary is there, along with Lilith, faux impatience on their faces and several duffel bags at their feet.
“Sleeping Beauty here nearly took me out with one of her knives,” Shannon says, bumping her shoulder against Beatrice’s own.
Beatrice doesn’t roll her eyes but allows an eyebrow to rise. “Well, normally people would knock on a person’s door before entering a room that isn’t theirs.”
“There she is,” Lilith smirks. “I was wondering when we’d see cranky Beatrice again.”
Mary lets out a laugh. “Oh man, do you remember that mission in Paris? I thought that guy was going to piss his pants, he was so terrified.”
Beatrice flushes as Shannon chuckles and pulls Beatrice towards the others. Once they’re close, she sees the colorful sticks in the bags. She frowns, unable to place what they are - until Mary lifts one, flicks her lighter and sparks erupt.
“One day, we’ll get fireworks,” Mary says with a grin, equal parts mischief and promise. She lights another sparkler and hands them both to Beatrice while Lilith pulls out a bottle of champagne from one of the bags. The others start to bicker about Lilith’s choice of cups but Beatrice is entranced by the sparks, the minute colors that flicker and flash, how they linger in the darkness when she moves them here, there.
She laughs, soft and quiet, tips her head back up to the sky. The night is a bit too cold for just her habit but the voices around her are warm, as is the champagne that they drink when their synchronized watches chime at midnight, as is the hope sparkling in her hands.
*
There’s still ten minutes to midnight but fireworks have been going off all over the city, the skyline lit up in various colors. The view from Beatrice’s hotel window is unexpectedly perfect but it doesn’t seem right to celebrate. There’s not much Beatrice has to count in terms of gratitude, not much she has to look forward to in the new year. Too much has changed, too much was lost; too little to hold on to.
The movie playing on the TV flashes occasionally in the window, scenes of snow and smiles set in a different hemisphere. Beatrice tries not to think of her but she always, inevitably does. Wonders: will Ava prefer a cold new year or a warm one (knows the answer will inevitably be both; makes a note to find out how far Lilith’s teleportation goes), will she prefer a sweater or a blanket as Beatrice makes them hot chocolate, will she hold her hand, will she come back.
It’s hard to think of the future, of tomorrow, of just the next hour but she tries. Mostly it’s lists of things she wants to do when Ava’s back, questions she wants to ask, questions she wants to hear the answers to. Would she prefer to be at a party, would she prefer to be at home; will she still prefer to be with her at all.
Beatrice blinks and shakes her head, tries to remember, tries to believe. In her pocket, she fists the necklace Ava used to wear, smoothes the stone against her palm; wishes the warmth wasn’t her own. It had been the first purchase Ava had deliberately saved for after seeing it in a store they’d randomly entered on the way home from work (an unspoken routine where Ava would tug her down a street they’d never been before, coax Beatrice through an unknown door).
The jewelry store had been small, the owner kind with an understanding smile when Ava had set down the necklace, promising that she would be back. When they’d returned home, Ava had sat with Beatrice to go over their finances, had made calculations about shifts and tips. A month later, she’d come home with the necklace at the hollow of her throat and a grin across her face.
Beatrice had been so proud of her, so happy for her, then; always. Wonders if Ava would feel the same about her, now; when she returns.
Hope is a skill she thinks to herself, repeats, again and again. And it’s hard. It’s hard because it’s difficult, it’s hard because it’s new, it’s hard because she’s never had something that’s hurt so much, that she’s wanted so much. So. Hold on to what you can.
She keeps her hand tight around the necklace in her pocket as she takes the elevator down to the hotel bar. It’s crowded but not overly so and it’s fine, it’s enough. She’ll learn to live at her own pace while also allowing herself to admit and absolve herself that it’s not perfect, that she’s still learning: how to celebrate, how to have joy without having to save, without having to suffer first.
Her order of a cuba libre makes it into her hand just as clocks turn over to the new year. She stays quiet as everyone around her cheers, as glasses clink and chime. She smiles faintly, for practice, as streamers and confetti somehow appear, floating, falling, free. (Wonders if Ava would want to use one - or a dozen - of those noisy, messy party poppers; knows the answer would be, will be, yes.)
