Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air carried Pentagram City’s usual poisonous weight, but inside Alastor’s cabin, the faint crackle of old jazz on the radio was a temporary refuge from the chaos outside. Vox was slumped on the couch, head thrown back. His eyes were closed, his pale face marred by Valentino’s latest “gift”: an ugly fresh wound cutting from the right side of his forehead toward his temple, the edges slightly swollen and red. A dark bruise was spreading near his elbow.

Alastor sat on the edge of his chair, posture rigid as ever, his bright red eyes locked on the cut across Vox’s forehead. The smiling radio host mask was gone. What remained was a shadow, jaw clenched, eyes flickering with dangerous light.

It had always been like this between them: one smoothing the other’s hair, a cup of coffee handed over in silence, a watchful glance ready to cover the other’s back. There was closeness deep and undeniable but those three words, that line, had never once been crossed. It loomed like a chasm between them, one neither had the courage to leap nor the will to bridge.

Then Vox had brought Valentino into their lives. Glittering, toxic, controlling Valentino. Alastor’s instincts had blared like alarms, but his warnings had been couched in that sharp-tongued politeness Vox dismissed as “jealousy,” and now... this. Worse every time.

It was past midnight. Vox’s uneven breathing blended with the music from the radio. Suddenly Alastor moved. He retrieved a neatly folded sterile cloth and antiseptic solution from the bathroom. Leaning over the couch, his long fingers turned Vox’s chin toward the wound with gentle but inescapable finality.

The touch was cold. Vox flinched, blinking open unfocused eyes, likely dulled by painkillers or something stronger. “Al…?” he slurred, voice husky and exhausted.

“Don’t move,” Alastor cut in, his voice unusually flat, the perpetual cheer gone entirely. He soaked the cloth in antiseptic, squeezed out the excess. Pinning Vox’s chin with thumb and forefinger, he began cleaning the wound with careful precision.

His touch was gentle, meticulous, but Alastor’s whole body was coiled tight like a spring. In his red eyes, a storm of rage brewed. Rage not just at Vox, but at everything that had brought him to this: at Vox for not listening, at Valentino for hurting him, at the entire damn hell for making him so helpless.

Each antiseptic swipe made Vox inhale sharply, and with every flinch, Alastor’s jaw tightened another notch. “You can’t even take care of yourself,” he growled, voice a low, dangerous hiss. “Every time… every damn time that filthy moth drags you lower. Don’t you see? Don’t you hear?”

When he finished cleaning, he tossed the soiled cloth aside. The wound was cleaner now, but uglier, more glaring against Vox’s wan face.

Alastor released Vox’s chin but didn’t look away. Anger churned in his eyes like red-black whirlpools. “You… never listen,” he whispered, this time nearly a sigh. “You’ve only got ears for the poison that insect whispers to you.”

Almost involuntarily, his hand drifted over Vox’s bruised arm, the touch fleeting, electric with tension. “One day… one day I’m going to lose you completely in his filth, and that day…” He didn’t finish. Couldn’t. Even imagining it stoked something black and consuming in him.

Vox tried to lift his heavy eyelids, unable to fully focus on Alastor’s expression. “Al… it’s fine. Just… an accident…” he mumbled, his usual defense.

Alastor suddenly shot to his feet. His shadow stretched across the cabin wall, vast and menacing. “Accident! It’s always an accident! Open your eyes, Vox! He’s breaking you! Piece by piece!”

Vox squinted, turning his head away, refusing to meet Alastor’s fury or the truth in it. “Leave me alone…”

Alastor stood there for a moment, chest heaving with rage. Then, all at once, the threatening energy drained out of him. His shoulders slumped, so subtly it was barely visible. The fury on his face collapsed into a deep, gnawing exhaustion, and an equally deep ache. He bent forward again, just for a moment, and this time his hand landed softly in Vox’s hair near the cleaned wound. The touch was the polar opposite of his rage: fleeting, tender, unbearably sad.

Vox’s phone buzzed in his pocket, its screen casting an uneasy glimmer in the cabin’s dim light. The vibration was audible even over the radio’s low hum. Vox’s eyes opened, unfocused, drifting reluctantly toward his pocket. He glanced at the screen, his pale face twisting with deep disgust and exhaustion.

“Val… again,” he muttered, voice rough and weak. His fingers trembled slightly along the edge of the phone, but he didn’t unlock it. “He’s angry at me… as always.” The messages were probably in the usual cycle: apologetic, then degrading, then threatening. Valentino’s poisonous, bipolar dance.

Alastor sat rigidly at the edge of his chair, red eyes moving from the phone to Vox’s shuttered expression. A sigh was audible. “Show me,” he said, his voice flat, unsettling.

Vox shook his head slowly, eyes closing again. “No need, Al. You know what it is. Same poison as ever.”

“I said show me, Vox.” Alastor’s voice hardened. He extended his hand, palm up, frozen in an expectant command. This wasn’t a request.

Vox groaned, knowing resistance was pointless. His shaking hand retrieved the phone and dropped it onto Alastor’s waiting palm. The device still buzzed repeatedly, Valentino’s name and a stream of notifications blinking insistently.

Alastor closed his fingers around it, his red eyes narrowing at the small, glowing screen. His face twisted with cold unfamiliarity and mild disgust. He pressed his thumb against the screen, trying to unlock it. Nothing happened. He pressed in the wrong place, the middle of the screen. Then he gave the phone a small shake, as if he could rearrange its buttons by force. Modern technology was an utter nightmare for him; he understood radios, not this slab of glass.

“Unusable,” he growled, with a rare note of helpless frustration. He shoved it back at Vox, sneering. “This… device… how does it work?”

Vox lifted heavy eyelids, taking in Alastor’s struggle and the baffled look on his face. Something unexpected happened: the corners of his battered, cracked lips twitched faintly. A hoarse, exhausted sound almost like a laugh escaped his throat. “God, Al… You really have no idea, do you?” A slow shake of his head. “You’ll have to learn. These are everywhere now.”

Alastor’s brows drew together. “Learn,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was something foreign in his mouth. Then, suddenly, his eyes locked on Vox’s face, as if making a decision. “Then,” he said in a strikingly calm tone, “you will help me get one.”

Vox’s eyes snapped fully open at that, the fog clearing for pure shock. His pale face showed disbelief and… a spark of hope. “Wait,” he breathed, voice ghostly. “Really? You? Buying a phone?” Alastor’s hatred of technologybespecially modern devices from Vox’s world was notorious throughout Pentagram City.

Alastor gave one sharp, decisive nod. Affirmation. His face was completely unreadable, but there was a rigid necessity in his posture. “It seems,” he said dryly, “that it has become a necessary evil to… monitor certain situations.”

Vox’s pale, lined face broke into a real smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled. Even exhausted from rage, pain, and Valentino’s poison, the idea seemed to breathe life into him. “Alastor,” he began, voice trembling with tentative excitement, “then… maybe you’ll call me sometimes? Once in a while? Just… talk? Check in?” His words wavered, his caution clear. It was a tiny, fragile step over an abyss he rarely dared cross.

Alastor watched him. His red eyes traced the ugly scar on Vox’s face, the bruised arm but most of all, that flicker of vulnerable hope. Then, with a familiar evasive gesture, he rubbed his temple between thumb and forefinger. “Vox,” he said in a more exhausted tone, “you’re here almost every day anyway. You have a spare key, drain my coffee supply, take over the place.” The words sounded like a complaint, but his tone wasn’t. It even carried the grudging warmth of a well-worn annoyance. “You’re telling me I’ll have to endure this nightmare for even more ‘communication?'”

Vox’s smile didn’t disappear entirely. There was just a faint sparkle in his eyes, catching the meaning under Alastor’s words. He let his head fall back against the couch arm, eyelids drooping once more. “There’s always a first time, Al,” he murmured, voice giving way to sleep. “Maybe… one day…”

He didn’t finish. The painkillers, the exhaustion, the cabin’s heat dragged him under. His breathing turned into uneven rasps.

Alastor sat stiffly for a long while, unmoving. His red eyes roamed Vox’s sleeping face: the bruising, the pallor. In his hands, the phone buzzed once more in a short, angry shiver Valentino’s relentless fury made manifest. Alastor’s jaw tightened, a dark spark igniting in his gaze. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he placed it on the highest, most distant shelf far out of Vox’s reach.

When morning came, Vox sat at the edge of the couch, wincing at the stiffness of the fresh wound on his face and the bruise on his arm. Alastor went about his usual, unmistakably early morning routine, placing a simple but carefully prepared breakfast plate in front of Vox: toast, a few slices of vegetables, and steaming black coffee.

"Eat," he said curtly, his voice carrying the residual exhaustion from the night before.

Vox nodded silently. As he ate, his eyes occasionally flicked to Alastor, remembering their conversation in the night. A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the clink of cutlery and the low hum of the radio.

After finishing his last bite and taking a sip of coffee, Vox gathered his courage. He cleared his throat lightly.

"Al... Do you remember where you put my phone? I couldn't find it when I woke up." There was a hint of worry in his eyes; he knew Valentino’s messages might have piled up.

Alastor had risen to clear the dishes and paused. A quiet sigh escaped him.

"On the shelf," he said shortly, without turning toward the highest kitchen shelf. "Somewhere needlessly out of reach."

"Ah," Vox said, eyeing the shelf and seeming to think for a moment. Then, trying to spark the small ember of hope left from last night, he added, "So... are you serious about buying the phone? Today could be nice, you know. The Electronics Market has sales..."

Alastor rolled his eyes. "Vox, do we really have to put up with this nonsense?" But when he turned to look at Vox pale face, fresh wound, dark circles under his eyes, and most of all that carefully hidden look of hope something in him broke. His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly.

"Fine," he muttered, voice spent. "Let's get this nightmare over with."

Alastor reached for the shelf and handed Vox the phone. It buzzed violently in his palm, filled with dozens of notifications from Valentino. Vox swiped them away without even looking at them, wearing a carefully blank expression.

"Forget it," he murmured to himself. "Let's just go."

The Electronics Market was a sensory nightmare for Alastor. Flashing screens, the sharp tang of plastic and metal, vendors shouting over one another... He looked downright miserable. Vox, meanwhile, seemed to forget his physical pain entirely. His eyes shone as he explained the latest models and specs, dragging Alastor to stand in front of a display.

"Look, Al, this model’s camera is amazing, the processor too..." Vox rattled off enthusiastically while Alastor stared blankly at the glowing glass rectangle, his finger hesitating as he hovered near the screen.

"Where... are the knobs?" he asked, glancing around for the familiar dials of a radio.

Vox let out a genuinely warm smile. "It’s a touchscreen, Al. No knobs. Just... touch." He gently took Alastor’s finger and pressed it to the screen. Alastor flinched slightly as it lit up.

Just then, Vox’s phone buzzed violently in his pocket. On the screen, Valentino’s name flashed with a angry message: WHERE ARE YOU???

Vox’s brief moment of happiness died instantly. He quickly reached into his pocket to silence the vibration, but the panic in his eyes was obvious.

Alastor fixed his red eyes on Vox’s face, then lowered them to the pocket where the phone was. He rolled his eyes with exaggerated annoyance. "Is that irritating moth buzzing again?" he growled. "Ignore it, Vox. What’s important right now," he emphasized, placing a hand on Vox’s arm and steering him toward the next phone display, "is choosing the fastest escape from this technological hellscape."

The touch was brief but intentional, meant to pull Vox away from the poisonous gravity of that message.

Vox blinked in surprise at Alastor’s words and touch. He nodded slightly, genuinely trying to ignore Valentino’s message. He refocused on the display, his voice a little shaky but determined. "You're right. Okay... this model is simple. Good for you. Just calls, texts... maybe not even for photos?"

Alastor wrinkled his nose in distaste, but Vox added with a small, earnest smile, "But you’ll learn. I’ll help you."

Alastor let go of Vox’s arm but couldn’t help glancing once more at Vox’s pocket, then at the ugly wound on his face. Inside, his simmering anger at Valentino mixed with his disgust at this whole ridiculous shopping trip but Vox’s grateful, fragile hope in his eyes...With a resigned sigh, Alastor picked up the simple black phone Vox had pointed to. "Seems we don’t have much of a choice," he muttered.

Even after they left the chaos of the Electronics Market, Alastor was still visibly tense. Vox, despite the bruise on his arm and the cut on his forehead, seemed strangely... enlivened.

Alastor steered him toward a quiet street he knew well. It was away from the city's gaudy lights, lined with older, more modest buildings. Vox didn’t quite understand where they were going until Alastor stopped in front of a small patisserie with a window full of cakes and colorful macarons.

Vox stared at him in surprise. "Here? Are we getting dessert?" He knew damn well Alastor didn’t care for sweets; his tastes usually leaned toward far more... bitter things.

Alastor narrowed his eyes at the sickeningly sugary display in the window, a look of faint disgust settling on his face.

"You," he corrected in his curt, flat tone as he pushed the door open. "Did you really expect someone like me to eat these sugary poisons? But you... it seems you could use the temporary happiness such things offer." His words were a direct acknowledgment of the night’s events and Vox’s general state. He wasn’t here for himself he was here for Vox.

Inside, it felt like a refuge from the suffocating city. The air was filled with the scent of vanilla, chocolate, and freshly baked pastry. Alastor chose a table in the very back, away from the window and the other customers. Vox wandered up to the display to choose, while Alastor pulled his new phone from his pocket and set it on the table with the look of a man examining a plastic horror. Even opening the box had been annoyingly complicated.

Vox came back with a slice of rich chocolate cake and a raspberry tart. The faint smile on his face grew more genuine as he set them down. "Thanks, Al," he said quietly, digging in with his fork. At the first bite, his eyes closed slightly in real relief, the tension melting from his face.

Alastor didn’t even look at the desserts. All his attention was fixed on the plastic monstrosity on the table. He’d managed to get the phone out of the box a small victory in itself but now it sat in his hand like dead weight. He ran his finger cautiously along the edges, trying to find the power button. When he accidentally pressed the volume rocker instead and the phone buzzed into silent mode with a tiny bell icon at the top, he scowled. "Ridiculous," he muttered.

Vox, after a few bites, turned to watch Alastor’s struggle. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth. "Need help?" he offered, his voice a bit warmer, soothed by the chocolate.

Alastor squinted at him, then at the phone. He shook his head sharply, rejecting the idea with obvious pride.

Vox gently took the phone from his hand anyway, knowing full well he needed the help. "Okay, first step: the power button is usually on the side, or sometimes on top. Here." He guided Alastor’s finger to the right spot. When the screen lit up, Alastor instinctively recoiled.

"Now," Vox continued patiently, "it needs some initial setup since it’s new. Your name, language, that kind of thing and the most important part," he added, voice rising with the slightest hint of excitement, "you’ll add your contacts. Want to put me in?"

Alastor stared blankly at the setup screens, but let Vox enter his name and a few basic settings. When they got to the "contacts" section, Alastor gave a short, resigned "Yes."

Vox carefully recited his number, watching as Alastor entered it at an agonizingly slow pace.

When the screen finally showed "Vox" under saved contacts, Alastor regarded it with a strange expression. "All right," he said tersely. "That’s enough."

Vox paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, raspberry tart gleaming on the tines. His eyes moved over Alastor’s face, then down to the phone. Gathering his nerve, he asked carefully. "Anyone else you want to add? Charlie? Husk? Maybe Niffty? Anyone you might want to talk to in Pentagram City?"

Alastor kept his gaze fixed firmly on the phone, fingers toying with its edge. "For now," he said flatly, without even looking up, "your number is enough."

The words hung in the air. Vox froze with his fork still raised. The chocolate melted slowly on his tongue, and a faint blush spread across his pale face. He immediately dropped his eyes to his plate to hide it. "Oh," he murmured, voice low and slightly hoarse. "Okay."

Silence fell between them.

Alastor watched Vox’s reaction saw that blush, the way he avoided his eyes. He realized, too late, how personal and direct his own words had sounded. Under the table, one of his hands closed tightly over the other, betraying his own quiet tension.

The silence in the patisserie was broken by the gentle clink of Vox’s fork against his plate. His eyes drifted from his own slice of creamy chocolate cake to Alastor’s empty setting, then to Alastor’s closed-off expression. Alastor still seemed to be fussing with his new phone, but his focus was scattered, his fingers idly scrolling the screen without purpose.

“Al,” Vox called softly, his voice mellowed by the cake’s fleeting comfort. “Do you want some? I know you don’t usually like it, but...” He lifted a small forkful from his own cake, heavy with cream and chocolate bits. “Just have a taste. Maybe... it’ll sweeten your mood?” There was a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Alastor slowly raised his crimson gaze, looking at the offered fork, then at Vox’s expectant face. He wrinkled his nose in instinctive disgust. “Vox,” he began in his usual bored tone, “why would I consume this sugary sludge? My tastes are a bit more... sophisticated.” His eyes flickered back to Vox’s. That expectant look was still there.

Vox pushed the fork closer, insisting. “Just a bite, Al. Just try it. People sometimes end up liking unexpected things.” There was a slight pleading in his voice; he really wanted this small gesture to be accepted.

Alastor let out a deep sigh. This argument wasn’t worth the energy. “And how exactly would I eat it?” he asked, one eyebrow raised, sounding genuinely curious. “With the fork you used? That would be a rather... personal act, wouldn’t it?”

