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A TV and a deer walk into a bar.
One is on the brink of losing himself, the other has a tight grin. The TV used to be the star of the show, an integral cog in the machine that is the entertainment world, preaching to millions about how he could change their lives, mould their souls to feel satisfied. The deer, however, represented a more primitive medium. Radios, morse code, flag signals– a soldier in the war of rational choices.
The punchline is that both are fools. Why would a TV walk into a bar, let alone drag a deer into one? The metaphor doesn't make sense– there's no logic in it. No reason as to why such things would be placed together. It should be impossible.
Alastor and Vox sit two feet apart.
Alastor nurses his whiskey, a claw ringing around the circumference of the decorated glass with his other hand focusing on the grooves. He lets the condensation seep into the material of his gloves, using all of his power– his infinite power– to stare daggers into the bar counter. He chooses to sit in silence, filling his head with meaningless thoughts such as: Why would anyone carve something so gauche onto the surface of this counter? ‘A yellow, a mellow martini, I wish I had one at present’? Ogden Nash? Who goes to a bar thinking ‘I must carve an Ogden Nash quote into the primary counter of Drink & Dancey’s Bar’? Ridiculous!
He cannot help himself– Alastor moves his claw from his glass and pokes at the ugly thing, a nasty wound on beautiful, innocent wood. The carving itself is horrendous, as Alastor realises how sloppy the knife work is, a drunken job. What kind of person must you be to think about poetry while drunk? And yet, he continues to peel at the splintered edges, almost distracting himself from the largest splinter of them all.
The one right next to him.
~
Vox stares at Alastor.
Despite the ache of the rejection from seventy years ago flaring after walking into their old spot, sitting in the same exact tattered seats, he cannot help but stare at the presence next to him. It’s addicting– something he cannot stop drinking up because it’s Alastor, sitting two feet away from him willingly. It's nauseating how much he needed to rub ends with the edges of Alastor’s signal, let alone be engulfed by it. It’s warm, it’s comforting, it’s familiar but it is greedy to keep gulping it down.
Especially after the shit he pulled with the Might of Lilith.
Vox grips at a glass of scotch, letting the slight smell of vanilla hit his fans. It's gentle, nothing overpowering– though the TV wished the smell perfumed and spread itself out further so he could smoothly note ‘Peeyew! What a pong, am I right? Haha, right, old pal? Acknowledge how this scotch smells like shit! Please! God, have mercy on my damned soul! Fucking notice the goddamn whiskey, Alastor! Please! Notice me! Talk to me!’
However, Vox was a 45 year old man when he died in 1953. Doing some quick math, he realised that made him 118 years old, if he lumped his mortal life with his afterlife. This means he should really have the capacity to have an emotional conversation with another person, especially due to the key factor of being a fully grown man. He’s done over a century of telecommunications, talking and selling products to thousands, if not, millions of people. It was his life on Earth, was his life in Hell and now, stripped of all his power, he's stunted. It made Vox feel incredibly weak– as if he's fully regressed back to who he was in the early 60s.
I’ve regressed enough to take us back to this bar, he notes to himself sourly. Vox can tell Alastor isn't particularly pleased with his choice either, yellowed teeth and black gums almost taut against dried lips. Of course, he still smiles but the specific strain of it fully indicates that Alastor might even be embarrassed to be back here. Then again, Vox has gotten rusty. He doesn't know Alastor as well as he did back then because, maybe unbeknownst to the other demon, he's also changed. They both have.
“When you were alive, Picture Box, did you ever wear glasses? I cannot recall.” Alastor suddenly asks, pausing his picking as his brows slightly furrowed.
Vox startles, finally blinking and responding dumbly, lacking all sophistication in his answer. “Huh? Oh–! Um, yeah, why?”
“I was wondering if you had poor sight due to dry eyes, with that vile habit of yours– staring constantly.” Vox hears ice cubes clink around in Alastor’s glass as he swigs down his whiskey, only to swiftly put it down and call the bartender for a refill with a silent look. The bartender, wise beyond her years, fills half the ornate vessel with liquid gold. She leaves the bottle too and, if Alastor was a religious man, he would've been thanking God for sending down an angel. “Perhaps that is why you were immune to the overwhelming glow of that machine of yours– what was it called– yes, the Might of Lilith. Because of your dry eyes.”
