Chapter Text
Later, he would say he should have seen it coming.
The morning had started too perfect. The weather in New Orleans hugged him warmly without being oppressive. His light blue suit sat exactly right on his shoulders. His shoes glinted in the light. Every handshake possessed the exact right firmness, accompanied by an introduction that left his counterparts taking a captivated pause to really look at him.
Vincent Whittman did not believe in luck. He believed in systems and patterns, and any system that ran this smoothly was bound to conceal a flaw. Perfection, after all, was merely a warning hidden in plain sight.
He should know.
He followed his guide down the corridor, listening just enough to give the appropriate nod from time to time, his attention already drifting to the work ahead of him. Starline Broadcasting Corporation had the confidence of a company that had once been ahead of its competitors and now seemed content to rest on that reputation. Its radio department thrived, but the television department lagged behind. That was why Sinclair had sent him here.
He could already see improvements lining up in his mind: sharper programming, smoother transitions, shinier faces that would hold the audience's attention a second longer than before. SBC did not need to be rebuilt, but it needed to be refined, and Vincent was an expert in knowing exactly where to apply pressure.
The sleek radio wing came into view and he automatically turned his head toward one of the booths.
And stopped.
Behind the glass, a man hunched over a stack of scripts with a concentration that bordered on devotion. Vincent recognized something familiar in the sight. A bit of himself. He could tell this was a performer absorbed in his own work. A rare moment not meant for an audience, but solely for himself.
He found himself noting details he had no reason to care for: the sharp line of the man's jaw, the small smile dancing on his lips, the low-sitting glasses on his pointed nose. He looked like a portrait displayed right in the center of a gallery: something meant to be admired, but never touched.
Vincent's own reaction annoyed him, but the strange flutter in his chest was immediately chased by something older and more defensive, attempting to rip this new feeling apart like it had been taught to. The flutter was persistent though, trying to stay afloat, and Vincent couldn't help himself—
"Who's that?" he asked.
The guide followed his gaze and chuckled.
"That's Alastor Clair. New Orleans' most darling radio host," he said before cheekily adding: "Our goldmine. Don't worry, though. You won't have to deal with him much. He knows his place."
Vincent nodded, though it took a lot more strength to look away from Alastor than he cared to admit.
Later, he would say he should have seen it coming. His perfect morning had cracked the moment he had laid eyes on Alastor Clair, letting something dangerous sneak its way into Vincent's system. But now, as he allowed his guide to pull him along, he told himself it was nothing. Just a momentary distraction.
Nothing. It was nothing.
He returned to this affirmation over the following days, repeating it again and again to try and bend reality. Because, truth be told, it was apparently far from nothing and far from momentary. Far too often did he find himself rerouting his steps through the building, drifting closer to the radio wing under the pretense of familiarizing himself with the station's layout.
The excuse was beyond ridiculous. He had memorized the floor plan on his first day.
Unfortunately, more often than not, he was rewarded with only glimpses. A flash of Alastor's back as he rounded a corner. The grip of his hand on the door handle as he slipped into the booth. Vincent never seemed to arrive at the right moment, except when he did…
Yesterday, he had walked into the breakroom and stopped dead in his tracks: Alastor stood at the counter, stirring his coffee with ease, and although Vincent's hungry eyes had practically been chasing Alastor through the building, Vincent's mind had blanked instantly, his feet refusing to move in either direction for a humiliating moment.
He turned back around and left without getting his own coffee.
The flutter in his chest returned every time he saw even just a fragment of Alastor, and it was deeply unwelcome. It had no place in Vincent's carefully curated life, his plans or his ambitions.
By the time he returned to his hotel suite, his head was pounding with irritation. He didn't know Alastor at all, and yet the man had wedged himself firmly into Vincent's mind. Why? Quite honestly, it wasn't the first time his chest tightened at the thought of other men. He had felt alike this looking at men who had everything he wanted, or stood directly in his way. They fascinated him, but that fascination was always accompanied by good old envy, and it always resolved in the same way: the moment they stopped breathing, Vincent's chest loosened. The obstacle was gone, so Vincent could step into the light meant for him.
