New Year's Eve ==

It's that day again, the last of the year, the worst. From my bedroom window, I watch the city slowly empty. People returning with late purchases, rushing home to prepare for the big celebration. Others, already in their evening gowns, sparkling and excited, anxiously await the arrival of the bus. Taxis zip through the emptying streets.

Every year, the same ritual repeats itself. A frenzy of shopping, hairdresser appointments, outfits, gadgets, balloons, streamers, confetti, and the inevitable firecrackers, followed by impatient preparations and finally, all-out fun. Music plays, and the more impatient set off fireworks experimentally.

I watch it all and a chill creeps over me. I take a sip of red wine from an ordinary glass. It's after seven in the evening, I'm alone in the house, in a silence that makes my skin crawl. This is how I'll welcome the new year. Without you.

It's not the first time I've been alone that day. In fact, no one has ever invited me to a party. It's not proper to invite people like me. I'm not "cool," "trendy," "jazz," or whatever they call me. Some people consider me a nice, friendly, and witty guy, but those qualities aren't exactly fashionable. Maybe if I were a drug user, a drinker, had fits of rage, traumas, or manic-depressive states, then people would consider me an interesting individual. People would say with admiration, "He's a complete lunatic." Unfortunately, I can't even fake it.

I tilt the glass, and the tart liquid spreads over my tongue, slides down my throat, soothing the bitter taste. I see my reflection in the glass. I nod sadly. Actually, I don't blame people for shying away from someone like that. I look like a monster. Yes, there's no denying I'm ugly, and I hate my body, especially my face.

Almost two meters tall, a huge, sloppy mass. No, I'm not fat, just kind of... poorly shaped. Broad shoulders covered in delicate skin, like a child's, and that childish, round face with its perpetually red cheeks. Maybe if I'd been working out hard at the gym, I'd have finally developed some serious muscles, but I never trained. Warm, rounded dumplings. I was always the biggest in school, and that commanded respect, but if anyone tried, they could easily beat me. I can't fight, I'm a wimp. Even now, my eyes glaze over, and I think I'm about to cry. Shame.

I stare at the hated face. Cherubino, that's what they sometimes call me. Funny, no doubt. In fact, my head looks like someone plucked it from an angel from a baroque altar and placed it on a massive body, just for fun. I used to grow my hair out to cover up that terrible face, but since it's in waves, it only enhances the effect. I've heard some people say that the mere sight of me makes them want to smash my nose. Maybe it would be better to cut my hair short? Regardless, I look silly with short hair too.

I don't have class, I don't have style like you. Faded jeans and a shirt, even though they're currently in fashion, look like old sacks on me. I can't dress well. You'll wear anything and always look amazing. It's just in your blood. I'll always be just an awkward, overweight guy.

One last sip of wine. Luckily, there's another bottle. Maybe I'll survive this night somehow. I'll get drunk and welcome the new year in a gallows mood. Or maybe I'll completely fall apart. I'm close.

You're probably having a great time. Your group of friends always throws great parties. There'll be tons of people, tons of drugs, and tons of laughter. Maybe you'll even make fun of me, because I'm usually the butt of jokes. You're the one who takes a perverse pleasure in teasing me. You come up with weird nicknames that everyone else immediately picks up on. You humiliate me in front of everyone and provoke me, knowing full well I won't return the ball, I won't stand up to you, I can't. You have a terrible power over me; if you tell me to fetch, I'll run and whine like a dog. Yes, I'm pathetic.

Deep down, I believe you're doing all this to cover up the true relationship between us. No one knows or even suspects we're lovers. That would be quite a shock. Could anyone even go to bed with the Giant? Only some desperate soul, a mental cripple, or something, but certainly not you, the star of our community.

And yet, it was yours to make the first move, not mine.

When we're alone, there's no audience for your displays; you become a different person. You can snuggle up to me for hours, seeking the warmth you lack daily. You repeat the same insults you hurl at me in front of everyone, but in a different voice, so they sound like endearments. You're tangling your fingers in my hair and kissing that chubby face. My, what a wonderful kisser you are!

Yet I still don't know how I feel about you. Am I just an adventure? A unique form of entertainment for a bored brat? I have so many doubts...

You claim words mean nothing, so you don't want any confessions or declarations. But it's possible you don't love me, that this is just a game. Or maybe it's just about the sex? I don't think I'm a master at these things, so the strangeness of this relationship probably turns you on. Sex with a monster.

It seems my suspicions are correct. After all, you always tell me what to do and how to do it. When I rebel, you make a face of offense, sometimes you even turn your back or want to get out of bed. The fear of losing you forces me to humiliate myself, and I almost cry, begging for your forgiveness, and then I do everything according to your plan.

