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‘You’re just going to… leave me like this?’
Valentino is long gone. It’s just the two of them in Vox’s enormous room now, and they have been existing in a stretch of silence. Alastor’s been grinding his teeth. Vox had been leering at him over his emails. And then after a while he settled in for bed, pinstriped blue pyjama bottoms and all, darkening the windows and turning out the lights.
Vox cracks a glowing eye open.
‘Yeah? You’re my prisoner, remember?’
Alastor grimaces. He hates admitting he’s uncomfortable, but the cables pressing over his chest have become white-hot agony, and he won’t be able to sleep upright in a fucking desk chair.
Vox cocks his head at him, and the cables tighten. It’s as if he can tell what Alastor’s thinking. Maybe he can. The airwaves have gone absolutely batshit today, as their emotion writhes and clashes as they mentally fight one another. It’s also of no help that at this proximity, they are out of practice at blocking out their thoughts. Alastor has felt far too much second hand obsessive, sexually charged hatred today, as much as Vox must have gotten a large dose of Alastor’s own snarling defiance.
‘Have you not got some jail? Some spare room?’
‘Aw, that’s cute Al, but I’m not letting you out of my sight.’
‘You’ll be asleep,’ he glares. ‘Why does it matter where I am? I agreed to be your captive. I can't leave.’
Vox shifts, regarding him.
‘You’re staying here. I mean… the other option is joining me in bed. Y’know. Where I fuck, and stuff.’
As demonstrated not even four hours ago. Alastor was half expecting Vox to make him join in, but the extent of his discomfort ended up being minimal. He wrinkled his nose as various garments were lobbed at him—including Vox’s clip on bow tie, which was the biggest crime—and then he made far too much eye contact with Vox as he did what Alastor can only describe as embarrassing himself with Valentino. Vox might have felt the trickle of relief that followed when Alastor realised he was not about to be an active participant. Because Alastor certainly felt the echoes of Vox’s… relief, when he finished.
It’s… tempting. It’s not that he trusts Vox. But maybe in memory of their dead mutual respect, this could actually be an option, since Vox hasn’t taken advantage of him during all the moments he could have. And Alastor is in so, so much pain. His judgement is blurred. If he could just lie down…
Well. It’s already been a weird fucking day.
‘Move up then,’ Alastor says primly. His hands flex, trying to get some blood flowing through the constriction around his wrists.
Vox jerks upright. The covers fall off his chest, and the blue rectangles he has in lieu of nipples and the gill-like markings at his ribs are stark and pale in the gloom.
‘What? Really?’
‘It’s not out of any affection, Vox. I simply don’t want to be in a chair all night. Or is this yet another empty offer?’
The cables extract him from the chair and Alastor winces as they re-tighten around his torso, constricting his chest, digging more red welts into his skin. His wound throbs. Since Vox pulled out his old stitches it has begun weeping, and the thin cords have been doing nothing but agitating it. He feels himself being lifted into the air. In the hush of the room, his faint grunt of pain is far too audible.
Alastor floats along the floor, limp feet scuffing tile, and when he meets the edge of the bed, Vox sets him down. The ties loosen. Not entirely, but enough for Alastor to draw in a proper deep breath, feeling the burn of his ribs expanding. He slides his palm over the mattress. Vox has drawn back the covers for him and the space he’s vacated is warm. They look at one another. Vox’s eyes are wide in that endearing way he used to look with his CRT head. Alastor huffs, then swings his legs over. Fully clothed, he lies stiffly beside him. Vox doesn’t yet lie down, just looks at him, curiosity pinging from his antennae and being caught by Alastor’s antlers. Static charges in the void between. Vox nudges the edge of the duvet toward Alastor, but doesn’t presume to put it over him.
‘I thought you liked to curl up. Why are you like a corpse?’
Alastor’s neck creaks as he turns to look at him, glaring with fire in his eyes and that pitiful set to his ears.
‘Because your wires are digging into my angelic injury, Vox. Maybe if you stopped crushing me I could actually get comfortable.’
Vox snorts. ‘Nice try. I need to keep hold of you somehow.’
‘So dramatic,’ Alastor mutters. He feels the cables shifting around him like snakes, warm and buzzing with power, digging in especially where his back is against the bed. And then they start to retreat. He looks at Vox quizzically. They leave his chest completely, but now the little plugs and ports on the ends are nudging at Alastor’s lapels, sliding up his sleeves. He tries to shake them away.
‘Stop squirming. I’m only taking off your jacket, it’s disgusting. We just had the sheets changed.’
