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Vox’s lair had never felt more ominous.
Alastor had visited this place many times, though never of his own accord. Most of the time, it was because Vox could not go a second without someone to listen to his trivial rambling. Lucky for him (and unlucky for Alastor), the Radio Demon was the perfect candidate to do so.
But today was different. Although Alastor was still restrained, and he still found himself taking unwilling refuge in the dark room, it was so incredibly different. There was no boasting. No pointless parleys. No breaking out into song. For the most part, it was complete silence, with the occasional crackling of static.
Vox stood, back to Alastor, staring out of the Vee Tower and far into the distance. Seconds turned into minutes, which was bound to turn into something more. Still, Vox did not move. Not when screaming rain thrummed against the glass, or when Alastor spun around in his chair out of boredom, or when the other Vees came knocking, one of them concerningly aroused and the other unnecessarily angry. All of Hell could come crashing down on him, and still, Vox would not move.
Alastor decided this was the best time to speak up.
“You aren’t actually planning to go through with this, are you?” He inquired boorishly, tone jumping between positively amused and utterly flat.
Vox turned his head to face Alastor, and then the rest of his body followed suit. His left eye quirked up. There was a hint of something in his face; not regret, but contemplation. Then, after a long pause, his demeanor shifted. He grinned widely, displaying a set of sharp, digital teeth. He brought his hands behind his back.
“Pssh, of course I am!” He exclaimed like it was common sense; some prior wisdom that Alastor was being shunned for not knowing. Vox clenched his fist, pumping it in the air triumphantly. “You see it too, don’t you?”
He took his hand, revealing his palm, and directed it towards the large display of windows. The large, seraphic sphere floating in the sky somehow seemed to glare right back at them. Alastor found it to be sickeningly beautiful. It wasn’t something to admire, but something to exploit.
Too bad Vox had already taken that into his own hands.
“My victory is just past the horizon. All I’m waiting for is that one final push… the one that’s going to bring all my plans together. It’s going to be perfect, just you wait and see.”
The TV Demon’s gloating was nails-on-chalkboard to Alastor’s ears. At some point in time, he might have found the trait to be tolerable; almost endearing, as a matter of fact. Silly Vox, always ranting about his evil schemes, his out-of-reach ideas. Meeting someone who was filled with so much idiocy that it was amusing; well, it sparked something in him. But like all sparks, the flame would die out eventually, cursed to never light the same again.
“There’s still time to reconsider.” Folding one leg over the other, Alastor shot Vox a smug look. If he were not modest, or if the ropes entangled around his body did not prevent him from doing so, he might have even flipped the other man the bird. “No one will hold it against you, I’m sure. Back off quietly, and Hell will forget this ever happened— except for I, of course. Sure, I’ll get a kick out of it for the next decade or so, but that’s a small price to pay compared to the path you’re headed down now.”
Vox furrowed his brows, arms stuffed into one another as he tried to hide his blatant perplexion. “The path I’m headed down now? What path? The only path I know is the path to victory!”
“Victory? No no no, Vox… It’s much too late for that.” Alastor said scornfully. “I can assure you, it’s only going to get worse from here.”
“Oh, yeah? And why the hell would I believe you? All you’ve ever tried to do is bring me down!” Vox shot back just as harshly, but after a moment, composed himself. He readjusted his tie and then smoothed out his suit. “Not this time, though. I’ve hit a goldmine— all that’s left is for me to dig up the treasure.”
“Hm? What happened to sharing with your fellow Vees?” The Radio Demon teased, pressing forward. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to betray them, as well. While I certainly don’t support their frivolous activities, they seem to be the best thing that’s happened to you since you arrived down here!”
Vox’s face buffered, stuttering between a grimace and a glitching screen. His mouth opened, as if he wanted to say something, but no noise came out.
Alastor continued his monologue. “What an unfortunate outcome. I can’t say I’m surprised, though— even now, you can’t get by without empty promises.”
Vox clapped once to indicate his irony, but his face upheld the same deadpan. “Sorry to disappoint, but you don’t know a thing.”
Alastor pursed his lips. He leaned over to the side. Just past Vox’s unusually large shoulders, he managed to make out an array of photographs. Naturally, Velvette and Valentino had found their places amongst Vox’s walls, but their pictures had grown old and neglected. Unlike theirs, Vox’s frame was cleaned and polished to perfection.
In a way, it was gut-wrenchingly symbolic.
“Velvette and Valentino— they aren’t cut out for this thing, not like you and I.” Vox continued, closing the distance between him and the crimson-haired man. “Velvette is much too immature. She’s sloppy, she’s uncooperative, and her temper is a problem. Meanwhile, Valentino is… well, he’s Valentino.”
Alastor rolled his eyes.
“What a… touching… way to speak of your comrades…” He clicked his tongue. The cogs in his brain started to move, and although he didn’t mean to, he blurted out something that’d never even crossed his mind prior.
“I want you to tell me something, Vox.” He inquired. The words rolled off his tongue and were offered into the space with careful thought, each one spaced out equally from the next, lest he overstepped a line and be ridded of his control over the conversation. “If I had accepted your offer back then, would you have betrayed me too?”
The TV Demon chewed on his lip.
A-ha.
“It’s not a betrayal…” He mumbled, squared shoulders losing their tension. “It’s a strategy. When there’s an obstacle in the way, you eliminate it. That’s just how it is.”
“I suppose I can respect that.” Alastor shrugged.
He moved his gaze elsewhere; anywhere else would do. A distraction would be nice right now. Clearly, Vox was trying to do the same thing, but he had a much harder time succeeding. The TV Demon had always been very fidgety; his hands always searching for something to caress, his fingers always searching for something to grasp. Back then, they might have found their way to Alastor’s shoulders. Nowadays, they usually just find their way to his throat.
“You and I, hm?” Alastor pondered quietly. “Haven’t heard that one in awhile.”
Vox said nothing. Silently, he returned to his desk.
“There won’t be a ‘you and I’ if you go through with this.”
Still nothing.
“Perhaps I’m not articulating myself well enough. If you do this, there’s no turning back.”
