Archive of Our Own

Seventy years ago...

The bar sits at the edge of Pentagram City like a stubborn relic, too old to be swallowed by newer lights, too loud to be ignored. Its windows glow amber against soot-stained brick, music bleeding faintly through the walls as laughter, hollering, and the scrape of glasses guide him toward his destination. Toward the familiarity he has grown accustomed to by now.

Comforting... In an irritating way.

Alastor pauses across the street, hands folded neatly behind his back, smile already in place. It widens the moment he sees who is waiting.

Vox is there.

Of course he is.

Standing just outside the entrance, collar crisp, posture straight despite the obvious irritation vibrating through him. One foot taps against the pavement, antennas twitching faintly with static as his gaze flicks toward the door, then the street, then his watch. His body language screams annoyance, his expression reads impatience and offense, but he is still waiting nonetheless.

Waiting for Alastor to arrive.

Alastor laughs quietly to himself, because, how could he not?

He lets his shadow stretch first, thin and lazy, peeling away from his feet like spilled ink. It slides across the pavement, crawls up the wall behind Vox, swelling until it looms tall and distorted.

Then it folds inward.

Alastor steps out of it directly behind Vox, silent as a held breath.

"Boo."

And, as expected, Vox yelps.

It's anything but a dignified sound. Sharp and startled, accompanied by a full-body jolt that sends a crackle of cyan static snapping between his antennas. He whirls around, hands half-raised as if to to electrocute whoever dared to surprise him, only to freeze when he sees the grin waiting for him.

"God—fuck—Alastor!" Vox shouts, the electricity that had built up in his hands gradually diminishing until it only flickers.

Alastor laughs, delighted, the sound crackling pleasantly in his throat. "Oh, Vincent, you really must learn to be more aware of your surroundings," he chides. "Hell is hardly a forgiving place for the inattentive!"

Vox exhales harshly, dragging a hand down his face before clearing his throat and straightening his collar like that will restore his dignity. "Tsk. I'm not inattentive and you know it," he mutters, looking away for a moment, clearly collecting himself.

"Whatever you say," Alastor hums, tilting his head slightly. His ears relax at the sound of jazzy music coming from inside. "Seems they're playing the top classics today."

"Yeah," Vox replies, regaining his footing, smugness creeping back into his posture. "And because you were twenty minutes late, you missed your favorites."

"As if you knew my favorites," Alastor says lightly, ears perking despite himself.

Vox laughs, slow at first, uncertain, until the sound thins out into nothing at all. His screen dims by a fraction as he looks away, the glow dulling until his expression isn't as visible, as if he's retreating somehow.

Whatever conflict twists behind that glass, Alastor scarcely gives it a thought. He simply taps his foot and continue humming to the tune, keeping time with the music bleeding from the bar. The melody carries on without pause, and so does he.

After all, this is nothing new. Vox has always had a habit of folding in on himself like this, briefly and predictably, before snapping back into place.

"Haha—well, I thought I—I think I know—" Vox trips over his words, nervous chuckles threading between them before he abandons the attempt entirely. He clears his throat sharply; static crackling in a brief burst. "Well! Doesn't matter. You missed some good ones, that's all."

Alastor rolls his eyes. The chuckle that slips from him is soft, almost indulgent, devoid of any real edge. To an outside observer, it might even look like comfort. Like ease.

Some might call it genuine.

Alastor would not.

"Anyways," Vox continues, stiffening back into politeness, "I'm glad you could make it. I was starting to think you forgot."

Alastor hums as he steps past him toward the door, eyes catching the light, glittering with quiet glee. "Were you now? Well, I do hope you weren't waiting too long."

The words sound almost apologetic, but his laughter ruins the illusion, light, mocking, and unmistakably pleased with itself.

Vox snorts. "Yeah, yeah. Get in there before I decide to leave you out in the street."

And yet, despite the words, he steps aside all the same. One hand reaches for the door, sweeping it open with a small, exaggerated flourish; his posture straightens as though he's stepped onto a stage, slipping effortlessly into the role of a chivalrous gentleman.

The role of a clown, perhaps.

A courteous tilt of the head follows.

"After you, good sir," Vox adds, winking.

Alastor pauses just long enough to take it in, and then he laughs.

"Oh, what a performance!" He chuckles, the sound loud and rich, amusement curling thickly beneath it. "How gallant of you."

Alastor slips past without waiting for a reply, laughter trailing behind him like an aftertaste, lingering in the air long after he's crossed the threshold.

Vox remains there with the door still open, just a second longer than necessary.

Alastor catches a glimpse of Vox's expression as he passes, caught somewhere between irritation and something else he cannot name, for he doesn't quite understand the cyan glimmer across Vox's display.

How annoying. The ambiguity needles at him for a heartbeat until he disregards it completely.

The bar greets them with warmth and noise— low chatter, clinking glasses, a piano near the far wall playing something lively and just slightly off-key. Smoke curls leisurely toward the ceiling, drifting past a dim sign that reads Cigarettes Are Good for You, hung crooked beside a vending machine stocked full of them.

Alastor inhales deeply. Old wood, liquor, the faint, metallic tang of blood lingering from a fight not quite scrubbed from the floorboards... It's just like always.

Like it should be.

He exhales through his nose, content with it.

"You coming?" Vox asks when Alastor lingers.

Alastor cracks one eye open, the other still half-lidded, as though Vox has interrupted something far more important than standing in a bar doorway. "You're terribly impatient, pal."

He moves past him, nudging Vox's screen aside with a single finger as he goes.

"Hey, quit it!" Vox protests, static flaring faintly along the edges of his display. He follows anyway, close enough now to stand at Alastor's side, voice dropping into a low murmur meant for him alone. "You left a mark last time you kept tapping at my face, you know."

"Did I?" Alastor chuckles, genuinely amused. His claws lift, tapping lightly against the glass, once, twice, slow enough that the intent to annoy is unmistakable. "Well, can you blame me?"

His smile widens.

"That large picture-box head of yours is terribly fragile, after all!"

Their banter carries them to their usual seats at the bar, Vox flagging down the bartender at once, not even glancing in Alastor's direction.

"First round's on me."

Of course it is.

Alastor watches from the corner of his eye, expression carefully unreadable. Vox always insists, as though it's some unspoken rule between them. As though Alastor requires indulging, pampering, like he couldn't very well afford his own drinks if he wished.

Some nights, the assumption irritates him.

Other nights —like tonight— he allows it.

He is in a good mood tonight, after all.

The hunt had been successful. Several would-be Overlords caught neatly beneath the weight of their own ambitions and desperation; contracts signed in blood and ignorance alike. The city felt a little quieter for it, a little more orderly, just as Alastor prefers. He hums to himself as the glasses are set down before them, amber liquid catching the light.

Vox slides one toward him with care. "Here you go, Al."

Alastor takes it without comment, offering only a brief nod in response.

As he lifts the glass to his lips, he notes from the corner of his eye, Vox settling in beside him, raising his own drink to take a long pull of whiskey. It's a ritual of sorts, Alastor thinks. Something Vox does every time the night begins.

He supposes it must help to oil the gears and loosen the tongue. Fuel that unfortunate inclination Vox has toward rambling without restraint.

And rambling he does.

Alastor listens. He can, at the very least, grant him that.

Vox barely waits until after the first drink before launching into it—VoxTek, its growth, the expansions, the infrastructure, the developments he's been overseeing, everything he has achieved and continues to achieve in what he considers a remarkably short span of time. His hands move as he speaks, animated and confident, words tumbling over one another in bright, eager bursts.

There is undeniable pride there, and something else too. A need, perhaps. To be seen.

Pathetic.

The thought crosses Alastor's mind as he listens to Vox ramble on, indulging his jokes and anecdotes with a hum here, a comment there, just enough to keep him steady... and sometimes, to keep him grounded.

"Don't be so hasty," Alastor murmurs at one point, amused. "You have an eternity in Hell to grow."

Vox pauses when Alastor speaks, nodding slowly before taking a sip.

"And do be careful you don't bite off more than you can chew."

