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The tower is so quiet.
It's not like the hustle and bustle of the floors below has stopped, but inside the penthouse Velvette feels like the silence is stifling.
Sure, her and Val talk, hang out, go to clubs and dance the night away. But inside the penthouse things seem tense, like breathing too deep will shatter everything around her.
And Val's downstairs right now, and Vox is probably asleep, leaving her alone in the penthouse, alone with her thoughts.
After Vox's manic episode, she doesn't know what to do, who to be. She's the backbone, she's supposed to keep her Voys in check and she failed. She didn't see how deep Vox was falling into despair, how suicidal his eyes became when that stupid deer opened his mouth, goading Vox into destruction. She hadn't fought harder for Val, hadn't slapped Vox's flat screen and yelled in his face that he already has everything he'd been denied, that he is loved very much by Val. She should have thrown their 40 plus years of history in his face, reminded him who has been there, who believed in Vox and his crazy dreams when others had told him it couldn't be done. She should have told him what he means to her, how his chance on a young upstart had built her confidence in herself, how she was creating things she'd only ever dreamed about as a poor girl in London with the help of his funds, his resources, his influence. Val and her have fucked up countless times between tearing employees apart, or ordering fabric that didn't arrive in time for a fashion shoot. They're emotional and bitchy and don't express their gratitude when Vox cleans their messes, brainwashes the masses to forget their slipups, intimidates the suppliers who fail to do their jobs properly.
He could've been a lone wolf, he could've stepped on their throats before they had souls to their names, but he didn't. He saw something in them, potential, ambition, who knows, but he had decided to keep them.
It only makes sense that they return the favor when he goes too far.
But it doesn't mean things are back to normal.
He'd been prepared to end it all, and sure he wasn't in a good headspace and he was hurting, but it was how easy he was willing to lay down their lives as well beside his own.
It's been months now, months of slowly building their brand again, making Val the head figure, appeasing investors. Exhausting months filled with too much coffee, too much booze, too many meetings and too little sleep.
Early days it was hard to even be in the same room as Vox's head. Just the sight of him brought feelings of anger, sadness, betrayal. Val had avoided him for weeks, Velvette caved after two.
Despite the anger and the gnawing pit of despair, she started talking with Vox, small conversations, nothing about business, nothing about the hotel, nothing about the disaster.
And slowly she got more comfortable with him. His voice carries genuine remorse, his eyes are glassy and not because there's literal glass for a screen. He tells her about how sorry he is, how nothing he could ever say or do will take back his actions, his lack of regard for his safety and theirs.
And she believes him.
When she gave him a body back, it's with conditions. He can't go back to work yet- he needs time to recover, needs time to just be. She restricted his Internet access, his wifi, what media he could see. She knows if he wanted to he could break any restrictions on him, but the fact he lets her and doesn't push speaks volumes.
He wears comfy clothes now. No need for suits when he's not being seen by the public. He wears soft sweatpants and sweaters, socked feet instead of dress shoes. It's a good look on him, one that softens his sharp edges, makes him look smaller, softer. When Val starts talking to him again he'll brush his hands over Vox's soft clothes.
He starts reading actual physical books. Says he loved reading when he was young, but never had the time when he grew up. He tears through books about marine life, murder mysteries, she even catches him focusing hard on a book on beginner Spanish. She's seen Val's lips tremble looking at wadded up papers with poems in broken Spanish, Vox's chicken scratch handwriting crossing out words, questioning his own grammar and spelling in the margins. He must be getting the hang of it because Val starts sleeping in his room again, curled up on his side away from Vox, but there nonetheless.
He cooks more. He's always been good at cooking, always did a trial run of the Chef Vox segments to make sure the dishes were actually good. He's always got a pot of something boiling or a dish coming out of the oven nowadays. He's not as afraid of spices, teaching his tongue to tolerate a little bit more every time. Sometimes she eats with him, makes a plate for Val that will be picked at later.
And he plays the piano. Not when they are around, as if he's afraid that too much noise will scare them off, that they'll finally put the angelic bullet in his screen, finally kick him out of their triumvirate. She's caught him on the security feed playing before, eyes closed, fingers moving by memory.
It's technically her piano, the one he got for her around Sinsmas. She doesn't know how he knew she could play, but that fucker has ways of knowing everything before you even know them yourself.
She never had a lot of free time, and a good amount of her free time went to partying with Val, but occasionally she'd sneak down to her piano room, sit at the keys and work on bettering her skills. She could feel her grandma smiling down on her when she played.
She hasn't played since the party.
Now she looks over her sketches at the security feed that takes up residence on her desk in her bedroom. Val's re-shooting a porno in the bottom corner, Vox's assistant is feeding Shok.wav, and Vox…
Vox is in the piano room, eyes closed as he walks his fingers over the keys. She knows his mom taught him how to play, that he's always loved music, the way it makes you feel. He's always loved singing, dancing with her and Val. Music means something to him that he can't describe.
She can't hear him through the screen and the silence presses in on her again.
Before she knows what she's doing she's descending in the elevator with her bonnet and fluffy robe on.
The piano room is at the end of a long hallway, a hallway used for storage, an unimportant hallway. As private as private gets in the tower.
She opens the door quietly, watches Vox's hands glide across the keys. He's good, really good, but his song is somber, as if it's everything he doesn't know how to say out loud.
She walks in further on socked feet. She knows he knows she's here, the way his head tilts slightly to the side. She sits besides him on the piano bench and he moves to make space.
For a moment she just watches him play, enjoying the haunting melody, but eventually she can't stand it anymore. Her hands reach out, plays the higher keys.
She doesn't have to, she could let him wallow in his song, she could play into it, but she doesn't. She plays a jaunty little tune on the higher keys, something that is discordant with his chords. She sees his hands still, thinking of his next move.
She adds a little run.
His hands find the lower notes again, tentatively playing a lighter tune, one complimentary to hers. His fingers move faster when she doesn't pull away, when she continues her part.
Soon they're playing something new, a piece that doesn't exist, hasn't been marked down on sheet music. It's light and daring, hopeful and optimistic. It's a million things left unsaid between them in a song, both of them trying to find that new melody, one that's not broken by the lower notes, but one that plays off them, that wraps the low notes in a layer of understanding, of continued love for what they add to the piece.
She leans her head against his shoulder and they play until she falls asleep, dreaming of the day when the silence is gone for good, replaced by piano duets and two friends just enjoying each other's company.