Chapter Text
Many things could be said about Vox—most of them carefully curated by a formidable public relations machine that dictated much of the Pride Ring’s popular gossip—but one allegation he could never quite grab by the neck, and not for lack of trying, was his inability to let things go.
He knew exactly how he’d write his own headline: Forward-thinking man of the future and high-powered CEO, Vox: still lingering on that one time in life he got cut off at an intersection and thought about beating the culprit to death with the 5-iron in his trunk for the rest of the drive home, like a normal person. He hadn’t, because, as emphasized, he was a normal person. But damn, he wished he had. Very much.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was why you missed every shot you didn’t take.
All that to say: these days, Vox did his best to indulge his impulses. Not that he’d ever done much to restrain them when he was alive, either, but at least now it was an active choice, which surely had to count for something.
It got him into trouble sometimes, yes, but few things in Hell were completely risk-free. It was never a situation he couldn’t get himself out of. Most of the time, the worst he received was a sigh from Val and a dismissive scoff from Velvette, but both were always faintly amused.
Val must’ve been extra pissy today, though. Instead of the usual indulgent smile, his fingers were dug into Vox’s arms, wrinkling the deep blue suit fabric.
"Vox." Val sounded terse, as if he were trying to keep his temper under wraps, which was rare for him. Valentino, fondly, loved being a dramatic bitch. “You said you’d say something before you canceled shit."
Had he? Well, that was a stupid thing to agree to, if so. Since when did he need to run his decisions by anyone? He was the goddamn CEO, for fuck’s sake.
He told Val as much, albeit more brand-friendly, and based on the agitated twitch of the moth’s antennae, that was the wrong thing to say.
"Are you kidding me right now?"
Vox had really hoped that question was rhetorical, but with the lengthy pause that followed and the fact that Val hadn’t let go, he was becoming less certain. "No?" Vox tried. "If I cancel something, it’s for a good reason. I don’t see what the problem is."
"Because you’re not the only one in the company, Vox!" The hands left Vox’s arms, if only so Val could gesture agitatedly. "All we asked for was a heads up. You’ve gone and axed four projects this week—some of them outside your department, by the way—without letting Velvette or me know." Val tilted his chin up. "Most of the time, you at least make an effort to pretend to care what we think."
Had it really been four? If so many undertakings blurred together that easily, no wonder he’d cut them. Still, Val was clearly upset, and even if Vox didn’t completely understand why, he could say what the other wanted to hear.
"I’m sorry,” Vox said, grabbing Val’s lower hands. "Let me make it up to you? I can take us out for dinner, or we can order in, if you’d like. Your choice." He squeezed Val’s hands, careful to keep the pressure warm, familiar. "You know what you want is important to me."
For a moment, Val almost looked like he was going to melt into the affection, clasping Vox’s hands back, his expression softening. “You know what would make me even happier?” Val asked, cloyingly saccharine.
Vox tightened his hold just a touch, smiling wider. This should have worked. Why was Val making it difficult when Vox was already doing what he was supposed to?
Val yanked his hands free, shoving Vox back. "If you listened to me in the fucking first place!"
Vox staggered. He struggled to keep up his mask of goodwill, his lip inadvertently pulling into a displeased curl. "What the fuck is your problem?"
Whatever. If it was a fight Val wanted, it was a fight he'd get. Vox had been practically itching for an argument all day, and at least if it was with Val, there was a good chance some make-up sex would be in his future. Although—with the expression Val's face took after that last remark, it probably wouldn't be for a while.
"My problem? What the fuck is my problem? La perra temperamental eres tú—!"
"Here we go—"
"You've been all over the place all fucking week, get it? Velvette and I indulge your whims—every stupid new pitch, every plan—and you spit it back in our faces, every time."
Oh, Val was mad mad. Like, for real. Abruptly, Vox realized that this wasn’t fun arguing. Marginally, some of his irritation gave way to confusion, but not much. He was pissed too, and honestly, he wasn't really in the mood to reflect on why. There went his good day, lit up like a live wire.
Val could be violent, sure—he’d tried that on Vox once, and never again—but Vox could be mean. His temper was more subdued than his partner’s, generally, until it really, really wasn’t. It was the same hair-trigger reactivity that had him fantasizing about bludgeoning a stranger to death on I-83.
"Because you don’t—no, that’s not—" Vox dragged a hand down his face, laughing under his breath. Were they really doing this? His voice dropped, sharp as glass. "Do you even hear yourself? You don’t get where I am by asking permission. I built all of this. I took it. I didn’t ask. I never—"
He stopped, jaw tightening. "I never needed you. Get it?"
Vox waited for the retort—braced for it, craved it. Wanted a reason to bite down.
Instead, Valentino stood as tall as he could, shoulders back, wings straight behind him, and said, with tears welling in his eyes: "You're such a dick."
Val turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.
Vox stared blankly, mouth hanging open.
How to respond, even if Val technically got the last word...
"Fine, fuck you too!"
Yeah. More anger. That'd do it.