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weepingfromacedartree · 6 months

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Ten Milestones: Hopes & Dreams

Hi friends! Chapter 5 is now available!

TW: drug and alcohol use

When Colin’s eyes scan over the next milestone, his face lights up in that aggravatingly adorable way it always does when things go exactly his way.

“Oooh,” he gloats. “This is a good one.”

“What?” Penelope asks, impatient. He’s sitting just close enough that she could steal the phone out of his hands if she wanted to, but she resists the urge.

“Number Four: Sharing Your Hopes and Dreams. Before you and your partner make the commitment to share a life together, you must first share what each of you wants out of that future. This conversation is important — not only will it teach you about each other as individuals, but it will also give you an understanding of how you fit together as partners. A strong partnership is made up of two people who support each other’s goals.”

Penelope doesn’t say a word. She simply smiles.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Nine Years Earlier: December 23rd, 2014

Relationship Status: Good Friends

꙳

December 24th, in Penelope’s opinion, has to be one of the worst days a person can be born on. (Third worst to be exact, narrowly being beaten out by December 25th and February 29th.) Every year, the celebration of your birth is overshadowed by the eve of someone else’s birth. Your birthday presents double as Christmas presents. Your friends are too busy with their own holiday plans to celebrate your birthday with you. Hell — most people forget your birthday exists in the first place.

December 24th is a rather shitty birthday for one to possess. But in all the years she’s known him, Colin has never been one to complain.

It helps that the other Bridgertons always make an attempt to separate his birthday celebrations from the holiday he just so happened to have been born on. That’s why these sorts of parties are always held the night before his actual birthday.

Daphne took the anti-Christmas strategy to a whole nother level this year. Invitations went out two weeks ago with a disclaimer at the bottom.

Red and green garments are strictly prohibited on the premises.

Penelope originally wanted to wear a velvet burgundy dress that she found on Dover Street tonight, but the garment has since been banished to the back of her closet. Instead, she’s wearing a dress made of a softer shade of pink.

Now, 57 minutes into the very-much-not-a-holiday-party party, Penelope stands above the Bridgerton foyer with a dark red drink in her hand. Eloise is beside her, grumbling about the many “unique” choices made for this event. (Including her required attendance.)

“I know Daphne banned holiday music, but surely she can play something better than Coldplay.”

“I like Coldplay,” Penelope mutters defensively. Eloise does not seem to hear her above all the other noise in the room.

“Have you seen the birthday boy anywhere? It’s his party and I have not seen him all night.”

“No. I haven’t.”

They’re standing on the second story landing, above the front entrance and foyer where most attendees mingle. This should be an optimal vantage point to look for Colin, but when Penelope scans the crowd, she comes up empty.

“I’m usually the one to pull a disappearing act at this sort of thing, and even I wouldn’t dare do so at my own party.”

Eloise’s words temporarily break Penelope out of her premature worry. She giggles.

“Weren’t you three hours late to your last birthday celebration? Something about needing to go downtown to visit a certain —”

“That’s different!” Eloise cuts in. “That was a surprise party — how was I supposed to know?!”

“Didn’t your family —”

“I thought I was delaying a casual birthday dinner with my mum and seven siblings. Obviously I would have been on time if I knew there were a hundred people crouched in the dark, hiding behind potted plants and couch cushions, just waiting for my return.”

Penelope’s giggles do not let up.

“Is that what you think happened while you were gone?”

“I don’t know.” Eloise literally waves off the question, gesticulating her hands so ardently that she nearly spills all the wine out of her glass. “I’m more concerned about Colin’s whereabouts at the moment.”

“Is something wrong?” Penelope asks, worry rising up in her chest again. It’s squashed just as quickly.

“No. But if I have to suffer through this party, so should he. It’s his fault we’re all here in the first place.”

Penelope scans the crowd once more. Yet again, nothing.

“Knowing Colin, he’s probably in the kitchen.”

“Oooh.” Eloise’s demeanour changes immediately. Her scowl pulls into a smile. “That also happens to be where they store the one thing that could actually make this party enjoyable.”

Penelope lifts an eyebrow, fighting off another bout of giggles.

“And what might that be? Good conversation? An old friend? The ghost of not-Christmas pres—”

“No. Liquor. Perhaps after a few drinks, your jokes will start to sound funny.”

