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When Vincent had walked into the bar, his goal for the night had been to indulge in a few drinks, flirt a little, and find a good looking woman to bed for the night.
He was a simple man after all. From the moment he’d stepped off of the train, the humid air of New Orleans had swamped his senses. It was so unlike the biting chill of New York and the strangeness had flooded him with anticipation and a desperation to explore. That desperation had been curbed by the toss of luggage into his unexpecting arms; Vincent had gasped and stumbled.
The executives he was with had laughed at him. Harry Richmond had clapped him on the back, the gesture entirely too forceful to be comforting. Vincent had pretended to laugh along, as if taking it good-naturedly in his stride. None of them saw the broiling hatred in his eyes as they turned away, leaving him to gather the bags from the floor.
One day, he’d make them regret it. He’d be the one calling the shots and they’d be crushed beneath his heel- nothing more than insignificant clumps of dirt that they were. For now though, he was forced to be little more than an assistant, ferrying luggage and scribbling minutes, but it would be worth it in the end. He was simply biding his time.
New Orleans was shaping to be a fantastic place to bide his time. Music and laughter twisted from every window. He’d barely had to ask to find his way to a speakeasy, and as it transpired, the most prominent club was merely minutes from the hotel the secretary had set them up in.
So here he stood, poised in the doorway of The Waning Crescent.
On the stage at the far end of the room, a man sat at a piano, fingers dancing across the keys. A woman swayed as she sang at the microphone next to him. The tassels of her dress glinted in the light as her hips swished. Vincent let his eyes rake over her, taking in the softness of her jaw and the swell of her breasts. She had a good figure, but he knew he could do better. There were, after all, several white women in this place instead.
Vincent shrugged his overcoat off and stepped into the room. The group of dancers and revellers cheered as the woman at the microphone finished her song, and Vincent smiled privately, basking in the applause as if it was for him. The singer said a few words as he sat himself at the bar, before gesturing at the barkeep for a cheap whiskey and downing it. The liquor burned at his throat. He coughed, trying to pretend his eyes weren’t watering, and raised his finger for another.
With the burn of cheap alcohol slowly spreading through his system, Vincent could feel the stress of his day start to dissipate. He flexed his shoulders, letting out a soft hum as their tension released with twin gentle cracks. Three straight days of travel could do that to a man: three days of dingy railway motels and a train carriage shared with the most infuriating strangers. Vincent was only really able to afford a coach ticket, and neither his boss nor the other executive had deigned a mere assistant worthy enough to join them in their private cabin.
A sip of the whiskey burnt away the resentment that was beginning the fester within him. This was not the night to fixate on the injustices he’d suffered; this was the night to relax, and blow off some steam in a new city and a new culture. Before he found himself consumed with biting rage yet again, Vincent shifted in his seat, turning to assess the crowd at his side in search of an appropriate target.
Bingo.
A shark-like grin crossed his face as a lone figure caught his eye. She was tall and slim, propped up against the bar as she sipped at the coupe glass in her delicate fingers. She had the poise and fashionable dress of an elegant woman: a worthy conquest.
Vincent picked up his drink and slipped from his chair, winding over to appear at her side with a devilish smirk. Her eyes tracked him as he approached, and he noted the hint of a smile flickering at the corner of her lips.
“A lady like you shouldn’t be out this late alone,” he grinned at her, leaning into her space slightly. The scent of her perfume, sweet and floral, drifted over him.
“I’m hardly alone, am I?” she raised an eyebrow at him. “You appear to be keeping me company. How good of you,”
“I’m a man of many good deeds,” Vincent shrugged, and allowed his voice to drop low. “As well as a few bad ones,”
The woman raised her glass to her face, hiding a giggle, but a delicate blush crept over her cheeks. Satisfaction burned in Vincent, coiling low in his gut.
“What’s your poison?” he changed the topic, nodding to the nearly empty glass in her hands. She told him, and he turned around to order her another, ensuring to lightly brush her fingers with his own as he handed it over to her.
