Chapter Text
Vincent sleepily lolled his head back in Alastor’s armchair, his boxy CRT television of a noggin resting atop the velveteen cushioning of the headrest, arms and legs carelessly dangling off to the sides. He had just finished fixing up their apartment with outdated Sinsmas trinkets and garlands, top to bottom with green, gold, and red decorations.
“Vincent, mind giving me a hand here?” another voice grumbled, with a slight grating quality that itched the media demon’s (nonexistent) ears.
The TV-headed sinner looked back up to the Sinsmas tree, finding it had yet to be as dressed as the rest of their flat, restlessly sitting next to their television—almost as impatiently as the other demon standing by it. “Oh, sorry Al, I’m comin’.” Vincent dragged himself along, lugging his body to the tree where Alastor was idly tapping a foot on their hardwood floors, cardboard box of ornaments and decorations in hand.
After setting the box down, the radio demon had begun hooking the decorations along some of the branches and leaves on the tree, holding an outstretched hand with a couple of knick knacks for Vincent to begin with. “Took you long enough, here you are,” Alastor said, a curt hum punctuating his voice as he jangled the items in his hand to get the other’s attention.
The tired sinner quickly accepted the handful with a hum, following suit as he began wordlessly decorating the tree. As soon as he ran out of the amount he had been given, he went down and dove his hand into the box, grabbing as many ornaments he could, practically chucking them on any vacant branch his eyes drifted to—like an exhausted office worker, counting down the seconds until five in the evening. Hand in, hang them up, hand in again, hang them up again.
After seemingly centuries of factory work, a chuckle rang through the air, momentarily causing the media demon to stop in his tracks. It wasn’t just any old amused mock, but a staticky buzz, or a crackling chuckle—a laugh so soothing, as if coated in a thick glaze of honey.
Alastor clapped a hand on the other sinner’s shoulder. “Vincent, my dear, what are you doing?”
The television, though relaxed at the other’s touch, looked up at him in a daze. “Huh? What’ddya mean Al? I’m just…” The sinner turned his flat face back down to his work of art, only now noticing that he had hung almost all of the decorations on one crowded strip of the tree, the rest left completely plain, like an impossibly abysmal patchwork job. Vincent’s eyes flicked back to Alastor, then to his mess of a decorated tree, then back to Alastor. He furrowed his brows, a slight burn prickling his face. “Um…” He coughed. “I, uhh…” He looked back at the other demon, as he pulled on the collar of his ugly Sinsmas sweater (Alastor had gifted said sweater to him, it was a matching set with the deer). Since when’d it get so hot in here? “S…sorry, Al,” he mumbled. “I’ll fix this up.”
“Yes, yes, dear, that’ll be good,” Alastor hummed, pulling back as he began to search around the empty box of ornaments. “Now, where did I put that star?” he mumbled to himself, slithering to other parts of the living room, eyes darting by the coffee table and around the couch cushions.
Vincent shrugged. “Beats me.”
He paid no mind to Alastor’s quizzical murmurs; he had bigger fish to fry, like the comically ridiculous one in front of him—just to name a couple.
That eyesore of a mistake was silently taunting him, like a screaming, sentient cluster of tumbleweeds with festive themed glitter glue on top—sparkles haphazardly drizzled across a dried out, multicoloured explosion atop the leaves. Vincent sighed into his hands and got to undoing his mindless mistake, throwing random baubles onto different branches and areas of the tree.
He grabbed a red bauble, then a blue one, then a crusty reindeer ornament (ew, why’s it sticky?), another couple yellow ones, then a tiny shark with a Sinsmas hat (aw, okay, that one’s kinda cute), then more green and red ornaments, another weirdly shaped one, and then a very large, very star shaped one, with an unmistakable golden glow, sloppily thrown amongst the large bunch. Oh.
He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand, as he sat in his own self-doubt for a moment.
“Lookin’ for this, Al?” He waved the Sinsmas star behind his shoulder, not wanting to show his painfully cyan expression to the other demon.
Alastor let out a bemused sound. “You’ve got good eyes.”
“Yep-uh.”
Vincent should really get some more sleep later, after that whole thing of a work-related-all-nighter the day before, he was currently running on multiple cups of coffee and sheer bloodlust.
