Alastor’s proustite eyes were glazed over, unblinking with pupils needle-thin as he unseeingly stared at the dark horizon stretched out before him. Hell’s irritatingly hot humid breeze blew his crimson hair from his face, the dull black ends brushing against waxen skin; the stimulation not enough to keep his ever-desperate mind grounded.
He stood on top of the Hazbin Hotel like a building’s stone gargoyle — void of all emotions; alone and vulnerable, decaying going unnoticed, uncared for. The hot bulbs of the flashing sign seeped through his clothes from behind; the building further branding him.
His tight smile etched into his face directly contradicted the red claws that gripped his radio staff painfully, the tendons throbbing with each quickening pulse of blood pumping from his ruby heart as his mind raced alongside it.
Nothing to do. Nothing to feel. Nothing to kill. Nothing to entertain.
Simply Nothing.
He breathed out, his jaw strained tightly as glass withstanding growing outside pressure. The mundanity of Alastor’s life nowadays held him in a chokehold, chipping away forcibly at his perfected mask as he struggled not to show a crease of authenticity to a single soul around him, well aware of the consequences of showing such weakness.
Remember to smile, my love; you’re never fully dressed without one.
His mother’s words came to the forefront of his pulsating head again like a swift blow, each word having been sliced into the inside of him with surgical precision, scarred over profusely now as its own wound a Trojan Horse for armor after all these years of repeating the mantra over and over again until his very muscles knew it; obeyed it — always.
Alastor felt his grin grow sudden and wide, splitting into his face like a crack in aged, weathered stone. With harsh breath and threatening teeth now broadcasted dangerously, the mantra replayed internally; a forever-playing vinyl spinning on a turntable, its needle causing damage beyond repair from overuse. The record screeching enough to drive any individual to their insanity’s event horizon.
Remember to smile. Just Smile. Smile. Smile. Smile. Smile. Just—
Alastor’s staff clattered to the rooftop suddenly, his claws bent sharply in the air at the crazed echoes screeching inside his mind and were quick to perilously grip at the sides of his head, tugging against his hair, the edges growing to points. He latched onto the grounding sensation with familiarity.
“S̵̙̳̆m̶͍̩̋i̶͔̋l̴̺̺̇̂ẽ̵͙̯͋ ̵̯̥̈́m̷̛̖y̴͙̽͗ ̵͓͎̇d̸̡̙͊͠e̶̠̭̽͑a̴̹̅r̵̢͕͛,” Alastor voiced aloud, his tone heavy, sizzling with radio static; unintelligible to the many pleased All-Seeing Eyes watching him, all lost to but one individual whose eyes grew with their own unforeseen concern as the scene played out before them far away in their isolated room.
“J̵̼̀u̴̼͗͝s̷̙̏̚ͅt̷͖͛ ̸̨͙̓s̷̤̖̓ḿ̷̝̦̕i̵͇͈̓l̸͔̫͐̐ȩ̶̜͒,” He demanded of himself, throat crackling with the growing undertones of a laugh as he heard the pathetic coating the words dripped with. His claws tore at his scalp in desperation like a crazed deer lost to its one desire to dig out the dozens of burrowing ticks chewing under its thick coat.
Alastor’s neck cracked loudly out of place, having realized he couldn’t do anything but crazily mutter the mantra aloud. His chest heaved with its rushing, uncontrolled breaths.
Unsteadily walking backwards, legs bent uncertain under his own weight, he focused on the splitting sounds of hair being ripped brutally from his scalp and the sharp pleasurable tingling sensations under his claws spreading out like a ripple in water over his head.
He thought back to the previous week of spending every night out in the town, threatening lesser demons, manipulating them to give themselves over; to willingly sell their souls to him. He reminisced over the delicious taste of the demons that had refused; the snapping and crunching of bones under stained teeth, the running oxygenated blood dripping pitifully on the floor, the wet hearts he devoured if refused their souls. He loved the hunt and loved the meal if the game was ruined, and yet still, it blurred into the mundane all the same. It simply was not the same without him.
And it was with that last thought, for a single second, his smile wavered.
He flinched violently at the sudden booming broadcast of uncontrollable screeching of white noise coming from himself as he couldn’t tolerate the suffocating emotions that stuck to him like burning tar. His own ears thrashing wildly in overstimulation, Alastor stumbled to the floor painfully; pitifully, feeling just as weak and poppeted as the demons he owned. His claws dug in, the pain delicious and addictive.
Now on his knees, his head bowed lowly like a sinner awaiting their inevitable smiting at the hands of the Gods they had refused to believe in while now sat before them on Judgement Day. His claws ripped out clumps of hair matching the violence of his continuous deranged frequency screeching.
His eyes burnt hotly with tears that could never break their imprisonment, never gaining their release, while he watched in a state of near dissociation as hands—his hands—trembled before him. Red claws dipped with blood tightly holding matted clumps of hair laid uselessly and pathetically near his chest. It was then he felt the slow river of blood trickling down the crease of his cheeks, ending at the sharp cut of his chin and making the jump towards the rooftop with a rhythmic drip, drip, drip.
The sight was enough for his grin to be cut into him again by drunken hands holding a broken shard of glass, splitting his face into two with a level of violence and uncontrol he rarely reached.
The very reminder of him losing control now clutched between his claws and the blood lay beautifully before him, Alastor’s static noises cut off precipitously into a crazed metallic laugh that once started, he couldn’t stop. Everything was hilarious: every poorly made deal, every bridge burnt, every soul devoured, every pitiful display, every relationship fought for and destroyed.
With manic laughs weaving between ear-piercing radio interference, Alastor’s eyes were shining red and wide, feeling like boiling blood fighting to bubble over a flask with a closed seal, the pressure making his head burn.
He thought about his deal made with Roo, one made impulsively and irrationally—idiotically—during a lapse of judgment – a weakness, one he knew would cut his own broadcast short one day.
“S̸̛͔̤͇̦͉͒̊͑̐m̵̺͔̜̠͉̆͒͊̂̅-̷̰̰̯̜̖͋̿̊̄̕ṡ̷̨̖̺͉̘̂̌́͆m̷̠̼̠̯̝̂̉̾̈́̉i̴̡̟̱̱͇͌̍͑̍͘l̸̡̳̻̻͍̔͐͐̄͠ȅ̴͈̤̭̝̭̐͛͗͝,” he coughed out dementedly, his voice skipping it’s track on the growing lack of breath caused by the increasing laughter that grew as he considered how he bargained with a friend’s soul so they could regain their power; forever branding that friendship tainted now that he held a leash around their throat. A deal forged as a means to regain a semblance of control again when desperate times arose; times he knew were on the horizon. A friend lost for his own gain, yet again.
Then, ill-advisedly—always ill-advisedly—he thought about a different friend; an old pal, his-once picture box.