“My face is just a graphic, Al. I can't feel it except my mouth– olfactory sensors are a life saver.” Vox begins to haughtily explain despite his lack of confidence, pressing his own glass to his flat lips. Maybe Alastor is beating him down, or maybe he's genuinely curious. Either way, the scotch was getting to him quickly and all tone was beginning to be lost on him. Vox had a habit of relying on being pretentious when nervous– a feeble attempt of trying to look like he knew what he was doing, almost trying to impress Alastor.
It doesn't work.
“Then how are you still blind?” Alastor stiffly turns his head to look at Vox for the first time in what felt like hours. He cannot help but feel irritated. “First, after everything that happened, you mope around Vee Tower in a storage closet. Then, you proceed to choose to call for me, barely surviving using your signal. After I answer, you beg for a new body. Henceforth, once I stupidly granted you mercy, you drag yourself to the hotel only to then essentially whisk–” Alastor snorts quietly at the pun a little in a moment of slightly tipsy weakness, shaking the glass gently to make the ice clink around once again, “us away to the bar we both have not been back to in 70 years, thinking that I would not know why. Of course I know this is not a friendly drink, I did not die yesterday. You wish to ‘talk’ and ‘be open’.”
Vox grunts weakly. “I suppose you still know me well.”
Alastor hisses. “I do not. You simply remain predictable.”
“What is left of me to predict is the question, Al. I have no plans, no aspirations, no allies. Maybe you're just pointing out the obvious.” Vox takes another gulp of his scotch before calling back the same bartender who refilled Alastor’s drink. She, too, leaves the bottle. “All in which is my fault, I know. What I don't get is why you're being pissy.” Vox knows why he's pissy, and now he himself is acting pissy to quash all the fears that well up inside him, his shaky hands being the only give away regarding the existence of his nerves.
Alastor stops talking for a moment. He takes a few more gulps of whiskey before placing it down to favour popping open a pack of cigarettes, plucking one from the seemingly tattered box, placing it betwixt his lips and lighting it with the familiar green flame Vox had been the target of just a week or two prior. He intentionally places the pack on the counter, covering the stupid quote that Alastor picked at prior. He doesn't intend to just have one Player’s Navy Cut. How did he even get those? They were discontinued 11 years ago.
“I’m quote-unquote ‘pissy’,” the Overlord huffs out a plume of smoke, “because your wimpy behaviour is becoming uncouth. Your need for nostalgia, yearning for power that you lost, sulking like a petulant child. It is irritating.” Alastor flicks his ear, “Most of all, it is unbecoming of an Overlord. You are weak. That is the truth.” He says this barely casually, tone laced with frustration despite his wide grin. He additionally waves his free hand around, as if he's explaining– or rather teaching– something in plain English to Vox. As if he needs it to be explained in plain English.
“Additionally, it is you who wanted to have a conversation. Yet, you lack the ability to even start it.” Alastor’s waving hand soon taps at Vox’s screen rapidly, practically flicking at him for each layer of supposed stupidity. “For someone who loves hearing his own voice so much, you certainly do not know how to use it, my dear. You were a weatherman, a reality television host and, seemingly, a cult leader. How questionable to be so anxious– yes, I see your hands– in regards to simply saying words in front of a minuscule audience.”
“Well–” Vox starts, pulling his head away from invasive, poking hands. He pauses, only to then chug the remainder of his scotch, wincing at the burn before choosing to toss the glass over his shoulder and replacing it with the bottle left earlier. A crack of the lid being unscrewed echoes in the air before the ex-Overlord begins to practically lap at the liquid like some sort of animal– a guinea pig. By the time Vox is satisfied with the sickly feeling that sticks to the walls of his stomach, half the bottle is gone. Vox growls, hissing through his teeth with a small amount of steam wafting through his vents. “How about you pull a stick outta your ass, huh? You ever thought of that, old pal? My apologies if I dare take a second to gather myself, you inpatient piece of shit.”