When Vox ignored him again, Alastor’s smirk faltered. His nose scrunched up, and he could feel as his eyes began to narrow. In any other situation, his feigned empathy would have had Vox completely and emotionally at his mercy.
What on Earth could have changed? For all the tricks, for all the tomfoolery, this is the hill he wanted to die on? The one time Alastor was—
His nails dug into the side of the chair.
The one time Alastor was even remotely serious? Just a little?
Listening has always been a suggestion to the TV Demon. Whether it was something tiny, like tying his shoelaces, or something life-threatening, like trying to rewire his cables, Alastor’s advice had always gone dismissed.
It was almost laughable, really! He craved validation, but only on his terms! One wrong word, one wrong tone, and suddenly, he was getting hot in the face.
“Surely this is not how you want to die.” Alastor argued, but he might as well be arguing with the wall. There was an obvious irk in his voice, and he could feel himself growing irritated; whether Vox noticed or not was irrelevant. He’d stopped caring at that point. “Won’t you use that flat-faced head of yours and think for once? If you’re going to go out, at least go out in style! Those exorcists are going to have your head on a stake in a matter of seconds.”
“I’d like to see them try!” Vox scoffed, seeming dumbstruck that the crimson-haired man would suggest such a thing. “There’s no way I’m going to die! I can’t—”
A huff.
“—I won’t.”
“You say that now, but wait until you’re writhing around on the floor begging for mercy.”
“The only one who’s gonna be begging for mercy is you.”
“Oh? Finally planning to make good on your promise?” Alastor cocked his head, a bone crunching somewhere in his neck. “What was it again? You were going to… ‘slit my throat’...? What a hoot! You couldn’t kill me even if you tried!”
And you certainly have, Alastor struggled to add.
“You wanna bet on that?”
“I’ll have to decline.” He hummed. “You’ve got a world of defeat ahead of you— don’t let me steal the spotlight.”
Vox looked away.
To his own dismay, Alastor was not joking. Part of him felt as if he should shelter the other man, hide him away from the world and protect him from his ego. Lord knew Vox was too stubborn to do it on his own. Meanwhile, the other part of him felt as if he should allow the other man to fail, to realize the consequences of his actions and suffer for them.
Shame burned at his neck. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. The emotion was too real, too human, and that alone was enough to put him on edge. But being too human was what put him in this situation to begin with, wasn’t it? If he hadn’t been so kind, if he hadn’t strung the other man along, if he hadn’t strung himself along, perhaps this wouldn’t be happening.
He shook his head. There was no point in dwelling on the past; what’s done is done. He had already dug his hole, crawled in, and although he was not comfortable, made a commitment to stay there. And commitment was not something he took lightly.
“I really wanted you to join me.” Vox spoke up suddenly.
The lighting in the room shifted. A once-red hue became something darker and spotted with blues.
“We all want things we can’t have.” Alastor tilted his chin upward. “It’s a part of life.”
“I wanted it.” The TV Demon continued, jaw clenched, and although from a distance, Alastor swore he saw trembling. “I wanted it so badly. I wanted it more than anything else in the world.”
“Do you still?”
“Who cares?” Vox rose from his chair, voice scratchy with pretension and what sounded like sorrow. “I have you now, don’t I? We shook hands, we made a deal, and now you’re mine.”
“Am I, though?” Alastor flexed his ankle. “You have me, but you don’t really have me! I mean, seriously! What was the end goal here? Tying me up to a chair isn't going to contribute to your mastermind plans!”
Silence wafted around in the air.
“Maybe not.” Vox said firmly. His confidence was unfounded; a fallacy that tricked no one, not even himself. “But I don’t care.”
He took a single step forward. Then, after a couple more seconds of nothingness, he took another.
“You’re here for a reason.” His words were no longer hollow. This time, they were thick with meaning, with sentiment, with hurt. “You’re here to watch me succeed. You’re going to like it. And then maybe—”
Alastor debated attempting to fade away, but even if he did, the wires securing him to the chair would have prevented him from doing so. So, he sat and he listened.
“—Maybe then you’ll finally see how great I am.”
It was a threat, one that didn’t land, given that Vox was not a threatening man. Alastor had to stifle the laughter arising in his throat, which almost left him choking, but he managed to swallow it down before he made a fool of himself.
“Careful now, Vox!” Alastor sing-songed. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll think you’re sweet on me!”
The other man paused, his lips tying into a thin line. His hands balled into fists, static sparking along the rim of his hat as his screen grew darker. For a moment, just for a moment, Alastor swore he saw someone else. This new sinner sported a thicker head, displaying nervousness and agitation. He twiddled his thumbs, and when that wasn’t enough to sooth worries, he began fiddling with the silliest red tie known to man, hidden beneath a thin gray vest.
Alastor’s smile wavered as fear washed over the entire length of his being. “...You’re not, are you?”
A scoff.
“No. Of course not.”
After that, the room grew still a final time.
The sight before him isn’t a pretty one.
Some may even call it unholy; although, that doesn’t mean much, since everything is unholy down here. Acts of terrorism, hating thy neighbor, using the Lord’s name in vain. There’s no wickedness like the Pride Ring, that’s for sure.
Alastor takes a step forward. The tiniest of steps, because he’s afraid if he moves any further, he might lose his balance and tumble to the floor. He clutches his left arm, suppressing a wince. For the most part, the bleeding has stopped, but not enough to avoid staining his bare palm. It’s a sticky and uncomfortable sensation, one he may have indulged once before, but now, it just makes him feel gross.
Not just this, but everything else, too. He has not stopped feeling outright disgusted ever since he got himself wound up in this mess. No doubt these feelings would persist even long after the ordeal has closed.
Alastor stops, glances down, and stares.
Vox’s screen is completely and utterly shattered. Alastor stares and stares, searching for some sign of life, searching for a faint glimmer of light or flicker of static, but he finds nothing. Glass shards are scattered across the area, big and small, thick and thin. For a moment, Alastor wonders if he could pick up the remains and put him back together, just as he was before.
He shakes his head.
Nearby, a dark figure develops into frame.
“I didn’t call you here.”
