Winnie’s feet dangled off the side of the fire escape. A New Year’s party raged on the rooftop above her, an invitation she only secured by nature of living in the same building. She was drunk enough that if she focused on her shoes too long, her stomach dropped, creating a brief moment of weightlessness, similar to missing a step on the staircase or dreaming of a fall. And, god, did it feel good to just float until she blinked back into her body, heart pounding and arms wrapped tightly around the thin metal bars keeping her on the escape.
It wasn’t uncommon for Winnie to end up on the outskirts of a party. Even back at home, she often needed space to breathe. The bodies became too much, the music too corrupted with other sounds. It didn’t feel so lonely, though, back at home. Someone always found her eventually.
Loneliness, in and of itself, was an emotion Winnie added to her repertoire shortly after arriving in New York. Something heavy that made a home in between her ribs; it pulled on her heartstrings, gnawed on her stomach. It grew lighter, in the brief moments spent at Bea’s side or on the phone with Stellan, but dragged her right back down any other time she stepped foot outside of her dorm room.
It took her a month and a half to name: loneliness. Winnie never felt lonely before.
Only now, a stack of divorce papers tucked between her mattress and her bed frame ( signed, sealed, and decorated with too many stamps ), and her feet dangling off the edge of the world, she’s worried it’s all she’ll ever feel.
She should’ve gone home; surrendered to the impulse to run all the way back with her tail tucked between her legs, swallowed her pride and faced the music left in her wake, but she was scared. Scared to return to a home that felt foreign, terrified to learn it remained unchanged to those who still inhabited it.
Above her, the voices of hundreds of drunk college kids started the countdown, and she blinked back into her body, arms wrapped tightly around metal railing, pulse racing. Her mouth moved along to the descending numbers, though her voice reached no one’s ears but her own. Instead of celebrating once they hit one, she pulled her feet up onto the escape, and closed her eyes against the cacophony of cheering, illegal fireworks, and an odd buzzing sound she could only assume was a result of her annoyance at the former two.
Except, the moment her eyes shut, she realized the buzzing emanated from her own pocket. Emotion poured out from her solitary rain cloud like summer rain, warming her to the bone when Stellan’s contact appeared. She answered it without thinking.
“Happy New Year, Stell.” The words choked out of her and she hoped he wouldn’t catch the way they wavered, but knew he would.
“Happy fuckin’ New Year, Win,” came his reply and Winnie curled into his voice like a cat napping in a patch of sun. “Thank fuck this one’s over.”
Laughter burst out of her and she brought a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. “I don’t know,” she drawled, sarcasm dripping from the words, “thought it was our best yet. Was hoping to groundhog’s day it, personally.”
As Stellan’s own laughter crackled through the phone, Winnie laid back against the grated flooring, eyes wandering a starless sky. “Fuck that,” he answered once his laughter settled, but she could still hear the remnants of it tucked between his vowels. “Miss me yet?”
A question he asked every time they talked, without fail. One often met with a fond roll of her eyes and a quip, now followed by a long stretch of silence brought on by a wave of emotion that lodged in her throat. It wasn’t until her hand lifted to rub the wrinkle between her brows, pinky brushing against the stray tears rolling down her cheeks, that Winnie realized she was crying. She used her palm to catch them and swallowed hard in an attempt to steady her voice. “So fucking much.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, “me, too.”
The weight in her chest lightened as Winnie pulled the phone closer to her ear, as though pulling herself closer to Stellan, to home. So much had changed in the blink of an eye, between them, around them, but never this. She belonged to Stellan in a way she never belonged to anyone, in a way she could never find the words to explain. She always had and always would.
She didn’t feel so lonely, not anymore.
“Alright, let’s hear it.” His voice interrupted her thoughts, lighter than moments before. “What’re your resolutions?”
“Jesus.” The word escaped in a huff of humorless laughter, head shaking from side to side. In the past, Winnie had been…inisistent on resolutions, swearing that people worked harder when striving for a goal, demanding the boys picked some of their own. That changed, too, this year. The only goal she had in mind was to, “Survive?”
cider point, ma. new years eve, 2024 — 6:58pm
london, england. new years eve, 2024 — 11:58pm
The distance doesn't feel so large these days. It's been over three years since he came here, his fourth New Year's Eve on the boardwalk. Weekly calls just like this one close the gap, bridge the ocean between him and his parents when neither are able to make the journey themselves.
"Got a little nervous you weren't going to pick up in time." He admits, grin wide as his mother rolls her eyes. They both know him well enough to know he isn't kidding.