Alastor’s expression softened by a fraction. He doesn't doubt what he said, not by any sort of percentage but seeing Vox return to who he had become– it was comforting, in a way. Better than a whimpering coward, or a begging charlatan. The playing field of discussion was becoming more even, more satisfying to participate in. He takes another puff of his cigarette, red eyes boring into pink. Alastor blinks, then notes in tipsy stupor, “I knew someone who used to do a very similar thing– drinking like a sailor before anything touchy-feely.”
“And who’s that?”
“Gerard Totentanz.”
“And who’s that?”
“A man I knew from New Orleans. He had travelled all the way from Brooklyn to ‘expand’ his career in radio. He had an AM channel called ‘Totentanz’ Specials’, in which he interviewed an array of individuals, from celebrities to people he thought were interesting. What made him unique was that he would pick up people from the street, interview them on his show and then hire them after. ‘The Godfather of Radio’, he was labelled.” Alastor looks at his drink again. The ice melted. “When I had met him in 1916, I was working three jobs to make ends meet, as my mother was not in the best state and my father…” Alastor winces for a split second before continuing, “One of those jobs was that of a paper boy. I would, however, note down who struggled to read due to eyesight or whatnot, only charging for a half dollar to read the newspaper out loud for them.”
“Why a half dollar?” Vox mutters, still gripping at the bottle of scotch. He shifts in his seat, half reflecting on what he wants to say later, half intrigued by Alastor’s sudden spur into storytelling.
“I was a poor, mixed race boy who lived in the Deep South during the early 1900s. Let’s use what little is left of your cognition to figure out ‘why a half dollar’, shall we?” Alastor's eyes narrow, smile thinning out. Vox realises he's digging himself into a deeper grave, so he nods in understanding before loosely waving his hand, Alastor takes it as a sign to continue. “One day, I headed back to the office where I would pick up the newspaper. I was then told by my boss at the time, ‘boy! Do your typical rounds, your normal routes but you better deliver this goddamn paper to this goddamn address! You got that?’ I recall nodding, slightly panicked by his snapping tone.”
Alastor puts out his cigarette on the counter, before moving to light another, “I did as I was told, delivering all the orders and swiftly reading the news to those who needed it until it was time to deliver the newspaper to the address I was informed about. When I approached, I found the house to be… Flashy. Decorative tiles everywhere, as if I found myself in Portugal or Italy without stepping a single foot out of New Orleans. On the address label, I had noticed there was an additional request for me to read the paper to him– hard of sight, it said. So, I knocked on the door, only for it to somehow instantaneously open the second I lifted my knuckle off the wood. Admittedly, I was quite short for a 17 year old, a stunning 5”6’, so to see what seemed to be a very tall, eerie man slowly peek his cigar around the door was a fright.”
A beat passes, as does a sip of whiskey, “He waved me into the house, which had confused me as I typically was not invited into people's homes when reading for them. He then swiftly slammed the door behind me, patting me down and stating, ‘Ralph Baum. You're gonna read for my boss, who I ‘bodyguard’ very well. You're gonna do a good job. You never disrespect him, got it? He’ll then give you a well-polished, shiny Liberty. Sounds good? Good!’ Still, to this day, I remember the pong of his cigar. Montecristo White. Disgusting tastes, let me tell you.”
Vox can't help but stifle a laugh, mostly from Alastor doing oddly accurate Brooklyn accents in a drastically lower octave, completely erasing the transatlantic façade he maintains. All for the sake of visualisation– all for the sake of storytelling. He feels young again and that, in itself, makes his stomach churn. Vox furrows his brow before realising the most rational option– taking another extreme loud glug of his beloved scotch. Alastor ignores this to plod on.
“He then pushes me into this, considerably, beautiful sunroom. Matte, terracotta tile floors, wicker furniture with lovely cushions and what looked to be an entire jungle populated with large house plants. There, in the middle, next to a wooden coffee table, was a large chair in which sat Gerard Totentanz. I did not have access to AM radio at the time, meaning I did not know who he was. All I was aware of was that he looked around 65 years old, had a large bottle of Galliano liqueur next to him and also smoked cigars. I only smoked cigarettes at the time and had not a single drop of wisdom regarding finely aged cigars. In contrast, what he had smelt better than whatever Ralph had hanging out his mouth.” Alastor once again pauses, only this time to truly savour his final puff before putting it out once again on the counter. The bartender grumbled, shooting Alastor a look but by the time she realised there were two burn marks on her lovely glossy surface, Alastor had turned himself around to focus on Vox. He knocks back his whiskey once again. Vox follows suit with his own bottle, not caring that it was almost finished.
