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Hell is hot. "Yeah, no shit," most people would say- no. Hell is hot. The kind of hot that leaves your body feeling like it's boiling from the inside, unnatural, unpleasant, and Vox is pretty sure his circuits are starting to fry, given how loudly and uselessly his fans are whirring. And today is a really fucking hot day, even for Hell.
He presses a clawed hand to his screen, wiping away the condensation starting to form and roll dangerously close to his ports - sweat? He's not sure he can properly sweat.
This was possibly the most idiotic idea he had in the last few decades, he decides as he steps in the flower shop. Well, aside from trying to nuke two realms, but that's beside the point. Also, just who buys enough bouquets to keep a flower shop running in Hell? Like, actually, he'd think the Princess would be the only one to do something this incredibly childish and naive, maybe her little loser gang would support her- but no, this is just some nobody who thought it fit to sell (mostly wilted) flowers in Hell, of all places.
He blinks as he notices the cashier waiting at him expectantly. Seriously, did the heat fry his audio circuitry?
"Er- wh-what'd you say?" yeah, Vox, great fucking wordplay. Truly an astounding show of charisma and social skills. Whatever, he'll just fry the bitch if she mentions him acting like some blushing schoolgirl at her flower shop.
"I, uh... simply asked what I could do for you today, mr. Vox, sir." She gulps, sweating - either from the heat or simply him. Oh, so she's nervous. Good. He likes making people nervous, especially if it's from his presence alone- it gives him a nice little rush of power that both cools and heats his systems. It's addicting.
Pulling himself together, he leans on the counter, putting on his best smile and resting his screen on his hand.
"Yes, yes, right... listen, doll, I just need a cute little something for a... special someone, huh? Just gimme somethin' good. No roses," he interrupts her by raising his hand as soon as she starts to work, "-he hates 'em. Now get to work. And make it so it's not too… sappy, or whatever."
Waving a dismissive hand, he whips out his phone, checking over the latest trends and news. He makes a mental note to text Velvette later on her latest shoot- she managed to get some good numbers. It makes him smile a bit- though one would catch their double death if they waited for him to admit smiling at the thought of Velvette's success.
The poor sinner comes rushing after a few minutes. Huh- at least she's fast. If it's any good, he might consider tipping her. "Might" is the key word here, though.
Pocketing his phone with a sigh, he turns, internal scanner going over the bouquet.
Black dahlias, stunning as he remembered them being in life, velvet-looking petals making way to some white angel trumpets, and... berries?
Belladonna, his scanner decides. Huh. Is this bitch trying to poison him? Whatever, it's for Alastor. He likes being in pain, or whatever kinky shit he has going on.
Wordlessly, he pays, leaving a few bills more than he should on the counter. Boy, oh, boy, he is so getting laid tonight. Or not, Alastor might just kill him if he hates it. He'd let him, though, it'd be kinda hot.
His excitement dies out as soon as he steps out in the heat. Ugh... he forgot about that. He'd take the high-voltage cables, but he can't risk frying the bouquet.
Walking it is.
With no shortage of sighs, whines, and general woe-is-me behavior, he finally gets back at the hotel. Why is he living there again? Vee tower is much cooler. And had actually functioning AC. Oh, and the Wi-Fi wasn't ass. And the people were more enjoyable. And he didn't have to go to therapy every fucking day.
But then he steps in, and suddenly he remembers why. Right... the people. Their... allies (friends?), who took him in even after his stunt with Heaven. And almost blowing himself and everyone up. He guesses.
'Whatever, it's in the past,' he thinks to himself with a roll of his eyes. Charlie's bullshit group therapy must be fucking with his circuits, or maybe it's just the heat, 'cause he can't find it in himself to search for the closest computer, the closest source of power, where he could plug in and take over and-
Right. The flowers.
A grin pulls at his lips as he struts to Alastor's quarters, ignoring the looks he gets from Angel and Cherri on the couch.
As always, he doesn't even have to knock for the door to open. Alastor's shadow magic still amazes him, even with seventy years of knowing the man under his belt. With a shrug, he steps in, sighing in relief at the coolness of the room compared to the outside.