Alastor collapsed forward harshly, his delusional laughter booming out of control as his body fought to just breathe, unable to do anything but laugh at his own pathetic display of weakness. His clenched hands were the only things holding his pained, suddenly morphing body up. His antlers snapped and creaked loudly as they grew, points sharp enough to pierce through skin, his hair’s edges ridged like daggers that echoed the tightness of his scarred-over smile that held neon green stitches in its display now with dark blood pooling out of the corner of his mouth. His spine was stretched in an unnatural bowing position, the vertebrae popping out of place loudly with its force. The sound of tearing fabric along his back hit his flickering ears as his body enlarged in a halfway transition of his true form; a disgusting depiction of both Alastor and The Radio Demon that made him want to manically tear his skin off at the clear display of control lost.
The pain was agonizing.
Finally, something new; some entertainment.
He needed more.
The rhythmic flashing of the hotel’s sign hit Alastor’s body with a sting, the brand scorching into him. Every cell of his body felt alit with flames, his skin bubbling and sizzling loudly to only his own thrashing ears. Antlers grew like a thicket of weeds, piercing thorns on threatening display; how overwhelmingly white-hot they felt with the abruptness of their appearance. Their sharp continuous cracking mixed with the sizzling he swore was of his skin had him reaching up to the tough rigid bones and scraping down them with extended sharpened claws. It was too much. Too much.
His eyes wavered, pupils shaking wildly, darting around as he was lost to the palpable pain of it all. The dull sounds of claws fighting with the rough textured antlers morphed rapidly into loud tearing with the increasing pressure of repetitive, manic scratching until finally the red claws snagged and sliced into the outer layer, cutting into the bone intertwined with sensitive tendons now exposed to the hot air of the night. The sudden slice into the sensitive bone had his body quivering violently, hunching further into itself like an injured rabid animal trying to stop the assault.
Dark blood ran down Alastor’s claws, quickly cutting out their path over his wrists and soaking deeply into his coat, the fabric blossoming with growing blood stains down his sleeves. The open tears into his scalp and deep wounds split into the bone of his entangled antlers pulsed like an exposed artery being forcibly punctured with a 14-gauge needle; the blood dripping down his back and sliding down his sewn smile. The intrusive thought of him looking like his murder victims flickered through his head, holding too much irony for his decaying mind to consider further. All there was, all that mattered, was excruciating pain.
At a tugging sensation that sent a shiver down his cracked and protruding spine, Alasor looked up through blood-clumped eyelashes and saw his Shadow standing in front of him, defying all logic with the flashing hotel sign shining off of its figure as if a solid mass. Its red eyes dimmed lowly, showing its concern; it’s pity for what laid pathetically before it.
With a choked-off snarl that ripped half of the neon stitches out of his deadly smile, Alastor lunged toward the Shadow like mauled cornered prey snapping its blooded jaws at the perceived predator that had stood idly by as a witness; complicit in the prey’s self-mutilation. The Shadow startled by its host, soaked away quickly in its retreat like oil rushing down a drain.
Abruptly and undesired, a blue background-lit smile—a home, lost—flickered through his mind, cutting his breath off entirely and making him lose grasp of his anger directed towards his Shadow. His body begged him to breathe properly, to knock off the hysterics if only for one moment to fill his brain with oxygen again, but he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t breathe.
Knife-sharpened pinpricks wracked over his frame as he couldn’t focus on anything but the enclosing heat and pressure from his coat that wrapped around him in a death grip, suffocating him mockingly.
He dropped his bleeding head against the roof, his chest fell flat with limited oxygen that didn’t seem to come as if his body had forgotten simple functionality. Alastor breathlessly snarled angrily again at his body failing him, tasting the metallic blood slipping over his thin torn lips.
Gripping the front of his coat with trembling bloodstained claws, he tore at the fabric that suffocated him, keeping him pinned down as if prey waiting to be devoured. He needed the pressure released, needed it gone. Needed to be the predator; vowing to never be the prey again.
His claws tore into the fabric easily, ripping the seams as if the very needle that glided through to mend them now slicing them apart. Though he could hear the coat ripping, the pressure increased, becoming unmanageable; uncontrollable. It felt inside him, trapped in a ribbed cage only he could break.
His hands pulsed with the tension they held as they dug deeper and deeper, now slicing into exposed skin like mere stake that oozed blood. Alastor let out a startled whimper of pleasure at the overwhelming newness of the sensation coming from his own claws. His smile grew steadily at the scent of blood that engulfed his entire being now. All that there was in that moment was pain and blood—his pain and blood; it was everything Alastor didn’t know he needed.
Alastor’s vision blurred with static behind the eyes he didn’t remember ever closing as he swayed forward, his forehead scraping against the rocks as he lost control of his balance once more. His claws simply held uselessly against his body as it struggled to move with the lack of oxygen, his chest bleeding profusely now at the open wounds brutally sliced into it, staining the surrounding fur and coat that was ripped to shreds.
He choked out a pathetic gasp, curling his raw talons around his shoulders, his arms crossed in front of his mutilated chest in a self-mocking embrace for desperate comfort. Until he finally took a sharp breath of air before jaggedly letting it out, feeling the heat wash over his face as it reverberated against the rocks he slumped painfully against.
Alastor pushed himself up with one unsteady hand, fighting with himself to get up and piece himself together. His entire body trembled under what felt like the weight of all of hell.
Lightheadedness racked through him then, worsening the agonizing pounding ricocheting under his skull. He violently coughed up blood that started to coat the inside of his throat and had him clenching his teeth, trying to bear the agony of it all. He finally succumbed to his struggling lithe body fully collapsing, his face slamming into the rooftop as he went limp with a pained crack.
At long last, Alastor the Radio Demon fell unconscious with a torn bloodied smile half-stitched messily on display, dark blood pooling around his pathetic body; alone and vulnerable…
Yet not unnoticed.
~~~
“f*ck!” Vox shoved his chair back hastily as he pushed himself up with his tensed claws braced on the desk. He stared at the many security feeds brightly broadcasting the dozens of angles of the Hazbin Hotel’s rooftop that lit up the dark room he isolated himself in most nights whenever he could get away with it.
He stood there stupidly, eyes racing across his own screen, body frozen as he struggled internally on what the f*ck to do.
He watched helplessly as Alastor’s body, morphed in a disgusting grotesque fashion, lay limply — unnervingly still and vulnerable — and couldn’t tell if the body’s chest rose with a single breath. Alastor's Shadow stood over his prone body with only a tilt of its head to give off the impression of confusion and concern.
Vox’s chest panged at still being able to read the Shadow’s body language after all these years.
Without a single further thought Vox impulsively shot through the wires of The Vees Tower to hastily transport his physical body to the roof Alastor collapsed on. Dizzyingly, he stumbled out of the camera uncharacteristically, his body tingling with electricity that had his head throbbing and heart pounding.
