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To be loved is to be changed, a saying sprawled across the walls, something everyone says. It's "aesthetic", popular, scrawled in the text of journals and notebooks. It's written in the elbows of the people, pumped through the veins of those who don't understand, to be loved is to be changed.
What does it really mean, to be loved?
The air of the night is cold and biting. Winter hasn't offset even a little bit since Christmas, and the mansion is still warm on the inside, but the balcony is far from heated. It gives a little bit of clarity to the night, between all of the stains on the rug and the splashes of alcohol that line the halls.
The cheers of people inside is surprisingly happy. Everyone is exhausted, they've all taken time off from work, or maybe they've stayed up late to be here. But they're together, that's what matters.
Mostly together.
Nat sits on the balcony, leaning over the ledge, a glass of champagne clenched between their claws. The glass is already splintered a little where the sharp edges have pressed into the glass, but it's not leaking, so he doesn't care to replace it.
The warmth from inside hasn't drifted to outside. It's odd, how the doors shut him off from the world so cleanly, so beautifully carefully that it almost feels like the locks are encrusted with ice. On any other day, he'd pick it off and walk inside, but he just feels.. tired, today. Maybe it's the all-nighter he's pulled, maybe it's the champagne, but his hands are too cold to touch the ice - to even go near the ice. He thinks it'll give him hypothermia if he tries.
Behind that door, everyone is waiting. Everyone.
Pyxis and Miwu are probably off kissing in a corner somewhere. Maybe drunk, maybe not, who fucking knows. There's at least one game of go fish, which Tadrin has to be running, because the God rather likes the cacophony that spouts from leading the games. Abel is probably the one cleaning up after everyone because, hell, they always do. The younger ones who can't drink are having some sort of cider, something sparkly sweet that would burn his tongue, a holy flavor that skips away from him at every opportunity.
There is joy. There are sparkles and pompoms and pretty, shiny balloons. There is fifteen minutes, maybe, from midnight, where they will all conjugate and count down. Some people like to take a shot when the clock hits twelve. Others cheer, some have their own special traditions. Maybe a couple shout numbers in their own native language, like many English speaking people do, but it's hard to tell.
It's the people he knows. This is his home, permanently, these are his people.
No matter, being outside on the balcony feels like being exiled. He knows, he can just go inside.
He finds he doesn't really want to.
He's always thought that he might have dedicated a little too much to New Year's. He draws and speaks and cries and gets all those happy, mushy feelings. It's something that he's felt shunned for in the past, shunned for being so happy because he made it to another year. Nat just can't help it, his heart is twisted a little oddly and his body is a little deformed, he's always been sentimental.
This year feels different. Like he's got a reason to be sentimental.
The yellow liquid in his champagne glass swirls like a little vortex in his palms. He lets his thoughts burrow into it, lets the sip of his drink drown him away, burn away a little more ice that lines his sides. His body feels heavy and he lets himself slump over the railing, his glass tipped a little forward, a drop of liquid spilling down onto the grass several feet below.
He thinks, then thinks some more, and then he finds that his head is full.
Nat remembers old churches, he remembers kings and princes and queens, remembers protecting and guarding and paying for his passport. He remembers pouring hours of building work into the places he loved the most, letting them carry his soul and love in their stone, even after they were torn down. He remembers being holy and a figure that people could turn to, and then he remembers falling. He remembers falling from grace, being picked up by what felt like the Devil himself, and he can only remember falling.
Ugly, disgusting crying, tears falling down his face.
He's stronger now, but it still feels like a prominent part of himself, something etched deep into his soul. He's oddly scared of it, and over the years it's grown smaller as he's grown with it, but..
He hears the buzzing next to his ear before he actually processes it, and by the time he thinks he knows who it is, he feels a little sharp tap on the side of his head. He shakes it away, picking himself up to sit straight.
It's a little white moth, antennae turned to either side, mechanical wings splayed behind them. Their face is a screen that displays an excited expression, and fur lines every edge. It's Miwu, the same Miwu that flies into lights and knows too damn much about mechanical engineering for their own good.
