Chapter Text
The day had been spent as joyously as it could have. Perhaps it should have been the single greatest day in Vox’s life. The radio demon was ensnared in his grasp, reduced to a prisoner he could cart around and flaunt at his wish. And oh, did he flaunt. He shouted it from the rooftops, on every headline and billboard in hell. But, all excitement fades, and now, alone in the office with none other than his grinning quarry, without the initial rush of pride or screaming reporters or cheering crowds to distract himself, a very different feeling had wormed its way into him.
Wrongness.
He stared at the massive aquarium in front of him, trying to ignore the faint reflection beside him. The outline of a man, tied to a chair. In that blurry image, only one feature remained clear, unchanged. A bright grin. Out of the corner of his eye it languished, no matter how hard he tried to focus in on the water, on anything else. It was there. It was always, always there. It always had been. Just now, instead of being a taunt of his ruined mind, it was a tangible presence in the room, as real as the day he first gazed on it with wide, admiring eyes. He ran his hand down the glass, letting his claws leave gouges in its surface. He imagined it was skin beneath his fingertips, he imagined it was his skin.
“Deep in thought, Vox?” That crackling, staticked voice chuckled from behind him.
“You can say that.” He clicked his tongue, finally daring to turn his head and face him properly. He watched him cock his head, one ear flicking down quizzically.
“First time?”
“Oh, shut your mouth.” He grimaced, sitting back down at his desk with a sigh, a hand pressed to his temple. Or, where his temple once was. It was difficult to tell with the lack of human features he now possessed. “You know, I’ve been wondering about something.”
“I really am the star of that little brain of yours, hm?” Alastor chuckled, crossing his legs and leaning back in the seat he was tied to. “By all means, ask away. I’m at your disposal.”
He sneered back, taking in his casual demeanour. Now that the initial rush of excitement was over, for some reason, it didn’t feel like a victory. Not when he still had that stupid fucking smile on his face. Vox steepled his hands in front of him, trying to focus his gaze firmly on Alastor’s even when all it wished to do was drift. It was odd to think about, but this was the first time in over seventy years he was able to get a good in-person look at him, without being caught up in physical blows.
Since that night.
He cleared his throat, his voice coming out much rougher than he intended it to, tinted by the growing bitter taste in his throat. “The princess of hell and the radio demon. What a cozy alliance you’ve made, huh?”
Alastor laughed, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Mm, yes. Quite the character, isn’t she?”
“Why.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me my personal dealings get under your skin so much, Vox!”
“Don’t act stupid. You know exactly why it’s bothering me.”
“Mm… no, can’t say I do.” Alastor made a show of playing the fool.
Vox might have believed it if he didn’t know any better. He always knew more than he let on. He always had some shit to say. It’s what made him so annoying. “Fucking spit it out.” He hissed through gritted teeth, claws digging into his armrest so hard he felt the metal nearly give beneath his force. And throughout it all, there sat Alastor, as poised and perfect as always, toothy grin flashing in the dim light. When Vox continued, his voice glitched just slightly. “What does Lucifer’s little brat have that I don’t?”
One of Alastor’s ears flicked, seeming almost caught off guard for a split second before that nauseating laugh filled the air again. “Oh, now you’re jealous of the princess? I must say, it is rather adorable, how pathetic you are under it all.”
The lights flickered, electricity crackling at Vox’s fingertips as he slammed a hand on his desk, shooting up out of his chair. “Pathetic?! You’re serious?!” He laughed, throwing out his arms in a grand gesture to the building around them. “Look around you, Al! The people love me, worship me! I’m the face of the biggest corporation in hell, and now, the face of the revolution. I have the ratings, the fame, the influence, the power, I have it all!”
“But not me.” Alastor’s grin flashed in the dark, but his voice, oddly enough, sounded much less boastful than usual. It was almost breathy. “You don’t have me. And that bothers you more than anything, doesn’t it?”