Each time Alastor adds something to the conversation around his achievements, Vox laughs, bright and unguarded, reaching up to rub at the back of his own neck as though embarrassed by the attention, by the guidance. Each time, he drains his glass immediately after, swallowing the whiskey in a hurry before flagging the bartender for another.

Alastor watches it all with mild interest, the pattern repeating itself with such tiresome consistency that it might bore him sooner rather than later. And yet, he cannot deny it doesn't quite manage to.

Perhaps it's the reactions. The way Vox lights up at the slightest encouragement, sputters under the mildest restraint.

It's entertaining in its predictability, somehow. But Alastor would never admit to Vox's spark.

And Vox continues, eager and breathless, never once noticing how little it takes for Alastor to keep him like that.

Some of Vox's ideas are... decent. Clever, even. Others earn a silent roll of Alastor's eyes, visions of garish lights and needless excess clashing violently with his own sensibilities. Change for the sake of change has never appealed to him, for the world functions best when it understands its place.

Alastor prefers it when things do not change.

Still, he allows Vox to talk. He sips his drink slowly, staff resting against the bar, gaze drifting lazily across the room while the chirping picture-box's voice fills the space between them.

By the time Vox pauses to breathe, Alastor's third glass is freshly filled.

Vox's third one, by contrast, sits pale and watered down, ice clinking softly in defeat.

Eventually, the chirping becomes enough.

Alastor lifts his staff and presses the end of it gently, yet unmistakably firmly against the side of Vox's head.

"Hey, pal," he says pleasantly, voice light, almost indulgent, "do you plan on boring me to death?"

"What? No! I mean— I was just—" Vox sputters, antennas flaring as a bright cyan blush blooms across his screen.

Alastor laughs outright, leaning closer, elbow settling on the bar as he props his chin in his hand. "Come now, Vox." He gives the screen another light tap, teasing. "Surely you wouldn't forget our plans so easily."

"Forget...?" Vox blinks, cocking his head. "Uh—what? What are you talking about, Alastor?"

Alastor's smile crooks, just barely. "Isn't that the actual reason we're here, hm?" He lifts a brow, searching Vox's tone for the punchline, the telltale cadence of a joke half-delivered.

He finds none.

...

Oh.

He actually forgot.

Irritation flares acute and immediate, indignant, hot enough to sting. How dare he not remember? How dare he make Alastor the one left holding onto it—onto something agreed upon, something shared. A private arrangement. A trivial one, perhaps, but one all the same.

He tells himself the offense lies in the implication, not the lapse. That this is about respect. About hierarchy. If Vox forgot, then clearly he does not value such things properly.

Suddenly, Vox's antennas spark in panic, electricity crackling between them. "Wait—wait! I remember!" he blurts, lifting his hands.

The words tumble out quickly. Alastor registers them just as fast and he scoffs, draining his glass.

"C'mon, Alastor," Vox pushes on, already on his feet, restless energy crackling off him. "You know I've got a lot on my mind lately, but I wouldn't actually forget!"

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't," Alastor replies, smile firmly in place as he rises, perfectly composed and entirely unbothered. He doesn't care, after all.

No, he does not care.

"It really doesn't matter," he adds lightly. "So do try not to lose your marbles so easily, Vox—"

"Wait, Alastor!"

Vox reaches out, hand settling on his shoulder.

Alastor freezes.

Not outwardly, of course. His posture remains immaculate, his smile untouched, but his gaze drops, lingering on the hand for a fraction longer than necessary. He considers the weight of it. The familiarity.

The audacity.

His smile broadens, as if nothing is churning behind it. As if he does not feel the urge to tear that hand away for daring to rest there so confidently.

"Don't go just yet..." Vincent whispers, before rallying almost immediately, too brightly, too quickly. "The night is still young, Alastor! If you leave now, you'll be bored for the rest of it! And oh, what a dread that would be!"

He even mimics Alastor's voice on the last part, his eyes contorting into an exaggerated caricature of his radio dials.

Alastor presses his lips together in a valiant attempt not to laugh, but ultimately allows himself to do it.

"Well, Vox, when you put it that way," he says smoothly, amusement curling through the words, "I suppose it's only fair to stay."

Vox breaths out at once. "Okay. Great. Then let's just go before you give me a heart attack."

They exchange a quick glance with the bartender, who nods knowingly and jerks his head toward the back.

Alastor follows Vox at a leisurely pace, staff tapping against the floor in time with the fading piano out front. The hallway is narrow, dim, the walls close enough to feel constricting, their footsteps echoing softly as they walk to their private —not so private— abode. Halfway down, Vox slows just enough to glance back.

"You always do that," he says.

"Do what exactly?" Alastor replies, tilting his head, relaxed ears perking up in curiosity.

"That thing," Vox gestures vaguely, "where you pretend you're leaving early, so I have to—" he inhales harshly, then clicks his tongue, "—beg for you to stay."

Alastor lets out a short cackle, low and gleeful. "My dear fellow, you flatter yourself!" He claims, nudging Vox lightly at the side. "No amount of begging and convincing would keep me here if I didn't already wish to be!"

Vox freezes mid-way, his screen flickering once, twice, static stuttering across the display as if the image can't quite decide what expression it's meant to hold. Alastor raises an eyebrow, chuckling at the sight.

What is he doing?

"Y—yeah! Sure. Obviously!" Vox beams, sharp and bright. "I mean, why wouldn't you?"

Alastor opens his mouth as to say something, but Vox doesn't wait for an answer.

Instead, he pivots on his heel and sprints for the door, static crackling as he reaches it first, hand snapping out to yank it open with far more enthusiasm than necessary. Alastor watches him go, amused and unfazed.

Vox turns, stepping aside with an exaggerated bow.

Alastor's smile widens. He inclines his head in return, mirroring the courtesy with theatrical precision. "Why, how gracious." He gestures with his staff. "By all means."

The room beyond is quieter. The noise of the bar dulls to a distant murmur, as though it knows better than to intrude. A piano sits at its center, polished wood gleaming softly in the low light. Alastor's sigil is carved into its side—elegant, unmistakable.

Alastor inhales, letting it fill him; the scent of old wood, spilled liquor, dust warmed by age, and the stored, aged paper smell of vinyl records lining the walls. Something warm settles in his chest before he can stop it.

He ignores it.

Vox closes the door behind them and hums as he crosses the room.

Alastor quickly recognizes the melody.

Vox rests an arm atop the piano, fingers tapping lightly in time as he finishes and looks over at Alastor with a smug little grin.

"Still think the second measure should drop there," he says. "I believe it'd make it better."

Alastor slips out of his coat and lays it carefully across the piano lid. "Or it ruins the tension entirely," he counters, taking his seat. "Anticipation is far more effective when you let it linger, dear."

Vox rolls his shoulders, still humming, as if tweaking the music under his breath. Then, he adds. "You say that about everything though."

"And I'm rarely wrong!"

Alastor's fingers brush the keys, a few idle notes spilling out as he tests the sound— rich and obedient. It's perfectly tuned, as always. His gaze drifts to the music rack, where the sheet rests from last time, waiting.

Alastor looks at it longer than he should.

How ridiculous.

Writing music with someone. Sharing it. Allowing another set of hands, another mind, into something that has always belonged solely to him.

He blames the alcohol. Blames that one night he drank past good sense, past balance, when his feet refused to carry him and Vox had laughed far too loudly at the sight, hauling him on his back.

There is no other explanation worth entertaining.

He taps the keys once more, thoughtful, then glances sideways with a grin sweet as poison.

"Vox," Alastor says lightly, "be a dear and pour us something to drink."

"Already on it!" Vox buzzes without missing a beat, humming the melody again as he turns away.

Alastor watches him go, silently.

He tells himself Vox's company is merely convenient. Something to enjoy with no strings attached—no deals between them, no claim on power or souls. Just two beings existing in the eternal punishment of Hell. Nothing more.

Vox returns with the drinks balanced easily in one hand, ice clinking softly in both glasses. Whiskey on the rocks, as always. One he sets within Alastor's reach; the other he keeps for himself, already half-raised as he leans a shoulder against the piano's polished edge.

