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Something felt off. Vincent couldn’t quite figure it out yet, but he felt terrible. This whole week had been stressful as all hell, the network was bustling and the viewership was astronomical by the normal standards. The week’s scheduled programming was jammed packed with game shows to film and high energy segments spliced all throughout its runtime. And while it certainly felt good to see his hard work pay off in real time, Vincent was starting to wear himself thin.
He barely slept the last few nights. Even more embarrassing than that fact alone was that the only sleep he managed to get had been due to him holding onto his rotary dial phone and keeping Alastor on the line long enough to finally doze off, the radio host had been aggravated at first but let Vincent talk him into it on the threat that he would be committing murders while sleep deprived and anxious. Alastor never likes to risk a technicality, and Vincent couldn’t be more thankful for it.
“Can’t get enough of my voice, huh pal?” Alastor’s suave voice echoes out of the phone, and startles Vincent back into the current moment.
He has to leave for work any minute now, since he always tries to be at least five or so minutes early to prepare and rehearse whatever need be. But today, he feels something in his gut rumble, anxiety pinching every nerve in ways it hasn’t done for some time. He dialed Alastor’s number the minute after he awoke, needing a distraction from the way everything seemed so upsettingly off today.
“I don’t know whats gotten into me Al! I feel, uh god- I don’t even want to go into the studio today. But they need me there, I cant avoid it.”
Alastor hums through the phone. Vincent starts biting his fingernails. He has three rings on today, instead of his usual blue band that Alastor had found for him in some antique market months ago. He twirls one of them after his nail beds start to lightly bleed, moving from one distraction to another.
“You’re the face of the network, Vinny. You can miss one day and get away with it, I assure you.” Vincent could listen to his voice for hours. Somehow, he much prefers Alastor’s voice off the air, when it’s deeper and more gentle, without that infamous theatricalism.
“You don’t get to say that! You’ve never missed a radio broadcast, Al!” He hears Alastor sigh from the other line.
“That’s because I don’t get the same privileges you do. You can miss a day of work, I cant. Not without risking my job.” Theres some anger building in Alastor’s voice, Vincent feels guilty for being the root cause of it.
“I know, I know…I’m sorry.” His voice comes out weaker than intended.
“It’s…not your fault. Just- why don’t you have Mildred take over for you, hm? Take the day off, maybe…we could go out “Hunting” after my broadcast is over?” Alastor ends the sentence with a devilish laugh.
He’s never wanted anything more, but he knows he has to show up. His body wont let him stay put.
“Ive got to go, Alastor. I’m sorry.” He hears the radio host sigh on the other end, not even bothering to respond before placing his phone back down and cutting the call. Vincent tries to not let it get to him, but listening to the dead line makes him feel more upset than he reasonably should. He slams the phone back down, taking his nerves out on something he knows he can replace.
He couldn’t avoid it any longer. The studio needs him, the network needs him. He can fake a smile, act like he’s the most unbothered man in the room. He knows he can, because he’s spent more than half of his life living such a way. Whats one more day going to do?
“C’mon, Vince! Get it together!” He whispers frantically to himself, pacing around the room before leaving out the front door.
_________
He hasn’t been this overwhelmed in years.
Everything’s moving a million miles a minute on set. Camera men shouting even louder than they normally do. The cooking show segment was going about as well as it always does, but something about the texture of the mash potatoes keeps making Vincent violently nauseous. He’s always hated certain foods, Alastor could go on for hours about how he needed to “try more than his absurdly stale palate”, but no matter how hard he tried, if the texture was off, he would start gagging within seconds. He’s thankful that he has an empty stomach, less risk of him actually hurling all over the set floor. His stomach growls from hunger, but he ignores it. He just tries to stare into the camera and manage to act out a half way convincing smile for the audience.
Vincent feels utter relief flow through his bones when he finally finishes the god awful meal and holds it up for the camera man to broadcast.
“-And thats it for today’s recipe, folks! Remember, trust us with your-“
“-CUT!”
Vincent’s hands shoot straight up to cup his ears. The director closest to him shouted the words far too loudly. It sounded like a loaded gun going straight off inside the walls of the studio, far too loud for Vincent’s stupidly sensitive hearing. The pan with the potatoes in it hits the countertop with another loud bang adding onto all the noise.