“You didn’t have to!” His shadow exclaims, slithering to his side, defying all the laws of physics and light and probably many more. “Me and you, we’re one in the same! There’s no escaping that!”
Lately, it has felt less like an extension of himself, and more so a creature of its own. The figure lacks color and depth, but still, it continues to wear that familiar cruel smile.
“You’re dismissed.”
The shadow cackles, a noise that is only audible to Alastor. “What? You must be joking! You know that’s not how this works!”
“Well if you’re not going to be of any use, then won’t you just be quiet?” Alastor grinds his teeth. It’s been less than a minute, and he’s already reaching the threshold of his anger. Why does this thing have to be here, and now?
His shadow frowns, but quiets. Although he cannot send it away for good, he can order, and best believe his orders will be followed.
Alastor turns back to the lifeless corpse at his feet, still just as unresponsive as it was before. He stares. He isn’t mourning, he’s just… reminiscing. After all, what does he have to mourn? The mockery? The unwarranted physical touch? Being tied to a chair and forced to listen to that incessant rambling? He should be saying “good riddance!” All he has left to mourn is the remission of his not-so-endless entertainment!
Besides, that problem can easily be fixed. Like by devouring innocent sinners, or taking a trip to Cannibal Town, or antagonizing the King of Hell. There’s no need for pointless rivalries like this.
He wants to say something to the other man. Taunt him. Perhaps even kick him a couple times, just for good measure. But he doesn’t.
He just stares.
“Hm? Still hanging around?” His shadow speaks up, again, head cocked as its tone grows pitchy and perplexed. “What’s the sour face for? Wishing you could finish the job yourself? I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news, but if you think he’s getting up any time soon, you’re going to be waiting here for a very long time!”
The right side of Vox’s stomach has been torn open, blood damp against his suit and pooling around the ground beneath him. Wires sprouted from the wound, tangled together beyond fixing.
“Ah, I see now! This is guilt you’re feeling, isn’t it? I would know— I am you, after all!” His shadow giggles, gaze upturned and patronizing. “Oh, don’t be like that. I mean, what else could you have done? His stupidity was clearly stronger than your persuasiveness!”
Alastor stares.
“Come now, stop staring. We’ve got strings to pull! Deals to make! Districts to seize!”
He tries, but he is unable to tear his eyes away from the scenery in front of him. His stomach churns, and his already-terrible headache pounds harder against his skull. He brings the back of his hand up to his temples, swiping away the beads of sweat that are blurring his vision.
His knees feel weak again, and he stumbles a little, pressing his staff into the dirt to prevent himself from toppling over.
“Stop staring.”
One of Vox’s hands rests over his abdomen, while the other is extended, reaching for something he’d never find. How poetic. Even in death, he’s still holding on. Alastor looks back on that fateful day seventy years ago, the same hand outstretched to him. He doesn’t regret not shaking it; the Radio Demon doesn’t have regrets. But if he could, he’d do things differently. Perhaps he’d change his tone, or hold back his laugh, or let the TV Demon down a little more gently.
Not that he didn’t have it coming. Approaching him so suddenly with that silly proposal; what was he thinking? In what scenario— in what world— in what universe would Alastor accept something so ridiculous?
His train of thought comes to a halt.
He did like Vox; as much as he was capable of liking someone, that is.
Perhaps, if given the chance, he’d take the other man’s hand. He wouldn’t shake it, but he would take it. His palm would linger a moment too long, taking in the warmth he’d never experience again. And then he would break the news.
“He was a damned fool! Hell is better off without him— you understand that as well as anyone, don’t you?”
Although Alastor is not the Exorcist that wielded this blade, he still feels responsible for this. If he had just done a little more, if he had just been a little more convincing, Vox would not have died for such a pathetic and stupid cause.
“This was bound to happen sooner or later! Lord knows he would’ve come back stronger, only to fall down just as tragically.”
Vox’s screen is completely and utterly shattered. The right side of his stomach has been torn open, blood damp against his suit and pooling around the ground beneath him.
“Come on.”
One of his hands rests over his abdomen, while the other is extended, reaching for something he’d never find. Alastor still feels responsible for this.
“Stop staring.”
Alastor pauses. He stares. He stares for a long time. He stares, investigating every detail, creating a mental database for the man he’d never see again. His heart aches like it never has before.
Then he stops staring. He turns around on his heel, face splitting into an ambiguous smile, hands clasped behind his back.
“That’s the spirit!” His shadow beams barbarically. “After all, there’s no point in crying over spilt milk! This is a minor setback at best! Your only takeaway from this should be, well… try harder next time?”
His shadow continues to gab, but Alastor isn’t listening. He trudges away, almost daring to look back but resisting the burning urge.
Next time? There will be no next time.
That sinner was adjacent to poison, a poison so malignant yet so addicting Alastor couldn’t help but come back for more. Even when that poison flowed through his veins and flared up in his lungs, clawing at his esophagus and making it hard to breathe, he did not let go.
And now that poison has been flushed from his body. Vox is dead, and the void in Alastor’s chest will never be filled again.
At least, he thinks so. The new figure in the distance has begun to prove him otherwise.
The Hazbin Hotel is buzzing today. Sinners stretch as far as the eye can see, covering every corner, every inch of the lobby. Drinks are being poured, toasts are being made; truly a remarkable display! At least, that’s what Alastor would believe if he had a good soul, which he does not. He much prefers the silence of two, maybe three residents, but anything more than that is too much.
Alastor meanders through the crowd, though he’s hardly calm, seeing as his attempts are swiftly denied by hoards of sinners that nearly topple him over. No doubt they’re in a hurry to see what Charlie Morningstar has to say next. He can’t help but growl, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. He debates slicing their heads clean off, but decides against it. They don’t know any better, and he is not in the mood to teach.
He clutches the staff in his hands, teeth shifting back and forth.
It’s fine. He just has to make it to his room.
Per their deal, he made a vow to Rosie he would resume his duties as an earnest host. Luckily for him, Rosie is not here, so he faces no consequences for his actions; or lack thereof. After all, servicing this dull group of sinners is much too boring for the likes of him! If he’s going to be forced to do something so ridiculous, it’s only fair that he gets to have a little fun with it.
