Chapter Text
Two days.
Two damned days without receiving a single message from Alastor.
Vox should have been relieved. It was what he'd asked for, wasn't it? For him to stop writing. To leave him alone. Three weeks of constant texts—ignored, all of them—and suddenly... nothing.
But something irritated him.
He couldn't explain it. Didn't want to examine it. But there it was, that uncomfortable tingling in his stomach that wouldn't let him concentrate on the reports in front of him.
Why did he stop writing?
The answer came to his mind before he could stop it.
Lucifer.
The image formed with cruel clarity. Alastor in his bed, with that blonde omega who thought he was perfect. His hands roaming that pale skin. His mouth kissing other lips.
The burning in his stomach turned to fire.
His fist—clenched—came down on the desk with a sharp thud. The wood creaked under the impact, and Vox exhaled—a frustrated sigh—while trying to control the hot rage coursing through his veins.
He was going to destroy the desk. He was going to do it. His fingers were already sparking electricity when—
The door burst open.
"Voxxy!"
Valentino stormed into the office like a hurricane of multiple arms and smiles. His energy—overwhelming, contagious—filled the room in seconds, dissipating—at least superficially—the tension that enveloped him.
He approached the desk with springy steps, and his smile... God. Vox hadn't seen him smile that big in months.
"I have an idea," Valentino announced, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "The best idea I've had since I put an ice cream machine in my room."
Vox raised an eyebrow.
"An ice cream...?"
"Listen to me." Valentino suddenly took his hands and shook them emphatically. "A party."
Vox blinked.
"A party?"
"Yes, a party," Valentino nodded frantically. "Months have passed since all that angelic weapon mess. Our numbers are going up again. And it would be like... an apology to everyone. For what we almost caused."
Vox frowned.
"I don't know if that's a good idea," he hesitated. "After everything that happened..."
"Don't be a party pooper!" Valentino pulled his hands, yanking him out of the chair. "It could be fun. Even for you."
"I doubt it."
"Come on, Voxxy," Valentino didn't let go of his hands, gently swaying him. "We'll drink, criticize everyone, and dance. All night."
Vox snorted. He was going to refuse. Was going to insist he had work, that it wasn't the time—
But then.
Valentino started to dance.
It wasn't an elegant dance. It was clumsy. Exaggerated. His multiple arms moved in absurd directions as he spun Vox around the office as if they were in a third-rate dance floor.
And Vox—despite himself—laughed.
A genuine laugh. Free. That surprised even himself.
Valentino stopped. His eyes—all focused on him—softened.
"There it is," he murmured, caressing his screen with one of his hands. "I missed this."
Vox blinked.
"What?"
"Making you laugh." Valentino's smile was different now. Softer. More genuine. "It's been a long time since you laughed like that."
The silence stretched. Comfortable. Warm.
Vox felt something tighten in his chest—not the burning from before, but something tender—and smiled.
"You're an idiot," he said.
"I know." Valentino shrugged. "But I'm your idiot."
"Since when?"
"Since always." Valentino gave his hands one last squeeze before letting go. "So? Party?"
Vox sighed.
"Party," he agreed, shaking his head. "But you're handling everything."
"I will!" Valentino was already jumping toward the door, his energy restored. "It's going to be epic!"
He left as quickly as he'd entered.
Vox was left alone in his office, a smile—small, genuine—still on his lips.
For a moment—just a moment—he didn't think about Alastor.
It was nice.
-----------
The party was getting quite serious, apparently.
Vox hadn't seen his partners this excited about something in a very, very long time. Velvette had turned one of the tower's rooms into her personal operations center—decoration sketches everywhere, fabric samples, endless guest lists. Valentino, for his part, had delegated everything related to organization to others... to dedicate himself entirely to the entertainment list. Musicians. Dancers. Ambiance.
"We need a chocolate fountain!" he had declared at the last meeting, with the seriousness of someone proposing a matter of state.
Vox had rolled his eyes. But he'd smiled.