Vincent looks up at the director, damn near ready to pick up the dicing knife and slit his throat right here and now.
“What the hell, Arnold! I wasn’t done signing off yet!” His voice cant keep calm, he feels frustrated beyond the capability of words to describe.
Arnold rolls his eyes at him, and Vincent makes a mental note to kill him slower than he usually prefers to with all his other victims.
“You were moving at a snails pace, Mr Whittman. We needed to cut then and there to make sure the scheduling stays on track. Nobody’s fault but your own.”
Vincent sneers at him, finally taking his hands off of his ears.
“I need my fucking lunch break. If Bob comes around tell him that I’m in my office.” He picks up his feet and storms off the set. He still had half of the day left to go. He could do this.
“Get your shit together, Vincent. Come on!” He whispers to himself in the quiet hallway on the way to his office, picking at his skin to distract him from how tight his clothes seem to feel on his body today.
“You can keep it together. You have to.”
________
His lunch break gets cut short, because of course it does. His assistant barges into his office unannounced, looking frantic and frazzled. He’s quick enough to successfully hide the stupid shark stuffed animal he had been cradling in his hands. He bought it at the aquarium when it first opened, he remembers how exciting it was to see a shark so close for the first time, and how embarrassing it was to tell the cashier that his imaginary nephew loves sharks and thats why he was so eager to buy the gaudy looking stuffed creature.
“M-Mr Whittman, S-sir! I-uhm-“
He could almost cry from how exhausted he was.
“Get to the point, please. Im busy.”
“There’s been an issue with the teleprompter! It stopped working, so the boss wants you to memorize the script before it airs. Here!” She hands over the thick stack of papers.
Vincent’s face pales. That anxiety in the pit of his stomach spikes up immediately, completely overtaking him.
“What?!”
His assistant flinches at his overblown voice. “Im sorry, sir! I have to go let the boss know. He wants you on the air in half an hour!” She calls out before slamming his door shut.
He doesn’t even know what to do. He’s not prepared, no where near being ready for this. Tears well in his eyes, a terrible feeling clawing at his throat and threatening to spill out in a vulgar sob. He can’t embarrass himself in front of everyone, not now. He frantically scans over the lines, his own heart beating far too rapidly for his own liking. He tries to fight off the panic setting in, he cant fall apart on the air.
_____
He steps onto the stage with nausea swaying thick in his stomach. He wants to be anywhere else, a thought that he never imagined succumbing to. He loved the stage, loved doing what he does. But right now it feels suffocating and he’s trapped in it, in the moment and the camera and the blinding lights. The director calls out, the cameras start rolling, and Vincent puts on his showy persona. He smiles wide, clinging to every word he can remember from his script. He’s thankful that the cameras cant pick up on the way his eyes are tearing up, or how sweaty and shaken he is.
He makes it through the weather report, somehow. He can barely register whats going on, his head feels like it’s a million miles away while also being painfully responsive to every source of discomfort around him. Its all too much, the lights, the people, the smoke from their cigarettes, the tightness of his dress shirt and his slacks, the sweat of his palms, the dryness of his throat-
He’s losing control.
His smile tightens, the broadcast shifts from the weather forecast back over to the news. Vincent pales up like a ghost, an unbridled fear lacing through his mismatched eyes. The script slips his mind like a leaf in the wind. His mouth opens to speak, but the words he knows he needed to say wont come back to him, he can’t remember what he’s supposed to say next.
His whole body shakes, his worst fear coming true before his very eyes. He’s doing it, the one thing he dreaded most. He’s on live TV making a fool of himself, everything he’s worked for, everything he’s given up to get here is gone with every second he stays standing there.
“I…I-uh…uhm…” He sputters out.
His heartbeat quickens alongside his breath, already beginning to hyperventilate. He feels like he’s crumbling into nothing, and he has to escape it. He cant deal with another second of this suffocation, this attack against every sense of his defective body.
“I-I’m sorry…M’so sorry. I-I cant- I cant do this- Im sorry-“ He runs off the stage, causing even more of a scene by tripping over his own feet halfway through. Someone on the production teams catches him, keeps him from knocking his teeth in. But Vincent can only feel the sensation of an unwanted, restrictive touch that makes him tense up even more. He gets up and practically bolts out of the door. His legs run, until he’s all the way out of the studio building.
