(no subject)

[firstintaste]

Remembering dates has always been one of Vox’s specialties. It’s a staple of any good businessman, really. Fail to stay on top of a single meeting, product launch, interview, whatever—and that’s the end of that.

 

But the most important dates of all, the ones Vox prepares for more ardently, more doggedly than anything else, have fuck-all to do with business and everything to do with Alastor.

 

These dates have always maintained their value, no matter the state of their relationship over the decades. But now, as they enter their fourth month since making things official—like, seriously, actually, official—what’s arguably the most important of these important dates finally arrives. And Vox has been… Well. Let’s just say he’s spent a very appropriate amount of time and effort planning how this day will go.

 

Which, for Vox, follows as such: Setting more than ten alarms to wake himself up at four AM sharp. Making some excuse to spend the night apart from Alastor so the alarms only disturb Vox, hidden far away in his private room at V Tower—the one not even the other Vees know exists. For reasons. Cleaning his screen, changing into his favorite old red turtleneck fit. Making coffee, and—mentally preparing himself for a call he really, really doesn’t want to make.

 

He’s on that mental preparation part right now.

 

Vox takes a seat on his replica of Alastor’s favorite leather chair and sets his coffee down. Takes a deep breath. Steels himself, mentally combs over what he needs to say, how to say it—civilly—and pulls up his contact list. Scrolls down until he reaches the Ts. Taps on That One Fucking Bitch.

 

One ring, two rings, three rings…

 

“Well, if it isn’t Alastor’s little plaything!”

 

“Well, if it isn’t Alastor’s little fag hag!”

 

Okay, so, maybe civility is off the table. Was maybe never on the table to begin with, if he’s being honest. But as far as greetings go between Mimzy and himself, it could be worse. It has been worse.

 

But Mimzy, of course, acts otherwise. She scoffs, loud and indignant. “Oh, fuck off. You’re the one who called me up. Don’t you know it’s rude to ring a girl past midnight? What if you’d interrupted my beauty sleep, huh? It’s four in the morning, asshole.”

 

“It’s 4:17, actually,” Vox says, voice even, smile anything but. “And I can hear your club in the background.” It isn’t a lie; he can hear the faint outline of a tune that was old even in Alastor’s heyday, the rustling of chairs, the clinking of glass. But even if he couldn’t hear a thing—he’s familiar enough with Mimzy’s routine to know that she’d never turn in this early. Or turn down a call from him. Still, he can’t help but continue with, “Must be a slow night, huh, for you to pick up. Are your, what, three? regulars finally growing tired of your shitty singin—”

 

“Whatever.” Even without facetime—the smallest of mercies—Vox can tell she’s rolling her eyes, can hear it accentuating every syllable as she cuts him off. “What do you want?”

 

She’s so fucking lucky he’s on a strict time limit.

 

His hand claws at his shirt, squeezing tight in indignity. “Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt?” Vox grits out, unclenching his fist to assess the damage. Sure enough, there’s a claw-shaped hole, right smack-dab in the middle of his favorite red turtleneck. Nothing a snap of magic can’t fix, but still. It’s the principle of it all. The Mimzy of it all. He sighs, all humor draining from him fast. “Listen. I know we’ve had our…differences, but—”

 

“Last time I saw you, you tipped off, like, five bitches that had a hit on me.”

 

“Wholly unsubstantiated.”

 

“Unsubstantiated, my ass! They literally told me it was you!” she shouts, followed by the distinct sounds of a drink being downed. Gulp, chug, swallow. Meanwhile, Vox makes a mental note to track down every loser he’d notified, and, if they’re somehow still alive after failing to kill such a simple mark, to rectify that.

 

“Fuck this, I’m hanging u—”

 

“You owe me a favor.”

 

Silence on the other line. Then, flatly, “…I do?”

 

“You do.” She doesn’t, but she doesn’t need to know that. All that matters is that Vox sells her on it. “And I’d like to cash that in. At, say…eight o’clock? This morning. Sharp.”

 

“The fuck? What could you possibly need from me at…” She trails off. “Wait.” She snorts. “Wait, don’t tell me—!”

 

He waits. He doesn’t tell her. Instead, he bristles at the telltale slap of her hand against the bartop, an acute reminder that she’s in public. And loud. And laughing—hard.

 

“Ho-ly shit. It’s Alastor’s birthday, isn’t it? I should’ve known. Oh my god.”

 

“Keep it down, won’t you?” Vox says in what may be the harshest possible whisper anyone’s ever whisped.

 

"What? Afraid of my three regulars overhearing that Mr. Big Bad CEO himself is a sentimental, sadsack freak? Please. No one here's sober enough to remember their own name. Their loss, really. This shit’s hilarious. Seriously! You’re the only loser in all of Hell who still gives a fuck about birthdays. You know that, right? Not even Alastor cares. Don’t think he celebrated it once since you stopped with all—this. And I would know! Unlike some people, he’s never tossed me aside like hot garbage.”

 

Oh, that’s fucking it. Vox leaps to his feet and begins to pace, all the mood lighting in the room flickering with each step—omens of a barely-contained oncoming outage.

