A Disenchanting New Year: Amrit

The party is extremely busy when you arrive. It’s something you’re still not used to; the loud music, the hum of conversation in the background, the smell of alcohol permeating the air. Maybe once you would have enjoyed this, maybe once you were a people person. If you were, that person died a long time ago from sheer necessity. Now you’re left adrift as Amrit somehow endears himself to everyone in the room in seconds. 

You feel lost until he wraps his hand around yours, a soft smile meant just for you curling his lips, and suddenly you aren’t alone.

A lot of these people are from his work; fellow journalists, others who take issue with the Council, and the spare few who just wanted to drink on New Year’s Eve. Either way, these aren’t the type of people to judge you. On the contrary, many of them are sympathetic to your plight, to all that happened to you, to the flaming wreckage your life became. 

You could go on, but it’s pointless. What matters is that, as you wander over to the island in the kitchen with food and drink laid out, not one soul gives you a weird look. No one watches you with judgement or scorn. You’re just a person to them, painfully normal, and isn’t that delightfully peculiar?

“Calm down,” He mummers to you, “You’re about to pop my hand off with how hard you’re squeezing.”

“Sorry,” You mutter, “Habit.”

“I know,” He says, “I’m right here. If anyone wants to give you shit, they can talk to me first.”

And get nailed in the face with a fistful of seraphic magic, which he doesn’t say outright but heavily implies. You bite back a smile as he grabs you both a drink and leads you to a quieter part of the room. He leans back on the couch, lifting an arm for you to slot perfectly into his side. You’d be perfectly content just sitting here the rest of the night, warmth radiating from him as he pulls you close.

“We could have stayed home,” He says quietly, his lips nearly brushing your ear.

You shrug slightly, “These are your friends.”

“Fuck ‘em,” He’s unrepentant, saying it almost flippantly, “Also, for the record, co-workers. At best.”

“You still like them,” You huff, “And have to see them everyday.”

“Like I said, fuck ‘em.” He grins, “See Amy over there? She never refills the water in the Keurig. And Josh? He steals my stapler, like, every week. Don’t get me started on Marcus, the asshole constantly hits reply all on department wide emails.”

“Be quiet,” You chide, yet can’t help the chuckle that escapes.

He just tucks you closer, pressing his face into the junction between your neck and shoulder. It’s dark in this corner, and hardly anyone is paying you any attention, but you can’t help blushing as he grows bolder with his hands and mouth.

The clock strikes midnight, and the crowd of people around you erupted into cheers, but Amrit only trails his mouth up to meet yours. He presses closer as your fingers twist in his curls, not giving a single damn about the ball dropping or champagne popping going on outside this moment. It's just you and him, his wings slowly fluttering down to wrap you in a soft embrace.

…

You, him, and someone with a camera apparently. You stare at Amrit’s phone with wide eyes as a picture of the two of you making out is splashed all over the front page of the very newspaper Amrit works for.

“Told you Marcus was an asshole,” He says simply, sipping his coffee.

You sputter, part outrage and part embarrassment.

“Don’t worry babe,” He winks, “He won’t have a job by tomorrow.”

You trust him on that much, at least. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s knowing everything about everyone. You almost feel bad for the poor bastard. You glance back at the picture before he puts his phone away. The key word there is almost.

“Happy New Year, babe.” He says, giving you a peck on the cheek.