Chapter Text
Alastor
Alastor's days were long and taxing, with a city that had become squeezed by the firm hand of other people's interference. It was stupid, ridiculous, and, right now, there was nothing he could do directly about it. So he abided by the bizarre rules, which split the city along arbitrary lines of colour, and felt the everyday oppression build inside him like a pressure valve stuck closed. He couldn't remember a day when he wasn't angry; the fury at injustice coiled inside his chest like a snake. Sometimes he could hardly look at people. The world was run by idiots, bumbling and pathetic creatures that deserved nothing more than to be butchered and consumed like fatted livestock. The manager at the radio workshop - where they were building some of the first transmitters for the region - had told Alastor in a fatherly sort of way that he'd obviously never be on the air but was a talented technician nonetheless. He'd meant well, complimenting Alastor on his voice and bemoaning what a shame it was he'd never get to use it. Alastor wished he’d said nothing instead, still rolling the thought over and over and over in his mind as he headed home from work.
They'd all fucking see.
The only thing that kept him from exploding was the nights. Night extinguished some of the ugliness under its wings, and Alastor felt like he could breathe again.
After work, as he did every day, he stopped by his mother's house for dinner, where she served up a heaving table of her famous cuisine to a bustling crowd of neighbours and other family members who had long grown accustomed to pulling up a chair without even needing to ask. That evening it had been a steaming chicken gumbo that made the mouth positively water. Everyone had news to share, and that evening Alastor had kept to the background while the others cooed over a cousin's new baby. He didn't eat much during the day, fasting up until dinnertime when he filled up on the only food worth eating. Even trying to keep his head down, he still got banter and comments from well meaning aunties, asking him where he put it all, the food, if he was smuggling it out in his boots. According to them, he didn't seem to put on weight. He didn't mind the jokes. Sometimes they instead asked him when he was going to find a girl of his own to settle down with, and his matriarchal mother would effortlessly intervene, gently steering the conversation to a different topic. She was a marvel, able to hold court over a room of people from all backgrounds and opinions and make sure grievances were addressed and no long-standing feuds ever festered too far or too long. She was the glue that held his world together, and a damn, damn good cook.
Food had always made him feel close to her, and though he'd heard people say it was "woman's work" (more stupidity) Alastor had proven a steady student in her arts, helping with the larger meals when he had time off, adding filé and helping to chop and chop and chop vegetables. He was very good with a knife.
With dinner squared away and the gathering dissipating around him, Alastor had prettied himself up and slipped out into the night, kissing his mother on the cheek as he went.
"You take care, darlin’,” she said, straightening his already straight waistcoat.
“Always do,” he winked, and then was out into the humid evening. The weather had been odd lately, up and down, as if the sky itself were as restless as Alastor felt inside.
The speakeasy was a black-and-tan club, Alastor’s favourite venue, where they outright ignored irrational segregation lines; women and men, black, white and everything in between, intermingled. The best musicians played there too, aware that the most appreciative and refined crowds were the ones who saw straight through the pathetic little laws that tried to hamper their fun.
“Mimsy, my darling.” he crooned, throwing his arms around the petite woman who already had a whisky in hand. "How was your little trip?" She smirked. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell, Alastor.”
“Ohh, a suitor. Wonderful,” he purred.
"Suited and left behind already," she laughed. "And me a little richer."
"Delightful," he said, pleased in that dark way that another idiot had had their comeuppance. One did not simply buy a woman like Mimsy, she always left a mark.
By the bar, the band was already warming up, and Alastor daintily tucked his knees together and tossed back his hair, exhaling the tension that normally lived like an iron bar inside his body.
The darkness was where he came alive.
Vincent
The Great War had ended in the Summer just over two years ago, with Vincent's older brother Francis returning as a decorated war hero for his bravery against the Huns. Francis had breezed his way into Yale, was a star quarterback, had a rich fiancé, and was going to walk right into a politics job like dear old dad. Mr. Perfect always got everything he wanted.
Vincent was a disappointment. He knew it, everybody knew it. He'd marched straight to the recruitment office the morning of his 18th birthday wanting to show everyone what he was made of, and right back out again after failing the eye exam. He had gotten into Yale, sure, but only after suffering the indignity of being put on the shortlist and his dad giving the University President a call. Vincent was on the Rowing Team, which had lost to Harvard this year.