_____
By the time he finished apologizing to his producers and the boss of the network, the sun had long since set. His body felt a million times heavier than normal, weighed down by the most all consuming shame he’s ever faced. He lied, of course- gave a fake story that he abruptly ran off the stage because he thought that the meal he had cooked from the segment prior had peanuts in it. He’s allergic to them, he knew his boss knew so it was the first excuse that came to mind, and by some unfathomable miracle, it actually had worked. His producers and camera staff weren’t as convinced, but the Boss was, and that meant he got to keep his job and get let off with a stern warning.
Just because it worked out, it didn’t make it any less humiliating. He fights back tears the entire way home, desperate to just get back home, to lock the door and be alone. He fumbles the parking job, but he’s too overwhelmed to care about it. All the matters is getting through the door, it’s all he wants.
His hands shake a little when he turns the knob, finally closing the distance and slamming the door shut behind him, separating him from the outside world in a way that he’s been desperate for all day.
“Why, fancy seeing you here-“
The voice catches him so off guard in the midst of it all. His ears pick up on it too loudly and too clearly, it sounds deafening and he hates it. He jumps back, ready to fly out of his skin from sheer terror. A pained little yipping noise escapes him, sounding closer to a sob than a real shriek of fear.
It takes him a few moments to comprehend the situation clearly. The voice- it’s Alastors. Alastor is in his home, in his kitchen actually. It’s just Alastor, it’s okay- Vincent’s okay.
“Everything alright?” Alastor quips at him in a almost too gentle tone.
Vincent tries to steady himself, to regain any composure he still had left in him. He never thought the day would come, where he would ever consider the possibility of asking Alastor to leave. But he cant help but consider it, he already made a fool out of himself on live television, and the last thing he wanted was to humiliate himself in front of his partner in crime.
He sluggishly follows after Alastor’s voice, walking along the floor until he makes it to the kitchen. The lightbulbs feel far too bright, practically mocking him and his sensitivities. He tries to ignore it, he really tries. He focuses on the radio, the one near the kitchen counter that Alastor had gifted him a year ago. It was a deep blue color, still made of wood but redecorated to look costal, little figments of ocean life carefully painted across it to match the theming of his home. It was thoughtful, most gifts from Alastor tended to be. He tries to still his focus on that radio, on the humming of Billie Holliday coming out from it. He tries, and he fails.
“Alastor, what the fuck is that?!” His voice comes out louder and more panicked than he meant it to, both of them recoil from it.
Alastor, as he now notices, is covered in blood. Theres a butchers blade held firm in his grip, the liquid pooling off the edge and dripping deep red onto the floor of Vincent’s kitchen. He realizes every window had been drawn shut, the lack of real light probably explained why the kitchen bulbs felt so overpowering. Behind Alastor, was a complete and utter mess. A dead mans corpse is overflowing from his kitchen sink, limbs dissected and strewn about in jars that aren’t quite finished yet. It’s a mess, he can feel his stomach sickening just by witnessing it alone.
Normally, he doesn’t care about something like this. It was apart of the deal, apart of what made Alastor so important to him. The way the Radio Host enacted his killings, how he targeted men who wouldn’t be missed, who didn’t deserve to be remembered or loved because they were scum. But today, it’s too much. The violent sight of it, the sheer amount of blood, the chunks of flesh still uncleaned from his countertop, the sound of the radio growing more irate, the intensity of the damn lightbulb. Too much, far too much.
“Come now, Vincent. Dont get so upset.” Alastor sounds chirpy as ever, it only frustrates Vincent further.
He lets out some fusion sound thats both a scream and a groan, not knowing how to process so many terrible feelings with the proper words.
“Why are you doing this in my house?! You have your cabin near the bayou-“
Alastor tip toes up to him, playfully shushing him with a blood covered index finger. The radio host makes a look of confusion as he watches Vincent full on revolt against the touch, stepping back and frantically wiping the small imprint of blood from his lips as if it were a disease.
“-Well, Vincent- the cabin isn’t a safe option at the moment. The cops have been patrolling too closely, and I do not want to incriminate myself any further.” Vincent tries to listen, to grasp Alastor’s words but he cant.
He can feel his chest tightening, suffocating his own body like a boa constrictor. The radio feels like it’s only getting louder, Vincent can hardly stand it anymore.