Vox felt something collapse in his chest, like the power snapping out during a storm. The room went silent for a long, long moment. The clock ticked, the static sound humming off of Alastor felt like needles in his skin. “Shut the fuck up.” He hissed through gritted teeth, leaning over the desk to snatch his collar, balling the fabric in his claws and yanking him closer so violently the chair he was tied to scratched the floor.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” As always, he didn’t seem affected. He just laughed. He laughed, he laughed. He always laughed. “You don’t feel like you won, hm? You’re all hollow inside.” He tutted, his voice dripping with acid mockery. Vox felt nauseous. That disgusting, bitter, burning feeling that had been festering in his chest suddenly felt like it was crawling through his wires, raking its teeth all the way. He grabbed a fistful of his hair, and slammed it down onto the desk, filling the room with a sickening crack.
Sickening? He wanted to slap himself for that thought. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
He didn’t understand how empty it all felt when he pulled his head back up to see that same grin, those dark, narrow eyes staring up at him as blood streamed down his face.
The edge of the desk had collided square with his forehead, leaving a large gash parting his skin. Some of it splattered, getting onto Vox’s hands. No satisfaction was found within him, even when he raised a hand to dig his thumb into the wound, and heard the low hiss of pain he tore from Alastor’s sorry throat. That burning feeling didn’t dissipate, it only grew stronger, brighter, until it blinded any last shred of pride within him. He grabbed Alastor’s chin and threw him back, his chair falling to the floor with him in it, his skull making another crack against the floor.
“Who cares.” Vox moved around the desk, placing the heel of his boot on Alastor’s chest, looming over him. Even like this, broken, bleeding, bound… He didn’t look as though he’d lost. That smirk remained firmly in place, even when stained with his own blood. “You know what? It’s a blessing you were a fool. I can’t imagine having to wake up every day and look at your ugly mug.”
Alastor let out a half-laugh, half coughing fit, licking his own blood off his lips with a slow motion of his tongue. “Is that so? You know, lying never looked good on you, Vincent. Why don’t you–”
“Do not call me that!” He lifted his foot and brought it down hard on Alastor’s ribs, drawing another gasp from him. “You don’t get to call me that.”
For once, Alastor was silent, save for another stranded cough. Vox felt the urge to kick him in the face next, knock out a few teeth, force that smile off his stupid face. But instead, he pulled off, stepping back. “And to think you could’ve had all this.” He scoffed, gesturing to the grand room around him.
He laughed. “What? A tacky little tower and a horde of leeches to kiss your boots? Darling, I assure you, I am not missing out on much!”
“Tacky?! I’ll show you ta–” Vox cut himself off, taking a deep, long breath. He was playing into his damn game again. He was always playing some sort of game. “You could have had it all. The key to the gates of hell. You could’ve been on the winning side, instead of slumming it with a bunch of lousy little nobodies. We both know you don’t believe in little miss Morningstar’s ‘red-emp-tion’.” He said that last word with a disgusted, mocking drawl. “So, what is it? What’s your game here? What’s the point?”
“Do I need to explain my every move?”
“You need to explain this one. Tell me why the high and mighty Alastor would waste his time on some tooth-rotting, childish crap like that.” He clicked his tongue. “Make me understand why you would waste yourself when you could have had me.”
Vox didn’t even realize his mistake until he saw Alastor’s brows raise, his grin widening like some lousy reporter that finally weasled a life-ruining line from him.
“You? You?” He burst out laughing, loud and sharp. Vox didn’t know how it always managed to sting the same. “I could have had you, could I? Oh, how unfortunate. I am simply cursing my past self for being so foolish for losing such a prize—“
His boot collided with the side of his head, making it whip to the side.
Crack.
“You know, I like you much better quiet.” It came down on his neck, pressing into his throat.
Crack.
“It really is too bad you never know when to shut your fucking mouth.” It came down just below his ribcage.
Crack.
He settled it on his chest once more, atop his rapid heart, and knelt down, grabbing Alastor’s hair and forcing him to meet his gaze. “You think I care that you wanted to go play house with little miss sunshine and rainbows? I don’t. You think I care that you rejected my offer? I don’t. You’re an outdated, pathetic nobody without even enough sense to know when he’s lost.”