As one final round of giggles bubbles up in Penelope’s throat, Eloise loops their arms together and leads them towards the stairs.

“And after a few more drinks, perhaps Coldplay will start to sound like actual music.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Twenty-one minutes later (and half a vodka cranberry later), Penelope walks out of the kitchen by herself, realising that she has seen every Bridgerton at this party except Colin.

Violet and Daphne had both greeted her at the door. She spoke to Francesca while waiting for the loo. She walked in on a fist fight between Gregory and Hyacinth. Anthony brushed past her to break it up, barely managing to prevent Hyacinth from knocking Gregory’s front tooth out. Benedict was in the kitchen, where he and Eloise are currently having a spirited (but hushed) debate over what Christmas movie to watch tomorrow night.

Glass in hand, condensation already dripping onto her fingers, Penelope walks the Bridgerton halls.

There are people everywhere she turns. Some she knows from her lifetime in Mayfair or from her extensive experience at Bridgerton events. Some she vaguely recognizes from Colin’s social media or from her sporadic trips up to Cambridge. Some she doesn’t recognize at all.

As her footsteps trail forward, Penelope resists the urge to look and listen. To keep listening. To peer into the conversations of these strangers and acquaintances, all while she remains unnoticed.

It’s a game she knows well, but still she resists. She looks for a face far more familiar than these.

Just before her feet can step into the foyer — into the heart of the party — they stop short. Her body moves to the side, leaning rigid into the wooden doorway, hidden beneath the cover of a shadow. On the other side of the room, Colin stands with his back against a wall and his arms crossed in front of him. Clearly, no one informed him of the dress code for his own party; he’s wearing an emerald green cable knit sweater.

(He’s also wearing a light blue birthday hat atop his head — one she can only assume was hand-crafted by Violet Bridgerton.)

He isn’t alone. Daphne stands beside him, body facing him, arms at her sides. They’re talking. Penelope couldn’t even begin to guess what it is they’re talking about, but she can tell from the other side of the room that Colin isn’t happy about it.

He isn’t saying much; Daphne is doing most of the talking.

After a stranger brushes past her, Penelope raises her glass to her lips and takes the smallest of sips. Her mind briefly considers walking over to the other side of the room, but her feet remain firmly planted in her spot in the doorway. She feels a peculiar, paralyzed sensation up and down her legs as she watches their conversation unfold from afar. She can’t help but worry and wonder why Colin looks so defeated at his own party. She also can’t help but deem this conversation too dangerous to peer into uninvited.

“Oh, Pen! There you are!”

Automatically, Penelope’s head turns in the direction from which her name had been called. Eloise is excitedly walking (basically skipping) down the hall towards her.

“You’re coming over tomorrow night, right? Ben is still advocating for Elf, but with your vote I think I can swing us back to the far superior Nightmare Before Christmas.”

“Oh! Yes, I think so. By the way, I found —”

Penelope turns her head, expecting to find Colin exactly where he had been not twenty seconds prior. But he isn’t. Neither is Daphne.

“What?” Eloise asks, now standing in the doorway beside Penelope.

“Nothing.” Penelope shakes her head, then shoots back the rest of her drink. “And just for the record: Benedict is right. Elf is easily the superior Christmas movie.”

Eloise’s jaw goes slack.

“You traitor.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

All night, the only thing Colin wanted was to disappear from his own party. He is aware of how bad that sounds — how he sounds like an ungrateful child instead of a man on the cusp of twenty-two. But even then…

No one can plan for their birthday. He didn’t choose this to be born on December 24th. He didn’t want to have this party to begin with. He couldn’t have predicted that tonight would land in the middle of one of the most uncertain, precarious, bad-mood-inducing phases of his life. It’s not his fault that he’s currently in one of those moods — one that makes the happiness of others feel like a personal attack on you specifically.

A party was the last place Colin wanted to be tonight. Now, he finds himself in a room situated in a more private wing of the house. He’s out of view of the random, too-happy people filling the halls, but close enough to hear the remnants of faraway music. He’s sitting in front of the giant oak that used to belong to his father, arms crossed in front of him and eyes trained on the door to his left. Anthony’s on the other side of the desk, donning an expression that makes Colin wish he was back in the heart of the party.

