Sinbad
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Chapter 247: New Year
🕑 Added 2025-08-04 04:05:44 +0000 UTCDecember 31st, 2015
The house was full — of noise, of warmth, of people moving from room to room. Laughter echoed down the halls. Voices overlapped between the kitchen and living room. The air smelled like cinnamon, oranges, and something roasting slow in the oven. In the background, a playlist shuffled between Hungarian folk songs and old Motown tracks — a weird mix, but somehow it worked.
Barbara’s family had quietly taken over the living room. Ágnes was curled into the corner of the couch, wrapped in a chunky knit throw with a mug of tea balanced on her knee, steam curling up to fog her glasses. She wasn’t saying much just watching, listening, smiling every time someone passed by.
István stood by the fireplace, holding his second glass of mulled wine. He was dressed in slacks and a sweater-vest, looking like someone who’d accidentally wandered into a Christmas card.
On the floor, Anita sat cross-legged in leggings and fuzzy socks, Biscuit planted in front of her like a small, overexcited student. Anita’s voice was low and dramatic, as if she were narrating a wildlife documentary.
“Pacsi,” she said firmly, holding out her palm. “Come on. You can do it. Pacsi.” (High five.)
Biscuit stared at her, wagged her tail, and licked her hand. Then, without warning, she plopped her whole body across Anita’s lap and tried to climb into her hoodie.
“Ez nem pacsi!” Anita said, half laughing. (That’s not a high five!!)
Tristan passed by with a tray of side dishes. He gave the scene a quick glance and raised an eyebrow.
“Ez haladás?” he asked. (Is this progress?)
Anita looked up at him with mock outrage. “Ha haladás azt jelenti, hogy elveszítem az orrom, akkor igen.” (If progress means I lose my nose, then yes.)
“She’s probably hungry,” Tristan said, setting the tray down on the sideboard. “Or emotionally codependent.”
“She takes after you,” Anita shot back in English, smirking as Biscuit flopped sideways and dramatically rested her chin on Anita’s foot. “This one’s got abandonment issues.”
“Join the club,” Tristan replied, heading back toward the kitchen. “We meet Thursdays.”
Ágnes chuckled softly from her corner. “Ez olyan, mint egy színház,” she murmured.
(This is like theatre.)
István looked over at her, smiled, and clinked his glass quietly against hers in agreement.
Anita tried again, gentler this time. “Pacsi. Please. You’re embarrassing me in front of the rich people.”
Biscuit raised one paw. Placed it directly on Anita’s face.
“Trained by the best,” Tristan added laughing.
“Loyal to no one,” Anita muttered, wiping her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I feed her. I sneak her snacks. And this is how she repays me?”
Biscuit let out a deep sigh, clearly bored of the whole lesson, and laid flat on her side.
“She’s done,” Barbara said. “You bored her into retirement.”
Anita flopped backward onto the carpet dramatically. “Unbelievable. I’m going to sue.”
She turned back to Biscuit. “Ül. Now sit and respect me, please.”
In the kitchen, Felix was in his element — sleeves rolled up, curls tied back, apron dusted in flour. A bubbling tray hissed in the oven behind him.
“Fifteen minutes until the roast is perfect,” he declared.
Ágnes peeked in. “Everything smells divine.”
“Thank you,” Felix said without looking up. “If it doesn’t taste like divine intervention, I’m walking into the sea.”
Barbara kissed his cheek as she passed. “If it’s a flop, we’re blaming Tristan.”
“Rude,” Tristan muttered. “I only stirred one pot. For five seconds.”
“Six,” Felix corrected. “But who’s counting.”
Ling and Julia stepped into the kitchen with a tray of candied nuts and mulled pear slices. Julia handed a dish to Ágnes with a warm smile. “Your daughter’s been teaching me the proper way to slice fruitcake. Very serious business.”
“I taught her your style,” Barbara added. “None of that diagonal chaos Mum does.”
“Hey!” Julia laughed, bumping her gently. “I raised you better than that.”
Ling gently passed István a napkin and said something in Chinese, gesturing at the pot of tea. István nodded appreciatively. Julia leaned in, translating quickly into Hungarian, the three of them smiling over the shared moment.
“I swear,” Anita muttered to Tristan in Hungarian, “you two are like the perfect couple people write about in stories.. You’re learning each other’s languages just to flirt better.”
Tristan smirked, flicking a green bean at her plate. “Jealous I’m fluent and you’re still calling the fridge a washing machine?”
Anita gasped, pointing a fork at him. “That was one time, you snake.”
Barbara snorted, refilling wine glasses. “She’s right though. I learned Mandarin for him, he’s learning Hungarian for me. It’s a diplomacy thing.”
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “International romance protocol.”
By 9:30, they were all gathered around the dining table long and crowded, every surface covered with dishes, glasses, and cutlery. Tristan had claimed one end, Barbara the other, their families tucked between like connective tissue holding the night together.
Stories flowed like the wine, which Tristan was very deliberately not drinking. nstead, he nursed a glass of elderflower cordial like it was scotch.
English and Hungarian mingled freely, overlapping like music. Julia and Ling leaned in with full attention as István, halfway through his third glass of mulled wine, launched into a tale about the animals he used to raise back home, goats, chickens, a parrot named Marika who cursed in four languages. Every so often, Ágnes would gently rein him in with a quiet “drága, túl részletes” (darling, too much detail), which he ignored completely.