Alastor chuckled. Blood now ran down his face in droves, rendering slick his ashy skin. It gathered on the floor below, sinking into the very foundation of everything Vox had built. It stained his hands, his perfectly polished cufflinks. He had dreamed of this moment, of seeing him bleed, seeing him broken before him. Why did it all feel so dull?
“You still need me.” He whispered, low and dangerous, like a curse only Vox was permitted to hear. “Just like you did before. It really is sweet how much you think of me.”
Vox sneered, letting go of his hair. “We’ll see who’s needing who when I become what I’m meant to be.”
“Oh, please. Take over heaven? You’re more full of yourself than I remember. You barely even defeated me.” He shook his head, then tilted it to the side. “And you couldn’t even do it alone.”
Vox felt that familiar pit in his chest, that dropping of his heart. “Nothings ever good enough for you, is it?”
“Is that what you want? For things to be good enough for me?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, you red bastard.”
“Am I? Because it sounds awfully like you want my approval.” He shifted in his restraints. “Admit it. You want my appreciation, don't you?”
“I want you to die.”
Alastor chuckled. Vox restrained himself from throwing another punch.
Instead, he grabbed his chair to pull him off the floor and up to sit properly again, heaving a long sigh and leaning back against his desk. Alastor seemed a little surprised for a moment, then, he hummed in approval.
“There we go. Now this is a much more civilized way to converse.”
“Shut your mouth, or I’ll throw you on the floor again.”
He laughed, this one was low and rumbling, like the steady hum of a broken radio. “If you wanted to, you’d simply do it. I’m at your mercy, after all.”
“That’s right. You are.” Vox let his eyes rake over Alastor’s form. The blood on his face had begun to dry, caking to his skin in thick clumps. His hair was frazzled, sticking this way and that, frizzed up with the shocks he had endured earlier. And, no doubt, dark bruises were forming just beneath that cloak. Vox swallowed, gritting his teeth. “And don’t you forget it.”
“Hard to when it's plastered on every headline in hell. You really were always one for spectacle, aren’t you?”
“You don’t become the star of television by being quiet.” He rummaged under his desk, grabbing the bottle of whiskey Velvette had pawned off on him over a month ago. He’d been waiting for a special occasion to open it. He supposed this was as special of an occasion as ever, but somehow, he hesitated, staring at the label for a long, long moment.
He knew the burn of it well. Once, it was accompanied with a very different warm sensation. The distant sounds of the bustling bar around them, the steady hum of staticky laughter at his side. His favorite shade of red would be there each time he turned his head, cracking an outdated, unfunny joke or listening to Vox talk about his master plans.
He’d told that man everything. His true name, his goals, his past… He’d bragged for hours about his exploits back in life, and Alastor had been there, listening, a little gleam in his eye each time the details of another murder drawled off of Vox’s tongue. He had often thought of those moments. How had he not noticed that for every piece of himself he shared, he never even learned the nature of his sins. He had listened, but he never reciprocated. Had he ever ever enjoyed a single one of those nights at the bar? Were they really just a chore for him? Then, why? Why do it? Why waste his time entertaining a ‘weak’ newcomer? Just to rip the rug out from under him the moment he–
No. He didn’t feel a thing. He didn’t. feel. a. thing. He never did.
He wondered how many more times he’d have to say that before it became true.
He looked back at Alastor, whose gaze had not left him for a moment. He cocked his head, glancing at the bottle in his hand. “You know, it’s polite to offer your guest a drink.”
Vox laughed in disbelief. “Guest? You’re my prisoner! I should smash this thing over your thick skull, if anything.”
“And waste good liquor? Even you're not that stupid.” He leaned back, drawing a circle into the floor with the toe of his shoe. “For old times?”
Vox heaved a long, deep sigh, pulling out two glasses. “You know what? I need to finish this damn thing anyways.”
“Mhm, that’s the reason.”