“Must we have this conversation now? I’m fairly certain mum’s downstairs lighting candles on a cake as we speak.”

That look on Anthony’s face — equal parts annoyance and amusement — does not let up one bit.

“I’ve been trying to have this conversation with you for weeks. It’s not my fault that we had to throw a party in your honour just to keep you at home for more than fifteen minutes.”

“That’s —”

Colin doesn’t finish that sentence. He could attach a million different adjectives to the end of it that would (rightfully) attack Anthony’s character, but none of them would make his words untrue.

“I’ve been busy,” he says instead.

“Clearly.” Anthony puffs out an audible breath of air from his nose as he leans back in their father’s chair. “Seeing as you can’t even make the time for one single phone call.”

For the first time in several minutes, Colin’s arms uncross. His hands move to the arms of the chair, ten fingernails biting into its vinyl surface.

Contrary to Anthony’s claims, they’ve actually had some version of this conversation several times over the last few weeks. Over those weeks, Anthony had suggested, reminded, then demanded that Colin reach out to an old friend of their father’s — one who just so happens to be the head of English Literature at Oxford. Also during those weeks, Colin reminded his older brother that he has no intention of doing so, but such details always seem to fall on deaf ears.

Also contrary to Anthony’s claims, Colin does have plans — or at the very least, dreams for what to do after he graduates from university in the spring. His aspirations simply have nothing to do with Oxford or any other form of higher education. His dreams —

“Is this about Marina?”

Those words break Colin out of the thought spiral he hadn’t realised he had fallen into. They leave him feeling even more annoyed and misunderstood than he had just a moment ago.

“Excuse me? What exactly —”

“This. This insistence to avoid real life. To sulk around and avoid your responsibilities.”

“I am not —”

“It’s fine, if it is!” Anthony offers, sarcasm not lost in his tone. “I get it. Your first real breakup can be hard. But at a certain point, you have to —”

“That was months ago. And I don’t see how a silly little breakup has any bearing on my career aspirations.”

It isn’t until those words leave his lips that he realises how potently they taste of bullshit.

No, this is not about Marina or the ultimate demise of their relationship. Obviously, she has no bearing on any of his future plans. But to refer to their breakup as “silly” or “little” feels dishonest. (On his end, at least. The words are probably more fitting for Marina’s feelings on the matter.)

In truth, Colin had been in a perpetual bad mood since she ended things between them back in August. They only dated for six months, but that was approximately five and a half months longer than any relationship he had held previously. He thought Marina was the love of his life; after their breakup, she admitted that the only reason they ever dated was to make her ex-boyfriend jealous.

At least the relationship had been successful for one of them.

“‘Career aspirations?’” Anthony mocks, pulling Colin out of yet another thought spiral. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Now, Colin wishes for nothing more than to strangle his older brother. Instead, he lets go of his tightening grip around the armchair.

“Once again — can we table this conversation for another day? Daphne will kill me if I kill you and thus, ruin her party.”

Anthony rolls his eyes, but nods.

“Fine. But isn’t this your party?”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

Anthony immediately stands from his chair, but Colin remains sitting. His gaze turns to the left again, pointlessly pointing at that big brown door — wishing against all reason and logic for someone to walk through the precipice.

Just as he always does on nights like this.

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

At approximately 11:33 PM, after cutting the cake, after dodging more of Anthony’s questions, after acting like an ungrateful, bad-mood-wielding ass at his own celebration, Colin sits alone.

He’s in the drawing room, perched precariously on the edge of a windowsill. The room is dark, lit by one dying bulb in the lamp by the door. There’s a hastily-rolled joint (a birthday gift from Benedict) between Colin’s thumb and index finger. There’s a cloud of smoke sitting on his tongue and a bitter December breeze drifting in from the open window beside him.

The party he left behind is probably wrapping up right now. People are probably looking for him. He should probably go say goodbye (or even “hello”) to them. He shouldn’t keep himself here, secluded in a well of his own misery. But just the thought of going downstairs and speaking to one of those random, too-happy people fills him with a misery that —

Shit.

The door to the drawing room starts to creak open. Before it can open all the way — before he can even turn his head to identify the perpetrator behind that noise — Colin flicks the joint out the window. When he finally does look over to the entrance across the room, his panic starts to settle.