He knew—deep down—that much of this excitement was for him. To get him out of his shell. To distract him. And it made him happy. Really. Seeing his partners united, focused on something positive, was... nice.
But he couldn't distract himself completely.
Because—despite his efforts—his mind kept going back to it.
Alastor's texts had stopped completely.
And at first—yes—he felt relieved and also annoyed. It was what he'd asked for, but he couldn't help thinking he'd given up too quickly.
But then... the flowers started.
The first appeared on his desk. A single flower. A white lily, perfect, without any arrangement. Just... there.
No note. No explanation.
Vox had stared at it for a long moment. And then—with a frustration he didn't want to examine—he'd thrown it in the trash.
The second arrived the next day. A red rose. On his pillow. Waiting for him when he returned to his suite after an endless meeting.
Again, into the trash.
The third was a sunflower. In the seat of his car. Radiant. Absurd.
Trash.
The fourth... he couldn't anymore.
A jasmine. Small. Delicate. It appeared on his nightstand while he slept—he knew it wasn't there when he went to bed—and its scent—sweet, soft—enveloped him upon waking.
Vox held it between his fingers. A long moment.
And then—with a defeated sigh—he placed it in a glass of water.
That was the first night he didn't fall asleep thinking about Alastor.
He thought about flowers.
---
A week later, the vase by his bed—something he never would have thought to put there before—held a colorful collection of flowers.
Lilies. Roses. Sunflowers. Jasmines. Daisies. Carnations. Each day a new flower, different, without any note, without any message except the first one.
"Is one of these your favorite flower? I hope so."
Vox looked at them every night before sleeping.
And every morning—upon waking—he instinctively looked for the new addition.
He didn't talk about it. Didn't mention the flowers in meetings with Velvette and Valentino. But sometimes—when he thought no one was watching—his fingers would caress the petals with a tenderness that burned.
"The bouquet keeps growing," Velvette said one afternoon, appearing in his suite doorway unannounced.
Vox startled. His hand—caught caressing a tulip—flew to his side.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." Velvette rolled her eyes and patted his shoulder, almost tenderly.
She disappeared before Vox could respond.
He stood there staring at the bouquet.
Tulips. Today's.
And for a moment—just a moment—he smiled.
Damn alpha.
---------------
Vox didn't know what Alastor intended with those flowers.
They had no notes. He didn't send texts. He didn't show up in person to talk. Just... that. A new flower each day. Like a silent ritual.
Was this his way of apologizing? A wordless apology?
What was it?
He hated not knowing.
He hated—hated—that he couldn't throw them away. He'd tried. Really. But his fingers—traitors—refused to let go. And now there was a whole bouquet by his bed, filling the room with colors and scents that reminded him of him every damned night.
But that didn't mean he wanted to forgive him.
No.
Alastor was an idiot. An idiot who sent him flowers.
Why did he have to be so complicated?
If he'd fallen in love with someone else—anyone else—it wouldn't be like this. If he'd fallen in love with Val... everything would be easier. Val was simple. Direct. Clear.
This thought accompanied him as Valentino, in the middle of his suite, modeled the outfit he'd wear to the party.
"What do you think?" Val asked, spinning around to show off the ensemble. "Very me, don't you think?"
Vox smiled. Set his drink aside.
"Beautiful," he said. "As always."
Valentino's wings—those wings—lifted slightly. An involuntary, genuine reaction. A huge smile spread across his face as he closed the distance between them.
"I've missed this so much," he murmured, taking his hands. "So much, Voxxy."
His fingers—soft, warm—traced the frame of his screen with an ancient familiarity. A caress he knew well. That he'd received hundreds of times.
Valentino leaned toward him.
His lips—so close—sought his.
And Vox... Vox wanted to.
God, how he wanted to.
He wanted it to be easy. Wanted to let himself go. Wanted not to think about flowers and red eyes and broken promises.
But he turned his head.
The kiss—potential—never came.