“Ralph guided me by the shoulders to stand in front of this man, ‘Mr Totentanz! Mr Totentanz! A boy is here to read you the news, as you requested,’ had spilled out of his mouth. I had sensed that this Totentanz fellow was expecting someone slightly older, potentially slightly smarter. He raised a bushy, grey eyebrow in my direction before asking me, ‘what year were you born, kid? You look like an infant! Why’s an infant here, Baum? Whose hirin’ infants to read the paper?!’ I did not know what to say except ‘1899, May 12th’ while shrugging my shoulders and feeling very aware of what I looked like. Young, small, skinny– weak, overall. Totentanz did the math in his head and realised that I wasn't as young as I looked, so he paused his yapping and waved his hand. He wanted me to start reading.”
The Overlord closes his eyes in brief contemplation, inhaling before he starts again. Vox realises, in his hazy state, that Alastor almost looks saddened telling this story with absolutely no clue why. He also notices Alastor reaching for a third cigarette. He also additionally, once again, notices an extra wrinkle under Alastor’s eye. Clumsily plonking down the empty bottle of scotch with a glassy ‘thud’, Vox morphs his face into something that is meant to look like sympathy but instead feels like confusion. Still, he slurs out an all important question, “Al? Y’good? Y’look…”
Alastor ignores him once again, the familiar plumes this time weaseling out of his nose rather than his mouth, “I read the masthead, headline and entire front page for him. When I stopped, as that is when people would want me to stop, he kept waving around his hand impatiently. So I kept on reading until I had hit the backpage. He looked at me in a way no older man looked at me before. I thought I made him uncomfortable by reading poorly. Instead, he uncorked his beloved bottle of Galliano with just his thumb, put the head to his mouth and started drinking like a mad man! I had the instinct to stop him but everything he did looked calculated. So, I stood there until he put the bottle down. Totentanz looked at me then, a fierce determination in his eyes, asking me two questions.”
“What… Were the questions, ol’ pal?” The edge of Vox’s head is supported by his hand, his chest practically towering over the counter as he leans. Alastor commands the room and Vox can't help but be absorbed in it. It's perfect.
Finally, Alastor acknowledges Vox. He turns his body fully, his knees touching Vox’s. The deer demon places his hands on his drinking companion’s shoulders, gently pushing him back down into his seat. Vox looks at the cigarette that barely misses him, the heat slightly damaging the bezel that protects Vox’s screen. Quickly, Alastor withdraws his hands, suppressing the urge to wipe them before he turns back to face the bar.
“My name and the best kind of cigar. ‘Alastor Barnes Sinclair’ was my answer to the first question.” Alastor practically spat out his surname, his smile turning into a mirthful smirk. “My second answer was ‘I do not know, I am not sure, I am sorry, sir.’ I felt embarrassed for not knowing, even though high end cigars are by no means common knowledge. Totentanz had eased himself out of his seat, wheezing before fully making eye contact with me. ‘A De Nobili King is the best cigar. The flavour is peppery, deeply smoky and fantastically sweet– why, practically fruity, Mr. Barnes Sinclair! I say it makes my throat tickle and my lungs dance! Now, can you remember that? My favourite kind of cigar?’ I said yes, as I had never heard another person describe a horrible habit in a, hm, funky sort of way.”
“What happened after?” Vox murmured, feeling more sober after being manually shifted and touched by Alastor. Warmth blossomed over his shoulders, burying itself in his faux skin.
“He hired me to read the news before his special at his New Orleans studio, kickstarting my career in radio. Totentanz was the man who let me live out my dream, forming the best years of my life before he died in 1931, two years before I was murdered.” Alastor finally makes eye contact with Vox, mood suddenly changing from what looked like melancholy to his typical cockiness, gaze vicious, smile predatory. “Do you wish to know why I told you such a story, my dear?”