Vaggie passes by, carrying a stack of cardboard boxes in her hands. It’s not long before she, too, is overrun by sinners who are eager to make a mess of the place. In less than a second, the boxes have flown into the air, papers and accessories and other useless items going along with them. She groans, wings fluttering frustratedly. Her fingers ball up and she knocks a fist into the ground, staring up at Alastor with a vexed expression.
“Uh, a little help here?”
Alastor chews on his bottom lip, hands entangled behind his back. He says nothing. He knows he doesn’t have to; the message will get itself across. There is not a single obligation he feels to this hotel, and not a single obligation will he fulfill.
She squints, waiting for an answer. That endeavor is shut down speedily. Then she gets to her feet, picking up the scattered trinkets, muttering in a language that is indecipherable to him.
He’s never been all that fond of the fallen angel. It’s nothing personal, really; but rather, she is just so boring. Charlie Morningstar is naive, Lucifer Morningstar is easily aggravated, Nifty can hardly think for herself, and that makes them fun. But this girl? She’s much too confident for her own good.
Alastor continues making his way through the crowd, manipulating his shadow this way and that, which has cooperated with him thus far. He appreciates that, knowing as soon as they are away from the public eye, the torment will resume.
Fortunately, torment is not a foreign concept to him. He does not fear this thing, or whatever it might have to say to him, so when given a final opening up the stairs and down the dreadfully long hallway, he takes it. Staying out there for a second longer would be much harsher torment than a lifetime of teases.
Alastor runs a hand through his crimson hair. His previously-flattened ears have returned to their usual, calm state. He pushes through to his room and kicks the door behind him just as quickly.
Letting out a long sigh, he presses his back into the wood. Basking in the relief is easy; he hasn’t felt this at peace in the past seventy years. But the relaxation soon twists into agitation, an itch, a need for something to do, so it’s not long until he pushes himself upright, stumbling towards his desk and the large mirror that hangs above it.
He really wants a drink right now.
Alastor rummages around for the bottle of whiskey, one of many bottles, though most are empty. His hands shake at a lethal pace as he tries to pop open the cap. There’s not much inside, but there’s enough; enough to get him through the night, or at least, the next thirty minutes.
“You really gonna drink that?”
Alastor stills. Slowly, he raises his head, fingers clasped loosely around the rim. He stares into the mirror as the figure enters his field of vision. Of course; why wouldn’t that thing be here? The wretched picture-box doesn’t really do much. Most of the time, he just stands there, hands stuffed into his pockets and sporting a wicked smile on his face.
Alastor does his best to ignore it, aiming to tighten his grip but failing as sweat forms around his palms. His eye twitches. This is fine, is the phrase that keeps circling his mind. You are fine. You are absolutely swell.
“Not cool. Really.” Vox tsks. He folds his arms, shaking his head disappointedly. “Don’t you know what that stuff does to you?”
“Shut up.” Alastor mumbles. A weak retort. He hasn’t yet worked up the courage to turn around, let alone look the other man in the eyes. There’s a sharp throb in his temples, which is much harder to ignore than everything else going on right now.
It’s not long before he crosses the line between wanting and needing, as he’s already becoming desperate, biting his lip with frustration as his skin becomes clammy and his chest aches with yearn.
He needs this. He needs this so badly.
“He’s right, you know.” Alastor’s shadow makes its way into frame, wrapping around Vox’s left leg, then his right shoulder, then zig-zagging around the room so fast soon-to-be-intoxicated Alastor cannot keep up. “This is so… unlike you. Unlike us, I mean! I never thought I’d see the day you’d drink yourself silly, and here you are, ready to do it like it's breathing!”
Meanwhile, the TV Demon is completely unbothered by the shadow’s physical advances. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t even seem to notice its presence. His glare is laser-focused on the back of Alastor’s head, and he can feel it.
“You won’t even reply?” Vox sounds dejected as he brings a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded. I knew you could be harsh, but…”
“Shut. Up.” The words fall out of his mouth before he can catch them. The lack of composure is utterly humiliating, but he can care less, because these creatures will not live to tell the tale. Literally. They haven’t. “Go away. Get out—”
The bottle.
It won’t open.
A heavy feeling hangs in the air and weighs on his shoulders. Exasperation doesn’t even begin to describe it; not the way he’s twisting and turning and praying the cap will screw itself off.
From an outside perspective, the situation must be laughable, and he’s sure the Gods above are doing just that; laughing. He expects this must be karma. Karma for what exactly, he can’t tell, because there are so many… No, too many things to count, and for a moment he wishes he could take it all back, whatever it is.
“How about you and I make a deal?” A gentle set of fingers find their usual way into Alastor’s shoulders, seizing them, squeezing them with some kind of reassurance. Then they ascend, stroking his neck, not enough to strangle but hard enough to hurt. Finally, finally, Alastor glances back at the mirror, peering into the eyes of the other man, everything else but a blur.
“I’ll leave,” Vox says simply.
A knot forms in Alastor’s stomach.
“But if you’re gonna do this, make sure you go all the way, okay?”
His hands shake. He releases the one pinning down the cap, reaching to pry the fingers below his jawline, and—
Pop.
The cap flies off its handle, causing the bottle to slip out of his hands. Hurriedly, he drops to his knees, panicking as liquid oozes into the carpet below. Frantically, he fumbles to save the remaining alcohol, critical thinking overtaken by a nervous frenzy.
He curses under his breath once, twice, then a third time.
“Shit, Al!” Vox releases his grip, and instead buckles over with his arms around his abdomen, letting out a howl. “You couldn’t even do that right?”
His shadow quickly follows, bringing a hand up to its depthless mouth, and it’s not long before the room is filled with cruel laughs and giggles that Alastor is more susceptible to than he wants to admit.
Relief washes over his body as he returns to his senses. A small amount of whiskey remains. The twitching comes to a halt, and he manages to finally coax the liquid into his cup. With a toss of his head, he takes a large gulp, appreciating the bitter sensation traveling down his throat and sending tingles throughout his veins.
At some point, Vox stops laughing. His expression has grown glassy; well, as glassy as a television can be. His head has lowered and his brows do not waiver.