Without warning, Alastor snatched up the star from his hand with inky shadow tentacles, making no effort to walk up and grab it. That motion caught Vincent off guard, as he spun on his heel to face the other demon, hands sitting on his hips, expression exasperated.
“Ap, ap, ap.” The media overlord tutted, he watched as the radio demon’s tendrils tighten its wrap around the shimmer of the accessory. “Remember our little agreement about powers in the house?”
The deer’s mouth forced itself into the least of a smile as it could push for. “I have my right to use them whenever I want!” Alastor retorted, ears pinning themselves to the back of his head.
Vincent cocked an eyebrow, expression growing apparent that letting up wasn’t in his options. “Not when I’m living under this roof, too.” He pinched the space between his eyes, eyebrows knitted together as tight as the squeeze of his fingers. “You don’t see me whipping around my cables, do you?”
Alastor scrunched his nose in quiet protest.
“Al, remember last time you pulled a stunt like that indoors?”
Of course he remembers, they were at Rosie’s.
“Hmm, no, I don’t believe I do.”
“Uh huh. And I had to pay for that broken vase.” Vincent checked his claws, a newfound confidence snaking its way into his words. “I still remember your absolutely mortified expression, ears down ‘n all.” The sinner had his hands up to the sides of his boxed head, mimicking Alastor’s drooping ears. “I should’ve taken a picture when I saw the look on your wittle face,” he teased.
A beat passed.
Alastor immediately went up to the other demon, an unbridled rage biting behind his eyes.
“W-wait!” Vincent’s triumphant air shattered to the floor. “Al!”
Alastor grabbed his collar, reeling him up to his face. “You! You promised not to ever mention that time! EVER!” He tugged him closer, to the point where his nose was grazing the other’s screen, face beating with anger. “YOU PRICK!”
The media demon’s eyes flitted around, searching for any type of way around his impending doom. With a shaky breath, he pursed his lips ever so slightly, silently meeting Alastor’s for a tiny peck on the mouth. “Heh. S-sorry honey...?”
Alastor immediately took a step and a half back, all of his face turned rosy, the tip of his nose so red he could’ve been mistaken as Rudolph. His chest heaved, antlers steadily enlarging at every breath he took.
Ohh shit.
Vincent immediately tried to backtrack, pixelated beads of sweat forming where his temples would be, sputtering out apologies like his life had depended on it. “Al, babe, baby! Wait, please, I’m sorry, don’t kill me!” His face shrunk, hands waving around his head.
The other demon balled up his fists, unfiltered wrath messily draped all across his face.
Then, he found himself clasping both sides of the sinner’s square shaped head, rushing in, eyes closed.
Their lips crashed together, mouths slotting into the other like pieces of the same puzzle. Soon, the radio demon broke through the barrier of the television sinner’s lips, making himself at home with the robotic warmth of his partner, tongue lapping at his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Vincent’s eyes widened, sparks shooting out from the back of his head like new year’s fireworks—the feeling of melting inner-circuitry echoing throughout his body.
Even so, he chose to completely ignore the barrage of glitches clouding his vision of Alastor, as he leaned in closer, his arms inching their way up to the deer sinner until they were both steadily resting on his hips, thumbs slowly tracing circles of pleasure into Alastor’s sides. He felt the sting of bliss in every single one of the electrons hissing within the confines of his head, each nano-metre of his CRT screen screaming with satisfaction.
The clutch of each other steadily snowballed into tightly taking the other in arms—fingers intertwining the instant they were to be in contact.
Vincent was a mess. An overheating, panting, glitchy mess.
But Alastor—he’s a completely different story.
He slung his arms around the other demon, his previous temper being shrugged off as fast as he had leapt into the kiss, all of his embarrassed outrage funneled and morphed into an aggressive fervour, arms tightening around the television’s neck. He felt the numbing rush of ecstasy bounce through himself in strong waves, stiff joints melting away like butter, eyes narrowing shut. In turn, the deer’s hands fought for stability, moving to Vincent’s back, as the thrilling novelty of this emotion beat his brain to a pulp.