“Wh–”
“Two reasons. One, I am incredibly drunk, my judgement is lost on me. Two, because with half a bottle of neat liqueur chugged, Totentanz made a leap of faith, changing something. He made an independent choice and jumped towards the future blindly, forgetting any sort of history. But you–” The Radio Demon growls at Vox, antlers growing slightly, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, a long line of ash dangling dangerously on the end of it. “You made your choices, yet you waste a fine fifth of scotch and say nothing! You simply drool like a dumb dog, incapable of doing anything without some sort of crutch or assistance. Vox, you have never been able to stand on your own, never changing anything or anyone. You do not move from the past, you never took chances–”
“I tried to take a chance 70 years ago.” Vox quickly snapped. “I tried to take a chance 70 years ago and that failed. Y’know what I did then, hotshot?” He shakes off any sympathy he felt for Alastor’s openness, scowling now, face flushed. The scotch was finally doing its job, making Vox have the ability to talk and be normal. “I took more– I took more and more chances. Then I had money and power. I hired people, associates and built a fucking army– a technological empire. I wanted to take over Heaven! I was so close to becoming God. How dare you? How dare you say that I’ve never taken chances. You know absolutely nothing, not that you care to begin with!”
Vox fights something within him. Not the scotch, not the ache, not the hate– rather the pure rage he felt towards Alastor. The feeling crawled into his chest so quickly, Vox felt somewhat frightened for a moment before embracing it. How is it always Alastor making him feel so deeply at the worst times when all he wants to do was say–
No. Vox is too in sync with the fury that burns within him to think rationally. As an empty display of power, he swiftly throws the scotch bottle at the wall, claws digging into the counter. “I was using Valentino and Velvette to climb higher and higher and higher until I could finally fucking dispose of them! That was the plan, Mr. Barnes Sinclair, until your stupid, moronic, pompous POSSE RUINED EVERYTHING I WORKED FOR!” He roared, somehow feeling weaker despite everything. Alastor had insulted him, then opened up only to insult him again and he’s this moved by it? When Alastor has said so much worse? The fury thrums in his veins, pulsing.
Alastor’s ears twitch around, the yelling and glass smashing making them move automatically with a great rush despite their owner's demeanour. His horns grew slightly bigger, more stag-like. Another crushed cigarette on the counter, another replaced cigarette on Alastor’s lips– the third one. Smoke is blown in Vox’s scowling face, closed eyes opening to an analytical grin. Does he keep doing this to distract me? Why all the smoking? It’s getting to a point.
“This is what I speak of. You simply do not move on. It is like you think what I said to you several decades ago is still shattering your world, as if I ruined your entire afterlife.” A set of claws tap the table in a familiar rhythm, “‘70 years, I’ve been waiting for this,’ ‘70 years ago, I tried to take a chance’, it is a very repetitive pattern you have gotten yourself into. Have you realised this?” He genuinely asks, an eyebrow raising, his hand flopping to offer the cigarette to Vox.
Vox greedily snatches it up, sticking it in his mouth and sucking on it as if it acts as some cure to all his problems. He let the nicotine rumble in his lungs for a moment, the fuzziness hitting his organic parts, the chemical slightly relaxing him, if barely. “How could I possibly move on?”
“If this is about me saying no—”
“It was never about you saying no.” Vox is indignant, “You're a fully grown man, I knew I couldn't stop you from saying ‘no’, even though I hoped you wouldn't. If I had forced you into saying ‘yes’, you'd spend decades trying to find some way to kill me. I knew who you were, what you were capable of. You’d eat me whole if you could.” Vox takes the cigarette out of his mouth, twirling it in between his fingers, “How could I move on when you… Shit, you changed something in me. Made me infatuated with you. I wanted you. Not just as my business partner, or someone to warm the same side of the bed. I wanted you, entirely, for you. You. Fucking—”
“I knew you for 3 years, Vox. You waited an additional 70 years just to tell me you yearned for me? That you are still wounded by the naive man that I used to be? Goodness, if you are still gripping onto such feelings, perhaps you are thousands of times weaker than I ever thought you could be!” Alastor begins to wheeze out, partially due to all the cigarettes, mostly because Vox tried to destroy Hell a week ago and decides, still, after such a raw display of power, to make himself look small.