Alastor, too, goes silent. Then, without ever breaking eye contact, he brings his cup to his lips again and takes another drink. It’s small, but it’s enough to speak volumes.
“Still getting whatever you want.” Vox simply shrugs. “Figures.”
Then he slinks away. His shadow shoots him a nasty frown before following suit, disappearing to a place Alastor cannot see but acknowledges its presence. For the first time, being alone has never felt more nerve-wracking.
Click. Click. Click.
Alastor struts down the Vee District. He can’t remember what compelled him to come here, or what compelled him to leave his room in the first place. All he knows is that he’s here now, wandering the streets like a lost puppy, mindlessly, aimlessly. He’s sure this must’ve been an accident, but who’s to say? After all, he’s too far in now. He might as well finish his stroll.
The place is… deserted, almost. A nearby billboard decorated with strobing lights flickers on, and Alastor adjusts his monocle to take a better look. Velvette and Valentino pose promiscuously, caressing an innocent Hellborn’s face.
The photo is lacking their most important feature. Alastor scoffs at their new-found temperament; is it truly that easy to forget? To pretend that silly TV Demon never existed, to pretend he didn’t build the entire foundation of their business from sticks and stones? Now, Alastor isn’t one for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, but even he can recognize Vox’s success, and the shortcomings of his former co-workers.
They will fall soon enough.
Admittedly, he finds himself a little jealous. The concept of forgetting, the concept of leaving the past where it belongs— in the past— it’s something that he cannot grasp. There is no point in reminiscing, yet all he can do is reminisce. Not about anything in particular, naturally; but that man… he always seems to loiter in the back of his mind, persisting, never letting go.
A rough shove against his shoulder yanks him from his reverie. An annoyed sinner walks on by, whipping his head around and giving him an unholy finger.
“Watch where you’re going next time, why don’t’cha?”
The words come and go, and they’re not meant to hold any significance, yet Alastor can’t help but linger on them.
He stops dead in his tracks, the clack of his shoes coming to a halt. A couple beats of nothingness pass by, and he can feel brows begin to knit. First comes the disbelief; the sheer audacity of this man! Who on Earth does he think he is, striding around the streets like he owns the place, behaving like he’s the first coming of Christ?
Why, he hasn’t seen confidence like this in ages.
Not since… Well, it doesn’t matter all that much now.
Then comes the anger. His fingers curl into fists, nails digging into his palms hard enough to bruise, and he’s sure if he digs any harder the skin will break. That is a price he is willing to pay; after all, he will regenerate, but his nerves will not if he doesn’t soothe them this instant.
Alastor doesn't hesitate a second longer before summoning a long, brooding tentacle from nothingness and snaking it around the sinner’s waist. His grip tightens, and he hasn’t fully registered what he’s doing until he’s sent the sinner hurling into a nearby building, and the gut-wrenching scream that follows.
A cloud of dust forms due to the crumbling brick, and from where he’s standing, Alastor can make out faint coughing and a collection of blasphemous language. When the smoke clears, the sinner opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, another tentacle strikes him smack-straight in the face. Glass shards dissipate on impact.
Only then does he realize the familiarity of this man’s design. He isn’t anywhere close to the real thing; this sinner is accompanied by many more buttons and outlets, but it’s familiar nonetheless.
He sends out another tendril. It’s more violent this time; more angrier, more personal. It lands somewhere between the sinner’s chest and his hips, and when Alastor pulls the shadowed entity away, wires hang loosely around the edge.
Yes, this is familiar indeed.
Too familiar.
Tentacles muster from the ground faster than Alastor can process them.
He keeps going and going, and not once do his clasped hands leave his back. Not once does he truly touch the innocent man, but rather, allows his shadow to do the work. And although he cannot see it, he’s sure the vile creature must be enjoying it.
The crimson-haired man wishes he could share that sentiment. He tries to tighten his smile, he tries to let out a cackle that will remind passersby not to cross him, but instead his expression falters, and the only noise that comes out is a feeble huff.
He can’t remember calling his shadow off, he just knows that it happens, and he knows that he has left the sinner fearful and broken and beyond traumatized for the rest of his life. Small whines and whimpers can be heard. He doesn’t care. Sympathy is not becoming of the Radio Demon.
Click. Click. Click.
Heels ring out against the pavement behind him.
No one is actually there. He knows that.
He circles around anyway.
“Feel better?”
Vox stands with a hand on his hip, the other limp at his side. He’s not giving Alastor one of his bared, cruel smiles, nor is his face contorted uncomfortably with rage. He just stares.
Alastor’s stomach churns with uncomfortability, along with a twisted mix of dissatisfaction and sorrow. He’d like to reply with snark, to prove his point to a conversation that isn’t even happening, to a fantasy that doesn’t exist, but he cannot. So instead, he stares back.
There’s nothing else for him to do.
Vox is dead, and anything Alastor has to say about it will forever go unheard.
That’s the truth that he’s concluded.
Alastor is swimming.
At least, that’s what it feels like. He imagines he is still in New Orleans, and he’s laid down next to shore, and somewhere along the way he’s floated halfway across the ocean. He’s never been much of a swimmer. Of the very few things he fears in life, water ranks incredibly high on his mental roster. The unpredictability of it all is what shakes him the most. Is that a mermaid or a sea monster stirring a couple feet away? What are the chances it’ll grab him by the ankle and drag him to the bottom of the ocean? How long will it take for him to swim back up to the surface?
But no, he doesn't need to worry about any of that anymore. He doesn't need to worry at all, because worry no longer clogs his mind.
At last, he feels at ease in the presence of the ocean. He feels safe. He feels safe because he knows that for once in his life, nothing can get him out here. Not that scaly creature or that jagged-toothed beast or the impending doom that wafts around in the air. And even if that isn't true, even if he’s totally and completely vulnerable to the dangers of the sea, maybe he's just stopped caring. It’ll only take a second, Alastor thinks, It’ll only hurt a bit.
He takes a sip.
The water around him ripples softly, and when it grazes the hairs on his head he can only wince, before settling back into his position as he embraces the cold. It’s numbing. He finds himself in a state of mind where he doesn't have to be “mindful” of anything; because ignorance is bliss, and he is ignorant.