“I haven’t seen you around before, have I?” She held out a hand. “Dorothy,”
“Vincent,” Vincent didn’t shake her hand, but took it between his own instead, squeezing gently. “And you haven’t. I’m just visiting from New York,”
“A New York man!” Dorothy’s eyebrows raised, and she leant towards him slightly. “What brings you all the way down here?”
“Business, doll, what else?” Vincent sighed, almost long sufferingly. He let the remark dangle in the air for a second, and, like bait, Dorothy took it.
“Must be mighty important business to bring you all this way,” she said. Her eyelids batted against her cheeks. “Do tell,”
Vincent grinned again and leant forwards, far more than was appropriate. His hand slipped forwards on the bar, brushing against her waist until he was almost caging her in.
“I’m an executive,” he murmured against her ears. “- at CBS.”
“An executive!” Dorothy gasped, shivered slightly against him. Her hand came up and pushed lightly on his shoulder, and he allowed her to step back away from him slightly. “But you’re so young,”
Vincent bristled slightly, and he tried not to let his flirtatious grin slip to ire. He’d been hearing that ‘too young’ crap too often recently; his twenty-one years of age didn’t mean he didn’t have the drive and bloodthirst of a man in his forties. If anything, he was bigger and brighter than any of the fossils that tried to push him down.
“I’m older than I look, doll,” he said, reprimanding.
She laughed. “My apologies!” she said. “Take it as a compliment.” Her hand raised to adjust his tie, fingers trailing over his chest through the thin material of his shirt. “You’re very dashing, Vincent,”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” His own hand came up and rested over her own. His fingers covered hers almost effortlessly. She was so fragile; he could pin her down with ease. He wondered how much of his strength it would take to bruise her lily-white skin.
She grinned at him, and tried to pull away. He kept his hand firmly over her own for just a moment too long, trapping it against him and revelling in her tiny moment of unease. She picked her glass up and took a long sip, flicking her eyes shamelessly up and down his body.
“What takes a CBS executive down to New Orleans, then?” she asked, and Vincent brightened. His predatory flirtatious grin turned genuine despite himself.
“We’re expanding!” he told her. “Do you listen to the 8pm radio show?”
Dorothy’s eyes lit up. “I do!” she gasped. “I love it! The host has the most incredible voice, I could listen to him all day,” she said.
“Exactly,” Vincent said, nodding with satisfaction. “He’s who we’re here for. The host, Mr Mourir, I have a meeting with him tomorrow- he’s going to come and work for me,”
“Are you going to steal him from us?” Dorothy pouted over her drink.
“You can always tune in to CBS instead,” Vincent hummed. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilting her head up to him, and dropped his voice. “860 kHz,”
Dorothy gasped softly. Vincent ran his thumb fleetingly across her lower lip, resisting the urge to slip it into her mouth and press down. Hard. He smiled darkly down at her, and released her slowly. She wavered, leaning towards him as she subconsciously chased after the possessive touch. Vincent tried not to sneer. Women.
“You can count on my audience,” Dorothy said. She tilted her head. “Tell me about yourself, Vincent,” she continued. “A dashing young man like yourself must have a wife at home? A beau?”
“No one as of yet, I’m afraid,” Vincent said. “I’m married to my job, as they say,”
“Surely your work doesn’t require…” Dorothy’s hand reached up to him again. The tips of her painted nails tapped slowly, seductively, against his chest as her voice dropped a register. “... all your attention,”
This game was easy. “I can spare a night or two,” he replied lowly.
Dorothy giggled. That delightful blush rose to her cheeks again. Vincent set his liquor glass down on the bar and opened his mouth, about to deliver a practiced line about a lonely walk back to his hotel, when his gaze snagged over Dorothy’s shoulder and the words died in his mouth.
There was a man sitting at the other end of the bar, a glass of amber liquid raised to his lips. Dark eyes met Vincent’s with a defiant flash and Vincent found himself momentarily frozen in the shine like a deer in headlights. The man smiled, derisive, and didn’t look away..
