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“Well then, Vincent, I shall see you next week.”
“Yeah, see you later, Al!”
Waving his hand excitedly, Vincent watched Alastor melt into shadows and leave him alone on the sidewalk.
It was an early morning, a night spends out together and Vincent tried to be cheerful as they parted, for he knew Alastor was not the type that would enjoy clinginess and mopping at having to part the way Vincent desired to sew them together.
It would be nice if we were roommates, Vincent thought. Many men did that when they were close, or finances were tight. And although Vincent liked to think they were close, he supposed they were not that close (yet) and finances were just fine on both sides.
“Well, it would be hard to do this with him in the next room,” Vincent murmured at home, sitting at the bottom of his closet, with doors closed.
It was a tight fit, especially with his head, but Vincent made it work before and he would make it work again. It was dark among his clothes, except the light coming from his head (which was ridiculous, what kind of sick higher-powered fuck gave him a TV for a head?), which was dimmed as Vincent buried his head in the coat that Alastor had borrowed that night, comparing the material and cut of it to his own.
Alastor was adorable in Vincent's coat, softer than usual, his sharp edges drowned in the wool. Vincent burned the sight into his memory disk, determinated to cherish it until the end of eternity.
His coat was given back to him, and Alastor's scent (wood, fresh earth and blood) clung to the fabric and Vincent couldn't get enough of it.
They were close as sinners could be, friends even, and Vincent knew that killing people and leading a movement were one thing, and touching himself while he smelled the coat his friend borrowed and that smelled like him, was another.
There was a reason Vincent hid in the deepest part of his closet when he indulged himself in his fantasies about Alastor. Even as Vincent knew (feared and hoped) Alastor could emerged from the shadows and see him, he still found comfort in the darkness, where there was no judgement.
Vincent closed his eyes as he inhaled again, shuddering with the new wave of Alastor's smell, and replayed their night together, from beginning to the end. Again and again and again.
There was a week left until he would meet with Alastor at their hang out bar, unless he coincidentally came across Alastor in town. Alastor might even be delighted. He was yet to turn Vincent down or away and a what high it was. To be welcomed by Alastor, by THE Radio Demon.
To have such a friend, in Hell nonetheless, and still masturbate to the memory of him.
To the way he crossed his legs, pants straining along his thighs. Coat over chair and shirt hugging his slim waist, that sinful waist, and his hair moving softly in tandem with his fluffy ears as he turned towards Vincent, listening to whatever he was rambling about.
Vincent made Alastor laugh that night. Not the soft, indulged laugh (which tended to get Vincent hard right here and there, making him feel shame and arousal from the shame at the same time), nor the diabolic, deranged laugh, that had no right to be so sexy when he was killing sinners.
No, Vincent made Alastor laugh a full-belling laugh, the laugh that said I am enjoying myself and I am happy I am here (with you).
Vincent didn't even say a joke! He was just being himself and Alastor found enjoyment in that.
It was addicting and making Vincent pant as his hand wrapped around himself tightly, stroking his cock and imagining what it would be like to rut between Alastor's tights.
The thing about Alastor was, he could be kind. No, that was not a right word. Yes, Alastor was kind, but in the way one hands a blade to hold onto to a drowning person. The word Vincent was looking for and which he meant, was indulging.
Alastor was indulging to those he was fond of and oh, was he indulgent with Vincent.
It was Vincent he spent his free time with; it was Vincent to whom he played a piano. It was Vincent who got to touch him, to take him dancing, to clean blood from his face when Alastor got too playful.
And at times, it was Alastor who shuffled closed to Vincent as they sat next to one another. It was Alastor who used his radio waves to ground Vincent as his powers went haywire, and it was Alastor who once curiously licked the bottom of his case, what could have been considered his chin had he had a human head, tasting the blood Vincent spilled.
They were close and they were friends, and Vincent wanted the blood and tenderness Alastor indulged him with to be carnal as well.
They were friends, and one does not want to kiss their friends and mean it, does not want to spread their legs, for their friend to fit into their body. For them to be close as physically possible, for one to breath out and the other breath in the same air.
Whimpering, Vincent bit into his bottom lip (how that worked, he still had no idea) and imagined Alastor's hand instead of his own one, his teeth in Vincent's bottom lip and his body filling the coat once again.
Alastor was so soft, his body the most, and Vincent wondered many times how many deer features Alastor had. And if one of them was a fluff on other parts of his body, especially his chest.
“Oh, fuck,” moaning, Vincent imagined burying his head into a fluffy chest, breathing in the addicting smell from the source.
They tended to sit close together, glasses side by side, and it was not hard to notice the size difference in their hands. More then once Vincent thought, about what it would feel like, for his hand to wonder down. To put it on Alastor's thigh, to palm the flesh there, and then move up, and feel between his legs.
Hell, Vincent would let Alastor do anything to him as long as Alastor would be pleased to have him. With his hand covered in cum, Vincent felt pathetic.
And yet, not hopeless.
Afterall, they were friends.
And friends could become lovers quite easily, if Vincent had any say in that.