The scene before him made his eyes widen at every slow flash from the hotel’s sign shined light on the bloodied self-mutilated body lying limp like roadkill before the light went out, flooding the roof in darkness before flickering back on again. Vox couldn’t help but get the impression of being a child lost in sleep paralysis, trying to close their eyes to desperately get the monster out of their mind only to open them and have the grotesque figure still lingering; forcing them to confront it rather than running.
He stepped forward, uncertainty flooding him as he hesitantly reached out a blue claw towards the red mass. Before his hand could make contact, Alastor’s Shadow suddenly stretched out of the Radio Demon’s body directly in front of him, its black maw growing in unnerving silence as if snarling with no sensory warning given to its prey. Its red eyes flared.
“sh*t! f*ckity-f*ck!” Vox nearly lost his balance from stumbling away from the threat, his screen glitching for a moment as his tailed coat swished with his flailing arms until he finally caught himself before falling on his ass. His claws were splayed out in the air in front of him, pupils shaking in overwhelming fear after having seen over the years just how brutal Alastor’s Shadow could be to demons, even Overlords such as himself.
“It’s fine!” He yelled out unnecessarily loud in his startlement as his heart raced and whirling fans kicked on, giving him the start of a headache. Vox breathed forcibly, lowering his voice, and had to fight with himself internally to show submission. “I’m not going to hurt him.”
The Shadow’s burning red eyes slowly began to dim as it tilted its head questioningly at Vox for a moment before it melted smaller like oil running down a drain that was plugged abruptly until it stood in front of him, matching his own size.
A look of recognition flickered in its eyes that were now barely noticeable in the inky blackness; Vox smiled bittersweetly at the easy trust displayed in that detail. It seemed regardless of Alastor’s and Vox’s rivalry, his Shadow felt differently like no time had passed since their close comradery in the ‘60s up until the ‘80s. The realization pained Vox more than he had expected. He never did get to say goodbye; his disappearance more of an abandonment.
Vox watched with an overwhelming sense of remorse as the Shadow’s figure thawed, melting off towards the side before fading entirely, giving him access to his host’s body.
Warily, he moved closer with bated breath as the scene on display exposed the seriousness of the situation.
Parts of Alastor’s spine were so wildly popped out of place, the large bulbous knobs stretched the thin fabric of his coat across his back, some having torn through in a nasty display of bruising skin barely stretching over the ruptured spine. His antlers were a tangled mess, having grown wrapped around the other in sections as if two stags in rut had rammed into the other, locking antlers in their biological aggression. The rhythmic flashing of the hotel's sign put the slices on clear display, entire strips of the tough bone and ligaments had been violently torn into, leaving behind a clotting mess as Alastor’s body fought to stop the blood now that he had ceased to be a threat to himself only after falling unconscious. Patches of his torn scalp bleed profusely, matting the entirety of his head, making it impossible to see how many open wounds the Radio Demon had given himself.
Vox stepped closer and crouched down in front of Alastor’s body, reaching out a blue claw to move the matted hair out of his face, careful to not let a single hint of direct contact be made with Alastor's skin.
Brushing the jagged hair out of the way, Vox couldn’t focus on the barely-there tingling sensation at the tips of his claws as his eyes widened again at the sight of Alastor’s grotesque face. His waxen skin was coated in blood that still sluggishly drooled its way down his cheeks, sliding into the crease of his eye before slipping into the half-stitched mouth like tears. His usual small pointed nose was cracked and bleeding freshly, mixing disgustingly with the blood pooling from the torn open section of his lips.
Holding his own breath, Vox tuned out the buzzing sound of the lightbulbs behind him and focused entirely on Alastor’s body and waited, silently. He heard the barely-there wheezing from Alastor’s lungs fighting to keep the demon alive a little while longer.
Vox breathed out harshly in exasperation that intertwined with an irritating level of concern. He watched as the backlit of his screen casted a blue light against Alastor’s frame, darkening the blood further in its illumination. The light hitting Alastor’s pale face was a painful reminder of how close he was and how long it had been since last seeing the view of Alastor’s crimson hair washing darker with his blue screen mixing in it.
A flicking memory of such a moment played undesirably from their time in the ‘70s behind his eyes, the picture smoothing out as he got lost in it:
Alastor’s whisky-relaxed laugh crackled between them after having lent out an offered hand towards a wide-eyed Vox who stared up at the Radio Demon with flushed eager anticipation. Claws intertwined, Alastor pulled Vox from his seat with a wide pleased grin and dragged him to be lost within the gangle of intoxicated sinners dancing at their favorite bar to visit after a night prowling the town, devouring souls together.
With matching grins, they stayed hand-in-hand and echoed the swiftness of the song in each push and pull of their bodies. The glowing dim light rained down over the two demons, putting the spotlight on them only within their own minds as they got lost in each other as was their tendency. Alastor dragged Vox’s frame nearer with a sharp tug in tune with the music, taking evident enjoyment in the spark of electricity produced by Vox’s excitement that only he felt in their shared frequencies. Now with a red claw interlaced with blue and the other resting on Vox’s thin waist of his beige turtleneck, Alastor chuckled at the easy flush rising on his picturebox’s screen, their faces mere inches apart.
Vox looked enraptured, taking in the pleased loose grin on Alastor’s lips, the barely-there flush on the sharp of his cheekbones, and the beautifully crimson hair that mixed a dark red under his own light. He looked ethereal under the spotlight Vox wanted to devote upon him for the rest of their damnation. He was lost to the privilege of being so near to the touch-adverse demon, so close that Alastor’s features held his own colored tints; a mark of trust that he then vowed to never take for granted.
The memory became static, fizzling out entirely. And yet, the gut-wrenching pain remained all the same. It always did.
“What the f*ck did you do, Al?” Vox pointlessly asked, his voice soft and laced with vulnerability if only because there were no witnesses. He helplessly stared down at the mess before him, uncertainty flooding every wire at the sight of a vow broken.
The easiest choice—the logical option considering their present dynamic—would be to just leave; turn his back and transport his way through the wires to The Vees Tower. Smoothly fill in the familiar role of voyeur yet again, and simply watch through his many screens until Alastor woke up. Vox was well aware this wouldn’t kill Alastor—only an angelic weapon could do that, so that wasn’t remotely a concern. Alastor would be fine.
Vox blinked once, his hazy vision snapping back into focusing immediately on Alastor’s mutilated body; alone and vulnerable. Words that felt immeasurably wrong to be attached to the Radio Demon but ones Vox knew to be true all the same, no matter the quality of Alastor’s typical given performance. He always could fool everybody but one.
He sighed, leaning back against his haunches. Vox knew Alastor to his core, that was the problem.
He knew how alone the Radio Demon had always been, how utterly isolated even from those he found allyship in; it was part of the reason they had a falling out. Alastor’s deep-rooted tendency to only truly attach himself to one single individual at a time, never needing anything more once he found a person he deemed the exception to his desirable self-isolation; and in this exception formed possession. Alastor expected the other to be just as isolated as him.