She takes a sip of her drink and tries not to compare it to Ava’s (hers is always a little too strong, always makes every other drink taste a touch too weak; a life dulled), sends a picture to Camila in answer to her new year’s greeting from hours ago. Late but living. Trying, at least.
Happy new year she types simply, half truth, a statement of fact: half hope, that happiness will follow soon.
***
It’s chilly enough here by the coast that a sweater is recommended but warm enough that Ava has taken that recommendation and wrapped it around her waist as she stretches precariously from the top step of the ladder. Beatrice’s hand flexes instinctively, ready to run, to leap, to catch. Waits, tense, until Ava settles her weight back and bounces a little from her perch as she lets out a whoop of joy. Beatrice relaxes, lets out a sigh.
She doesn’t relax completely, however. She eyes the firecrackers that Ava has strung up on the … structure … that she and Camilia have created in the driveway of the house they’d rented for the evening (with Lilith’s help, despite her attempts at hiding the sparks of glee in her eyes). Beatrice isn’t sure how Camila obtained so many fireworks this year, knows only that she and Ava are determined to make this year’s display “even better than last year!” (It’s undoubtedly the main reason why they’re not celebrating at the Salvius compound this year; Beatrice has several water hoses at the ready to avoid a repeat performance. She knows she can pick and choose what to carry over into the new year - will not choose a visit from the fire department if she can help it.)
It’s only when Ava has made it down the ladder that Beatrice lets her eyes stray. The yard is full of people, full of movement and sound - talking, laughing, dancing to the music from the stereo system she and Lilith had rigged up together this morning. Long tables full of food and drink line the side nearest to the house, and an assortment of chairs and blankets have been set out on the soft grass for people to use once midnight has struck.
The whistle of a firework nearby catches Beatrice’s ear and she tips her head back to follow its path into the sky. It bursts, small, bright, and a cheer rises up from somewhere down the street. Almost time.
She lets her eyes drift to the stars beyond. Picks out the handful of constellations her grandmother had shown her. The ones she’d traced with champagne-heavy eyes on Cat’s Cradle’s rooftop. Wishes again that they’d had more time.
The music on the stereo abruptly cuts out, replaced just as abruptly with Freddie Mercury’s voice and the distinct piano of “We are the Champions.” Beatrice laughs - hears it echoed across the way by Ava as she starts to sing along. ( Why? Beatrice had asked last year when Ava had played it the minutes leading up to midnight. Well aren’t we? Ava had replied with a wide grin, a sloppy kiss pressed to Beatrice’s cheek before belting along off-key to the chorus.)
Other voices join in and they rise above even the din of the firecrackers and fireworks as they start to go off. But Beatrice’s eyes stay locked on Ava and sure enough - as sure as the tide, as sure as the sunrise, as sure as their love - Ava turns and finds her; smiles.
There’s nothing new about Ava’s smile, nothing old either - but it’s something Beatrice vows to carry over to the new year, to each new life she lives with Ava. In another life, she might have been compelled to wait, to save, to do anything but take. But that’s not the life she’s living now. She’d rather live, defiant - would rather be surrounded by sound and song than another year, another life, suffocating in quiet.
They make their way towards each other through the crowd, Queen blasting and fireworks erupting around them. It’s not unlike how they’d found each other when Ava had come back, when they’d won the war, when they’d started to learn how to live in this life, navigating the chaos of the unexpected, stepping always towards rather than away, no matter what.
They fit themselves around each other as soon as they’re in arm’s reach. Beatrice lets her eyes close, breathes it all in: the smoke, the cheers, the chimes, the laughter, the love, the life. Feels Ava do the same, feels the exhale against her neck, words that Beatrice can guess by their rhythm.
The chorus swells along with the fireworks and the display is indeed more spectacular than it was last year. She knows the next will be even more so. But in the now, Beatrice wraps her arms tight around her future, murmurs three words into Ava’s ear - happy new year, I love you, in this life, in this year, and the next.