Alastor barely acknowledges him at first.

His fingers glide across the keys with practiced ease, music seeping into the room's quiet. He hums along with every note, head swaying gently, ears fluttering in time. The notes stretch and linger, each set precisely where he intends.

"That part," Vox says suddenly, tapping the rim of his glass in rhythm. "Since we're talking about anticipation and all that, if you hold it just a beat longer—yeah. There."

Alastor glances at him sideways, unimpressed in theory. In practice, though, he does exactly as suggested.

The sound deepens. The melody tightens, tension coiling just before release.

Vox's screen brightens as his smile grows wider. "Oh, that's better!" he chirps, clearly pleased. "Told you."

"Hmph," Alastor huffs, though the corner of his mouth lifts, betraying a hint of amusement. "Don't let it go to your head."

Still, when Vox offers another suggestion, quieter this time, almost hesitant, Alastor listens without a complain. He adjusts and refines what Vox indicates, and when it works, he croons in approval, a soft vibration against the keys.

"Well done," he praises, eyes glinting.

Vox chuckles as he snaps his fingers in rhythm, electricity flaring faintly at the tips as he keeps time. Alastor's humming swells, richer, warmer, head bobbing more freely now.

He pauses mid-way, tapping a claw lightly against the keys.

"Ah, that last chord," Alastor murmurs without looking up, "it shouldn't linger for too long."

Vox grins, tilting his head. "Oh? I thought you said it was fine last time we played, when I suggested it." He reminds Alastor, then takes a sip of his drink, eyes twinkling. "You're always so particular about change, but even you know when it's good."

"Particular?" Alastor repeats, voice playful. "I prefer the term refined."

He reaches for his glass without breaking the flow, taking a long drink and letting the whiskey burn pleasantly down his throat. Vox mimics him almost immediately, leaning against the piano as the clink of ice punctuates the notes.

"Hmm... yes, that—there!" Vox says, tapping gently on the side of the piano, antennas quivering with sparks. "Ah, it's so good! Makes you want to get up and dance, right?" he adds, chin settling into his palm.

Alastor hums softly in agreement, fingers dancing lightly across the piano, coaxing a jazzy melody from the keys. "But who would play if we dance, Vincent?"

The notes ripple under his fingers, sending shivers down his spine—shivers that make him want to shift his shoulders, to yield, just for a moment, to Vox's suggestion. The weak gleam in his eyes betrays an interest he does not dare entertain, and he pushes the thought aside as quickly as it arrives.

Vox shrugs, a teasing tilt of his head. "I'm merely suggesting, my esteemed composer."

They lapse into nonsense soon enough—half-formed lyrics, melodic la-da-da's spilling between the notes. Vox laughs first, fierce and dazzling, sparks dancing across the room as he snaps his fingers. Alastor follows, laughter spilling out too thunderous, too genuine, bouncing off polished wood and old records, curling around them both like the music itself.

By the time Vox slides onto the bench beside him, Alastor is already on his fourth glass.

He doesn't protest the closeness. Doesn't comment when Vox's knee bumps his, or when their shoulders brush. Instead, he shifts just enough to make room, indulgent fingers guiding Vox's clumsier ones across the keys.

"No, no," Alastor murmurs, leaning in. "You're rushing it. Feel it—here." He taps the rhythm directly into Vox's hand. "Like this."

Vox nods, tongue peeking out in concentration. "Right. Right. Okay—again."

They play together, voices weaving through the melody, Alastor louder now, sloppier, laughter spilling freely between verses. At one point, he leans back carelessly, head tipping just enough to rest against Vox's shoulder, a bold, fleeting concession to the comfort he rarely allows.

"Comfortable, I assume?" Vox mumbles, his breath hitching.

Alastor catches the way Vox stiffens slightly at the contact, how the cyan glow across his screen brightens almost imperceptibly. His deer ears twitch at the faint rhythm of Vox's unsteady breath, timed with the music, and he allows himself a small, sharp grin.

"Perhaps," it's all he says.

A laugh bubbles up from Alastor as he leans just slightly closer than necessary, enjoying the comfort in the position, even if he refuses to admit it.

It's intimate.

Too intimate.

The moment stretches too long, and Alastor suddenly feels it. How ridiculous. He stiffens, and just as he opens his mouth to redirect, Vox abruptly straightens, eyes lighting up.

"Leeets begin—"

Alastor can't hold it. Laughter tears free before he even registers it, an unrestrained roar echoing off the walls. He shoves Vox with his shoulder, playful but forceful enough to rattle the bench. "Oh, that's dreadful! Absolutely dreadful!" he howls, his ears twitching in delight.

Vox flails just enough to catch himself, laughter spilling in return. "Hey! It was dramatic!"

Alastor leans back, wiping a claw across his mouth, still chuckling, shadows at his feet twisting into spirals until they turn into one single, smiling silhouette.

Vox smirks, not missing a beat. He launches into the music again, voice exaggerated, wild, carrying far beyond what it needs to. "I'm going to make you wish that you stayed—" he sings, every word bolder than necessary, fingers dancing along the keys with mock seriousness.

"Gone!" Alastor cuts in, nearly shouting, laughter shaking him. He shoves Vox again, harder this time. "You're completely—hic—gone, you moron!"

They collapse into laughter together—too loud, too reckless. Vox grabs the edge of the piano to keep from slipping off the bench, his face flashing erratically as the speakers whine for half a second before stabilizing.

"Says the drunkard," Vox snorts, angling his head toward the cluster of abandoned glasses on the piano lid. "Look at that—and look at you!"

Alastor straightens with exaggerated dignity. "I am perfectly—hic—composed."

He lifts his chin, spine stiffening as though posture alone might sober him. One hand drifts back to the keys, striking a few confident notes that promptly blur together into something far less dignified.

Vox watches, mouth twitching. "Uh-huh," he mocks. "I didn't know you were into cacophonies."

"Art," Alastor declares, waving a dismissive hand. "You simply lack the vision to appreciate it."

"Riiiight," Vox replies, reaching out to steady the bench when Alastor shifts again. "And you lack the ability to stand up straight right now, by the way."

Alastor scoffs and Vox laughs again, but this time it fades quicker as something thoughtful creeps into his posture, and the cyan glimmer once again glows in his display. When he speaks, it's softer, lower.

"I think," Vox whispers, close to his ears, "it might be better if we head out, Al."

Alastor pouts instantly, petulant and unapologetic as he pushes Vox away, a hand on his chest. As he does so, he can't help but remember Mimzy's words about him and alcohol mixing.

You turn into a kitten, she had said once.

Alastor disagrees. He's far more comparable to a wildcat—and right now, he wants nothing more than to bite one of Vox's antennas.

His fingers curl against the edge of the piano bench instead, knuckles whitening as he grounds himself in the solidness of wood, eyes flicking briefly toward Vox's tiny hat before looking away.

"No," he declares, folding his arms.

"You're wasted," Vox points out. "C'mon, you can't even play anymore, Al! Let's go, don't be a brat."

"Now who are you calling a brat?" Alastor adds, cutting him off.

His shadow shifts and stretches around him, echoing Alastor's grin. For a moment, the colossal walls, the carefully maintained superiority, the practiced distance— all of it, melts into a strange calm, into Vox, into the sheer absurd closeness of the moment.

Oh.

Oh no.

That's not—

These thoughts aren't his. The alcohol is to blame, again. He is merely its victim.

"Fine," Alastor groans suddenly, as if conceding first might somehow preserve his pride. He grabs the sheet music and thrusts it toward Vox. "Take these, then. You wouldn't want to lose them."

Vox raises a brow, confusion fluttering briefly at Alastor's abrupt shift, but he says nothing. Instead, a smug smile blooms in his display.

"Psshh. Like you wouldn't notice immediately if they went missing," he replies, voice dripping with fondness.

"Don’t be absurd," Alastor says, almost slurring his words. "I've got everything right here." He taps two fingers against his temples. "In my head."