Whereas Vox was desperate, hardwired to form as many connections as possible whether with pure intent or otherwise, and found opportunities within them that he strategically built up and took. That very desire for connections, to upgrade and evolve to build an empire with others, was the final clip of their shared tied red string.
Briefly shaking his head to stay on track with the task at hand, Vox considered the idea of teleporting himself and Alastor to the front doors of the Hazbin Hotel. He would simply knock and have the Princess of Hell take Alastor in and his job would be done. He could teleport away before the doors even opened and Alastor would be safe to heal within the comfort of his own room and be none the wiser regarding who picked him up from the roof.
Vox looked down. His chest panged at the washed red-blue before him while he realized dropping Alastor off in front of the hotel beaten and physically torn into, blood slowly dripping down his entire body like heavy paint, to be put in the hands of the hotel’s residents would only result in further betrayal.
He thought about the words Alastor repeated like a broken record; a cry for help that Vox knew all too well.
“f*ck my life.” He complained irritably before glancing around, noticing Alastor’s lame stick lying uselessly on the floor. Heaving himself up by his knees, he walked over to it and picked it up before standing in front of Alastor’s collapsed, enlarged body. With a tilt of his head, he hummed to himself and prepared to be positively exhausted from transporting the two of them.
The moment Vox laid a blue claw on Alastor’s blooded sleeve he was immediately hit with a rush of Alastor’s magic flooding him like a static charge that sent his screen glitching and twitching violently, his neck cracking with it. Every odd mixture of wires and veins burnt in the intensity, startling him, robbing him of his breath for but a moment.
A mere second passed and it fizzled out slowly; the residue of two frequencies overlapping. Vox stood there, eerily still as his body struggled to process the now-remembered deep-rooted withdrawals it had been in from not having experienced their frequencies mixing for thirty years.
Forcibly taking a stabilizing breath, he ignored the buzzing of emotional adrenaline and focused on the crushing weight of transporting two bodies as he moved through the power grid to an apartment that was hidden from the media, and more vitally, hidden from the other Vees. An apartment Alastor would know quite well.
~~~
Vox stood there, stupidly, while he fought back the growing pressure behind his screen that screamed at him for being so idiotic to bring Alastor back here of all places. His one safe place that was left just for him.
He stared down at Alastor laid out in a messy display on the bed they used to lounge in during the mundane evenings of the past—Alastor enjoying a cool glass of whiskey while reading some bizarre book that nearly always had to do with cannibal cooking, and Vox’s awkward clunky head resting in his lap while he dozed off to the sound of pages being turned.
Now, the memory was replaced with the Radio Demon’s bloodied body sprawled out like roadkill someone dumped to the side of the road hastily if only to leave the body some dignity of not getting repeatedly run over.
Vox breathed in deeply, settling his shoulders while he turned his back and made his way to the bathroom where he had kept an emergency first-aid kit, mumbling all the while.
“This is a sh*t idea…” he grumbled to himself, opening a cabinet with far too much aggression warranted for the task. “You’re supposed to hate him. sh*t—I do hate him.” He uselessly reminded himself as he snatched up the kit, slamming the door shut childishly as if that would relieve him of his conflicting emotions eating at his very wiring.
“He’s an egotistical, selfish bastard who deserves nothing but–” he cut himself off the moment he walked through into the bedroom again. His eyes shrunk in concern at the sheets being soaked in blood and the wet wheezing coming from Alastor’s unconscious body that struggled to seep oxygen into its lungs. “f*ck.”
He stomped over to the bed and threw down the kit with a loud clank before rolling Alastor’s body over and putting him on his back. Uncharacteristically, Vox startled and stepped away in haste. With shaking pupils, he looked at the brutal slashes tearing down the front of Alastor’s chest, having not realized how badly Alastor had flayed himself open. His past attacks had never been this vehement.
“f*ck!” Vox repeated, his voice reverberating off the walls as he was lost on what to do all over again right after he thought he had a solid plan. He felt his fans kicking on dizzyingly.
The deep wounds on Alastor’s chest appeared to be clotting up slowly, the blood running sluggishly now, but the issue was the torn edges of his shirt already being embedded into the skin as it healed over the fabric.
Vox hummed thoughtfully—worryingly,—his eyebrows furrowed on his screen. Realizing what he had to do, Vox sighed aloud in aggravation. “If I’m gonna be later strangled, might as well indulge in something now,” he groaned and moved over to the vintage radio displayed on a dark wooden table set; a radio that Alastor had surprised him with in the late ‘60s.
Flickering through the channels, he stopped as slow jazz danced around him and ignored the sharp pain of a long-lost memory of Alastor and him dancing together in this very room. Vox irritably shook his head to keep himself from getting lost in pointless memories now.
Lifting Alastor’s frail body forward, he managed to maneuver the shredded coat off of Alastor’s body that was slowly starting to morph back into his average size. He threw the ruined coat off to the side, wincing at the deep blush of bruising lining Alastor’s protruding spine that was still shifting back into place. Vox’s movements abruptly stopped when he went to pull off Alastor’s shirt, his blue claws frozen while gripping his shoulders.
He couldn’t strip Alastor further, no matter how much easier it would make everything.
Vox knew Alastor, that always was the problem.
He slowly laid the unconscious body back down against the pillows, the wounds continued healing with fabric stuck inside them. Vox stared for a moment, lost in thought before quickly moving to grab the scissors he had on the desk resting on the opposite side of the room. A new plan rapidly formed in his overworking mind.
“Okay,” Vox spoke aloud, his worried voice dancing amateurly with the slow jazz still being played, acting as if a hand holding his throughout the f*cked up situation.
Vox perched himself on the side of the bed, his hip pressing noticeably against Alastor’s side resulting in the old familiar tingling sensation of their currents being drawn so near. With intense unmoving eyes, he positioned one blade of the scissors to slide beneath the fabric near the wound and started cutting through the shirt. After the fabric was cut away, Vox, with bated breath and a digital wince at the sight, meticulously pulled pieces of the fabric out of the clotting wounds. The mere sound of fresh healing flesh being ripped off as his stable claws slowly pulled the red fabric out under the closing scabs had him grimacing.
Finally, in what felt like an eternity to the anxiety-ridden demon, the entirety of Alastor’s chest was on display only enough to access the deep slices into his skin; the fur stained red in a mix of dried and fresh blood.
Grabbing a hold of the bundle of white bandages, Vox gently brought Alastor’s body to lean against his chest, wary of the ruined scalp and shrinking antlers. Being so near, he couldn’t help himself but take in the scent of Alastor, his chest throbbing at the grounding familiar smell. Vox began wrapping the bandages around Alastor’s torso, unnecessarily slow, over the fabric of his shirt that still covered most of his upper body respectfully.