And there he is: the Radio Demon, lounging on his chair, shirt-half open and looking like a fucking vision. He must have bathed recently, given how his red hair curls just lightly and frames his face, ears twitching in appreciation as he devours his meal for the night - what looks like some poor imp who got caught up in his murderous rage.
"One would think a self-proclaimed 'refined gentleman' such as yourself would at least knock before barging into my quarters, Vincent."
Vox swallows his adoration in favor of irritation, static briefly flashing across his screen. He still hasn't gotten that one fixed... he should check it out, though. He's been buffering more and more.
"You let me in, Al. You know, with your weird magic trick bullshit."
He gestures at the room they're in, as if trying to include the shadows and moving rag-puppets he knows are lurking somewhere here, before sitting down across from him, trying not to think about how his mouth just went absolutely dry at the sight of his lover - Satan, still so weird to say that - actively consuming someone else. Right. He needs to get a grip- he refuses to blush like some schoolgirl or, God forbid, get hard, at the Radio Demon eating someone. Nope. He's been pathetic before, but that'd be a new low.
With a gulp, he waits for Alastor to finish his dinner, knowing better than to interrupt him any further than he already did, especially during a meal.
When the fork finally lowers on the plate and Alastor dabs his mouth gently with a towel, he clears his throat, fumbling with the bouquet in his lap. He knows Alastor noticed it- he always notices everything, somehow. He can't blame him, he also has a passion for stalking- though he prefers the term "informative observationing."
The deer-demon nods, signaling him to move on, and Vox exhales quietly.
"So, I know you don't like... gifts. And you think romance is bullshit. And pathetic. And ridiculous. But I, uh..."
Being the CEO - ex-CEO, actually, he remembers with a grimace - of Voxtek, with the public always ready to catch his every move, Vox had to learn how to think on two feet, and find a solution to any immediate problem. It's a skill he learnt in life, actually, when people got a bit too close with their theories on the killings at the studio: make up an excuse, some lie that would ensnare and make him look innocent, charming his followers into dutiful obedience. It's what he built his empire on, it's his identity - and yet. And yet, here he is: undone by a man. A really powerful, really sexy, really dangerous man. And really his.
"But what, cher?"
Vox swallows around the pure lust suddenly clawing its way up his body at the term of endearment. Speak first, maybe make out later. Right. He can do this.
"But, uh... IgotchusomethingAl."
Woah. Real fucking smooth. He clears his throat at Alastor's confused look, deciding that third time's the charm.
"What I mean is... I passed by at that pathetic little flower shop, all colors and rainbows and bullshit like that, and..."
He waves the bouquet a bit, before wordlessly handing it forward, hesitant.
He's surprised Alastor even takes it, suddenly aware that yes, he can sweat, and it's currently rolling down his spine and getting way too close to his vents. It's hard reading a guy who's only allowed to have one expression, give him a break, okay? Especially since said guy could absolutely snap him in half if he so willed.
And then...
"They're beautiful, Vox."
...Huh.
"T-they are? Well, yes, of course they are, I'd know, since I picked them out- of course, the florist helped, and she was cool by the way, b-but yeah I- I picked this because it reminded me of you and of course it had to be perfect so I sai-"
"Vincent."
Yeah, okay, he'll stop now. His mouth claps shut with a soft 'click' of his shark teeth, gazing at his lover like an idiot.
"You... actually like them? You don't think it pathetic, or-"
"I never said it isn't pathetic. It most certainly is, to give dead plants to your lover as some empty symbol of devotion. But..it is appreciated." Alastor interrupts him by waving his hand in front of his screen, still smiling- yet undeniably softer now.
"Thank you, Vincent."
And Vox, weak man that he is, grabs his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles, cyan pupils dilating and shifting into pixelated hearts.
"Thank you, Al. For... all of this."
It goes unsaid: the Hotel. The forgiveness. The friendship, then the relationship.
The flowers wilt under Alastor's hand. He wouldn't have it any other way.