“Shut it, or I’ll smash you against this desk again. And this time, I’ll take a couple teeth with me.” He poured an equal amount into both, paused, then poured a little more into his glass, holding the other out to Alastor. He stared at it blankly for a moment, his arms still firmly tied to the chair. Vox sighed, loosening one of the cables that bound him to let one of his hands free.
He wrapped his hand around the glass slowly, but lingered there, his fingers so close to Vox’s he could almost feel the coldness radiating off of them. He met his gaze, giving him a quizzical look. Alastor just returned it with a lopsided grin, moving his hand up to brush just slightly against his.
Vox convulsed back like he had been shocked, and Alastor laughed, taking a long swig of the whiskey. “I must say, this is quite the nostalgic little scene.”
“Uh huh.” He deadpanned, leaning back against the desk again and taking a sip of his own drink. “Real nostalgic.”
“And to think you were just a bright-eyed little newbie back then. Look what you’ve become!”
“Don’t fucking patronize me.” Vox clicked his tongue, darting a foot out to hook it around the leg of the rolling chair, pulling it towards him. “Might I remind you, you’re in my domain now.”
“Mm, yes. You were rather clear on that.” He barely reacted, taking another long sip and sighing in relief as the whiskey hit his tongue. “You do have a way of making yourself known, don’t you?”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” Alastor hummed in that little sing-song voice. He used the opportunity of having his hand free to wipe his face of as much blood as he could manage, then took another swig. “Just an observation.”
“...You’re working some kind of angle here. And I don’t like it.”
“Who, me? Oh, darling, you really do think so low of me. It is a shame, really. You once thought the world of me, didn’t you?”
Vox felt that now-familiar ache in his chest.
“You know, I mean it.” His voice dripped with sickening sweetness. “You really have done well for yourself.”
Vox swallowed thickly, taking a quick sip of his whiskey. He suddenly wanted to chug the whole bottle. He needed that to even begin to deal with this.
“Come now, don’t be shy! Where’s that boisterous little fellow I met all those years ago? Though, I guess you're not him anymore, hm? You’re stronger now. Smarter. More powerful than ever before.”
Vox’s frown deepened, and he turned away from him, sighing and taking another long swig. “Well, this has been a… very lovely chat, but you see, I have an extremely successful and trustworthy media empire to run, so–”
“I’m proud of you, Vox.”
The sound of shattering glass echoes off the walls, whiskey spilling out over the floor around Vox, staining his perfectly polished dress shoes. The air around him suddenly seemed heavy, suffocating, crushing his chest like he was buried alive. For a moment, it felt as though he wasn’t even able to breathe. The silence, the low hum of static, the crackle of electricity from Vox’s lips was all that permeated through the fog of his mind. When he spoke, it came out in a rough, glitched tone, a forced smile on his face. “What did you say?”
“I’m proud of you.” He repeated, with that same casual, smooth tone. “Admire you, even! After all, now that you have me in your snare, you’re the most powerful sinner in all of hell, aren’t you?’ His voice seemed to drop lower for a split second, grin growing impossibly wider.
Vox felt like his wires were being snapped apart one by one. Why did he always seem to have such an effect on him? Nothing pissed him off more. Not even Val going on another one of his childish killing sprees. Not even Velvette picking fights with powerful possible allies.
“Stop that.” He hissed out, kicking the broken glass to the side and leaning closer, circling his fingers into the fabric of Alastor’s well-tailored suit. “Just shut the fuck up already.”
“Ouh, hit a nerve there, didn’t I? It seems I found your weak spot.” He laughed, low and menacing, stabbing into Vox’s circuits. “Sweetheart, you are too obvious.”
That acid sort of anger bubbled up within him again, bile rising in his throat until it choked out his every catalogued insult. But his knees felt weak. His head was spinning. Decades of bottled up emotion. Of nights spent alone in bed, a thousand screens displaying the same smiling face. Of hours spent pacing his tower, looking down at the city below, wondering if he was being thought of too, and knowing he wasn’t. Days spent imagining what could have been, that bitter taste in his mouth remembering how it ended before it even began. All because of him. All because of the bastard before him.