There's no responsibilities weighing down on his shoulders. There's no idiotic sinners who disrespect him without apology. There’s no nagging figures, telling him where he should and shouldn't be and what he should and shouldn't do.
Not right now, that is.
Their voices remain. He can't see them, but he can hear them. He can feel them. In a way, they're almost captivating. Their voices are smooth as silk, though Alastor can't recall if they've always been that smooth or if that's just a figment of his imagination. Even in his softest, most tranquil moments, the voices will always be there. Waiting, wondering, lurking with their calendars wide open, making sure they won’t miss his next near-death experience. That’s what they do best; they wait.
He takes another sip. Salty.
The waves are a little stronger this time, washing over his neck and beneath the cave of his ribs. His skin tingles in reply. A flock of dark clouds overhead move in slow-motion, releasing heavy beads of rain against his forehead, which trickle into his mouth.
It’s not just salty this time. It’s bitter.
Before he can even realize it, an invisible force presses down on his chest. He doesn’t know what to do, how to react, whether he should fight back or accept the fate that has been chasing him since he landed here all those years ago. To say he’s horrified is an understatement. The lack of power. The lack of will.
He takes a gulp; more than intended.
A fit of coughs ensue. Water drives its way into his mouth and engulfs his lungs. He’s not floating anymore; he’s drowning. He kicks and flaps and flails in an attempt to stay atop the surface. His throat burns, and when he tries to call out for nothing in particular, the only sound that arises is a strained gurgle.
The water is beyond freezing now, and although Alastor naturally runs cold, goosebumps still dot his skin and his fingertips still grow numb. They search for something, anything to pull him up, but water isn’t exactly tangible.
He’s petrified, but at the same time, he can’t get enough. The adrenaline, the thrill that comes with indulging in an activity that only hurts and never helps. After all, he’s too far in now. Is it really so bad if he wants to sink a little deeper?
The bottle slips from his fingers.
It’ll only hurt a bit.
Suddenly, he’s no longer at sea.
Alastor approaches consciousness with a start. He lays in his room now, though the atmosphere is equally chilly. The lights are low, gusts of wind blow from the Earthly side of his personal space, and the silence is deafening. His hair is drenched, and loose curls cling to his forehead even when he moves to rub them away, though he knows it’s from sweat and not ocean water.
His heart thumps in his chest, begging to jump free.
He’s surrounded by multiple other empty bottles. Each one is labeled with a different flavor; not that it matters. It all tastes the same to him anyway, and at the end of the day, it’s still whiskey.
It’s always whiskey. It always has been.
He sighs, leaning against the frame of his bed, the wood floor cool against his already-frigid body.
“You really went overboard this time.”
A fictitious figure emerges from the darkness.
Alastor groans, turning his head in the other direction. He wants to look literally anywhere else, hoping that if he pretends that thing isn’t here, it’ll go away.
“Overboard? Who’s gone overboard?” He inquires, voice barely above a whisper. When nothing is returned, he glares up. “Not me. I’m just peachy.”
Vox curls his lip, before quickly replacing it with a grin.
“Sure about that?” He plops down next to the Radio Demon, and like always, fails to maintain an appropriate distance. “You look like shit.”
Wonderful. This is exactly what Alastor needs right now; company with a side of hollow insults. He wants to stand up and walk away, but when he tries, his body groggily falls back to where it was before.
He brings a knee to his chest. Like always, he finds it hard to form words for this cruel man. Why should he, though? He doesn’t owe Vox a thing, yet somehow, the pressure to respond weighs on him.
“Why are you here?” He says finally.
“Why am I here?” Vox snorts with incredulity. Then he puts a hand on his chin, pondering. He’s not actually pondering; Alastor knows this is merely an intimidation tactic, and the figment of his imagination already knows exactly what he wants to say. “Why not? You don’t appreciate my company?’
“No.” Alastor bites his tongue. “Leave.”
He can’t explain why he’s still allowing this. He’s not supposed to. He vows against it; at least, in his sober hours. It’s too bad that Alastor is terrible at keeping promises. Perhaps it's the realism that’s convincing him to go back on his word. The sparks forming around Vox’s top hat, the gloss of his face when light hits the screen, the low grumble every time he speaks.
“You know I can’t do that.” Vox shoots back blankly. Coldy. He holds his head against the bedframe, rim hitting the mattress. His eyes remain on Alastor. “That’s up to you, remember?”
Up to me. Alastor snorts. Nothing has ever been up to him, not in his entire life. Not since the day he was born, not since the day he died, and not since the day he respawned in Hell with unfathomable power and a brand new reputation.
“If it were up to me, you would have been long gone by now.”
“Have you even tried?” Vox cackles. He throws an arm around Alastor’s shoulders, nails digging into his skin, the other prodding at his chest. “Admit it! You like having me around. No mask you put on is ever gonna change that.”
“...You’re mistaken.”
Vox doesn’t seem to be listening. He’s moving in closer, smile expanding wider, digital saliva rolling down his chin. Meanwhile, Alastor is leaning away, and he nearly falls over before catching himself on his hands.
His eyes narrow, darting around the room. Sweat drips from his collarbones. His ears press back against his will and he bares his teeth. While despising how vulnerable it makes him come across as, he’s too aggravated to pull himself together. Even now, he’s still not strong enough to stand up and just walk away.
The TV Demon doesn’t look much like himself anymore. Sure, Alastor is capable of making out his basic features, but to a certain degree. His screen is completely and utterly shattered. The right side of his stomach has been torn open, blood damp against his suit and pooling around the ground beneath him.
“You’re not scared, are you?” Vox asks without a care.
Alastor is close to bursting. The uneasiness, the unwarranted proximity, the call that snickers in his ears. He feels utterly claustrophobic. Why must this happen now? Why must this always happen?
The fact that he may have embraced this in the far past is incomprehensible to him. Being acknowledged. Being spoken to. Being validated, even if the heightened ego only drove him to becoming his worst self; who he is now. Of course he misses these moments. These special, special moments, shared only between the two of them.