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else,” he says, just as Penelope says, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Even in the dim lighting — even from across the room — Colin can see her cheeks flush pink as she laughs nervously and steps across the precipice. Thankfully, she shuts the door closed behind her.

“Sorry,” she says again. “Hope I don’t disappoint.”

“Not at all.” He shuts the window before standing from his spot. He meets Penelope halfway on the light blue couch in the middle of the room. “Quite the opposite.”

As she walks closer, her cheeks grow just a little more pink. The nervous smile drops though, her face settling into a look Colin has become quite familiar with over the years. He knows there’s a question behind it — something gnawing at her insides, begging to be asked aloud. Given his admittedly odd behaviour and the fact that this is the first time they’ve spoken all night, he feels rather confident about what question he’s about to be asked.

But he’s wrong.

“What happened to your birthday hat?”

“Fucking hell,” he unconsciously mutters. The words slip from his lips as his hands raise to the crown of his head. “Forgotten by a tray of eclairs. I think.”

That gnawing expression on Penelope’s face drops. She giggles.

“Shall we go look for it before your mum catches on?”

“No.” It isn’t until that word shoots off his lips that he realises how deeply he despises the idea of being anywhere except this spot on the couch. “Mum will forgive my carelessness.”

Penelope nods, a soft hum of agreement on her lips.

“Is there a reason you’re hiding up here instead of by that tray of eclairs?”

Colin’s first instinct is to deflect. He opens his mouth to do so — but before he can say anything, he’s suddenly hit by a wave of clarity that doing so would be wrong. That Penelope already knows something is up with him and lying to her would do neither of them any good. The epiphany is almost certainly a consequence of the weed he inhaled approximately 60 seconds ago, but still…

“Just in a bit of a shit mood. Which — I should really apologise for. To you and the hundred other people held hostage by said shit mood all night.”

Penelope’s face flashes with an expression different from inquiry, but just as familiar to him after all these years: worry.

“Don’t apologise.”

Maybe it’s the joint currently burning a hole in his mother’s lawn. Maybe it’s the deflection finally breaking through. Maybe it’s his inherent need to pull the worry off Penelope’s face, but Colin cannot help but smirk.

“Sorry. I’ll try to remember to stop doing that.”

“Why are you in a shit mood?” she asks, seemingly unphased by his facetiousness.

Colin shrugs.

“Not in the Christmas spirit this year, I suppose.”

“I don’t see how that’s of any relevance, considering the fact that this is not a Christmas party. In fact, I believe any mention of said ‘Christmas spirit’ has been banned entirely.”

“Bloody hell.”

Colin runs a hand across his face, literally wiping away that smirk.

“I told Daphne to relax on the ‘rules’ for this thing. Actually — I told her to skip this party altogether. To just tack on a birthday cake to the usual Christmas Eve celebrations tomorrow. Unfortunately, I don’t believe my input is of much relevance on the subject.”

Penelope remains quiet for a second longer than Colin feels is necessary or comfortable. In those few seconds of waiting, she sports a new expression on her face. This one is harder to read than the ones that came before.

“Is that why you two were arguing before?” she finally asks. And when Colin simply gives her a look of confusion, she clarifies, “I saw you two talking in the foyer earlier tonight. You looked a bit… I don’t know. Cross?”

Once again, Colin feels himself hit with a desire to drop his faux-nonchalance and charming deflection. To speak plainly. If there ever were a person to be candid with, surely it’s Penelope. Throughout the entirety of their friendship, she has only ever regarded him with an open mind. All his life, she has been so constant and loyal. If there is anyone he should be discussing matters such as this with, surely it’s her.

Surely.

“No, that wasn’t what we were talking about. As silly and unnecessary it may have been… You know how excited Daphne gets about these parties. I didn’t want to complain. Not that directly, at least. We were, uh —” He clears his throat. “We were actually discussing my post-uni plans.”

In the relative darkness surrounding them, Penelope’s eyes light up with eager curiosity.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Anthony has been on my ass for weeks regarding the future — which is completely out of character from him, I know. But I… I don’t know. Anthony isn’t exactly the easiest person to talk to about that sort of thing and I… I thought it would be easier to talk to Daphne about it, but…”

The longer he speaks, the more apparent it becomes that his usual capabilities for completing sentences have seemingly slipped away from him. It’s probably the weed, but…

“What are your plans?” Penelope asks, filling the interim silence. “It’s fine if you don’t know yet, of course. Not everyone has to know exactly what they want to do after uni, but —”

“No, I do have plans,” Colin is quick to clarify. “They’re just a bit… mad. According to Anthony, at least.”