Something hot and dark burned in Vincent’s blood. For a moment or two, he remained still, staring across the bar at this strange man, refusing to break eye contact. The man raised an eyebrow at him, the mocking smile never slipping from his face. Dorothy asked him something, but the words were lost in the haze until finally, with a slight roll of his eyes, the strange man looked away from Vincent.
It should have been a victory. Refusing to break eye contact was the oldest trick in the book for establishing dominance, and Vincent’s domineering gaze had forced that man to back down. And yet, Vincent felt unbalanced all of a sudden, like the butt of a joke he hadn’t even registered.
Something itched beneath his skin. He stood up from where he’d been leant on the bar and pushed past Dorothy, not sparing her or her confused frown a second glance as he marched to the other side of the room. She called something after him, but his attention was firmly fixated elsewhere.
The man didn’t spare him a second glance as Vincent stalked over. He didn’t even look up as Vincent roughly pulled out the chair next to him, and sat himself down in it.
“Who are you?” Vincent demanded, and finally, the man turned around.
A hot flush pulsed through Vincent as dark eyes met his own. In the dim lighting of the coveted club, it was difficult to tell whether the man was coloured or simply unfortunately tan.
“You’re a rude little creature, aren’t you?” the man asked him mockingly.
His voice lanced straight though Vincent. It was rich and smooth; the accent crisp and refined. It was the type of voice made for radio, and Vincent’s mind immediately started conceptualising just how this raw undiscovered talent could act as a rung for his own success.
He ignored the jibe and extended a hand. “Vincent Whittmann,”
The man raised an eyebrow. The slight smile still hadn’t left his lips. “Alastor,” he offered. He didn’t add his last name, and he didn’t shake Vincent’s hand.
There was nothing Vincent hated like disrespect. Had anyone else been so callous with him, he would have reacted violently. He was smarter than to throw fists in an unfamiliar public place like this, but the urge would simmer under his skin; his knuckles urging retribution. This man though? The heat flickering under his skin felt… different somehow. His eyes narrowed. His fingers flexed into a fist on the bartop in front of him. Would he be able to fit his entire hand around the man’s neck?
“Let me buy you a drink,” he offered, slipping his natural charisma into his voice.
“And what are you expecting in return?” Alastor asked.
There was something oddly familiar about that beautiful voice, something that tickled the back of Vincent’s mind. He leant forwards slightly into the personal space of the man before him. Alastor’s lip curled minutely, and his eyes narrowed.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a voice made for radio?” Vincent asked, finding himself strangely thrilled at the distaste. He itched to push it further, to see how angry this man could get before he’d snap.
Alastor seemed shocked by his comment. He paused for a moment, his eyes wide and searching Vincents’. Then, he started to laugh. Vincent floundered slightly.
“Oh my good man.” Alastor pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. Vincent growled, feeling taken aback at the laughing affront. “Not that I can recall, it would seem.”
“Well, then,” Vincent huffed. His fingers drummed at the countertop. “I have a business proposition for you,”
Alastor’s eyes glinted. It was strangely hypnotic. He lowered his head onto his folded hands, propped up by his elbows on the bartop, and he looked up at Vincent through thick dark lashes. Vincent suddenly felt his mouth go dry.
“I’ll take a double Woodford’s,” Alastor said. “Rocks,”
Vincent summoned the bartender. “Make that two,”
Alastor hummed. His head tilted. The dainty framed glasses perched on his nose twinkled in the light, and Vincent suddenly felt very self conscious about his own thick black frames. He shifted, pushing them up his face as their drinks were delivered to them, and continued the movement by adjusting the lapel of his jacket and recentring his tie. Alastor’s scrutinizing gaze tracked each of his gestures. Vincent started to feel heat prickle under his collar in the wake of those burning dark eyes.
He avoided that gaze by taking a sip of his drink. Unlike the cheap whiskey he’d been drinking earlier, this was rich and smooth, clearly good quality. Alastor was a man of taste. Vincent tried not to think about the damage to his bar tab.