“Vincent. Why are you-“ Alastor sounds honest to god worried for him. He tries to seal the space, tries to get closer to the news anchor and pull him in by the shoulders.
The second Alastor’s bloody hand reaches for him, Vincent’s reaction festers on its own, completely devoid of his forethought. It feels like a burn, something hot and painful. He wishes he could say he swatted Alastor away, but he does more than that. Instinctively, his hands go up, getting Alastor off of him by using a considerable amount of strength and shoving the radio host back, hard. Alastor gasps, unprepared for the force of the action and hurdling onto the floor. The blade clatters against the ground, slipping out of Alastors hold and making an ear piercing vibration that Vincent whole heartedly loathes.
Alastor hisses out in pain, his non stained hand grabs onto his other wrist and rubs it to asses the damage he can feel pulsating after his fall. His surprise wears off quickly, that confusion on his face shifts into thinly veiled anger, the only thing keeping him from looking entirely furious is that always cunning smile pulled tight on his lips. Alastor composes himself, but Vincent doesn’t. He’s still trembling, pressing his back against the fridge, and looking at the floor with glazed over eyes, breath escaping his lips far too quickly.
“That was rather rude of you, Mr. Whittman.”Alastor says the words with unhidden venom.
Vincent can’t take any of this, everything feels like a million small needles digging into his skin. He grabs at his hair, ruining its previous perfection and ripping the grey and black strands as he heaves and heaves. The lights are blinding, his ears start ringing and that god awful radio just keeps getting louder. He barely manages to grit out the words without screaming.
“Alastor. Stop.” He pleads like his life is dependent on it.
Alastor Scoffs, standing back up and putting his hands on his hips like a disappointed mother would.
“Specifics, Whittman. I dont understand what you want.”
Vincent’s fists ball up, he whimpers in agony and smashes the back of his skull against the fridge. He shakes his head so hard his glasses come off, and the world becomes somehow even more unbearable and discomforting as everything goes fuzzy.
“T-The Radio. Turn it off. Now!” He doesn’t mean to be so brash, but every sensation is a violent one.
Attack after attack against his senses, it feels worse after every passing second.
Alastor watches it all unfold incredulously. He knew Vincent tended to be dramatic, but he rarely took his frustration out on Alastor. No, he cared far too much for the Radio Host’s approval to ever even think of doing such acts. Yet here he was, in Alastor’s eyes he was acting like a brat who wanted to take his work life frustrations out on the nearest person he could, and Alastor was not intent on letting him think he could be shoved and battered without a fuss. He wasn’t seeing the way Vincent was barely keeping himself upright, he couldn’t see the panic, only the screaming and the physical retaliation and it angered him deep into his bones.
Alastor made slow work of walking to the radio, drawing it out to hopefully teach his dear partner a lesson on patience.
“My memories drawing a blank, pal. Say, you wanted it turned up, right?” Alastor sneers at him as he turns the dial, listening and nodding along as the music gets louder.
Vincent full on screams, not even looking at Alastor but still having an uncharacteristically tortured expression plastered on. Alastor doesn’t pick up on it, but Vincent’s rapid breaths merge into full blown hyperventilation. He feels trapped, everything hurts and burns, too bright, too tight, too much- too Loud.
“Alastor!” He cries out with a pained growl.
Alastor merely hums.
“Sorry. Cant hear you!” He turns it up the rest of the way, Billies voice escaping to small device with a sudden loudness encompassing both of the man.
It finally does Vincent in. His last remaining string snaps. He screams, a full body cry of every emotion thats been clawing through him all day. It takes everything out of him, its intensity so raw and sudden that even Alastor startles back at the sound of it. He cant get himself to stop, the terrible sound leaving his lungs wont go away. Alastor’s face grows pale, he scampers over to Vincents side in an attempt to talk him down.
“Vincent. Stop screaming, if your neighbors hear you-“
Vincent doesn’t even acknowledge Alastor. Instead, he screams louder, voice becoming watery as fat tears pile in his eyes and roll down his cheeks reverently.
“STOP IT STOP IT STOP-“ As he screams, he can feel bile threatening to uproot itself from his stomach.