Vox’s thinner cables slide up his arms, and as promised, only remove the coat. He’s manhandled from one side to the other as it is slid off him, and laid to rest on his side facing Vox, just in his shirtsleeves. He brings his arms around himself. He’d usually not do such a thing in company, especially with Vox as witness, but Vox can feel his pain, feel his vulnerability though the radio waves anyway, and he might as well try and stay warm.
‘Come here,’ mutters Vox. He opens up the duvet, an invitation to move closer. Alastor just glares at him and doesn’t.
‘I can easily make you, if you don’t comply Al. I either hold you with the wires or my arms. You pick.’
Alastor’s ears flicker. He really should go back in this fucking chair to avoid any of this despicable closeness with his—well. Vox would describe them as arch nemeses. Alastor would never give him a title with that much weight. Somebody irrelevant. A mistake. Or if he’s feeling generous, which he is not, currently, then perhaps an old friend.
But the bed is so much more comfortable. He begins shuffling closer into Vox’s warmth. He smells different. Of course he’s going to have different cologne after seventy years. But underneath, the scent of warm electronics and densely metallic blood is the same. It’s unnerving to get close enough to be surrounded by it again.
When he’s within reach Vox stretches out an arm and tugs him closer still. Alastor is under no false impression that Vox has feelings for him, despite how long it took him to initially catch on, but even this is bold. But then again, Vox has been touching him all day, so much so that Alastor can practically still feel his claws pressing into his jawbone or the settling of his fingers on his shoulders. Alastor never would have let Vox do that when they were friends, and Vox wouldn’t have dared, in all his wide-eyed admiration. Seems he’s making up for it now.
Alastor, weary and wounded, does not struggle as Vox presses alongside him. The television demon settles flat on his back. Probably because he can’t sleep any other way with his head the way it is. Alastor’s bony shoulder fits snugly beneath Vox’s armpit as that arm comes around to rest his hand on his waist. It’s possessive but not groping, not searching for more. Alastor relaxes a fraction. He’s been holding his neck stiffly to the side, upright, but now, tentatively, he lowers it into the only spot he can—on to Vox’s hard chest, in the crook below his shoulder. He feels his small antlers scrape the bottom of Vox’s screen and gets a small surge like audio feedback, but it dies out fast as their signals smooth over one another.
Vox’s breaths are steady even if his heart rate has elevated slightly. Alastor’s cheek squishes to warm skin. It’s.. weirdly comfortable. He shifts, bringing his legs up a little. It’s a refreshing position after the chair, at least. Though he dreads to think what he might look like practically cuddled against Vox’s side. Vox shifts, bringing his other arm around Alastor too, angling his body a bit to the side, and their legs slip between one another’s, with Alastor’s knees bent and bracketing Vox’s nearest leg and Vox’s far one stacked atop his. Like together they make a concertina fold. Alastor is acutely aware that his knee is close to Vox’s crotch. He waits for Vox to push further, waits for the boundary to be crossed, but Vox is still now, content with holding Alastor in a warm cocoon.
There’s the distant white noise of the city below, hushed by the glass windows. Alastor feels his eyes drooping. Their signals finally, finally begin to harmonise again, lulling them both into comfort—when did they stop clashing? When did his ears unlench? The forearm around his waist is thin, but dense with muscle, holding him tight like he’s Vox’s favourite stuffed toy. He wonders what it would feel like to bite down in it. Satisfying, no doubt.
‘I’m going to hurt you tomorrow,’ Vox says, as if murmuring sweet nothings to a lover. Alastor can feel his breath stir in his hair atop his head. ‘You’re going to be screaming for mercy.’
And Alastor, as his own sour breath ghosts over Vox’s chest, making him shiver, doesn’t doubt that Vox will try. Oh, no, he knows what Vox is capable of. He wouldn’t have become close with him all that time ago if he was adverse to such behaviour. But Alastor does not have it in him to dread the morning: not after today. He is no stranger to pain, especially the type from Vox, where tangled detestation and affection always makes for an interesting and pathetically emotional show. Even if Alastor’s at the butt of it. It’s entertaining. And Alastor’s all about entertainment.
And so they lie there, with soft contact that surpasses in meaning anything that real lovers could dream of. Alastor feels like they’ve sunken so far into the mattress from the weight of their history that come morning they might have to claw themselves out of the springs. As he drifts to sleep he feels Vox disentangle an arm and begin to stroke his hair. With the intention of mockery, he’d probably claim. But it’s not even like Rosie’s affectionate pats as a reminder of her ownership; the touch is far too gentle to be anything but Vox letting himself indulge.
Tomorrow he’ll face horror. Tonight they can both pretend.