"Okay, whatever you—"

Then he presses a clawed finger to Vox's face, dragging it slowly downward. "I'm simply being a good pal, keeping the notes so you don't forget."

Vox glitches when Alastor scratches his glass screen. The image stutters, an error flashing briefly, something Alastor can't quite read. Still, he's certain he catches it for a split second before it vanishes. Gone as quickly as it appeared.

Alastor.exe.

The name lingers in his mind longer than it should. What is that? Why the exe? What does that even mean?

He jumps back to reality as soon as Vox snorts, looking away for only a few seconds as electricity jumps from one antenna to the other, snapping sharply at nothing at all.

"I won't forget," he mutters, more to himself than to Alastor it seems.

As he stands, Vox gathers the sheet music, straightening the pages with care before tucking them under his arm. Then, without asking, he steps closer. His hands settle at Alastor's waist, confident, familiar.

Alastor stiffens.

He considers it. The placement of Vox's hands, the ease of it, the sheer audacity. It should repulse him—should drive him to shove Vox away, to fling, to rend him apart with his tentacles for being so touchy, always like this, so unbothered by boundaries that exist for a reason.

And yet.

For all the feral edge of his thoughts, he allows it. Allows him. His hands drift slowly to Vox's shoulders just as Vox lifts him with an ease that sets his teeth grinding. The lack of effort irritates him far more than it should.

Alastor tells himself it's tolerance. Nothing more. A moment indulged and already accounted for, even as his grip tightens, reflexive, betraying how naturally he fits there, in Vox's hold.

Vox carries Alastor toward the door, careful without being tentative, attention fixed wholly on him. Alastor's head tips slightly, a quiet laugh slipping free again, soft and immediately dismissed.

Just convenient, he reminds himself. Vox is simply convenient.

Nothing else. Nothing more.

"Your house, right?" Vox asks as he pushes the bar's back door open, adjusting his hold with careful attention.

"Where else, Vincent?" Alastor replies through gritted teeth, fixing him with a judging stare.

Vox ignores it, chuckles turning faintly nervous as he looks away.

"Right. Right... your house it is," Vox says, glancing aside, thumb shifting absentmindedly at Alastor's side. "And, uh, can I stay over—"

"Don't," Alastor cuts in, tightening his grip on Vox's shoulder. "Even think about it."

They banter as they walk into the night, the closeness between them undeniable.

And yet, Alastor denied it. He always did, because eventually, Vincent had to be put in his place.

He wanted Alastor's power—to grow, to sharpen, to burn brighter through proximity alone. He wanted strings attached. He wanted change.

Alastor gave him change.

Their relationship splintered, cracked clean through, until there was nothing left to salvage. Vox and Alastor became Vox versus Alastor, a war carved into eternity, unending and vicious.

But he had warned him, hadn't he?

Be careful you don't bite off more than you can chew.

Vox should have listened.

But it's too late now.

Alastor walks carefree through Hell, steps light, unburdened by anything but his own shadow.

That alone is enough to send ripples through the streets.

A sinner spots him first, eyes widening, mouth parting in a silent curse before they run. Others follow suit. Someone vaults a fence with more enthusiasm than grace, and another dives into a bush that is very obviously on fire, yet decides it's the preferable option. A group across the street goes rigid, watches him pass with tense, suspicious stillness.

Alastor's smile widens.

Even so, the fear is thinner than it once was, seven years of absence will do that to a reputation.

Even so, fear does not need to be loud to be effective. It merely needs to be remembered.

His staff taps against the pavement in a steady rhythm, echoing just enough to announce his presence without turning it into a spectacle, hands folded behind his back as he makes his way toward the edge of Pentagram City, free.

Free. No collars. No cuffs. No invisible leash tugging at his throat when he dares wander beyond someone else's designs. No wires around his body, jerking him up and down at another's whim. Alastor is free, and soon enough, he would make it everyone else's problem.

His business took him where the streets grow narrower and the buildings lean in closer, where a minor deal has taken place. A sinner with ambition far outweighing their sense, eager to trade something precious for power they will never learn to wield properly. Taking souls is a routine, nothing of consequence. 

Alastor hums to himself, Hell's chaos fading into little more than pesky noise beneath his radio tunes, when—

Music.

It reaches him before he realizes he's slowing. Jazz, faint and warped by distance, bleeding through brick and mortar. Warm light spills across the street ahead, amber against soot-dark walls.

"Of all the places," Alastor mutters through gritted teeth.

He is not sentimental. He has never been. Nostalgia is a weakness reserved for lesser minds, for those who believe the past holds them rather than the other way around.

Yet, his smile tightens.

Annoyance flares honed and immediate, curling hot in his chest. Vox's face rises uninvited in his mind. Grinning screen, static laughter, hands too careful, attention too constant. The memory of wires and strings follows close behind, of being maneuvered, shocked and jerked around, in a way he hadn't agreed on.

Infuriating.

And it's outrageously uncomfortable too, the sudden awareness of something old stirring where it should have stayed buried.

Alastor huffs quietly through his nose. He tells himself this is merely a consequence of recent... circumstances. His recent captivity at Vee Tower is to blame. After all, situations like that have a way of allowing memories to surface— of prying things loose when there’s nothing else left to occupy the mind. This place is nothing more than a trigger, an echo.

He does not miss anything.

Even as his feet carry him across the street, Alastor insists he hasn't miss a thing. If anything, he's merely craving a drink after a successful deal!

Yes. That explanation will suffice.

He steps inside and the bar greets him much the same as it used to— warmth and noise folding around him in a soft envelop. Low chatter hums beneath the clink of glasses, and the piano near the far wall is still there, still lively, still just a hair off-key. Only now, its lacquer is dulled where countless hands have rested, and a few notes lag where the keys have been replaced one too many times.

Smoke still curls toward the ceiling, thicker than he remembers, drifting past the old sign that proclaims Cigarettes Are Good for You. It hangs more crooked than before, its bulbs dimmer, flickering with tired insistence beside a vending machine that's been refilled, dented, refilled again.

Alastor inhales deeply.

Old wood, soaked deeper with years of spilled alcohol. The familiar bite of liquor. It's all the same, and yet it's not.

Alastor moves through the bar unchallenged and takes a seat at the counter, setting his staff neatly against the stool. The barkeep locks up for half a second upon recognizing him.

Alastor chuckles. "You haven't changed a bit," he says.

The barkeep, face mostly expressionless, inclines his head in what passes for agreement.

"It's good to see you again, sir," the sinner says, his beak barely moving as he speaks, already reaching for a glass.

"Whiskey," Alastor says pleasantly. "Neat."

The barkeep nods once and turns away. Moments later, the glass is set before him, the pour precise, unadorned.

Alastor lifts it in silent acknowledgment, an exchange he knows the sinner understands, and flicks a coin across the counter.

He drinks, the first sip burning warmly down his throat as he allows himself to settle, to listen as the bar breathes around him. Then, the pianist fumbles the timing, rushes where patience would serve better, wrong in a way that makes his jaw tighten. Almost a grimace.

His fingers spasm.

"What an amateur," Alastor whispers, glass back to his lips as he drains it.

That's when the door opens again.

The static crawls across his awareness before the sound even reaches him, a prickle at the back of his skull that sharpens his smile on reflex, all teeth and instinct.

Alastor would turn to check. He would, just to be sure, to put a face to the tingling sensation, to the familiar interference threading through the air. He knows that frequency. Knows how it tastes in the airwaves, violent and electric, too precise, too bitter to belong to anyone else.

He would turn, but that would mean he cares.

So he doesn't look. He keeps his back turned, his posture loose, his attention fixed anywhere but the door. The static lingers anyway.

If it's him, if it's Vox, he is nothing more than noise.

"Oh, what the fuck."

Alastor hears him curse. It nearly draws a laugh from his throat, but it also satisfies him, because it means Vox acknowledged him first.

"Of all the places..."

"Well, well," Alastor says mildly, lifting his glass as he turns, grin splitting wide. "If it isn't Hell's most bright disappointment!"