"We still have two minutes to go." She chastises as his father comes into frame, spare chair pulled up. He's been begging them to upgrade to a laptop at home for years, but they stubbornly continue to insist there's nothing wrong with the ten year old tower his father kicks every time he sits at the desk. Don't fix what isn't broken!
Nate taps at his watch. "One minute forty seven seconds, actually." Maybe he's a little more annoying around them, still their son even at thirty-one.
"What are you doing later? Are you going to the boardwalk again?" His father ignores his quip. Nate sighs, a sound so common, yet one that already lost its bite a long time ago.
"Yeah, both Danny and Theodora mentioned it, so I suppose I should show my face." He glances at his wrist, keen not to miss the turn of the hour, his first new year of the night. He'd made sure to resync his watch this morning just in case. "It's a nice night, but it's a bit noisy. Everyone's plastered by, like, half nine." Not that he doesn't enjoy a drink, but he can't see the point in staying up for midnight if you're going to be too far gone to remember it. "Did you guys do anything nice?"
His father is cut off. "No, we had to be home before midnight to call our grown son." She tuts, but Nate can see her hiding a smile behind her hand. (That, and he'd given them the opportunity not to make a tradition of this every year and she's always the one insisting otherwise.)
"Twenty seconds." He clears his throat. "And might I remind you, you could've taken this call on your phone, no requirement to rush home for your grown son. That, might I also remind you, lives across the world, and whom I'm sure you miss dearly and want to see when the stars align."
They both ignore him, watching the last five seconds tick away at the corner of their desktop, waiting for the fireworks to start pounding in the background. They're so loud Nate wonders if he could hear them all the way from here, call be damned.
They share a kiss before wishing him a, "happy first new year," as they do every year. In five hours, he'll message them a happy second new year to wake up to.
featuring ! marco windsor's new years eve; chicago, 2023.
o'hare has always been marco's least favorite airport. still, he's gone through the trouble of driving there and back, hauling each of his siblings back to his home ONE BY ONE. he's put months of planning and piles of money into his new year's eve party and as far as he can tell, everything is going without a hitch. he'd put on his happiest face, oliver managed to make it home twice so far ( a new record ! ), and none of his siblings had killed each other under his roof. he's clinging onto the hope this gives him with an iron fist, desperate to recreate the days that felt effortless.
rolling over in his bed marco reaches for his alarm clock, flat palm swatting at the button that would give him reprieve from the noise. hands raise to rub at bleary eyes, and as his hand falls back down, he realizes it's fallen into an empty space. the hope he'd felt is turned into the first seed of dread, shooting up and peering around the room. cardstock with a scribbled note left on oliver's pillow informs marco that he's become indisposed for the day. an emergency at the office, he's so sorry, he'll be back in time for the party. hand drags through tousled curls and over his face, letting out a deep sigh.
how many days can a man spend pretending, he wonders, slowing his racing thoughts as he hears the footsteps of his family gathering at the table. breakfast is spent under the cover of cheerful planning, assigning each of them a role for the night. elias greeting guests at the door, clark behind the bar, luke passing out appetizers, and lux curating the music. as their parents always taught them, the party must go on. unwanted questions from his siblings are carefully avoided, comments about how often he's checking his phone are brushed off. despite this, he takes note of the concern and contempt growing in each of their voices as the hours pass. before he knows it guests are pouring in, and with each person that greets him, he finds the limit of his disappointment.
10:13 p.m. and he's checking his phone again, sending a quick text to oliver this time. ARE YOU ON THE WAY YET ? 11:50 p.m. and lux has asked him what the fuck no less than ten times. 11:55 p.m. and clark has given him two flutes of champagne. 11:59 p.m. and luke has a pity in his eyes he never wants to see again. 12:00 a.m. and elias is the one throwing his arms around him. 12:18 p.m. and he's sending his husband of eleven years a text to ring in the new year. HAPPY NEW YEAR !
he can remember a time when the aftermath was spent in a honeymoon haze, blaring music and party games traded for stolen kisses and clattering dishes. now, he stands alone in his kitchen, gathering the last of the glasses and placing them haphazardly in the sink. it's just after 3:00 a.m. as he hears the door open, oliver stumbling into the kitchen with his BEST APOLOGY FACE already on. arms cross over his chest, and the seed of dread has rooted through all of his veins. he's not sure he recognizes the man in front of him as oliver pours over drunken excuses and the importance of team bonding after closing a deal. as oliver reaches for him, he pushes away, maintaining his silence. his only thoughts are of each of his siblings, asleep in their rooms after carrying him through the night. they once dreamed of a life full of love and a family of their own creation. eleven years in and he had nothing to show for it aside from a large, empty home. mustering up all of his courage, eyes meet oliver's, thumb nail picking at the skin on his index finger. with one deep breath and no time to let himself think, he blurts out, "I WANT A DIVORCE."