I'm proud of you.
Even a snake couldn’t spit words as ugly as those, as dripping with deceit. Every shape those lips took while forming those four little words was a mockery to everything Vox was, everything he had built, everything he had moved past. I’m proud of you. He said, after laughing in his face. I’m proud of you. He said, while tied to a chair, covered in thousands of cuts and bruises by his hand. I’m proud of you. He said, before-
Vox fell to his knees, arms wrapping around Alastor’s legs, face burying into his lap. He barely registered the figure he clung to tensing, so focused was he on the tearing feeling in his abdomen. He might as well have taken a scalpel and shoved it through his chest, ran it down to his navel, flayed him open like a lab frog and exposed the soft, fleshy core within. His claws dug into Alastor’s skin through the fabric of his pants, so hard they left gouges in their wake. But as blood bloomed around his fingers all he could do was shake. Shake, cling, kneel before his own captive.
I’m proud of you. He didn’t say. He’d never say it again. In the midst of his sobs Vox heard the distinct sound of him downing the rest of the glass, placing it on the table. Then, the soft palm of his hand pressed against the back of Vox’s head.
His lap was warm, but his hand was cold, barely a comfort. Still, its weight was possibly the most important little pressure Vox had ever felt. The memory of his laughter echoes in his head, as it so often did. It had burrowed its way so deep into his circuits he wouldn’t have been able to dig it out with any tool existing. It had corrupted his every system, a worming, fanged virus, gnawing at him a little each day. Only now did it reach his goal properly, chewing through his mechanical heart, releasing all that had been trapped within in one shameful tidal wave that left him sobbing into his lap.
He didn’t dare look up. He knew what fate awaited him. A smile, a laugh, mocking words drawled under hushed breath. Another ritual of humiliation, another reminder of what he could never, ever have.
“Do you even know what we could’ve been?” Vox let out a loud, manic laugh, voice breaking with the tears he fought not to shed. “You fucking asshole. Do you know what you were to me?”
And he said nothing. Vox slowly looked up.
All that faced him was that sickly yellow grin.
I’m proud of you.
He had half the mind to beg to hear it again.
“Oh, Vincent…” He purred, letting his hand stroke up the cold surface of his head with sickening gentleness. Then, he grabbed hold of his antennae, yanking on them hard. “You really are weak.”
Vox grit his teeth in pain, feeling that familiar, hot feeling of shame shoot through his every wire. “If you won’t answer why you’re prancing around in that little freakshow you call a hotel, answer me this.” He wiped his tears on his sleeve. He wanted to stand, but his legs failed him. He continued to look up at Alastor, at his face, shrouded in shadow, only his too-wide grin shining back down. “What were we, really?”
“What were we?” He repeated, giving another mocking little laugh. “That’s implying that we were anything in the first place.”
“Oh, is that how it is?” His voice came out strained, a forced laugh tearing from his throat. “We were nothing? We were nothing. All that time we spent, all those idiots we killed together, every night at the bar, just nothing, huh? So what was your angle? What was your goal? You always have some half-baked little plan behind that stupid grin. So tell me, why treat me like a friend if I was nothing to you?”
Silence fell over them for a moment. That smile on Alastor’s face twitched at the edges, his brows furrowing almost imperceptively. Perhaps it was wishful thinking to interpret that as a face of contemplation. Vox knew better than to trust anything about him. As quickly as it came, that contemplation was gone, replaced with his usual smug look.
“Can’t I take pity on a poor little new soul, no place to go?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You were quite the pathetic sight, even back then.”
“Liar.” Vox hissed out, slowly rising to his feet. Alastor looked much better from his vantage point, that was for sure. Vox’s hands gripped the armrests tightly, almost bending the material beneath him. “You’re not capable of feeling pity.”
One of Alastor’s ears twitched. He leaned back as far as he could, but trapped between the chair and Vox, there was little place to go. “Perhaps I was simply enjoying the entertainment of listening to you talk about those silly hopes and dreams, knowing you’d never achieve them.”