Vox looks worse than he did months ago, if Alastor is being gentle. Weaker. Frayed and stretched thin by his own ambitions, and it serves him well. His face flickers faintly as he comes to an abrupt stop, recognition stalling him mid-step. One antenna tweaks and electricity crackles once, before settling back into a careful hum.

They stare at one another.

Vox scoffs, posture stiffening as if bracing for an impact. "I didn't come here for you. It's a fucking coincidence," he says quickly, glancing away. "I didn't even know you'd be here. If I had, I wouldn't have—" He cuts himself off, words tightening. "—come."

Alastor chuckles, unrestrained. His head lolls back as a loud, barking laugh spills from his throat, far too pleased and amused by the weakness on display.

"How unfortunate," Alastor replies melodically, lifting his glass and taking an unhurried sip before adding, "And here I was looking forward to being the highlight of your evening."

Vox turns fully toward him then, irritation in his face honing into something hotter, more dangerous. "My world doesn't revolve around you," he snaps. "Contrary to what you and every other fucking idiot in Hell seem to think!" His screen glitches as electricity jumps along his frame.

"You look smaller," Alastor remarks suddenly, conversational, as if bored already. The barkeep smoothly removes his empty glass and replaces it with a full one as Alastor continues, eyes never leaving Vox. "Weren't you delighted, being an itty bitty picture-box?"

"Stop," Vox warns, or tries to, leaning a hand against the bar as if keeping himself together. "I'm not doing this. I'm not falling for your stupid, fucking tricks again, Alastor!"

Alastor's sharp teeth gleam yellow as static begins to bleed from him, the air humming with it.

"Are you sure about that, Vox?"

The tension splits tight between them, old, familiar, well-worn. Insults come easily, sliding into place like muscle memory. They draw attention without trying; a few demons edge farther away. One whispers something frantic to another before both retreat entirely from the bar.

The barkeep clears his throat.

Both of them turn.

"If I may," he begins, hands busy with a bottle of whiskey, "and I hope you don't kill me for this—" he adds quickly, coughing once, "—but perhaps you'd prefer more privacy?" He jerks his head toward the back hallway, the gesture weary. The look of someone who has survived far too many nights like this.

Alastor's gaze flicks toward it, and something cold settles in his stomach.

For a split second, he considers killing the bartender on principle, but the sinner has proven to be excellent at his job, and has never once betrayed the trust of what happens within these walls.

So Alastor does not react outwardly.

Vox, on the other hand, does.

He exhales roughly, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah, you know what? Fuck it. I'm not doing this," he mutters, gesturing all around. "I've already got enough problems as it is."

"Ever the coward," Alastor murmurs, turning away as he drains what remains of his whiskey in a single gulp.

"Fuck off, Alastor." Vox shoots him a glare. "Leave me alone."

Alastor bares his teeth in a smile.

Now he wants to be alone? Too fucking bad.

"Perish the thought!" He rises, staff settling neatly at his back, posture elegant and unyielding, above him, always. "Who, pray tell, would remind you of your misdeeds if not me?"

Vox glares at him, one eye flaring into a violent crimson, a hypnotic spiral blooming across. It's the telltale pattern that surfaces when his emotions slip from his leash, pulsating out of control.

Alastor laughs at the sight, but not for long.

Vox turns quickly on his heel, breaking eye contact as if it burns. He stalks toward the hallway without another word, shoulders tight, movements clipped, controlled in that brittle way that suggests effort rather than genuine composure.

And then, he stops abruptly, just before the dim-lit passage swallows him whole.

"If I didn't know you better," Vox says, his voice stripped of its usual ego, hollowed out to something eerily flat, yet still edged with resentment. "I'd think you are obsessed with me or something."

That's all he says. He doesn't wait for a reply, the darkness taking him as he steps forward, his glow receding until there's nothing left but the echo of his words hanging in the air.

Obsessed?

Alastor's eyes flare crimson, radio dials spinning wildly where pupils should be. His shadow stirs beneath him, tendrils coiling and uncoiling at his feet, restless—as though they, too, want to seize something. Someone.

Obsessed with him?

Vox might be broken, but apparently his delusions remain. What an absolute idiot!

"He's lost his mind!" Alastor exclaims, laughter slipping free as he shakes his head, incredulous.

He turns, ready to leave, ready to dismiss the entire exchange as beneath him, when his shadow peels itself up the wall beside the hallway.

It skitters, elongates unnaturally, casting a warped imitation of his own silhouette that crawls along the bricks, lingering far closer to the darkness than Alastor himself stands.

Alastor stops, eyeing it up with one brow lifting slowly.

"You don't possibly mean—" He crosses his arms, nose scrunching in visible distaste as the shadow gestures to the hallway, animated and insistent. "Now why would I do that? To prove him right?"

The shadow slips back to his side, ghostly hands settling at his shoulders, its grin a grotesque mirror of his own, too wide, too knowing. Sometimes, it shows what Alastor doesn't.

Alastor looks at it, then at the hallway.

Then, finally, at the barkeep, who immediately averts his gaze, suddenly very invested in polishing bottles that are already spotless.

Alastor exhales through his nose, pondering as he does so.

If he leaves now, Vox will think he's struck something. That his words landed and he's won an upper hand.

That is unacceptable.

And following him—well. Given Vox's current disposition, it could easily be interpreted as indifference rather than provocation. As though Alastor is unaffected and the accusation means nothing to him.

Which, of course, it's the truth.

He turns back to the bar and grins.

Several shadowy tendrils snap into existence, lunging toward the barkeep with a sudden violence. The sinner flinches, eyes squeezing shut, body tensing for an impact that never comes. Alastor hollers with buzzing noises at the reaction.

One tendril curls delicately around the bottle of whiskey still in the bartender's grasp. Another places the precise payment on the counter with almost polite care.

"Thank you for your services," Alastor croons, already moving past the bar toward the hallway entrance. He chuckles softly as he adds, "And do be mindful of what comes out of your beak, dear." It's a quiet warning, but it carries weight.

Alastor doesn't look back to see the effect. He doesn't need to.

He steps into the hallway, the dim light swallowing him just as it had Vox moments before, and Alastor can't help but notice it isn't as narrow when one walks alone.

When Alastor reaches the door, he finds it left ajar.

For a fleeting moment, a thought takes hold that Vox might have left it that way deliberately. That he hoped Alastor would follow.

Or worse.

That he trusted Alastor would.

The realization prickles at his skin, unpleasant, and for a heartbeat Alastor nearly turns on his hooves, pride bristling at the implication. He should leave. He ought to leave. There is no reason to indulge such presumptions.

Instead, he pushes the door open for he's not a coward, as Vox once used to call him.

As he enters, Alastor opens his mouth to speak— and closes it immediately.

The room steals the words from him whole.

The piano sits at the center like a relic preserved against decay, its polished wood dulled only slightly by time. Alastor's sigil remains carved into its surface with elegant finality. Records line the walls, their tags faded but somehow still readable, arranged with the same meticulous care as in the past. Even the air smells the same: dust and liquor, old varnish, and that faint electric tang that never quite dissipates when he's around.

It hits Alastor all at once.

The weight of it. The way nothing important has changed, and yet everything has changed.

Vox sits on the piano bench, clawed fingers brushing the keys, barely pressing them, more memory than motion. He breathes, breaking the silence first. "They still have this old thing."

Alastor steps past him without comment. His fingers brush the piano lid as though by accident, and the contact sends a sharp shiver up his arm.

He withdraws his hand at once, looking away.

Disgusting, this weakness swelling up and pulsating in his chest.

The silence stretches.

It hums, charged, vibrating faintly with restless frequencies and older ghosts. The piano dominates the room, not merely as furniture but as a presence, a witness and a judge.

Alastor stands there longer than he intends to. His smile has not vanished —it never does—, but it has stiffened, frozen in a way that suggests it was never meant to endure this long without an audience.

Because Vox does not look at him.

That, perhaps, is what unsettles him most.