⋆˚࿔ ciderpointhq task 001: ghost of new years past !
to ease you all back into your characters after the holiday, we wanted to present you OUR FIRST TASK ! for this task, we ask you to write a self para about a new year that was especially important / impactful for your character ! perhaps we were so back, perhaps it was so over ... we want to see the good, the bad, the ugly ! you are not limited to just one, if the muse strikes you to write more !
this task is not required, but highly encouraged to deepen your muse's lore and give us some insight into your character's past ! should you choose to participate, please make sure to tag CIDERTASK / CIDERTASK001 so we can read them !! we're so excited to see your self paras, and we're ready to jump for joy or cry our hearts out along with your muses ! ♡
She can't remember the last time she was alone at midnight.
The city that never sleeps, and the girl that hasn't been too good at it as of late either. Moonlight through an unintentional gap in the curtains keeps her company, phone thrown somewhere on the floor. Her parents have gone out with friends, her sister— She couldn't care less right now. Her fiance, she doesn't know. She should know. She should be with him. Her band— Hadn't they said she'd be better off sitting this one out? Something about bringing the mood down. They weren't wrong. That left her with the condensation on the outside of her glass of wine and a movie she paused two hours ago because the male lead scrunched his nose the same way Heath used to and God, there's that ache again.
It's easy to feel sorry for herself when there's no one around to pick up the pieces. Her parents have done what they can to hold her together, Lux's pitying gaze enough to remind her there's more important things at stake than her own, selfish suffering. At least she still has Blonde Sundays, right? Wherever they are.
She downs the rest of her wine, resolves to pick up the shards later when it slips from her grasp. The fireworks have started. It's officially 2024 and it hardly feels any different. Her laptop finds its way back to her bed, movie back on to drown out the celebrations outside. 'Heath' is about to get the girl and Cleo thinks she might throw back up the ice cream she had for dinner.
Maybe she will tidy up this mess now rather than in the morning.
Knees hit the ground with force. Dustpan and brush not even a passing thought, she reaches out with clumsy hands to collect what she can. She's almost relieved to see she can still bleed when a sharp edge slices at the softest part of her finger. She doesn't stop; it hurts less than whatever's going on in her ribcage, anyway. A welcome distraction that's gone too soon when the shards make their way into the bin. A bandaid, maybe. Another thing to do that isn't think or cry, or mourn what could've been of her night, her life.
Is he thinking about her, too? Is he somewhere in the city, or maybe he's skipped town, wondering what she's up to, who she's spending tonight with? Does it matter? Would it change a thing?
12:07am. She picks up her phone on the way back into her room. Happy new year!s flash over her screen; family, friends, no Heath, no Sundays except Lux. She drops it again, listens to something crack as she reaches for the covers on her bed. It joins the collection of broken things in this room.
Sometime before midnight, December 31st, 2015. Someplace in Southern Illinois.
He could be at the boardwalk right now, spending his New Year's Eve goofing off with the friends he grew up alongside and maybe trying to find someone to sneak them drinks. There could be the sound of roaring laughter surrounding him as old inside jokes were traded amongst all of them and they all laid out their plans for the upcoming year or poked fun at the idea of setting high expectations with resolutions. But that wasn't where he was and those weren't the noises he heard. Instead he was in a rundown motel in some town he had never heard of listening to a couple in the room over argue loud enough to make sleep an impossibility. Xavier turned onto his side and threw a pillow over his head in a poor attempt to muffle the sound, exhaustion from the long, aimless drive here weighing heavily on him.
Rather than grant him a little peace, the action only served to shove more thoughts of home down his throat. However, they weren't the kind that filled him with a longing to return, but instead reinforced why he left in the first place. He curled in on himself. It felt like his brain was operating on faulty wiring that should've been replaced years ago. He'd been on his own for a while now, and yet the instinct to crawl out of the hard bed and knock on the neighboring door that didn't house the arguing couple and ask for a distraction, something along the lines of 'can we please get out of the house? I can't listening to them any longer.' still remained. All that he would find behind that door was a stranger staring back at him, though. What his nervous system was reaching for to quiet everything the way it did when he was a kid wasn't next door. And even though he knew that this entire time, the way it was highlighted now only managed to make his surroundings feel more discomforting.
