In which they escape a party and drink cheap champagne on the terrace over Times Square, and he has a certain resolution.
The one where she asks him not to break this promise.
They were halfway through a ceremony celebrating the new year, filled with narcissistic celebrities and pretentious cuisine consisting of h’or douevres and caviar, being passed by waiters wearing forced smiles to celebrities who wave them off. An expression of utter boredom is sketched on her face, no matter how hard she tries to curve her painted lips upward when Harry meets yet another person in the industry to network with.
By the fifteenth (hundredth?) person, Y/N’s basically hanging off of her boyfriend’s arm, face pressed to his broad shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of Tom Ford’s vanilla to remind her of why she was here in the first place. The black blend of satin and silk she has on as a slip dress glides and ripples over her skin smoothly, but her feet are sore in these goddamn heels, and she wants to sit and eat food which actually fills her, and the thought of ending the year like this admittedly sparks a bit of resentment in her.
“Oh, yes. Bowie, Tame Impala, the Smiths—all of the greats seem to be making an entrance into modern life, again. The greatest thing an artist can do is die, no?”
Harry laughs in return, but she can tell that it’s polite, if anything—his laugh is usually throaty, and his eyes crinkle and dimples bracket into his cheeks, but this is hoarse and that familiar rumble in his chest isn’t there. She snuggles a bit closer and closes her eyes in the process, eliciting a quick glance her way, on his part. She felt him clear his throat.
“It was nice talking with you,” he flashes the man a charming smile, and she can tell it’s the one with his pearly teeth making a brief appearance, eye-contact and all. That smile had always trapped her, hook, line, and sinker. Harry had that thing about him, which fixed any sane person into this catatonic stupor if he were to grace them with a glance. He tightens his grip on her waist, thumb rubbing at her hip bone soothingly. Wait a little longer, love. She bites her lip in anticipation, the ghost of a smile tickling at her mouth. “Really, but if you’ll excuse us.”
“O-of course!” the man exclaims, letting Harry guide them past the man. They walked through the hall, until the music was a bit more faint; Harry stopping briefly at a pearly pillar and lacing his fingers with Y/N’s, who tiredly looked up from his chest. “Where we going?”
He shoots her that smile and her heart plummets to her stomach, green eyes narrowing slightly in mischief as free fingers come up to trace her jawline and the faint pout her lips had fixed themselves into. She shivered as they ravelled around a stray lock of hair framing her face, tugging gently before moving it behind her ear.
“You hungry?” he asks simply. She nods.
“I felt bad eating the caviar,” she scrunches her nose in distaste. “Tiny fish eggs. Fish babies.”
His eyes sparkle with amusement. She’s cute. He’s then tugging on her hand slightly. “Let’s go. I know a place.”
“Is this the part where I agree and get murdered?”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asks, stifling a laugh.
“Inside,” she replies wrily, “where it’s safe and warm.” This thought is cut short when her eyes fall on a stranger complaining loudly about how consumerism was infiltrating his life and being famous was difficult. “On second thought, let’s go.”
His fingers laced tentatively with hers, he leads her up a stairwell hidden behind some off-white curtains and a jacuzzi, and it’s evident that he’s never going to not surprise her once they climb up to the last step on a rather ambitious set of steps. She’s heaving at this point, and grumbling curses directed Harry’s way, but he just waits.
“Look,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of her ear, arms wrapping around her waist. She does, and breathes in sharply. The scene before them is breathtaking: a balcony from which the streets of New York are visible, the billions of people gathering in Times Square registering as mere specks in the cosmic smorgasbord from this high up on the building. The ball is visible, a mere ten minutes remaining before it drops, and wistful music plays in the background.
“Is this an at least satisfactory way to end the year?” he asks, moving to lean over the railing, but widening his eyes in alarm when she stumbles out of her heels, hikes up her dress, and hops onto the railing with ease. He shakes his head. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“I know,” she laughs, and stares off into the distance. “And, yes. It is. It’s... beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he replies, keeping his gaze locked on her, “beautiful.”
“It’s just,” she sighs. “This is humanity, isn’t it? All of these people, gathered together solely in the name of hope and second or third or fourth chances. This is it.”
“This is it,” he repeats softly.
“This is perfect, but,” she fixes him with a playful glance, “where’s the food?”
In response, he palms through his blazer and fishes out handfuls of chocolate and chips, presenting them to her with a fluorish, her making a sound resembling a squeal and ripping the crisp packaging open, hurling the contents into her open mouth.
“Attractive,” Harry teases. She says something inaudible in response, slapping his hand away when he reaches for a chip, but laughs at his hurt look and pushes a chip past his lips, feeling him bite at it and then nip her fingers with his teeth.
“I,” she says importantly whilst pushing her hand into her bra, “also have a contribution.” She pulls out a small bottle of champagne and the skin surrounding his eyes crinkles as he laughs.