“Shut up, Alastor,” Vox’s clenching hands crushed the cigarette he had been twirling, deciding to be petty and flicking its crumpled remains at Alastor’s face, making his chortles stop. The deer demon looks at Vox distastefully for a moment before realising this is possibly the most genuinely frustrated Vox has ever looked.
Humanely so.
Alastor quietens.
“I was– screw it– am obsessed with you. Factually. You love facts, right? Spitting them out on your broadcast? Here’s some material– ‘Vox admits cocky bastard was right! He’s obsessed with The Radio Demon! He is everything! He is Vox’s World, even if he doesn't wanna be, why, he bailed on every plan once the Might of Lilith was fucked enough so he could take The Radio Demon down with him because for the first time in literal decades, both of them would be on the same level! Alastor sees Vincent again! Vincent, not Vox, VINCENT!’”
“Vox—”
“Vincent loved you. I love you. I hate that I do, and I know you hate it as well. Jesus, I never stopped loving you.” Vox’s clenched hands shake, words beginning to slur as he finally realises he’s saying everything he ever wanted to say to Alastor. “I think about you all the time– all the time– every second of every day, because I fucking love you. I love you. I can't even bear to not say it anymore, I love you—”
“Vox—”
“No! No, what did I say? Shut up! Shut. UP!” Digital eyes widen with fervour, fists violently banging against the counter, glasses slightly clattering, “It’s horrendous how much of a person you make me feel– you’re a genuine, real monster who is so far away from his humanity, you're practically an ‘it’ at this point! Yet I feel goopy and soft when you simply spare a glance, feeling like it’s the summer of ‘26, when I was young and stupid, experiencing tender kisses and running into the city, naked back against brick alleyways! How did you get in the way of everything!? How are you wriggling around in every wire, every soldered component of my motherboard—?!”
“VINCENT!” Alastor has to roar over the crazed rambling, his smile so taut, his cheeks hurt. Still, his eyebrows deeply knot together, eyes so close to turning into dials. Vox quickly shuts up, his claws returning to the familiar indents he made prior.
“Good God, man, get it together!” He roughly smacks his hand against Vox’s bevel before swiftly returning it to the all-too-familiar counter that has experienced a large amount of abuse this evening. Alastor’s tone becomes snappy, essentially angry. “I am absolutely appalled at your behaviour, how– of all places– why are you acting this way? Yelling, practically screaming, such delusions! Such delusions! Just how drunk are you? You never used to be like this when you were drunk ba–”
“Back then?”
Time is fleeting, yet a second passes. Alastor submits to Vox’s small voice all too quickly, much to his disdain. Vincent always knew how to make him droop. “...Back then.”
“I’m so tired.” Vox suddenly murmurs, “I’m so tired of pretending. I’m drunk and old– I’m so goddamn old. I can't keep doing it. I can't lie about how I feel about you anymore.” Hands move to rub at the bridge of his nose, only to meet the flatness of a hot screen. Vox chooses to cover up his eyes instead, feeling the authentic burn that lingers when near to tears. “S’not even your fault I’m like this. That's what gets me. You’re my rival and we fight like rivals. I’m weak, I know–”
“I apologise.”
“Wh– huh?”
A deeeeeeeeep inhale can be heard, with a tut of a gunshot exhale following behind. “I apologise for that night. I rejected you harshly, I am aware. I am not regretful about turning you down. However, the way I did it was not in my typical Rolodex of pleasantries. That, I am sorry for. It is many decades late but I, too, am drunk and old.”
“I don't understand–”
Alastor raises his hand to interrupt Vox, “To continue being honest. I loved you in the only way I possibly could, which is very little. I am not conventional. I cannot be the man you wanted, and still want me to be.” His smile lessens, “I was aggressive in my rejection for a reason in which I am hesitant to tell you, purely because it is a… foolish reason.” Alastor forces himself to finish his sentence, “You made me feel weak, I was an Overlord of ego, I could not handle it. I wanted to drive you away, so I did. Simple, effective, constructive. That is all I will apologise for, as you have caused far more damage recently.”