You see, I love you, not since yesterday, not since our first kiss, but forever, ever since I've known you. I didn't realize it before, though I missed you, even when we were kids. Enlightenment came unexpectedly and was incredibly painful. In that same moment, I realized two things: I wanted you and I was different. I didn't even dare to dream of ever holding you in my arms. I made myself the victim of unrequited love, without even trying to let you know how much you meant to me. We were just friends, a bit like cartoon characters—a big, lumbering teddy bear and a resolute elf, scolding his partner at every turn. Only we never sat at the same desk, and I never became part of your group, not in school, nor now, in college. I know you like me, at least a little, but you're ashamed to admit such a relationship. I swallow it. I'll swallow anything to be with you for even a moment.

I open a new bottle of wine and pour a whole glass. Pedestrians have disappeared from the streets, only the occasional car passes by. Firecrackers can be heard popping, though it's still a while until midnight. People are so impatient.

I wonder what you're doing now. I don't know how you can have fun with these people. They represent nothing. A bunch of smart-alecks posing as genuine intellectuals, whose ultimate goal is to drink a beer in a trendy pub where you can meet familiar faces from TV. Well, yes, but they're popular, laid-back, and cool, and I'm funny. It doesn't matter that they brought you trouble. Although, if it weren't for those problems...

It was predictable – drinking sprees, trips to pubs and clubs, skipping lectures, and your first session went badly. However, nearby was the good-natured Big Guy, a top student. He eagerly responded to your request for help, and we started studying together for our final exams.

I'll never forget that day. Every detail is etched in my memory. The discussion about some insignificant topic, your stubborn refusal to admit I was right even though I easily refute every argument, and finally, the torrent of obscene insults you hurl at me—all of this unnerves me, and, accompanied by your giggles, I pin you to the floor, threatening to hurt you if you don't calm down. Your rapid breathing, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes make me lose control of my body. Horror grips me, even more so because you also notice the bulge that stretches the fabric of my pants. I recoil from you, my cheeks burning with shame. You sit up slowly, never taking your eyes off me. I crouch on the edge of the couch, cringing to hide the shameful evidence of my nature, and cover my face with my hands. It's over. I hear you approach, sit down next to me, and place your hand on my shoulder. I can't hold back the tears. "Is it an accident, or do you really like me?" you ask simply. The words don't leave my throat. Your hand slides along my back. "Do you like me?" you ask again. "Go away," I say. "Leave me alone." My voice breaks, I can't hold back the sobs any longer. You'll laugh, you'll tell everyone that Big Tom has a crush on you, it's the funniest time I've ever had. But you don't laugh at all. Your arms gently embrace me. I tremble. "Don't be afraid," you whisper in my ear, "I won't bite you, at least not now."

That's how it all started, and where have we ended up? You're at a party with friends, and I'm alone in a dark room, staring out the window and drinking red wine. A sad New Year's Eve, no better than the last.

I move away from the window, sit on the floor, and lean my back against the wall. The streetlights paint the dark room with lighter stripes. Shouts, singing, and music drift in from the distance. I sit and stare into the darkness.

I'm not a sad, depressed guy. I like fun, I like jokes, I listen to a lot of music, just like you. Most people think I'm boring, a bookworm, a nerd. They don't even try to get to know me. Why? I'm a real moose, or whatever they call me. I don't know the latest buzzwords, I don't know who's hot, I don't have a ton of money to buy everyone food, nor a nice car to drive them to trendy places. I also miss your charm and your go-getter attitude, the biting tongue with which you can put down the biggest wise guy, evoking peals of laughter from your audience. Did you know that even though I'm a laughingstock, I'm one of your fans? I root for you and admire you just like they do, though I don't show it. Even when you come up with weird nicknames for me, I'm filled with admiration. I love you, even though it's a strange love.

A loud gunfire outside my window snaps me out of my reverie. Midnight has struck. Everyone is welcoming the new year with gunfire and cheers. I watch the colorful flashes in the sky. I don't have any champagne, I'm sipping wine. My second bottle is already running out. This is how I pathetically enter another year. Sad.

I hoped we'd be together tonight, but I can't keep you around. You're fire, no one can keep you. I don't expect you to let me into your group either. I don't belong there. Frankly, you don't belong there either. They're no match for you.

I understand why you're hiding our relationship. It's not stupid; we shouldn't reveal ourselves. People are cruel; they can destroy everything.

Time flies by, unnoticed. The fireworks are over. What time is it? Does it matter? It's late, I think I need to go to bed.

Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my throat. I get up from the floor and set down my empty glass. It's definitely some lost drunk, can't find his way home.