“Oh.” Penelope shifts in her spot, sitting up a bit straighter. A wicked smile creeps up her lips. “Well, that’s much better than no plan at all.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I guess so.”

“So what are these mad plans, exactly?”

“Well,” Colin can feel his body sink just a little bit deeper into the couch cushion as he continues, “you know how I’ve always wanted to travel?”

“Of course,” she says, a softer smile suddenly appearing on her lips.

“I always thought of that as some far away dream. Like, once I become an actual adult and have my life figured out, then I can take time off from my ‘real life’ to go see the world for myself. The only problem was…”

His voice trails off again, still unsure of what words he could use to best describe what lies in his heart. Thankfully, Penelope describes it for him.

“You never had any dreams for your so-called ‘real life?’”

“Exactly.”

Though the window has since been shut tight, the air in the room remains quite cold. And yet, Colin feels a sudden warm sensation in the center of his chest; he does his best to ignore it as Penelope opens her mouth again.

“So you want to make a career out of travelling the world?”

“Something like that,” he mutters, his shoulders unconsciously shrugging upwards. “Though, when you put it like that… maybe I can understand Anthony’s reservations on the subject.”

“Don’t say that,” Penelope insists, a gentle breath of nervous laughter on her lips. “Lots of people’s jobs revolve around travel. There’s nothing wrong with that.” With another tiny laugh, she adds, “And I’m sure a business degree from Cambridge will be useful in securing those future plans.”

“I don’t know how true that is,” he admits, the words tasting sour on his tongue.

In truth, Colin had no idea what he wanted to study or work towards when he first started at Cambridge at eighteen. He had chosen to study business simply because it seemed like the rational choice to make at the time. Unlike his older brothers, both of whom knew exactly what they wanted to do with their lives before they hit secondary school, Colin was late to such a realisation. It wasn’t until very recently that his hopes and dreams for the future started to solidify.

“What do you mean?” Penelope asks.

“Well, obviously any degree from Cambridge will be useful for my future. I just meant…” He sucks in a cold breath of air. “If I were to go back in time and do it all over again, I wouldn’t have chosen business. I think I would have, uh, chosen something more in line with English Literature.”

Once again, Penelope’s face lights up in the darkness.

“You want to write?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles again. “I think so.”

“Colin, that’s —” Penelope’s hand, which had previously been sitting limply in her lap, moves as if she’s about to reach out and touch his shoulder. It doesn’t in the end. It now rests on top of the couch in the space between them. “That’s a great idea. Truly.”

That warm feeling makes a sudden reappearance in Colin’s chest. Again…

“Really? You’re not worried about what will happen if you’re no longer the only writer in this friendship?”

“No,” she insists, almost sounding defensive. “The world needs more good writers.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s fair to say —”

“You’re a good writer, Colin.”

At her words (and the adorably serious manner in which she spoke them), Colin cannot help but laugh.

“And you know this based on what? A few emails?”

To claim Penelope has only received a “few” emails from him feels disingenuous. But still, he struggles to see her point.

He sent the first email in January, shortly after returning to Cambridge from winter holiday and approximately six weeks after Penelope’s father passed. The email wasn’t about her dad or uni or anything in particular. If anything, it was a compilation of random thoughts (and several puns) he had collected in his brain in the five days that passed since they last spoke.

He sent that first email on a Friday. She responded on the following Monday. He sent another on Friday. She responded again —

Suffice to say, a pattern emerged. Both of them missed a few Mondays and Fridays over the last eleven months (especially around the end of the spring term and the termination of his relationship with Marina), but even then…

Penelope has read more of Colin’s writing than anyone else. More than even his professors at Cambridge.

“Yes, based on a few emails, Colin,” Penelope insists, rolling her eyes lightly. “Really, you are such a terrific writer. It doesn’t matter if it’s in an email to a friend — or in a term paper or a book or whatever it is that you want to do. I can tell that you like to write, and that’s really the fundamental requirement for becoming a writer.”