He'd been encouraged to call on a few eligible daughters of family friends, and he hadn't done it. His mom said they were all nice girls. He understood sometimes there were things you just had to do. But the idea of him courting and wedding anybody turned his stomach in ways he didn't have words for. He also just plain didn't want a nice girl. Playing nice was smart. Being nice was stupid. So he'd fucked that up too.
What occupied most of Vincent's time was The Yale Daily News, which was a college daily that had been going so long it needed an overhaul. He had convinced the EIC they ought to be covering national news, and that's exactly what they'd been doing. Politics, Sports, Crime, Cinema, you name it. The big thing for Vincent was the pictures. Right now it was all engravings for the Ads. But Vincent thought what people really wanted to see was photos. The news as it happened, real disasters, real faces. Vincent had gotten his first camera when he was 10. If only they could work out the right printing technique to make it easy to put in every paper, Vincent thought it would really take off. It wasn't Hollywood, but it was something.
Since they'd gone national, Vincent just had this idea in his head of one big story he'd break that nobody could ignore. And he'd spent weekends driving wherever the hell he thought that kind of story might hit. Vincent liked to keep his fingers in a lot of pies, and that included the newly-formed American Meteorological Society. There were stirrings of a storm brewing that could hit Louisiana, and come hell or high water Vincent wanted to be there for it.
Jack Harrow, who was coloured and also a great goddamn copy editor, was from New Orleans. He had told Vincent where to find a gin joint that was still operating and didn't serve paint stripper.
Vincent packed his camera, supplies, and a few clothes, made his excuses for the whole week. After an excruciating drive he'd set up his Hotel Room how he liked it, finished off the sardine and egg sandwich he'd packed, and gone out on the town to relax.
Jack had been right about the Club. Vincent got in okay, and was greeted immediately by a blast of live, hopping music and a sea of happy faces with bright, smart clothes. Women and men mixed at the bar, at the tables, and on the dance floor. Some of them even arrived or left together. It wasn't grand roman columns, chandeliers, and cigars, but Vincent wasn't here to rub elbows and chat politics after dinner. If his dad knew he was here, he'd probably have a fucking conniption.
He pulled up to the bar and ordered a whiskey, a grin plastered to his face as he chuckled to himself like a maniac at the idea. His elbow brushed the patron next to him, a dame with a great neck and dark, cropped hair. He turned to give her a short, "Sorry, gorgeous," before noticing that neck was attached to a suit.
"Uh, pal," he corrected, abashed.
Alastor
Alastor raised his Sazerac to his lips, the ice clinking as it settled. They were certainly making progress recording music, but the spartan, tinny notes were nothing to the living, breathing music that poured out of the band as they got into their stride. Even the less confident musicians - the ones who hit off notes or fumbled their jamming - were nevertheless a delight to him. The key was the humanity, not the song's execution. Every performance was different, which meant no two nights were the same.
Alastor was often bored, a restlessness that crept in whenever he was overexposed to tedious people. The lively clientele of the speakeasy was anything but boring.
The fleeting nudge made the hair on the back of Alastor's neck stand on end, triggering a deep fight or flight instinct. Of course, like all of Alastor's instincts, he had it in hand immediately, tightening his posture imperceptibly and glancing around. He didn't drop his smile even a little. Alastor was always cordial and always pleasant right up until he wasn't. Still, the nudge had made him acutely aware of the blade he was wearing beneath his well-fitted clothing and whether he'd need to use it tonight.
Sorry gorgeous
An idiot.
Uh pal
An idiot with manners. The sort he could permit.
"A new face, hmmm?" he said. "Gorgeous is my Sunday name, you can call me Alastor instead." He boldly extended a hand in greeting. Here, he didn't need to play the passive, submissive little part that society wanted him to play. This was his home, and everyone knew the real version of himself.
Or at least the version that wouldn't terrify them.
Vincent
Vincent had a thing about aesthetics. Movie stars had to say everything with their eyes and the girl leads always had these eyes bigger than dinner plates. With the guys it was all smoulder. This guy could have given Rudolph Valentino a run for his money. Big dark eyes. Lips that curled into a smile that promised 10 kinds of trouble. A waist that could have been in a corset.
Vincent was aware his mouth was open. He needed someone to rescue his jaw from the floor. He hoped his drink got here soon so his mouth would have something to do that wasn't making him look like a guppy.
Focus. Introductions were cake. He could do introductions.
