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For no apparent reason, Valentino was obsessed with New Year’s Eve. About a month before Day D, he started to lose his last braincells, swoop up all the ugliest festive decorations and stock up on an insane number of presents. He wasn’t against Sinsmas as a concept, just considered it a nice addition to the actual holiday that was meant to be the real party.
As far as Vox was concerned, the holiday season in general was just a media event. It meant awarding year-end Voxtek bonuses to help his precious employees forget all the complaints they built up during the year. It meant sending presents to those he needed to settle with and postcards to those who’d better settle with him. It meant TV shows, special effects, commercials, skyrocketing ratings and massive media presence – what can be better than having your face on every screen?
Valentino needed more than that.
After the pompous Sinsmas celebration, Vox would rather sleep through the whole week – but no, he didn’t get the luxury. The stupid damn moth got drawn to every bright lightbulb and turned into a threat to everyone who seemed to lack holiday cheer. So, when Sinsmas was over, Vox spent another week raiding shopping malls, adding decorations – there was never enough decorations, – making another load of plans and thinking about a new present, more massive and impressive than the previous one – and devil forbid he fell short of expectations!
This year he ran himself down completely and could only wish January came sooner. At the very last moment, it turned out that the enormous ball that was supposed to ceremonially drop over the city, shining with every possible color, didn’t fit in the allocated site and also presented a seizure hazard to the whole Pride Ring. It was bad for his reputation – even worse than ten years ago, when a similar ball rolled off its pole and squashed twenty people or so. The new strategy had to be implemented sooner than possible.
The strategy Val used was, as usual, lashing out at anyone not doing well enough.
As Vox walked into Val’s bedroom, he found Val hissing at someone over the phone, not holding back on threats or curses. He was trying to keep his voice low – to Vox, it sounded even more terrifying.
“I sent you the plan in October, what’s the fucking problem? Do I have to visit you personally every week to make sure your shitty joint doesn’t fuck around till deadline? I said I need it now, and if now doesn’t happen by morning, I’ll turn your damn office into a shell hole, and your hands will need surgical removal out of your—”
“Valentino, baby, got a minute?”
“Yes, querido?” Val immediately beamed and covered the speaker with his hand. “Sorry, I’m having a phone call, let me wrap it up and I’m all yours!”
What the hell is that range; he should be an actor himself.
Quickly finishing the conversation (with a promise to find every staff member, their relatives, children and lawyers), Val tossed his phone on the bed and grinned wide.
“Did you need something?”
“Just checking that you’re alright. Going to be ready by six?”
“Most definitely!” Val nodded excitedly. Vox wouldn’t use the word alright for whatever that was. The New Year fever was at its peak – it was so bad that all four of Valentino’s hands were trembling like he did several especially long lines of coke. Vox probably should have removed that item from the supply list: the effect was already there.
Vox stepped closer and reached out with both arms. Without thinking a second, Val leaned over and nuzzled into his palms.
“Do something for me,” he purred. “Please don’t go to your office before morning... I mean, don’t disappear anywhere in general. Stay close, okay? Don’t leave the celebration without its centerpiece.”
“I thought that was you?” Vox chuckled, tracing Val’s cheekbones with his claws. “Alright, alright. I promise I’ll stay within your sight. We both know it’s a pretty close range.”
Val bit his finger. Vox only laughed to that.
“Just one thing.”
He reached closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. Valentino was immune to hypnosis, but there were always other methods.
“Five minutes before midnight, I need you at the terrace. You got me?”
Val’s eyes lit up with excitement. He was good at pretending that he didn’t guess the surprise beforehand – and Vox appreciated it, even when he didn’t trust it.
“Whatever you say, cariño. I’ll go check the illumination!”
And he skipped out into the hall, humming to himself quietly.
“Try not to kill anyone, you’ll ruin the carpets with blood!” – yelled Vox at his back.