Vox paused, realizing the implication. His face fell slightly in embarrassment. “Ah... right,” he mumbled. “Sorry. I’ll... I’ll get you a clean fork.” He shifted, ready to stand up, pushing his chair back.

“No need.”

Alastor’s voice cut in, unexpectedly firm. Vox froze mid-motion, staring at him in surprise.

Alastor’s eyes were fixed on the fork in Vox’s hand. His face was caught in an inner struggle; revulsion, pride, and... the desire not to disappoint Vox. “There’s no need to make such a fuss,” he said, voice a bit tense. “I’ll... I’ll eat it after you. From that fork.” He added that last part quickly, as if compelled to explain. “Assuming you wouldn’t... be disgusted by that.” His eyes scanned Vox’s face, searching for a reaction. It was a terrifying, tentative step across that uncrossable gulf for him. For someone who recoiled even at the idea of contact with another’s saliva, it was a monumental concession.

Vox’s eyes widened. Surprise, then deep gratitude and softness spread across his face. His pale lips curved into a small, sincere smile. “Disgusted?” he whispered, voice warm and gentle. “Never, Al. Not ever.” Carefully, he scooped the most decadent, creamy, chocolate-laden bite he could. Then, without hesitation, he held it out to Alastor. His eyes locked onto Alastor’s crimson ones, radiating trust and gentle encouragement.

Alastor stared at the offered bite. To him, it looked like poison. His eyes met Vox’s and saw the pure trust there. Then, with the grim determination of a warrior, he leaned in slightly. His long fingers gripped the table’s edge tightly. He parted his lips with visible reluctance and took the fork’s tip into his mouth.

As the bite entered, his face twitched uncontrollably. His eyes widened in momentary panic as the overwhelming sweetness hit his tongue. He chewed with jerky, ineffective motions and swallowed quickly, as if desperate to be rid of it. His face twisted, the disgust clear. “God, Vox,” he muttered hoarsely, eyes narrowing. “That’s... disgustingly sweet. How can you stand it?”

But Vox ignored Alastor’s disgusted expression. Instead, he focused on the fact that he’d taken the bite, crossed that line. Vox’s eyes shone brightly, his smile widening, pale cheeks flushed with rare warmth. “See?” he murmured, voice trembling with happiness. He pulled the fork back, taking another bite for himself. “Unexpected things can be good sometimes.”

Alastor reached for a glass of water, gulping down a large mouthful to wash the sugar from his mouth. His face remained scrunched up, but at the corners of his eyes there was maybe only a trick of the light a tiny, unguarded wrinkle of relief. Watching Vox’s happiness, something inside him whispered that the nauseating sweetness had been worth it. “Never again,” he muttered with difficulty, but the sharp anger he’d carried all night was gone, replaced with a kind of weary resignation. “That was a one-time... experiment.”

Vox tilted his head slightly, smile unshaken. “A one-time thing?” he repeated gently, tapping his plate with his fork. “Everything starts with once, Al. There’s always a next time.” His words hung in the air, hinting not just at the cake, but at all the fragile, terrifying steps they’d taken that night. The phone, the contact list, the shared fork... all of them unsteady bridges over a once-impassable gulf.

As Alastor listened to Vox, the weight of what he’d just done crashed into his brain all at once. His eyes were pinned to the fork in Vox’s hand. That fork. His fork. His lips had touched the metal part, the same place that might have been wet with Vox’s saliva just seconds before. His stomach twisted, not just from the sugar this time, but from pure, icy panic. His face froze beyond disgust, locked in a mix of shame and fear. He tore his gaze away from Vox, staring hard at the wooden grain of the table as the tips of his ears turned red. What did I just do?

Vox, meanwhile, felt his own small rush of triumph drain away, replaced by a similar discomfort as he registered Alastor’s expression. He remembered Alastor leaning in and eating directly from his hand, their eyes locking as Alastor’s lips touched the fork. This... this was so much more than just sharing a bite of cake. His face wasn’t pale like Alastor’s; on the contrary, he was blushing all the way to the edges of the cut on his forehead, his ears burning hot. He dropped his gaze to his plate, his hand trembling slightly as he set the fork down. Inside, he was churning with gratitude, surprise, and crushing embarrassment. Did I force him into this?

The silence was unbearable. The whispers of other patrons, the clinking of cutlery suddenly sounded painfully loud. It felt as if everyone in the café had seen that enormous, humiliating moment and was judging them for it. Vox could hear his own heart beating.

Alastor finally moved. He pushed his chair back and stood up. His eyes carefully avoided Vox. “Let’s go,” he snapped, voice tense and uncharacteristically high. “This... sugar poison is enough.”

Vox shot to his feet so quickly he almost stumbled. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Alastor walked toward the register in sharp, decisive steps, leaving Vox no chance to follow side by side or offer help.

After Alastor paid, they both stepped outside. The air between them was still tense. Vox mumbled, “I... I need to get to my studio,” voice anxious. “Daily schedule... reports...” He knew Valentino’s messages were piling up.

Alastor just gave a short, sharp nod. “Sure,” he said flatly. “I’ll deal with my things at the hotel.” He turned toward the Hazbin Hotel, his long shadow dragging along the sidewalk. For a moment, he paused, adding without looking back: “Be careful.” Then he vanished into the darkness.

Hours passed in Vox’s studio, with the constant buzzing of notifications from Valentino rattling his nerves. Every vibration frayed him further. Finally, he grabbed his phone for a moment of respite. Valentino’s name flashed on the screen. Apologies, accusations, belittling insults, threats... all jumbled together. Vox exhaled deeply. Not replying at all would be even worse. He typed a short message: “We’ll talk tonight.” He pressed send and set the phone down, feeling a momentary relief. At least it would buy him some time without new messages.

Finishing up and heading home, he froze as he turned the corner to his street. Warm, yellow light spilled from the windows of his apartment. The lights were on. His heart skipped. Alastor? he thought. He had a key. Maybe he’d just stopped by. Hope and dread churned in his chest. He pulled out his phone with trembling fingers and typed: “Is that you at my place?”

The waiting dragged on painfully. Finally, the phone buzzed softly. Alastor’s reply came slowly, each letter carefully typed: “No. Why?”

Vox’s blood ran cold. The lights were on and Alastor wasn’t there. “The lights are on. I locked the door,” he quickly texted.

Alastor’s response was nearly instant this time, the tone clear and sharp: “I’m coming.”

Vox panicked. Valentino? “No need,” he typed frantically. He shoved the phone in his pocket and walked quickly toward the building. Maybe I just left them on. Maybe the power flickered. Please let it just be me forgetting.

He fumbled with the key in the lock and went inside. The hallway light was on. As he moved toward the living room door, he caught the faint scent of expensive cologne and tobacco smoke. His heart pounded wildly.

In the center of the living room, lounging like he owned the place, was Valentino. Long legs crossed, an elegant pipe with curling purple smoke between crooked fingers. When Vox entered, Valentino slowly turned his head, eyes raking over him, lips curling into a poisonous smile. “Darling,” he whispered, “you’re home.”

Vox froze in the doorway. “Val... what the fuck are you doing here? How did you get in?”

Valentino shrugged lazily. “I was worried about you, sweet thing. Especially after that ‘we’ll talk tonight’ message... and then nothing.” He deliberately emphasized “nothing.” “Luckily the doorman was... understanding.” He winked. Vox went cold. Valentino had bribed him.

Valentino stood up, looming over Vox with his tall frame. “Let’s talk then,” he said, voice now sharper. “Where were you today? Why didn’t you answer my messages? With that foul little radio monster again?” His face lost any hint of amusement at Alastor’s mention.

Vox instinctively stepped back, hitting the wall. “Val, don’t talk like that,” he said, voice tense but trying to stay calm. “Alastor... he’s just a friend.”

Valentino’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Friend?” he laughed mockingly. “That disgusting, outdated, cowardly piece of shit? What do you even see in him, Vox? Why do you defend him?” He took another step closer, exhaling pipe smoke right into Vox’s face. “Why?”

Vox squinted, choking slightly on the smoke. His pale face twisted between fear and anger.

Just then, there was a faint creak at the entrance to the living room. Both of them turned.

Standing in the doorway, half in shadow, was Alastor. That familiar wide, menacing smile stretched across his face, but there was no light in his red eyes. Only an icy, lethal darkness. He’d come inside but hadn’t shut the door, as if ready to turn and leave at any moment. His gaze flickered first to a startled Vox, then to Valentino, who was coiled around him like a venomous vine.

Vox remembered. He pulled out his phone and looked at his last message to Alastor. At the bottom of the screen was a small red exclamation mark and the words “Not Delivered.” No signal. He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes. Fuck my luck.

Valentino didn’t even look surprised at Alastor’s arrival. Instead, his smile widened, becoming even more toxic. He brought the pipe to his lips, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke out in a slow, theatrical curl. He sank back into the chair like he was settling in for a show. His eyes locked onto Vox. Well, darling. What will you do now?

The silence was suffocating, heavy. Alastor still stood in the doorway, unmoving. His shadow stretched far into the room. The tension in him was palpable.

Vox felt crushed under Valentino’s mocking stare. He drew a deep breath and turned to Alastor. His face was forced into calm, but his eyes pleaded, apologizing. “Alastor,” he said, voice a little shaky but clear. “Do you want some tea? You can sit if you like.” He didn’t even glance at Valentino. It was a challenge, a choice. He was legitimizing Alastor’s presence in the most mundane way he could.

Alastor saw that silent scream in Vox’s eyes. He paused a moment longer. Then that frozen smile on his face twitched, maybe only a single muscle moving. He gave the slightest nod. Quietly, he stepped in and closed the door behind him. He chose a chair opposite Valentino but angled slightly so he wasn’t directly facing him, leaving space to watch Vox. His posture was perfectly straight, every muscle tight, alert. His red eyes didn’t directly meet Valentino’s, but he was tracking every move, every breath. He knew being here put Vox in even more danger. He would have to stay silent. Just observe but the way Valentino was looking at Vox like he owned him, like poison creeping made Alastor want to kill.

Vox walked toward the kitchen, his hands trembling slightly. He muttered to himself, as if to stay grounded. “Yes. Tea. Right away.” His voice was muffled.

Alastor crossed one leg over the other, folding his hands in his lap. His fingers touched at the tips delicately. That signature wide radio-host grin returned, but his red eyes stayed sharp and cold as knives, dissecting Valentino. “What a lovely surprise,” he began with cheerful lilt, but underneath it was ice. “Seeing you here, Valentino. I didn’t know Vox had set aside quality time for you this evening.”

Valentino sank back into the chair, pretending to be at ease, though his eyes were openly appraising Alastor. “Oh, you know, Alastor,” he drawled, flicking his hand dismissively. “Lovers sometimes just have to drop by unannounced. Especially when they’re so curious about what their dear partner’s friends are up to.” His smile twisted nastily. He emphasized friends. “You know... those cute little pastry-shop rendezvous."

From the kitchen, the sound of water boiling filled the silence. Vox was clearly moving quickly in there. Alastor’s grin didn’t move even a millimeter. “Oh, that? Just a small... reward. Vox was so helpful today. Helping a hopeless old man choose a new gadget... requires saintly patience.” He tilted his head slightly. “You’d reward that kind of effort too, wouldn’t you, Valentino?” The question sounded innocent, but the message was clear: What do you give him? Bruises?

Valentino’s lips tightened. He was about to snap back when Vox emerged from the kitchen, hands trembling as he carried three teacups. The physical tension was clear, the cups clinking softly with each step. He was crashing through the suffocating atmosphere like a glass of cold water.

“Here,” he mumbled, voice tight. He set one cup on the coffee table in front of Valentino, then one by Alastor. He kept the last for himself, sitting in the furthest corner of the couch from Valentino. He lowered his head, staring into the steaming tea.

Alastor’s tea was gone, and he stood by the door waiting. Vox got to his feet, hands clenched, words catching in his throat. “Al, thank you... for coming,” he mumbled, eyes locked on Alastor’s red ones. Gratitude, embarrassment, and a hint of fear warred in his expression.

Alastor put on that wide, sharp grin of his, but this time there was a fleeting warmth that replaced the icy anger in his eyes. He gave a small nod. "No problem, Vox,” he said, his voice back to its usual cheerful lilt, though a fatigue hid underneath. “Just... be careful.” The last words were half-turned toward Valentino, like a warning.

As soon as the door shut, Valentino suddenly sprang to his feet, panther-like in his silent speed. Vox’s breath hitched as he tried to back away, only to hit the cold wall behind him. Valentino braced his arms against the wall, caging him in, his smoky purple breath ghosting over Vox’s face. “Is that filthy shadow gone?” he whispered, voice sticky and dangerous. “Now... we’re alone, darling.”

Vox tried to turn his head away. “Val, please... I’m tired. My injuries...” he mumbled, voice muffled.

Valentino placed a finger under Vox’s chin, forcing his face back. “Your injuries?” he sneered, voice dripping sarcasm. “Please. I’ll make you forget real pain.” He lowered his head, lips hovering by Vox’s ear. His hot breath warmed Vox’s skin. “Does that trash look at you like this?” he hissed, lips brushing Vox’s neck. His hand slid over Vox’s bruised arm, the one Alastor had so carefully cleaned the night before, and down toward his chest.

Vox’s body tensed. Valentino’s familiar, poisonous allure wrapped around him. “Val...” he whimpered, breath ragged. Valentino’s mouth crashed onto his, dominant and possessive. For a moment Vox didn’t resist, his exhausted body and muddled mind willing to yield.

Valentino felt it. His hand slid to Vox’s waist, pulling him tight, bodies pressing together. The kiss deepened, grew greedier. Valentino’s free hand worked at Vox’s belt. “That’s it, mi amor,” he growled between kisses. “Forget that worn-out scum. I’ll show you real attention...”

“Val.” Vox’s voice cut through, unexpectedly clear. He suddenly pulled his head back, pressing his hands against Valentino’s chest. His pale face was set in stubborn lines, eyes burning with fear and defiance. “Stop. Not now.”

Valentino froze. His eyes narrowed dangerously. “What?” His voice was ice. “You’re rejecting me? Because of him?”

“I’m hurt,” Vox insisted, voice shaking but firm. “And... exhausted. Please. Another time.” His eyes met Valentino’s, pleading. It was part strategy, to avoid provoking a fight, but also genuine unwillingness.

Valentino held his gaze for a long moment. Anger and jealousy twisted his face. Then, abruptly, he shrugged, pulling back. A mask of poisonous indifference slid over his features. “Very well, darling,” he drawled, mouth curling in mockery. “Your choice but remember... waiting hurts.” His words hung like a threat in the air. He picked up his pipe, gave Vox one last look full of dark promises, then turned and melted into the night.

The next day, in the quiet of Alastor’s cabin, Vox squirmed on the couch. Alastor sat in his armchair reading his newspaper, seemingly indifferent, but Vox’s nervous energy filled the room.

“Al, listen!” Vox suddenly blurted, jumping up. His pale face, ringed with dark circles, was lit with strange excitement. “Last night... after you left... you won’t believe what happened!”

Alastor didn’t bother lifting his gaze. He raised an eyebrow lazily. “If Valentino didn’t tear you to shreds, that’s an achievement,” he drawled, bored.

“No, no!” Vox waved his hands wildly. “I stopped him! Me! Like you gave me that... look or something. I had courage!” Seeing the skepticism in Alastor’s eyes, he grew even more animated. “I’m serious! It went like this...”

He started to demonstrate, not just with words but with his body. Vox moved toward Alastor, leaning over his chair the way Valentino had cornered him. "Here, he pinned me like this,” Vox explained, bracing one hand on the back of Alastor’s chair, the other on the armrest, boxing him in. His face drew close. Alastor’s red eyes went wide as saucers, his newspaper slipping forgotten onto his lap.

“And then,” Vox whispered, voice low and intense, blowing warm breath into Alastor’s ear the way Valentino had. Alastor’s body went rigid, his ear turning faintly red. Vox’s closeness, the charged energy, shattered his usual sharp composure. His heart thundered in his ears.

Alastor rolled his eyes. “Vox, this nonsense...” he mumbled, but his voice was hoarse and weak. Vox’s heat, the smell of him, the proximity they were too much.

Vox didn’t stop. “And then...” he continued, raising his finger to press gently under Alastor’s chin, just below his lip. The touch was like a jolt of electricity. Alastor’s jaw locked, eyes glued to Vox’s finger. “He turned my face like this...” Vox gently angled Alastor’s face toward him until they were painfully close.

Alastor’s instinct was to recoil, disgusted but he didn’t. He was frozen, caught in Vox’s gaze, which now sparkled with triumph and childlike glee. That look completely disarmed him.

“And then he kissed me,” Vox finished, pressing his finger lightly almost reverently to Alastor’s lips. “Like this.” He pulled back, taking a step away with a proud, satisfied grin. He was beaming. He’d stopped Valentino.

Alastor couldn’t breathe for a moment. His lips burned where Vox had touched. His chest heaved. His face was shockingly blank, stunned. Normally, just knowing Vox had forgiven Valentino, even stayed in the same room, would have sent him into a rage but now? No anger. Just... emptiness and in that emptiness, a hot, uncomfortable residue of Vox’s closeness.