Taping the bandage down, he rested Alastor’s body back onto the stained bed, his screen hovering over his face for a moment too long. Alastor’s nose had straightened out in the time of being unconscious but by no means did he look alright. As the magic slowly seeped back into Alastor, the neon stitches that messily stretched only half of his mouth lessened, leaving behind a strained grin mixed with a grimace. Dried blood stuck to his waxen face like scars, marking Alastor’s skin messily in their ravines. The tears in his scalp were closing slowly, sticky with blood.
With uncertainty about the action, Vox questioningly looked at the open wounds dispersed over Alastor’s scalp, most bleeding sluggishly, pooling into the fluffy ears that occasionally twitched. Tilting his head, Vox noticed the injured antlers being mere stubs and hesitantly decided to go through with his idea.
Tentatively, he pushed Alastor’s ears down after soaking up the blood inside them with a cloth and began wrapping the bandage under the point of Alastor’s chin. The white fabric clung instantly to the sides of his face, soaking up the blood as it was wrapped up to Alastor’s hairline. Consciously making sure the ears were folded down in a position that wouldn’t further irritate or injure Alastor, Vox continued bandaging his head in a few layers of the fabric until the last lining didn’t have blood seeping through the white.
“Oh, he’s definitely going to be pissy with me…” Vox breathed out after finishing the task.
He pulled away and then picked up alcohol swabs, tearing into a fresh pack with a digital wince at the overwhelming scent of chemicals. He pushed himself closer to lean over Alastor’s frame to carefully begin dampening the streaks of crusting blood marks over his face, the flakes brushing off like dried paint. The familiar buzzing under his blue claws had him tuning into the radio continuously filling the room with its nostalgic soft songs. Vox’s grimace flickered unsteadily under the weight of the emotions that hit him. The sound of slow jazz, the scent of Alastor, the buzzing of their similar frequencies interacting, the surrounding room filled with shared memories, and the blue glow mixing in crimson hair; all of it felt hallucinatory in its intensity of the past brought forward.
“Even after all these years, ” Vox’s voice came out barely audible, hidden under the security of the music at its climax. “I still…” he trailed off, letting himself get lost at the sight of his home long lost.
Indulgently, Vox slowly brushed the back of his hand down Alastor’s cleaned-up face, taking comfort in the gentle tingling sensation; a comfort he despised living without for thirty years. He sighed, reining himself back into a familiar role, reminding himself that the second those eyes flickered open and landed on him, they wouldn’t hold affection like they used to.
Vox huffed a cruel laugh to himself; to all of Hell, to fate itself. He pulled his hand away abruptly, frantic to cut off that poisonous buzzing. With trembling pupils, he glanced around the room and felt sick at the thought of Alastor waking up here.
How could he have been so idiotic?
A framed black and white photo of them hung desperately on the wall, the vintage radio that had newly repaired dials perched on the desk, the very same rotary dial phone purposefully kept by the bed back when Alastor had night terrors and needed him. All were the only items that were routinely cleared away of dust and damage—noticeably so as if they sat under spotlights in a news set.
Vox’s lips twitched in a snarl at his own stupidity before falling into the familiarity of clearing the evidence of his love away.
~~~
Alastor awoke abruptly and for a mere second, he was shot through with pure terror at wondering if she had finally come to cut his broadcast short; if the horizon had been drawn to him prematurely.
His vulpine eyes flickered open sharply to scatter along the evidently new environment he had found himself in only to narrow at the old familiarity that washed over him. Wariness crept upon him like growing shadows filling the room as he moved to push himself into a sitting position but stopped short at the strange tightness around his head, his ears pushed down by something that muffled his hearing most irritability.
With an unpleasant smile, he took note of the dried tacky blood coating his claws and sleeves. Not an unusual occurrence, for sure, but his blurry memory of such events had him curious. What was most unusual was the constricting bandaging wrapping around his chest and head. The fabric around his ears molded the silence around him to deafening oppression, his skin prickling with nerves at the very fact of seemingly nothing happening. Then—
“Huh, never thought I’d see you looking like this, that’s for sure.”
Alastor’s ears flickered under the weight of the bandages, trying to alert him to where precisely the muffled voice came from. Having already known exactly the layout of where he was—a place he thought long lost to the ever-evolving, ever-upgrading city—he snapped his eyes to the doorframe across the room and took pleasure at his prey tensing up, if only for but a moment.
Vox’s lengthy frame relaxed against the dark wood, his legs crossed carelessly at his ankles as his shoulder held his weight. The bright LEDs of his flat screen looked wrong in the apartment; contradictory to the memories they both still held bittersweetly of the place. His smile melted neon crimson at the sight before him: an injured deer that held sharp teeth but a fawn all the same.
Alastor’s body creaked as he threw his legs over the bed and stood straight, fighting off the pained dizziness that hit him like a shock of electricity. His body positively ached with its own existence. His chest itched under the heavy bandages that felt suffocating, but he ignored the irritation and held his smile in place under the watchful eyes.
Vox rested the corner of his head against the door frame, his arms crossed in a disgusting display of enjoyment of having read Alastor’s body language correctly.
“Oh, Alastor—“
Cutting that honey-dripping tone off, Alastor’s grin sharpened, his hands crossed neatly behind his back as he ignored the muffled sound of Vox’s displeasing voice.
“Why I never imagined you to be so weak to patch up a rival…” Alastor paused with a tilt of his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Yet perhaps you’ve finally become self-aware of your incapabilities to win a fight from always listening to your bleeding heart. It’s about time, mhm?”
Alastor didn’t bother hiding his preening at Vox’s smug look flickering in hurt at the reminder. It was a commonly voiced irritant from Alastor when they first met in the ‘50s—back when Vox would show hesitancy to end a delicious hunt, oftentimes ruining Alastor’s plans for the night and interrupting his dinner.
He rolled his eyes around the room in a showy manner, an eyebrow raised in displeasure. “If you must listen to that pathetic little head of yours, why ever did you bring us here of all places?”
Vox pushed himself up off the door frame, clearly having been pushed to the point of not enjoying the conversation anymore. “What? Should I have left you on that rooftop, bleeding out by your own hands?” He stepped forward, his voice dark with his mask slipping.
With the tunnel vision Vox held of Alastor’s every action, he noticed the slight twitch of Alastor’s eye behind his monocle. Vox knew better than to push the Radio Demon but impulsivity was laced into every code and cell of his very being.
“Ha!” Vox pointedly laughed, moving with an arrogance that instinctively put Alastor on edge. “You sure did put on a wonderful broadcast!” He complimented with a sneer.
Alastor’s head twitched with growing irritation as he felt his antlers threatening to grow at the sound of audience laughter booming with Vox’s smug expression.
Vox continued, waving out his arms. He persistently pushed his luck. “I mean, I know I was on the edge of my seat! What a performance!” The audience clapped along most vexingly.
Alastor stepped forward, his eye twitching. He had had enough of this humiliation and power imbalance. Vox needed to be reminded of his rightful place. Beneath him.