His head throbbed with an unnamed sensation, a feeling that he had never stumbled upon until now. Euphoria? Joy? Want? Either way, he did not dwell upon the thought longer, as whatever he was feeling was good. In an intoxicating, world-shattering way. Overhead lights flickered in panic, the radio sitting in their living room whirring with unreadable static, then the television sitting next to it shrilling an ear-piercing screech, until the bulb of a lamp by their sofa exploded, the rest of the technology within their vicinity sporadically sparking with electricity. Though, the two of them failed to notice, needily clutching each other while still woven into a kiss.
They also failed to notice the shouts of other tenants coming from their building, yells and complaints coming from a once bustling residence, now swallowed into a silent darkness.
Vincent felt smoke escaping from the vents on his head, buckling and bending into the air, the slight smell of analogue failure wafting through their apartment. He felt the other demon twitch at the scent.
Alastor’s ears perked up at the smell of something burning, as he broke away from the kiss gasping for air. He still had an entranced look on his face, up until when his gaze focused, as he came to realise what they were actually doing.
The lights popped back on, along with all of the other appliances.
The radio demon practically jumped out of the other’s embrace, stumbling back on their carpeted floor, skidding into a fighting stance with his fists readied up at his sides. He felt his eyes burn and morph into dials, his antlers sprouting into gnarled branches, verging on piercing the ceiling if not careful. His ears shot to the back of his head, his body turning awfully rigid as his limbs stretched. He was watching, waiting, ready, for anything. He stared as Vincent flailed his arms about, screen wildly glitching with technicolor as he blindly found his way to Alastor, who was still looking like he was about to tear the television’s limbs apart.
“A–a-al?” Vincent managed, glitches riddling his voice. He reached out as far as he could, first struggling then ultimately finding his way to Alastor’s cheek, then up to his ears, which were still glued to the back of the deer’s head. “S-ss—orry,” the overlord squeaked, jumps and pauses lacing itself to every word that left his half-burnt speakers. He slowly began rubbing the base of the other sinner’s ears, mumbling about how soft they were, tension being massaged away with a singular stroke of a finger.
Alastor instinctively dropped his defensive demeanor, shoulders rounding to the touch, hands sliding back down as the other demon massaged the good spot by his ears, antlers and limbs shrinking by the second. The deer fought the urge to purr, to hold Vincent, to nuzzle his nose into the other’s chest, to kiss him until senseless, to—get a hold of yourself, dimwit!
He leapt as far away from Vincent as possible, his breathing rough and laboured, hand clutching his chest. No matter how hard he squeezed his claws into a fist, he could not get his heart to rest. What was this—cardiac arrest? Heart palpitations? No, not now. He needed to get out of this.
With his tail between his legs, and dignity crushed, he teleported to wherever, stumbling out of the portal, a dull ache battering his insides. He leaned onto whatever surface stood closest, chest still heaving as he attempted to stabilise his breathing. Fuck this, fuck all of this! This…was a mistake! The all-powerful radio demon will not let anyone treat him as some force to be reckoned with, or…or some gullible pushover, easily bending to the graze of another man from seemingly no pressure at all. He cannot, he will not.
He took another breath through his nose, ears twitching upwards to the smell of something. His vision sharpened again, as he was met with a marble countertop under his claws, pots and pans strewn across the counters, and the sweet, sweet scent of lamb shanks slow-cooking in the oven.
He teleported to the kitchen?
As if under a spell, Alastor hovered over to where the smell was emanating from, squatting by a yellow glow. As he looked into the oven, he huffed, burying his face into his hands as he leaned closer to the glass. This whole predicament—ridiculous! Does that pretentious asswipe take him as an idiot? A juvenile little fawn, mindlessly prancing along with his perversion? He stormed off to the fridge, muttering about the idiocy of the man that attempted to kiss him, plucking out more fresh ingredients with scrunched down brows and a bright crimson face.
***
Alastor was mid-recipe, peacefully stirring a pot as he stood face-first into a cookbook with messy handwriting wildly scribbled across the pages, the oven still slow cooking meat beside him.
“Mmmm~” Vincent tiredly popped his head past the kitchen doorframe, hands clutching the stained wood with a light caress.
“Finally awake?” voice still dripping with somewhat softened vitriol, Alastor vacated his previous view from the pot to the sinner by the door.