He swallowed. His throat was dry. He avoided Vox’s glowing, triumphant face, staring instead at the cabin wall. His voice was barely audible, strangely broken. “And... after?” he rasped. “What... what did you do?” The word do tasted bitter. He shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t want to know but Vox’s demonstration, that ugly, irrational jealousy, had been lit like a fuse.

Vox’s eyes brightened even more, understanding the meaning behind the question. “After?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly, smile softening into something almost gentle. “Then I told him to stop and he left, Al! He actually left! He didn’t force me!”

Alastor watched him. Vox’s small defiance was a huge step. He gave a tiny nod, face neutral, but voice carrying a rare warmth under its usual sharpness. "Good,” he said simply. Then he let his gaze drop to the wound on Vox’s forehead. His tone turned gruff again, but there was unmistakable care under it. “Next time, before you have another ‘accident,’ call me. Perhaps... we can find better ways to drown that moth in his own poison.”

Vox’s eyes shone even brighter. Alastor had mentioned calling. Did that mean he could call him one day? A wide, genuine smile spread across his face. "Promise, Al,” he whispered. “Promise.”

Vox settled back onto the couch with a breathless excitement. Alastor appeared to have returned to his newspaper, but his fingers crumpled the edge of the page ever so slightly.

Vox squirmed a little on the sofa, watching him. Alastor’s usual unreadable expression didn’t stop him this time. The courage he’d found the night before seemed to carry into these early hours. He took a breath, steeling himself.

“Al?”

Alastor didn’t lift his eyes, only raised one eyebrow by a millimeter. “Hmm?”

Vox hesitated for a second, then blurted the question out in a rush, like he’d been holding his breath and suddenly let it go. “Do you... do you have someone?”

Alastor’s motion of turning the page froze. He slowly, deliberately folded the paper with almost calm precision and set it on the side table. Then he turned his head slowly to look at Vox. His red eyes locked onto Vox’s face with an unusual intensity.

“Someone?” Alastor repeated, his voice flat. “I’m afraid you’ll need to clarify. Property? Illness? Or,” he paused, his eyes catching Vox’s with a dangerous glint, “some other kind of... attachment?”

Vox’s face flushed slightly. He knew exactly what Alastor meant. That teasing precision only encouraged him. “You know what I mean,” he insisted, his voice softer but steady. “Someone you love. Someone you... care about. Beyond those... three words.” ‘Those two words’ were like the name of the impossible gulf between them.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. The red glow in them seemed to burn a little brighter. “My personal attachments,” he began carefully, “are matters that exceed your curiosity or your concern.” He stressed ‘concern’ just enough to show he’d picked up on the hint of jealousy in Vox’s question.

Vox didn’t back down. “I was just curious,” he murmured, refusing to look away. “I mean... all this time. Have you always been... alone? Truly?”

"I am not alone, Vox,” Alastor said pointedly, his voice low but with an edge of threat. “I am free.” His eyes flicked to the fresh wound on Vox’s forehead, then to the bruises on his arm. "I see every day where your so-called love drags you. While you suffocate under that poisonous trust… will you accuse me of the same weakness just because I don’t have it?"

Vox’s courage faltered for an instant. Alastor’s words laid bare the ugly truth of his relationship with Valentino. His pale face lost even more color, eyes falling to the floor. “No, Al, I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered, voice small. “I just... wanted to know.”

Vox lowered his head even further, eyes fixed on a single spot in the couch fabric. The wound on his forehead Valentino’s “gift” seemed even more pronounced. His fingers drifted lightly over the bruise on his arm. Alastor was right. It was exactly that: being crushed. Weakness. Hearing it, especially from Alastor, filled him with a gnawing shame and pain.

Alastor watched him, taking in Vox’s bowed head, slumped shoulders, that silent pain. The weight of his own words, especially in the face of Vox’s current state, settled like a stone in his gut. His tongue, always sharp, had been too sharp this time. He’d meant to make Vox see the danger of Valentino’s grip, not hurt him even more. A deep, almost inaudible sigh. He clasped his hands in his lap, pressing his fingertips together to ease the tension.

“Vox,” he began, his voice stripped of its usual cheer or menacing edge, softer, more human. Even the tone itself was an apology. “I didn’t mean... to hurt you.” He chose each word carefully. “You’re right. You just... wanted to know.” he paused, eyes landing on Vox’s hunched back, then lowering to his own hands. “And... about what you asked... Yes. There is.”

Vox’s head lifted slightly. He glanced at Alastor from under his lashes, but didn’t have the nerve for full eye contact. His expression was a mix of surprise and caution. Alastor never talked about these things. Ever.

Alastor caught that look. For a moment, their eyes met. In that red depth, there was an unusual warmth, maybe even vulnerability. Then, inevitably, Alastor looked away again, back to his lap. "There’s someone I’m... interested in.” The words seemed to be dragged painfully from him, heavy and reluctant.

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t the sharp silence from before it was more thoughtful, heavy with unspoken things. Inside Vox, a storm raged. Who? The question burned on his tongue, demanding to be spoken. Charlie? That do-gooder princess? Or... someone else? Someone he didn’t know? But he didn’t dare ask. Alastor admitting this much was a miracle already. Asking for more would mean risking rejection, risking more hurt. His fingers clenched on his knees. His lips parted, like he was about to speak, but he stopped himself at the last second. He lowered his head again, sinking into silence.

Alastor saw Vox’s struggle, how he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He felt a wave of relief but there was a strange pang of sadness there too. Vox wasn’t asking. Maybe it was better that way. Taking advantage of the silence, Alastor went on, his words chosen with deliberate care:

“Someone... stubborn. Annoyingly sure of himself, but at the same time terribly vulnerable. Sometimes he says such nonsense I want to strangle him.” his eyes drifted to Vox’s startled expression, then flicked away immediately. “But also... brave. Brave enough to destroy himself.”

Vox frowned slightly as he listened to Alastor’s words.

Alastor caught that thoughtful look and felt heat rise in his face. Did he understand? A flicker of panic hit him. Was I too obvious? He quickly stood, straightening his coat. “I need to get dressed,” he cut in abruptly, voice snapping back to its usual cheerful tone, though there was a frantic edge under it. “I’ve got things to do at the hotel. Charlie’s new project meeting.”

Vox watched Alastor’s sudden escape. “Al—” he called, but Alastor was already heading for the door.

Alastor paused, not turning around. “Yes?”

Vox hesitated for a moment. Then he asked quietly, "This... person you mentioned. Will you... will you say those three words to them?”

Alastor’s shoulders tensed. He stood completely still. Then he gave a small nod. “Maybe. If he learns to listen.” He opened the door to his room, then spoke without looking back. “And if you’re leaving... watch out for Valentino.” He closed the door behind him.

Vox pushed the door open just a crack and slipped inside. Alastor was standing with his back to him, facing the mirror, struggling with the belt of his red suit. He was trying to thread the thin leather strap through its brass buckle, but his fingers seemed clumsy. His expression was one of rare frustration: brows furrowed, lips pursed slightly.

“Al?” Vox’s voice was low and careful.

Alastor flinched, his red eyes locking onto Vox’s reflection in the mirror. "Vox,” he muttered, his voice a little high. He didn’t let go of the belt, still wrestling with it, but his gaze darted away from Vox. “Do you need something?”

Vox shut the door behind him, taking a few steps in. "Just thought I’d check on you before I go,” he explained with a little shrug. His eyes fell to Alastor’s hands, fingers stuck in the stubborn buckle. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Is it stuck?” he asked, not mocking, but genuinely amused.

Alastor let out a deep sigh, rolling his eyes. “These modern contraptions,” he grumbled, giving the buckle another futile tug. “A button, a loop those were enough before. Now this... convoluted nightmare.” The buckle refused to cooperate.

Vox didn’t hesitate to move closer. “Want me to help?” he offered softly, his hand hovering in the air like he was waiting for permission to touch.

Alastor hesitated for a moment. His eyes flicked to Vox’s hand, then back to his own reflection. The conflict was clear on his face: pride, tolerance for this closeness. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders slumped. He gave in. “It’s just... stuck,” he mumbled, voice low. He let his hands fall to his sides.

Vox tried to hide his smile as he stepped in. He moved behind Alastor, close enough to feel his warmth, to catch the faint scent of vanilla and old paper clinging to him. Carefully, he took the belt, guiding the fine leather through the brass buckle. His fingers were deft and gentle, the opposite of Alastor’s earlier frustration. “Here,” he murmured, almost to himself. “It hooks in this notch. Like that.” A soft click as it slid home, hugging Alastor’s waist perfectly.

The touch was brief, functional but Alastor’s body went stiff for a moment when Vox’s fingers brushed his waist, his breath catching in his throat. Vox pulled back.

“All done,” Vox said, stepping back a little. His eyes were drawn to the tense line of Alastor’s back, hesitating to move higher.

Alastor took a deep breath, looking at the belt in the mirror, then meeting Vox’s reflection. "Thank you,” he mumbled, voice a bit rough. His hand lifted to adjust his tie in what looked like a defensive gesture. “This... can be infuriating sometimes.”

Vox nodded, still smiling faintly. "You’ll get used to it.” There was a pause, quiet but not uncomfortable. Then Vox’s eyes drifted to Alastor’s in the mirror. “Will they wear you out today?” he asked carefully, trying to sound neutral. “Charlie’s meeting?”

Alastor caught Vox’s look in the mirror. He saw the worry there. His red eyes softened just a fraction. “Charlie’s endless optimism is always exhausting,” he replied in his typical evasive way. “But it’s a daily torture.” he squared his shoulders, tugging the collar of his suit into place. That familiar, dangerous smile slid back onto his face.

Vox smiled too. “Alright,” he murmured. “Just... be careful, okay?”

Alastor tilted his head slightly, his smile tightening. “Don’t worry, Vox. I’m always careful.” He checked himself one last time in the mirror, then turned toward the door. “Time to endure the princess’s morning ballads.” He rolled his eyes. “And you?”

Vox shrugged. “Studio. Streams, reports... the usual bullshit.” His voice was a little flat.

Alastor nodded once. He opened the door, but paused before leaving. He didn’t turn around, just spoke over his shoulder in an unusually soft voice. “If you get too bored... call.”

The door closed behind him. Vox’s hand, almost unconsciously, drifted to the hard edge of his phone in his pocket. Call. When you hate technology so much?

Chapter Text

Charlie’s “Goodwill Project” meeting just wouldn’t end. Alastor sat in the brightly pink-decorated meeting room, fingers tapping out a faint rhythm on the table, his face fixed in that patient, unwavering smile. When Charlie finally clapped her hands enthusiastically and closed the last slide, she proclaimed, “That’s it! What a wonderful meeting!” Her eyes sparkled with hope. “Tonight in the lobby, we’ll have a little ‘Motivation and Morale Boost Party’! Alastor, you have to come! Fun guaranteed!”

Alastor tensed so slightly it was nearly audible as a drawn-in breath, but outwardly he only inclined his head with polished courtesy. “Ah, Princess, your charm is hard to resist,” he replied, the edge in his voice showing just a little more. “I’ll check my schedule and let you know.” Never going to happen, he thought. Listening to shrieking people in a hotel lobby with music blaring was his personal definition of hell.

Charlie nodded happily, assuming his answer was yes. As the crowd dispersed, Alastor quickly retreated to a corner, sinking into the deep shadow by the window. He pulled out that plastic abomination, his new phone. Even turning on the screen still felt alien. He let his fingers drift slowly over the keys, trying to write to Vox: T..h..i..s p..l..a..c..e i..s s..o.. b..o..r..i..n..g. Even completing one word felt like an eternity. Then he added: H..o..w a..r..e y..o..u?

Vox had turned the kitchen into a war zone. The counters were littered with vegetable scraps, spices, and oil stains. Sweat had soaked the fresh bandage on his forehead, and his hair stuck to it, but his eyes were focused with fierce intent. When the buzz of an incoming message rattled his phone, he jumped. Reading Alastor’s halting, unmistakably him words on the screen made him grin. He replied quickly: Cooking. I’m dead. He hit send, then hesitated a moment. Without overthinking it, he tapped the screen again and called.

Alastor’s phone suddenly buzzed and rang in his hand. His red eyes flicked open wide, and he almost dropped it. When he saw “Vox” on the screen, an involuntary little smirk tugged at his mouth. He did that on purpose, Alastor thought. He knows I’m struggling. He answered, bringing the phone awkwardly to his ear. “Vox,” he drawled, trying to keep his voice in its usual, bored tone. “How’s the kitchen? Blow anything up yet?” He ignored the weird feeling of actually holding the phone to his ear.

On the other side, Vox’s laugh crackled through the speaker, warm and a bit breathless. “Didn’t blow up, Al, don’t worry. Just... got a little too friendly with the smoke detector.” Then his voice softened. “You? Is it really that boring?”

Alastor leaned against a column in the hallway. “Everything’s as expected, except for Charlie’s ‘party,’ Fun is guaranteed, she told me." he muttered. He paused. A question hovered on his tongue, hesitant, but he couldn’t keep it in, and it came out low and guarded. “Hey... you making that for Valentino?”

The playful warmth drained instantly from Vox’s voice. “No.” One word. “Just... for myself. Routine.”

Silence. Alastor heard the shift in Vox’s tone, the edge in it. Then Vox deliberately lightened his voice again, steering the topic away with playful insistence. “Hey, take a picture at the party, will you? I have to see what ‘fun guaranteed’ looks like.”

Alastor was surprised enough to let out a short, real laugh. “A picture?” he repeated in a mocking tone. “Maybe if I feel inclined. I haven’t even found the photo section in this thing’s manual.”

Vox’s laugh rang out again, this time genuine. “If I see a picture,” he teased, “then maybe... you’ll get a chance to taste what I’m making.” The invitation underneath was unmistakable.

Alastor raised his brows, smiling wider. “Oh really?” he murmured with interest.

“Really,” Vox confirmed, now sounding more serious, warmly sincere. “You’ll be exhausted from the meeting and the possible party. No need to cook for two more hours. Even if you show up at midnight, it’s fine.” He paused, then added quietly: “You have the key anyway.”

Alastor felt something in his chest tighten. That kind of open invitation... that kind of trust. “You’d be bothered that late,” he murmured, trying to keep a careful distance in his voice.

Vox’s answer was immediate, firm. “I wouldn’t mind. Come whenever.”

By midnight, Alastor was sitting in the darkest corner of the bar across from Husk. He didn’t have a drink in front of him. He just sat quietly while Husk refilled his own whiskey and ranted. “...and then she says, ‘but Husk, the glass is cracked!’ It’s not cracked, dammit! It’s just old! Not everything needs to be bright and new!” Husk grumbled, taking another gulp.

Alastor gave a vague nod, but his red eyes kept flicking to the clock. Past midnight. Vox’s words were in his head: Come whenever. He stood up abruptly. “Husk,” he said curtly. “It’s been... delightful but I need to go.”

Husk blinked at him, surprised. He’d expected Alastor to stay the night at the hotel. “Now? It’s dark out, Boss."

Alastor’s smile was faint, enigmatic. “The dark is my friend.” He waved a hand lightly, vanishing into the shadows.

The key turned in the lock with quiet precision. The door opened without a creak. Alastor slipped inside, removing his shoes as silently as possible. The stillness and darkness felt comforting. He moved toward the kitchen. On the counter sat a plate covered neatly in plastic wrap. Next to it, a small note: Just 2 mins in the microwave. Enjoy. -V

A real, small smile curved Alastor’s lips. He carefully folded the note and tucked it into his pocket. He warmed the food and sat at the kitchen counter alone. Each bite was deliberate, slow. It wasn’t just delicious; there was something in that silent gesture of trust, of welcome... and it felt unexpectedly good. When he was finished, he washed the dishes quietly, wiped down the counter, and put everything back exactly as it was. Order was his way of saying thank you.

Just as he was finishing, he heard a soft creak behind him. He turned. Vox stood in the doorway, sleep heavy in his eyes, hair tousled, wearing a loose T-shirt and pajama pants. He yawned, covering his mouth with one hand.

Alastor lifted his gaze to him, his expression softening with surprise. He kept his voice low, matching the hush of the hour. “Did I wake you?” he asked gently.

Vox rubbed his eyes and smiled at him, a real, stripped-down smile free of the day’s tension. “No,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Just... heard something. Was it good?”

Alastor nodded slowly. “It was perfect. Thank you, Vox.” His eyes traced Vox’s sleepy form, the soft hair, the faint lines around his eyes. That fragility, that defenselessness... it stirred something protective and warm in him.

Vox looked at him sidelong, hesitating. Then he cleared his throat, like he was taking a risk. “You gonna sleep? Or...” He paused. “Want me to show you one or two more things about the phone? Like, how to take pictures?” There was a teasing sparkle in his eyes even through the sleep.

Alastor regarded him, noting how heavy Vox’s eyelids were, how he seemed barely able to stand. A strange tenderness settled in Alastor’s chest. His voice dropped to a hush. “No rush, dear friend. Rest.” Dear friend. The words were chosen deliberately distant but warm.

Vox’s smile deepened. “Okay,” he whispered. “Goodnight, Al.” He turned toward his room but paused after a step, speaking over his shoulder in a soft but clear voice. “I don’t need to say it but... stay. Okay?”

