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The flames from the fireplace flickered gently, the staccato crackling complementing the faint music seeping through the walls.
A staticky sigh escaped the radio demon’s lips before he quietly hummed along to the old tune.
Appearances be damned, Alastor was nothing if not a traditionalist; he couldn’t help but be fond of the holiday season. That much was obvious when looking at the small but well-decorated tree in the corner of his room, arranged neatly with fairy lights draped along each branch and garish, bright red baubles hanging in tandem. Not that he had any religious motivations — that ship had long sailed, considering where his afterlife was taking place — nevertheless, it was a day of the year he had only warm memories for. Of his mother. He had seldom times he permitted himself to linger apart from this.
The thought of that made Alastor wince slightly. The nostalgia plaguing him was a weakness, to be sure. And not just from his days on Earth, either.
Glancing briefly at the chipped, red cup sitting atop his dresser, he realised the bittersweet flashbacks extended to his afterlife — to a certain TV-headed demon that he could never fully let into his life.
It was fun to let him try, though.
“Here, Alastor. I… I saw this and thought of you. Merry Christmas!”
Alastor broke his gaze from the Hallmark film he had begrudgingly agreed to watch (“C’mon, Al, it’s Christmas tradition!”) to look up at the bright eyes of the other demon, who was shuffling closer to him from the other side of the couch. His eyes drifted down to Vox’s trembling hands, holding out an offering wrapped neatly in red paper and sealed with a matching bow.
“You didn’t mention anything about gifts to me,” Alastor quirked a brow, meeting Vox’s gaze once more. “It’d be awfully impolite to accept when I’ve nothing to offer to you.”
Vox gave a shaky laugh, scratching the back of his head bashfully. “I know, I know, I just couldn’t help myself! And isn’t the spirit of Christmas about giving and not receiving?”
“I believe the spirit of Christmas is about the birth of Christ.”
Rolling his eyes with a smile, Vox curtly pushed the box onto his lap. “Just open it.”
“If you insist.”
He reached down to pull the string of the bow, watching it fall lifelessly to the floor. Tension hung thick in the air as he felt the unyielding eyes of the other demon on him, could feel his body almost brush against his arm as he worked deftly to undress the pretty present. Alastor would typically quickly create distance to keep his personal space in check — a boundary he was mostly consistent with — but the ‘Christmas spirit’ Vox kept prattling on about was obnoxiously starting to rub off on him, and so he indulged him.
It wouldn’t be the first time, and certainly not the last.
Vox looked like he was about to burst from second-hand excitement, his eyes now impossibly large and grin matching eagerly as Alastor carefully removed the lid from the box. Inside was a bright red mug, which he picked up to inspect, humming thoughtfully. A line of text was sprawled across the front.
Oh Deer.
“This made you think of me?” Alastor couldn’t help but laugh at his existence to Vox being summed up by red and deer. “That’s… overly simple of you, Vox.”
Just like that, Vox deflated like an assaulted balloon, his smile faltering immediately — something he tried and failed to conceal as he stuttered out a half-baked protest, only heightening Alastor’s amusement.
“Now, now, no need to be so emotional, hmm?”
Red claws met blue, leaving Vox’s breath caught in his throat.
“It’s… cute. Thank you, Vincent.” Alastor let his filter free voice slip out, for once.
Their frequencies intermingled, a soft static purring into the room. Vox’s fingers were ice cold underneath his, sending a small shiver down his spine and he felt a low guttural feeling of… something curl up in his stomach. He refused to name the feeling. Simply another impulse to the wretched season.
It was quite clear Vox had no idea what to do with such an earnest response. Face flushing in a light blue hue, his hand twitched underneath Alastor’s, unsure whether to sit still in submission or interlock their fingers — a hesitation that spoke of an unspoken desire that he’d never been good at hiding.
Instead, he slipped his hand back, grinning quickly — too quickly. “Of course! Did you want a drink now? Tea? Coffee? I mean– I can– Whatever you want.”
His words tumbled out as he struggled to meet Alastor’s eyes, his gaze instead flicking his hand as if the touch still lingered, leg bouncing restlessly.
This was not lost on Alastor as he held the other man’s eyes for a beat, watching him squirm in the need to be on his feet. His grin sharpened.
“Tea. Black. Thank you, dear.”
He watched as Vox all but flashed out of the room with the mug in hand, and Alastor’s features settled into something much more fond as a sweet sigh filled the air.
That tediously sentimental picture box.