That warm feeling in Colin’s chest is back and it feels like it’s about to leave a rash on his skin.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Colin sighs and leans a few inches away from Penelope.

“Well… Thank you. But I believe Anthony would protest that last point.”

“What do you mean?” Penelope asks, similarly drawing a few inches backwards. Her left hand falls back into her lap from the couch cushion.

“Anthony is of the mindset that liking something isn’t enough of a reason to upend your life for that thing. He thinks the idea of me running off to another country after graduation and writing about my experiences is ‘silly.’ That if I want to be a writer, I should stay put, apply for a graduate program, and actually learn how to become one. Which…”

His voice trails off, because saying it all out loud makes his own plans sound a lot more “silly” than he had originally thought.

“Well…” Penelope starts. “In fairness to Anthony’s perspective, you can’t wake up one day, decide to be a lawyer, then go litigate a murder case at the courthouse down the street. But becoming a writer… It’s different than becoming a lawyer. Maybe Anthony isn’t the best person to talk to on the subject.”

Colin nods, a vague hum of agreement on his lips as he thinks over her words.

Maybe not so silly, after all.

“And Daphne? What did she say?”

“Oh.”

He had almost forgotten why they’re having this conversation in the first place.

“She was more supportive than Anthony. I think I was just a bit frustrated because she didn’t seem to fully understand what it is that I want to do. She thinks I just want to fuck off for a year, then come home and figure out what to do with my ‘real life.’ Attend postgrad, get a job in an office, do… Do whatever it is that real adults do.”

Penelope doesn’t say anything right away. She’s looking at him in that way that makes it clear that she has a lot to say and is still figuring out how to say it. Before she can, he opens his mouth again.

“I shouldn’t be cross with her. Or Anthony, even. I just think — for my own sake — I need to commit to the idea. To go out and try to make something of myself without having a backup plan to revert to if I don’t succeed within a year’s time.”

“Then you should go for it.” Her words come out quickly, in one determined breath — like she needs to get the words out before he continues rambling. “Anthony will come around. He probably just needs some time. And perhaps some perspective.”

“Yeah, may—”

“What is it that you want to write, by the way?” Penelope asks, interrupting whatever further deflection he was surely about to throw her way. “A book about your travels?”

Colin considers the question.

“No, I was thinking more in terms of a blog. Or,” he laughs, “a magazine, if they’d hire me. But I do like the idea of writing a book one day. Not any time soon, but once I’m older and wiser and have lived a little more, I think I’d like to have some written recollection of my experiences to look back on. That’s sort of the magic of writing, you know?”

Penelope doesn’t confirm that last bit. She stays quiet as she gives him a look that says, “keep going.”

“Like… When I was at Aubrey Hall last summer, I got bored one day and went snooping through my grandfather’s old study. When I did, I found this cardboard box in the back of his closet. It held all these little mementos from when he was on tour back in the forties. He kept so many journals from that time — all filled with these little details about what his life was like. Leaving England for the first time. Seeing the Eiffel Tower. Eating strudel in Vienna. Skinny dipping in the Danube. Wa—”

When Penelope lets out a surprised giggle, Colin can’t help but laugh, too. The bad mood that had been plaguing him all night has long since been forgotten.

“Anyway… I read through approximately five years worth of those stories in one afternoon, and I just — I couldn’t help but think about how lasting the written word is. My grandfather died before I was born, and yet I learned so much about him just because I happened upon those old journals. Just because he sat down one afternoon seventy years ago and decided to write about the time he and a bunch of his army buddies stripped naked and jumped into a river.”

Penelope laughs again. So does Colin.

“I just — I like that idea. That —” He inches forward to grab a little white napkin from the coffee table. “I could grab a pen, write about all the delectable food we ate here tonight, hide this in an archaic book on the shelf over there, then seventy years from now, my grandson could find it and understand just how ardently his grandfather loved eclairs.”

Penelope laughs again. This time, the laugh is strong enough to make her lose a little bit of her resolve; when she tips forward, her forehead lightly brushes against his shoulder.

“But like I said…” He says, only once Penelope has returned to an upright position on the next cushion over. “I think I need to live a little more before I even think about writing something as definitive as a book.”

