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“Well?” Alastor nudges him, “Here we are!”
“Here we are.”
“And? Is it everything your homosexual little mind could have wanted?”
“What the fuck does that even mean…” Vox mutters, a laugh creeping into the end of his sentence. He’s annoyed at Alastor's teasing, but he's even more annoyed at how his voice is enough to calm him right down. But— here’s the thing:
This is Vox’s first pride parade, and he’s kind of freaking out about it.
Sure, Vel had forced him to go to one before. But she had medicated him out of his mind, smoothing all his bristling edges with Valium and horse tranquilizers. Going completely sober was out of the question. Going with a boyfriend— don’t even get him started.
But now, he’s a changed man. Or at least, he’s supposed to be. He does gay shit like go to drag bars and let Alastor into his maintenance panel. So what if there’s a few things he hasn’t tried? He’s been planning on getting around to them. Live and let live! Except, now it’s actually time for him to get living, and it’s harder than he thought…
“It looks like something my mind conjured up, in like, a nightmare.”
“And I love nightmares!” Alastor agrees gleefully, grabbing his hand to pull him along. “Shall we go mingle with the entourage?”
The parade is just beyond the threshold, Vox digs his heels into the ground and pulls his hand away. He stares at the parade warily. Like it’s an alien, a cosmic jellyfish swimming through the streets. His eyes are wide, reflecting the sea of color, transfixed on patterns twirling around in the glass of his dim screen like a kaleidoscope.
“…you should go ahead,” he settles on, eventually.
Skeptically bleeds into Alastor’s expression, though he doesn’t voice it. “You’ll know where to find me?” Is all he asks. At Vox’s slight nod, he winds his way into the parade, disappearing into the sea of people. Colors, noise, lights.
It should probably go without saying, but Vox doesn’t make it into the crowd.
////
Vox looks up just in time for the door of his bedroom to slide open.
He sits up, trying to gather himself as Alastor stumbles inside. Alastor’s bowtie is crooked, and his hair is mussed. For a moment, Vox has to blink. When he looks at him, all he can see is the pupils reflected back, like the red eye glare of a camera flash.
“Welcome back!” Vox calls, trying to play it cool. “How was it?”
Alastor collapses on the bed with a hefty thump.
“Wonderful! Went off without a hitch.”
“Yeah? You look like you got run over by the parade.”
“The parade was wonderful,” Alastor reiterates, shuffling onto his knees so he can loop his arms around Vox’s shoulders. “It’s a shame you didn’t come.”
“I tried to, I just—” Vox hugs Alastor back, “It’s still hard for me, is all.”
“Hmmm?”
“Ow!” Vox hisses, “Fuck. Hey, no biting.” He tugs at his ear, and Alastor hums into the groove of his shoulder, but doesn’t unhinge his jaw. It is a nightly ritual for them, and the familiarity of it puts Vox’s mind at ease from where it’s been running wild all evening.
After twenty minutes of mouth-holding, Vox starts suspecting that Alastor may have fallen asleep. A sharp bolt of agony followed by a crunching sound kills that suspicion, as Alastor swallows a chunk of what used to be his shoulder.
“Fuck!” Vox yelps, shoving him away. He touches his trapezius and winces when his hand comes away printed in blood. “Goddamnit, Alastor! Every time!”
Cackling, Alastor falls near to pieces. Over an everyday bit, he seems a lot more giggly than usual. Vox properly gets ahold of his arm, pulling him back up from where he’s slumping against their bedframe. Examining his face, Vox finally catches sight of how blown his pupils are. “Oh my fucking— are you high?”
“Some fellows were handing out jazz cigarettes at the parade,” Alastor says explanatorily. “And it’s not like you were keeping me any com– company.”
Vox can’t believe he didn’t notice it sooner.
“What the fuck, Al!” He yells, shaking him and then scowling when all that accomplishes is making Alastor hysterical with laughter again. “Did your mommy never tell you not to take drugs from strangers?”
“Ah, but he wasn’t a stranger!” He grins with all his too-long teeth, “The man introduced himself rather handily before giving me his drugs!”
“Oh yeah?” Vox asks, “What was his name?”
Alastor purses his lips, “Paul…Paulson.”
“Paul Paulson.”
“Well, maybe not the last part. But his first name was definitely Paul.”
Vox sighs deeply, “Ally, it could have been spiked with something.”
“Please, what could it possibly have been spiked with that I haven’t gotten secondhand from your bloodstream already?” Alastor crawls closer, “Do me a favor and turn your head the other way, would you?”