Only the guy wasn't holding a firm hand for a handshake. He was offering Vincent the back of it. Fuck, was he funny too?
"Vincent," he said, barking out a laugh and taking the hand to bend real low, almost double, to brush the knuckles primly with his lips. "Don't tell me you get even better looking on Sundays. There's not going to be any dames left for the rest of us."
He leaned an elbow on the bar, puffing out his chest and gesturing to himself, "Brand new. Just rolled in from the shop."
Alastor
Alastor was used to all sorts of folks showing up in the bars after dark; something about the feeling the law ended at the door meant people let down their hair in ways they wouldn't dream of during the day.
This guy was interesting, but he was from out of town. Alastor had seen plenty of people like him, stepping out of their stuffy lives, taking a vacation to the Big Easy, intent on making the kind of mistakes they couldn't bring home with them afterwards. Alastor wasn't a mistake, especially not the kind of mistake people could walk away from afterwards.
He fielded the hand with a flourish, his lips setting off an electric reflex similar to the nudge earlier, only this one elicited a wider curl of his smile rather than the desire to stab him between the eyes.
"That's between God and me," Alastor teased. "And don't worry about your dames, Vincent, there will be so many left over after I'm through."
He couldn't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm, taking a short sip from his glass again. "Fresh and new. Like a car," he trailed a nimble finger around the edge of his drink. "Is that a playful metaphor?" he asked.
"Because it sounds like you are saying you are looking to be taken for your first ride?" He smirked, baring his smile a little too far in a way that read as vicious. There was a sort of petty delight in flexing his claws against these spoiled, pampered city boys.
"Do you need me to introduce you to some of my dear friends? The sort with negotiable affection."
Vincent
Vincent laughed. "Damn, you really must go through them." Plenty left over? The place was crawling with ladies. "A guy's only got two arms," he scolded him.
Vincent treated the arrival of his drink gratefully, passing a few folded bills to the barkeeper. "Another of whatever he's having for him, too," he said, figuring alchohol could smooth over anything. He knocked back his first finger. He needed it. A sane person would have broken up the trip driving down here into 3 days. Vincent had just done it in one, sleep and everything else be damned.
He nearly choked on the surprisingly smooth whiskey at the question about his first ride. Mostly because his cock jumped and it almost never did. The guy's voice by itself made his ears burn.
He coughed. He thought he'd been pretty slick. Was it that obvious he was a virgin? Great, and now his new friend was offering to introduce him to some actual prostitutes. He wiped his mouth and looked at Alastor a little hopelessly.
"Uh, no, I," He was sure his face was totally red, and Alastor had watched him arrive so he couldn't even blame it on the alchohol, "I'm just looking to dance," he said.
Alastor
"I meant they'd all be left over," Alastor said with a twist of his lips. It wasn't that Alastor couldn't have sex, it was offered to him frequently by all kinds of fascinating people. He just on the whole wasn't interested, and it got complicated. Mimsy's life was a complete disaster. She had a taste for what were deemed "bad boys" and it always landed her in the worst sort of trouble. Trouble Alastor had had to help pull her out of on more than a few occasions.
Deep in her cups, she'd lamented more than once that he wasn't available, asking if he was interested in anyone.
And the answer was no, he wasn't. Not normally anyway.
"Sazerac," Alastor said and held out his mostly empty glass for Vincent to taste a sip of the dregs if he pleased. "Of course, with absinthe banned and hard to source, it's all a little different right now."
Alastor wasn't expecting Vincent to get as flustered as he did about the snipe and found it regrettable that it seemed he was most likely really a virgin. For a city sleazeball, it was an appropriate amount of harm; for an inexperienced idiot looking for somewhere to dance the night away, it verged uncomfortably close to rude. Alastor was a lot of things, but he found rudeness crass.
"Well," he said, placing a hand on Vincent's shoulder. "I can help you with a dance in a bit. I won't even make you negotiate"
Vincent
All? Oh, shit. The guy was a fairy, right? Well, it was rude to ask. It'd explain some things, like the way he tilted his hips and rolled his shoulders and fluttered his lashes. Only Vincent got this prickling feeling on the back of his neck. Not like a girl feeling, although there was that too. It was a sleek kind of moving around. The kind a predator might do. He thought maybe that was what was making his heart go so fast.
Alastor handed over his drink for Vincent to try. The guy had clever, piercing eyes and a sharp smile, like he was looking right into Vincent's head and if he didn't like what he saw he was going to claw his heart out.