“Well… Whatever you end up writing, I’ll read it.”

Colin laughs again. He can’t help it.

“You know — you’re quite the loyal reader, Pen. First you put up with my weekly long-winded, rambling emails, now you’re —”

“I don’t ‘put up’ with anything, Colin. You’re a terrific writer. I always enjoy reading your emails. Even if they almost always include one too many puns.”

“That’s debatable,” he mutters defensively, only able to cling onto those last few words.

“Even with the jarring amount of puns in your work —”

“Hey!”

“— your writing is good. You obviously have a passion for it, and that matters a hell of a lot more than a lit degree.”

Penelope takes a breath. Speaking a bit more softly now…

“Possessing a passion is important. It will fill your hours with a sense of purpose. When others doubt you or success seems illusive, that passion will drive you to keep going. To achieve something definitive — something you can look back on decades from now and be proud of.”

When Penelope stops speaking, Colin is reminded of that inability he possessed just a few minutes ago — the one that made it impossible to finish his sentences without trailing off into oblivion. It definitely wasn’t the joint. (The more he thinks about it, the more apparent it becomes that Benedict’s “present” was nothing more than a few grams of oregano rolled into a little white paper.)

No. A few minutes ago, Colin was unable to properly put his hopes and dreams into words without trailing off or sounding like an arsehole — just as he has been unable to do for several months now. But now…

Now he can. Now it all makes sense.

After thanking Penelope for her kind, insightful words, Colin decides it is time for this discussion to alter course.

“And what of your dreams, Pen?”

Penelope doesn’t answer right away. Though the room around them is still rather dark, Colin’s eyes have adjusted enough to see the blush that quickly forms on her cheeks.

“You know I’m studying to become a journalist,” she says, which is more of a protest of his question than an actual answer.

Of course he knows that. Unlike Colin, Penelope knew what she wanted to do with her life long before she began attending university. But despite their increased correspondence over the last few months, Penelope never really talks about why she made that choice.

“Obviously. But what is it that you’re so passionate about? What fills your hours with purpose?”

She considers his questions.

“I don’t know. I always loved reading, and that just naturally bled into a love of writing.”

“Okay,” he says belatedly, not initially realising that was her entire response. “But why journalism? Why not fiction or poetry or —” Colin chuckles. “Travel writing?”

“I don’t know,” she says again. “I just — I’ve always been interested in people’s stories. Real people’s stories. One day, I might wake up and suddenly want to write a romance novel or a children’s story, but right now… Journalism feels like the right fit for me.”

After another prolonged silence, Colin asks, “What interests you about real people’s stories?”

“I don’t know,” she says for a third time. “People are just so… complicated. Everyone has a million stories inside of them. That’s the fun part of interviewing people — finding ways to get those interesting, hidden details into the light.”

In the back of his mind, Colin wonders if Penelope has been practising that particular skill on him during this conversation. He waives the thought away before it can fully develop.

“Is there an area of journalism you’re specifically interested in?”

Before answering his question, Penelope scrunches her nose, then lets out a forced breath of laughter.

“Colin, I don’t know why you’re getting so caught up in the small details of it. What my dream is now could be different than what it is ten years from now — or even two years from now. However I choose to spend my hours, I just hope that I have a purpose to drive me. Something satisfying and fulfilling. Something that will challenge me to be brave and witty. Something to propel me forward and set me free.”

It takes Colin a moment to realise that he has been stunned into silence. Thankfully, he’s able to pull himself out of the daze with a little effort.

“What could possibly measure up to all of that?”

She shrugs. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”

They sit in a shared silence for a moment. Colin wishes he could hear what is going on in Penelope’s head; his is filled with her voice.

Something to propel me forward and set me free.

“I think it’s amazing that —”

“Oh, stop,” she says, another forced laugh on her lips. Though she remains rooted in her spot on the couch, Penelope’s face turns away from Colin and towards the nearest door. For the first time in several minutes, he remembers that there’s still a party going on downstairs. His party.

“It’s late,” she says. “Don’t pay too much mind my silly little words.”

“I think your dreams are bigger than you let on, Pen.”

She turns back towards him, eyes meeting his again through the darkness.

“Weren’t we discussing your dreams?”

Yes, but he much prefers this subject.

“I —”

“What’s holding you back? Is it just your siblings’ reactions?”