"Val, no," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You're too important to me. I can't... I can't do this to you."
Valentino blinked.
Surprised. Hurt.
Then—he snorted. An irritated sound, but his eyes held no hardness. Didn't have the coldness of other times. Only... understanding.
"Fine," he said, straightening up. "You want to stay boring friends. I get it."
"Val..."
"Voxy." Valentino shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. "Your loss."
Vox nodded.
"I know."
Valentino walked toward the door. His hand—one of them—found the handle. But he stopped.
He didn't look back. But his voice—low, serious—filled the silence.
"I thought it was just an obsession," he said. "But you... you love him. You have terrible taste, Amorcito."
And he left.
The door closed with a soft click.
Vox stood alone in the middle of the room, with the echo of those words resonating in his head.
You love him.
He looked toward the nightstand.
The flowers—all of them—seemed to gleam in the dim light.
"Fuck" he whispered. "Fuck you, Alastor."
But he didn't look away from the bouquet.
---------------------------------------
Alastor materialized in Vox's room with the precision of someone who knew every corner, every empty hour, every crack in the routine of its occupant.
He knew he wouldn't be there. It was the time of day when Vox was always in meetings, going over the last details of the damned party the Vees were organizing. (Charlie had an invitation. He didn't.)
Three weeks of flowers. Three weeks of silence.
And today—a special one.
The flower he held between his fingers was blue. Not just any blue. It was the exact shade of Vox's screen. That electric blue that glowed in the dark, that lit up his dreams, that haunted him every night.
He placed it on the bed with delicacy.
Beside it—a note.
Small. Simple.
"Is this your favorite? At least tell me if I'm close."
Alastor looked at the bouquet—his bouquet, the one he'd been building day by day—and something tightened in his chest. Vox had kept them. All of them. They were there, in that vase by his bed, silent witnesses to something neither of them dared to name.
He was going to leave. Was going to disappear into his shadows as he always did, unseen, undiscovered.
But when he turned—there she was.
Velvette.
Sitting on the sofa. Arms crossed. Her eyes—bright, accusatory—fixed on him.
"You have a lot of nerve," she said, her voice sharp as a knife, "showing up here after everything you did to him."
Alastor stood still.
His smile remained in place, but his eyes... his eyes flickered.
"Did Vox tell you?" he asked. "About what happened between us?"
Velvette stood up. Her movements were slow, deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Didn't need to," she replied. "It's not hard to figure out when you find him on the floor of his suite, a mess, after spending three weeks crying over you."
Alastor clenched his jaw.
"You have no idea how much I want," Velvette continued, approaching, "to wipe that smile off your face with a punch."
"You wouldn't be the first," Alastor replied, with an almost amused tone. "Nor the last, probably."
Velvette snorted. Pure frustration.
"Why don't you leave him alone?" she demanded. "You've already ruined everything. Everything possible. You won. Why don't you let him find someone who actually loves him?"
The silence stretched.
Alastor looked at her. A long moment. And when he spoke, his voice was different. Lower. More honest.
"That's not going to happen," he said.
"What?"
"That he finds someone else."
Velvette narrowed her eyes.
"You're selfish," she spat.
"I know."
"He doesn't deserve this."
"I know that too."
"Then..."
"Darling, I'm not a good person," Alastor interrupted, taking a step toward her. "And I'm not going to start being one now. Not with Vox. Not with this."
His red eyes—intense, desperate—met Velvette's.
"As long as he loves me," he said, his voice breaking just slightly, "I'm not going to let him go. I'm selfish. I admit it. But..."
He shook his head.
"But I can't let him go."
Velvette looked at him.
Searching—scrutinizing—for any sign of a lie. Any crack in his facade.
She didn't find one.
"You're worse than I thought," she murmured.
"I know."
"And he... he deserves better."
"I know."
"And I wish I could remove you from his life and his heart..."
Velvette sighed. Ran a hand through her hair—frustrated, defeated—and shook her head.