“So.” Christ, Alastor’s voice was like honey. It dripped through Vincent’s mind, coating each of his thoughts with saccharine sweetness. “Your business proposition,”
Vincent blinked at him. Alastor’s hair was slightly mussed, like combed and straightened curls had lost a battle to the humid New Orleans air. Vincent wanted to run his fingers through the strands and pull.
“Uh,” he said intelligently. He ripped his eyes away from the man in front of him, and back to the bar. Why did he feel so warm?
“You had something to discuss about radio,” Alastor prompted him. Vincent began to shrug off his jacket. “Do try to keep up,”
“Don’t talk down to me,” Vincent snapped at him, almost instinctively.
Alastor’s eyes darkened at his tone. The thrum of danger sang through Vincent’s veins.
“I’m an agent at CBS,” Vincent continued. “I have connections. I can get you through the door of broadcasting, and I think you’d go far. Together, we could-”
“What’s that?”
Vincent fumbled. He blinked, almost owlishly, at Alastor, who was watching him innocently.
“What?"
“CBS,” Alastor clarified. “What’s that?”
“You’ve never heard of CBS?” As far as Vincent had been aware, New Orleans was hardly a backwater town, but maybe the locals here hadn’t quite caught up with modern times yet? “You never heard about the Deacon, and the Ohio Penitentiary riots? We reported on that.”
Alastor shrugged.
“It’s big,” Vincent said. “We’re big. We’re a million dollar company. We have over fifty affiliates, and we’re actively searching for radio talent. Trust us, we could make you a star,”
He held his hand out towards Alastor. Sparks seemed to jump along his fingers at the thought of Alastor’s hand in his. The future stretched out before him. He’d train Alastor up a bit; a backcountry nobody would probably need some form of lessons before his natural talent could be allowed to flourish, but Vincent would guide him. Mould him. Alastor would rise to popularity quickly, and his rise would be the catalyst to Vincent’s own glory. No one would dare look down on the man with the radio star under his thumb.
“An inspiring pitch. I decline.” Alastor took a sip of his drink.
“You- what?”
“I decline.”
Vincent gaped at him. “You can’t decline!” he spluttered. “You could be a star!”
Alastor shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. “I have little concern for your Cbeebies-”
“CBS!”
“- and even littler concern for your power grab,” Alastor continued, unphased, as if he hadn’t even heard him. Vincent burned with indignation, and his fists clenched. His body flooded with the urge to grapple the man in front of him. He wanted to push him to the floor and hold him down. He wanted to watch him struggle.
Vincent took a deep breath. He plastered a businesslike smile back on his face.
“That was a very quick dismissal,” he pointed out. “Do you not see a future of fame for yourself?”
“Infamy, perhaps.” Alastor grinned, like he was thinking of a private joke.
“Fame, infamy, what does it matter as long as it’s your name on everyone’s lips?”
“And you believe yourself capable of putting my name on everyone’s lips?” Alastor asked him. He was still smiling.
There was something about that smile that was hooking Vincent’s brain. The sharp teeth that flashed behind it captured his attention. He could almost imagine the adrenaline rush of those teeth at his jugular.
“I know myself capable of that and more,” Vincent leant forward as he responded, voice low.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed. They searched Vincent’s own, and Vincent felt his breath almost catch in his throat. Those dark eyes locking on him set something rich and warm coiling around his gut, a far from unpleasant sensation that he couldn’t quite place.
“Tell me about yourself, Vincent,” Alastor said, finally, breaking the spell.
Vincent sat back on his chair. He raised an eyebrow. “What is there to know?”
“Well, where did you come from?” Alastor asked, with an innocent shrug. “That seems to be the most appropriate question to ask in situations such as these, hm?”
Vincent scoffed, rolling his eyes. “New York,” he said. “I work at CBS, and we’re here on business to discuss potential upcoming talent acquisition,”
“Acquisition,” Alastor repeated slowly. The word dripped from his lips like venom. “How impersonal. Who is it that you’re here to ‘aquire’?”
“The radio host, Mourir something-or-other,” Vincent told him. “Do you know him?”
