To say she clung to him was an understatement. Even to ignore everything else, the intellectual, the emotion, to rely just on the physicality of their relationship, she still felt something with Charles she never had before. This was real, it had to be, because merely thinking it wasn't hurt too much. In reality, it scared her, and even hurt her a little on some level, but it was so much better than not having it. Which she hadn't, could only have imagined a pale imitation of, for three long months. A quarter of the year that was coming to a close.
Her eyes fluttered open at the thought, and she paused for a brief second, looking up at the burst of lights exploding in the sky in earnest now. There was the far away sound of cheering, whether from distance or from their unwillingness to be a part of anything happening outside of their balcony, she couldn't say.
As the close of any period in a person's life will inevitably cause, she reflected on where she was a year ago. Charles Spinnet had not existed for her—little had. But in the space of just twelve months—perhaps even less—there was suddenly everything. Right in this precious moment, she felt like she had everything. Curling her hands around his broad shoulders, at the nape of his neck, she broke the kiss but rested her forehead against his. "It's the new year, Charles," she whispered, laughing a little because part of her still disbelieved, because it was the happiest, the best she'd felt since even her shining old memories had a haze of sadness and she didn't know it was possible to feel this way. Penelope kissed him soundly and mumbled against his lips, "Happy 1983."
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