Alastor’s antlers tore through the bandages, ripping the fabric as if simple tissue paper. The barely-healed antlers throbbed at their abrupt growth, catching Alastor off guard. His eyes twitched in sensitivity to the overwhelming pain sizzling across his scalp like flesh to a hot pan. He paused his assault, his claws clenched tightly within the other hidden behind his back as he focused on breathing and keeping his smile as sharp as the pain.
Remember to smile.
Vox’s eyes softened with concern for a frame before easing into his arrogant role, yet again. He leaned his back against the brick unlit fireplace, his pinstriped suit stretching at his shoulders giving off the impression of being larger than he was.
“Careful, Bambi or you’ll undo all my hard work.”
Alastor’s eyebrows furrowed regardless of the firmly set smile displayed while he touched the base of one antler, his jaw tightening at the feeling of shredded bone and sticky blood that started running anew. Slowly and with an overwhelming amount of uncomfortableness, he remembered just how badly he lost control of himself on that rooftop.
He remembered the words he had said—his Mother’s words. Words, decades ago, he had weakly confided in Vox about during the dead of night over a phone call that was a desperate plea for help after too many night terrors; a confession that, then received reassurances. Now, Alastor looked upon Vox knowing he had heard him repeat the ongoing mantra aloud, and was angered by the co*cky pixelated smile replacing those long-passed soft reassurances.
With sharp narrowed eyes, Alastor stepped forward and summoned his radio staff to whirl around in a showy manner. His grin stretched pleasantly at the evident uncertainty that ran across Vox’s digital features, his blue pinstriped shoulders shifting in their weight.
Alastor tilted his head in final irritation. Tired of the muffled feedback of his surroundings, he brought a claw up to his chin and unraveled the bandaging around his head. His eyes tightened at the sting of the fabric getting stuck on the scabbed scalp until finally, he felt his ears spring back into place with occasional twitches as he took in the noticeable sound of Vox’s breathing.
“Vox, my dear,” Alastor began with practiced feigned obnoxious affection. He paused to throw the bloodied fabric into the wired bin basket beside the desk before walking until he stood threateningly in front of Vox, his arms crossed neatly behind his back. “It really is such a displeasure to see you this weak, yet again.” He glanced at the bandages to further his point.
Vox’s eyes widened in shock before swiftly narrowing, his mouth opened in a silent irritated growl. “Weak?” He repeated, his voice raising as he pushed himself off the wall, stepping closer to Alastor. “Are you still so stuck in that old mentality of yours?” Vox rhetorically asked, throwing his arms out to the side in exasperation.
Alastor inhaled silently to settle himself, feeling near giddy with the potential of a fight; something to pull him up through the black tar of the mundanity drowning him, bringing him to the safety of the surface of entertainment.
He straightened his back, ignoring the sharp pain of his spine protesting. “This old mentality of mine is what keeps Overlords in power.” He leaned forward with a dramatic tilt of his head. “My, you’d think that paper-thin head of yours would have a grasp of that by now.” He tapped the top of Vox’s frame with his staff in theatrics, entertaining himself with the metal thunk sound and the look he received. “Mm, pity.”
Vox shoved himself forward and swiped at the staff uselessly, his claw slicing through the air as the cane materialized into Alastor’s other hand. His screen depicted a snarl mere inches from Alastor’s complacent grin, washing out his pale waxen skin blue, his voice booming. “If you weren’t so stuck in your ways, you would’ve realized that things have changed and that isn’t some threat!”
Alastor, in the middle of a theatrical staff twirl, abruptly stopped. His grin stretched in discomfort. A memory from thirty years ago knocked the air from his lungs in the intensity of being undesirably brought forth in his mind; a memory of his last time being in this very apartment:
The Radio Demon had stood stiffly in the bedroom, his eyes narrowed into slits at Vox’s newest head upgrade: the trending tv set of 1989. Alastor couldn’t help but note that the designs seemed to get thinner and thinner with every year, losing the classy wood accents over time.
He could feel his ears twitching in growing irritation, his heart racing with anxiety of you’re losing him, while he listened to Vox erratically talk about the meeting he had with some moth demon he had signed on months ago and their plans to incorporate his specialties into Vox’s brand. Alastor didn’t bother hiding the look of distaste at what Vox was allowing his power to be associated with; power that had only been associated with him for decades prior.
Having voiced his concern about him tainting his growing reputation only seemed to infuriate Vox, his eyes shaking with it as he pushed himself forward in his aggression. The sound of Vox’s fans was audible in the tension between them as he finally raised his voice at Alastor, his tone dripping with exhaustion at feeling held back; at every action forward being perceived as a threat. He didn’t want to move forward without Alastor, he wanted Alastor beside him. He stupidly voiced that very desire yet again.
Join us.
Alastor’s eye twitched as he finally snapped, his voice dripping with radio static. “I will never be a part of your childish business, Vox! Quit it with your vexatious begging!” He snarled, the heat of his breath fogging up Vox’s screen at how close they were.
Vox watched the red-blue of Alastor’s hair with a heart barely beating. His mind was stuck on the words that reverberated off the walls, tainting the photos of them; the empty whisky glasses, the vintage radio.
Vox’s emotional impulsiveness took over like an electrical charge, resulting in him snarling back at Alastor, his tone venomous. “Building connections isn’t some big weakness, Al! f*ck! Val told me you’d spin out like this!” Vox growled, his control slipping as his eye spiraled, the red glow encompassing Alastor’s features entirely now. “Why can’t you just join us?”
Alastor’s head burnt with the compulsion to give in, the pain like a fried fuse cutting into the skin. Startled enough, he uncharacteristically stumbled away from Vox, his smile frail with the sudden power imbalance. Alastor’s claws tightly gripped at his hair, fighting not to lose control as he looked up at Vox. His digital features held nothing but instant regret and fear, but it was too late.
Before his flattened ears could hear the stumbled apology, Alastor melted into the floorboards with his shadow, leaving Vox standing alone. The slow jazz swirling around him mockingly as if echoing Alastor’s presence.
Now, Alastor blinked several times, desperately pulling Vox’s flat screen into focus to leave the memory behind, never more relieved to see that inch-length frame of his. He narrowed his eyes curiously at Vox breathing heavier, his eyes round in a hazy daze, his fans noisily working pastime.
“Blew a fuse, mhm?” Alastor remarked brightly, leaning against his staff with both hands, eager for a response to drag his mind away from the looming memory.
The silence stretched unnervingly. Vox’s features glitched for a single frame before changing expressions sporadically as if his emotions were being projected at 2x speed. It was evident that he wasn’t reacting to the present.
Alastor’s head hurt at the dizzying display. He leaned closer, his eyes dimming in concern. “Vox?” His voice was void of his typical radio mixed accent, the tone the closest to how it was on Earth.