Nat can't help the odd thoughts that pitch in, good ones, memories. His memory has always been a little spotty, but it's better than ever now, remembering all the little details.
There's that one time Emerald kept connecting Miwu's speakers to bluetooth and playing some stupid song, which gave them a headache. Emerald got serious repercussions for that one. Or there's the time they flew into the pool and had to be fished out with one of those cleaning nets. That was scary in itself, but the recovery process was short and sweet, they were back to laughing and flying around just days after. That one time they flung themselves against someone's phone and accidentally called 911.
There's plenty of fond memories, and it makes him smile.
"Miwu, go back inside, it's cold." He grumbles, passing the awkward tension with a sip of his drink. It's flat now, and kind of gross, but he forces himself to not make a face.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Miwu pushes back, her little screen somehow brighter in the cold, mischief splayed over every pixel. If he were any stupider, Nat would've thought there was a scheme.
But it's confusion, and worry, and some sort of weird mix of the two that doesn't fit her face.
"You'd need a million dollars for even one of them. C'mon, you're probably freezing, let's get you inside." he jokes gently, snatching Miwu out of the air as calmly as he can. The ensuing squeak and argument is drowned out by the sound of dripping water.
He's almost certainly hallucinating it, but the doorknobs become a little warmer under his hands, a little damp. Like ice melted from the hinges, it opens smoothly, revealing the warm insides of the house that are filled with people.
He's almost immediately bumped into. The rooms are big, but not big enough when a third of the floor is taken up by people playing.. Uno, maybe? He can't identify the card game. The smell of alcohol is thick, but it's at least somewhat covered up with the slight scent of strawberry, like someone baked something or sprayed a hefty amount of perfume in the room. He takes the bet on the second half, laughing as he releases Miwu into the air.
The moth huffs and makes her way across the room one more time, but there's less concern and tension in the air. Less stress, more.. joy.
He huffs, letting himself be dragged into the festivities. The Christmas tree is still up, it's too pretty for him to take down. Vinnie did too good a job decorating it, and Miwu did too good a job sticking to the ornaments when they glinted in the lights. It'll rot soon, he can't care. He should stop investing in live trees.
But it's New Years now. It's a pretty time of year. It's a nice time of year. And it's a minute to midnight all of a sudden, and everyone gathers around the couch. There's about six channels playing at once and everyone is screeching, a joyous noise that he really can't bother to decipher. But he joins in, listening as the clock counts down, and he cheers out the last five numbers as they go.
Five.
Miwu lands on Pyxis' head to avoid being hit, as a couple of people are jumping around - Mineboy most notably, waving his hands in the air and running around like a chicken with his head cut off. It's silly.
Four.
Abel is still cleaning up spilled glasses, but there's a vague cheery hint to the way they do it, a holiday spirit reminder that's oddly reminiscent of something old turned new.
Three.
Vinnie and Obsidian are both huddled in a corner of the couch, giggling together and overall just being cheerful. It's not a surprise, but it's nice to see, a small bundle of quiet and joy amongst their raucous sound.
Two.
Everyone gathers around with wide, bright eyes, most whispering or giggling and cooing at the TV. This is about their first time watching the ball drop, it's a big event for all of them, and time passes almost at a slowed speed. The joy is all he needs to see he made the right decision, Nat deciding to lean over the back of the couch in a cheer.
One.
The ball drops.
Happy new year!
The room explodes in pure joyous cheers, a couple people calling for another round. Some are already too drunk to bother staying up, or have work tomorrow, so they head to bed immediately.
But they're his people. He doesn't care what they do, as long as they're safe.
Where were you, on New Year's, for 2025? someone will ask, a couple of days from now, or maybe a couple years from now, when they all return to their normal lives, and Nat will not have an answer.
Nothing can describe being changed by those that you love. And, certainly, nothing can describe the firework sparking feelings in your heart, when you realize that you are finally at home.