Well, let him look.
Vincent sucked up the last of Alastor's drink, and stole one of Alastor's ice chips, crunching it in his teeth. "Hey, this is kinda good," he said, "Sazerac, huh?" It tasted herby. "That's alright. Doesn't cut the whiskey at all, does it? Hey, I'll have one too," he told the Barkeeper matter-of-factly. He smirked, keeping Alastor's glass instead of returning it. He exchanged it instead, nudging over his mostly-finished whiskey glass in front of Alastor.
He looked over at the dance floor, which had plenty of mixed dancing, girls with guys, but even with the number of partners available there were still some girls together and guys together. It wasn't like Vincent had never danced with guys. Girls weren't allowed to even apply to Yale, and girls were always more in demand at the dance halls.
"You usually give everybody looking for a dance a hard time, Al? You're trouble, I can tell. Sure, I'm game. Gonna get my drink first. Then let's cut a rug."
Alastor
When Vincent took the glass, he commanded a fraction more of Alastor's attention. People were so odd about body fluids; saliva was just one of them, entry-level tolerance.
You could gauge a substantial amount about someone's true feelings from their revulsion, avoidance, and restraint. Manners cracked like ice underfoot when someone was taken by surprise.
Vincent hadn't hesitated, and the way he crunched the ice in his teeth made Alastor stare a beat too long, his dark eyes intense over his neat glasses. He had good teeth.
The band ended one of their brief sets. Alastor glanced away and applauded them with the other patrons before picking up Vincent's glass and - with his eyes still on the band as they addressed the crowd and thanked them - set his tongue on the rim, twirling the glass in a subtle movement that was almost a sleight of hand until he'd dragged it across all of it, licking his lips as if to taste it. Barely a taste, it frustrated rather than satisfied.
"It's a New Orleans special," he said, and threw the whiskey back easily.
"I give people what they deserve," he said with an airy smile, setting the glass down again with a thunk on the bar top.
Alastor gave him a thoughtful look, considering what new piece of him deserved to be torn down for fun, and then paused.
"Oh," he said. "Fascinating."
"Look at me."
He held up a finger in front of his face to direct the other man there and then dropped it.
Vincent
Alastor paused, playing with the glass, but in the end he cleaned Vincent's glass out too. Vincent should have been watching the band, but he wasn't. He felt like he might miss something he didn't want to miss.
Vincent shivered with a weird kind of anticipation at the assertation that Alastor was dispensing, what. Rewards? Punishments? He felt like he'd take either. Both.
When a silky command dropped from that cheshire mouth, all Vincent was thinking was, Tell Me To Rob A Bank.
In the haze of All New Feelings in what was Turning Into A Fucking Situation For Vincent, he registered what Alastor had actually asked him, and his shoulders sagged a little. He rolled his eyes and sighed, but bent forward and looked where Alastor had indicated.
But he cut him off before the questions started.
"You mean my," he gestured vaguely at his face. "It's a birth defect, or whatever. Not uh, symmetrical. Can't all be perfect."
Alastor
There was a flicker of irritation in Alastor's expression, but his smile didn't falter for an instant, only his eyebrows furrowing.
"Shut up," he said quietly, taking hold of Vincent's chin to stop him from making excuses. He stared him right in the eyes, sweet and warm, smiling with only his teeth.
"It's beautiful," he said. He wasn't going to explain to this idiot that asymmetry was a blessing, that aesthetically it represented the very essence of defiance.
People tried to tell the folks who lived there what beauty was supposed to be, that everything had to be neat and in its place. Someone, somewhere, had tried to tell Vincent the same thing.
He'd kill them all before he was put in any place they'd designated.
There was a slight shiver of disgust in the line of his lips. "I mean that too, because normally blue eyes are not to my taste."
He relinquished his hold, resisting the irrational desire to drag his thumb across those stupid lips.
"That self-effacement is unbecoming of you, Vincent," he said, with an edge of disappointment. "It leaves a bad taste. Tell me something you enjoy about yourself. Something that tastes a little sweeter."
Vincent
Alastor took his chin, and he shut up. Alastor's fingernails were on the long side and if they cut into him Vincent thought his troublemaking heart might actually stop. Even the 'Shut up' from Alastor was pure honey.
"Yes, sir," he said almost reflexively. He swallowed and his adam's apple bobbed.