“Mhm.” Vincent waddled up to the other overlord, lightly placing his hands on the radio demon’s shoulders for stability. “What’s making that… heavenly smell?”
Alastor hiked up his sides, jolting the pair of hands that were gently sitting on them.
“O–oh, sorry, wait, I’ll—”
“Keep them there.”
“…you sure?”
“Yes. Before I decide to chop them clean off and use them as the next course.”
Vincent didn’t say more, vying for silence as assent, tightening his grip with a gulp. Alastor’s ears were down to the sides of his head, his hands quietly stirring the pot in front of him. Searching for something, anything to take his mind off of whatever was happening right now.
Back to the pot it is.
He watched as the gumbo swirled around, vegetables dotting its presence along with the other meats in the roux. Smooth, buttery, and perfectly brown. He took another whiff as the cosy, wafting smell of tomatoes danced around the air, momentarily shifting his mind away from the monstrosity of a situation he was currently in. After a while, Alastor had almost forgotten about the thing behind him, until the feeling of silent fingertips resting on him slowly released themselves.
After the blink of an eye—he felt a squeeze.
The overlord’s breath hitched, whipping his vision down to see the hands that were once lightly rested atop his shoulders now hesitantly wrapped around his waist. The sinner behind him was testing the waters—waiting, pushing for the moment that the other party would inevitably refuse the increasingly erotic dosage of touch. Though, the deer did not budge, nor did he explicitly show signs of growing discomfort.
Alastor shifted his weight to one foot, oh, how annoyed he was with Vincent’s strange little antics, first kissing him—then this? Even so, he did not act on his irritation, and strangely, that was not enough to hate the fact of Vincent touching him. Terrifying. But, as much as he wanted the exceedingly amount of touch to end, he couldn’t bring himself. It was the most he could provide, given his pity over the lack of sleep the other sinner was experiencing. How soft of him.
He thought back all the way into the dead of last night, when Alastor swore he had heard that picture box’s boisterous CEO voice boom through their paper-thin apartment walls, with a growl that was monstrous and short-fused. It was obvious that he was in a moderately large pickle, as he screamed into the other line of his phone call like a greened out frenzied workhorse. And as the cherry on top, the radio overlord was and always will be a painfully light sleeper, so he caught every painstaking anger spike and stressed voice-raise. Alastor shook his head at the revelation.
He refuses to admit it even in his head, but if Alastor actually hates the demon as much as he claims so, that boxed head would’ve been ripped right off of his shoulders by now. Though Vincent may get on his bad side a lot, he still lets him stay, against better judgement.
It made him feel…mushy. As if he were disgustingly soft inside, like a burnt yet underbaked muffin, somehow both hard-shelled yet terribly raw in the center. It pained him to even imagine; but he kinda…sorta…a little a lot verymuchlikesvincent. Ew.
The deer squeezed the spoon tighter, as if trying to channel his weirdly fond fury into the utensil, his grip ultimately faltering as he gave up trying to infuse his thoughts into a piece of a dead tree. Despite that, his daydreamings were cut short, as he felt the weight of a cinderblock clank against his shoulder, causing him to almost lose his footing.
“Mmmm…” A slight hum vibrated from the box plopped on him.
“Ugh—Vincent! Your head, it’s so—”
“…Smells so good…”
Alastor’s shoulders shook as he tried to fight the urge to slam that annoying television shaped head into the tiled floor.
“First of all, get your gigantically heavy…” he grunted, unsuccessfully trying to rip himself from the other’s grasp.
Vincent only hugged back harder. “Mmm.” He nuzzled his head against the crook of Alastor’s neck and shoulder, not willing to budge.
After a while of trying ever so desperately to swim against the tide, the radio overlord begrudgingly gave in, his eye twitching at the aggressive closeness.
Ding!
‘Ah, the lamb’s done.’
Alastor casually wrapped a finger around one of Vincent’s antennae, tugging on it with a slight smile on his face, as he shot a wave of shock down the the media overlord's spine.
The victim yelped, as he gripped his trembling appendages, trying to stop them from twitching so much. “OW!—OWWW! FUCKFUCKFUCK! Dammit Al, I shouldn't've told you about that weak spot—” Wait, was one of them always that bent up?