"Well," Alastor says at last, his voice cutting clean through the tension like a blade. He closes the door behind him, sealing the room off from the rest of the bar, and sets the bottle of whiskey on the piano lid. "Aren't you going to play something? I believe I taught you well! And since it seems we are reminiscing—"

Vox lets out humorless huff. "We are? I didn't know that." He cuts Alastor off as his fingers press a single key, discordant. "Besides—play?” Suddenly, he's speaking through clenched teeth. "Please. If I did play, you'd hate it."

The note lingers in the air, wrong in a way that needles along Alastor's spine. He clicks his tongue, stepping closer.

"Only if it's poor and has unnecessary change," Alastor corrects. "There is a difference."

“Well, I hate your fucking nitpicking and I don't want to play,” Vox lashes out, finally turning his head just enough to glance sidelong at him. His screen flickers, static rippling across his expression like a suppressed tremor.

Alastor's grin broadens, brows furrowing together. For a brief moment, an X brands his forehead, crude and viridescent, a betrayal of feeling he never meant to show. Then it disappears, swallowed by composure and static alike.

Vox's fingers curl atop the keys, knuckles whitening. "You don't get to look at me like that—after everything."

"After you kept me on a leash?" Alastor butts in smoothly. "After you electrocuted me for your own amusement?" His teeth gleam like polished citrine. "After you paraded me around like a novelty act?"

Static detonates across Vox's screen, the image stuttering violently. "You agreed to that!"

"I agreed to a deal,' Alastor remarks, the radio distortion in his voice deepening, warping the air around the words. "And you took your liberties."

For a breathless moment, it looks as though Vox might lunge. Electricity flares bright enough to throw jagged shadows across the walls, antennas twitching as Alastor's tentacles stir beneath his coat, looped, eager and ready.

The room holds its breath.

Alastor moves closer still, looming just behind the bench. "It's marvelous how you insist on acting like a victim when you are anything but." He giggles cruelly, the sound bending unnaturally under his radio interference. "How embarrassing."

"Shut the fuck up!" Vox shouts, surging to his feet and grabbing Alastor by the collar. Wires erupt from his back in a violent snarl of motion.

Alastor's tentacles respond instantly, unfurling beneath him, coiling around Vox's arms and legs with eager precision.

"You really want to do this, Vox?" Alastor taunts, his eyes darkening to pitch-black voids. "You know you're in no condition to fight me."

Vox doesn't answer.

Instead, his wires lash upward, wrapping tight around Alastor's throat, pressing hard enough to make the air hum. Alastor groans, half strain, half amusement, biting down a laugh.

"I will tear you to pieces," Alastor promises, his tentacles tightening, threatening to pull Vox apart joint by joint. "And then I'll broadcast your screams to all of Hell!"

"Fucking do it, then!" Vox yells. His voice glitches, breaking into static as his screen spasms, barcodes and distortion flashing violently, blinding Alastor for a split second.

Alastor.exe reads on the screen.

When the static clears, Vox is on the floor.

Alastor has pulled away.

His tentacles retract, releasing Vox entirely, letting him collapse hard against the boards.

It is not mercy, nor Vox's blinding display that stays his hand.

For one horrifying moment, Alastor felt it. Felt that Vox would not fight back. That he would let himself be destroyed, let Alastor tear him apart, trap him inside his radio, break and torture him the way he has broken others.

And Alastor should do it. The opportunity is perfect, laid bare at his feet. He should seize it, end Vox's miserable existence once and for all, grant him mercy in the only language Alastor has ever spoken.

And yet—

He does not want to.

The realization crashes over him like a thousand glasses of whiskey, dizzying and unwelcome, imposible to swallow.

He tells himself it would be boring. Killing Vox like this, stripped of resistance and spectacle, would be tasteless. No artistry, no delight. It would leave him wanting, mouth watering, appetite stirred but never satisfied. Only a hollow hunger in its wake.

He chuckles at the thought. A hand presses to his face as his head tilts back.

"How pathetic," Alastor mocks, leaning down toward Vox, who is still on his knees, staring up at him, hatred burning bright on his features as a single tear rolls. Alastor presses a claw to the glass, tapping softly. "Still yearning for oblivion, Vincent?"

His fingers curl into Vox's collar, yanking him closer—close enough that the tip of Alastor's nose brushes the cool surface of Vox's screen.

"If you think I'm going to grant you that mercy," Alastor murmurs, voice dropping, "then you haven't learn one single thing."

Vox looks at him with eyes blown wide, tears spilling freely, glitching as they fall down his display, unfiltered and humiliating, real. He looks broken to the core.

The sight turns something cruel and vindicated in Alastor's chest, for it's as gratifying as it's revolting, a sick little victory he never bothered to ask for. He considers, briefly, ending this here, disengaging before it curdles into something uglier than violence, at least for him.

He cannot.

Not when Vox's fingers clamp desperately around his wrist, claws digging in as if afraid Alastor might vanish the moment he loosens his grip.

Vox presses harder, anchoring him there.

"So what? You're saying the more I want from you, the less I'll ever get?" Vox chokes out, but it fractures midway, hiccups glitching through the sound like corrupted audio. "Like how I told you to fuck off and leave me alone—and you still followed me anyway?"

Alastor's eyes snap open.

His smile twists to one side as he yanks his hand free, the motion sudden and violent.

"You're hilarious," Alastor scoffs, rolling his eyes so far back it borders on theatrical. "Are you so delusional that you have to twist reality just to feel something?"

Vox staggers upright, a strained, breathless laughter following his wobbling, and claws both hands at the side of his TV frame, electricity flaring up violently around his body. The ceiling lights flicker in protest.

"No, no—listen to me!" His laughter starts to fray into hysteria as he gestures wildly. "It makes sense! You're so used to me chasing after you, trying to catch up, trying to matter—and now it's boring, isn't it?" His voice rises, sharp and wild. “Since I'm not entertaining anymore, I'm just a predictable moron!”

A ceiling light shatters with a deafening pop as power surges uncontrollably. Glass rains down, tinkling softly as it scatters across the floor, but neither flinches.

Alastor groans, irritation flashing hot and immediate. His eyes bleed into black voids once more as dark tendrils surge beneath him, twisting and bristling, ready to strike. Ready to break him, leave him weakened enough to regret everything up to this point.

But Vox never attacks.

Instead, his screen glitches violently. He winces, clutching at his head, then collapses back onto the piano bench with a hollow thud. His elbow crashes against the keys, producing a discordant, ugly sound that makes Alastor grimace.

"Fuck..."

Vox exhales as he composes himself, turning toward the piano, fingers hovering, then settling over the keys.

"Well," Vox mutters. "You won, Alastor. Congratulations." He begins to play a melody unfamiliar to Alastor. "I'm not chasing you, not stalking you..." For a moment, the music strains, warping under emotions, then softens again. "Nothing."

He lets out a humorless chuckle, tilting his head.

"I've got Val. I've got Velvette. I've got VoxTek—or whatever the hell it's called now.” Vox presses harder into the keys. "And yeah, yeah, I know—it'll never be enough. I'll always want more. I always do."

Alastor does not interrupt, instead, he listens. Listens to the music dragging its weight across the keys. He listens to Vox's voice as it frays, to the quiet resignation stitched through every word and every note. The way he speaks, like he's already accepted this fate.

It's pathetic. Sickening, even. To witness how far Vox has fallen, and worse, to see how willing he is to live with it. As if surrender were some kind of virtue, as if letting go of his ambition, of himself, were something to be proud of.

Alastor rethinks. Perhaps, he should actually grant him that mercy.

Vox has always been a nuisance, a buzzing, chirping thing, persistent and irritating. The only reason he has survived this long is because he was amusing, because he fought back. Because Alastor knew he would.

Because his predictability was entertaining.

And now? Now he is weak, resigned, breaking in slow, unremarkable pieces.

There is nothing salvageable about that at all.

Nothing Alastor wants.

So why? Why does his chest tighten, the ache familiar and wrong, like the stitches in his wound are being pulled apart from the inside?

What does Alastor even want from Vox? Worse—why would he want anything from the man who ruined what they had by craving power that was never his to take?