 

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Vox snarls, hand gripping his phone so tightly he can hear it strain. “All I need is a distraction. Keep him occupied for a few hours, talk about whatever old timey shit you want. Just stay as far from my tower or that shitty hotel as possible. I’ll summon him whenever I’m ready. Should be easy enough for even you to understand, right?” Mimzy interrupts with a scoff, but Vox persists. “Right. And if you don’t make good on this now…” His voice turns syrupy sweet, light and airy. “Well, it’d be a real shame if something happened to your little club, wouldn’t it? I know historical sites aren’t always up to snuff. So easy to go up in flames if you aren’t careful!”

 

The line stays silent a moment. Then another, and another once more, and it hits Vox then that he may have actually made some mistakes, hard to believe as it is. His pacing quickens. He should’ve never come to Mimzy in the first place. She’s always been a pain in the ass. But what other choice did he have? The hotel? Fuck, does he—does he have to go to the hotel now? His stomach churns at the thought. The only thing worse than loaning Alastor out to Mimzy is loaning him out to that fucking hotel. With that stupid fucking brat and her stupid fucking redemption bullshit and her stupid fucking friends. And, worst of all, her stupid fucking father, thinking he’s soooo much better than Alastor. Please. As if that ugly little circus freak who doesn’t watch TV, doesn’t even like sharks—who the fuck doesn’t like sharks—has any right, any sense of taste what-so-fucking-ever to compare with? He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Alastor, let alone assist at the same stupid fucking hotel, making stupid fucking comparisons. Maybe, instead of calling, Vox could just swing by after this. Figure out some way to get Lucifer out of there on this special day, ensure he can’t taint anything with his blasphemous, lipless little mouth. He’s been dying to test his hypnosis on the “King of Hell,” anyway. Yes. He can fit this into his schedule. He’ll just have to—

 

“Ugh, fine, stop with the tough guy shit, you do not pull it off,” Mimzy says, yanking Vox back to reality. “I’ll do it.”

 

“…I knew I could count on you!” Vox doesn’t miss a beat. As if he had any reason to.

 

But then, right before Vox can close this nightmarish business meeting, Mimzy has to go and run her mouth again. Always has to have the last word.

 

“—Wait. You’re not letting him eat you again, are you? Because then I’m out. Burn my place down, whatever, I don’t care. I’ll bounce back.”

 

“Mimzy—”

 

“Look, I just don’t wanna hear about it. It was kinda funny, at first, the way he’d gush about your sorry ass like some blushing maiden—don’t think the poor thing realized how smitten he was, either, and he wasn’t even hammered!—but it got old. Fast.”

 

“Can you just—”

 

“And don’t even get me started on the second time. God, that was painful. And embarrassing! You make him embarrassing, y’know that? I never wanna hear about you or your body like that ever—”

 

“Mimzy,” Vox finally manages to bark out, voice glitching loud enough to shut her up. “It’ll be worth your while. Trust me.”

 

She groans. “Fine. But only because I know Alastor will force your whipped ass to make good on this.

 

“Buh-bye now,” she says with finality. “Don’t call again.”

 

—

 

Despite Mimzy’s bullshit, Vox remains on schedule. After sneaking back home, he spends the next two hours in the kitchen whipping up Alastor’s breakfast. And thanks to the culinary skills he’s honed in the years since Alastor left hi—since they had their disagreements, it’s sure to be the best birthday breakfast ever.

 

It has to be.

 

But, in typical Vox fashion, he finds himself suffering from success: his mind is free to wander now as he cooks. Which, in this case, means he’s free to be haunted by Mimzy and her incessant, unwelcome reminders for the entire duration.

 

Don’t think he celebrated it once since you stopped with all—this.

 

As if he doesn’t fucking know that already.

 

Unlike some people, he’s never tossed me aside like hot garbage.

 

As if he doesn’t think about this every goddamned day, every morning he wakes up and Alastor’s not there, every hour, minute, second spent apart. As if he hasn’t been on the fritz for months now, stressing over how to make today special enough that—

 

That Vox will never have to worry again.

 

...And gee, by the look of things, he won’t have to! Alastor’s breakfast looks amazing all plated up—smells great, too, if he may be so humble. He’ll love it, and then he’ll love the rest of his day even more. It’ll be fine. Cheer up, Vox!

 

So, cheer up he does. He scoops up the breakfast tray, practically skips from the kitchen to their bedroom door, and plasters a big smile on his face.

 

“Good morning, my deer!” Vox bursts through with just enough force to make an entrance without spilling anything, tray carefully concealed behind his back.

 

In response, Alastor groans—adorably—from beneath the fancy silk sheets Vox had purchased within minutes of Alastor agreeing to live with him again.

 

Vox can tell he’s been awake for a bit by the lack of real grogginess in his tone, the way he wriggles out of his blanketed cocoon with ease. He’s putting on a little show, just for him. Vox could kiss him right now.

 

To finish his performance, Alastor flashes Vox a look as he sits up in bed. “Must you insist on embarrassing yourself? I know it gets you all hot and bothered, but it’s rather early for that, don’t you think?”

 

Vox flushes virtually on command. The first (and only other) time he’d played the "my deer" card, he’d felt so confident, so fucking certain that it would fluster Alastor, leaving him utterly charmed over how clever he was. Deer and dear. Genius. Had anyone else in the history of Hell—no, the history of the entire universe—ever thought up something so brilliant?