Holding his radio staff behind his back, he reached out a red claw to grip Vox’s shoulder, simply trying to snap Vox out of it. The moment red touched blue, a static charge rushed through his claws, prickling up his arm in a dizzying sensation that had him impulsively tightening his grip on Vox’s shoulder. His claws nearly punctured the suit as he was lost to the overwhelming buzzing that encased his entire being like every cell was vibrating in tune.
“f*ck.”
Alastor’s chest throbbed at the sharp gasp he let out, his pupils trembling with the intense rush of nostalgia that warmed him; the comfort of a crackling fire on a cool night that burnt the closer one got. The temptation was strong as he let his claws dig into Vox’s suit, desperately needing to get closer. He needed it to encompass him; engulf his entire being and get lost in it.
His eyes wrinkled at the corners from the adored familiar sensation spreading through him. His skin vibrated pleasantly as he thought about the late-night dances of red-blue shoes moving in sync, the feigned exasperation to antics that he secretly looked forward to, and the sincere cackling laughter scratching his throat that he hadn’t experienced in years. He needed to let go; needed to stop getting lost in the past and move forward. That’s what Vox wanted from him, was it not?
With a startled breath, Alastor hastily let go and stepped back in an evident retreat. The mask of the insincere smile took control, sliding into place effortlessly; his eyes without a crinkle of care. His body pulsed with the sudden nonsensical foreignness from the lack of Vox’s frequency intertwining smoothly with his as if life-long dance partners.
Vox’s features began to settle, slowing down until his eyes blinked repeatedly. He finally came back to the surface of the present only to witness Alastor stumbling away from him—again. His red eyes widened in startlement, his mouth a line of pixels as he faltered back, desperation in his haste distancing.
Alastor stared at the fear that he knew Vox couldn’t fake, the evident sincerity of emotion leaving him lost without their familiar rivalry scripts. Vox’s shoulders heaved with his rushed panic breaths as he quickly turned on his heel to leave the room, his shoes clicking the wooden flooring loudly in his escape. Alastor watched with dimmed eyes at the retreating figure he found he didn’t want to leave just yet.
~~~
Vanishing his cane into subspace, Alastor sighed at the empty bedroom. He knew precisely where Vox would have escaped off to—a room they both used to hide themselves away in days at a time decades prior.
Meanderingly, he made his way to the library. His arms crossed neatly behind his back with the impression of being put together, contradictory to the rush of concern and wariness eating away at him. He listened to the click of his shoes against the floorboards, eyeing the old heel marks scarred into the light wood from all the times Vox had run through the hallway in excitement to disclose some random new fact to Alastor whenever the Radio Demon stayed over; his digital smile changing brighter throughout the upgrades over the years.
He paused in the library’s archway, an ear still tacky with blood flickered in the direction of the rapidly changing stations of a radio. He settled himself with a smile before peering into the dimly lit room, the old light fixtures casting shadows off of the ebony bookcases that lined the far wall, filled to the brim with a variety of books that he painfully knew he would recognize. His eyes lingered for a moment too long, hurt darkening his mind, until he finally pulled them away to look at Vox who was sitting pathetically on the large maroon rug, his lengthy legs tucked uncomfortably beneath him. The radio Alastor remembered giving him in 1967 sat pitifully in his lap.
Alastor watched curiously at the blue claws continuously rotating the dial, the radio’s station display window rapidly went by in a blur of nonsensical numbers while Vox’s eyebrows furrowed in displeasure.
A bizarre mix of nostalgia and irritation sparked through Alastor then, his previous concern seeping away in the background, barely a whisper in his rushing mind.
Stuck in my ways? Move on?
“A little ironic, don’t you think?” Alastor’s voice drawled out, his eyes roaming the dust-filled room before narrowing in on the clean chair that was dedicated to him many years ago. He raised an accusatory eyebrow.
“Mm,” Alastor paused, bitterness crackling in his ears, “what a pitiful display of hypocrisy.” His eyes latched like a scope’s reticle onto Vox whose shoulders sagged, his blue claw quick to turn off the radio entirely.
Vox looked up at him before glancing around the room, seeing things from Alastor’s perspective and berating himself all the while. He stayed quiet; uncertain of how things would play out. He couldn’t lose control again. He wouldn’t.
Alastor stalked further in, moving over to the red-toned rotary phone messily left on a dust-coated shelf. His frustration grew while he fingered the dials with a single claw, the slow click-click-click-click sounded like co*cking shells into a gun.
He huffed a theatrical laugh, feeling Vox stiffen behind him without having to look his way. Alastor continued on, walking with one hand tucked behind his back as he stopped at a picture frame flipped over in evident haste, his heart racing. Alastor knew immediately what it depicted. With morbidity curling around his mind, his claw tightened around the frame before flipping it over.
Curiosity killed the cat, indeed.
The bandaging wrapped around his chest felt strangling now in its new definition as Alastor’s pupils trembled at the sight of the shiny glass devoted to holding the photo of them; enclosed together after all this time. His lungs hurt at the jagged breath he let out when he couldn’t help himself from placing the picture back down, facing up.
Abruptly turning on his heel, Alastor materialized his cane to give his desperate hands something to hold onto. He leaned against it dangerously, his eyes locked onto Vox. “What was it you said once?” He asked rhetorically, his voice tightly controlled. “We can’t stay stuck in the past? We have to move forward?” His eyes twitched in the rapidly morphing emotions within him as he tried to latch onto the familiar sensation of irritation.
Vox carefully disposed of the radio beside him, pushing himself off of the floor and straightening up. He looked exhausted all of a sudden, wariness flooding his screen while he watched Alastor carefully. “You know what I meant.” His voice came out detached; drained of the previous fight in him.
Alastor’s eyes sharpened at the sight, taking it in. He pushed himself straight, whirling his staff before gripping it behind his back. “And what precisely did you think I knew you meant? Mhm?” He readjusted his monocle to keep himself busy as he waited, feigning patience and control, yet again.
Vox sighed, looking around the room to grasp at any form of comfort; his eyes lingered on the radio. Everything fell flat with the knowledge of the comfort he knew he used to find in the very demon before him. He took a deep, settling breath. f*ck it all.
“Don’t be obtuse,” he started with risk, “we held each other back from further potential.” Vox boldly stated what they both already knew. He watched Alastor’s eye twitch in that fact being spoken.
Vox tossed an arm out to the side, exasperated by the entire situation. “f*ckin’ face it, Al,” he noticed the sharp flick of an ear and hastily continued on, “we’ve achieved more than what we would’ve if we stayed stuck in the past together.”
Alastor paused, his grin large and false as he considered the credibility intertwined within the statement that was irritable to hear.
Vox scoffed to himself, running a clawed hand down the side of his frame, completely lost to what he was saying now. “Voxtek is the video media company in all the rings of Hell!” He exclaimed, his tone growing in pride; the egotistical side shining through with a wicked trial of cyan for a grin.