He looked back into Alastor's cruel eyes, and it felt like the storm he'd come to see was taking place right now in his head and chest. He was suddenly extremely aware of his own breathing. He was willing his glasses not to fog. And then Al called him beautiful, and he melted, plopping his whole head into Al's hand right then and there like family dog.
"Whatever you don't like, I'll swap," he murmured.
Oh, God. He was asking him to say something he liked. Something he liked about himself. His heart dropped. Usually he was great at selling anything. But what was going to impress Alastor? He didn't know the guy well enough to cater his pitch. That and everything he did ended up in a huge disaster, and he felt like Alastor would fucking know. If Francis was here, he'd probably have about a hundred stories of bravery and championships and winning at everything to regale Alastor with.
But Francis didn't have mismatched eyes. And Francis wouldn't be caught dead swapping glasses with a beautiful man in an illegal saloon.
"I like to watch other people," he said before he could stop himself, "I've got a camera. I mean, I'm good with it. The camera." He liked to be thorough and get a lot of shots. The framing made a difference. And after he could keep it. Places. Faces. Whatever happened. He had a makeshift darkroom set up in the hotel bathroom. A couple of trays and chemical bottles and a towel for under the door and you were in business.
"I'd like them all to watch me too, some day. I guess everybody daydreams about being a star."
Alastor
The deferential obedience surprised Alastor and rankled him in equal measure; it felt like someone who was used to being ordered around, and it made him uncomfortable. His order was not even in the same universe as whoever had taught Vincent to call people "sir" and he resented feeling like that. Even the way Vincent had leaned into Alastor's hand had given him significant pause, his skin crawling - not at the contact - but the feeling of immediate responsibility he felt at being the trigger for such a gesture. It was pathetic. Needy. Embarrassing.
And yet Alastor didn't disengage from the interaction the way he might have with someone else who had just made his stomach do such unpleasant flips.
"If anything is unsatisfactory, believe me, you'll know," he said with a twisted smirk.
He really wanted to know what was going on in this man's head. Something about this whole interaction was just a little bit off, as if the world wasn't operating correctly. It was making him feel a little bit mad. Normally, the routine played out predictably, an old familiar tune. Whoever it was, man or woman, would flirt, buy him a drink and rapidly bore him with their trite and conventional attempts at engaging him in whatever sort of mating dance they'd decided to concoct. Alastor didn't care for the game and would often be forced to make a tactical exit, his night ruined.
Sometimes people really didn't like being told no. And sometimes those people made it a thing later when they tried to follow him home to rough him up or worse.
In the end, those people provided him with a free meal. They got the date they wanted, just not quite on their terms.
Vincent was something different.
Alastor paused again, staring at the other man for the feature he said he liked about himself. Again, it had surprised him, and Alastor hated and loved surprises more than anything else. He'd anticipated any number of non-answers, catering to what Vincent might think he'd like, but this one was something brand-new. He'd turned over a metaphorical rock, and the things down in the earth were things he'd never seen before.
"I wouldn't have taken you for a photographer," he said frankly. "Too handsome. Too charming." Vincent didn't feel like someone whose destiny was developing trays in a dimly lit room. He smelled like politics, and that was always dangerous to entangle yourself with, especially if you were someone like Alastor.
"Hmmmm. Do they?" he asked Vincent for his assumption, giving him a vacant, glassy smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I've been told I have a face that's made for radio."
The next drink arrived and he downed it like it owed him money.
"But it's my voice they'll all listen to one day."
Vincent
Vincent believed Alastor when he said he'd let him know if he fucked up. Maybe he didn't like his outfit. Maybe he'd want him to change his clothes. That was going into dangerous territory. Vincent would be lucky if he could manage a 'Roll Over' at this rate.
Vincent beamed at him for the compliments. "Aw, shucks. I'm not anything, not yet. But you just watch."
Vincent snarled repulsively at the idea that Alastor's devastatingly perfect face wasn't art. "The fuck you do. If it was me filming, your name would be on every marquee from here to China. God, I bet you could do a heavy. What's the french for a guy femme fatale? Where's-?" Vincent nabbed a cocktail napkin, and pulling a fountain pen from his pocket he wrote down in half-mostly-poor doodles and half explanations and arrows his name, the address for his hotel, dorm, and home for letters, along with phone numbers for each.