“I know of him,” Alastor said, entirely deadpan. “Do you?”
Vincent blinked at him for a second or two. He could feel a frown furrowing his eyebrows and hastened to smooth his expression.
“Of course I know about him,” he said, pronouncing the words slowly. “It would be poor of me to be so entirely unprepared for our coming meeting,”
Alastor shook his head at him. The gesture was patronising and small, and made Vincent itch with the urge to grab that sharp jawline, loom over him and force the man to look up to meet his eye. He wanted to see fear in those dark recesses.
“Not ‘do you know about him’, Vincent.” Alastor sounded like he was talking to a particularly slow schoolchild. “Do you know him? Have you met the man? Have you listened to his broadcast? Do you know anything about the talent you wish to ‘aquire’?”
Vincent scowled at him. “Of course I’ve listened to his broadcasts,” he said. “I’m not an amateur.”
He failed to mention the specifics. A leased telephone line had recently become available for the Louisiana based station that Mourir broadcast for, entirely as a result of the host’s surging popularity. Curious, Vincent had tuned in shortly after the long-range broadcasts had begun. Even through the subpar quality, he had been struck instantly by Mourir’s easy charm and natural cadence. Charisma ebbed and flowed through his performance; raw talent that was simply impossible to ignore. Privately, Vincent had found it nothing short of inspirational.
He hadn’t listened to too many broadcasts though. There was something about Mourir’s voice seeping from the radio that never failed to make Vincent flush with shame. He was unsure why. Maybe it had been the realisation that Mourir had succeeded in this business where Vincent was failing, or maybe it was the indignity of finding a coloured man so admirable. Whatever it had been, Vincent had found the hot flush that crept through him at the sound of Mourir’s charming voice deeply unpleasant, and as such, he’d been forced to stop listening.
Despite that, Vincent had found himself flooded with dizzying elation on the day that he’d been informed of this business trip. He’d all but skipped his way from work back to his dingy apartment that day. Even now, Vincenet could scarcely believe that he was going to wake up tomorrow and meet the man whose entrancing voice had made radio.
“-And I’ve heard a lot about him,” Vincent continued. “Don’t you worry, my colleagues and I are prepared for this meeting.”
“You make it sound like warfare.” Alastor’s lip curled into a sneer. “Espionage and information tactics.”
“That’s business,” Vincent said. “A war of information.”
“How crude,”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Vincent countered. “You can make someone do anything you want, if you just have the right information and the right pretty words,”
“And you'll ensnare thos radio host of yours with ‘pretty words’?”
Vincent couldn’t quite read the emotion on Alastor’s face. Behind the practised smile, teeth were bared too tightly, too sharply, to be genial. It felt like the expression of a predator facing down unwitting prey. Vincent couldn’t help the shark-like grin that tugged at his lips in return. Something hot burned in his blood.
“Whether he likes it or not.” His voice dropped a timbre.
Alastor’s lip twitched, and for a moment, Vincent thought those sharp teeth were going to end up buried in his throat. His mind conjured an image of Alastor beneath him, snarling in anger and painted in blood like Adonis’s anemones. His breath caught in his throat for a moment and his eyes narrowed. He tensed, leaning forwards imperceptibly, anticipating the thrill, but the fury vanished from Alastor’s guarded expression so quickly that Vincent floundered for a moment, struggling to believe it had even been there in the first place.
Alastor took an easy sip of his drink. The ice was starting to melt in the heat of the bar, and Vincent, not wanting good liquor to go to waste, mirrored him.
“You intrigue me,” Alastor admitted, unbidden. It made Vincent jolt slightly. “Who are you going to be, I wonder?”
Vincent huffed a laugh.
“That’s an unusual question,” he pointed out.
“You seem like an unusual man.” Alastor’s hand trailed elegantly around the rim of his glass. It looked smaller than Vincent’s. He’d be able to encircle both of Alastor’s wrists with one hand.
“I’m going to be a god,” he confessed.