Alastor felt the urge to scoff, to display superiority, but he reigned it in for now, more curious than anything. He simply hummed, watching with mild amusem*nt of Vox’s ego—Alastor remembered a time when his picture box didn’t have much of one. He watched on, his chest panging.
“Nearly every major business is associated with us in some capacity. We run it all.” Vox turned to look at Alastor then, wickedness seeping away within the broadcasted grin. “And you,” he moved a blue claw out towards Alastor, making the Radio Demon raise an eyebrow in amusem*nt at the pointless gesture.
Vox faltered for a moment, uncertain in his delivery. “You have your hotel and your, uh…your acquaintances.”
Regardless of the lack of enthusiasm given, Alastor straightened up, twirling his cane for the theatrics of it all. “Mm, it is quite the hotel, isn’t it?” He agreed to the statement that wasn’t remotely implied, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Alastor looked lost in thought for several moments, arrogance pouring off of him all the while. “Lucifer truly is as much of an irritant as I expected.” He tagged on, always one to gossip and complain.
Vox’s eyes pinpointed the detail of the wrinkled skin and couldn’t help but smile with less showmanship, noting Alastor didn’t correct the implication of finding the other residents non-irritating. High praise from the Radio Demon, indeed.
A silence swirled around them then, holding a bizarre mix of uncertainty and comfort while they both were lost in thought.
Alastor mentally shook himself, letting his eyes linger around the room once more, his irritation lessening as his mind considered the facts. He was curious but refused to show the extent of it. “Don’t you live in The Vees Tower?”
Vox, used to Alastor’s passive-aggressive way of asking questions indirectly, indulged himself by looking around too before replying. “They don’t know about it. The apartment.”
Alastor raised a single eyebrow at him to encourage him to continue, clearly not pleased with the non-answer to his admittedly non-question.
Vox sighed, bending over to pick up the radio to set carefully back on the shelf. His eyes lingered at the black and white photo of them, a fragile smile flickered over his screen at the detail of Alastor flipping it right-side-up. Vox watched in bittersweetness at his past self lean in towards the Radio Demon as close as he was warranted to back then. He turned and gave his attention to Alastor whose eyes were following his every move already.
“I couldn’t bring all this stuff to the tower,” Vox scoffed at the idea, shaking his head. “No, Velv would never let me live it down, and Val…well…” he trailed off not wanting to think about the bloody tantrum that would have evidently resulted in. Alastor looked annoyed at the mention of the moth demon but ultimately kept his smile firm and more importantly, shut. Neither of them was willing to have a repeat of that afternoon in 1989.
Alastor walked past Vox suddenly who looked startled for a moment at having the demon get closer without warning, and stopped with a click of his heels when standing in front of the large bookcases. His eyes outlined the bindings, scanning each one. “Mm,” Alastor hummed oddly–pleasantly–before turning around abruptly, his eyes naturally falling on Vox who looked at him curiously.
“I have business matters to attend to, as I’m certain you do as well.” Alastor’s heart raced at the crestfallen display his departure caused, feeling oddly similar. He twirled his staff around, settling it on the rug neatly. “I suppose I should thank you for patching me up…” Alastor paused, dramatically. “Although entirely unnecessary, I assure you.”
Vox’s mouth twitched, fully aware that was the closest he was going to get to a real thank you from the Radio Demon. He didn’t bother with a reply to it, knowing it would fall on ignorant ears, and instead took a different approach, desperate to keep Alastor for a little while longer. “I’m sure The Vees Tower is a complete mess from my absence, anyway.” He sighed in exasperation.
Alastor’s eyes crinkled. “Ha!” He laughed boomingly in theatrics, “Oh, the hotel is much the same, old pal. More work than it’s worth oftentimes, I fear, but alas, it is wildly entertaining.”
He looked Vox in the eyes for a moment, pausing. “Until next time,” Alastor concluded then. He melted off within his shadow before he could do something idiotic like linger a little while longer.
Vox watched the Radio Demon leave, his own chest aching at the abrupt goodbye. He wished nothing more but to have had the courage to ask Alastor to stay. But even after all this time, Vox never could ask that of him again.
He sighed, looking around the room with an overwhelming pain in his chest that lingered. Vox slowly picked up the picture of them, a blue claw stroking the glass pane that kept the two young demons together.
Suddenly, the radio he had turned off flickered to life, making Vox startle at the unexpected noise. He set down the picture carefully as the radio rapidly turned through the stations until it abruptly stopped with a swirl of familiar green magic seeping away into the floorboards. Within the first few piano notes, Vox’s pupils trembled wildly in overwhelming recognition. His heart throbbed. It was the song he was desperately hoping to find on the radio earlier. A song that always brought him comfort throughout it all.
Vox always had known Alastor, but he had forgotten that Alastor had always known him just the same.
~~~
Alastor swirled the whisky glass in one hand, the ice clinking calmly. He sat at his usual chair perched before the green inferno within the fireplace of his bedroom. The soft sound of insects flying through his bayou left his ears twitching occasionally, the breeze enchanting the flames into a mesmerizing dance that he couldn’t draw his eyes away from. His newly tailored suit wrapped around his torso comfortably, the scars from days prior barely there, well-hidden within the reeds of his chest fluff.
He sat there, ice watering down the whisky as his mind was drawn elsewhere entirely. For days, his incessant mind couldn’t stop the magnetic pull towards thoughts of a blue-lit grin within a simple black frame. He was lost in the newly formed moments in the apartment he still held dearly; always one to form attachments that he never could shake, though he admitted to himself he rarely truly tried, not when his picture box was involved.
Alastor reminisced of waking up in that bedroom again. He considered the fact that his radio staff had been brought to the apartment’s bedroom with him, not abandoned thoughtlessly on a rooftop miles away, being coated in his own blood. He thought about the noticeable mismatched dials of the vintage radio that clearly had been used excessively and repaired just as lovingly.
His claws tightened around the glass encased in condensation as he thought about the rotary phone that clicked loudly, its dials cleaned enough to rotate smoothly despite the years. The phone kept for their late night calls.
Alastor looked away from the burning fire, pulling his eyes away to land on the chair opposite of him, empty. He considered the chair in Vox’s apartment, his chair, that had not a speck of dust on the fabric like it was only waiting in his absence. A mark of loyalty and hope; desire for one’s presence again.
His eyes stung with the intensity of longing. Alastor allowed himself then to close them, to get lost in the vision of the library all over again. The sight of the bookcases that held a variety of subjects, many of which Vox held no attention for, but every one of his books had been noticeably more worn since 1989 and yet still organized in a way that was his preference, not Vox’s.
Alastor wished he had lingered in the library, if only but for a moment to witness Vox’s reaction to his song; a gift towards the potential end to a rivalry. He felt his smile twitch in sincerity then, his body relaxing at not holding up the mask entirely anymore as his eyes crinkled at the corners.
Until next time, my dear picture box.