Alastor jumps back, his eyes making contact with the booming radio before rushing over to it and finally subjecting it into silence. As the radio finally dies, Vincent’s screams weaken. They still fall from his lips, but now they mix and twist with disgusting sobs. He hasn’t cried this much, or this intensely since his brother’s death, and that was decades ago. His body slides down the fridge, until he makes contact with the floor and curls up into a ball. He hides his face in his knees, screaming again as he wails incoherently.
“V-Vincent…hey. Shhh- It’s….it’s okay?” Alastor hesitantly gets down onto his knees, scooting closer to the news anchor and feeling his heart shatter ever so slightly when Vincent cries even louder, and rushes to move away from him.
Alastor is out of his depth here, he realizes. This isn’t the situation he thought it was, this was his partner in real, genuine pain and he’s done nothing but worsen it. The radio host can feel a nagging guilt sitting heavy in his stomach, he tries not to think about how foreign the feeling has truly become over the years.
His words don’t even comfort Vincent in the slightest, not when his entire being is drenched in the most intense sea of emotions its had in years. Everything just continues to overflow, like a never ending swell of anger and guilt and every other vile thought plaguing his mind. A new pain merges into the mix. Embarrassment, it’s fresh and painful. In the split second of clarity, he really takes in the situation at hand.
He’s ruined everything, theres no doubt about it now. Alastor will never look at him the same, never again. Not only had Vincent hurt him, but he also has subjected him to his adult temper tantrum, shaking and curled up in a ball like a pathetic schoolboy. It was humiliating, more humiliating than his live television slip up had been, because he’s ruined his image in front of Alastor. The only person who’s ever looked at him like that, the only one who’s ever managed to understand him. Vincent sniffles, trying to hold in a sob before inevitably failing and letting out the most gut wrenched wail of his life.
He cant take Alastor’s eyes on him anymore, he hasn’t dared to look at him but he knows whatever face Alastor’s got on, it will be nothing short of terrible. He tries to quickly stand up, but his legs are so weak and they near instantly buckle from the unexpected pressure. He expects to collide with the kitchens hard floor, but that never ends up happening. His chest gets scooped up in time to save him from a nasty fall, Alastor’s strong arms being the preventer of yet another terrible embarrassment. Vincent can feel Alastor’s frantic breathing close to his ears, the radio hosts arms cradle him and lift him back up slowly. The news anchor squirms out of Alastor’s hold, too distraught to let himself go calm in the other’s secure embrace.
“Woah, woah! Vincent, hold on one second-” Alastor tries to reason with him, his voice has a tension laced into it that Vincent has hardly ever heard before. It’s….startling-something that he feels undeserving of hearing or causing.
Vincent tries to ignore him. He makes it to the stairs, gripping the railing so tightly that his knuckles go as white as a sheet.
“I-I…..I- I need’t….mhnnnnn!” He tries to say something, any words to rectify the situation. But, his body betrays him. The words don’t come out, all he can do is stutter and slur and inevitably grow frustrated to the point of a fresh set of tears. His hands ball into fists, they clutch at his hair and he angrily rips a decent chunk of the strands out of his scalp. Alastor’s smile snarls, just bordering on becoming a frown. He pauses, for a long time just watching Vincent as his whole body shakes like a leaf.
“Whatever you need to do, Vincent….please do it.” Alastor’s voice is softer than Vincent deserves it to be.
Vincent bolts up the stairs, fleeing like an animal of prey being hunted down. With a frantic pace, he darts down the hall, shaking his bedroom door open and slamming it shut as quick as humanly possible.
He tears his clothes off his body, desperately trying to escape the awful itchiness they bring. He rushes into a set of pajamas, just needing to get the task done before he completely shuts down again.
He sinks into his bed, feeling like his entire body is being sucked through the mattress. He’s worn thin, utterly exhausted from everything terrible the day has dealt him with. His eyes are still burning, a few stray tears cascading down them as he quietly weeps into his pillow.
He can hear the sound of shoes scuffling downstairs, and he hopes deep in his heart that Alastor is leaving. He just wants to be alone, to forget about how he’s ruined everything. If he weren’t so exhausted, he would have sat there all night in absolute terror of the idea, but his eyelids grow heavy quickly and the exhaustion finally chips away at him until he’s going limp against the soft sheets, letting sleep take him away.
