* DISCLAIMER: This drabble entirely relies on headcanons and my own imagination. It's my personal take on Vox's life before his death. Forr clarity's sake, he will be referred to as Maxwell. It takes place in Manhattan in the 1950s.
CW for: gruesome depiction of death
Maxwell van Haren had it all: fame, money, and charisma in abundance. All the things needed to live a comfortable life. Granted, having such an important name attached to him opened any door he wanted, but where was the fun in that? Maxwell's ambitions went beyond resting comfortably on a secured job in his father's company. No, he wanted to reach the masses ⸻ he wanted to become the voice of the people.
He wanted change. His beliefs ought to become the popular opinion.
His moxie and energetic personality drew the attention of many. There was never a dull moment whenever he appeared on the TV screen, leaving just about anyone in the dust. Just about anyone, except for one.
James' existence was a pain in Maxwell's neck. A charming man whose mere presence brightened the room, authentically so, contrary to Maxwell's convincing act. He got the attention Maxwell refused to share, the admiring gazes that should be set on him and only him. The straw that broke the camel's back was seeing the position he worked so hard for being snatched away by James.
But why? What was wrong with him? What did this a**hole have that Maxwell did not? He couldn't understand no matter how hard he tried to wrap his head around it. It was then that he decided to take things into his own hands.
Heels clicked against the linoleum floor at a hasty, furious pace. In the dead of the night, where only a few souls were left in the studio, Maxwell sought out James to confront him. James was preparing to leave, surprised by how upset his colleague looked. There was nothing but animosity in those mismatched eyes.
"Max?"
"Who the hell do you think you are?!"
". . . What do you even mean?"
James was visibly confused and mildly startled by the sudden outburst.
"You know damn well what I mean! That job was supposed to be mine!"
Maxwell, getting caught up in his own feelings, was showing the ugly side of himself he always so convincingly hid behind that award-winning smile. For the first time, James was witness to the monster festering within Maxwell. It was a monster so terribly greedy, self-absorbed, and unpredictably choleric.
. . . How unsightly.
"Well, I'm sorry your daddy's money didn't get you what you want this time. The producers chose me, and that's that. I get that you're upset, but⸻"
"Shut up."
"It's not my fault, Max!"
"SHUT THE 𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞 UP!"
The remark about relying on his father's money didn't sit right with Maxwell. He worked. He worked so hard for his fame. What does he even know? Hell, James didn't even look at him anymore, turning his back on Maxwell as he resumed packing his things to head home. He didn't seem to take his tantrum seriously, and it was exactly that which caused his anger to boil over.
Grabbing a nearby cord, it was as tough Maxwell's body moved on its own. He didn't think, he hardly processed what was going on, he merely had his eyes on the source of all his ire. Before James could even react, Maxell wrapped the cord around his neck, letting all of his anger and frustration out on him.
James struggled, but it proved to be a fruitless endeavor. He fought and tried to free himself, yet his efforts drained him of strength. He could not breathe, he could not scream for help. It was torturous, yet Maxwell remained unrelenting. He didn't stop strangling him until James finally went limp, his legs giving in as he collapsed. Maxwell let go of the cord, staring at the lifeless body at his feet.
It took a moment to settle in. But even then, there was no remorse. No, he deserved it, he told himself. He shouldn't have taken his job. He shouldn't have insulted him. His actions were justified.
- - - The body of an unidentified man has been found in the Hudson River. Authorities suspect it to be the missing TV host James Anderson . . .The static of the radio crackled softly as the host spoke. It was quiet inside the bar this late at night. Maxwell took a sip from his whiskey, letting out a soft sigh at the pleasant sensation that tickled his throat just right.
"Another celebrity, huh? They keep droppin' like flies lately," the bartender commented as he glanced at the radio. Maxwell emptied his glass with a generous swig before placing it on the counter.
"It's such a shame, he was still young. Now he's leaving his wife and kids behind."
"Cities can be scary. You never know who you're dealing with." The bartender's eyes peered over to Maxwell. "Congrats on your new job, though. Another?"
"Thanks. Yes, please."
As the bartender turned to fix him another drink, Maxwell couldn't help but smirk. It was an incredibly empowering feeling to get away with just about anything ⸻ yes, even
murder. The first one to witness the horrors behind that handsome face took the secret to his watery grave.
Sorry, James. But I really wanted this job. - - - Days passed since James Anderson's death.
Life returned to its ordinary routine, or at least it did for Maxwell. He attended the funeral, expressed his most (in)sincere condolences to James' family, and moved on without a shred of remorse. No one suspected a thing, and he couldn't even begin to describe how thrilling of a feeling it was. No cost was too great for the fame and attention he desperately craved.
The days turned into weeks. The case had gone cold.
He conquered television with his award-winning smile and charm, and the stolen position became a throne upon which he sat arrogantly, akin to a king looking down on peasants. Was it earned? In his deluded mind, absolutely. But the way he carried on so carefreely started to cast shadows of doubt.
". . . Look at him, reveling in his success."
"He sure seems to enjoy it."
"Looking down on us like we're not even worthy of his presence. That 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 prick."