 

Or so said the whiskey, his bitch of a wingman.

 

If it had been anyone else, Vox would’ve erased the subsequent mockery from record. But it had been Alastor, so that was off-limits. And, more importantly… Vox was pretty certain—actually certain this time—that Alastor had secretly loved it.

 

So, Vox shakes off his residual embarrassment and goes all in. “Aw, Bambi, don’t be like that,” he croons, batting his eyes innocently, obnoxiously, juuust how Alastor likes it. If he got a kick out of one stupid pet name, why not give him a one-two punch? Sure enough, right on cue, Alastor thrusts a tendril towards Vox’s screen—only stopping short of impact by an inch. Yep. Loving this. Vox doesn’t flinch as he continues, adding, “It’s a special day!”

 

“Is it, now,” Alastor says, tepidly retracting his tendril. “And here I was starting to think you’d forgotten. It was chilly last night, you know. But I understand. You had so much important work to do, didn’t you?”

 

Vox instantly deflates, antennae drooping. Leave it to Alastor to go right for the fucking jugular. After Vox had been charming him and everything!

 

“No, I—I’d never forget this. You know that,” Vox says, overly serious. “Look, just—don’t you wanna know what I’m holding? C’mon, Al. What if my arms tire out and I drop everything…?”

 

“Then I’d expect you to drop to the floor and clean up your silly mess. But… All right.” Complying, Alastor sniffs the air with his cute little deer nose. “Is that…?”

 

Vox’s antennae shoot back upright. Fully recovered. Like an amateur magician overeager to reveal his newest trick, he whips out the tray from behind him, all smiles, and plops it onto Alastor’s blanketed thighs. A game show jingle rings out from his speakers.

 

“Why, yes, that is venison grillades and grits with a side of freshly-fried beignets that are, as you can see”—Vox makes an emphatic gesture, wiggling his fingers—“devoid of powdered sugar. Your complimentary drink is, of course, a piping hot cup of cafe noir. Chicory included!” In one swift motion, he slips under the covers and sidles up to Alastor. “So, what do you think? Looks good, right? Super authentic?”

 

Alastor blinks, eyes flitting between the tray of food weighing down on him and the bright, expectant look on Vox’s face.

 

“…Vox. I may not have much of a sweet tooth, but I’m not a monster. A beignet without powdered sugar simply isn’t a beignet.”

 

Vox bristles, thrown off-balance. “What? But—But you hate sweets,” he sputters out. “You complained—nonstop—about all the sugar last time we had them! How overpowering it was, how messy it was—actually, yeah, can you imagine the mess if I’d given you beignets covered in sugar in bed? What kind of—” He cuts himself off. Tastes the word on his tongue a moment, softens it like candy. Then, quietly, with all the fight within him replaced by some kind of sickening sweetness, “What kind of partner would do that...?”

 

Alastor cocks his head to the side, completely ignoring Vox’s little moment. “The kind that doesn’t rudely imply I’m a messy eater?”

 

Vox’s smile twitches. His screen burns. He takes the pretty red spoon he’d provided off the tray, scoops up some grillades and grits, and dangles it in front of Alastor’s mouth. “Just fucking try something already.”

 

“Not your sad beignets first?”

 

“They’re for dessert.”

 

Vox braces for retaliation, some kind of cheeky comment about how forceful Vox is being, but it never comes. A little disappointingly. Instead, Alastor huffs, opens his cute mouth and cutely chomps down.

 

Vox watches him chew with rapt attention, pupils quivering in anticipation. His breath hitches as Alastor swallows, and—reaches for the spoon to go for a second bite.

 

“There may be hope for you yet. You still have room for improvement, but it’s...commendable.”

 

If Vox had a tail, it would be wagging. Intensely.

 

So, the grillades and grits are a rousing success. He’d taken a big swing by using venison, but it paid off. And for all of Alastor’s posturing about the damn beignets, he sure does eat them without a single complaint. Practically licks the plate clean! Annoying. Adorable, amazing, Vox has never been happier in his life—but still annoying. Even the coffee goes over well, despite Alastor’s insane standards.

 

Vox could bask in the glow of this moment forever. Alastor fucking loved his cooking. Praised him. Is curled up next to him. It’s almost enough to make Vox want to leave all his worries at the door, forget the rest of his plans, pretend like this will suffice.

 

But he knows he can’t.

 

But before he can ruin their peaceful respite, Alastor takes the initiative. “You know,” he starts, swirling his coffee, “you never said what exactly we’re celebrating. Why did you serve me breakfast in bed? I know you would any day of the week if I’d asked, but what’s the special occasion? You mustn’t keep me in suspense any longer.”

 

“…You’ll find out soon enough. I’m not supposed to say it until the biggest surprise of the day.”

 

“You just made that up.”

 

“That’s the rule,” Vox insists. “Besides, I have on good authority that...” Ugh. Here he goes. “...Mimzy intends to see you today. At eight o’clock, specifically. And you’d hate to be late for that, right? It’d be so ungentlemanly, or whatever.”