The deer sinner smiled as he flicked the same spot again, watching as his boyfriend staggered away in shock. “Hmm, it is nice to hear you in pain every now and then,” Alastor coolly stated, as he walked over to crack the oven door open—just enough for the smell to escape. “Now, will you be a sweetheart and help set the table?”
Vincent’s shaking antennae sprung up as if they were trying to graze the ceiling, a small burst of cyan running between them as his olfactory processors took in the new scent. Safe to say, it smelled amazing, dazzlingly amazing—even.
“Just bring that pot out first as I fix up the lamb.” Alastor gestured to the stove from his spot by the oven, as he began checking if the meat was tender enough to take out.
“You got it, Al!” Vincent grew giddy at the sound of that—lamb? He can already feel the soft, buttery texture sitting in his staticky mouth. He skipped up to the piping hot silver pot, hands clasped around the handles.
By the time everything was ready for dinner, the media overlord was eyeing his his plate, ooing and ahhing at the slice of lamb that was cut for him. He took a forkful to his screen.
“H-holy shit.” Vincent tipped his head back, marvelling at the burst of flavours in his mouth.
After the first few bites, he was practically shovelling food into his mouth with an invigorated fierceness, rarely stopping unless to dump compliments on the chef.
“No need to be in such a rush, dear.” Alastor set his knife down, a slight laugh playing at his lips. “We have yet to move onto the best course.” He used a tentacle to slip the lid off of the pot sitting next to the lamb shanks (Vincent didn't comment on that), steam rising as another stunning meal presented itself. “Gumbo, my dear mother’s recipe.” Alastor warmly recalled, before setting a heaping spoon upon his and Vincent’s plates, next to a serving of steaming white rice. “Just sprinkle on some sassafras powder, and you can dig right in!”
The media overlord curiously looked at the new dish, it was something that he had never seen before. But hey, he didn’t complain; there’s no doubt in his mind that made him think it’ll ever taste bad—Alastor made it, after all! He nodded as he sprinkled the bright green powder in, scooping a heaping spoonful onto his silverware. As he brought it up to his mouth, he watched as Alastor stared at him intently—not with his normal, “I’m trying too hard to be creepy” stare—but a strangely eager, fixated stare, which was alarming, to put it mildly. Though, he needn't worry about that now—as he stuffed the food into his mouth.
As always, it tasted remarkable. But, something else lingered on his tongue.
To the television demon’s surprise, it was…warm. Not just temperature wise, but warm. An endearing cluster of sensations he had never felt in a long while, at least, since he showed up on hell's doorstep. The type of warmth you feel that is only reserved for a select few, the type of warmth that he locked away from himself for as long as he remembered. It was comforting, though foreign; familiar, yet unacquainted until now. But either way, it was absolutely delectable! That’s the very least Vincent could confirm. He didn't even know that there were combinations of ingredients out there that could ever possibly make him feel this way, he thought food should just taste good, or something.
“So?” Alastor leaned forward.
“It’s really good.”
His shoulder’s relaxed. “Really?”
“Of course. Everything you make is so good, after all.”
The deer’s cheeks flushed. “Really?”
“Really.”
Alastor’s face grew pink—not some pasty coral—but a deep, cherry twinge, reaching all the way past his signature smile, to the tips of his ears.
Vincent laughed. “If you keep makin’ that face, I’m never gonna be able to finish my food.”
“...” Alastor hadn’t even realised such an expression crept up on him, as he touched his cheek with terror, that starstruck expression still plastered across his face. After a while, he averted his gaze, grimacing at his own stupid, weak feelings. Fuck.
Alastor cleared his throat. “WELL!” He shot up, the legs of his chair screeching across their floor. “I suppose that was much fun, but let’s continue eating our meal before it gets too cold, shall we?” He slid back into his chair, awkwardly scooching it back into place.
Cute.
The other overlord gazed at him for a while—somewhat disappointed he may never see that look on his face ever again. Same old Alastor, bashfully unaware of his own feelings. Despite that, Vincent would never get sick of it. He let the thought bounce around his motherboard, chin propped up by a laced pair of hands resting on their dinner table.