_____
He lulls out of sleep as a sound thrums against his bedroom door. A gentle knocking, quiet enough as to not startle him, but just impactful enough to get his attention. Vincent slurs out a noise of confusion, voice coarse from the sleep added delirium and from the long burst of screaming and crying he had done all evening. A quiet voice bleeds through the gap between the door and the hallway.
“Vincent…may I come in?” Alastor’s muffled voice dances its way into his ears.
For once, Vincent hesitates to give him an answer. He wants Alastor’s presence. He’s always craved the other man’s support in some form or another. But something deep within him is fearful, not of the implications of letting a serial murderer into his room, he’d be a hypocrite to be so against such an idea. He’s scared of confronting what happened, he fears having to acknowledge how pathetic and weak he has been, and how he no doubt ruined Alastor’s perception of him permanently.
He takes a deep breath in, rubbing his still puffy eyes and allowing himself to just give up. He knows he’s ruined it all, so how much worse could this possibly go? If he expects the worst, then maybe it wont hurt as much. He thinks all of those words over in his head, clings to them with a bitter sadness before finally crawling away from his blankets and sitting upright on the edge of his bed.
“Come in.”
The door hesitantly creeps open, Alastor’s shadow thick and heavy in the darkness of his room. The tension feels suffocating, Vincent’s throat already clamping up. Theres a slight brisk in the air, a familiar scent sifting around them both.
“I made you dinner. Hopefully, this will calm your stomach somewhat. I know how bad the nausea can get for you-“
Vincent lifts a weak hand to signal at Alastor, palm and fingers going up to get him to stop.
“No, Al I- thank you, really. But- Im not hungry.”
It’s a lie. Truth be told, he’s damn near starving. But Alastor has a habit, one that Vincent loves the implications of but utterly loathes whenever it happens. Alastor is a cook, a great one that somehow found a way to make people end up appetizing. He always cooks for the both of them whenever the opportunity presents itself, always making some elaborate dish that Vincent has never heard of until then. Usually, Vincent swoons, he grows flustered at the display because Alastor shares his affection through his actions, through gifts and through foods and everything in between.
Vincent has always had difficulty with certain foods, certain textures and flavors that leave him with the urge to spit out or vomit up whatever it is he just ate. He knows himself, knows his track record- knows that Alastor’s cooking is amazing, but to him the unexpected textures and the sheer amount of flavors always get to him. He’s ashamed of it, more often than not he forces his mouth to swallow it down because it’s his own fault for having such a dysfunctional tolerance. He knows how things will go if he picks up that plate, and he doesn’t think he can survive any more embarrassment.
He hears Alastor sigh softly, his nimble hand reaches out to the lamp on Vincents bedside table. Alastor goes to turn it on, but he hesitates- his eyes crawl down to stare at Vincent, looking over him with an apprehension visible even in the darkness of the room. Vincent sighs deep, feeling shame smack him right across the face.
“You can turn the light on, Alastor. I wont freak out…again.”
Light gently flickers through a small section of the room, just enough to provide light but not enough to overwhelm his senses.
He looks the dish over in the light again, feeling a little twinge of surprise at seeing what Alastor actually put on the plate.
“Is that…pasta?”
Alastor flashes him a smug grin. His brown eyes flicker from staring at Vincent to staring down at the dish.
“Indeed it is. Plain, with just a little bit of butter and a touch of salt. Just how you like it.” He studies Vincents face, watches his eyes grow wide and his mouth drool a little bit. The whole sight makes his smile grow wider, endeared by the simplistic joy that the television star in front of him displays.
He hands the plate over to Vincent, making a calculated effort to avoid physical contact. Cautiously, Alastor hovers over him, seemingly debating what to do next. Vincent’s mismatched eyes look him over. Alastor reaches into his back pocket, pulling out Vincent’s glasses and placing them onto his nightstand.
“I cleaned them off for you, they were rather smudged.”
Vincent grabs them off the hardwood surface, shoving them back onto his face and basking in the relief of having the world be back in focus once again. He looks Alastor over. The radio hosts hair is a little unkempt, those usually meticulously maintained curls are a frizzy and askew. His outfit has changed since their last encounter. No more blood stains on his skin or clothes, just a fresh red dress shirt, and plain black trousers. It made sense, it wasn’t the first time Alastor brought a change of clothes when he knew he was going to make a bloody mess of himself.