 

“You talked to Mimzy?” Alastor barks out a laugh. “Well, that explains the shirt.”

 

The shirt...? Vox glances down and finds Alastor fingering a giant, claw-shaped hole in his turtleneck. All the preparation in the world, and he fucking forgot to fix his shirt after that bitch literally forced his hand to tear it. He’s practically been wearing one of Val’s tit window sweaters this whole time. And Alastor hadn’t said a thing until now. Fucking Hell.

 

Then, without warning, Alastor’s fingers travel south. They slip under Vox’s waistband, pulling him closer. “Hm… But what if I’d rather spend the day with my dearest picture box?” Vox can barely breathe. “Perhaps even reward him for taking such good care of me…?” Alastor’s gaze is intoxicating, impossible to tear away from, even as—

 

He finds the hard-on Vox has been nursing for a while now and starts poking.

 

“Looks like you’d rather that, too.”

 

Vox bluescreens. Instantly.

 

When he comes to, his dick is still throbbing, painfully unspent, and Alastor is still sitting there all innocently. Licking his fucking fingers clean.

 

“I hate you,” Vox moans pathetically, voice glitching out, “so much. Just—you gotta leave for a while, okay. Don’t make me beg.”

 

“But you’re so good at begging!” Alastor says, pinching the side of his screen.

 

“Alastor. Please.”

 

The begging works.

 

—

 

Vox is on his seventh round of talking himself out of checking security cam footage and popping over to wherever Mimzy’s taken Alastor—because who knows what that bitch is poisoning his mind with, what if he needs saving?—when he’s finally told the operation can begin.

 

The operation.

 

See, what Vox had failed to account for in all his planning is how little he’d wanted to think about this part right here. All morning, he’s been avoiding it. He’s reached round seven of stressing over Mimzy for a reason. Anything was preferable to thinking about...

 

That he’s back at V Tower, laid out on his operating table, blinded by the overhead lights. That he’s changed into the ugly gray suit he wore when he first arrived in Hell. That he’s about to, for the first time ever, undergo a downgrade.

 

He lifts his head, his wonderfully modern OLED, from the operating table and braves a glance at what’s to come. Hovering above him like it’s fucking judging him from on high is his very first head. A primo 1958 vintage. His stomach churns as he catches his reflection off its tiny old screen.

 

He looks deranged.

 

He feels worse.

 

“Ready, sir? I promise I’ll take good care of you,” interrupts the culprit carrying his head, the only other entity allowed in this room—operator of the hour, his personal Fizzbot.

 

...That’s been customized to look like Alastor. Wearing a maid dress.

 

This is another thing he’s been avoiding. Hard to face a reminder of all the years spent without the real thing, especially when its mannerisms are all wrong, it doesn’t smile cutely enough, and it’s just—he needs to scrap it already. At least before Alastor finds out.

 

But for now, begrudgingly, he needs this thing.

 

“Just get this over with,” Vox says, lying back down and closing his eyes.

 

“Yes, sir! Shutting you down now.”

 

Vox winces at its sickeningly sweet voice, his final thought before the void consumes him simply being: He wouldn’t fucking say that.

 

—

 

When he wakes, it feels as if he’s entered an old, recurring nightmare. Like he’s suffocating, being cramped inside something far too small, too limiting to contain the whole of himself.

 

He tries to bolt upright, shaking his head, and—loses balance. Nearly topples to the floor, saved only by the grace of robotic arms swooping in.

 

“Careful, sir! You almost took a nasty fall!” Not-Alastor says far too cheerily. After making sure Vox is stable, it takes out a mirror. Holds it up to him.

 

If Vox had needed any further confirmation he’s in a waking nightmare, this is it. For one, his vision is shot. It’s like whenever he occasionally lowered his resolution while fucking Val, just enough for him to become a nice, blurry red. Like that, but a little less bad. But annoyingly not bad enough to stop Vox from seeing himself like this: a grainy, rounded screen flanked by ugly dials and a horribly bulky wooden frame.

 

It’s sickening. He quickly turns away—that’s enough of that. What he should be doing instead is leaving, moving on to the next stage in his Alastor Birthday Plan by teleporting through this camera riiiight over there—huh. That’s strange. It’s not working. Maybe that camera’s dead? No matter, surely the one on the left will work—no?

 

He tries every possible electrical outlet to no avail.

 

So that’s what the suffocating feeling is about. He can’t access his power reserves. They’re still there, he doesn’t feel the humiliating pulled plug of any severed deals, they’re just… He doesn’t know how to reach them. It’s like his wires got crossed somehow?

 

This is what he gets for leaving such an important procedure to the fucking sex robot.

 

Whatever. He’s sure things will sort themselves out if he just gives his body some more time. And if they don’t—he always films these operations for a reason. He’ll go over the recordings, reverse things, and everything will be fine. It’s only for a day, anyway.

 

Only for Alastor’s birthday.

 

He could contact one of his assistants to get him out of here. Maybe that eel boy? He’s kind of useful. Sometimes. But—no. Best not to draw attention to himself with any employee while he’s in a vulnerable state. …Not that he is vulnerable right now, but. He’s more compromised than he’d like to be. It’s just a precaution, a temporary precaution. Just until he readjusts.