“Well, how very unfortunate for you that I’ve gone on to become the biggest sensation in hell.” He grabbed one of Alastor’s tiny antlers, yanking his head backwards and revelling in the yelp of pain he let out. “And look at you. Nothing but the princess’s little attack dog. And now, you’re just a bitch on a leash. And that’s where you’ll stay.”
Before Alastor could respond, Vox released a sudden surge of electricity, making him tense up and arch off the chair. He slumped forward, his breaths coming out in short pants. Vox tilted his chin up, stealing one last look at that face, twisted in pain, but with that grin still firmly in place.
And he felt more hollow than before.
He shoved the whole chair back, letting it roll across the room until it hit the glass of the aquarium. “Have fun languishing in here! Hope you can enjoy the… quality entertainment I have planned for you.”
A massive, dark shape formed in the water behind Alastor, before rows of razor sharp teeth became visible in the murk. Alastor turned to meet the one eye of Shok.Wav, separated only by the glass.
“Now I have to play babysitter for your little doggy?”
“Make any escape attempts and I’ll throw you into the tank. He loves the taste of venison.” Vox called from the doorway, before slamming it shut behind him.
The moment he was alone again, it felt like everything hit him all at once, a tidal wave of embarrassment, of hatred,
of excitement.
He didn’t know which feeling he hated most as he leaned back against the door, staying there for a long moment until his head stopped spinning. That cheshire grin was burned into his mainframe as if made by some kind of branding iron, marking him as a slave to his stupid emotions. His desires.
He wanted to storm back into the room, fists blazing. He wanted to break each of Alastor’s ribs one by one, feel every crack and crunch and pop under his hands as he tore him apart limb from limb. He looked down at his hand, at the thumb he had moments ago dug into Alastor’s wound. Even now, it felt as though he could feel it tearing beneath his touch, splitting apart at his command. As red as the flash of Alastor’s eyes.
He brought his hand up, and ran his tongue along his own skin, cleaning it of any trace of Alastor.
As soon as the metallic taste hit his tongue, he let out a sound, and let his eyes flutter shut. He ran his finger along his lips, then dropped his hand, letting it hand limply at his side. He felt electricity crackling through him again, searing his flesh inside out. He pushed off the door, walking too quickly through the halls, heart pounding out of his chest.
He was frustrated. More frustrated than ever before. His employees parted like the red sea before him, and those who didn’t got thrown into the nearest wall with a couple electrical burns to show for it. Vox made an internal note to fire those snivelling little demons in the morning. For now, he had better things to tend to.
The door to his room swung open with such force it slammed into the wall with a loud crack. Vox pictured it was Alastor’s bones as he kicked it shut. He pictured it was Alastor’s limp body as he loosened his tie and threw it haphazardly to the side. He pictured it was Alastor’s face as he kicked it across the room.
He pictured it was Alastor’s hands when he unbuttoned his dress pants.
He heaved a long sigh, collapsing into his chair, bringing up a flurry of screens before him with a flick of his wrist. His eyes still stung with his earlier tears, his throat still burned with whiskey and blood. And, god, his boxers were still incredibly tight.
He felt that familiar nausea in his gut. The burning shame rising up his throat like black bile, clawing its way to whatever shreds of sense were still left in his mind. Alastor’s face was emblazoned on every screen. Every angle, every expression, every position. He focused in on the one displaying footage of him with that archangel, on the ground, broken and bleeding, his chest split open and pouring blood onto the soil of hell. Vox let his eyes rake over his form with wild abandon now, taking in the sight. It felt different now that he knew what that blood tasted like. It felt different now that he had felt his form crumple beneath his boots, saw those eyes wince in pain under his manipulation. He leaned back in his seat, letting out a long breath as he moved his clothing to the side, exposing his cock.
Images flashed behind his hooded eyes, flicking between the screens before him as his hand wrapped around his base. He didn’t bother to start slow, not when he was this worked up. He set an almost painful pace for himself, wracking his body with waves of sensation as his free hand snaked its way beneath his shirt, pulling the fabric off of his sweat-soaked skin.
