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Day 27: Relieving the Burden -Removing Irritations| Good Timing| Consistency
There are a lot of…interesting complications to a body like Vox's.
A lot of upsides, too; more then most people even realize. He's even less vulnerable then most sinners; if you think the real Vox, his whole soul, is in that one body, you're an idiot at best. He can jump chassis at the blink of a thought, he can race along power lines like it's walking home, he can stay awake for days or weeks at a time and simply charge himself like a fucking battery- the list goes on.
But being biomechanical has as many downsides as it does up. He just doesn't let anyone see them.
Well, almost anyone.
His two Vees are, as with so many other things, his exceptions. And right now, he is miserable.
His head is in Velvette's lap, eyes closed, lips drawn thin. His neck and shoulders ache, deep and pervasive, weary with the weight of his own fucking head; while he's got cabling that makes it easier these days, taking some of the burden off his actual muscles, it's still heavy, like carrying around a full rack of antlers.
And worse, he can't breathe.
The air is stifling, dry, and hot, and has been for days. His gills are irritated and raw, each breath wheezing softly. His legs, in Val's lap, twitch and jerk with pain reactions he can't quite help, unable to relax down into the comfort they're trying to offer him.
Velvette presses a cool, damp cloth to his gills absently, her other hand scrolling her phone; at his feet, Val makes an irritated little noise, pulling his legs straight. "Voxxie, stop it. You're messing up my work." He whines, readjusting the notebook he has leaned against Vox's legs. Vox chuffs a laugh, and it turns into a dry cough.
Velvette presses the cloth to the other side of his gills, earning a soft hiss and then a low moan of pleasure. Val sniggers. "Was it good for you, baby?" He teases Vel, who rolls her eyes and flicks water in Val's general direction. He squeaks unhappily, shielding his notebook from the wet.
"¡Eh, cuidado, zorra!"
"Don't be fuckin' gross-"
"Children." Vox drawls, lazily. "Enough. Play nice. Daddy has a headache."
"Do not use that word around me. It's fuckin' tainted." Velvette mutters. "You two are so nasty-"
"Ohhhh, we're talking about taints now, are we, ¿Hermana? Because I still think- ow!" Val devolves into laughter as she tosses a handful of whatever she's been munching on at him; in between cooling Vox's gills, that is.
Vox closes his eyes, letting their bickering wash over him. He feels himself sinking, gently, finding comfort in the cool of the rag Vel still presses to his sore, aching gills, in the manic giggling of a truly happy Val. He lets himself drift, not really sleeping or shut down but in a fuzzy sort of comfortable doze, enjoying the relief from the pain he's low-key in most days. \
Vel is a nice prop for his neck, and her hands are gentle on his gills, careful, even when she carefully, delicately eases her fingers between the slits, the cloth covering them, easing the cool, wet dampness into them, where it is soaked up hungrily. It hurts, but she's careful, and it ends up feeling better in the long run ,even if it is sensitive and invasive and makes it feel like he can't breathe while it's happening. It's hard not to squirm, to gasp, and she gives him a warning grunt.
"You clip me with those fans, I stop."
He grumbles an acknowledgement, forcing himself to relax again, to ease his breathing and relax so she can fit her fingers in without hurting herself or pinching him. She chuckles softly as he moans again despite himself, his eyes drifting open hazily to watch Val without really seeing him.
Feels nice. Feels nice to get to put it down for a minute; to let himself be heavy and sore and tired and achy, to have not one but two people quietly fussing over him. To let go. He sinks down into Velvette, hears her chuckle and the hand slips out of his gills to pet the side of his screen instead, along the edge of what might have been his cheek, once. "You gonna live, old man?"
"Not if you keep doing that." He rumbles back, and she slips her hand now to the back of his neck, rubbing softly at the back of his screen. The cords there are of the most important; they control sight, sound, movement, all tied into his spine. He has backups, of course, that's why he doesn't blind, deaf, and helpless last year after…everything that happened…but they require massive energy to pull on and he's exhausted easily, not even getting into the simple fact that, like all backups, they are about half as effective. She could seriously damage him back there, blind him, paralyze him-
-she very, very gently tugs at the wires, just hard enough that little tingles run through his body, tiny jolts of electricity. It feels nice in a strange sort of way, like someone tugging gently at your hair with a sore scalp. He groans, eyes closing again, and leans back into her touch as the pain fades out of his shoulders and back. He drifts- napping, resting, not shut down. There is a comfortable warmth in his chest, and Val's hands are soft as they rub at his legs, strong and firm, working over his legs and knees now, and they're not bickering anymore, just talking lazily above his head.
He floats on it. Val is laughing. Velvette takes a picture of something, maybe him, and he makes a mental note to make her delete it later if it is. Someone plays something on a video on one of their phones. More laughter.
He sinks into a deep, pleasant sort of dark, surrounded by the wet warmth and soft sounds of happiness. Someone- probably Val- moves, and maybe five minutes or five hours later comes back, the couch dipping under him, and the smell of coffee fills his nose. Time is almost never a mystery for Vox- he almost always knows what it is, to the fucking minute- but like this, he couldn't tell you. He just lets himself be, lets himself breathe, and-
-suddenly he's waking up.