Alastor watched him. Vox’s back was turned, but he still nodded slowly, a gesture that felt almost visible. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Of course.”

Vox walked to his room, leaving the door cracked open. Alastor settled on the couch in the quiet living room. He didn’t sit stiffly like in his own little shack. He let his back sink against the cushions, legs stretched a little. In the silence, he could hear the last quiet sounds of Vox moving around, then nothing. His eyes drifted closed. It was so different from his cabin but surprisingly, it felt... acceptable. Alastor’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. Rest, Vox had said. Maybe, for once, he actually could.

When morning came, Alastor was, as always, the first to wake. The uncomfortable comfort of the couch nagged at his mind. He rose quietly, his toes sinking into the soft weave of the rug. He headed for the kitchen, knowing it almost as well as his own cabin despite Vox’s disorganized mess. He opened the fridge: eggs, some cheese, a tomato. He moved to the counter. When he picked up the knife, his wrist movements were automatic, almost graceful.

Tap tap tap… The knife sliced the tomato into thin rounds. Each sound echoed in the quiet of the house. That silence… that ease… it stirred a strange, gentle sense of peace inside him. Then suddenly, a thought struck like lightning: Does Valentino feel like this too? Coming here, moving so comfortably in Vox’s space?

His hands paused. His eyes drifted to the city view outside the kitchen window. Valentino... He imagined him standing here, at this counter. Preparing Vox’s meal. Maybe something more flamboyant, more showy… But still. This closeness… this claiming feeling…

Then another truth dropped into his mind with cutting clarity: Valentino doesn’t have a key to this place. He could threaten or ask and maybe get in, but not like Alastor… Not quietly, whenever he wished. That fact bloomed in his chest like a small, warm victory. His place here was different. Built on trust. Not the poisonous control Valentino had.

Following that thought was a sharper spark: Lover… Are we lovers?

The knife clicked lightly against the counter. Alastor narrowed his eyes, snapping out of it with an internal jolt. Don’t be absurd, he scolded himself, jaw tightening. It’s just… Vox and I… I’m Alastor. He needed to maintain distance, to avoid defining the indefinable. That gulf was still there. He refocused on the tomatoes, chopping harder, faster.

“Al?” Vox’s voice came from the kitchen doorway, deep and husky with sleep.

Alastor turned. Vox was standing there, hair a mess from sleep, eyes heavy-lidded, wearing a loose T-shirt and old pajama bottoms. The bandage on his forehead was still there. The sight was unexpectedly… vulnerable.

“Good morning,” Alastor murmured, forcing his voice into its usual cheerful tone. “I woke up early. Breakfast is almost ready.” He slid the tomatoes into the pan where eggs were sizzling.

Vox yawned hugely, covering his mouth with his hand as he shuffled into the kitchen. His eyes landed on the preparations. “Hey, I’ll do that. You got in late last night, you must be tired.” He reached out, fingers brushing Alastor’s arm as if to gently pull him aside.

Alastor tensed instinctively at the touch but didn’t pull away. He raised an eyebrow. “No need, dear. You set an alarm?” There was mild surprise in his voice. Vox usually slept in, especially without studio pressure.

Vox flushed slightly, shrugging. “Uh, yeah. Hospitality and all, you know.” His eyes flicked over Alastor’s face before dropping back to the food.

Alastor’s mouth twitched into the hint of a smile he didn’t notice himself. That small gesture… setting an alarm… it warmed him. “Of course,” he murmured. “Go shower. I’ll handle it.” He turned to Vox, eyes unexpectedly warm. “Be quick. Don’t let it get cold.”

Vox caught that rare, soft expression. A sleepy smile spread across his face. “Okay, boss.” He turned and shuffled off toward the bathroom.

Alastor busied himself with the pan until Vox was gone. Then he watched after him, taking in the slouching, relaxed posture in those comfortable clothes. That warm, strange feeling returned in his chest. Love… The word dropped into his mind again, this time with less panic. Maybe… just maybe… this thing he couldn’t define was something beyond those three words but there was no need to name it. Not yet. He focused on plating the breakfast.

When Vox returned from the shower, hair still damp, dressed in clean but still comfortable clothes, he saw the hot breakfast waiting on the table and felt a rush of gratitude. “Looks amazing, Al,” he mumbled as he sat down.

“Enjoy,” Alastor replied, taking his own seat. They ate in silence for a while, only the quiet clink of cutlery between them. A comfortable, familiar silence.

Vox finished his last bite and sipped his coffee before pulling out his phone. He seemed to check something, then snickered softly. “Al,” he called in an amused tone.

Alastor looked up. “Hmm?”

Vox held out his phone. On the screen was Alastor’s awkward, halting message from the night before: “T..h..i..s p..l..a..c..e i..s s..o.. b..o..r..i..n..g.” “Look,” Vox said, pointing between the dots. “You put a period between every letter. Was autocorrect off or did you do it on purpose?” His eyes sparkled with playful mischief.

Alastor’s face flushed slightly. He took the phone, inspecting the message. “Ah,” he muttered, voice unusually sheepish. “This… thing… this plastic nightmare doesn’t obey my fingers. Typing one word is torture.” He glanced back up at Vox. “Last night I couldn’t even take a decent picture.”

Vox’s eyes lit up even more. “Let me show you!” he offered eagerly. “It’s simple. Tap this icon…” He quickly demonstrated on his own phone, launching the camera. “See? It’s right at the bottom. Tap this.”

Alastor watched carefully, then took out his own phone. He followed Vox’s instructions, finger pressing the icon with deliberate care. When the camera app opened, he flinched slightly. “Ah. There.”

“Now,” Vox continued, “just aim it at whatever you want and press the big, round button.”

Alastor raised the phone. His red eyes focused through the lens on Vox. Vox seemed to understand, smiling slightly, head tilting with an affectionate, teasing look. Alastor’s finger pressed the big white button.

Click.

Alastor lowered the phone and looked at the screen. There was Vox, hair messy from sleep, bandage on his forehead, loose T-shirt… and most importantly, that genuine, relaxed smile. Vulnerable, and in an inexplicable way, beautiful.

Alastor stared at the photo for a moment. Then he slowly lifted his eyes to the real Vox. There was no usual smile on his face just a deep, thoughtful expression. “There,” he murmured, voice unusually soft. He turned the phone to show Vox the picture.

Vox looked at it. He chuckled quietly, then his smile softened, warm and sincere. “Not bad,” he commented. “For a first try.”

Alastor nodded, pocketing his phone. “Maybe… there’s a point to enduring this technological torture.” He thought.

Breakfast ended. The dishes were washed. Alastor put on his coat. “I’m off now,” he announced, heading to the door. “Have some… work to do back at my cabin.”

Vox nodded, opening the door for him. “Okay. See you, Al and… thanks. For breakfast. For… everything.”

Alastor looked at him, seeing that relaxed, morning version of Vox, the one in the photo. He gave a small nod. “Thank you.” He stepped out, pausing for a moment at the threshold of the house where he’d spent the night, then disappeared into the shadows.

Vox was busy fiddling with a few things in his studio when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen lit up with a message from his assistant, Peppermint:

"Boss, the special reservation is confirmed! Ultra-luxury villa, private beach, thermal hot springs… All for three days. The guest list is you and me. Is Mr. Valentino coming? Car service at 18:00."

Vox’s fingers paused over the keyboard. A vacation. A heavenly getaway but instead of Valentino, only one name filled his mind: Alastor. That tense, reclusive creature… Could he bring him? Maybe if he invited Charlie too? The princess’s presence might persuade Alastor. He quickly typed:

Vox: Al. Ultra-luxury villa booked for a few days. If Princess Charlie and her crew want in, there’s space. Hot springs, silence... Your vibe. Interested?

Alastor had just stepped out of his cabin’s bathroom, hair still damp. His phone buzzed on the table, glowing. A wave of unease washed over him. He reluctantly dragged a finger across the screen. Villa? Vacation? His lips twisted. So many people. So much "luxury." His mind immediately said No. He typed out a stiff reply:

Alastor: Vox. Such social obligations are an unnecessary hassle. Enjoy yourself.

The reply came instantly:

Vox: Not a hassle, Al. I'll be there too. I’ll make sure the Princess says yes. Think about it?

Alastor gripped the phone tight. Vox will be there. The words echoed in his head. A vacation with Vox? He unconsciously wiped at his face with the back of his hand, as if to cool some rising heat. It was absurd. Personal. He needed cover. Quickly, he typed:

Alastor: I’ll ask the Princess. I’ll leave the decision to her.

In the Hazbin Hotel lobby, Charlie let out a shriek the moment she heard Alastor’s question.

"VACATION?! ALASTOR, THAT’S THE BEST IDEA EVER!" She started bouncing while hugging Vaggie. "Of course we’re in! Angel, Husk, Niffty… Everyone! This is perfect for team bonding! I need my hats! Sunscreen! We’ll collect seashells!"

Alastor rolled his eyes with an audible sigh. Charlie’s endless enthusiasm was as exhausting as ever. "Glad to hear it, Princess," he said, voice laced with a subtle weariness. He pulled out his phone again, eyebrows knitted as he tapped carefully:

Alastor: The Princess’s enthusiasm seems impossible to refuse. We’re coming. Send details.

That afternoon, a long, sleek black car pulled up in front of the hotel. Its tinted windows gleamed. Charlie, Vaggie, Angel Dust sporting a showy hat, Husk clutching a hidden flask, and Niffty scanning the area with excitement all piled in.

Alastor, put off by the overly air-conditioned leather seats and flashy screens, sulked in the very back. How much did Vox drop on this nonsense? he couldn’t help wondering, feeling an odd pang.

They stopped briefly to pick up Vox. He appeared at the curb with a small suitcase and sunglasses. The bandage on his face was still there, but his eyes seemed brighter. He paused at the open door, spotting the crowd, and smiled faintly.

Alastor, seeing Husk muttering next to him, jabbed him sharply with an elbow. "Move. Up there," he hissed, jerking his head at the empty front seat.

Husk grumbled but didn’t fight it, sliding forward. Vox didn’t see any of this just noticed the seat next to Alastor was open and let out a subtle sigh of relief as he sat down.

"Thanks," he murmured, clicking his belt.

"Trivial," Alastor replied, eyes fixed out the window as the car pulled away.

During the noisy ride filled with Charlie’s cheerful singing and Angel’s loud commentary Vox leaned in, voice low and uncharacteristically soft. "Al... I know you hate crowds and water but there’s a private hot spring area at the far end of the villa. Surrounded by trees. Quiet. Dark. The steam is perfect. No one will bother you. Ideal for you." His warm breath brushed Alastor’s ear. Alastor flinched involuntarily, ears flattening slightly. It was a sensitive spot.

Vox noticed immediately, eyes flicking to the ear. He blushed. "Ah… I know it’s sensitive," he mumbled apologetically. "I’ll warn the staff. Make sure the water’s right for you." A genuine, shy smile spread across his face. That little, unguarded reaction from Alastor was... adorable.

Alastor caught the smile. "What is it?" he asked, voice unusually flat.

"Nothing," Vox said, the smile growing wider, but now looking out the window as if he hadn't been watching Alastor at all. "Just... it’s a nice day."

Alastor felt an unnameable warmth rise in his chest. Then Valentino’s name flashed in his mind. Did he know about this trip? He wanted to ask, but didn’t want to ruin Vox’s rare, relaxed mood. He sighed quietly and looked back out at the landscape.

At dinner in a fancy roadside restaurant, Vox kept glancing at his phone, fingers tapping out messages. His face wore a strange mix of tension and... happiness?

Alastor poked at his food, eyes flicking sideways to catch the screen. The short exchanges were enough:

Val: You on the road, baby? Don’t worry, you’re mine when you’re back.
Vox: Not there yet, we’re eating. All good, love. You?:)
Val: Cold bed here. Miss you. Send a pic. 💋
Vox: Busy now. Later.

Alastor briefly imagined being in Valentino’s place. Vox typing love to him. His heart slammed in his chest, hard and stupid. Ridiculous! he scolded himself, dropping the fork with a clatter, but the hot rush didn’t subside easily.

Meanwhile, Vox put the phone away and rejoined the table’s conversation with a deliberately neutral face.

As the night drive continued, moonlight filtered in through the window. Vox eventually drifted off, head starting to tilt.

Alastor watched him from the corner of his eye. Is he comfortable? He’ll crick his neck on this damned seat. A moment’s hesitation. Then, with painstaking care, he shifted his own shoulder just slightly toward Vox.

Seconds later, Vox’s head landed neatly on it. Alastor held his breath. He felt Vox’s warmth, heard the steady breathing. His usual fixed grin stayed plastered on, but his eyes were wide and unblinking.

Then the car jolted to a halt. The driver called out: "Welcome! The villa’s right there!"

Vox startled awake, eyes blinking. When he realized his head had been on Alastor’s shoulder, he recoiled in embarrassment. "Ah! Al! I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize I fell asleep..." His face burned red.

Alastor felt the loss of that weight, that warmth. He gave the tiniest nod. "Trivial, Vox. Sleep happens. To us all." He stood abruptly, heading for the door.

In the villa’s stunning marble foyer, Peppermint approached with the room assignments.

"Boss, as usual you get the master suite on the top floor, single occupancy. The others are as follows: Princess Charlie and Vaggie share a suite, Husk and Angel Dust share another, Niffty gets a small room. For Mr. Alastor..." He scanned the list. "...you didn’t specify, so we picked out a quiet, lovely room for him."

Alastor didn’t react. Alone. Makes sense. He wouldn’t want to intrude on Vox’s comfort. Almost imperceptibly, he dipped his head in acceptance.

Vox caught that subtle nod. Something twisted in his chest. He turned to Peppermint, voice firm. "Change it. Peppermint. My suite is a double. Alastor’s staying with me. No need for an extra room."

Peppermint blinked in surprise. "But Boss, you always—"

"He’s with me," Vox repeated, decisive. Then he turned to Alastor, voice gentler but still firm. "That okay, Al? It’s also closest to your private hot spring."

Alastor met Vox’s eyes. He saw insistence, worry, and... an invitation. His heart thumped hard. Sharing a room? The idea was both terrifying and irresistible. His grin didn’t waver but he took a very deep, nearly silent breath, then gave a clearer nod this time. Yes.

Peppermint scribbled a note. "Understood, Boss. I’ll have extra towels and bedding sent to the master suite." He bustled off.

Vox shot Alastor a small, reassuring smile. "Come on," he said, picking up his bag and starting up the wide marble staircase. "You have to see the view."

Alastor suddenly reached out and snatched the strap of the bag from Vox’s hand. "Leave it,” he said, short and firm, with an unusual note of finality in his voice. His eyes flicked to the bandage on Vox’s forehead, then darted away. Vox blinked at him in surprise, ready to protest but he just gave a small nod and mumbled, “Thanks.”

They climbed the stairs and found their room. When they opened the door, Alastor’s eyes immediately fell on the massive single bed frame in the center of the room. His gaze narrowed, and a barely audible sigh escaped him. He couldn’t even explain why it bothered him so much. The closeness? The implication?

Vox, meanwhile, seemed oblivious. He was focused on opening his suitcase. He immediately pulled out his laptop and a few folders. “Let me check these reports real quick, they can’t wait until morning—” but before he could finish, Alastor’s hand slammed down over the folder.

“Vox,” he said, voice flat but commanding. His red eyes were locked onto Vox’s tired face. “This is a vacation. Relax. Don’t drag out those plastic abominations and piles of paper in here.” It wasn’t exactly an order it had an odd, protective tone.

Vox stared at him, startled. Whenever he’d gone on “vacation” with Valentino, he was expected to keep working while Valentino relaxed. This insistence... felt different. There was an unfamiliar warmth in it.

He shrugged and gave a small, almost shy smile. “Fine. Peppermint can handle it. I’ll just email him.” He pulled out his phone, sent a quick message, then stuffed the laptop and files back into the suitcase.

Travel exhaustion was hitting them both hard. Soon, they were getting ready for bed, lying down on opposite sides of the big single bed. The room was dark and quiet.

Alastor lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Something strange was happening: his heart was pounding far too fast. Why? Vox’s nearness? The single bed? The absurdity of this vacation? He couldn’t find a rational explanation, which only made him more restless.

It felt like hours passed. He couldn’t sleep. His heartbeat stayed maddeningly fast. Then he heard it: quiet, irregular breathing beside him. Vox was awake too. Constant shifting, pillow adjustments, tiny frustrated sighs.

Alastor’s patience finally snapped. He rolled over abruptly and stared at Vox’s outline in the dark. "What’s wrong, Vox?” he demanded, voice low but sharp in the silence. “You’ve been squirming for hours.”

Vox flinched, tugging the blanket around himself. “N-Nothing,” he mumbled, voice muffled and embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I’ll sleep now.”

Alastor didn’t buy it. He simply waited, unblinking, his red eyes boring into Vox’s silhouette. Vox felt that heavy gaze on him, eventually giving in. He let out a long, defeated sigh, burying his face in the pillow. His voice was so muffled it was hard to hear. “I’m... I’m clingy. When I sleep. I don’t have... anything here.” The words were choked with shame.

Alastor paused. Then, even in the dark, a real, small smile tugged at his lips. He understood exactly what Vox meant. The plush toy. That worn old shark.