This was different.
He didn't want what Alastor had. Radio was a dying medium, soon to be replaced by brighter screens. Vincent had absolutely no desire to take Alastor's place or dismantle his supposed success.
So why—
Why did he linger in his thoughts like this? Why did his pulse kick faster at the thought of a man he had no intention of becoming?
The answer, Vincent pondered, might be painfully simple. But that possibility only annoyed him further.
He loosened his tie, poured himself a drink, and sank into the armchair. His eyes drifted to the radio on the table in front of him and he scoffed loudly.
Alastor’s broadcast should be on now, nearing its end.
Vincent inhaled sharply through his nose.
Fine, he thought. I'll give it a try. Just one listen. Just to get it out of his system, see what all the fuss was about, then confirm that there was nothing worth lingering over, and finally move on.
He leaned forward and turned the dial.
Alastor's voice met him mid-thought, as though Vincent had stepped into a conversation already waiting for him: "Poets might call it a fortunate coincidence or a twist of fate, you might simply call it… luck."
Vincent stilled.
"I have always found luck to be a rather lazy explanation. There is nothing mystical about being in the right place at the right time," Alastor continued. "You make choices. You take risks. You reach for what you want and when it reaches back, you bask in pride because you know you have earned it."
Vincent sank deeper into his chair without noticing.
This was not how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to hear Alastor speak empty nonsense dressed up as wisdom. He was supposed to feel the tension drain from his body as he realized Alastor was nothing special after all—just another old-timed piece of reputation SBC liked to pride itself on.
He did feel relief, but not because Alastor disappointed him.
It was because he didn't.
Because, against all hopes, Alastor was easily articulating thoughts that had been running through Vincent's head for ages.
Warm recognition bloomed in his chest. And that was a big problem.
There was a rustle of paper and Alastor let out a soft laugh. "Oh, take this little story, for example. The Greeks, in their infinite wisdom, turned the eternal mystery of luck into something far more graspable: a man."
Before he could stop himself, Vincent let out a small, surprised snort.
Ugh.
He scowled at the radio.
"Caerus, the god of opportunity. He was always depicted in motion, because opportunity, it turns out, does not stroll. He had a flock of hair up front, yet none at all in the back."
Alastor gave an amused hum. "Now, this was the idea: when Caerus ran toward you, you could seize him by the forelock, claim your moment, so to say. But if you hesitated, if you waited for certainty… well, there was nothing left to hold on to once he was gone. Though people liked to blame him, Caerus was not a cruel god at all. He merely revealed those held back by cowardice."
Vincent leaned his head back for a moment.
Cowardice.
He could think of a great many people the word applied to.
Not himself, though. He did not hesitate, he did not wait for certainty. He reached forward, hands bloodied if necessary. And Alastor… Alastor did not seem like a coward either.
The thought sent a sharp thrill through Vincent's chest.
"I'm not saying the bold are always rewarded," Alastor added gently. "Oh no, they tend to lose just as often. Spectacularly so. But at least when they fall, they do so knowing they chose to take a leap of faith."
He stayed silent for a long moment. Somehow, it felt like this was a chat between just the two of them, and Alastor was waiting to see who would grow uncomfortable first.
"And that, my dear listeners, is tonight's little thought to chew on. Take chances! Grab Caerus by his forelock! Or don't! But don't make excuses when he passes you by."
Alastor bid farewell and the radio turned off before leaving the room eerily quiet.
Vincent clicked his tongue, irritation flaming back up.
This had been a mistake. The point had been to get rid of whatever spell Alastor seemed to cast over him, not fall deeper into it. And yet, Vincent's curiosity about the man impossibly sharpened.
With a defeated sigh, he realized he had completely forgotten his drink. The ice had melted.