While he wrote, he continued, "I'd listen to you listing the scientific names of every species of fungus. They're dragging their asses figuring out how to get sound for the picture shows. You mark my words, radio and pictures, it was meant to be. You - what do you do?" He looked around with a grin, "Preaching?"
He finished cramming every inch of ill-advised personal info for a stranger in an illegal salloon onto a square of paper and held it out for Alastor's inspection. He'd have given him his bank numbers if he thought that would help.
"You contact me any time, Al. I've got a Bell & Howell. I'll change my university program. I'll figure it out. Have you seen - there were all these import bans some places on German shit on account of the war, but maybe you caught it anyhow, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari?"
Alastor
This strangely arresting guy would probably be something one day, Alastor thought. "You might never be anything if you make a habit of flirting with strange men." Those kinds of scandals didn't even reach the papers; you didn't even get a legacy. "Are you always this intense?"
It wasn't meaningless flattery to say Vincent was handsome and had a good speaking voice; it was simply the facts as they stood. However, any potential positive feeling Alastor might have otherwise had was held at bay by the fact that the man was greener than spring grass. Was he writing out his details?
"There aren't male femme fatales, Vincent," Alastor said sweetly. "Not in the imaginations of narrow, stupid little men. Just like there aren't performers or announcers like me."
Their lack of imagination was very often their downfall.
He couldn't help but chuckle at Vincent's quite earnest assertion that he would market Alastor regardless. Alastor couldn't believe it; words were all words until someone had to go up against the immovable weight of society. Someone as bright-eyed and idealistic as Vincent would be crushed on the wheels in a heartbeat. Alastor lowered his voice, leaning in just a little under the rabble of the band. Some things were dangerous to say too loudly.
"Until those stupid little men are in the ground, it's all just words," he said in Vincent's ear.
And then he sat back again airily as if he'd never leaned in at all. "Radio technician for my sins and the messages I'd like to one day give to the masses certainly aren't about any God you'd know," he said, feeling the alcohol finally start to creep in, softening just a little of the irritation that might lead to a blade in Vincent's sternum. He booped the man's angular nose with an elegant finger as if he were an adorable pet. "I'd personally be careful who you ask about their daytime profession in these discreet spaces. Not everyone is very thrilled about prying."
Still, he took the details, neatly folding them and placing them into a hand-stitched interior pocket of his waistcoat, smiling at Vincent over his glasses.
He shook his head. "Hmmm. No. I'd think I would only have heard of it if it had a radio drama."
Vincent
"People give a shit about what they're told to give a shit about. Every manufacturer, every politician, they've all got skeletons in their basement. Wheeler had 2/3rds of those drunk hypocrites toeing the line." he smirked at Alastor, lowering his eyelids.
"Anyhow, it's not a habit." Vincent said, "And nope, never. You're just making me crazy. This is all new. Well, I can get pushy, sometimes." He got his own drink, and sipped the Sazerac more carefully, wanting to think about how it tasted some more. Usually he just wolfed food and drinks down.
"Not yet, but so what," Vincent said, "Future's getting here fast all the time. Homme, isn't it? Like cologne. That's the word. Homme fatale."
Alastor leaned in. All of Vincent felt alert and prickly with anticipation, but when Alastor was talking about dead guys in that voice, it was like a shot of electricity went all through him he didn't expect and couldn't explain.
"I can put guys in the ground," Vincent crooned back low, meaning it. "Or somewhere, anyhow. I've got a boat. Not that I'd waste a whole daytrip on garbage disposal." He was pretty sure his dad had made more than a few inconvenient assholes disappear. As much as Francis was a complete saint, if he ever got into any trouble Vincent would have brought a shovel and not asked questions.
He shot straight up at technician, but he kept his voice low. "I can do discreet. You're a tech guy. Hey, me too. Killer looks, great voice, sense of humor, smarts. I thought my brother was Mr. Perfect. You'd knock them dead on any show." Francis was perfect in every way that made Vincent look like an idiot and got on his nerves. Alastor was perfect in every way that made Vincent light up like a Christmas tree. When Al touched his nose, he wanted to just pull his hand over and keep it on his face.
Vincent felt like there must have been a ray of sunshine streaming through the bar as Alastor accepted the napkin and tucked it somewhere safe.
"It's great. This guy hypnotises this other guy into doing a bunch of murders. And the set pieces are all this expressionist shit, like the paintings. You want to dance?"