As soon as the door slammed shut, he fell face-first on the bed and groaned. Every contract he made on short notice was signed, every report and schedule received, and now he had about an hour to recover – unless there was another accident, and he’d have to put out a fire in the lobby or call a new manager while scraping the previous one off the wall.
There was no way he could disappoint Valentino. If something goes wrong, that moth idiot will set the whole tower on fire. No, Vox will do it himself.
Like a stupid celebration was worth two months of stress. Or maybe it was?
*****
This year’s firework display in the city is promised to be fantastic. Every newspaper and every TV broadcast goes on about it; every holiday announcement adds a line in every vacant space on a poster. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all! The last and the brightest day of the year! What can be better than celebrating it in the central square, surrounded by city folk, happy and inspired by the future that lies ahead – drinking champagne, dancing to the loud music and smiling at strangers! Isn’t it better than moping around at the table with your family?
Especially if you don’t have a family.
Especially if your family is in another town and believes in your constant business trips.
He gets out of the car a little away from the square, in a fashionable shopping street. A man like any other – in a posh white suit made to measure, with an engraved cigar case in his pocket and an unheeding stare sliding over people’s heads. The man has a personal driver, a prestigious job, a stock portfolio and a bank account with enough money to provide for his wife, his kids and someone else on the side.
The man extends a hand to the opening car door, and from the passenger seat emerges that someone, tall and slender, fancily dressed, light and gracious as he moves. Glasses in a thin shiny rim, a silk scarf in place of a tie, and white gloves with embroidered wrists – a gift from last year, it’s about time to get another pair… The man takes his accessory by the arm, drops a few words and catches a scatter of laughter in response.
The street is flooded with strollers: they push and shove around, tangled up in their bags and gift packages – but the man sails through the crowd easily like a ship through waves. He passes by the shops, absent-mindedly buys a necklace and a pair of earrings for his wife, some toys for his two daughters, as well as a ring with a small crimson gem and a set of expensive silk shirts a few sizes smaller than his own. The gifts stay in the car, and there is exactly two hours left to spend at a restaurant before heading to the square just in time for the fireworks. The man expects a festive dinner, a bottle of champagne then another, music in the restaurant hall. As a side, he’ll get loud contagious laughter, talks at the edge of indecency, whispered promises and someone’s anxiously squeezed thighs under the table, eagerly opening back for his touch.
No status and no amount of money the man has can win him a nicer place in the crowd. But he is already full of drinks and lust for life, so he is ready to dive into the tumult after briskly saying, Don’t stay too close, someone might see us. The command is taken with a smile – the smile that he pays for extra.
The music in the square is almost drowned out by the clamor, just as melodic and harmonized. Here and now, everyone is everyone’s acquaintance and an old good friend; someone suddenly holds someone tight without even knowing their face. (Feeling a cautious hand on his elbow, the man catches it by the wrist and clenches his fingers – a painful warning and also a casual check, like one checks a wallet in their pocket.) An army shield flask of rum passes from hand to hand, drifting away from its owner to never return and getting lighter as it goes.
Then the square goes quiet – the laughter, the shouts, the clashing music at every corner. There’s only the chime of the clock. The wind. The bright eyes darting up at the black city sky.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
The first spark – scorching red flares up above – then the second and the third: yellow, green, purple. Each one met with an excited roar from the audience; girls cover their ears squealing with joy, guys toast their flasks and cheer in drunken voices. Every explosion of color pierces the sky, deafening and blinding the dizzy and dazzled craze below – so deafening that the gunshot seems almost soundless.
Nobody pays attention.
Nobody sees a gloved hand reach out between them and put a bullet through the man’s head.
Nobody hears the bang.
The first one to notice is a young girl in a white fur coat. When the man heavily falls right onto her back, she turns sharply to cuss him out, then sees the red splotches on the fur and starts to scream.