“Where did you get this?”
“Shh,” she hushes him, uncorking the bottle and holding it up like a prize while he also jumps onto the thick ledge overlooking New York City in the final hours of 2019. He parts his legs into a ‘V’ and pulls her so she’s situated between them. She hums contentedly, pushing the bottle of champagne to her lips before wrapping them around the mouth of it, sliding back so the liquid burned its pleasant course down her throat, warming her slightly. He makes a faux disgusted noise, masking his endearment poorly.
“Now it’s got your germs all over it.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose I forgot you dislike my germs,” she answers coyly, biting back a smile as he leans over.
“Despise them,” he whispers seriously, and then captures her lips in a kiss, tasting the champagne on her tongue, feeling her pulse dance under his fingertips. As he deepens the kiss, fingers moving to rest on her cheek, the concert begins and John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ is being sung, something which brings a glaze to both of their eyes as they realize the decade really is coming to an end. Neither acknowledge the tears in the other’s eyes as they break from the kiss and stare at all the dreamers in the city esteemed for being the one that never sleeps.
She shivers a bit as the breeze hits them, and he rubs her bare arms with his hands, cuddling her close to his chest.
She shakes her head. “New York air is something else.”
Regardless, he takes his blazer off, leaving it loosely on his shoulders but not inserting any arms into the sleeves, so it covers them both. She sighs and snuggles further into Harry’s embrace, and he burrows his face into the crook of her neck until his lips meet skin, nipping at it gently before soothing the area with a peppering of kisses.
“I’m going to miss 2019,” she says idly, feigning a sulky expression for him, “it was kind to me.”
He strokes her sides with his fingers.
“2020 will be better, baby.”
“Think it’ll live up to the hype?”
“Definitely,” he states, low voice rumbling deliciously with comfort, but confident self assurance, something which causes her to meet his hand with hers on her stomach. “‘Sides, have you acquiring a sense of adventure. There’s already been some resolution meeting, I suppose.”
“Do you have any?” she asks, closing her eyes.
“Resolutions. I plan to eat my greens to avoid that ridiculous dose of liquidized death you force me to consume every morning—“
“—and maybe get a cat,” she finishes.
“We’re getting a cat?” Harry asks excitedly, eyes lighting up. She frowns at him, although her heart warms.
“Who said anything about us getting a cat, I’m—“
“We’re getting a cat,” he babbles, “‘sides, you’ll need me. ‘S not like you’ll remember to feed it anything but 99 cent ramen.”
“Conjecture,” she sniffs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, do you have any?”
“Hm,” he pulls her a bit closer, nuzzles her cheek as the song ends, and the crowd goes back to counting down the seconds to the New Year. “End hor doeurve production.”
“Both logical and humane.”
“Maybe play in Madison Square Garden, again, or something akin to a modern Live Aid?” his eyes sparkle. She squeezes his hand, knowing she’ll be there in the crowd cheering, if he’ll have her. “Also write some more songs and design some pieces.”
His voice is at a whisper now, fingers shaking slightly and nose buried into the crook of her neck. “And,” he whispers, “marry you.”
She freezes, heart swooping in her chest, until she can hear it drumming in her ears. It’s five months into their relationship, and she’s never been one to mistake optimism for certitude, but this feels good, and real, and right. Something about how his fingers shake slightly on her abdomen tells her this isn’t a joke. This is real. She covers his tremoring hand with hers.
“It wouldn’t be on Valentine’s Day, or something cliché like that—“
“—an’ I’m not proposing right away, obviously,” he says, “‘s why it’s called ‘New Year’s Resolution’, ‘s sometime in the year.”
“I don’t want anything big.”
At this point, there’s a distinct sting in her eyes and he pulls her close and they stay silent for a while. She feels him tighten his grasp.
“Or, you know,” he says, voice short and distant. He leans his cheek against her hair. “It’s just a resolution, anyway. People break those all the time.”
“Don’t,” she whispers. Her lips feel numb. “Don’t break this one.”
Behind her, Y/N feels the tension in his body freeze for a long moment—lengthy, lingering, hard as slate, and still as the silent night, as this burgeoning moment tips on the cusp of a new year, on the ledge of a terrace, on endless possibilities, and a future to call theirs. He exhales, and the world falls into place.
“Okay,” he says, fingers thumbing the silken material of her slip again, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Harry,” she twists in his strong hold, eyes meeting his wildly. “You know I love you, right?”
He waits, forest green eyes searching hers before he firmly presses his lips to hers, both of their eyes fixed on the others’ as the fireworks blast in the background, and the dawn of a new year is brought from the past to the promising future.
A future they wish for on the ledge of a terrace.
happy new year!! this is pretty bad but i’m gonna be writing more. just felt like putting something out there in commemoration of a new decade. wow, the 2010s really are over, aren’t they?