Vincent had never mentioned it to anyone else before. He knew full well that such ambition was to be shamed and punished. The people around him were insects who ridiculed what they did not understand, and they did not- could not- understand the heights that Vincent would ascend to. In front of anyone else, he was forced to don the mask of normalcy, to pretend that the loftiest of his ambitions involved a dutiful wife and a picket fence.
But here, in Alastor’s presence, inexplicably, Vincent felt seen.
A coy smile tugged at Alastor’s lips. He tilted his head again, his eyes staring straight through Vincent, stripping him to the bone. It was exhilarating.
“My, my,” Alastor muttered. “A deity before me,”
“You could join me,” Vincent offered. “I meant what I said, you know. Your voice was made for broadcasting.”
“Do you not have any interest in hosting yourself?” Alastor asked him. He drained his drink, and signalled to the barkeep for two more. “Godhood would be more achievable with your voice echoing through every home in the country,”
“Radio isn’t enough for me,” Vincent confided. “I don’t just need to be heard. I need to be seen,”
He felt almost euphoric. Alastor took their glasses from the bartender and handed one over to Vincent. His fingers brushed against Vincent’s as he handed it over and static sparks flooded through his system. Vincent had never told anyone of his ambitions so plainly before. He’d never felt understood enough to lay his heart bare. He didn’t know what it was about Alastor that made him feel so trustworthy. There was a note of darkness in those ember eyes that whispered to Vincent that he and the man before him were cut from the same cloth, and it made Vincent feel as giddy as a schoolgirl.
“How will you make yourself seen?” Alastor asked. His honeyed voice caressed Vincent’s mind. Vincent wondered if his voice would sound just as mesmerizing in other ways. How would he sound crying out in pain?
“Television,” he answered. He took a long sip of his drink. “Television is the future. It adds the visual element that radio is lacking. Radio can be listened to idly, but once you add pictures, people have to sit down and give you their undivided attention. They have no choice but to watch you,”
Alastor’s lip curled.
“What?” Vincent challenged, noticing. “You disagree?”
“Unfortunately not,” Alastor said. “I just find it so crass, that you would rely on such cheap tricks to maintain people’s attention,”
Vincent scowled at him. “Would the attention not be more deserving of the charming man in front of a camera, as opposed to the unknown figure hiding behind a pretty voice?”
Alastor’s smile tightened, and Vincent’s heart thrummed in his chest. Blood rushed.
“Alastor, dear, look at this!”
A woman’s voice cut through the air, shrill and cloying. Alastor looked away from Vincent almost immediately, hostility softening to affection as he turned to the source of the voice. Irrational hatred coursed through Vincent. Who was this fucking bitch who thought that she could tear Alastor’s attention away from him? He’d make her pay for slighting him.
The ‘fucking bitch’ in question stood beside them, a diminutive plump figure. She pressed into Alastor’s side, embracing him, and he returned the gesture warmly. Fixating on her clammy hand on Alastor's slim waist, Vincent’s lip twitched back, revealing bared teeth. The woman looked over at him then, and Vincent was quick to school his features back into a charming boyish grin.
“Alastor,” the woman said, looking Vincent up and down without a modicum of shame. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend here?”
“Ah,” Alastor sighed. “Mimzy, this is Vincent. Vincent, this is Miriam, a good friend of mine and a fellow patron of this fine establishment.”
“Ignore him,” Miriam held out a hand. Vincent took it dutifully, raising it to his lips in a charming gesture and she all but swooned, fanning her lashes at him. “Please do call me Mimzy. You’re quite the tall glass of water,”
“So I’ve been told,” he laughed good naturedly.
He looked her up and down discretely. She seemed eager, and it would feel good to take something of Alastor’s. Maybe he should make her into his conquest of the night.
Now that his original plan for this evening had re-crossed his mind, Vincent suddenly recognised the heat that had been burning steadily under his collar as pent up arousal. Maybe his brief time with Dana, or whatever her name had been, had affected him more than he’d thought.