Ágnes had her phone out, swiping through pictures of their Budapest apartment to show Ling narrow hallways, sunny kitchen, the little balcony where Barbara used to study as a teenager.
Julia, amused, passed István a steaming mug of something opaque and vaguely ominous. “Try this. It’s a traditional Chinese herbal tea.”
He sniffed it suspiciously. “It smells like a tree branch.”
“Drink it,” she grinned.
He took a cautious sip, then winced. “Like drinking a forest. But… not bad.” He gave the cup a second, more respectful look.
The dishes were cleared (mostly), the crumbs wiped down (poorly), and someone pulled out the cards. It started civilized — poker. Felix was disturbingly good at bluffing. Julia, meanwhile, kept reaching under the table to nudge cards toward Ágnes, who giggled like she was five.
Then came Uno.
And all hell broke loose.
“You’re dead to me,” Anita said flatly, slapping a Draw Four onto the table directly in front of Felix.
“You’ve been hoarding that for four rounds,” Felix hissed, staring at the card like it had personally insulted his family.
“Strategy, baby.”
Barbara shook her head, sipping wine with a smirk. “She plays like a war criminal.”
“I’m just efficient,” Anita said sweetly, snapping her gum.
Across the table, Ágnes held up her hand and said, confused, “Miért van nálam tizenhat lap?”
(Why do I have sixteen cards?)
“Because you didn’t call Uno,” Tristan said, grinning. “House rules.”
Ágnes frowned. “This game is evil.”
“Yes,” István said, not looking up. “And she is the general.” He pointed at Anita.
“I learned from the best,” Anita replied in Hungarian, “a nővérem egy igazi zsarnok.”
(My sister is a real tyrant.)
Barbara narrowed her eyes. “Don’t talk shit unless you can beat me.”
“Gladly.” Anita laid down a Reverse, then a Skip. “Your turn.”
Barbara blinked. “That’s not even legal.”
“It is if you believe.”
Tristan tried to lay down a blue seven and got ambushed by two Draw Twos from opposite sides.
“What the fuck!,” he muttered, drawing cards while Biscuit nosed at his foot under the table.
Biscuit, in a show of solidarity, hopped up and dropped a single Uno card on the floor next to Anita.
“I think she’s siding with you,” Felix said, pointing.
“She’s smart,” Anita replied. “She knows a winner.”
“Traitor,” Tristan mumbled, giving Biscuit a dramatic glare.
The rounds spiraled into full-blown emotional warfare. At one point, Julia tried to help Ágnes again, only to accidentally switch her own hand with István’s and shout, “I don’t even know what I’m holding anymore!”
By the end of the third game, István had declared Uno to be “egy pszichológiai csapda” — a psychological trap. Ling had given up entirely and was now just passing cards to whoever looked the most stressed. And Barbara was loudly accusing Tristan of forming secret alliances with her father.
“I saw that look!” she said, pointing dramatically.
“What look?” Tristan said, feigning innocence as he dropped his last card with a flourish.
“That look! The traitor’s look!”
“Bold accusation from someone who forced her own mother to draw eight.”
Ágnes raised her wine glass. “I am recovering.”
They all groaned when Tristan actually won.
“That’s it,” Anita said, throwing her cards in the air. “We’re not speaking for the rest of the year.”
“That’s fifteen minutes,” Felix pointed out.
“Exactly.”
They laughed so hard they forgot the ginger cake in the kitchen. Dessert came late: warm spiced compote, soft cinnamon palmiers, and the cake that Anita inhaled in three bites.
Midway through, István began reciting Hungarian proverbs again half of them sounded fake, the other half probably were. He translated one with a straight face: “Only a duckling with dirty feet seeks rice in the rain.”
Julia nearly dropped her fork from laughing. “That’s not real.”
“It is now,” Barbara said, raising her glass. “Deeply profound.”
The countdown crackled from the TV in the corner, half-swallowed by laughter and clinking glasses.
“…három, kettő, egy!”
A burst of cheers exploded around the room. Someone popped a confetti cannon with too much enthusiasm, probably Felix and Biscuit immediately started barking like the house had been breached. Barbara, laughing into Tristan’s shoulder, barely noticed the paper spiraling through the air.
Tristan turned to her, his eyes soft, voice quiet enough for only her. “Boldog új évet, babám.”
Barbara leaned in, noses brushing. “Happy new year,” she whispered, her smile already curling into a kiss.
It was slow. Warm. Full of quiet promises and everything they hadn’t put into words. Behind them, champagne corks flew. István shouted something about eating pickled cabbage for good luck, and Anita — of course — yelled, “2016 is gonna be my villain era!” from somewhere under the dining table.
Barbara’s fingers curled into the back of Tristan’s neck. She didn’t let go. “I’m so glad we’re here,” she murmured against his mouth.
Tristan smiled, forehead resting against hers. “We’re only just getting started.”
And as laughter spilled through the house, confetti drifted onto the floor, and fireworks flickered faintly beyond the windows the new year began.
And this one?
This one was going to be theirs.
.
Apologize for the delay and short chapter. Been dealing with a headache all day even after I got back home from work. Thought a quick nap would fix it, it didn’t and I’m happy with the ending of the chapter so I decided to stop here.
Im trying to get to the Ballon D’or ceremony thats my goal right so once we get there we can start skipping a few months to get to the end of the season.