I go to the hallway and listen. The knocking repeats. Why are my hands shaking so much when I turn the latch? I open the door. A boy stands on the threshold. He's slim, of average height, with a handsome face, large, dark eyes, and wind-ruffled hair. He's holding a bottle of champagne, which he raises, swinging it meaningfully in front of my nose.

"May I come in?" he asks.

I step aside, making room for him. He enters, takes off his jacket, hangs it on the coat rack, and kicks off his shoes.

"Do you have any glasses?" he asks

. I watch as he approaches the mirror and glances at his reflection. He brushes a strand of hair from his forehead with his hand and turns away.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare?" he says

. I go to the kitchen to get some glasses. I stumble on the way; I think I've had too much to drink. I grab two tall glasses from the cupboard. I can't believe what's happening. Maybe I fell asleep and dreamed it, or maybe I'm having a drunken hallucination?

The room is still dark. You stand in the middle of the room and open the bottle, carefully, skillfully, without any unnecessary pops, foam, or spills. With the same precision, you pour the sparkling wine into the glasses.

"Happy New Year," you smile, gently tapping the glass against the glass. Without taking your lips from the rim of the goblet, you slowly drink it all down to the last drop, then set the glass on the counter. I wet my lips in the fizzy liquid, but I no longer crave any alcohol. My almost full glass joins your empty one. You step closer.

"What about the party?" I ask

. "I got bored. I left," you reply, your voice indifferent. You look up at me. In the darkness, your eyes burn with an unusual light. In a whisper, as if afraid of the words, you add, "I wanted to be with you."

You wrap your arms around my neck, barely reaching my shoulder, so you have to stand on tiptoe to touch my lips. Something inside me breaks. I grab you tightly, kissing you back. Your lips taste sweet. Maybe it's champagne?

A wave of heat washes over me. I'm burning. This can't be a dream. I don't have dreams this beautiful.

I kiss you hungrily, as if to suck the air from your lungs, to devour you alive. You recoil under the pressure of my body. In my powerful hands, you seem delicate and fragile. I could crush you. I've never felt such strength inside me before. All the grief and frustration I'd felt so far transform into pure energy, utter madness, as I practically rip your shirt off and throw it furiously across the room. I help you out of your pants, then clumsily step out of my own. You stand before me in nothing but your boxers—a perfectly proportioned, shapely boyish body. How different we are. You look like a model, perfect in every way, at least in my eyes; I—a huge mass of flesh with a rosy, childlike face. And yet you want me; I can tell it in your eyes more than the bulging, familiar shape in your shorts. You slide them down, leaving no doubt. Like a blow, a sudden wave of heat reaches my head. I thrust against you, pushing you against the wall. With a stifled moan, your back hits the smooth surface, and I press you even harder against it. I can't control what I'm doing, but in a flash of consciousness, I realize I've never acted like this before. I lift you up. You're light, or maybe I have that much strength now. Your long, cool fingers grip my shoulders tightly. I bend my knees a little and practically sit you on top of me. What escapes your throat could be pleasure or pain, or all three. Still leaning you against the wall to keep us from falling, in a strange, awkward pose, I invade your intimate realm. The scent, taste, and touch of your body, your sweet sighs and moans, make nothing stop me. I work, like a tireless machine, deeper, harder, faster. Hoarse cries mark each marker on the map of this journey. Something hard presses against my stomach. It excites me even more, as does the stinging pain as one of your hands digs into my ass and the other tugs at my hair, making me have to tilt my head back. I feel like it's just a moment away... just a few more nervous hip movements, a series of strange tremors, and suddenly something inside my skull cracks, and a blinding light floods me. A sweet shiver runs through my entire body. I feel it on the tip of my tongue, under my fingernails, even in the roots of my hair. When the high fades, I sink to the floor, pulling you with me. I lie on my back, trying to catch my breath. You gently climb off me and lie down beside me. My heart pounds, my ears ring. It was incredible.

I come to, and the first thought that pops into my head is doubt whether you were having a good time. I won't ask. I'm afraid. I acted so selfishly, not even considering whether you were enjoying it. I tremble at the thought of causing you pain. I mentally reproach myself for these mindless bullies. I don't dare move, even to assess how you're feeling. I only hear your breathing steady. You don't say anything. Not good.

I'm soaked, but what's covering my stomach isn't sweat, so you've had your moment. A louder sigh from you. I freeze, holding my breath.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, glance at your face, and see a slight smile and a mischievous glint in your eyes.

"You're an animal, you know?" you say.

"I'm sorry..." I stammer

. "For what? I liked it," you say, then rest your head on my shoulder.

I smooth your unruly hair. I feel wonderful, as if I'd been reborn. Suddenly I realize it's New Year's Eve, the worst night of the year. Not anymore.