After dinner, Alastor leaned against the silver railing of their balcony, alone. Vincent was still clearing up the table—the overlord had insisted on doing it himself, stressing the fact that his “lover” (Alastor still cringes at that title) must’ve been exhausted from arranging all of the festivities. But Alastor didn’t argue, if that meant not having to do the dishes.
The deer stared out at the vast nighttime hellscape, neon buildings speckled along the burgundy horizon, groups of velvety clouds herding themselves along the bloodshot skies. It was already December in the human world—and in hell too—yet not a dash of snow had found itself along any of the pavements, the only thing hinting at the idea of winter being the light frost biting at the sinner’s fingertips, and a soft flow of steam leaving his mouth. He retracted his fingers into his purposefully oversized Sinsmas sweater sleeves, fingers curling around the soft, slightly prickly texture. Continuing to combat the cold, Alastor tucked his hands under his armpits, watching as another ribbon of vapour exited his lips, shivering at the chill that was putting out what little warmth left in his body.
He grumbled at the unforgiving minty breeze, considering retreating indoors, until another hand slipped through to grab his, gently bringing his fingers up to a certain television shaped head, the other overlord’s lips grazing his knuckles.
Even at the slight touch, he felt his entire figure practically go up in flames, his face almost as red as his hair.
Vincent chuckled. “Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”
“I’m not that impatient, dear.” Alastor sighed, a feigned look of uninterest on his face. As much as he wanted to hide his amusement, his cheeks said otherwise, as they glowed an entrancing pink.
The other sinner replied with a soft smile, as he spun his lover around by the hand, bringing the radio demon into a slight dip as he stared into his eyes. “You know, you’re the only person I’d spend Sinsmas with.”
Internal panic set in Alastor’s mind, though he dare not say a word more—the sirens blaring in his head being unknowingly translated into a lovey-dovey lopsided smile.
Oh, fuck it.
“Yes.” His eyes wandered all around the other demon, before setting a soft kiss on his lips. “I know.”
Vincent’s face flashed a bright cyan, before sheepishly bringing Alastor back on his two feet, though their hands still remained clasped together. They looked back at the view once more, not with normality—but with a strangely contemptuous feeling, as if their (after) lives were finally complete.
“Al, have I ever told you I love you?”
Alastor chuckled. “I love you too, sweetheart, and yes, about five times as of—give or take an hour.” He laughed as he tilted his head, just enough for it to be leaning on Vincent.
None of them said anything for a long while, though it felt like they were having whole conversations with their silence, touch making up for words unsaid. Alastor snuggled in, and Vincent followed after, carding his hand through Alastor's fluffy hair.
“Hey.”
Vincent furrowed his brows; who called him?
“Oi, Vox!” Velvette called again.
Vox turned his head—oh. He’s back at the Vee tower, standing alone on their spacious balcony. He watched as Valentino teasingly stood over Velvette by their Sinsmas tree, dangling the last bauble right above her.
The moth sinner laughed amongst the doll sinner’s grumbles, only sparing Vox a glance and a scoff. “Babe, get your ass back in here before you freeze your speakers off or some shit.”
He felt a smile form again. “Yeah, yeah, Val.” Vox slipped through the glass door, sliding it shut with a ‘clink’, as he cast a confused glance at the other two. “So—uhh, what’s going on right now?”
“The fuck you think’s happenin’?!” Velvette jumped with the ends of her toes, trying to grab the ornament that was just out of her reach. “BLOODY HELL, VAL!” she thundered, her stubby limbs once again failing to grasp the silver trinket at her fingertips.
“Aww, sad that your short ass can't reach it~?” Valentino jeered, his toothy smile growing wider as he dangled the bauble right in front of Velvette’s face.
Vox stifled a laugh as he stood crossed armed, watching the spectacle unfold. This—strangely warm feeling, a fleeting crackle in his chest—he thought about it longer. The only other time he’d felt like that…was with Alastor, all those years ago. Vox swooned in his spot. Oh, how he’d kill to see that stupid fucking deer again. He ran his hand down the same fugly Sinsmas sweater he had been wearing yearly without fail, as he brought his arms into a self-induced mini hug.
“THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHIN’ ABOUT!?!?” Velvette snarled, snapping him out of his brief nostalgic trance, her voice was still embroidered with annoyance. After a while of hopping around, she’d managed to gut-punch Valentino, causing him to double over and drop the bauble onto their expensive ceramic tiled floors.
“SHIT! OWW!” Valentino coughed, as he clutched his stomach with his lower hands. “The fuck!?”
The fashion overlord sneered, flipping her ponytail to the side as she plucked the trinket off from the ground. “HA! That's what I fuckin' thought,” she guffawed, before placing the final bauble among all of the other pricey ornaments on the tree, subsequently checking her phone the nanosecond she felt the vibration in her pajama pocket. She turned back to the TV-headed sinner. “Vox, will you be a babe and fetch the takeout downstairs, I just got the notif it arrived.”
“Oh, sure.” Vox nodded, as he walked over to the door of their penthouse. “On it.”
“...Hey, Vee.”
Velvette paused, before opening her mouth. “Thanks.”
Vox smirked. “Aw, well isn’t that rare coming from you. Trying to get on daddy Sinsmas's nice list this year?"
“Oh, just shut up and take it!”
“Never said I planned not to.”
He chuckled, heart throbbing only for a moment, though he made the effort to not mention it. As if Velvette could sense the feeling, she strided up to Vox, smacking him on the back.
"OW-HEY! What's that for?!?" He winced, hand rubbing the sore spot that she had just hit.
"For saying all that shit just now," she muttered, before cranking her hand back for another hit. "This one's for acting all gooey and sad today." She whacked the top of his head, before going at him with another. "This one's for bein' such a whiney bitch." She balled up her hand this time, aiming a land on his shoulder. "This one's for..." Her fist stopped.
"Ugh—you finally done hitting me—"
She squeezed him into a tight hug for a moment, before pulling back, eyes glued to the floor.
"For being our friend."
He tensed up at what she said, his shoulders quickly melting back down after processing her words, a genuine smile replacing his old, placating one.
"Awe, Vel." He tried to give her another hug, before he got shoved out of the room, the door locking right in front of his face.
Vincent stood there in silence, arms still frozen in the same shape he tried to hug the other vee with. The media overlord shook his head, as he got to making his way to the lobby where their takeout was dropped off. As he stood waiting for the elevator to reach the penthouse, he glanced out another gigantic window in their hallway, staring at the same exact horizon, with the same exact red hues that he had been met with since he woke up in hell. His expression softened. He must be staring at the same sky, too.
***
Alastor sipped his tea, his eyes glossing over the scarlet glaze blanketing the murky hellish night, as he sank farther into his armchair, situated in his hotel room. The same crooked buildings, the same flickers of neon sprinkled along the urban dump of a city, the same hissing cold gnawing at his fingertips. He brought his claws along his piping teacup for more warmth. Though toasty, nothing was as comparable as the touch of that picture box. His ears slightly lowered at the thought; Sinsmas with his old Vincent, oh how magical it once was.
A knock sounded at his door, a helpless sigh following. “Alastor! Can you help me with some stuff? I’m scared of Niffty destroying everything again, haha,” Charlie tiredly peeped.
The radio overlord set his cup of tea down before moseying on to the door, to see a completely worn out princess of hell slouched right in front of him. He breathed out a laugh. “Of course, dear.”
Her face lit up—exactly how a certain someone’s boxy complexion would. “Thank you so so much Al, you know this means the world to—OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!” She jumped at the sighting of the maid, cutting their brief conversation short. “SO sorry, just gotta catch Niff-NO NO NO! WE DO NOT ATTACK HOTEL GUESTS—”
He watched in amusement as Niffty scrambled out of Charlie’s grasp for the fifth time, hoisting up a hostage rat by the tail as she waved a knife around its head.
‘CRASH!’
Alastor sighed. There goes another potted plant; how many times did they have to replace one of those?
He straightened his stuffy sweater, fixing the cuffs before he cast a glance to the backside of his hand, his eyes moving back upwards seconds after. His view glided over the expanse of his room for the last time, ending up at his armchair facing the window cill, as he closed the door behind him, smile growing hurtfully wistful. Someday, dear. You’re not that impatient.