"But he's the one who has to decide," she admitted. "Not me."
Alastor nodded.
"Thank you," he said, and the word sounded strange on his lips.
Velvette snorted.
"Don't thank me," she spat. "If you break his heart again... I'll break your face. And it won't be a soft punch."
Alastor smiled. A genuine smile.
"I look forward to it," he said.
And he disappeared into his shadows.
Velvette was left alone in the room. She looked at the bouquet of flowers—all of them—and then at the new one, blue, on the bed.
"Damn men... They're all idiots," she murmured.
But she didn't touch the flower.
--------------------------------------------------
The party arrived sooner than Vox expected.
A few weeks of preparations—intense, chaotic—and suddenly he found himself in the middle of a ballroom overflowing with lights, music, and elegant demons. Valentino and Velvette had done an incredible job. The decoration was impeccable. The guest list, perfect. Even the chocolate fountain Val had demanded was there, in the center of the buffet, ridiculously glorious.
Vox only had to do what Valentino had ordered him with a mocking smile:
"Smile and look pretty, Voxxy."
Mission accomplished.
He was wearing an outfit Velvette had designed specifically for him—something that, in her words, "enhanced his omega sensuality." Vox had rolled his eyes, but he couldn't deny he looked good. The suit—black with electric blue details—fit his body in ways that hinted without showing. The neckline—discreet but present—revealed the skin just where his neck met his shoulders.
Omega sensuality, Velvette had said.
Vox preferred to call it looking handsome.
He moved through the ballroom with the grace of someone who'd done this hundreds of times. Greeted. Smiled. Accepted compliments about his appearance with a feigned humility that hid his genuine satisfaction.
But his mind—always alert—was elsewhere.
He avoided Carmilla at all costs. Things between them were still tense after the weapon incident, and he had no intention of having that conversation tonight.
He also avoided—carefully—everyone from the hotel.
Velvette had invited them. "A gesture of good faith," she'd said. And Vox understood the politics of the invitation, but that didn't mean he wanted to socialize with Charlie and her redemption speeches.
He managed to dodge her. Her. Vaggie. The rest.
And Alastor...
He hadn't seen him.
Maybe he hadn't come.
Not that he was looking for him.
Not that he kept thinking about that blue flower.
He sighed. Took a long drink from his glass. The alcohol—smooth, expensive—burned going down, but not enough to calm the knot in his stomach.
"Vox!"
Velvette appeared beside him like a whirlwind of energy and impeccable fashion. But she wasn't alone.
Beside her—a tall demon.
Curved horns pointing down, dark skin, and a biker style that completely contrasted with the elegance of the event. Leather jacket. Heavy boots. A confident smile showing fangs.
"Meet Ajax," Velvette said, with a dangerous gleam in her eyes. "He's a friend of mine. And I think you two would get along very well."
Before Vox could protest—before he could say anything—Velvette walked away with a knowing wink.
Leaving him alone.
With a stranger.
"Hi," Ajax said, his voice deep, warm. "Velvette told me a lot about you."
Vox blinked.
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. She said you were the only Vee with a brain."
Vox laughed—a surprised, genuine laugh—and the initial tension began to dissolve.
The conversation flowed.
Ajax was easy to deal with. Direct. Funny. He talked about his travels through Hell on his bike—literally a motorcycle—and the absurd adventures he'd had. No pretensions. Overconfident, but fun.
He was refreshing.
Vox found himself enjoying his company. Laughing for real. Relaxing.
And then—he felt it.
Electricity.
A familiar tingle running down his spine, making every part of his body prickle. His skin warmed before his mind processed what was happening.
And the scent.
Whiskey. Moss. Him.
Vox tensed. His eyes—automatic—began to search through the crowd.
"Vox?" Ajax's voice came from far away. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he lied, his voice strangely calm. "It's nothing... just thought I saw someone."
He looked subtly around. And there, a few meters away, leaning against a column with that signature pose of his, stood Alastor.