Chapter Text
Much to Vincent's displeasure, Alastor was impossible to catch alone throughout the day, both due to his own busy schedule and the man's ability to seemingly disappear into shadows each time he stepped out of his recording studio.
He caught sight of him only a handful of times, each time just out of his arm's reach, each time surrounded by too many people to do anything… drastic. By the time the sun fell over the horizon, his patience had frayed to its end. He decided that he had to resort to good old-fashioned alley murder, something he hadn't done since his first kill, always preferring something more flashy, more him. It was harder to pull off, but the satisfaction of seeing his handiwork displayed on the big screen - his own studio sharing the pictures of his gruesome murder scenes - was more than worth it.
Having asked around earlier, he knew that Alastor's last recording was at 10 PM. By 10:05, Vincent was already standing outside, hidden in the shadows as he watched people leave the building. He took a long, slow drag of his cigarette as a group of men walked out, his producers talking amongst themselves about their newest rooster addition.
Vincent's eyes followed as James laughed at some unfunny joke. His grip on the cigarette tightened, almost snapping the stick in half. Once Alastor was out of the picture, he was done playing the waiting game. He would stop beating around the bush and kill the fucker, status be damned.
He flicked the crushed cigarette into a puddle, the hiss echoing the sentiment in his own mind. A few more minutes passed, and eventually, the main door opened again.
It was him.
Alastor stepped out alone, the sharp lines of his shoulders casting a long shadow on the stairs before him. He paused on the top stair for a second, wrapping a dark, burgundy scarf around his neck before continuing his walk, his stride a confident, almost theatrical performance into the night.
Perfect.
Vincent pushed off from the wall, his own movements silent as he fell into step a safe distance behind.
Alastor didn't hurry. He didn't look back. He simply walked, as if on a casual evening stroll, even humming a bit under his breath, a picture of serenity.
With a subtle flick of his wrist, Vincent relaxed his hand, allowing his old weather pointer to slip from beneath his sleeve, its sharp tip gleaming in the dim city light. His breath quickened at the thought of snuffing out the other man's life and wiping that fake smile off his face.
It was confounding. Despite being a relic from a bygone medium, the radio host had gotten deep beneath his skin with startling speed. By all rights, Vincent - with his empire and reputation - was far above him. He shouldn't feel threatened at all. And yet…
He frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. It wasn't fear; that would be too strong a word. This was something more complex. Vincent recognized a man who had carved his success from sheer will - he was such a man himself. The feeling coiling in his gut wasn't just precaution. It was a sharp, unwelcome spike of… admiration.
In his rage, he bit harder, drawing blood. He felt the copper tinge on his tongue, the metallic taste flooding his mouth. To feel such emotion was to admit weakness. He was the one who should be worshipped and adorned, not the other way around. The faster he got rid of Alastor and these unsettling feelings, the better.
He was in too far to change his ways now.
Shaking his head, Vincent raised his chin, refocusing on the man walking in front of him… only to find the sidewalk empty.
He paused mid-step, confusion quickly curdling into alarm. He scanned the street, looking to see if Alastor had simply crossed the street or ducked into a storefront, but the radio host was nowhere to be seen.
Cursing, Vincent picked up his pace, walking so fast it almost bordered on running. He peered into each passing alley, finding each one a dark, vacant path leading to nothing.
Feeling like a fool, he stomped the ground in frustration, gripping his pointer so hard his knuckles ached. He half-hoped the damn thing would snap.
He had missed his chance.
…pathetic.
Brows drawn tight, he turned on his heel and began the long walk home. He would try again tomorrow, this time without allowing himself such frivolous distractions.
The streets were empty, devoid of any other soul as he continued his walk of shame, the cold night air digging into his skin. He wondered if he would manage to fall asleep at all, with the phantom adrenaline of his failed murder still making his blood boil.
Trying to calm his nerves, just as he reached his apartment building, he dug out his pack of cigarettes, plucking out another one. The smoke scratched his throat as he inhaled it, closing his eyes. For a moment, there was only the burn in his lungs and the faint scent of tobacco as it pushed back the lingering copper taste of his own blood.