 

Instead, he calls a limo with a chauffeur who won’t ask questions as long as the pay is good and ignores how disquieting it is to step outside V Tower for the first time without being mobbed by the media.

 

He ignores a lot. Reminds himself, again and again, that he needed to do this.

 

—

 

Crying comes naturally to Vox. He’s never been proud of this—his father certainly wasn’t—but it has its uses. Like conning people! Or, in this case, recreating his meet-cute with Alastor. The crying is integral to that.

 

So, Vox lets his tears flow. He whimpers and moans and hides his bulky-ass head in his knees as he curls up in a disgusting, nondescript alleyway. Their disgusting, nondescript alleyway. The only one that’s ever mattered.

 

Within seconds of sending out his tear-stained signal—something Vox knows he can still do because he did it back then—Alastor arrives, slinking in from the shadows. “Come now. Crying already? You couldn’t last a few measly hours without m…” He trails off. Stops squarely in front of Vox.

 

That’s his cue.

 

Vox springs up, does a little twirl, and—falls to the ground?

 

He falls to the ground. Faceplants. No arms swoop in to save him this time. He just lies there. Waits to see if Alastor will react—maybe he can salvage this if Alastor laughs, Alastor always finds his pain hilarious—but there’s nothing. Alastor stays silent. Vox can hear cars zooming past from miles away, it’s so fucking silent.

 

Cursing his stupid fucking bulky head, Vox scrambles back to his feet, tips his hat, and takes a deep bow like nothing ever happened. Then, with a big smile on his face, he shouts, “Surprise! Happy birthday, Al!”

 

Alastor says nothing. Does nothing.

 

He just stares at him, blankly.

 

Vox’s smile falters and dies. Static buzzes along the edges of his screen, creeping closer and closer towards the center.

 

This was a mistake. He’s such a fucking idiot. An arrogant, stupid, stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid fucking idiot. Why did he think Alastor would be impressed by a present that’s just—himself? He barely wants him as is. Still thinks his cooking has room for improvement, still keeps associating with other people, like, like fucking Mimzy—oh, god, he’s gonna leave. It’s always been a matter of time, but he’s really gonna do it. For good, for real. This is the nail in the coffin because of fucking course it is. He’s ruined himself too much this time, now that he’s all, all ugly and powerless. Fuck, how could he be so stupid—

 

Whack!

 

His death spiral grinds to a halt. His vision clears. He instinctively rubs at the dent made by—Alastor’s microphone?

 

In this exact moment, the silent tyranny comes to an end. Alastor erupts into laughter, head thrown back, bowled over, arms wrapped tight around his cinched waist.

 

“Still—” He cackles, cutely. “Still works like—” Wheezing now, covering his mouth. Cutely. “Hitting it still works like a charm! Ohhh, Vox, this is—” Alastor rushes over to him (cutely) and begins fondling the sides of Vox’s head, circling him to take a closer look at every angle, every grain of wood, before settling back in front and cupping his screen. “This is wonderful. It even healed back up—all your old dents and scratches! You just have these new ones!”

 

So, everything Vox was saying a second ago? He takes it all back. This is the best idea he’s had in his fucking life, actually. Who gives a shit about how outdated he looks or how he can do fuck-all right now? Not this guy. Alastor’s happy, so he’s happy.

 

Happy, happy, happy.

 

His screen brightens to blinding levels as he leans into Alastor’s touch, mind racing to catch up. “Wait, wait, so—not only did you keep my old head all this time like some total creep, you memorized where it was all banged up?” He laughs nervously, deliriously, as his hands twitch like a motherfucker, eager to grab Alastor by the waist and pull him close. “You’re almost as bad as me. Fuck, that’s so hot.”

 

“Oh, hush.” Alastor rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice to it. “There’s nothing creepy about it.”

 

“There so is! Do you know how fucking insane it felt when you were gone all those years, and I found”—Vox gestures wildly at his own head—“this, just sitting there, stashed away in a closet back at your old place? It was fucking crazy, Al. I thought you’d trashed this decades ago.”

 

“I had no reason to dispose of such a perfectly utilitarian piece of furniture. It made a fine footrest, for a time,” Alastor says, laughing airily, face adorably flushed. He takes a hand and gently brushes over Vox’s mouth. Traces where his lips should be. “Even your voice distorts just like it used to… That faint little warbling…” He sighs, and it hits Vox then that he doesn’t remember Alastor ever looking at him this fondly before. It’s the sort of thing he’d always fantasize about, but real. This is really happening. Alastor is really gazing at him like this, and—

 

Kissing him.

 

Vox can’t melt into Alastor soon enough, tongue eagerly extending, hover hands practically lunging at his waist, pulling him close and squeezing tight. It isn’t their first kiss—rest assured, they’ve been making up for lost time—but for this version of himself, it’s… Well, men weren’t exactly lining up for him down here back in the 50s. Or on Earth, but—point is: for one fleeting, transcendent moment, it feels like a decades-old desire is fulfilled. The two of them, their disgusting, nondescript alleyway, the entirety of Hell—it all blurs together into one.

 

It’s nice.