He tried to outpace the roiling, blooming shame in his chest, burning hot in his mind. Disgust fluttered in his stomach with each pang of arousal he felt. Getting off to his worst enemy was one thing, but jerking off to his image all alone in his room felt like a different level of pathetic. Anger flared at the thought of that stupid deer managing to worm his way into even his most private pleasures. It seemed that he had tainted every single facet of his life, in some way or another. Those seven years of him missing had done well to make him forget all about it. Hell, that golden span of being able to relax, to not think of him, to not have him corrupt his mind further… It was beautiful. He was able to focus on Voxtek without measuring its success to his. He was able to build his team without his voice in his ear, ‘no friends in hell. No friends in hell.’
He was happy.
He was almost able to ignore that feeling, that image of what could have been.
He slowed down his pace, clasping a hand over his mouth and biting down on his palm, hard. thoughts of Alastor, bloody and broken, had slowly begun to morph into very different thoughts entirely.
How it would feel to have his face cracking to the side under his fist.
How it would feel to have his hand firmly shake his, under the light of the bar.
How it would sound to hear his cries of pain.
How it would sound to hear him happily say the word ‘yes’, to meet his gaze as he accepted his proposition.
How it would feel to be victorious.
How it would feel to be partners.
I’m proud of you, Vox.
A sob tore from his throat, no matter how hard he tried to stop it. His eyes welled up with tears, and he desperately blinked them back. He had sunk his teeth so deep into his palm he had drawn blood, but it tasted nothing like his.
All those years ago, he had fallen for a man. Something he never imagined he would have done. It was a sick feeling, a flaring hatred for his own feeble mind he had never before felt. But he had conquered that feeling. He had extended his hand with an open palm and an open heart, willing to try something terrifying, but new. It wasn’t just an acceptance of his desire, it was the first genuine proposition he have ever made in his life. It was the first time he wanted to reach out to someone not for personal gain, but for the simple, naive desire to be near them. It was the first time he ever felt those mythical butterflies in his gut, a kind of nervousness he never experienced in his life of murder and deceit. The first time he looked at another and saw them as of equal standing to himself. The first time he looked at another and saw a friend.
Laughter echoed in his head. Broken with static, loud, spitting in the face of everything he pictured.
He had thought that would be the end of his shame. But the burn of arousal currently in his gut suddenly felt more mocking than ever before, more revolting than that initial distaste for himself. Now, in the lonesomeness of his room, a man being the object of his desire was the last of his embarrassment. Hell, that seemed almost stupid to him now. No, this was a shame he could not conquer. A shame he could not move past, not as long as Alastor’s crescent smile remained fixed firmly in place, taunting him. Not as long as he was this weak.
He wept openly now, tears rolling down his cheeks. He was close, and he cursed himself for being so. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. He wanted to feel something snap under his hands. He wanted to feel something die. One of the many screens displayed an image of Alastor in that stupid hotel. Was it just him, or did his trademark smile seem softer? Did his eyes look brighter? Did he look relaxed, comfortable, happy?
He never looked that way when he was with him.
He brought himself to the absolute edge, then pushed off of it, finishing with a little sob. His hand was covered with it, replacing the blood from earlier with shame. It shook, dispelling all the screens. He didn’t want to see another glimpse of red for the rest of time.
The room was dark, and silent. No low buzz of the radio, no glow of screens to keep himself distracted. It was just him, and all that he was. Without everything he could have had. Could have held close, to his chest. Could have shared a proper drink with, like so many years ago. Could have laughed with. Vox’s skin was burning hot, flushed with embarrassment and the lingering effects of arousal. The aftershocks of his orgasm were reminder after reminder of what he had done, of who had done this to him, and what they could have been together. Was there anything he could have done back then, that would have spared him from this fate? The logical part of him screamed that there wasn’t. Part of him clung to that thought, of an alternate world where he had everything he ever wanted.
He curled up in on himself, and raked his claws down his face, hoping to erase any sign that tears had ever festered there.
Wrongness. What a word. It was the only one that fit.