…and then, he heard it.
A familiar, wet sound of a blade finding its home, muffled by the brick and darkness of the next alley over.
It made him freeze mid-inhale, slightly choking on the smoke as his eyebrows rose.
Surely not…
Vincent all but dropped the cigarette and ventured toward the dark alley. Holding his breath, he peeked cautiously from behind the corner, fully expecting the scene before him to be a gruesome one.
And it was… beautiful.
Deep within the alley, under a sole, flickering light, stood Alastor, bent over a man who was gurgling out his last breaths, choking on blood. Vincent watched, transfixed, as a knife repeatedly dug deep into the man's abdomen, each thrust accompanied by a sharp, grinding sound against bone. The red painted Alastor's coat, the blood almost melting into the fabric of the same shade.
With a small laugh, Alastor dropped the now surely lifeless body onto the cold ground, cracking his neck. A second passed, and the man inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he savored the coppery scent of blood that hung in the air - the perfume of a job well done.
“And here I was, beginning to think you’d stood us up,” Alastor said, not even turning around. His voice was a click of the tongue, a sigh of profound disappointment. He finally glanced over his shoulder, his eyes sharp enough to pin Vincent to the spot. “I went through all the trouble of bringing a gift right to your doorstep. The least you could do is be punctual.”
Frozen in his tracks, Vincent's eyes dropped down to the body, his gaze tracing the tattered flesh of its abdomen up to the face - the blond hair now dark and matted, the blue eyes staring vacantly. James.
The warm feeling he had felt earlier that day returned tenfold, a sudden, dizzying heat that spread through his body and face, burning under his collar.
A gift such as this. A godly sacrifice.
It was-
“Not to mention, you were sloppy.” Alastor cut through his reverent thoughts, making Vincent blink, taken aback. “Your targets are obvious; you made it too easy to figure it out.” He tutted, walking in Vincent's direction, pointer finger dragging leisurely along the length of his knife, collecting the blood. Vincent gulped as Alastor raised the same bloodied finger to his lips, tasting it. It left his lower lip shining in a parody of lipstick, and Vincent's head spun, his breath catching, overwhelmed by this, this-
Perfection.
“I knew that I had competition when I moved here,” Alastor continued, now so close he stood within arm's reach, coming to a stop just as the soles of his shoes touched Vincent's. “But having seen it, seen you with my own two eyes? … I can't even remember why I was worried.” He chuckled, dark and low as he raised the knife to Vincent's throat, the sharp tip digging into the soft skin.
“All I can say is: don't get in my way. I won't be your prey, shark.” Alastor’s smile was a razor, all cutting edges and promised blood. “You’ve been chasing chum so long you've forgotten what real teeth feel like.” Licking the remaining blood from his lip, Alastor pulled the knife away to instead tuck the blade nearly into Vincent's front pocket.
“Now, be a dear and clean this up for me, would you? I won't touch that scum ever again.” He commanded with one last cold smile before stepping around Vincent, not even dignifying him with a goodbye as he left him alone with the bloody scene behind.
Vincent stood there, heart beating a mile a minute as the sound of Alastor's retreating footsteps faded away. The phantom pressure of the knife still kissed his throat, and his fingers twitched, brushing against the handle of the weapon tucked into his pocket - a condescending gift, and a challenge all at once.
He couldn't even begin to gather his thoughts as they all circled around the cold look on Alastor's face, the beautiful carnage he'd left behind, the fact that this was a gift, a gift for him-
A ragged sound escaped him. Vincent brought a hand to his face, covering his mouth before dragging it through his hair, his chest heaving as he fought for air.
Was… was this love? Was this the same dizzying worship the masses felt when they saw him on their TV screens?
The thought should have horrified him, and yet he felt somewhat… serene. The chaos in his mind stilled into a single, undeniable truth. He had been looking at the world from a lonely peak, a god among insects. And for the first time, he had just met another.
A laugh bubbled in his throat, sharp and unhinged. It echoed faintly in the silent alley, a counterpart to Alastor’s own chilling chuckle.
At last, he had found his match.