 

By the time they pull apart, Vox’s antennae have contorted into a heart and his knees feel fit to buckling. And, most dangerously of all, his mouth decides to start running on its own, riding that post-make out high, letting teasing bravado take charge.

 

“Y’know,” Vox starts, breathing still labored, “I thought you came so quick because you were sick of Mimzy’s shit, that surely you weren’t worried, but I dunno. Between all this”—he licks his lips—“and the head hoarding thing… I’m reconsidering. Starting to think you might actually like me, or something.”

 

“...Such a shame that all I hear through that charming distortion is crass language and backtalk,” Alastor huffs out, ears pinned back. “My old picture box would’ve never spoken to me like this.”

 

It’s not a yes, Vox, of course I like you very much, but Alastor still seems adorably embarrassed, so he’s taking it as a W. “Hey, I’ve always been this crass, thank you very much,” Vox says, screen flushing hot before he clears his throat, relenting. Eager to play along. “But—you’re right. Sooo right, Mr. Alastor, sir. However can I make it up to you? Anything specific you’d like to do on your big day…? My treat.”

 

“And here I thought you’d have planned out an entire itinerary. What a disappointment.” With that, Alastor slips from Vox’s embrace, turning away from him in a faux-petulant flourish.

 

“H-Hey! I was just trying to be considerate, giving you options and shit!” Vox protests, pathetically tugging at Alastor’s hand. “Of course I made plans. We’re an hour off from your usual broadcast time, so I was thinking… What do you say to an Overlord hunt? Together, like old times. It’s been a while. I’m sure you miss it.”

 

"It has been a while,” Alastor hums, turning to face him. He doesn’t retract his hand. “But I’m in the mood for something more…intimate. How about a private broadcast? I know just the place for it across town.” His smile widens. “And since it’s your treat, why don’t you take us there? Be my electric chauffeur.”

 

“I—” Vox’s voice catches. Right. Welcome back, shit he was desperately trying not to think about. In a panic, he reaches for a connection with the security camera at the end of the alleyway, but comes up short. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—

 

More roleplay it is! He adopts a grossly demure smile and milks it. “I’d love to, but you know I can’t do that, Mr. Alastor, sir. I’m still new down here, I don’t have that kind of power.” A beat. “Yet.”

 

Alastor raises an eyebrow, curious.

 

“…How right you are. Silly me! We’ll stay nearby, then. There’s bound to be someone worth our while skulking around.”

 

Something shifts. Maybe Vox is imagining it, god knows it wouldn’t be the first time he’s imagined things, but—he knows Alastor well. There’s a sharp gleam in his eyes that wasn’t there a second ago, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

 

Best to carry on as usual. Don’t acknowledge it for now.

 

So, they stroll. The streets here are the same as they ever were—filthy, overcrowded, and in dire need of renovations that will never come. Ostensibly, Vox is meant to keep his eyes peeled for any loser that looks at Alastor funny. And he is doing that, make no mistake, but—he finds himself distracted by how little anyone is looking his way. And by little, he means literally not at all.

 

Heads keep turning, sure, but they’re solely focused on Alastor. And who can blame them, really? Who wouldn’t want to gaze upon the Radio Demon in all his glory as he passes by?

 

Well, Vox blames them. Because for one, no one else actually deserves to look at Alastor, and for two, hello? The fuck? He’s an Overlord, too! Until now, he’s avoided facing this by calling that chauffeur, hiding in that alleyway, but out here in the open, it’s inescapable. Every insecurity bubbles to the surface all at once. Because seriously, what the fuck? Alastor’s reputation is recovering smoothly, clearly, but he’s still a big deal! He’s Vox. He fucking runs this city. Why’s everyone treating him like, like some nobody, like he’s just a tag-along, like he’s—

 

Suddenly, Alastor squeezes his hand. Gazes at him sharply. Affectionately. “Everything okay, dear? Your hand is rather...clammy.”

 

—Right. They’re still holding hands.

 

Alastor’s never been much for PDA, so this whole hand-holding thing? As countless random Sinners gawk at him? Well... It’s enough to steer Vox back on track, at least for now. The only person in all of Hell who really matters still notices him, still clearly wants to be seen in public with him—practically parading him around!—so fuck everything else.

 

“…Just excited, is all.” Vox returns the squeeze, rubbing his thumb against Alastor’s palm. Then, with his free hand, he points at random, hungry to change the topic. “Hey, what about that one over there…?”

 

—

 

It doesn’t take them long to hire their guest star, and despite the years gone by, they slide back into their old routine like a second skin. Vox lures the idiot in, Alastor pounces, and then Vox gets to relish in a front row seat to the Radio Demon at work.

 

The stage: a large, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. Somewhere isolated, but spacious enough for Alastor to let loose. Somewhere he can get all big and sexy and use as many tendrils as he wants with minimal obstruction.

 

The show: for the past half hour, Alastor has been slowly, excruciatingly tormenting his prey in increasingly exciting ways. Chasing it until its legs give out. Flaying off strips of its skin. Tying it up so he can feast on its fingers, one by one. Ripping off the claws first, then chomping down on the flesh, amplifying each crunch of bone with his microphone—because where’s the fun if it can’t hear over the sound of its own screams?