“The… The hotel is rubbing off on you, huh?” Vox pathetically squeaks out.
Alastor snorts. “No, you quite clearly destroyed half of Hell, made it ten times harder to have diplomatic relations with Heaven, you tried to kill the Morningstar– which personally humoured me– but not everyone and you sic’d your horrid shark-dog-beast-thing on my arm, in which I mandatorily have to go to that Baxter fellow for physiotherapy– yes, in this scenario, an apology is the most reasonable concept to be ever suggested. The hotel has nothing to do with that.”
Vox and Alastor lull into a mutual silence. Alastor, with stone cold realisation, understands that this is what Vox had wished to talk about– and he didn't prepare for such a topic. He felt misanthropic, looping to the occuring thought that they had both once, long ago, been human and they still have human qualities. It primarily disgusts Alastor, who has worked so hard to divide himself from such an identity. He’s still weak enough to feel this way, this uncomfortable, raw and honest.
Alastor wishes he could kill Vox and consume him bit by bit. That way, no emotion could be felt but they would never have to part either. He wishes he could bring himself to drink his blood, to lap at his organs like a starving kitten needing milk, to cut Vox up and suck on his marrow greedily. He could fillet him, then rip at the flesh, eating it raw because does Vox deserve to be cooked? Or would it be better to cook him in case there’s still wiring?
He can't, Alastor stiffens his shoulders, he can't imagine doing that. It makes him feel so very ill to even think about it. An exception. He’s an exception to me. He makes me feel too warm, still, to this day. I am still so, so very weak. I have not even changed a bit. Sickening. Disgusting. Awful. Ridiculous. Maybe I am the drunkard who thinks about poetry.
“You loved me.” Vox whispers. “You loved me?”
“I am afraid so.”
“Do you… still?”
“I would not know what it truly feels like.”
“How would you describe it? What do you feel about me?”
“It is esoteric in nature.”
Vox tuts slightly, muttering, “So you don't know.”
“All I know,” Alastor’s tail flicks against the leather seat, “is that somehow, in some odd way, you keep finding your way back to me and I keep letting it happen. Even with that deal, to free myself from a prior constraint, I chose to be kidnapped by you. I do not even understand why I chose to go with such a plan when there were several other ways to get Charlie to admit that you were the most powerful sinner in Hell. Why, I could have made her do it! Though, I did not. Not until you had paraded me everywhere, made me into a fool. I let you do that!”
“You’re Hell’s biggest enigma, I’ll give you that.” Vox tries to be lighthearted but the quip comes out deflated, almost defeated. He stares at the counter, thinking about how if the counter could talk, it’d be pissed off at the both of them.
“You are my personal weasel. A toy I cannot grow out of! In my moments of weakness, I think about beating you into a pulp, defeating you yet sparing your life, just because I wish to play the game again. All because I wish to run around with you like a schoolboy– is that love, truly?” Alastor explains, almost sounding confused. When it comes to Vox, despite his bold opinions about his actions, he struggles to understand how he feels about him.
He knows he enjoys the thrill of the chase, the bloodshed, the intent to kill. Alastor can acknowledge that Vox has raw power, that he built himself up to be nearly at his level– a physically equal combatant. He recalls when Vox has almost succeeded in snuffing his life out, cables wrapped around his neck and choking him, claws digging into his shoulders as he felt Vox’s screen heat up, fans blowing it in his face like hot breath.
Prey. He makes you feel like prey.
Static trills loudly at the thought. Alastor’s legs instinctively knock at the metal connected to his seat, as if he felt the urge to run away. However, more man than deer, he stays sat. His ears press against his skull, something that he cannot help.
Vox barely notices and Alastor could not be more grateful. “I’m sorry.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m sorry for loving you.”
“... That is not your fault.”
“Isn't it, though?” Vox doesn't move his head but his triangular pupils shoot to look at Alastor. He’s grateful for his sharp corners, he can barely see the Overlord from the lack of peripheral vision. “It’s a weakness, you’ve said it yourself many times. If I could control it, I'd have stopped it many years ago. I’m not strong enough to stop it, so I’m sorry. I’m sorry for thinking about how you held my waist when we danced, how your antlers sometimes would bump against my screen when we were sharing a newspaper, how you look when focused.”