“Nooo way,” Vox scoffs, placing a hand over Alastor’s mouth.
“I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, I can fucking feel that on my other shoulder you dick. Hang on.”
Vox shuffles out of the bed and walks into the kitchen, grabbing snacks from Cannibal Town out of the pantry and a glass of water for good measure. When he returns, Alastor is laying on a heap of pillows. He looks endlessly pleased with himself, his expression soft and open like it always is on the rare days he deigns for smoke instead of drink. At least something good came out of the parade.
“You’re a mess,” he says softly, watching Alastor eat his way through the disturbing contents of the snack boxes, his mouth caked in blood. “You’ve got glitter in your hair.”
He reaches out before he can stop himself, brushing a piece of confetti away. Alastor looks up at him, one eye shutting as his bangs are swept into it. So insufferably cute Vox wants to crush his ribcage, hold him tight until something pops.
Alastor's expression remains open and unfocused, his eyes hazy as Vox leans forward, cupping his face.
“Eugh.” Alastor shrinks away from the touch, his nose scrunching up in distaste, “Don’t kiss me tonight.”
“Uhm,” Vox snaps out of his reverie, “I didn’t mean to, you just look so nice…”
“Nice?” Alastor laughs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Vox only now remembers that he is covered in blood. “Please, I look like I was caught up in a piñata shooting. You’d kiss me even if I didn’t. It’s disgusting.”
“Oh.” There is a ringing in his ears, Vox realizes dully. And the words shouldn’t get to him the way they do, but they eat at him anyways. An involuntary shutter lowers in his mind, a mental block he is not unfamiliar with.
He just isn’t used to having to do it here— where he is safe, and loved. But right now he’s on the offhand of his latest panic attack. He’s vulnerable. A lost little kid in search of those white picket fence dreams. It’s hard to reconcile a hundred years of hating himself with a handful of trying at tolerance. It’s unthinkable that love comes so easily to others— that they can hold signs through the town square that read: love is love. As if it were that simple.
Not that he was ever in a funk. But, Vox became a little spacey after that. A week passes, and Vox becomes prone to more frequent bouts of silence. One too many overfilled coffees, and daydreaming too often will do that to you.
Eventually, Vox shakes himself out of it. Escaping his head so they can go out together.
Today they’re at a party, but not the kind Alastor usually likes. This one is meant for Hell’s snootiest upper echelon. Demons from all seven rings coming up for the purpose of mingling with royals and dressing to the nines.
Alastor, for his part, is keeping the alcohol flowing. “Champagne?” He offers, by the lilt in his voice he’s already a little drunk. Vox takes it. He’ll need the confidence boost if he’s going to make it through the night. Today he is schmoozing, chatting people up. Alastor’s dressing people down. Together, they’re quite the power couple. Any member of the glitterati gets a little hot under the collar when pinned in their pincer attack.
After a couple hours of that, blurry from a mix of the champagne and his antidepressants— Vox looks around. He excuses himself, cutting through the crowd to a quieter part of the venue. Alastor follows. As a matter of fact, Alastor trails after him the whole way. And when Vox finally finds a seat, he climbs into his lap.
“Hey. What’re you doing up there?”
“I’m drunk.”
“You’re not—” Alastor’s teeth clink against his glass, and when he goes to speak again, their lips slot together properly. “Mmhf.”
Alastor hums happily and places his hands on Vox’s shoulders. Hyperaware of the other attendees, Vox feels a little manic. Like a conspiracy theorist, locked inside a motel room, peeking through the plastic blinds. Like the harbinger before the apocalypse. This is Hell. Everyone around them is participating in debauchery. Even though he knows no one is looking at them, or at least, not because they’re kissing. He just feels…he feels…
Vox pulls away, trying not to feel dizzy at the sudden movement. There is a strand of saliva lingering on Alastor’s bottom lip. He stares at it half-crazy.
“I hate to be the voice of reason here, but you’re gonna regret that in the morning.”
“Oh?”Alastor chuckles, placing a hand over his heart. “Are you worried about my delicate constitution?”
“That’s rich, as if. C’mere asshole.”
He says that. Though— almost oxymoronically— Vox has pulled Alastor further off his lap and is now busying his mouth with a new champagne flute. Alastor visibly puzzles, looking at him funny, but doesn’t comment. He makes himself comfortable, crowded against Vox’s side.