He pushed the pillow harder against his ear and squeezed his eyes shut tighter to try to shut everything out. He curled up further to stop the sensation of feeling like a hand was rooting around in an empty space in his chest where something vital got ripped out. None of it brought any relief or quieted the same fight or flight he felt when he left Cider Point. So in a blur, he was pulling on his coat and shoes and out in the cold, winter Midwest air. The freezing temperatures brought an odd sense of comfort with them, or maybe it was just enough of a strong physical sensation to start to ground him — he certainly wasn't going to try to decipher it or anything else in the fog of his exhaustion. No, his plan was to mindlessly wander unfamiliar streets until enough time passed that surely the couple had tired themselves out so he could finally get the sleep his body was craving.
There was no way for him to track time, however, no phone, no watch and it felt like it was moving slower the more places he passed full of people and the noise of celebration. It wasn't helping, it only let the voice in the back of his head start to wonder what everyone back home was doing right now. Were they celebrating? Was the last year kind to them? Had it been cruel in ways that made them wish he was there to sympathize with how unfair things were like he used? Were they mad? Did they understand why he had to leave, that he had to? Did any of it matter if he couldn't stomach going back?
After some more purposeless wandering with questions he wasn't sure he wanted the answers to floating around in his head, he was lucky enough to stumble upon a small diner committed to staying open twenty-four seven. It was late enough that no one would linger there and too early for the drunken rush of people seeking out greasy food, making it someplace he could find a bit of quiet solace. It was almost funny, Xavier of all people seeking out an almost empty diner instead of inviting himself to one of the many celebrations that were clearly taking place. Maybe he'd pick the latter any other night, but tonight? He was too tired to come up with a bunch of lies about who he knew at the party and try to be palatable and charming enough to get away with being there. It was easier to just park himself at the counter, order a coffee, and entertain a less demanding one-on-one conversation with the poor waitress who got stuck working tonight.
She asked him why he wasn't out celebrating and he told a half-truth — he wasn't from around here, just passing through and stopping for the night on his way back to some campus after spending the holidays at home with his family. His hands fiddled with the paper of an empty sugar packet on the counter, paying more attention to the feeling of the crumpled texture under his finger tips than the thread of what ifs his lie provoked. It was hard not to feel the small twists of envy when it was her turn to speak about what her family and her got up to over the holidays. It didn't sound like a perfect Hallmark movie, but it did sound warm and loving. When there was a lull in the conversation, he was left to sit with everything the night conjured up for him. He'd say it was all to blame for what he did next. Surprising even himself, he asked if there was a phone he could use, making up some lie about how he definitely had a phone but it was charging back in his motel room. She nodded, pulling the landline up from behind the counter and pushing it towards him before excusing herself to handle something in the kitchen.
A beat passed with just him and the phone at the counter, his body completely still as he stared at it. And then it was like he blinked and the receiver was in his hand, somehow feeling immensely heavy and light as a feather at the same time as it pressed to his ear. There was only one phone number he had memorized since it had been his emergency contact, so it was always going to be the one he started to dial. When he got to the last digit, however, his finger froze over it. A quiet corner of his heart was begging to press it. A frenzy of thoughts fought to be the loudest in his mind, so loud that it felt like the dial tone in his ear was fading out into the background. Wouldn't it be nice to know his brother was still doing okay? What if Xavier got to hear what he wanted to, an apology and 'it's okay, you can come back home whenever you want to, it's safe for you to do so''? What if he didn't? What if all he heard was 'don't even bother'? Wouldn't it hurt more to hear everything was going a lot better now that he was far removed from the picture? What if someone else answered or the number was no longer in service because something happened?
The sound of the phone hitting the receiver followed by the cash and coins placed on the counter for the coffee and then finally the bell of the front door were all that echoed in the diner. Back in the cold air, off to the side of the building, Xavier was doubled over with the feeling that he might get sick. When the moment passed, he leaned back against the wall and stared up at the night sky now illuminated with distant fireworks as the clock struck midnight. Whatever all this was, he just needed to shove it down somewhere. He was just tired from his drive and the holidays were weird and that stuff at the motel messed with his head. He just needed a little sleep, that was all. Come tomorrow morning he'd realize how stupid it would've been if he had actually called. He was fine. He was fine on his own. And this was fun, right? He got to go wherever he want and do whatever he wanted and meet a bunch of new people. More importantly, everything that happened to him out here was completely in his control. It wasn't like that back home, he didn't get a say in what happened to him. So this was good, this was fine, this was better, this was safer. And he'd gotten through a lot completely on his own since he ran. He didn't still need someone looking out for him. Yeah, this was fine, everything was fine, he'd go back to the motel and get some sleep and leave all this behind and just keep moving in the new year. If Xavier repeated it enough to himself, then maybe it'd all be more than a bunch of hollow lies.