Vincent closed the door to Mr. Bennett's office behind him, and the smile he had held for an hour disappeared immediately.
He loosened his jaw, then rolled his shoulders once, as if shaking off something icky. The meeting had been a total waste of time. Bennett had nodded along politely, appearing interested at most, but not convinced at all. Vincent's visions for expanding the television department had been met with hedged questions and vague assurances like we'll see or perhaps in the future, which was just another way of saying no.
Fucking coward.
Bennett wanted proof before committing. As if Vincent Whittman himself wasn't proof enough already. One look at what he had accomplished in Virginia should have been enough reason for trust. Devotion, even.
He huffed quietly as he walked down the hall. Men like Bennett weren't fit to lead. They clung to safety until it strangled them, then wondered why the world had moved on without them.
He pushed open the breakroom door.
And of course Alastor Clair stood at the counter, back turned to Vincent.
The image from two days prior echoed in his mind. He remembered how he had frozen up then, remembered turning around and leaving before Alastor could spot him. For a brief, treacherous moment, he considered doing the same thing again, but—
Take chances!
Vincent pressed his lips into a thin line.
Might as well confront the problem directly, he thought.
He crossed the room and stopped at a respectable distance behind Alastor. Close enough to speak, far enough to flee.
He opened his mouth.
But nothing came out.
He swallowed and tried again. His throat felt so dry, tongue sticking uselessly to the root of his mouth.
Get yourself together, you—
Alastor turned around, and Vincent's breath caught.
Up close, Alastor was… devastating. Vincent registered it all at once: the precision of his features, the warmth of his skin, the ever-present smile, further sharpened by the intelligence reflected in his eyes.
The pull in Vincent's chest was immediate and traitorous.
Alastor's eyebrows lifted. "Can I help you?"
"Uh," Vincent started, only to confront the horrifying reality that his brain had completely abandoned him. "I, uh. I wanted to—"
Alastor waited, smile unwavering.
Heat crept up Vincent's neck. God, he was making a fool out of himself. Get. Yourself. Together. He forced his shoulders back, summoning the version of himself that had survived Virginia.
"Vincent Whittman," he said finally. "I just transferred here from Richmond."
He extended his hand.
Alastor looked at it for a moment, as if considering the gesture rather than the man attached to it. Then he took it. The contact sent a jolt straight through Vincent's body. He fought the urge to tighten his grip, to anchor himself to the sensation.
"I know."
Vincent blinked. "You do?"
Alastor leaned in just a touch, but close enough to make Vincent acutely aware of his own breathing. Too fast.
"It's hard to miss someone with such a curious gaze," Alastor said, his eyes flicking between Vincent's mismatched ones with unmistakable interest.
A soft laugh that Vincent barely recognized as his own escaped him, and they released each other.
"Alastor Clair. Though I suspect you already know that."
Vincent nodded. "Well, yes. I caught the end of your broadcast last night."
Something shifted in Alastor's face. Surprise, subtle but real, before it was smoothed into amusement.
"Oh dear," he said. "Had I known I had a fan approaching me today, why, I might have prepared an autograph."
"I'm not—"
"So, tell me. What did you think?"
"That you're right," the truth shot out of Vincent.
Alastor's smile widened by a fraction, and the approval there was undeniable. It encouraged Vincent to go on.
"Luck isn't real," he elaborated. "The aftermath of a choice is, but a lot of people avoid confronting the reality of it."
Alastor nodded. "A comforting illusion is preferable to personal responsibility for most."
"That's because responsibility implies failure. If you act, you can lose. If you wait, you can pretend you never had a chance."
"Nothing changes without that leap of faith," Alastor mused.
Vincent's mouth curved. "That's not quite right."
"Oh?" Alastor tilted his head. "Do enlighten me."
"It's not actually a leap of faith," Vincent said. "It's better translated as a leap into faith. You don't trust that something will catch you. You decide it will."