It would be good to use Mimzy to release this tension, he thought to himself. Not only was she something of Alastor’s, but he ached to make her pay for her snatching his attention from him. He could imagine vividly how that thick eye makeup would stream down her face.
“Anyway, Alastor, take a look!” Mimzy squealed. She waved an object around, too fast to tell what it was.
Alastor evidently couldn’t tell either. “Mimzy, slow down dear, I haven’t the slightest clue as to what you’re referring to,” he sighed, long suffering.
She paused for long enough to show them the box clutched in her grip.
“Is that a camera?” Vincent asked, and Mimzy nodded, self-satisfied.
“Georgie got it for me,” she said, mainly to Alastor. “He said I should record memories of the bar!”
“That’s quite the gift!”
“Ain’t it just. Now hold still!”
She hoisted the camera to her face, staring down its viewfinder with all the determination of a man behind a gun. Vincent leant in to the photo, his practiced beam already poised on his face. The camera flash was bright and blinding, and the scars of the light lingered on his retina.
“Oh that’s going to be just gorgeous!” Mimzy squealed. Vincent winced. “I’ll be sure to send you a negative when I get it developed, both of you! Oh, there’s Janey! Janey! Look what I-!”
Mimzy disappeared almost as quickly and loudly as she’d arrived. Still blinking back the remnants of the flash, Vincent turned back to his drink, shooting Alastor a glance.
“She seems like quite the handful,” he said.
Alastor rolled his eyes, taking a swig of his drink. “Don’t I know it.”
His voice sounded bitter, and Vincent tried to sound casual as he enquired, “Are you two an item?” He didn’t know why it mattered so much to him, but the question had seared itself into his mind. It must have been a show of dominance on his part- he was keen to find out if Mimzy belonged to Alastor, so that he could boast how easily he’d be able to steal his property.
“Mimzy?” The look of disgust on Alastor’s face was somewhat gratifying. “Heavens, no.”
He left it at that. Vincent chuckled slightly, feeling oddly relieved, and sipped at his bourbon. His hand wavered as he raised his glass. The liquid sloshed violently inside as Vincent’s arm swayed, unable to aim for his own mouth. He frowned. Had he had more to drink than he’d thought? He could have sworn he’d only had a couple, and Vincent Whittmann was many things but a lightweight.
He could see Alastor studying him in his peripheral vision, and he forced himself to finish the drink, as if nothing was wrong. He slammed the glass back down on the bartop with far more force than was necessary, and laughed to himself in satisfaction.
Beside him, Alastor leant forwards suddenly. Vincent’s head whipped around to him, his vision trailed behind afterwards. Dark eyes peered up at him again, studying him. His handsome face was very close to Vincent’s own, and he could feel steady breaths brushing against his skin. He shivered.
Alastor’s face was right there in front of him. Vincent could see every trace of his flawless dark skin. That truly was quite the tan. He tried to reach his hand up to touch it. He wanted to lay his hands all over it. He wanted to bruise it, to mark it, to leave it bloody and shaking beneath his grip, but his hands wouldn’t obey him.
“Oh dear,” Alastor murmured. Vincent could feel each word against him. “Have you overindulged?”
“No,” Vincent slurred. “Fight me,”
He wanted to throw Alastor to the floor, leave him dazed and reeling.
“Mimzy, dear, would you mind fetching us some water?” Alastor said. His voice sounded distant and echoey, and Vincent whipped his head around to try and locate whoever he was talking to. “I’m afraid my friend seems to have had a little too much to drink,”
“I’m on it, dollface,” a woman’s voice echoed. Vincent laughed. Women. So fleeting and silly. Not like Alastor.
A warm hand trailed along his jaw and Vincent gasped, feeling sparks ignite at the contact. His gaze flew up to see Alastor standing over him, leaning down.
“Be a good boy, Vincent,” he murmured. “Just look at me,”
Wide eyed and reeling, Vincent could only nod. As the bar faded into abstract shapes and blurry noises around him, glinting dark eyes invaded his senses and the last coherent memory Vincent could muster of that night was their dangerous gleam.