Panic spreads through the square slowly, in circular waves. Everyone backs away from the body, and the dead man quickly ends up in a blood-splattered empty space. Farther away, someone exclaims in fear, but the closer part is silent. People are numb from shock. They look around. Scan the crowd for danger. Someone in the first row faints and gets dragged away to the sidewalk to be brought to senses. The police can’t make their way through the smother.
The fireworks grow quiet and distant.
“Thank you, I’m alright now, I mean it. No need to worry.”
He walks back home. Dragging his feet and leaning on walls at first, but a few blocks away he straightens up and picks up the pace. By the end of his way, he starts to hum a tune.
The gun stolen from someone’s purse is tossed into the sewers. The dirty gloves, ripped off his hands in the confusion so that nobody sees them after the shot, fly into a garbage can, followed by a still smoldering cigarette stub. Let them burn. Let it all burn.
He did it.
He did it!
Turning his keys in the lock, he is already singing aloud.
He storms into the empty apartment – that is neither his own nor someone else’s, somewhat of a middle ground where nobody could catch them; then falls on the couch and laughs until his eyes water. Opens a bottle of high-end wine and gulps greedily straight from it, not choking once.
He did it! And hell, it was actually so easy! Slamming the empty bottle on the table, he stands before a mirror and happily throws off his coat, tears off the neck-scarf to free his bruise-covered neck; tosses the shirt on the floor, baring equally black-and-blue shoulders and arms. It’s nothing, it’s alright, he’ll recover. He is still young and pretty, he heals up easily and he was always proud of it.
He’ll have the time to heal.
Clothes off, he drops on the couch and keeps drinking. Wine, pricey whisky from someone else’s stash, then wine again. The sterile-clean air in the room is finally smothered in tobacco fumes. Fuck you, old prick, he smokes wherever the hell he wants!
He dances. Dances alone to the hoarse record playing beyond the wall, laughing and stumbling over furniture – ne dances till his legs give way. He flings the window open and shouts: Happy New Year, fuckers! – and catches someone’s angry curses instead of applause.
He did it! He’s free! He’s almost a hero! If he goes to hell after this – he’s fine with it, who cares! And why hell though? For killing that bastard off, he must get a free pass through the Heaven’s gate! He smashes the empty whiskey bottle against the wall and drags himself to the phone over the glass shards. He calls his friend who works across the street. She is already done for the night.
“Can you get me something? I’m sharing.”
“Damn it, Tino, it’s four in the morning… How much can you afford?”
“No no no, bring all that you have on hand. Happy New Year, sweetheart!”
If he goes to hell this same night – who cares? He has already been to heaven.
*****
“You’ve really outdone yourself this year.”
Vox made a smug grin, taking in the view. The sky was covered with ear-splitting fireworks in all the colors one could imagine, the city below was aglow with neon – every street sign he had time to connect simultaneously lit up like a large chain of string lights. Splashy sparks exploded and scattered, the city illumination was on the brink of combustion – and it worked. It worked great as heavens.
As usual, Vox was enjoying the best part of the whole scene: the way Val was glued to the window, excited to delirium. It looked like he even held his breath, too mesmerized with the flurry of fireworks seen from every part of Pentagram City – but the best view was, of course, from the terrace at the very top of the V Tower. Drowning in dazzling lights, even Val himself looked like an overjoyed Sinsmas tree.
Oh you dumb little moth.
Vox walked closer to stand behind his back, wrapped both arms around his shoulders – and Val instantly leaned in, melting like wax. He dropped his head on Vox’s shoulder, placed his hands over the arms on his body and softly chirred with pleasure. Well, it looked like there was no sleep for them both till the morning. Not like Vox disliked the idea.
“Anything for you, you know,” he chuckled, barely trying not to burst with pride.
“Baby, you’re the best,” Val cooed in a low voice. “I love you so much.”
“Love you too.”
Vox placed a kiss on his temple. The whole ocean of light sparkled in those bright-red eyes.
“Don’t understand a thing about you, but I really do.”