/////
Vox takes his coat off and hangs it up in the entryway, before making his way up the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Alastor asks, standing in the hall. He is still wearing the sparkly outfit from the party. His hair is tied up in a ponytail, accentuating the long column of his neck. It makes Vox feel like his heart is on wings.
“I thought I’d sleep in my room tonight,” he turns on a heel.
“No.” Alastor crosses his arms, “That’s not how things go. After we go out together, you invite me to have a nightcap.”
Well, yes. That’s usually the plan, but it’s not a hard rule. And truthfully, Vox has been getting better at resisting his impulses. He knows Alastor is uncomfortable with touch, and he’s been trying to be considerate of that.
Which is why he hasn’t been planning on inviting Alastor for a drink tonight. There’s just no way Vox can resist his wiles. If he makes prolonged eye contact with Alastor, he’ll almost certainly start to flirt. And Alastor will flirt back— either because he likes torturing himself, or because he’s bored. It’s better for everyone if Vox just saves them the headache.
“I mean, usually I would.” He agrees, glancing back up the stairs. “But I’m pretty tired right now and you had a big day—”
“Come have a nightcap with me.”
Satan, that’s just not fair.
That is how, in spite of Vox’s best judgement, he ends up seated on the couch next to Alastor with a drink in hand. He drains it quickly, the alcohol fuzzing out the part of him central to rational thought.
Outside, the weather has picked up. The crash of lightning flickering the lights of the house. Acid rain floods the streets. Rolling clouds cast shadows along their floorboards. Vox is still a meteorologist at heart, so he takes note of anomalies in the weather patterns. One of the main things that comes to mind, then, is what a shame it is that there are clouds out tonight. A meteor shower is supposed to be passing overhead, and the stars are covered.
That doesn’t matter, with Alastor right in front of him. Their Cannibal Town home doesn’t have centralized heating, and the room is cold. Vincent huddles closer, and Alastor smiles at him— foreboding.
“Did you ever marry when you were alive?”
“No. I focused on my career.” Vox says idly, when the silence stretches, continues, “I had a crush on a guy once or twice. My first love was a redhead, actually.”
“Did you ever court?”
“Court? I wasn’t alive in the 1800s,” Alastor scoffs and pats him lightly on the chest, Vox smiles. “I never made a pass at him. He was a total wife guy. In the end— I actually killed him.”
“Now that is interesting,” Alastor taps a nail to his screen, a glimmer appearing in his eyes that spells trouble. “Are you in the habit of killing redheads you like?”
Vox huffs, “I’m not gonna kill you. So stop asking.”
“You’re no fun.”
They lean back against the armrest of the couch together. Vox admires the way his eyelashes flutter. They get cozy, and at some point, drift into comfortable silence. Vox is meditative when something occurs to him, he looks up at Alastor, “Did you ever marry?”
Opening a single eye, Alastor purses his lips, though he looks more amused than anything. “I never really had the stomach for marriage. Between being a workaholic and my general distaste for children, it just wasn't for me.”
“So, is it just kids and dogs?” Vox teases. “Or is it anything generally considered ‘cute’ that you can't stand?”
“I still let you hang around, don't I?”
When Vox’s face heats, he honestly kind of wants to kick himself for being so easy.
Clearing his throat, “What color were your eyes?”
“Brown.” Alastor says, “Yours were blue, I’m sure.”
“Half right.”
“Hm,” Alastor acknowledges, before his mind catches up: “Only half?”
“I had heterochromia.” Vox displays a graphic on his screen, a textbook X-ray. Truthfully, he usually doesn’t think about it, but that’s probably where his hypnosis came from. And, because he’s still a man with poor self-preservation; “What does that face mean?”
Alastor is observing him strangely. Like a child appraising a platter of sweets he can’t have, or maybe an alligator observing a person trundle through the murky waters of the bayou. He looks enraptured. “Just wondering if they’d have different flavors…”
“Satan help me.” A wave of repulsion and arousal mix together at the feeling of saliva on his glass when Alastor licks him. Vox rolls them both over so he’s on top of him, frowning down at his tormentor. “You’re so weird.”
Alastor giggles madly, his tail wagging where it’s crushed between his backside and the sofa. “Don’t scold me for what’s only natural. You should be more eager to please. Aren’t you a fan of the hero's muse?”
“The muse is typically a goddess or a princess, not some creep who gets off to eating my eyeball.”
“How dreadfully boring,” Alastor drolls, “Good thing I’m no muse, then.”
“Hey. It’s a classic trope!”
“It’s pedestrian.”
“Yeah, well. Tropes are popular for a reason.”