Vox must have felt the smile, because he immediately snapped, voice going shrill with embarrassment: “Don’t laugh, Alastor!” He yanked the blanket over his head. “I’m serious!”

Alastor had to force his grin down, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I’m not laughing,” he began calmly. “Why didn’t you bring it? If it’s that important.”

From under the blanket came a muffled, miserable sound: “They’d see it... Charlie, Husk, everyone... How was I supposed to explain it? ‘Yes, I’m Vox, the big overlord, and I can’t sleep without hugging my stuffed shark’?” The shame soaked every word.

Alastor fell silent. Thoughtful. Then, choosing his words carefully, he asked. “When Valentino was around... what did you do? Did you explain this... attachment to him?” His voice was low and curious not mocking.

The blanket shifted slightly. Vox’s voice was barely a whisper, even more embarrassed: “H... Hid it.” He hesitated. Then another broken confession fell out: “Sometimes... sometimes I’d just hold him. Instead of it.” He immediately regretted saying it.

Alastor’s heart slammed so hard he thought it might break his ribs. Vox held Valentino. Like that. Instead of his plush. The image of Vox’s vulnerability tangled up with Valentino’s poisonous presence made Alastor’s stomach churn and lit something dark and undefinable in him. His eyes narrowed in the dark. On an impulse, voice tight, he asked. “Now... should we... do that? Instead?” He realized instantly how reckless and dangerous it sounded. He hated being touched.

Vox went rigid under the blanket. Hold each other? From Alastor? He felt sweat break out on his skin, face burning hot. He was practically suffocating under the blanket. “N-No!” he squeaked, voice cracking with panic. He clutched the blanket tighter. “Are you insane? You... you hate contact! You’d be disgusted! Absolutely not!” The words were like an echo of Alastor’s own fears.

Hearing that panicked refusal, Alastor felt a weird mix of relief and... disappointment? The second feeling startled him. He held his breath, then let it out slowly.

“You’re right,” he muttered, voice unusually soft and a bit exhausted in the dark. “It was stupid. Forget it.” He rolled onto his back again, staring at the ceiling. His heart still beat too fast but now he understood it even less.

Minutes crawled by. Heavy silence settled over the room. Alastor eventually assumed Vox had fallen asleep and closed his own eyes, trying to focus on the rhythm of his breath.

But on the other side of the bed, very slowly, very carefully, Vox lowered the blanket. He watched Alastor’s shape in the dark, just the hint of his profile visible. Inside, there was a gnawing emptiness, an unbearable longing. The absence of his plush, Alastor’s weird offer, his own rejection it all twisted painfully inside him.

Shoving aside his pride, driven by a fragile, reckless hope, Vox inched closer. He held his breath, making no noise, every movement cautious.

Alastor had turned away from him. Vox very carefully, trembling, reached out toward Alastor’s back. His fingers brushed against Alastor’s waist. Instantly, Alastor’s entire body tensed, his breath catching. Vox panicked, whispering brokenly. “Just this once... please... I won’t bother you. Just... a moment.”

Alastor was frozen. Vox’s arm was draped over his waist, heat seeping into his back. Instead of revulsion or the urge to flee, something shocking happened: a hollow place inside him filled up. That vulnerable, apologetic touch was unexpectedly... comforting.

He hesitated for a breathless second. Then, in a move he couldn’t quite believe himself, he shifted pretending to get more comfortable but actually turned to face Vox. Even more shocking, he reached for Vox’s arm at his waist and gently, firmly pulled him closer.

They were suddenly almost nose-to-nose. Vox’s forehead pressed against the lower part of Alastor’s chest.

“Shh...” Alastor rumbled, voice low and strangely soothing despite its harsh rasp. His movement said this is more comfortable, but the closeness was absolutely deliberate.

Vox froze. He was pressed against Alastor’s chest. He could feel Alastor’s breath ruffling his hair. He hadn’t expected this couldn’t have imagined it. He was burning with embarrassment, overwhelming feeling. He could feel Alastor's arm around his waist. Worst of all, he liked it. Too much, too forbidden.

They realized it simultaneously.

Like they’d both been shocked, they pulled away at once. It was as if they’d burned each other. Vox scrambled to the edge of the bed, back pressed to the wall, clutching the blanket to his chest. Alastor jerked away to the other side, turning his back to Vox, shoulders rigid, breath ragged. An entire chasm opened between them.

Silence fell. Thick, suffocating. Both of them struggled to calm their breathing, their racing hearts. No one spoke. No one even said sorry.

Vox pressed his forehead to the cold wall, eyes wide. Why did he pull away? Why did I? Was he disgusted? Or... was he scared too? His chest burned with humiliation and confusion.

Alastor kept his eyes squeezed shut. Fool. You showed weakness. You pulled him close. What must he think now? Valentino’s shadow snarled in his mind but this time the fear wasn’t about Valentino it was about losing control, and what Vox’s reaction had really meant. He stayed silent... then fled... like me.

They didn’t move until the first gray light of dawn spilled across the window. Neither slept. They just lay there, as far apart as the bed would allow, listening to their slowing heartbeats, carrying the heavy, terrifying weight of what had nearly happened between them.

Downstairs, Charlie’s cheerful voice rang through the lobby. “Good morning, everyone! Spa time! Get ready!”

Angel Dust’s shriek followed gleefully. "My bikini body’s ready, baby!”

Alastor shot upright in bed like he’d been freed from a trap. “I’m going to breakfast,” he muttered without looking at Vox, his voice flat and distant. He dressed quickly and left, leaving a hollow space behind.

The breakfast hall was lively and bright. Charlie, Vaggie, and Niffty sat in colorful robes, sharing fruit platters. Husk was in a corner sipping his coffee, while Angel rubbed sleep from his eyes.

Alastor sat alone at a table, stirring his tea, eyes unfocused. His usual smiling mask was in place, but the tension and exhaustion underneath were obvious.

When Vox entered, Angel Dust immediately zeroed in on him. His gaze traveled over Vox’s pale, shadowed eyes, then flicked to Alastor sitting alone. A wicked grin spread across Angel’s face.

“Well well well!” he sing-songed, tauntingly melodic. “Early birds! Or... maybe birds who didn’t sleep at all?” He leaned toward Charlie, but his voice was loud enough for the whole room. “Look at those two, Charlie. Don’t they look like they did something very tiring all night long? Especially since they’re sharing a room...” He winked pointedly.

Charlie flushed red. “Angel!” she scolded, but her gaze flicked curiously between Vox and Alastor.

Vox went deathly pale. He tried to walk toward a seat.

Alastor’s fork slammed against his plate with a sharp clink! that silenced the room. His red eyes locked on Angel.

“Be respectful, Angel,” he snapped coldly. “Especially when you’re speculating about other people’s private relationships. Vox has a lover. Don’t forget that.” He put heavy emphasis on “lover” to remind them of Valentino.

Angel wasn’t fazed at all. He popped a slice of banana into his mouth, chewing loudly. “Lover?” he repeated, feigning surprise with wide eyes. “Ahhh, right! That big sexy moth, Valentino!” Then he shrugged, grin widening with needle-sharp innocence. “So what’s the problem? We got along just fine when he was fucking me too, didn’t we? Or is that a problem now?” His eyes locked challengingly on Vox.

Charlie and Vaggie froze. Niffty pretended to search for something under the table.

Vox dropped his gaze to the table. He drew in a long, deep, hollow breath but he didn’t say anything. His shoulders sagged, eyes locked on the empty plate in front of him.

Charlie immediately jumped in, voice going shrill. “Angel, please! That’s—” Vaggie touched her arm, giving her a meaningful look that said pushing the subject would only make it worse.

Husk put his cup down hard. “Breakfast,” he growled at Angel with a cutting glare. “Food. Drink. That’s the conversation now.” His eyes made it clear: Drop it.

Angel’s grin faltered a little at the lack of satisfying reactions. He shrugged, biting into a melon slice. “Fine, fine. Sensitive topic. Got it.” But the mocking glint in his eyes didn’t fade.

Alastor still had his fork clenched in a white-knuckled grip. Vox’s silent collapse, Angel’s line about "when he was fucking me too" all of it twisted into a cold, furious knot in his chest. He wanted to say something. He wanted to throttle Angel but seeing Vox so sunken and small... he didn’t. He only ground his teeth tighter.

Niffty popped back up from under the table, her big eyes sparkling. “Did anyone see a bug fall down here?” she chirped. Then her gaze bounced from Vox’s pale face to Alastor’s stiff shoulders. Her brows knit in innocent confusion. “Why is everyone being all... weird today? Vox, are you sick or something? Alastor, your tea’s getting cold!” She stood right next to his cup, head tilted, studying him with bright curiosity. “You’re both so quiet. Huh? Did you guys fight or something?”

Charlie seized on Niffty’s innocent question to change the subject. “Ah! Yes! Spa time! Everyone grab your robes! Niffty, want me to carry your little towel?” She jumped up excitedly, trying to herd everyone into action.

The tense atmosphere cracked slightly.

Vaggie grabbed Angel by the arm. “Come on. Let’s go pick out our oils,” she said, dragging him away from the table. Husk grumbled but followed them.

Vox slowly stood, still not meeting Alastor’s eyes. “I’ll... I’ll get some fresh air. I’ll join later,” he mumbled hoarsely, heading for the door.

Alastor watched him leave. Something inside him twisted, wanting to stop him but he didn’t. He only dropped his gaze back to his now cold tea.

Niffty was still there beside him, peering curiously. “Alastor? Where’s the bug? Can I see it?” she insisted.

Alastor let out a long, audible sigh. “There is no bug, my dear,” he said flatly, sounding exhausted. “It’s just... morning grumpiness. Go join the princess. I’ll be along shortly.”

The spa complex smelled of steam and relaxing herbs. Charlie, Vaggie, and Niffty were already in an outdoor communal pool, chatting happily. Angel and Husk were draped over the poolside bar, enjoying their “healing” cocktails. Angel flirted with the bartender while Husk drank with surly contentment.

Alastor sat in a closed, steamy corner room, still fully dressed in his red suit. He hadn’t even bothered with a robe. He was slumped in a massage chair, eyes closed, head tilted back. His hands were folded on his armrests, fingers tapping rhythmically.

The laughter from the pool and Angel’s shrieking voice grated on him. How is this chaos supposed to be relaxing? he thought bitterly. Vox’s suggestion of the private, closed pool drifted through his mind. Maybe that would... But just thinking of it brought back the memory of the night before. That closeness. That humiliating retreat. His eyelids tightened.

Then he heard the door creak open.

He opened his eyes. Vox had entered. He wore a simple robe, still looking pale. His gaze swept the room, landing on Alastor in the corner. He paused for a moment, then made up his mind and walked over, steps slow and heavy.

Alastor watched him approach. His body tensed automatically. What was he going to say? Apologize for the night? His red eyes locked onto Vox’s weary face, trying to read it.

Vox stopped beside the chair. For a few seconds, he was silent, like he was gathering words. Then he spoke in a low, slightly cracked voice. “Al... That private pool... it’s still empty. I... I booked it for you. You can go anytime. It’s completely closed off. Quiet. No one can get in.” His eyes met Alastor’s for a heartbeat. There was apology there, gratitude, and deep exhaustion. The pain from Angel’s words was still raw. “I’m... I’m going to spend some time in the open pool. With Charlie and the others.” He turned his head slightly in their direction.

Alastor felt something stir inside him hearing those words. Even after feeling so awful, Vox was still thinking about his comfort. Even after Angel’s poisonous jabs. His own anger flickered out for a moment, replaced by complicated gratitude and... something else. “Don’t go,” he heard himself say, voice unexpectedly gentle but firm. Vox blinked at him in surprise. Alastor continued, not looking away from his face. “That... private place. It’d be good for you too. Away from Angel. Away from the noise.” He hesitated, then added, voice dropping lower. “Would you... come with me? Just... quiet.”

Vox’s eyes widened slightly at Alastor’s invitation. He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Okay,” he mumbled, voice still tight but sounding a little more at ease. “Silence... would be good.”

They walked quietly toward the private, enclosed spa section. It really felt like a sanctuary: dim lighting, thick steam filling the air, the heavy stone walls cutting off every sound from outside, and in the center, a dark stone pool filled with bubbling, mineral-rich water. When they locked the door behind them, it felt like the entire world was shut out. Only the sound of the water and their own breathing remained.

An awkward silence fell. Vox lowered his eyes to the floor as he slipped out of his robe and stepped toward the pool. Alastor moved even more slowly, visibly reluctant to undress. In the end, he entered the pool in his underwear, keeping his shoulders submerged as much as possible, trying to make himself smaller. Nakedness, especially in such a close setting, made him profoundly uncomfortable. His eyes didn’t stray from Vox’s face.

They settled at opposite ends of the pool. The hot water loosened their tense muscles, soothed their aches, but the silence between them felt electric. Minutes passed. Steam clung to their skin. Vox watched the ripples on the water, then finally gathered his courage and spoke in a low voice:

“Alastor...” It was hard to even start. “About last night... I’m sorry. I know you... don’t like being touched. I pushed your boundaries. It was unacceptable.” His eyes stayed on the water, face flushed with heat and embarrassment. “We won’t... we won’t talk about it again. Just forget it.” That last line was sharp, like he was promising himself too.

Alastor heard the apology. His red eyes locked onto Vox’s shy posture through the mist. Unacceptable. Yes but it hadn’t just been Vox’s fault. He had pulled him closer too.

“No apology needed,” Alastor replied, voice soft but still reserved. He didn’t look away. “Boundaries... get blurred sometimes. Especially...” He didn’t finish the thought. He deliberately changed the subject. “That plastic nightmare,” he added, a familiar cutting sarcasm creeping into his tone. His eyes drifted toward their phones on a side table. “I wonder what tortures it’s putting us through right now. Charlie must have taken dozens of photos and I still can’t find that cursed ‘gallery’ app.” He wrinkled his nose, looking genuinely offended by the idea of using it.

Vox blinked at the unexpected shift, then slowly realized Alastor was trying very intentionally to defuse the tension. A small, strangled laugh broke from his lips. “You have to tap the ‘Photos’ icon, Al,” he replied, voice a little lighter. “But honestly, for you? Best option might be dunking the whole thing in this steam and letting it die before Charlie can come show you everything herself.” There was a spark in his eyes as he delivered the joke.

Alastor heard Vox’s stifled laugh and saw the faint smile. Deep in his chest, something tight began to loosen. He laughed. The tension broke. Angel’s cruel words still stung, last night’s complicated shame still hovered, but Vox was smiling. That fragile spark of humor proved something to Alastor: We’re okay. We can fix this. The thought brought a wave of relief that ran even deeper than the hot water.

“Perhaps you’re right, my dear friend,” Alastor murmured, eyes dropping back to the steaming water. He didn’t look directly at Vox’s smile, but his voice held a subtle ease. “Sacrificing that technological torture device to the steam... sounds quite tempting.”

After leaving the healing waters of the spa, the group was noticeably more relaxed and even a little cheerful as they wandered into the small gift shops attached to the spa complex. Charlie was enamored with colorful stone necklaces. Angel and Husk predictably drifted back toward the bar, while Vaggie and Niffty were busy testing soaps and lotions.

As they passed by a shop window, Alastor abruptly stopped. The display was full of brightly colored plush toys. His eyes fixed on one in particular: a large, blue stuffed shark.

Vox was walking right beside him but tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed, turning his head toward Charlie instead. He’d seen Alastor pause, and it embarrassed him for some reason.

But Alastor didn’t seem to care that Vox ignored him. He hesitated only a moment, then strode purposefully into the shop. The doorbell chimed as he entered. Charlie, Vaggie, and Niffty turned, surprised and curious.

Alastor walked straight to the plush shark, face set in an odd seriousness, the tips of his ears just slightly pink.

“Alastor? Are you buying a plushie?” Charlie asked, clapping her hands in delighted surprise. “Oh my gosh, that’s so cute!”

Vox flinched at her voice and turned back, just in time to see Alastor standing inside the shop among the stuffed animals. Confusion and mild panic filled his face. He hurried inside, “Al, what are you—” He didn’t finish. Alastor had picked up the big, fluffy blue shark. It even had a little crooked crown perched on its head. Alastor turned it slightly toward Vox, his expression caught between awkward and neutral. Not quite a smile, but not fully stern either. “Look,” he said, voice deliberately flat but with a hint of approval underneath. “It’s... cute.” The word seemed to physically pain him, his mouth pulling slightly at saying it.

At that exact moment, Vox’s phone shrieked with its awful, poisonous ringtone. Valentino.

Alastor’s expression collapsed instantly. The fragile calm they’d built in the spa seemed to shatter like glass. Even his hands, gripping the plush shark, went white-knuckled.

Vox fumbled to pull the phone from his pocket with trembling fingers, giving Alastor a glance. “One second,” he mumbled hoarsely. Then he answered, head bowing, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Yes? ... I understand. ... Now? ... Okay. ... I’m coming back.” The call was short, but every word seemed to make Vox’s shoulders sink lower. When he hung up, his face was etched with exhaustion and confusion. It was clear Valentino’s jealousy had just ruined this entire getaway.

Alastor watched him, seething with quiet fury and disappointment, but said nothing. His red eyes stayed locked on Vox’s averted, shame-filled gaze.

“Vox?” Charlie’s voice was small, worried.