 

The review: it’s beautiful. Alastor is so fucking beautiful. The artistry of his craft is just—words don’t do it justice. It’s like witnessing a variety show tour de force, just with a lot more bloodshed. And maybe it’s the nostalgia finally hitting in a good way, but there’s something oddly comforting, something special about seeing it all through the filter of his old screen.

 

In the heat of it all, Vox even cranks his volume dial (not as effective as a microphone, but it works) to give a little extra oomph to his sideline cheers. “Rip out its guts next, Al! Use your teeth!”—and so on and so forth. He barely thinks as he shouts, adrenaline, awe, and lust dominating all else.

 

And man, is the lust becoming too hard to ignore. Maybe it’s because of how stressful today’s been, maybe it’s because he’s still sore from Alastor blue balling him this morning, or maybe it’s just because Alastor is insanely hot right now—seriously, his skin is fucking glowing—but Vox hasn’t felt this horny in years. He’s this close to ripping his pants off and jerking it right here, right now, praying that Alastor sprays him with blood and guts before he climaxes.

 

But before Vox gets the chance to indulge, an incident occurs.

 

In the brief moment that Alastor turns his back to their prey, the tendrils holding it down…slacken? It’s uncharacteristically sloppy—surely this must be the start of a new set in his show?—but Vox doesn’t get to speculate long.

 

The prey breaks free from its bindings and—as all cornered, writhing beasts do once they realize they’re on the brink of death—it aims for the easier outlet.

 

It shouldn’t be surprising.

 

It isn’t the first time Vox has been targeted during a hunt—it was quite common, in fact, back when he was pathetic and weak.

 

Powerless.

 

In the blink of an eye, it’s on top of Vox, slamming him to the ground with its full weight. A previously concealed second set of arms—claws and fingers fully intact—extends out of its chest, pinning him down as its mouth and all its razor-sharp teeth hover dangerously close to his throat, about to perform his second head operation of the day.

 

Vox squirms and thrashes against it, internal temperature skyrocketing. He frantically glances from side to side for any electrical conduit to escape into to no avail. Desperately tries tapping into the current always running through his system to try shocking it to death, but the most he can drum up is a panicked red spark in his antennae.

 

In the face of this absolute fucking failure, Vox laughs.

 

He’s going to die in front of Alastor—on his fucking birthday—all because he let a sex robot give him brain damage, or something.

 

It’s all a bit too much all at once. So, before he feels any pain, Vox.exe makes the executive decision to shut down. Faintly, as his screen fades to black for what feels like the hundredth time that day, he hears screeching, followed by ripping and tearing, and then, finally, silent release.

 

—

 

Vox boots back up into a sea of red.

 

The first thing that registers is this oddly intense red filter that tints his entire screen. His old, rounded screen, at that. Still attached to his neck. The second thing, which registers more alarmingly, is Alastor. Alastor, who’s pressed down on top of him, smiling face hovering inches above his, exactly how their prey had been—prey that’s conspicuously absent. And silent. The third, final, and least surprising thing that registers is that Alastor is absolutely drenched in blood.

 

Doesn’t take much to put two and two together, even in this state.

 

When Alastor notices Vox is awake, his ears prick up, and he sighs dramatically. Clicks his tongue. “Oh, this won’t do.” He then proceeds to…lick his right hand and wipe at Vox’s screen with it. The more Alastor cleans, the fainter Vox feels. And when all that’s remaining only covers Vox’s mouth? Alastor finishes the job with his tongue. He just leans in and licks it right off. Again, Vox feels really fucking faint right now. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, Alastor starts gently petting the top of Vox’s head with his free, untainted hand, fingers lingering between his antennae. Stroking. “There you are. All better.”

 

Did he actually wake up at all? Is this some kind of mid-regeneration wet dream? It has to be.

 

“Vox,” Alastor coos, staring at him queerly, red eyes glowing bright. “I understand your dedication to your little act, but why didn’t you escape from him? Or at least have zapped the fellow. You could’ve been terribly hurt. Taken days to regenerate.”

 

“I—” Vox swallows hard, sobering instantly despite the antennae stroking. Something in Alastor’s tone feels off, sets him on edge. Something tells him he has to sell this, otherwise... He doesn’t want to think about it. “I knew you’d save me, Al. I—I thought it’d be hot? And it was, so…”

 

It’s so quiet, Vox can hear Alastor’s tail wagging. Swish, swish. Swish, swish.

 

“Typical. But—” There’s that look again. The shift. That sharp gleam in his eyes. “You still seem tense, my dear. In fact, you’ve been rather tense all day. Is something else the matter…?”

 

Fuck. Vox sweats under Alastor’s scrutiny, heart beating a mile a minute, feeling more threatened now than he did when he was literally under attack.

 

That’s it, he can’t deny it anymore. Alastor definitely knows. There’s no fucking way he doesn’t. He knows Vox is a pathetic, powerless little bitch again, and he wants him to just come clean and say it. Maybe even cry about it. He should probably just concede. Get it over with, see whatever terrifying shit Alastor has in store, but—no. There has to be another way to salvage this. His mind races, scrambling to think anything else he can spin this as. What he lands on isn’t ideal. But it might work. Maybe.

 

He can at least give Alastor some waterworks.