The words spoken were laced with poison and perhaps even a little bit of envy. The people flocked to Maxwell, but Paul did not. He didn't trust that smile, the gentlemanly act he always put on. But what irritated him more than any of that was that nobody else seemed to see through it. That slimy bastard always knew how to slither his way into the hearts of others.
"He's a van Haren. Of course he gets what he wants." Paul's colleague shrugged, dismissive of the matter. But that explanation wasn't enough to sway Paul.
". . . Don't you think it aligns a little too perfectly? I remember Maxwell being pissed about not getting the job. Then James dies, and he gets what he wanted. It's just a little . . .
too coincidental, don't you think so?"
"You're saying Max lynched him? That's some serious 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁 to accuse someone of." A brow arched. Paul tried to probe carefully, but perhaps he shouldn't have.
"I'm not. I'm just saying it's quite the coincidence."
"Maybe. Just be careful when you go around saying stuff like that."
No luck. Without any evidence to back up his claims, no one would side with Paul.
. . . Maybe he had to resort to other methods.
- - - "Hey, Luke. You awake?"
"Hrmh . . ."
The grumbling told him no. Maxwell merely smiled at the sight of Luke struggling to wake up, so he didn't pursue it. He leaned down, placing a kiss on his cheek.
"I'll come meet you at the tree after work. Wait for me there."
Luke gave a weak nod, getting cozy again. He was quick to drift off back to sleep, and Maxwell let him. The blond man in his bed looked angelic, so innocent. He challenged everything Maxwell thought to believe, making him realize that a man could love another man the same way he could love a woman.
Maxwell kept his private life and career strictly separated ⸻ if anyone caught wind of their love affair, he could lose everything he worked for so hard. Their meetings only happened in secrecy. They would spend the night together and then feign ignorance the next day, rinse and repeat. They wouldn't understand their love, even when it was genuine.
Part of him was reluctant to leave Luke even when they would reunite later.
- - - It was late. After another successful evening live on TV, Maxwell was preparing to head to his next destination: the oak tree he and Luke would meet at every night. Just as he intended to leave, he ran into Paul. Maxwell, none the wiser of his intentions, merely lifted a hand briefly as a form of greeting.
"Oh, Paul. Good job today. See you tomorrow."
". . . I don't need your shallow praise."
"Come again?"
Paul didn't mean to say it out loud. His frustration with Maxwell was at a boiling point. Always trying to one-up him, always looking down on him. Paul had enough.
"Acting all high and mighty like you own this place. You know damn well you'd never be in this position with James still in the picture."
Maxwell's mismatched eyes narrowed at the words spat at him. But only for a moment before he scoffed, shaking his head slowly.
"What are you trying to imply, Paul? He's dead, get over it!"
Not once did Maxwell express sympathy. Not once did he actually care. He was ambitious in his pursuit of success, even if it meant stepping over others.
"Do you even hear yourself?!" Paul was getting too invested in this to quit now. "You act so sympathetic towards others, but you actually don't even give a sh*t. No, you're happy James is dead, aren't you?"
"This is getting ridiculous. Goodnight."
Maxwell was ready to leave, yet Paul did not budge. He had no intentions of letting him go until he heard what he wanted to hear from him.
"Out of my damn way, Paul⸻"
"You murdered him, didn't you?"
"Do
you even hear yourself?!"
"I've watched you for a while. You couldn't be happier that he's gone. He had what you wanted, of course he had to disappear. You couldn't handle the fact that he's better than you! Better in everything!"
"Don't you 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 talk to me like this, 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲. Who do you think you are?!"
There it was again, that unsightly temper Maxwell always tried to hide from the public. It reared its ugly head once more, and to Paul, it was akin to a confession.
"You're pathetic, Maxwell. Your name doesn't mean 𝗷𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁. But I do wonder what your daddy will think if he catches wind of your affair?"
Maxwell froze in place, his eyes wide. That reaction alone earned a pleased grin from Paul.
"Yeah, I saw you with that blond guy the other night. What would the people think if they knew you're actually one of those sick faggots? Your career would be over!"
Something within Maxwell snapped. His body moved on its own as he grabbed Paul by the collar, and a struggle ensued. In the chaos of their fight, Maxwell stumbled backward; in his attempt not to fall over, his hand reflexively grabbed a frayed wire protruding from a faulty electrical panel. A sudden jolt of electricity surged through every fiber of Maxwell's being, and his body was sent crashing to the floor. His limbs were convulsing. The impact with the nearby stack of electrical appliances threatened to fall over. Horror was etched into Paul's face as the heavy TV fell on Maxwell's head. He died instantly.
"N-no . . . no, 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸 . . .!"
Paul swallowed thickly. In the silence of the room, he could hear his heart drumming rapidly in his ears. His mind began spinning with panic and fear as the fatal consequences of their fight seemed to finally hit him.
Maxwell never believed in karma. At least not until that day.
- - - We just received the confirmation of the sudden death of the TV host Maxwell van Haren. The police are currently still investigating. Van Haren was thirty-five at the time of his death . . ."How tragic. He was still so young!"
"All that talent gone to waste. His family must be in so much grief . . ."
To the public eye, Maxwell had always been a saint. A philanthropist, a man of the people. Even when the closed casket was lowered into the ground, no one knew of the horrors behind that handsome face.
Blissfully unaware, all but
one of them.