Vox lifted his head, looking first at Alastor, then at Charlie. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice tight. “I have to go back. Something... urgent came up. Studio.” The words were empty, unconvincing. Valentino’s shadow loomed over every syllable.

Alastor was still clutching the plush shark. His voice, when it came, was flat. Dangerously calm. “Then,” he said, “we’ll go back too.” He didn’t want to ruin Charlie and the others’ vacation, but he had no interest in staying here without Vox.

Vox immediately shook his head, panic flickering in his eyes. “No! No, it’s fine. You all stay. Enjoy it. I’ll... I’ll get a ride back on my own.”

Alastor considered pushing back, but seeing Vox’s desperate expression made him relent. He gave one single, curt nod. “Very well.” He didn’t say anything else.

Vox quickly mumbled goodbyes, barely able to meet Alastor’s eyes or properly return Charlie’s worried hug. Then he hurried off toward his room to pack. His heart was pounding. He flung open the door, yanked his suitcase in front of the dresser, tossed a small shopping bag onto the bed, and began shoving clothes and his charger inside in a frenzy.

Then, as he bent over the suitcase, something caught his eye. On the bed, carefully set in that shopping bag, was the blue plush shark. Its little crown was slightly askew, its fur ridiculously fluffy and soft. Vox froze. Valentino’s call, the rush to leave, the guilt over disappointing Alastor he’d completely forgotten the plush but Alastor hadn’t. Even as Vox had answered that call in a panic, Alastor had quietly paid for it and slipped it into Vox’s hands without fanfare.

Vox stood there for a moment, just staring at it. Slowly, he reached out and touched the plush shark’s round belly. Then, despite everything the fear, the exhaustion, the crushing guilt a small, trembling smile tugged at his lips.

When Alastor returned to the room he’d shared with Vox, the silence inside felt almost physical, pressing in on every wall. Vox’s absence was everywhere. Alastor ignored it. He walked straight into the bathroom.

When he came out a while later, robe belted around him, hair still dripping, a sudden, harsh knock rattled the door. “Alastor! Open up! It’s urgent!” Charlie’s high, panicked voice cracked from the other side.

Alastor’s brows drew together in a scowl. He pulled the door open to find Charlie standing there, pale-faced and out of breath. Husk loomed behind her, scowling, clutching a tablet whose screen glowed menacingly with lines of angry text.

“What is it, Princess?” Alastor asked, deliberately keeping his voice calm but his red eyes were already locked on the tablet in Husk’s hands. Charlie showing up in this state was never a good sign.

Husk grunted, raising the tablet to Alastor’s eye level. The screen displayed a video titled “Hazbin Hotel: Fraudulent Dealers in Fake Salvation!” "Watch this shit,” Husk growled, voice grinding with anger. “That damn moth Valentino and that arrogant Velvette.”

Charlie pressed her hands together at her chest, eyes filling with tears. "Alastor, they’re saying horrible things! The video it has footage from inside the hotel! Twisted! Faked! Lies about our guests! Saying we ‘exploit vulnerable souls,’ that we’re some threat to Hell itself!”

Alastor snatched the tablet. Even holding the stupid plastic device made his fingers twitch with impatience. He tapped play.

The editing was slick, insidious. Charlie’s cheerful speeches were intercut with sinister captions. Footage of their guests was cut and spliced to humiliate them. Even Alastor’s own silhouette flashed on-screen with the label: “Dangerous Radio Maniac.”

And it was streaming straight from Vox’s corporate network. Vox’s system.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. A spark flared behind them. "Vox,” he murmured, voice flat and dangerous. He tightened his grip on the tablet. “Does he... know about this?” His red eyes flicked from Husk to Charlie. “They’re using his infrastructure to broadcast it.”

Husk exhaled hard through his nose, face lined with suspicion. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Could they pull this off without Vox knowing? Velvette’s good, but she’s not that good. Could she really crack Vox’s systems so easily?” He shrugged. “Or... maybe the whole spa trip was a setup. Vox’s idea to keep you and Charlie busy, give Valentino time to set this shit up.”

Charlie gasped, slapping her hands over her mouth. “Husk! Don’t say that! Vox would never—”

Alastor silenced her with a sharp flick of his fingers. Husk’s words crashed into the memory of Vox’s shy embrace the night before, the fragile smile in the steam, and then... the way he’d frozen at Valentino’s call.

A betrayal?

Even after years of friendship, that fragile closeness?

Inside him, there wasn’t fiery rage, but a cold emptiness. His hands began to tremble. Logic screamed no, but the doubt was there. It was there, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

He reached for the plastic nightmare in his pocket his phone. His fingers moved fast, harsh across the keypad. He typed:

Alastor: Did you see the video? It's broadcasting through your network. Valentino and Velvette's filth. Did you know?

Message sent. The room sank into a heavy silence. Charlie looked unsettled by the expression on Alastor’s face. Husk reached for the bottle again.

A few seconds later, the phone buzzed.

Vox: What? What video? What happened? I don’t understand.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. He typed again, faster:

Alastor: A smear video attacking the Hazbin Hotel, targeting Princess Charlie and our guests. It’s currently being streamed across all of Pentagram City using VoxTek’s main servers. Are you telling me you had no idea? Who controls your systems, Vox?

The reply came quicker this time. Vox’s panic was palpable in the tone:

Vox: Al, I swear I didn’t know! I’m not even at the studio right now. I’m at Valentino’s place! I’m checking the link right now. Wait!

Alastor read it, lips pressed into a thin line. A war was brewing inside him between doubt and fury. Husk’s eyes on his back burned. He typed again, colder now. Sharper:

Alastor: Don’t bother. Don’t waste time. It’s your network. Your “partners.” The result is the same. Whether you knew or not doesn’t matter anymore. It’s out there.

Vox: It doesn’t matter?! Are you serious?! I didn’t know! I’m trying to shut it down! Why are you being so aggressive?!

Alastor’s fingers curled tighter around the phone. His red eyes locked onto the word: aggressive.

Alastor: It’s not aggression. It’s the truth. The hotel is under attack using your resources. “I didn’t know” is not an excuse. It’s negligence. Or betrayal. Your call.

Seconds passed. Then Vox replied:

Vox: I’m shutting it down. Right now. I’ll fix it. Please calm down.

Alastor read the words. The icy rage within him settled into a decision. He typed one final message, every word deliberate and firm:

Alastor: Don’t. Don’t get involved. If you don’t want to go against me or this hotel. Stay out of my way. I’ll handle this mess my way. Don’t interfere.

He sent the message and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Turning to Charlie and Husk, his smile had grown wider, more dangerous. “Don’t worry, Princess,” he said, voice unusually soft but underneath, it was cold steel. “I’ll protect our guests’ reputation.”

Charlie wiped her eyes. “But... what do we do?” she asked, voice trembling. “That video... it’s everywhere!”

Husk sighed, reaching for his drink. "There’s nothing we can do, Princess,” he muttered, voice tired and grim. “VoxTek’s network powers the whole city. Unless Vox himself denies it or kills the stream, no one will believe us. They’ve got too much reach.” He shrugged, helpless.

Alastor heard every word. Going head-to-head with Vox...Even the thought of it hurt. That fragile closeness, the quiet moments... now all hanging by a thread. He looked visibly shaken. He didn’t want to push Vox straight into Valentino’s arms but he had to protect the hotel. Protect Charlie. His sigh echoed through the silence of the room.

Elsewhere in the city, Vox read Alastor’s final message with trembling hands. He nearly dropped the phone. Alastor hadn’t believed him.

In the velvet-draped corner of Valentino’s penthouse, the moth lounged on a golden couch, exhaling violet smoke from a long-stemmed pipe. He noticed Vox’s pale face, the twitch in his fingers. A poisonous smile curled on his lips. “What’s the matter, baby?” he purred lazily. “That old radio fuzz giving you trouble again? Want me to mute him for good?”

Vox looked up, eyes wide with panic and confusion. "Val... the video. About the hotel. It’s... it’s streaming from our network. Did you... did you know about this? With Velvette?”

Valentino’s eyes widened briefly before narrowing in mock innocence. “Video? Oh, that. Velvette’s little side project,” he said, waving it off with a puff of smoke. He sat up straighter, fixing Vox with a look. “Of course I knew, sweetheart. Why do you ask?”

He set the pipe aside and stood, tall and looming as he walked toward Vox. “Is the hotel the problem, baby?” he murmured. His hand reached for Vox’s chin, tilting it up until their eyes met. “You’re on our side, aren’t you? On my side. You’re my boyfriend. Soon to be my everything.”

His voice dropped to a velvet-wrapped threat. “Or are you going to start whining about ‘your network’? Going to side with that decaying hotel and that outdated static freak against me?”

Vox froze under Valentino’s gaze. The pressure of fingers on his jaw, the weight of those words he knew this script too well. His nails began to dig into his palms, a stress habit he couldn’t shake. Inside, Alastor’s biting message clashed with Valentino’s suffocating control.

“No... No, Val,” he whispered, voice hoarse and defeated. He stared at Valentino’s chest, avoiding direct eye contact. “I just... I didn’t know. That’s all.”

A victorious grin split Valentino’s face. He pulled Vox into a mockingly tender embrace, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Good boy,” he murmured. “Don’t worry, Voxxy. Everything’s under control. Now come here. Relax. Forget that boring mess...” His hand slid around Vox’s waist, guiding him toward the dark, smoke-swirled bed.

Valentino shoved Vox toward the massive bed in the middle of the room, his eyes burning with unmistakable hunger. Vox sat on the edge of the mattress, still reeling from Alastor’s cutting messages and Valentino’s threats. His body was tense, his mind a chaotic whirlpool.

Valentino climbed on top of him, long fingers undoing the buttons of Vox’s shirt. “Forget your worries, baby,” he murmured, voice low and buzzing with desire. His lips trailed down to Vox’s neck. “Focus on me. Just focus on me...”

Vox reacted with an instinctive mix of familiar physical attraction and deep, gut-churning disgust. His eyes were closed, mind trying to escape but then, in that moment, Angel’s mocking laughter from the breakfast lounge cut through his thoughts:

"We got along just fine when he was fucking me too, didn’t we? Or is that a problem now?"

Those words slammed together with Valentino’s current touch. A wave of nausea twisted in his gut. On impulse, as Valentino forced him back onto the bed, he opened his eyes. Valentino loomed over him, eyes glinting with dark lust.

Just as Valentino leaned down to kiss him, Vox’s mouth moved on its own, words spilling out before he could stop them, hoarse and ragged:

"Are you still... still fucking him?" The word “him” was clear enough Angel Dust.

Valentino froze. Every motion stopped. The lust in his eyes extinguished instantly, replaced by shock, and then by a slow, chilling anger. He pushed himself off Vox. "What?" A single word, sharp and dangerous. "We’re about to fuck and... now, right now... you ask me this?" The shock gave way to poisonous mockery. "Are you fucking serious, Vox?"

Vox shrank back on the bed, eyes wide, the weight of what he’d just said hitting him hard. He repeated himself, voice a little stronger but still shaking. "Angel. Angel Dust. Are you... still sleeping with him? Still fucking him?"

Valentino slowly got to his feet. He stood at the edge of the bed, glaring down at Vox with lethal calm. "Is that why you rushed back from that little vacation? Just to ask me this bullshit?" He let out a humorless laugh, all threat and no joy. "You killed the mood, Vox. You killed everything. I have no fucking desire to do anything with you right now."

Vox jumped up too, chest to chest with him. Valentino’s sneer and that “desire” line lit his anger. "Is it really that hard to answer, Val? You’re the one who called me here!" he snapped, voice sharper than usual, raw with an unaccustomed courage. "It’s a simple question. Yes or no. Are you still fucking him even while you’re doing... this... with me?" His nails dug into his palms.

Valentino took another step forward, their faces nearly touching. "Who the fuck do you think you are to question me?" His voice was dangerously low. "I’m Valentino. I do whatever I want, with whoever I want, whenever I want. That’s my business. That’s part of my power. I chose you, Vox. I brought you here. I protected you, made you stronger and now you, you have the nerve to ask who I’m fucking? Like I need your permission?" He smirked cruelly. "Didn’t you sign up for that when you chose to be with me in the first place?"

Vox didn’t blink. "Not permission, Valentino," he replied, voice weary but defiant. "Respect. Or at least... honesty. I’d rather hear it from you than from him, in front of everyone. Is that so much?" His last words dropped to a whisper, raw vulnerability leaking through.

For a moment, Valentino fell silent, staring into Vox’s eyes. He saw that vulnerability and didn’t use it to manipulate this time. He just twisted his face in disgust. "Yes," he practically spat. "It is. It’s too fucking much. I’m your boyfriend, sure but I don’t owe you an explanation. Especially not in a moment like this."

His hand lashed out suddenly toward Vox’s face but stopped at the last second, trembling in the air. "Get out," he growled, voice cracking with rage. "I don’t want to see you right now. Go run back to that fucking radio freak. Maybe he’ll soothe your... childish jealousy." And as Vox opened the door to leave, Valentino’s voice called after him, slick and venomous once more. "But don’t forget," he added, tone dripping with threat. "You’ll come back. You always do."

Vox staggered out of Valentino’s suite. Those last words still rang in his ears and a suffocating weight pressed on his chest as he made his way toward his own luxury apartment. Even this spacious, modern space felt cold and alien at that moment. Valentino’s toxic presence wouldn’t leave his mind. The sting of Alastor’s harsh message and the crisis facing the hotel gnawed at him.

He went straight to his large office. He switched on the massive wall display. His fingers trembled as he typed a few commands. The screen split into live camera feeds of the front of the Hazbin Hotel.

The sight made his chest tighten.

Outside the hotel, a crowd had gathered whipped up by that smear video broadcast on VoxTek’s main screens. Hundreds of demons projected hateful slogans onto the hotel’s walls with portable projectors, shouting with raised placards:

"HAZBIN = LYING SAVIORS!"
"SHUT IT DOWN! CLEANSE HELL!"

The crowd was angry and loud. Screams, curses, threats... All of it had been organized and amplified using his technology, his network. Sure, it was Valentino and Velvette’s doing. But the tools, the system itself... all belonged to Vox. Alastor had been right. Whether he meant it or not, this filth had sprung from his own garden.

Vox collapsed into his chair. He buried his face in his hands, letting out a deep, ragged sigh.

His gaze fell on the blue plush shark resting on his desk. That silent, strange gift from Alastor... A tiny warmth flickered in his chest, only to be drowned out immediately by an even deeper ache. Alastor didn’t trust him and now, the hotel was in danger because of him.

He hesitated for a moment. Then picked up his phone. He reread Alastor’s last message:

"Don’t. Stay out of it... I’ll clean up this mess my own way."

His own way... What could he even do? Was he going to walk out there in front of the crowd? Take a mic and say “Stop!”? Crowds in Pentagram City only scattered for bigger power... or deeper fear. What were Alastor’s methods? Would he use his dark powers? Wouldn’t that only lead to even greater chaos?

A bitter, mocking feeling twisted in his gut. His tired fingers typed out a reply deliberately choosing words that were polite on the surface but biting underneath:

Vox: Home. Watching the cameras. Looks pretty lively out front. Are your methods... effective? Or are you just watching?

He sent it and dropped the phone on the desk. He knew it would piss Alastor off but the hurt and helplessness inside him pushed those poisoned words out. He couldn’t stop himself.

Vox’s phone buzzed with Alastor’s short, angry reply:

Alastor: Watching is your job, isn’t it? Relax.

The wordplay and that mocking “relax” stung. Vox’s fingers trembled as he typed, pouring all his exhaustion and hurt into a single line:

Vox: If you’re fine like this, then stay that way.

He hit send and waited.

If he’d sent something like that to Valentino, he’d have gotten threats and insults in minutes but from Alastor... there was only silence. That silence felt heavier than any rage he’d expected. He let out a deep, rattling breath and blocked him.

He turned to VoxTek’s main control panel. His fingers flew over the keyboard. From his personal Twitter account, he posted a short, official, but clear tweet:

@VoxtechOfficial: All content inciting harassment and hate speech toward the Hazbin Hotel will be immediately removed from the VoxTek network. Illegal gatherings must disperse.

As soon as the tweet went out, the giant screens in front of the hotel showing those vile slogans were replaced by big, red “CONTENT REMOVED” warnings. The projectors went dark. The lights on the placards blinked out. A wave of confusion rippled through the crowd, low murmurs spreading as some demons glanced at their phones and saw the tweet.

Without thinking, Vox took a screenshot of the tweet. At the bottom of the screen, Alastor’s name was clearly visible in the blocked users list. He sent that screenshot straight to Valentino. No extra words. Just the picture. A challenge. A photograph of a break. Look. I did it.

Alastor had read Vox’s last message, his brows furrowed. Typical Vox drama, he thought, but there was a tightness in his chest. He watched as the hotel’s front screens abruptly went dark, the crowd’s confusion spreading. Charlie cheered: “Look! Something’s happening!”

Alastor pulled out his phone. He quickly typed out a message to Vox:

Alastor: Screens went dark. Was that you?

He hit send. An unexpected warning flashed on the screen: “Message failed to send. The recipient has blocked you.”

Alastor froze. His red eyes locked on that message. He tapped the screen again. Same warning. Blocked? By Vox? That fixed, sharp grin on his face faltered, replaced by confusion and a faint, hurt surprise.