For a long moment, Alastor simply looked at him. Vincent might have called it a blank expression if it weren't for the small smile still playing on his lips.
"Well," Alastor chuckled then. "I stand corrected."
Pride surged through Vincent. He had impressed Alastor! It was… a good feeling.
"I take it you don't count yourself among the hesitant?" Alastor asked.
Vincent lifted his chin. "I don't. I act."
"That much is evident."
"How do you mean?"
"You have risen rather swiftly, Mr. Whittman," Alastor said. "Very few obstacles seem to linger long in your path."
Within a second, Vincent's blood ran cold.
What the fuck?
What did Alastor know? How could he know? Why—
Vincent forced his expression into neutrality, even though his pulse thundered in his ears.
"What are you implying, Mr. Clair?" he asked coolly.
"Oh, I'm not implying anything," Alastor said. His smile sharpened. "Perhaps you are just a lucky man."
The irony of the word did not escape Vincent.
"I suppose I am," he murmured.
An odd silence stretched between them.
What the hell is happening?
"Well," Alastor said suddenly, voice cheery. "It has been a pleasure, Mr. Whittman. I do hope we speak again!"
He stepped past Vincent, and as he did, a faint trail of warm, spiced cologne followed. Vincent closed his eyes and inhaled before he could stop himself.
God help him, what the fuck was he doing?
That had been instinct. Nothing more.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingers pressing hard against his cheekbones. This was not who he was. He did not let himself get overwhelmed by… curiosity, or whatever the hell this was. It was a liability.
You have risen rather swiftly, Mr. Whittman.
Vincent's pulse spiked.
Alastor hadn't said anything, not really. He hadn't accused him of anything. Vincent had risen quickly and easily. It was merely an observation. But the way Alastor had said it—
How could he possibly know anything?
There were no loose ends. No witnesses.
Or had he missed something? Had anyone seen him? Had someone talked? Or had Alastor, somehow, dug into his past, his home life?
The worst option, Vincent decided, was that Alastor hadn't snooped around at all. That he had simply seen through Vincent.
He exhaled sharply, a humorless sound. He had been truthful; he was not a coward. When something stood in his way, he didn't hesitate to get rid of it. He acted.
Which meant—
The conclusion landed with chilling clarity.
Alastor Clair was an obstacle.
It didn't matter what he knew, or what he suspected he knew. The danger was already there, and Vincent could not afford it. Neither could he allow this stupid pull toward Alastor to cloud his judgement.
No matter how well they matched in intellect. No matter how easily Alastor had slipped under his skin.
He had to die.
Vincent stayed later than usual that day, burying himself in work. Intentionally. He had made his decision. All that remained was execution.
When he finally stepped outside, the evening air was cooler, the lingering heat having eased into something more pleasant. He stood beside the building for a moment, checking his watch, and—
There he was.
Alastor stepped outside, heading toward… the bus stop. Vincent scowled. That was too many people. Too many eyes. He couldn't simply pull him aside and vanish into an alley.
If he could just get him alone…
"Mr. Clair," he called out.
Alastor stopped and turned, eyes lighting up. "Mr. Whittman! Burning the midnight oil, are we?"
"Something like that," Vincent muttered. He adjusted his coat, forcing his expression into something casual. "You know, I'm still finding my way around the city. Perhaps you know a place for a good drink? My treat, of course!"
For a split second, Vincent thought he might say yes, but Alastor's lips pursed thoughtfully before he let out a polite chuckle. "How very kind of you. But I'm afraid I must decline. Another time, perhaps."
Disappointment flared in Vincent's gut, quickly followed by irritation.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "Another time."
Alastor smiled wider at that. "Good night, Mr. Whittman."
"Good night," Vincent sighed, watching as Alastor continued toward the bus stop, blending into the crowd.
He stood there for a moment, hands clenched at his sides.
Fine. Another time, then.
Good thing Vincent was very good at making his own luck.