"Are they?" Alastor counters. "Or is it just that the easiest media is the media most consumed? Last I checked, lovers don’t do the things we do to each other.” A shadowy tendril slinks around Vox’s torso, and a tingle suffuses his screen, similar to blood flowing.
Before he can think too hard, Alastor is kissing him.
This is going to sound cliche, but everything about it is so good and too much at the same time. He wants to devour every inch of Alastor’s mouth—to feel his sharp canines. Vox needs it, whines for it like it’s his only life float. Fuck. How many days has it been since he’s made out with Alastor again? Too many, way too fucking many—
“ —how long have you pined for more than I’ve been willing to give you?” Alastor asks against his mouth, as though he’s fiddling with the hair of a crossbow, aiming for the most devastating shot. “Following me around all those years, so desperate for my attention. You know what I thought of you, back then?”
“Noooo,” Vox whines, yelping like a dog with its tail stepped on when Alastor bends his antenna. His screen fuzzes out. “You’re gonna say something mean again.”
“Oh, you were marvelous entertainment, sure.” Alastor’s tone waxes nostalgic. Vincent gulps in a shallow breath, and Alastor cackles like a hyena: “But you were also desperate. So willing to do anything I said, why— I thought you were pathetic.”
It’s okay. He's okay. Vox is fine, and this is part of the game. After all these years of fighting, flirting, whatever, Alastor has gotten better at pressing Vox’s buttons. And with the past few day's events, he needs some buttons to press.
But— it’s just that—
Vox has betrayed his masculinity, changed every part that hated himself—and found so much love in himself he never thought he had. A veritable ship of theseus. And now, Vox shoves Alastor against the backing of their couch until his head knocks when it hits the wooden accents. The warm lighting flickering out before dimming back in again with an electric whine. Backup generators drumming to life.
“Someone needs to be taught how to shut up,” he growls. A crackle of electricity sparks across his antenna. Before he can stop himself—Alastor is fuzzing up, the downy fur of his arms standing on end before a powerful shock is sent through his nervous system. He slumps over almost instantly, the powerful surge unplugging him at the base of his spine. A couple seconds of that, and Alastor is left panting, dizzy. Woozily raising his head as he removes Vox’s live hand.
Vox can’t thread anything together. The smell of Alastor’s cologne, the feeling of cool tendrils sliding across his cheek. They are always hurting each other and he hates it. “How—how—hzzow much more dysfunctional can we even get?” His voice warps into an electronic warble as a sob works its way out of his throat.
Alastor doesn’t look like he knows, he shakes his head and something rattles around. That’s probably bad. Vox feels his wet, flat face being cradled in small hands. Alastor is looking up at him, pityingly.
“Oh, Vinn…”
“You called me disgusting.”
“I called you pathetic.” Alastor sighs, “But sometimes you make me feel disgusting.”
Vox’s shaking is only getting worse. Fuck.
Alastor loops his arms over Vox’s shoulders again. All his vitriol, and all his chittering, mocking laughter is on full display. Vox finally snaps, wrenching himself free from the other’s embrace. He lunges to his feet and begins a frantic search, pulling closets open and disappearing into the bathroom. Searching through drawers and slamming them shut as he gathers the essentials—clothes, a toothbrush, whatever he can grab in his haste.
Stunlocked, Alastor sits up properly. He isn’t laughing anymore, “Where are you going?”
“To that spot between the entertainment district and Carmilla’s territory,” Vox bites out.
Alastor lets out a dismissive huff. “That’s absurd. There is nothing there but the canal. Honestly, Vincent, try to be serious.”
“Oh I’m being fucking serious!”
Alastor raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “So, you’re packing your toothbrush specifically to go leap into the canal?”
Caught off guard, Vox falters; he hasn’t actually planned that far into his exit. “No! I mean—yes! Look, just forget it. To Hell with it, you keep it all.” He hurls the duffel bag onto the couch and dissolves into the electrical outlet in a flurry of sparks. Nearby, the television jolts to life, frozen on the image of Cher’s weeping face during the climax of Moonstruck.
Left to his own devices, Alastor stares at the TV in silence, lightning strikes their satellite and changes the channel to static.
////
After kicking a can a mile down the road, the wind picks up. At a bus stop, Vox hides from the pouring rain.
The smell of petrichor is heavy, with a rush of water falling down into the city gutters. An empty lot, overfull with weeds serves as a junk heap behind it. Vox watches as some of the garbage dissolves under the pelting rain. Corrugated iron, rusted over from time. He should have picked a nicer bus stop, he realizes. But it’s too late now.