From the corner, Husk watched him while sipping his drink. He noticed Alastor’s strange expression and grumbled, half-amused: “What’s wrong, Boss? Phone die on you?”

Alastor lifted his head, holding out the phone to Husk. He didn’t show the text, just that error message. His voice was unusually flat, with confusion bubbling underneath:

"This... what does this mean? It says my message didn’t go through."

Husk rolled his eyes but took the phone. One glance was enough. He handed it back with a bitter smirk. "Ah," he drawled, voice dripping with dry amusement. "One of modern technology’s cutest features. This means..." click click, he tapped the screen, "...you’re on Vox’s personal blocklist. He blocked you. He can’t get your messages and you can’t send them."

Alastor’s red eyes widened. "Blocked?" He repeated the word, tasting it like something unfamiliar. "He... blocked me? Why?" His mind was racing. The screens had gone dark, clearly something Vox did but the block... that was personal.

Husk let out a sigh when he saw Alastor in such an unguarded state, setting his glass down on the bar. "Congrats, Boss," he drawled with mocking respect. "You really pissed off the screen king this time. Vox blocking anyone, let alone you? That’s medal-worthy in Pentagram City. Guess he finally had enough." He shrugged. "You’re officially the ghost of the modern age." He took another long drink.

Just then, Charlie came bouncing over, practically vibrating with excitement, waving her phone. "Alastor! Look! Vox tweeted!" She shoved the screen right in front of his face:

@VoxtechOfficial: All content inciting harassment and hate speech toward the Hazbin Hotel will be immediately removed from the VoxTek network. Illegal gatherings must disperse.

"See?" Charlie’s eyes sparkled. "The crowd is leaving! The screens went dark! Vox did this! For us!" She was so excited she shook Alastor’s arm.

Alastor read the tweet. His red eyes widened for a moment, then his expression twisted with complicated emotion. Charlie’s enthusiasm made him uncomfortable. He gently pulled his arm free and turned his gaze back to Husk. The fixed grin returned to his face, but deep in his eyes there was a hint of helplessness. He gestured vaguely at Husk’s phone, voice lower and shakier than usual. "How do I... how do I reach him? Now."

Husk raised his eyebrows. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "What’s his number? He probably didn’t block me." He held out his hand for Alastor’s phone.

Alastor handed it over. Husk scrolled through Alastor’s pathetically open contact list, found Vox’s number, and quickly added it to his own phone. He then pulled out his own device, opening a new message thread. He glanced at Alastor. "What do you want me to say?"

Alastor hesitated. His eyes drifted off, lost. His normally sharp mind stumbled at this unexpected digital wall and Vox’s contradictory actions. Then he decided it had to be simple and direct. He fixed his gaze on Husk. "Just... write 'Why?'"

Husk rolled his eyes. "Real fucking eloquent," he thought, but his fingers tapped quickly. He typed out the message:

"Alastor asks: Why?"

He sent it, dropping the phone on the counter with a clack. "Done. Now let’s see what the angry television has to say."

Chapter Text

Alastor’s fingers had tightened around Husk’s phone case so hard his knuckles went white. On the screen, Vox’s cold, distant reply shone back at him: "This is better."

Something broke inside Alastor in that instant. He was flooded with a rage he couldn’t control. He ignored Husk’s warning of “Boss, calm down—” and swiftly dialed Vox’s number. Every beep scraped at his nerves.

“Are you with Valentino?” His tension was obvious.

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then Vox’s tired, deep exhale. “I’m at home.”

Alastor clenched his teeth. Home. Alone but that answer didn’t explain anything. That block, that condescending message… his blood was boiling.

“What was that message?” he snapped. “In response to ‘why’ from Husk’s phone, you say ‘this is better’? How dare you, Vox? While I’m dealing with a lynch mob outside the hotel, you’re playing games with me?”

Vox’s breathing sped up. “It’s not a game!” His voice rose for the first time. “I gave you the distance you deserved, that’s all! Your ‘why’ was that arrogant tone of yours! Like I did it on purpose! That’s why I blocked you!”

"Vox—"

“I’m hanging up,” Vox cut in, his exhaustion turning to anger. You could practically hear his finger hit the end call button.

Right then, Alastor’s voice changed. Beneath the rage was something else. Softer. More fragile. “Wait.”

A moment’s pause. Then he almost whispered. "Are we okay, Vox?”

Silence. Only Vox’s uneven breathing was audible on the line. Alastor couldn’t stand the weight of it and repeated, more forceful this time. "Tell me. Are we okay?”

A deep, shaky breath. Vox’s voice came, weary. "I’ll unblock you once I calm down.”

Alastor let out a short, bitter laugh. His voice was both mocking and deeply tired. "Funny. I should be the one angry at you, Vox. Not you at me. The hotel got attacked, I accused you of betrayal right or wrong, doesn’t matter and now you’re sulking? As if I wronged you?”

“Alastor—” Vox started, but was cut off by a sharp notification tone on his phone. Beep-beep! A message from Valentino. There was a pause, then the sound of Vox glancing at the screen.

Alastor picked up on that silence immediately. "What is it?”

Vox’s reply was hesitant, almost a mumble. "Valentino. He wants… to take me out to dinner. To clear my head.”

The silence on the line turned suffocating. Alastor didn’t say anything. It was as if he’d stopped breathing. Then, without a single word, he ended the call. Click. The cold, quiet finality of rage.

Vox stared blankly at his phone. His chest tightened. We’re not okay. Couldn’t be worse. And all you care about is whether I’m with Valentino. Going out to dinner. That quiet anger felt like proof that Alastor never really understood him. He opened his settings in frustration, went to the blocked list. Alastor’s name, with the little lock icon. He tapped it to unblock. His fingers trembled as he opened their message thread. Alastor’s last poisonous words still sat there.

He needed to remind him. He typed quickly:

Vox:
You seem to have forgotten what you sent me. "If you don't want to go against me or the hotel, stay out of my way.

Why do you always choose the hotel over me? Why are you always on the hotel's side? Always.

A few seconds of dead silence. Then Alastor’s reply came.

Alastor:
Oh sorry. I should have chosen the friend with the porn industry boyfriend. Makes much more sense.

Vox’s throat tightened. His eyes stung. That was cruel. It hit both Valentino and him like a poisoned arrow. His fingers trembled as he typed:

Vox:
Alastor. Talk about him properly. Please.

Alastor:
Don’t text me.

But Vox didn’t stop. Like in every fight, he couldn’t just leave it alone. Tears blurred the screen. He forced himself to type:

Vox:
And what happens?

Will you disappear for seven years again? Without saying a word?

Those seven years. The dark, painful time Alastor had vanished without a trace or a single explanation. Vox’s deepest wound. Saying it felt like stabbing his own heart.

Alastor’s reply didn’t come for a long time. Vox stared at the screen, breath held. 

Alastor:
Vox.

A pause.

Alastor:
Block me again.

Vox stared at the little “block” option next to Alastor’s name. His fingers trembled, but he couldn’t bring himself to tap it.

Meanwhile, Alastor clenched his teeth. He shoved his phone toward Husk. "Check... did he block me?” he asked, voice dry but thick with restrained curiosity. He tried to sound indifferent, but his eyes gave him away.

Husk snatched the phone from Alastor’s hand. Vox’s profile was still open. He hadn’t been blocked yet. In the picture, Vox was leaning slightly toward the camera in a studio corner, the lights glinting off his glasses, that familiar, confident line of his jaw clearly visible.

Husk let out a low whistle and smirked. “Damn, he’s handsome,” he remarked, teasing.

Alastor’s red eyes flashed, narrowing sharply. His jaw tightened at Husk’s words. “Focus, Husk,” he snapped, voice just a bit too sharp to sound casual.

Husk broke the tension with a short laugh and turned the phone so Alastor could see.

“He didn’t block you.”

Alastor tried to keep his voice even. “He should have. Would’ve been smart.” but he didn’t take the phone back immediately. His eyes lingered on that tiny profile photo for a moment too long. Husk raised an eyebrow.

“Gonna block him yourself instead?” Husk asked dryly, letting his thumb hover over the screen in mock threat.

Alastor’s forced smile faded. He shrugged stiffly. “Go ahead. Press it.”

But as Husk’s thumb moved, Alastor lunged forward and grabbed his wrist in a steel grip.

Husk let out a short laugh. “Ha, just like I thought.”

Alastor slowly loosened Husk’s hand and took the phone back. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look away from Vox’s picture either.

In the dead of night, there was no sound. Vox’s cold messages ran on repeat in his mind. His hand, almost without thinking, grabbed his own phone. He opened the message thread. His fingers trembled as he typed:

Alastor:
You haven’t blocked me.

Seconds later, the screen showed “Online.” Then those three little typing dots. Vox’s reply was sharp and fast:

Vox:
Do it yourself if you want. Don’t you know how?

Alastor’s chest tightened. His pride burned. He hated looking incompetent.

Alastor:
I don’t have to know every secret of this plastic torture device and no, I don’t know how.

Three dots again. 

Vox:
Upset you couldn’t block me? Want me to walk you through it step by step? It’s really easy. Go to my profile, then the top right three dots…

Alastor squinted and began typing, but before he could send anything, Vox started typing too. Alastor paused. Vox’s new message landed:

Vox:
Checking if I blocked you. In the middle of the night? Seriously?

Alastor’s face reddened. He’d been caught. He shot back, defensive:

Alastor:
But you answered instantly.

On the other end, Vox let out a long, tired exhale. The exhaustion bled through the words even if his tone didn’t.

Vox:
Alastor… All you do is hurt me. Really. First you accuse me. Then you tell me to block you. Then you see I didn’t and text me. Now you’re here, middle of the night, itching for a pointless argument. What do you want? What do you expect from me?

I waited seven years of silence. I don’t have the strength for this push and pull anymore. Either talk to me properly, or go but please… don’t wear me out tonight.

When that message came in, Alastor sat motionless in his dark cabin. The cold light of his screen lit his face, showing the warring emotions there: anger, frustration, and the deep pain Vox’s tired words carved into him. He thought about replying, then slowly turned the screen face-down. He stared into the dark.

The next morning, Alastor got up exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, red rims. He pretended to start his routine: boiled water, carefully shaved with an old-fashioned razor, put on his red suit. Every motion was mechanical, like he was detached from it. His mind wandered, his fingers moved on their own. He forced himself to open that hated social media app.

He searched Vox’s profile. Tapped the picture to see if he’d been blocked. Not yet. He felt a brief, irrational relief, which immediately turned to white-hot anger. Weakness, he scolded himself.

He scrolled through Vox’s latest posts. One was an early-morning selfie in Pentagram City’s gray light. Vox in an expensive-looking dark gray suit, hair perfectly styled, a few Overlords looming in the background like muscle. Alastor’s jaw tightened.

Another was midday. Vox on a fancy restaurant balcony, glass of wine in hand, Valentino beside him. Valentino’s long arm was draped around Vox, pulling him close with a poisonous grin at the camera. Vox’s face was carefully neutral, but the tension in his eyes was visible even in the high resolution. Alastor’s finger pressed so hard on Valentino’s face he nearly cracked the screen. You went to him immediately. As always.

The next was late afternoon, just Vox alone, gazing out his studio’s wide window at the neon-lit city. Alastor lingered on that one longer. It was one of those rare moments without Valentino. A sharp, painful longing settled in his chest. His fingers hovered to touch the photo, then pulled back. Stupid.

Trying to set his phone down, his trembling finger accidentally hit the "Call" button. The dial tone shrieked in his ear. He panicked, trying to hang up, but the cursed interface defeated him. Valuable seconds ticked by. His heart was hammering.

Just then, “Vox Online” appeared. The typing dots showed up. Vox had answered the call.

Alastor stopped breathing. Vox’s face appeared on screen, studio control panels in the background.

“Alastor?” Surprise and caution in his voice. “Something wrong?”

Alastor cleared his throat. He tried to force on his usual dangerous grin, but the panic was there in his eyes. “It was an accident,” he snapped. His voice was too high and tense. “This… this plastic torture device. My fingers slipped. It wasn’t intentional.” The excuse was flimsy, and he knew it.

Vox paused. On screen, the corner of his mouth twitched was it a smile or disappointment? “Ah,” he said quietly, tiredly. “I see.” His eyes drifted slightly off-camera. He was typing something on his keyboard but he didn’t hang up. The silence stretched.

Alastor couldn’t take it. He looked at Vox’s weary eyes on screen the shadow of last night’s argument still there and something stirred in him. Longing, tangled with anger. He fiddled with the radio knob on his table, then looked back at the screen. He tried to make his voice sound casual, even bored. “Are you busy?”

Vox lifted his eyes to the camera. He sighed deeply, audibly. “Right now? Yes, Alastor. A bit.” He shook his head slightly, the fatigue even clearer. “Last-minute prep before a meeting… and after yesterday’s… mess, I have a lot of fires to put out.” By “mess,” he meant both the mob outside the hotel and his blowup with Valentino. “Why do you ask?”

Alastor faltered under the direct question. What would he say? He pressed his lips together. He set the phone down with a bit too much force so the camera only showed his cabin’s ceiling. His voice was muffled, distant. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Just… wondered.”

After that, Vox ended the call.

Alastor stared at the cold glass of his phone. The screen still glowed with “Vox Online.” His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He needed to say something.

Alastor:
The fires. Are they under control?

It instantly showed "Seen." Alastor’s heart gave a quick, involuntary jump. He waited. The three little dots didn’t appear. Minutes passed. No reply. Vox had read it and ignored it. Alastor’s jaw tightened. He slammed the phone onto the table.

In Vox’s studio, the screen lit up. Vox looked at Alastor’s message. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. The fires. Of course they’re not under control. He sighed, silenced the phone, and turned off the screen. He needed to focus on his meeting.

Alastor:
Did Valentino’s “clearing your head” dinner work out well?

Again, instantly “Seen.” Again, no reply. Alastor ground his teeth. He grabbed the phone, clenching it hard.

Vox felt the slight buzz in his pocket even while he was standing at the head of the meeting table, giving his presentation. During a break, he checked. Alastor’s second message. He rolled his eyes. It never ends. Shoving the phone back in his pocket with irritation. Now’s not the time for your petty jealousy, Alastor.

Alastor was losing patience. Vox was still online. Still not replying. He fired off a third message:

Alastor:
Silence usually means guilt or childish defiance. Which one is it for you?

This time, the three dots appeared immediately. Vox was typing. Alastor sat up straighter, eyes locked on the screen.

The reply came, short and angry:

Vox:
Neither. I WAS IN A MEETING. You keep blowing up my notifications. It’s annoying. Please stop.

Alastor read it. Despite himself, a smile crept onto his lips. He reacted. He was angry. Good. Better than silence. He quickly typed:

Alastor:
Am I what’s “annoying,” or is it facing the truth? Was Valentino at the meeting too?

Elsewhere, Vox nearly crushed his phone in his grip. He had to get back into the meeting room. Alastor’s stubborn harassment was unbearable. He typed furiously, fingers shaking with rage:

Vox:
ALASTOR. ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW? I’M IN THIS MEETING ALONE. VALENTINO ISN’T HERE. ARE YOU? NO. NOW SHUT UP. I HAVE AN EMERGENCY. MY BATTERY’S DYING. GOODBYE.

As soon as he hit send, he slammed the phone to silent mode and shut the screen off. Heading back to the meeting room, he couldn't help thinking about how pathetic the “emergency” and “battery dying” excuse sounded. Ridiculous but it was the most harmless answer he could send Alastor.

In the cabin, Alastor read Vox’s last message. “BATTERY’S DYING. GOODBYE.” A strange mix of satisfaction and melancholy filled him. He replied. He got mad. He was forced to think about me. He set the phone down.

When evening comes, Alastor sat alone in his cabin. The crackling jazz from his old radio couldn’t soothe the restless tension inside him. Vox’s last message still glowed on the phone screen. Alastor’s finger slowly drifted across the cold glass, hovering over Vox’s profile picture. Your battery died… but you’re still online, he thought.

That familiar urge stirred inside him. This time, he planned something more cunning. He needed a “reason.” His eyes scanned the cabin shelves. He spotted an old, dusty book Hell’s History of Nonverbal Communication. Perfect. He quickly typed:

Alastor:
I’m looking for that rare edition of “Nonverbal Communication.” Did I leave it in your studio?

The message was instantly “Seen.” Alastor’s pulse quickened. He saw it. No typing dots appeared. Minutes ticked by. Nothing. Alastor’s brow furrowed. He was ignoring even the simplest question. He angrily fired off another message:

Alastor:
The one with the red cover. Remember? Or did it end up in Valentino’s collection?

Again, silence. Alastor’s teeth ground together. He gripped the phone until his knuckles whitened. He typed a third message, fingers trembling with fury:

Alastor:
Maybe you’re right. Silence is the strongest form of communication. I’m sure you learned that from your little “Spider Butterfly.”

"Spider Butterfly" was his venomous dig at Valentino. The screen remained blank. Alastor’s patience was fraying to the limit. He made one last, spiteful move:

Alastor:
Fine. If I find the book, I’ll lend it to you. Could help with your partner so you can better communicate without words. Though I doubt you’re that skilled verbally either but I don't have that book. Lucky for you.

Right then, the three dots appeared.

