New Year's Eve Extra - Laurent ft. 🤡 and 🔪

In the span of thirty seconds, the entire neighborhood fills with smoke. Between the first discharge and the fifth, the thick vapor cloaks the black sky with a layer of gray.

The cacophony of blasting fireworks outside makes Flavio burst out with giddy laughter. “Eager, aren’t they?” He muses, stealing a look at the wall clock. Nobody answers, but he isn’t exactly waiting for a reply. From the inside pocket of his red biker jacket, he finishes out a small bottle of vodka and slams it on the desk, right in front of Laurent.

Laurent, predictably, frowns, moving his eyes off the report to shoot Flavio a glower. “We’re working,’ he reminds tersely, returning to doing just that.

“Come on! We’re almost done here.” It’s nothing but a pointless argument… Then again, Flavio’s nothing if not bull-headed. “It’s not like you’re driving.” Or either of them, for that matter. Their shift doesn’t end till 8 in the morning. Until then, they’ll sober up twice over.

Laurent doesn’t deign to answer the proposition with a response, forcing Flavio to turn his attention towards Nino instead. Just as well, she’s always much more amenable.

Pushing the bottle with his finger, Flavio makes sure the glass scratches against the desk as loudly as it can before it brushes against Nino’s hands. Laurent scoffs, narrowing his eyes at the sheet of paper in front of him. The grimace deepens when he hears the crack of the cap being unscrewed. The noise makes him finally lift his head and stare at Nino in a half-hearted reprimand.

“11:57,” Nino counters the glare with a quirk of her brow. The singsong, ‘11:58’ Flavio regales Laurent with wins them the round and though Laurent shakes his head, he doesn’t oppose further. He does scoff a bit when the sharp odor of alcohol permeates the office.

Nino downs half of the bottle in one gulp without even flinching, then passes it to Flavio, who pauses shy of taking a swig when Laurent clears his throat. When their gazes meet, Laurent, taps his temple with the end of his pen on the side that mirrors Flavio’s scar, and mutters in a stage whisper, “Watch your head this time.”

For a man as thick-skinned as Flavio, the jibe is like water off a duck’s back, but he’s a good sport so he rolls his eyes to make Laurent think his retort was clever, before swallowing a mouthful of vodka and handing the bottle over.

“Flavio-” Laurent protests, once again shifting his attention to Nino, as though expecting her to back him up. But she only tilts her head.

“12:00,” she smirks, just as another salve of fireworks sprout upwards. “Happy New Year.”

Laurent sighs, a drawn and weary sigh, then takes the bottle and finishes it off, cheeks immediately turning scarlet from the liquor. At the sound of Flavio’s clamorous cheer, he tosses the glass at his chest, knowing that he’ll be too distracted to duck. He’s right. The empty bottle bounces off Flavio, landing back on the table with a dull twang. The answering wave of laughter becomes quickly drowned by the fusillade of vivid firecrackers.

For a full minute, the firmament is completely illuminated by a kaleidoscope of colors, the smell of sulfur distinct and heavy as it slips through the crack of the partially opened window.

The silence that settles after is almost oppressive, disrupted by an occasional flare. The mood, too, dims. The bright haze of the earlier celebrations fades, though the ashen clouds of fumes remain.

“What did you wish for?” Flavio asks, voice purposefully light, though barely audible, as he nudges Nino with his elbow until she gives in.

“Longer leave,” she snarks, pointedly not looking in Laurent’s direction. “You?”

“A raise.” Flavio grins, playing along. But without any reaction whatsoever from Laurent, his expression shifts into one of puzzlement. “Boss?” He inquires, and when he twists in his seat to face his friend, he notices that Laurent’s focus was already back on finishing his document. “Boss?”

“I’ve heard you the first time.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“What did you wish for?”

“Five minutes of peace,” Laurent drawls, signing the file and marking it with an official stamp.

“Ah, that’s tough. Maybe next year, though?”

“With my luck?” He hums, not quite seriously, lips curling into a brief smile. “Unlikely.”