"I'll get over you," Vox murmurs at last. The final notes falter beneath his claws, the melody collapsing in on itself, unfinished. "I won't be pining anymore. It's over, for fucking real this time."

Silence follows. Not the charged, humming kind of their vibrating frequencies. Just empty, hollow silence that leaves too much room to think.

Soon enough, Alastor breaks it by letting out a low, mocking chuckle.

"Pining?" he repeats, incredulous. He turns and seats himself at the far end of the bench, deliberately placing distance between them. His back faces Vox, avoiding physical contact as much as possible. "Please, don't rewrite history now, Vox."

The room goes quiet again.

Then—

"Excuse me?" Vox snaps at him, disbelief bleeding through his voice. "Rewrite the—are you fucking serious?" A weak laugh tears out of him. "I tore myself open in front of you and—"

"Tore yourself open?" Alastor whirls around, the movement sudden and violent in its restraint. His smile is crooked, quivering at the corners of his mouth. His voice spikes, radio distortion crawling in despite his control. "You asked for a partnership! You wanted my power because you knew you weren't enough without—"

"I wanted you, you fucking asshole!"

Vox slams his palm down onto the keys, the piano shrieking in protest, a discordant crash that slices through the room, and Alastor's ears flatten instantly, reflexive, betrayed by the sudden noise.

His breath stutters before he can stop it, and for a fraction of a second, everything inside him goes very, very still.

"I wanted you," Vox repeats, and this time he turns away, eyes fixed on his own hands as they begin to tremble. "I wanted... us." His voice falters, glitching at the end. "At the time, I didn't know—well, that I..." His eyes squeeze shut before a pained cackle slips out. "Liked you like that."

A prolonged, fragile sigh escapes Vox, his voice flickering and breaking apart in static pulses of his own making, but he does not stop speaking.

"So I thought—hey, we're close. I like being close to him. I don't want to lose this." His laugh grows hollow, self-mocking. "This was the first time I'd ever felt like that about someone!" He gestures vaguely, frustration spilling into his hands. "And yeah, I wanted more—sue me! But I thought..." A thin crackle of electricity surrounds him, enveloping him like some sort of protection. "...maybe if I kept building my power, if I made myself bigger, brighter, enough, you'd see me, and maybe... you'd want the same."

Vox's breathing hitches. The lights overhead seem to respond to his emotions, for they dim and flicker faintly, as if the room itself is hesitating with him.

"So I said, let's do this! What's the worst that can happen?" Vox snorts, then clicks his tongue. "And you made it very clear that the worst absolutely can happen."

He turns back, finally facing Alastor once more.

Alastor can't see his own reflection in the glass of Vox's screen, but he can see him.

The way his expressions glitch and turn, sadness bleeding into anger, anger stuttering into confusion, and confusion collapsing into something like startled realization.

Vox's mouth twitches, like he's bitten down on something bitter.

"Holy fuck. You actually thought I only wanted your power," he says at last, flatly. It's not a question, it's a fact.

Alastor stares at him longer than necessary, the silence stretching thin, taut as wire. He only bounces back to himself when a sudden jolt of electricity cracks too close for comfort, sharp enough to prickle even his nerves.

Then he burst out laughing, his hand slamming down onto the piano lid as he throws his weight forward, half-collapsing over the keyboard, keys rattling uselessly under him as the laughter spills out in honed, broken shivers—too fast, too hard, just a touch hysterical.

This is ridiculous.

These feelings, clawing insistently and unwelcoming at his long-dead heart are ridiculous.

"Well, that's—wow, Vox!" Alastor hollers, shaking his head, breath catching between laughs. "You're saying that was a confession?" He slaps his palm against his forehead, claws pulling subtly at his hair. "You really know how to leave an impression."

Vox narrows his eyes. "What does that even mean?"

"Come now, Vox." Alastor straightens just enough, baring a wide grin, all teeth and interference included. "With your incredible power and my massive influence." His voice warps, slipping seamlessly into mimicry, a perfect radio replay dragged from his own memory. "Is that how you did your confessions back on Earth? Don't make me laugh."

"Oh, fuck you," Vox snaps, folding his arms tight across his chest, screen flaring. His voice pitches upward, almost theatrically. "You expected me to immediately think I was in love? With a man? It took me years to rationalize that."

Love.

The word alone is enough to make Alastor bite back any cruel commentary. He looks away instead, letting out an empty chuckle that rings hollow even to his own ears.

Love.

It's not a word in his vocabulary. Not anymore.

The last person he ever loved—the last person he could name the feeling for without shame, without hesitation, was his mother. After her, the word lost its shape, lost its use.

Love does not come to him the way it does to other people. It never has.

For him, affection and attraction rarely arrive, if ever, and never in ways that people would call normal. Not with time, not with proximity, not with longing. Whatever it is, it does not bloom easily, nor predictably, nor kindly.

"And it doesn't even matter now," Vox adds when the silence extends for too long, heavy enough to press against the walls. "Even if I had confessed—if I'd said something stupid like I love you, you would've reacted the same."

His voice drops on the last words, bitterness dulling its edge.

Alastor can feel the weight of his gaze without meeting it.

"Wouldn't you?"

Love.

Alastor thinks of weakness. Of people unraveling, instincts overriding refinement, control slipping through trembling fingers. Love makes people foolish, crazy. It makes them reckless with themselves, with others.

Love is unkind. Love is not careful. It's spiteful in a million ways.

Love is blind.

That is what love means to Alastor.

So no. He doesn't love Vox.

"Yes," Alastor answers, voice flat.

Vox exhales sharply, a humorless huff slipping out before he can stop it, and he turns away as if to hide his face. "Yeah," he mutters. "That's what I thought."

Silence follows. It settles heavy and crisp between them, stretching just long enough to become unbearable, annoying. Vox swallows, loud in the quiet, shifting into place and his shoulders drawing tight like he's holding himself together by force alone.

"After all," he adds, voice pulled thin, strained tight with something dangerously close to tears, "our friendship was never real either. You made that clear enough."

Alastor didn't love Vox.

But he had been comfortable with him.

He had enjoyed their time together, the ease of it, the closeness. Enough to share his music. Enough to let Vox carry him home. Enough to drink in his presence, to dull his senses without fear, because he somehow trusted that Vox would never do anything that would fracture what they had.

No bargains, no leverage, no strings.

It was different from every relationship he had allowed himself since arriving in Hell.

In some quiet, twisted way, Alastor had trusted Vox.

And perhaps, that was the cruelest trick Hell had in store for him.

Alastor inhales deeply, exhaling under the pretense of a laugh, "You know what, Vox? Despite everything, you've caught me at such a generous moment! So I believe I'll indulge you with a little story."

One hand drifts back to the piano.

The keys answer immediately as he plays a melody he knows far too well, one that has lived in his memories for seventy years, unchanged and unforgotten.

"My dear mother used to say," Alastor begins softly, playing through it, ignoring the way Vox turns back, eyes wide, "that love was like a building. It has many foundations." The music anchors him, allowing him to drift freely into his thoughts, "And one of them," he adds, almost gently, "was trust."

His fingers move with ease as memory intrudes—his mother's face, the warmth of her touch, the way she would cup his cheek as though he were something fragile, something worth protecting. Something worth loving.

"My mother loved my father," Alastor continues his tale, voice melodic, like a dream. "And what a real piece of work that excuse of a man was!" He snorts, static crackling briefly through the air, intense but fleeting. His gaze darkens for a few seconds, a buzzing noise creeping into his next words. "But she didn't trust him. Not for a second."

As Alastor plays, another sound joins the melody—the keys he can't press as he's only using one hand are being pressed by someone else, filling in what had been missing in the music all along.

"What I learned about love," he declares quietly, "I learned from her."

Which is why Alastor could not love. Not after her. Not like that. Never like that.

"But trust is different. It's built on reliability—" A pause. A soft laugh escapes him as his fingers continue to dance across the keys. "And on predictability, as much as it annoys you."