“I tidied up the kitchen. It’s practically spotless now- I even scrubbed the floors, just to make sure I got all the blood off.” Alastor chatters aloud, something akin to fondness settles deep within Vincent’s chest.
“Thank you, Alastor.” He says the words with a warmth only Alastor has ever managed to make him feel.
“Oh-please! It’s…the least I could do. Given everything thats happened tonight.” His uppity tone fizzles out, sifting into something uncertain. Vincent tries to ignore the inevitable, he scarfs down the noddles in an awkward silence to try and buy himself time, but inevitably the bowl becomes empty and he’s left to pick back up the conversation. Vincent slumps his shoulders, he knows the conversation is heading to the dreaded discussion. He tries to accept it, tries to prepare for the worst. But first, he tries to pathetically avoid the inevitable.
“Can we forget about what happened…please?” He all but begs.
Alastor has an uncomfortable look on his face “I think we should discuss what happened, Vincent.”
Vincent wholeheartedly disagrees, but he doesn’t protest. He sighs, ready to face the truth.
“Theres something….wrong with me, Alastor.” His own voice is trembling and quiet.
Alastor’s face remains indifferent. “Well, I assumed that much when I found out you were killing all your colleagues.”
Normally, Vincent would laugh at the small hint of humor, but not tonight. All he can do is curl further into himself.
“No- thats not….well- technically you’re right but thats not…it’s not what I meant.”
Alastor shifts his gaze to him, his beautiful brown eyes casting so much intensity in Vincent’s direction.
“Well, how did you mean it?” Alastor asks openly.
Vincent chews on his bottom lip, dread building in the pit of his stomach. He turns the other way, not having the guts to look the radio host in the face.
“When I was a kid, I had a lot of issues. My parents took me to see every doctor they could find, guess they…hoped one would finally tell them the answer they wanted to hear.” Vincent squirms around uncontrollably, staring down at the palms of his hands and picking the dead skin off his nail beds to distract himself.
“But every doctor always said the same things. That I was…I was “feeble minded” o-or… I was “defective”. They said it was my mom’s fault… called her a “refrigerator mother” or something stupid like that.” Vincent starts to sweat, his nerves building up and stinging from inside like a pinched nerve.
He feels Alastor shift on the bed, quickly glancing up to see his smile morphing into a tension filled sneer. Vincent’s eyes rush back down to his hands, his picking has shifted into him cracking each knuckle ten times over, rocking back and forth ever so subtly on the bed.
“The doctors tried to diagnose me with a bunch of shit. Said I was schizophrenic, that I was mentally regressed and had hallucinations…but I wasn’t seeing things. I just- uh… it’s like my m-mind is always so hyperactive. Like- every sound and every movement feels so much stronger than they do for everyone else.” The words slip out of him against his will at this point. Some part of him feels exhilarated, as if those decades of masking through every waking moment have finally come to an end and he can finally admit the truth. His stress mixes with his relief.
“My parents were going to send me away to a mental institution, I overheard them talking about it when they thought I was asleep.” Vincent finches at the sound of Alastor outright snarling in his direction. He doesn’t look up at him, too fearful of seeing his closest friend’s look of disappointment and disgust. Instead, he continues to ramble.
“I didn’t want to end up in one of those things, so I fought like hell to hide my emotions. I…I just learned to accept that I was going to have to hide how everything made me upset, how much the world around me felt like hell. I mean- I would rip my own hair out at night because that was the only way I could take my anger out without risking my own reputation! It’s been…hell- everyday feels like a million microscopic needles are slowly pricking my skin and I just- I just have to act like it’s fine!” His voice grows a little manic near the end, emotions bubbling out of him in a way he’s hardly used to. His hands twist and flap, like his body is trying to expel the energy before it bursts inside of him.
“But today I just….I couldn’t do it. Everything went wrong at work and then I came home and it- it was so much all at once and I didn’t know what to do or how to react and I….I fucked up. I really, really fucked up Alastor. And Im sorry for it, sorry that you had to see me…act like that. I’ll understand if you want to end our partnership. And don’t worry, its not like I’m going to tell the cops, I mean- that would be mutually assured destruction so-“
Vincents rant is cut short. Alastor turns over and, for the first time in their entire partnership, swoops in to hug him. It’s startling, so uncharacteristically out of place for the radio host to do so. Vincent craves physical touch, his affection bleeds through his hands and his chest and every inch of his skin that Alastor will allow him to place upon his own. But Alastor, he’s far less willing to initiate anything. So when he pulls Vincent in close, wrapping him up and pushing the bridge of his nose into the nape of his neck, Vincent is practically shocked.