“No,” he admits. “There are certainly bigger obstacles than Anthony’s lack of enthusiasm.”

“Such as?”

Colin doesn’t respond right away. While his concerns may be easier to conceptualise than his hopes or his dreams, they’re harder to speak aloud.

“Well… Working as a travel writer would also mean spending the majority of my time away from home.”

For the first time tonight, a strikingly sad expression flashes on Penelope’s face, as if it is only now that she realises the consequences of Colin’s dreams coming true. It’s only a flash, though. Her smile makes a quick reappearance, even if it isn’t quite as bright as it was before.

“You already spend the majority of your time away from home.”

“Yeah, but Cambridge is only two hours away. Plus, Eloise is there to annoy me if I’m ever feeling homesick. If I’m off in a different timezone the majority of the year…”

His voice trails off again. This time, Penelope doesn’t jump in to fill the lull.

“Is it awful to say I’m worried that life will move on without me here if I’m away?”

“No, it’s not awful.” Penelope’s smile looks even sadder than it did before, but it doesn’t drop. “I think a lot of people worry about that, regardless of their career paths. I think that’s just part of growing up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…”

Her voice trails off as she looks away from him and towards the ceiling, seemingly racking her brain for the right words to use. It only takes her a few seconds to find them.

“When you’re growing up, your world is pretty small. You have your siblings and your neighbours and your friends at school, and for the most part, that world is stable. Some people move away and you lose touch with others, but most people remain a constant. But then as you get older and leave for uni or work or wherever it is that life takes you, the world is suddenly really, really big.

“Those people who made up your entire world when you were younger are still there, but their lives aren’t intertwined with yours like they used to be. It’s more like they’re running parallel. Like… you know all those emails we send back and forth?”

It takes Colin a rather long moment to respond, and all he can muster in the end is a single nod.

“We’re still in each other’s lives, but the stories we share with each other are… separate.”

It takes him even longer to respond to that last part.

“Pen… Was that meant to be reassuring? That was the most depressing thing I’ve heard in my entire life.”

“Oh stop.” Penelope laughs half-heartedly. “It’s not depressing — it’s just life. Actually, it’s a bloody miracle. We should be thankful that our friendship has lasted so long, despite how much our worlds have changed over the years.”

After another extremely long beat of silence, Colin musters what little energy he has left to draw the faintest hint of a smirk to his lips.

“So, what you’re saying is… You will not miss me if I disappear to a different country every week?”

Penelope’s forced smile finally drops. She rolls her eyes.

“Obviously, I’ll miss you. But that’s no reason for you to stay home and prevent yourself from reaching your full potential.”

And just like that, Colin is eighteen again, not seconds away from turning twenty-two. He and Penelope are on Fife’s rooftop, not on the couch in his family’s drawing room. He’s hopeful for the future, not scared that their friendship won’t survive this next phase of life.

“I —” Penelope starts, back on the couch in his family’s drawing room. Colin has no idea what it is that she is about to say, because he leans in and hugs her, incidentally muffling her words with his cable knit sweater.

With his lips practically in her hair, he whispers, “Thank you. For being so supportive.”

Penelope doesn’t respond until approximately 25 seconds later, after she breaks the embrace apart and looks him in the eye.

“You don’t have to thank me for my silly little words.”

Before Colin can find an adequate response to such a ridiculous statement, Penelope removes herself from his touch completely. She stands from her spot on the couch and looks down at him as she continues speaking.

“It’s getting late, I should get…”

Her voice trails off when her eyes land on her phone. She smiles.

“Look,” she instructs, holding up the screen for him to see.

12:01 AM.

“Happy Birthday, Colin.”

Now standing beside her, Colin takes the phone from her hands, smirks, then throws it gently onto the couch. The cushions are still indented in the spots they sat together.

“Merry Christmas Eve, Pen.”

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“No debating that one, I suppose. What’s next?”

#I have to stop posting at 3 am #it took me 2 days to realize there was no link in this post #(and another day to realize I added the wrong link!)#(all fixed now. if I manage to post on time without tech issues on friday I'll invade France)#polin #fanfiction #bridgerton #weepingfromacedartree #fanfic #ao3 #ten milestones #penelope featherington #colin bridgerton #penelope x colin

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