He has two choices. Leave, or do nothing.
Alastor tenses up.
His hands shake once. Twice.
“Holy shit, you are!”
Vox releases his grasp on Alastor’s shoulder, instead slapping his knee and letting his malicious laugh ring throughout the bedroom. He seems to have returned to his usual self; physically, at least.
Scared? No, surely not. That word is much too foreign for him.
“Hey, that’s okay. It’s okay to be scared. I don’t judge.” He leans in again, closer than ever before, causing Alastor to stumble back on instinct. He brings a hand to the other man’s torso, attempting to shove him away, but failure greets him almost immediately.
Pause. Vox continues.
“Y’know, if it ever gets to be too much, you could just…” Vox makes a gesture with his fingers, reminiscent of a stick figure. Then he reveals his palm, the figure vanishing into thin air. “...Disappear?”
He tilts his head innocently.
“...You’re good at disappearing, aren’t you?”
Alastor scrambles to his feet and stumbles away.
He’s never considered himself to be much of a drinker; unfortunately, as of late, he finds it less of an activity and more of a habit. An addiction, if you will, though he’ll never call it that out loud. It's peculiarly therapeutic. It's not often he gets the chance to let loose, to allow his emotions the privilege of running wild, or being able to omit them completely.
Of course, his spiral sessions only ever commence in private. He can't even remember the last time he's had a drink in public. Most of the time, he just summons up whatever he can find that doesn't require him to leave his room. Naturally, this increased alone time has Charlie and her band of misfits fussing over him like there's no tomorrow. He avoids running into them when he can; whether it's out of annoyance or shame, he doesn't care. It's easier this way.
However, today, he declares he will quit his sulking, just this once. After all, what good is it to waste away in that hotel when he can waste away anywhere else? The odds of him going completely blotto is a risk he’s willing to take, a risk he hasn’t taken in a very long time. Besides, it's not like anyone is bold enough to test him, especially not these no good drunks he's chosen to surround himself with.
He steps into his local bar and does his best to not immediately regret it. He hums, adjusting his bowtie, and strides through the building. A couple bystanders turn to take a look, some blatantly curious, others inspecting forebodingly. And he lets them; he decides it's not worth starting a fight, and that they will be better off living in fear of what he can possibly do as opposed to what he can actually do.
Promptly, he finds his favorite spot at the long wood table, which is conveniently empty. It’s perfect for many reasons; one, for being close enough to people-watch, and two, for being far enough to seem like he’s minding his business.
Alastor flicks a coin in the bartender’s direction, who replies with nothing but a nod before turning to make his drink. There’s no specifics on what he wants; the other man seems to remember, despite the crimson-haired man’s abrupt and extensive disappearance.
He’s relieved to see the bar appears exactly as it did back in his prime. All the recent ones that have been popping up are too flamboyant with their fluorescent lights, their unchaste signs, their ridiculous amount of lap dancers… he finds it all to be an eyesore.
But not this. Nostalgia dances around his heart, warming him up from the inside. When his glass— it’s whiskey, which goes without saying— slides in his direction, the smile already on his face only grows wider. The best descriptor for his state of mind is “detached”. He exists in a place where only good feelings reside, prohibiting the bad ones from plaguing his thoughts any longer.
In the corner of the lot, his shadow monitors ominously. Its mouth is tied into a thin line, and its eyes are narrowed, but still, it says nothing, despite the obvious dissatisfaction drifting around in the space between them. Alastor reciprocates its silence, though he does not reciprocate its resentment. He understands it though; he, too, remembers a time he was leashed.
He’s sure Vox is there as well, but for whatever reason, refuses to show himself. That’s more than okay on Alastor’s terms. The absence is nerve-wracking, yes, but he will accustom himself if this is what it takes to move on for good.
He raises his glass to the distant figures, maintaining a pace of steadiness that reads not cautiousness but self-assurance. A toast, of some sort; though he hasn’t figured out what they’re toasting to.
He’s sure it’s pointless anyway.
The creatures do nothing. Alastor is triumphant.
That’s the only drink he has for the rest of the day.
Alastor hangs on the edge of his bed, nails digging into the sheets. His shoulders are slouched and his back aches from the terrible posture he’s subjected himself to. He guides a cigar up to his lips, drawing in a long, shaky breath, before releasing it with equal uncertainty. The Radio Demon is sure he looks utterly pathetic, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it.
The room is dimly lit, the only thing preventing it from absolute darkness being the candle on his desk. It’s scented with pine needles, he assumes, though it’s hard to make out through the smoke crawling up his nostrils. How unpleasant, is his thought on the matter. But the displeasure is not great enough to override his need for a hobby, so he persists.
He spins it between his fingers, slightly amused. A couple specks go flying; he remains indifferent. If he’s lucky, one may even start a fire. Lord knows he’d love to see this place crash and burn; literally!
With a tenuous smile, he inhales another puff of air.
From behind him, a hidden influence begins to buzz. Buzzing quickly turns into sparking, and before Alastor can turn his head to locate the origin, a bolt of electricity races through the cracks of the floor as the man Alastor wants to see the least conjures up in front of him.
He hardly acknowledges Vox’s presence; at least, he pretends not to, gazing just past the TV Demon and instead at the wall behind him. Vox stands there for a couple moments, a little irked by the lack of attention. However, he does not make a point to achieve it. Rather, he moves to Alastor’s side, sitting himself wherever he can find room. For the first time in forever, he keeps his distance.
“You’ve been smoking that thing for an hour now.” He points out callously. “Funny. You didn’t peg me as the type.”
Alastor says nothing, exhaling softly. He doesn’t look Vox in the eyes; he decides anywhere else will do.
“It’s better than drinking your troubles away, I guess.” Vox shrugs, leaning back into his palms. Clearly, he does not wait to make himself comfortable. “Personally, I’d wreck my lungs over my liver any day— not that I have any. I haven’t for a long time. Nothin’ but wires in here.”
He grins widely, striking his abdomen with a closed fist, and the noise that comes out is hollow and tolling.
Still, the crimson-haired man does not allow that thing the gratification of hearing him speak. He sucks in his bottom lip, gnawing on the loose skin. He wonders if he’ll draw blood, if he hasn’t done so already.