 

“It’s just—” Vox inhales, eyebrows furrowing. Then, he forces the floodgates open, words and tears spilling out in equal measure. His voice warbles. “I wanted this to be the best birthday you’ve ever had, okay? A fucking all-timer. I know you don’t really care about it—you should, but I know you don’t—but I do. And it’s been a while since I did anything, and it’s actually really fucking hard to top the times I let you eat some of me, Mimzy made that extremely clear, and I—I knew normal shit like making you breakfast wouldn’t cut it.

 

“Because it’s the first one, y’know? Your first birthday since we got together. Which still doesn’t feel real half the time. Most of the time. It hasn’t been that long, and I just—I need you to be happy. I’ll do anything to—” Stop. He’s getting way too into this. He glances away, blinking back tears that no longer feel forced, unable to keep saying this gross, vulnerable shit to Alastor’s face. He sniffles pathetically, tries to stabilize his breathing before braving eye contact again.

 

“Anyway,” Vox continues, dialing himself back, “you’ve been real cute today. Like, you just licked my face? Held my hand. Saved me… It’s a lot. Seriously, I wouldn’t have chunked all my other models if I’d known how much you like me looking more like...this.

 

“I just don’t know if you’d still be as interested if I didn’t. Look this way, I mean. And that makes me”—fuck, what was that word Alastor used, he has to stick the landing—“tense, I guess.”

 

And what this little desperation tactic gone wrong makes him feel is nauseous. It would’ve been less embarrassing, less completely fucking mortifying, to have just confessed to the power loss bullshit instead. Why did he say all that?

 

“So, you risked being killed because you wanted to make me happy?”

 

“…Yes?” Vox offers an unsure, lopsided smile. He wouldn’t put it like that, exactly, but. Whatever works. He can’t see that gleam in Alastor’s eyes anymore.

 

“Oh, Vox. You’re so…stupid.” It comes out tenderly, as if Alastor’s just bestowed the highest possible praise. Then, he leans down and plants a quick kiss on Vox’s lips. “Whatever will I do with you? I thought we’ve been through this. I’ve always—” His smile curls, as if it actually pains him to admit this. “I’ve never actually hated anything you’ve given me. If I had, I would’ve stopped allowing these little celebrations ages ago.” He sighs. Rolls his eyes. “And of course I’d still be interested. Please, why else would I have spent years helping you with all those dreadful procedures? You do realize how easily I could’ve left you to die? Every time? Yet I never did. Because no matter how much you mess up your appearance, you’re still my adorable, stubborn, clingy little picture box underneath.” With that, Alastor finally sheds his prone position above Vox, sinking down to rest on top of him, head curled below Vox’s bulky one. Settling in, he adds with a laugh, “Still taste the same, too!”

 

It’s a whole mixed bag of comments that would normally either send Vox spiraling, drafting up a suicide note on the spot, or send him straight to the studio, eager to share the breaking news. But somehow, combined, coming from Alastor’s bloodied lips, they just make Vox tear up again with big, glassy eyes and passionately cry out, “Alastor…!”

 

They lie there together for a while, arms tightly embracing, legs a tangled mess. Completely surrounded by the bloody aftermath of their hunt. Vox thinks he could actually stay like this forever, just the two of them.

 

And Alastor agrees wholeheartedly. For better or worse.

 

“I must say... It’s still a real treat to see you like this again,” he says, sitting up. Flashing Vox a knowing look with that fucking gleam again. “There’s no rush to change back so soon, is there? No pressing reason.”

 

Vox’s inner peace shatters, screen glitching out. Of course, of fucking course Alastor wouldn’t let him off that easy. He’s cute, but not that cute. Even after Vox cried for him and everything—!

 

"I mean a birthday is just for…a day, Al. Y’know. Birth-day."

 

"I’m aware,” Alastor deadpans. But he quickly changes his tune, starts batting his eyes all cutely, fingers ghosting over Vox’s dials. “But don't I deserve an extension? Especially after you cast me aside for hours and had the audacity to nearly get yourself killed by someone else."

 

"That’s—" Vox sighs, cornered and defeated in one fell swoop. How the fuck is he supposed to argue with a face like that? "Fine. Just for another day, okay?"

 

Alastor's smile grows, turning alarmingly predatory.

 

"I—I'm serious, Al. I don’t wanna be seen like this too much by anyone else."

 

"That's quite all right. We can spend more time at home! Make ourselves nice and comfortable,” Alastor says, clearly feeding off of Vox’s growing discomfort. Fucking asshole. “Besides, apparently you require constant reminders that I’m not going anywhere. Needy thing. This would suffice, don’t you think…?”

 

Vox should probably feel warier of this. But after all the ups and downs he’s been through—and it’s still only midday—he’s too worn down to worry much anymore. Alastor will be with him, and right now that’s what matters. Alastor, who really likes him. Wants him around. Loves everything Vox gives him.

 

And really, Alastor asking for a birthday extension just means Vox succeeded. This ugly, outdated head of his really did make it the best birthday ever. And now it can be like—like a gift that keeps on giving. Yes, that sounds nice.

 

At least for a little while. Just an extra day.

 

Or two.

 

…Nothing longer than a week.