"Alastor—"

“My trust," Alastor cuts in acutely, turning at last to face Vox. His eyes burn crimson, dials clicking into place where pupils should be. The X has returned to his forehead, an unmistakable sign that his emotions are slipping the leash. "—was different from your love."

The music stops on his side, abrupt and almost violent in its absence.

"But in every way that matters," he adds quietly, "it served the same purpose."

Alastor rises from the bench in one smooth motion, refusing to acknowledge the way Vox mirrors him, standing just as quickly, just as tense.

"You're not the only one who lost something valuable that night," Alastor says, already moving toward the door. "And neither of us is a victim."

This is enough. He has said enough—more than enough. The mercy and the curse he grants Vox is the truth he never allowed him to know: that the trust between them had been freely given, and irrevocably broken—by Vox, and by himself.

That should be the end of it.

Alastor is about to leave the room, but Vox doesn't let him.

Fingers close around his wrist, sudden and desperate, the contact burning against his skin like electricity grounding itself too fast. Not quite a grip, more like a plea made physical, trembling with restraint.

"Alastor, wait—please. Please."

The word scrapes out of Vox, thin and weary. His fingers tighten, then hesitate, as if afraid of crossing a line that has already been shattered.

Alastor turns, irritation flaring reflexively. The insult is already there, poised on his tongue, cruel enough to carve this moment back where it belongs, under control.

And then he sees it.

A spark in Vox's eyes. Something bare and unguarded in a way that makes Alastor's breath catch before he can stop it. It is small, fragile even, but it's unmistakable raw emotion laid open without strategy or spectacle. Alastor hasn't seen that look since the night first began to unravel, since seventy years ago, at same bar, same room. Same damned piano humming quietly like it remembers too.

For a heartbeat, the world narrows to that spark alone. The hum of electricity fades into the background, replaced by a dull pressure behind Alastor's ribs, tight. His grin falters, not enough for Vox to notice, perhaps, but enough that Alastor feels it himself.

And he hates that his first instinct is not to crush it, but to still, to hesitate, just long enough for the past to breathe between them.

"I wanted—" Vox stumbles, the words catching in his throat, and he coughs as if they hurt to hold. He exhales, then presses on. "I want people's trust because I know what I can do with it." An uneasy cackle bubbles up, frail and hollow.

He pauses, a breath dragged in too shallow to steady anything.

"Guess you can see how well that worked out, hah."

His screen flickers. Static ripples across his frame, crawling at the edges of his display like a nervous tic, before settling just enough for him to speak again.

"But I did want your trust, Alastor." Vox confesses, the truth laid bare in a way that leaves nowhere to retreat. "Actually wanted it. Wanted you to think of me as someone you could rely on."

His hands curl at his sides, fingers twitching uselessly, electricity jolting alive through his claws.

"I didn't know you respected me," Vox murmurs, words coming slower now, heavier. "So I thought—if I got bigger. Stronger. If I offered you something of mine in return..." He swallows, and judging by the constant shifting in place, he's probably trying his best no to glance away. "You'd see that I trusted you enough, and you would trust me too."

Alastor feels the urge rise. He wants to laugh. He wants to tear everything apart, the way he always does. To remind Vox that manipulation is his native language, that he handed his precious influence to the Vees and nearly got them killed in his hunger for revenge. That he broke them too in his strategy.

But he can't.

There is no distortion in Vox's frequency. No static spike, no telltale hitch that betrays deception.

"I loved you," Vox says in a quiet, devastating certainty.

Vox takes a step forward, narrowing the space between them—close enough to be felt, close enough for the air between them to warm, but not so close that Alastor feels the instinctive urge to retreat.

"And I still—"

Alastor lifts a hand and his staff materializes in a blink, leaning in just enough to tap it against Vox's glass face, the sound crisp and concluding, cutting the words off before they can fully form.

"Don't," Alastor warns. His brows knit despite himself, the command slipping out lower than usual, roughened. "Don't, Vincent."

The name hangs there.

Vox blinks repeatedly, mouth open as to say something but quickly shuts it. Whatever he'd been about to say collapses inward, folding under the weight of it all. He steps back without an argument, turning away as if the room itself has suddenly become too exposed. He exhales and drops back onto the piano bench, his movements tired and unceremonious, reaching for the bottle of whiskey resting atop the lid and taking a long pull straight from it.

Alastor watches, disbelief flickering across his features.

"What in the devil's name are you doing now?" he asks bewilderedly, cocking his head.

A lopsided smirk flashes on the cyan glow of Vox's screen—imperfect. The tears haven't gone anywhere, but Vox seems more preoccupied with wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What?" Vox questions, voice lighter now than it's been all evening, "I'm handling rejection the good old-fashioned way without trying to blow you, me, or this place up. Can you blame a guy?"

At those words, Alastor only stares. Laughter gathers inside him, tight and treacherous, before it bursts free, slipping past mockery and static alike. It echoes off the walls, too warm and genuine, and it startles even him.

Vox tilts his head, antennas twitching, the hopeful note in his expression clashing awkwardly with the tension still clinging to the room.

"Huh," Vox ventures. "Too soon?"

Alastor glances at him, then at the piano. The corner of his mouth twitches, something almost like a genuine smile threatening to form before he reins it in. When he nods, it's restrained, as if conceding ground rather than offering kindness.

"Too soon," Alastor concludes.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then, before Alastor can reconsider, before sense or pride can catch up to the impulse, his feet betray him. They carry him back toward the bench on instinct alone, guided by a familiarity older than this conversation, older than the night itself. He sits once more at the piano, posture precise, controlled, close enough to feel the faint hum of Vox's static, but not touching.

Vox shifts beside him, restless, energy bleeding through every small movement. His knee bounces, making it painfully clear of how aware he is of the space between them, equally aware of how easily it could be crossed. He doesn't look at Alastor right away.

"Hey," Vox says instead, and there's something hesitant in it that doesn't quite fit him anymore. At least, not who he is now. "Do you remember when you used to get completely wasted," he adds, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth, "and I had to carry your drunk ass back home?"

Alastor arches a brow, eyes narrowing in open, theatrical judgment. "Why," he asks coolly, "are you bringing that up, Vox?"

Vox beams in response, bright, and unmistakably defensive. "Because!"

His wires snap outward toward the bar, retrieving a clean glass without him sparing it a glance. He pours the liquor carefully, then slides the glass across the piano lid toward Alastor.

Alastor looks at it, then at Vox, his brow remaining stubbornly raised.

"If I can surprise you," Vox says, the bravado thinning as his voice drops, steadier now, "and prove I can play the music you just played better. Aaaand, if you happen to get a little bit drunk..."

"Not gonna happen—"

Vox cuts in, glitching violently, his eye flaring red. "If it happens!" His tone spikes, almost panicked.

Alastor watches him hesitate, watches Vox's fingers curl too tight around the bottle, the glass trembling just slightly.

"…would you let me carry you back, old man?"

The question lingers between them, not playful, yet not entirely serious. Something else. Something old.

There's fragility in the way Vox's smile wavers, in the way his antennas crackle softly, electricity skittering between them like nervous energy with nowhere left to settle.

Alastor feels it too. That familiar pull, that dangerous ease. The faint, treacherous warmth blooming low in his chest, slipping through the cracks he works so meticulously to keep sealed.

It's a spark. A small and persistent, tiny, little spark.

He throws his head back and laughs, the sound ringing with defiance rather than surrender. If a spark is going to reignite in him, if only for tonight, then he might as well delight in it while it burns, before he devours it again, completely.

"Bring it on, then," Alastor says, baring his teeth. "You pathetic picture-box."

And a spark, however small, is still a spark.

Given time and fuel, it can become a fire, one that engulfs even the toughest wars. Whether this one will be fed, or whether it will gutter out like spilled liquor and old memories, remains to be seen.

But for now, in this old bar, in this room, their private, not-so-private abode, time will hold its breath.

It will wait until the liquor is gone, the music is muted and their senses are dulled beyond caring; until tomorrow comes crashing in and they pick themselves up to do it all over again. And again. Again.

Until the spark dies.

Or lives eternally with them.