He lets out a confused little noise, unsure of whats even happening. Alastor’s body is unimaginably tense, something that makes Vincent fearful, not knowing what’s to come next.
“Oh, Vincent. You should have told me this a long time ago.” Alastor’s voice is warm like honey, so many underlying emotions baked into it.
Vincent lets out another murmur of confusion. “W-Wait-“ He starts. “-Your…are you mad…about all of this?” Vincent pushes away slightly, just enough so that his and Alastor’s eyes can interlock.
Alastor gives him a genuine smile. “Why would I be mad?”
Vincent scoffs, mistaking Alastor’s words as something utterly sarcastic.
“Why wouldn’t you be mad? I just told you that the guy you’ve been trusting with all your dirty work is mentally deficient and melts down over the smallest of things.” Vincents voice cracks a little, so much self hate spilling from his lips.
Alastor looks pained at that last sentence, a gentle sigh leaves his lips. Almost just as shockingly as before, Alastor moves one of his hands to loosen up its hold on Vincent. That same hand starts to rub soothing circles into the skin of Vincents back, agile fingers brushing the indents of his spine with so much gentleness it’s nearly unfathomable.
Vincent thinks for a moment that he’s still stuck in a dream, something about this is so unreal to him.
“A-Alastor?” He says with a trembling voice.
“Hm?”
“You don’t like touch.”
Alastor momentarily stutters his movements, seemingly thinking what to say next, before picking back up as if nothing had happened.
“I enjoy your touch.” The Radio Host confesses.
Vincent can feel his face grow hot and flushed, squirming a little to mitigate the intense emotions.
“But you don’t like to touch me unless I touch you first.”
Alastor sighs, looking Vincent dead in the eyes with some twinge of fondness.
“Yes, you’re correct. But I know you. I know this helps, so thats why I’m doing it.” Alastor finishes his words off.
Vincent thinks he might die at that declaration alone. It’s exactly what he needed to hear, what he was desperate for.
“Thank you for this.” Vincent all but whispers, still momentarily in awe.
“Thank you for being honest with me.”
Vincent sighs in deep, letting his eyes close as he absorbs the comfort around him like a sponge.
“So, just to be clear…what I told you doesn’t bother you?” Vincent asks again, expecting Alastor to finally reveal what Vincent fears he’ll say.
Instead, Alastor just rolls his eyes. “I feel as though you’re far more bothered by this than I am, Vincent.” Alastor’s words hold a truth to them that cuts Vincent deep. A realization that he hasn’t had the courage to think about.
“I know. I just…Ive spent my whole life being told that I needed to hide it. It’s just- it feels wrong to have somebody who…accepts me. I don’t know- It’s stupid.” Vincent curses himself mentally for always having to talk too much, to over-explain and make everything worse.
Alastor shrugs. “-I don’t think it’s stupid. And if it’s any consolation…I had my suspicions for a long while now.”
Vincent tenses up at Alastor’s words. His eyes fly open.
“Huh? You- you…knew?”
“Well- I didn’t know, per se. My mother was a nurse at an institution when I was young, I know more than most do about human behavior, thanks to her.”
Vincent loosens up a little, slouching back into Alastor’s hold and practically pressing straight into him.
“Al?”
“Yes?”
Vincent bites his lower lip again, trying to work up the courage to ask the next question.
“Could you maybe…stay here tonight? If you don’t want to thats perfectly fine I just figured I’d ask since-“
“-I was already planning on doing just that, pal.”
Vincent smiles at that, an all too familiar buzz seeps through his chest. Alastor always manages to make him feel like he’s okay, that somehow- theres something in him thats worth a damn.
“Thank you.”
Alastor lays down on the bed, pulling Vincent close to him until the television host decides to curl up into him and shut his eyes.
“Try to get some more rest, pal. You really do need it.” Alastor half heartedly muses aloud, picking up his hands and gently pushing them into the base of Vincent’s scalp.
Vincent practically melts into that touch, chasing the sensation of those fingers in his hair until he inevitably falls fast asleep beside Alastor.