Vox is still tipsy. Vox is an idiot. Vox dances his blue claws towards Alastor’s, slightly brushing his pinky finger. “I’m sorry for thinking about your curls, how you forgot to straighten your hair before I visited your apartment– your embarrassed face when I saw it. I’m sorry,” Vox’s hand engulfs Alastor’s. Alastor does not move, his eyes only widen and his static throbs sharply against the air, “that I think about your shoulders, your neck, your eyes, your voice, your signals– all of you. The way you rip people apart, your cockiness, your ego, your sick mind, your sick tastes. I’m sorry.”
“Vox...”
Vox’s other hand shakily raises itself to cup Alastor’s cheek gently, leaving a chance for the other to escape. His cheek is slightly soft from the fur that covers his face. Vox rubs his thumb, stroking against the grain of the fur, playing with it. “I’m sorry that I can't stop myself. I’m sorry that I’m so greedy.” He leans forwards slowly, voice becoming more and more light. Alastor still doesn't move, his posture tense but his face leaning into the touch. Vox’s screen tints itself down slightly, ghosting his mouth over Alastor’s and faintly miming, “I’m sorry for wanting something I can't have.”
Vox scoops Alastor into a kiss.
It is gentle, chaste. It doesn't last for long, yet lingers forever. Alastor leans into it very slightly, pressing his lips against the puckered glass and humming against the warmth. Red claws wrap around a stray wire around Vox’s neck, tugging at it with barely any force. It is a complete juxtaposition between their character, their entire conversation, their entire dynamic. They should be sick in each other's mouths.
Vox scarcely nips at Alastor’s lower lip before Alastor pulls away. It’s not malicious, as his forehead leans against the screen. Antlers tap at the modern edge of the television. Vox looks disgruntled, worried even. Alastor answers his woes before he can even address them, “I wish to not push myself. I… am not the man you want me to be.” He repeats. “You are a source of vulnerability for me. You attempted to ruin my reputation. You are the crux of my existence.”
“I know.” Vox croaks.
“But I suppose I am also yours– the crux of your existence.” He still twirls the exposed wire, “We can barely exist in the same room without being ruffians.”
“I know.” Vox sighs wetly, tears finally pricking in his eyes, pressing his weight into Alastor. He takes his hand off Alastor's, covering his mouth slightly. He couldn't reach his eyes with Alastor’s forehead still pressed against his screen. “I know, ‘m sorry.” His vents make a gurgling sound, fans clogging. All Vox can think about is curling up in a ball and dying– he’s ruined his chance, ruined everything. He feels it– every inch of him is sweating– he’s truly done it. Alastor will leave for another 7 years without a goodbye and that will be the–
“Are you sure I am what you want?” Alastor asks with a helplessness that they both weren't expecting. He has unsheathed far too much of his fragility to lie to a borderline weeping Vox, who also has done far too much of the same this evening. Alastor swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up in his throat. The hand that sits under Vox’s shifts, moving to take off his monocule, holding it as he tenderly places his soot-stained hand on Vox’s chest, “Or are you simply drunk and lying?”
“You are everything that I ever wanted and more, Alastor. You make me sick. I want you, only you, I promise.” He sobs out, tears spilling. Vox feels his heart clench, his chest hurting as Alastor touches him again, finally feeling genuine serenity as he does so. There is a lack of violence, something that Alastor is inexperienced in. His first time being delicate in over a century.
Alastor lets out a breath of mild relief, smile straining with anxiousness, “Then you can have me, what little there is left. I do not love the same as you do, I do not even think it is even possible, but you can have me. I want you to be mine.”
“I’ll accept anything you give me, Al.” He sniffles before shifting himself, repositioning his hand to the nape of Alastor’s neck and kissing him again. Alastor relaxes, letting himself be consumed by Vincent Whittman. They both swallow each other whole, intertwining in a way they didn't know was possible.
The deer never finished his whiskey. The TV wondered why he was so worried in the first place.
That is the amended punchline.