“Either way, they’re both pretty bad.” He cocks his head in Alastor’s direction. “You should probably put it out.”
For an instant, he considers listening. Would it really be so bad, to swallow his dignity and do what’s right? Granted, there isn’t a correct definition for “right” and “wrong” in Hell. Actions are defined by what the demon in question wishes to do; common morals have never stopped any soul. And right now, he wants a smoke.
He snorts. Then he stills. Then he listens regardless, driving the lit end of the cigar into his bedframe, and flicks it off into the distance.
“Attaboy.” Vox cheers with satisfaction, but when Alastor keeps upholding the facade of not caring, which he does not, that satisfaction swiftly distorts into displeasure.
“You can cut it out with the silent treatment.” He says darkly, lowering his head. He pauses, and then proceeds. “You know that shit doesn’t work on me. It never has.”
Another pause.
“Yes, that’s right.” Alastor murmurs at last. He runs a hand through his hair, thumb massaging his temples, voice barely above a whisper. “How could I forget?”
Without glancing back, he stumbles to his feet, and after making sure he can actually hold himself upright, makes his way to the door. His fingers fumble with the doorknob, the other set ready to push as soon as he succeeds. His mind for once, does not race, but instead, circles at a leisurely pace. He knows that if he stays any longer, this numb sensation will become a feeling too unmanageable for the likes of him.
“You gonna disappear? Like you did back then?”
The Radio Demon stops. He knows all too well that he has lost the battle against time, and soon, he will also lose the battle against his emotions. There’s no use in fighting it, so he does not. He returns to his seat.
His composure is intact, for now.
“I didn’t have a choice.” He says slowly. “You and I both know that.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Vox shoots back. His tone is bitter. “Those months before you vanished, you seemed fuckin’ ecstatic. You must’ve just been dying to get away from me. I mean, seriously, Al! You couldn’t even send me a damn postcard?”
“Would you have liked it if I did?”
“No. But it would’ve helped.”
The words hit like a thousand tons. He shakes his head; left, right, then left again, the last swing positive to leave some kind of damage. He can’t understand, he doesn’t want to understand, he doesn’t want to be here and he doesn’t want to entertain this any longer, but the confessions are already spilling out like vomit and he just cannot stop himself.
“It wasn’t you. Perhaps you are too egocentric to comprehend what I am saying, but… it wasn’t you.”
Alastor finally looks Vox in the eye. The TV Demon is looking right back. He always is.
“So why?”
“It's not relevant anymore.”
“No, tell me. You owe me that much.”
He sighs, and keeps talking. He figures there’s no point in hiding the truth he should have disclosed a while ago, even if he’s disclosing it to a man not even real. “I had orders to follow. I had duties to maintain. Whatever you thought we had was not a priority.”
Vox quirks a brow with suspicion. Alastor can’t blame him. He’s notoriously known for his untrustworthiness, and how greatly he prides himself in it. But there’s one thing he can be certain of; he has never been more serious.
“...If it were up to me though,” He carries on, growing louder, the static behind his filter thickening with sincerity he’s stopped suppressing. “I would’ve come back in a heartbeat.”
The TV Demon blinks. His eyes widen, pupils quivering the longer static drifts on, and for a millisecond, Alastor thinks he looks innocent— almost child-like, even. He looks less like Vox and much more like Vincent, the Vincent Alastor knew and adored and still yearns to see again.
Hesitantly, he scooches an inch closer, closing the distance between them, and reaches out. He traces his finger along the rim of Vox’s screen. It’s cold and thin, as opposed to boxy and constantly in a state of overheating. He moves up to fidget with the TV Demon’s antennas, flicking them back and forth. One of them is jagged and wonky, while the other stands tall, rather than both being of perfect and equal length. Then they travel to his chest, inspecting his new and flashy suit, expecting it to be his older and much more modest gray vest.
Alastor grits his teeth, feeling the smallest bit of sorrow when he realizes that it is not.
Meanwhile, Vox seems… perturbed. He doesn’t shy away, but he looks like he wants to. Alastor is sure this sensation is unfamiliar to him; but then again, what would he know? It’s not as if Vox is alive to confirm, and it’s not as if Alastor has ever touched him like this in the first place.
“Back then,” Vox starts, Alastor’s fingertips still searching him. The gesture is not a search for something erotic, but a search for closure. “You asked if I was sweet on you.”
Alastor swallows. “I did.”
“...And I said no.”
“Was that a lie?”
“Not a lie,” Vox replies simply. “Just a bluff.”
He speaks like it’s common sense. This thing, this thing that is merely a manifestation of everything Alastor hates, speaking with utmost earnestly. But how can that even be possible? How can the man he’s spent so long hating be the source of his breakthrough?
Somehow, in that moment, it just clicks. His belated truth has finally come to light, and frankly, he feels foolish for not realizing it sooner. He feels foolish for a lot of things; for leaving the way he did, for leaving this man at all— the one man who needed to be left the least.
He left the man who harbored the realest emotion of them all; and towards him, of all sinners. The most intimate. The most human. The one emotion Alastor’s brain is not mature enough to decode.
It’s only natural Alastor feels some amount of guilt, because deep down, he knows he is the cause of this. He’s sure some part of him has always known.
“...And if the circumstances were different?” Vox asks quietly. “If the circumstances were different, would that have changed anything? Anything at all? Would you have felt… something?”
Alastor pauses, then he nods. “Yes, I suppose it would have.”
His hand, still resting on Vox’s chest, begins sinking into a hollow space. Although he’s taken by surprise, he does not remove it. Instead, he allows it to push further, savoring what little time he has left before it diminishes completely.
He knows what’s coming.
Vox opens his mouth slightly, but he says nothing. The words don’t come as naturally as they did before. So instead he just stares and stares and stares, lips still parted, eyes still widened, waiting for something that will not come.
When he vanishes, Alastor’s hand stays outstretched for a moment too long, before falling to his side and hitting the bedframe with a thud. He sits there for what seems like hours.
He doesn’t see Vox again after that, and somehow, he feels a little lighter.