“Good evening,” Alastor says, folding up his parasol. Not a moment of peace. “The acid rain is coming down strong tonight.”
“What are you doing here?” Vox mutters.
Alastor sits beside him, looking straight ahead. “I thought long and hard about it, but I can’t make heads nor tails about what set you off tonight.”
“Are you actually that fucking stupid?”
Alastor blinks, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
Vox wavers, “You don’t realize how calling me pathetic would make me upset?”
“You are pathetic,” Alastor says, “I’m hardly alone in thinking so, and I like that about you. What’s the matter with you lately? Did the parade frighten you that badly?”
All the genuine anger drains away from Vincent so fast it makes his head spin, leaving only self-hatred and crushing despair behind.
“I guess it did.” Vox feels another lump, mortifyingly, working its way up his throat.
“You know— Sometimes, I hate you for this. For making me fall in love with you. And I think… if I’d never met you, maybe I would have never realized how unhappy I was, and nothing would have changed. I could’ve just been normal…” He shakes his head, “But then you just had to come along, and ruin my life.”
“Oh, please. Your life was ruined when I got here.” Alastor huffs, waving a dismissive hand, “If it wasn’t me, it would have been some other wayward sinner with a penchant for sadism. All it took was a kind word and a bit of time alone together, I’m not unique in providing that.”
No, Vox supposes. But some part of himself is still hoping it would have been Alastor— in every universe, in every lifetime. Even if it could have been anyone, there at the end of it all, he wants it to be fate.
Vox says, “If it could have been anyone, I’m glad it was you.”
Alastor turns to face him.
There is something to be said about the way acid rain clears up, that is very beautiful and Vox is thankful for it.
Without the water reforming the clouds, they all disperse fairly quickly. The sky opens up rapidly as the sound of pattering slows, and suddenly there is a meteor shower reflecting in the pools of Alastor’s crimson eyes, their darkness interrupted occasionally by the streak of a shooting star.
“If I ruined your life.” He goes on, “Then you ruined my life, too.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did,” Alastor insists. “Because now I have someone to worry over. Dreadful, for someone like me, to have such a volatile achilles heel.”
“There’s my line. If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.”
“Perhaps,” Alastor concedes. “But, I doubt it. So far, no one else in all of Earth or Hell or Heaven has cursed me with the insane compulsions you do.”
“You called me disgusting.”
“I pendulum wildly on my opinions with touch, and you understand that. Actually, I don’t know why I’m explaining this to you. This isn't about me,” Alastor huffs. “So, regardless of why you started to go back into your shell, I’ll remind you of this; You claim to find cannibalism disgusting, yet, you never stop feeding from my hand, and I never stop offering. We are unconventional, but we make compromises for each other. I love you for that very reason.”
Vox’s breath hitches, and when he finally finds his composure, he looks up with a flicker of doubt. “D’you really?”
“J’ai horreur de me répéter…” Alastor grumbles under his breath. “Yes, I do. And now here I am, stuck at a bus stop headed for the canal, just so we can meet a watery end together. It’s quite a pity, really. The lake in Zestial’s territory would have provided a much more dignified setting.”
Vox stares at him. “You— what? I mean,” he laughs wetly. Fuck, he’s swooning. “God, you’re so…I don’t even know!”
“Spare me the poetry, dear.” He takes Vox’s hand in his own, watching their claws interlace. “There are four places in this pit of fire that I return to, and all of them are only home when you’re in them, so that’s that. I’ll follow you where you want to go.”
“You’re crazy,” Vox says, wiping his tears. “You’re nuts.”
“Pot, kettle, black.” Alastor taunts meanly, “Now, you can hate me, or you can love me. Personally, I don’t care either way. But don’t go around ignoring me anymore, or I’m liable to rip your head off.”
“Satan, you’re such a diva.” Sniffing, Vox tugs at his hand. “Just take us home.”
“No trip to the canal after all?” Alastor grins, “That’s quite alright. Something tells me you don’t own a bus pass, anyway.”
As he is spirited away into the darkness, all Vox can find the energy to do is bark out an exhausted laugh. The shadows all pool around him, the endless sky and all her stars, like pearls falling on the surface of a dark lagoon. Alastor is, and will always be, radiant as the sun dispatching Icarus. He cares for him, in every way one can care for another person, and some ways only he has thought up. Simple as that.
.
.
.
“Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.”
—The Thing is by Ellen Bass
///////////