He's seated on a table, propped up so he can see the room. Pain radiates from the back of his neck, and he's tired- so fucking tired. His backups are low, and he keeps glitching out. Leaping into another chassis is off the table; he simply doesn't have the power unless one of the other two carried him to one or he was allowed to plug in. So he's stuck. Stuck in this fucking tablet, a brain in jar, cold and hurting and alone. Still alone. They almost never come see him. Understandable- they're busy. Busy cleaning up his mess. Busy running the company that used to be his. He's not even sure he has a claim to any of it anymore.
He's not sure he has a family anymore.
Failure. Loser. You played right into his fucking game. Again. You lost control. You blew it, and you fucked up, and now everyone is gone.
Congrats, Vincent, he was right about you. Pathetic.
It's dark in here. The only light comes from the dim glow of his own screen. Quiet. He closes his eyes, desperately ignoring the dampness on his screen as he tries to go back to sleep. He's tired. Sleep sounds good. It's fine there, warm there, they still love him there.
He aches. It's distracting and he can't fall back into the comfortable, cool dark that predicts sleep. He doesn't have the power to spread himself out and drift, and shutting down- he doesn't want to shut down. He doesn't want to just…not exist until someone makes him come back.
The only thing that seems worse then this dark loneliness is that dark loneliness.
He lets out a low noise of frustration and hates how it catches in a sob. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
He can't even wipe the evidence away.
The light in the room clicks on. Footsteps approach, and he can't even wipe the evidence away. He closes his eyes harder, as if not seeing whoever has entered means they won't see the tear tracks on his screen.
He waits for the mockery. The scoff.
Oh, are you crying, Vincent?
It resonates in his voice, cruel and viciously gleeful. How atrocious. Are you making a scene? Come now, V-
"-ox. Vox." The voice isn't Alastor. It's Val- of course it's Val, who else would it be? It's low, and soft, and gentle, and the hand that brushes over his screen is tender.
He opens his eyes. Val is there, hand whispering over his cheek, thumbing away the tear tracks. He's not smiling, but his expression isn't angry, either- it's sad and sweet, and he brushes his fingers over Vox's antenna.
"This seems uncomfortable, eh? Let's get you to bed. It's too cold in here for my little tablet."
"Don't call me that."
"Don't get sassy with me, pequeño, one good tantrum and you're through a window." But Val's hands are nothing but careful as he lifts him. "I- miss having you in bed with me."
"I thought you were pissed at me."
"I am." Val sighs, lifts him up to face level, and meets his eyes. "But I still love you, imbécil. And you seem-" He sighs, and something deeply, achingly sad crosses his face for a split second, almost too fast for Vox to catch.
"-you seem really uncomfortable. So just shut up and come to bed. And let me make you feel better." He tries a smile. "Bet you hurt, amor. I can charge you up. Rub your ports." It sounds sexual, but hilariously, it's not- and it sounds amazing.
"…I'd like that." His voice is smaller then it should ever be, then he wants it to be, then it should be. "Val, I-" I'm sorry. I love you. Don't hate me.
None of it comes out. He chokes on it.
Val makes a low sort of scoff in the back of his throat. "Shut up, asshole." He mutters, as they reenter their bedroom. "I didn't bring you in here to talk." But as he sets Vox down on the bed, he makes sure he's not resting directly on his base, where it will ache and sting, and when he climbs in next to him, his hand rubs gently at the ports and open connectors, rubs the throbbing pain out of his frame and the excess static out of his antenna. It's a fucking spa, it's a fucking masseuse, he groans deeply with pleasure and closes his eyes. It's more physical contact then he's had in weeks.
He misses it. He desperately misses it. When Val pulls away, he whines despite himself, a tiny, pathetic, needy noise he hates. There's a pause as Val shuffles under the blankets and a soft chuckle- it's not mocking or cruel, just low and amused.
"Okay, okay, just- let me get comfortable, amorcito. Give me a minute." He opens his eyes again, and he's taken aback by the way Val is looking at him- fond and soft and still sad in a way Vox doesn't have words for or know what to do about. How to fix.
Idiot, you know exactly how to fix it. Open your mouth. Tell him. Tell him.
Speak, idiot.
He tries. He opens his mouth, tries to say it- any of it- all of it. It sticks in his throat like it's too big to get out of his mouth, like he can't vomit it up no matter how hard he tries.
Val reaches out. Brushes his screen lightly- when Vox started crying again, he doesn't know. He doesn't remember it.
"Shhh, Voxxie. Just relax. Enjoy it. I missed making you feel good, you know? Missed putting my hands alllll over you."
He laughs weakly, wants to lean into the touch in a way he literally can't. He drifts away to Val's tender hands, the sound of him rambling softly about whatever had happened on his most recent live-stream, enjoying the touches, being close again. Being comforted again.
Being able to pretend Alastor wasn't right about him being too broken to ever have enough.
Being able to pretend he, one day, can give Val what he wants.
Pretending-because that's what it has to be- that he hears Valentino say, as he fades back into sleep- "Still love you, dumbass. Fuck."
But that's probably just part of his dream.