Vox:
The book isn’t here. I put you on Do Not Disturb. Only emergencies get through. Good night.

Alastor read it and immediately growled, “What… what nerve!” shaking the phone. He started typing a new message:

Alastor:
Who defines “emergency”? For example, would sudden radio silence count?

No reply. Not even a vibration. Alastor slammed the phone onto the table. “Technological tyranny!” he muttered darkly. Then an impish idea hit him. He quickly dialed. It rang once… then cut off. A small alert popped up on-screen: “The recipient does not want to be disturbed. Call again in case of emergency.”

Alastor’s expression twisted in disbelief. “He’s… dodging me because he can’t actually block me?” he muttered. Then, with rare uncertainty, he asked himself quietly: “But what if it really was an emergency? Like if the cabin was on fire?”

He immediately typed:

Alastor:
MY SMOKE ALARM IS GOING OFF. EMERGENCY.

Seconds later, the phone buzzed.

Vox:
Call the fire department. I don’t put out fires. Good night again.

The phone went silent again. Alastor set it back on the table. He slowly leaned back in his chair. Listening to the radio’s crackling static, a small, grudging smile tugged at his lips. “Well done, Vox,” he muttered with a mix of admiration and deep annoyance. “You never fail to piss me off.”

The next day, in the most glamorous tower of Pentagram City, champagne fizzed in a glass-walled hall while sharply dressed demons and silk-gowned women chatted and congratulated Vox. This was a party thrown in his honor for sealing a crucial deal for VoxTek.

Vox stood in a deep navy suit, hair carefully slicked back, a professional smile on his face, exuding the air of a successful Overlord. But deep in his eyes, the usual restlessness, that persistent emptiness, remained. One eye was always on the door.

Will he come?

In the darkest corner of the hall, nearly swallowed by the shadow of a massive decorative plant, stood Alastor. Even in the dim light, his crimson suit stood out, but he felt utterly out of place in this crowd. The loud music and chatter grated on his ears, and he struggled to maintain his fixed, dangerous smile. He held a glass of champagne but didn’t drink it. He just held it.

Why the hell did I come? he thought, nose wrinkling in disgust at the overpowering perfume around him. To see his success? Or to watch Valentino wrap him around his finger again?

Just then, there was a stir at the door. The crowd shifted slightly. Valentino entered, a plume of purple smoke rising from his long-stemmed pipe, wearing his usual showy red velvet suit. His eyes scanned the room instantly, found Vox, and he walked toward him with a poisonous smile, arms open wide.

"Voxxy, my darling!" He pulled Vox in, kissing both cheeks. "This success makes me so proud, sweetheart."

Vox stiffened at the closeness, his body tense. Valentino slung an arm over his shoulders and pulled him close, leaning in. Alastor didn’t move from his corner. Valentino’s voice was low, but it carried. "So the old, rusty radio didn’t show up, huh? I figured. He wouldn’t dare. He knows how dim he’d look next to a star like you." He let out a cruel laugh.

Something broke on Vox’s face for an instant. His eyes flicked, almost involuntarily, to one of the giant screens dominating the hall. Blank. Then to the door. Empty. He realized Alastor hadn’t come, and Valentino had made sure to rub it in his face. He lowered his head.

Alastor watched all of it. He hadn’t caught every word Valentino hissed, but the body language, the toxic grin, that possessive hand on Vox’s shoulder enough and then the way Vox’s head lowered, that broken look in his eyes… Something twisted inside Alastor. Anger? Yes. Pain? Maybe but most of all, a deep self-directed rage. You should go to him. He needs you right now. Your presence alone would shut that bastard up.

But his feet felt nailed to the floor. When Valentino’s gaze swept the room, Alastor shrank back further, nearly vanishing behind the plant. The shame of failing his own promise weighed heavier than the pain of seeing Vox so disappointed. Coward, he spat at himself silently. You’re such a coward.

Meanwhile, Valentino was pressing a second glass of champagne into Vox’s hand, dazzling the surrounding demons with his charm while deliberately ignoring Alastor’s presence. For a moment, though, their eyes met red locking with red in that shadowy corner. Valentino smirked thinly and gave a tiny nod, as if to say pathetic. Then he turned conspicuously back to Vox, making a show of excluding Alastor completely a worse insult than direct mockery.

"Darling," Valentino said loudly enough for Vox to hear clearly, without overtly pointing, "this is your night. With a success like this, there’s no need to live in anyone’s shadow. Anyone’s."

The emphasis was unmistakable. Vox followed Valentino’s gaze toward the corner but saw nothing. Alastor was either hidden too well or simply gone. Vox exhaled shakily. He really didn’t come. Valentino was right.

Alastor, at that very moment, was slipping quietly out through a service door.

When Alastor shut the door to his cabin, the silence inside felt heavier than the city noise outside. He didn’t even bother turning on the radio. He couldn’t shake the glittering party, Valentino’s poisonous laugh, and worst of all the broken look in Vox’s eyes when he glanced at the door. He was miserable.

His hand drifted, almost on its own, to the phone in his pocket. He unlocked it, finger hovering over Vox’s name. What could he even say? “I’m sorry” was too weak. “I heard what Valentino said” was pathetic. It needed to be simple. Honest.

His fingers fumbled clumsily over the keyboard, each press a reminder of how much he loathed technology. After hitting the wrong letter and deleting it once, he finally settled on something short.

Congratulations.

Hitting “send” felt like going to war. He set the phone down on the table as if it might explode.

A few minutes later Alastor was staring at his phone. It hadn’t been marked as “Seen.” Then, suddenly, there was a small change on screen:

Vox Online

Alastor’s breath caught. He’s online. He’ll see it.

But the “Seen” notification didn’t appear. Vox was online without opening it. Alastor felt a heat rising in his chest that quickly turned to fury.

Can’t even bother to look at it? Am I that worthless to you? Or are you both laughing at my pathetic message right now?

Finally, it switched to “Seen.” Then... nothing. No typing dots. No reply.

Alastor grabbed the phone, shaking in anger and pain. He wanted to see him. Hear him. Feel something. He hit the call button. It rang once... then cut off. A small message flashed:

Recipient busy. Please try again later.

Vox had rejected the call.

Alastor slowly sank into his chair. A bitter, twisted smile spread across his face. His fingers hovered over the words still on-screen: Congratulations.

“Congratulations, Vox,” he whispered into the dark, voice ragged and spent. “For me not having the guts to show up again and for you...refusing to see me.”

Vox was sitting in his apartment after the celebration. He held a half-filled glass of whiskey, the ice melted, the drink gone lukewarm.

Valentino crossed the room in a few long strides, his crimson eyes gleaming with predatory hunger as he loomed over Vox’s slumped form. He paused for a moment, smirking as he took in the sight of Vox. He grabbed Vox’s chin roughly, forcing their gaze upward to meet his.

“Well, well, well… look at you. My pretty little omega, all alone and feeling sorry for themselves,” he cooed, voice dripping with mock sympathy. His thumb pressed hard against Vox’s jaw, the sharp nail digging into soft skin. “Poor thing... didn’t think you'd end up like this, did you?”

With a sharp tug, Valentino snatched the whiskey glass from Vox’s fingers and took a long swig, savoring the burn as the amber liquid slid down his throat. Then, with a wicked grin, he pressed the glass back into Vox’s hand, leaving a smear of lipstick on the rim.

His grip on Vox’s chin tightened as he leaned closer, breath hot and thick with smoke and alcohol. “You know, I’ve always wondered… how far I could push this pretty little thing before they broke,” he purred, his free hand trailing down Vox’s neck, nails raking over the sensitive skin with possessive familiarity.

Without warning, Valentino’s lips crashed against Vox’s in a harsh, demanding kiss no tenderness, no gentleness just a cruel claiming. He forced Vox’s mouth open, invading with his tongue and taking absolute control.

He shoved Vox backward until their back hit the wall, whiskey sloshing in the glass. Valentino’s body pinned them in place; one hand gripped their hip hard enough to bruise, while the other tangled in their hair, yanking their head back to expose the vulnerable column of their throat.

His lips trailed biting kisses down Vox’s neck, sharp teeth sinking into tender flesh. He sucked hard. His voice dropped to a near-growl. “You always taste so damn sweet,” he murmured against their skin, teeth scraping over the new mark.

Grinding his hips against Vox’s, Valentino let them feel the hard, insistent line of his arousal. The zipper of his pants dug into their skin through the thin fabric of Vox’s own clothes. “Feel that, baby? Feel what you do to me?” he growled into their ear, voice husky with cruel delight. “You're made for this. Don’t pretend you’re not.”

His fingers quickly undid the button on Vox’s pants, popping it open. Shoving a hand inside, he palmed Vox through their underwear, squeezing and rubbing the coarse lace rough against their sensitive flesh.

Suddenly, he ripped the fabric away, baring Vox to his hungry touch. Fingers delved into slick, needy heat, pumping roughly. The obscene sound of wet flesh slapping against flesh echoed through the room.

Valentino’s thumb found that sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing mercilessly. His fingers curled, stroking along the velvety walls, demanding Vox’s pleasure. “That’s it, baby…”

Vox whimpered, a strangled gasp escaping as Valentino’s fingers invaded their most private spot. Their hips jerked uncontrollably, caught between pulling away from the intense touch and pushing in for more. Tears stung at the corners of their eyes as the overwhelming rush threatened to swallow them whole.

“V-Valentino… please…” Vox’s voice cracked in a hoarse whisper. They didn’t even know if they were begging him to stop or for more. Their body felt like it was on fire, nerves screaming from the mix of pain and pleasure.

Valentino let out a dark, low chuckle that sent chills down Vox’s spine. He leaned in to brush his lips against their ear, “Please what, baby? Please stop… or please give me more?” he purrs, fingers relentless in their assault.

He nipped at Vox’s earlobe and tugged it with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. His other hand slid from their hip to grab their ass hard, squeezing firmly enough to leave bruises.

He ground his hips against Vox, letting them feel his hard cock straining through his pants. He groaned deeply, “Fuck, you feel so good, baby…”

He punctuated the threat with a sharp thrust of his fingers, burying them deep in Vox’s fluttering heat. His thumb found their clit and rubbed it mercilessly, demanding their release.

His other hand slipped under Vox’s shirt, nails scraping across sensitive skin. He found a nipple, pinching and rolling it roughly between his fingers, sending jolts of painful pleasure straight to their core.

Vox arched into the touch with a broken moan. Their body felt like it was burning up, every nerve raw and pleading for release. Valentino showed no mercy, only getting rougher and more demanding.

He captured their mouth in another brutal kiss, swallowing their cries of pleasure. His tongue invaded every inch of their mouth, claiming them completely.

Suddenly, Valentino pulled away, leaving Vox gasping and wrecked. He stepped back, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he admired their messy, needy state. With a sharp tug, he unbuttoned his pants, freeing his hard, thick cock, the tip already leaking with precum.

A few days of silence passed. Alastor sat in his cabin, hunched over old, yellowed demon contracts. The phone sat nearby on the table. Its screen suddenly gave off a faint, pale orange glow for a second before going dark. Alastor frowned. He’d seen it before. Always meaningless, or so he’d thought. He picked it up, flipping it over. The light flickered again, brief and cryptic.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered, but curiosity got the better of him. He tossed aside the parchments and headed for the hotel bar. Husk was polishing a glass as usual.

“Husk,” Alastor said, sliding the phone across the counter and tapping the corner where the little light had flashed. “What in the nine hells is this periodic optical irritation? A fault, or just another obnoxious feature of this plastic nightmare?”

Husk picked it up, examining it with a smirk. “Ah. That little orange dot? Not a fault, Boss. That’s the camera. Front-facing. It lights up when someone’s video-calling you or...” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully, “... watching you. Remote access can turn it on. Surveillance apps do it all the time.”

Alastor’s red eyes went wide. Surveillance? Being watched? His mind immediately locked onto one name: Vox. Who else could wield that sort of technological magic to spy on him in his own cabin? A mix of anger and strangely excitement bubbled up. Vox was watching him.

“Interesting,” Alastor murmured, voice dangerously soft. He took the phone back from Husk, that usually smile returning, but now it held something new.

When he returned to his cabin, the idea had fully crystallized. He would test it. If Vox was really watching... he’d use it. He set the phone on his bookshelf, lens angled to cover a wide view. Then he stepped in front of it.

At first, he did normal things. Unbuttoned his red jacket one button at a time, draping it carefully over a chair. His eyes flicked to the tiny black circle and its dormant orange dot. Nothing. Yet.

Then he turned up the charm. Loosening his tie, drawing the silk slowly through his fingers. Unbuttoning his shirt collar. Another button. His collarbone and the bony lines of his neck came into view. His expression stayed clinical, almost academic like a scientist performing an experiment. Fingers moved to the next button...

The orange light flashed suddenly. A sharp, brief spark. Then it stayed on, glowing steadily.

Alastor’s breath hitched. His heart pounded. It was on. He was watching. A sly, confident grin spread across Alastor’s face. The test had worked.

Now the real show began. He continued undoing his shirt slowly, deliberately theatrical. As the fabric parted, the wiry definition of his thin chest and ribs came into view. He let one sleeve slip completely off, baring his left shoulder and upper arm. He stared directly at the camera, at the tiny orange glow. His eyes flashed with challenge. Go on, Vox. Keep watching.

Suddenly, the orange light went out.

Alastor froze. His smile widened, this time genuine and victorious. The light going off meant Vox had stopped watching. Maybe out of shock. Anger. Or... something else entirely but one thing was certain: Vox had been watching and he’d reacted.

He shrugged his shirt back on quickly, buttoning up in a rush. He grabbed the phone, checking to make sure the light was truly off. Then, fingers flying much more confidently than the day before, he typed a message:

Didn’t like what you saw? Or did it get you a little too hot?

Vox glared at his phone, feeling a tight knot in his chest. Like it? He wanted to type back, I feel like shit. The marks from Valentino’s harsh touches still burned on his skin, and inside, he felt a disgusting weakness he hated more than anything. Alastor’s mocking message rubbed salt in that raw wound. His hands trembled as he gripped his glass and downed the harsh whiskey in one go.

He tried typing a reply, fingers clumsy on the keys:

Me? No. I’m just... a mess right now.

His stomach sank immediately with regret. Why am I such a fuck-up?

His phone buzzed. Alastor:

You’re a mess? What the hell did he do to you?

Vox didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to the door. Would he even come? Would he care? The thought alone stabbed deep. He poured another glass, swallowing it fast, the burn bringing tears to his eyes.

Alastor read the message, the silence in his cabin thickened into something almost unbearable. A mess right now. The words echoed inside his mind. Valentino? His crimson eyes darkened. Without another word, he shoved the phone into his pocket and stormed out the door.

He reached the door of Vox’s upscale apartment, breathing a bit harder than normal. He raised his hand and knocked unexpectedly gently. Once. Twice. Three times. No sound from inside. Just his own pounding heart. That fixed smile he always wore faded. Shadows seemed to stretch toward him as he slipped in through the slightly ajar door.

Vox was slumped on the couch, idly swirling an empty glass. He jerked when he saw Alastor, eyes going wide.

“Oh God, Alastor!” His voice was hoarse with shock and weary anger. “What, you knock now? Or do you just prefer breaking in uninvited?”

He looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He sat forward slightly, one hand pressed to his abdomen in an unconscious protective gesture.

Alastor studied him: the posture, the pallor, the exhaustion in his eyes. This wasn’t just alcohol fatigue. Something was very wrong. “What happened?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically flat. “What is this?”

Vox let out an empty, bitter laugh. “What do you think? Just the usual. Work stress. Hell’s daily grind.” He moved his hand away from his abdomen, reaching shakily for the glass.

Alastor stepped forward, snatching it before Vox could grab it. “No more,” he said firmly. “You don’t need any more.”

Vox buried his face in his hands. “Please, Al,” he groaned. “You’re not helping. Really. Just... stop.”

Alastor crouched in front of him, trying to catch his evasive gaze with burning red eyes. “Valentino?” he whispered.

Vox rolled his eyes, leaning back against the couch. “Oh God, no. Please. I really don’t want to talk.”

A moment of tense silence. Alastor’s jaw tightened, then he exhaled. “Fine.” He stood but instead of leaving, he headed toward the kitchen.

Vox lifted his head, confused. “What are you doing?”

“Dessert,” Alastor replied dryly, opening the fridge. “You like sweets.” He scanned the contents: luxury drinks, packaged meals, some limp vegetables... nothing good. His nose wrinkled. “There’s not a single healthy thing in this damn fridge,” he muttered. He glanced at Vox’s pale, exhausted form again and paused. "Store,” he declared, shutting the fridge. “I’m going.”

Vox mumbled something like “Al, wait…” but Alastor ignored it. Vox slumped deeper into the couch, too tired to finish the plea. Alastor disappeared into the shadows. Vox slowly pushed himself up, one hand still clutching his abdomen, and dragged himself toward the bedroom. The door shut behind him.

When Alastor returned to Vox’s kitchen, he carried grocery bags in both arms. He moved with deliberate purpose, placing everything down. The countertop was a mess empty glasses, wrappers. Alastor’s eyes narrowed in irritation at the clutter.

He started cleaning: stacking the glasses in the dishwasher, tossing trash, wiping the counters until they shone. Every movement was a form of therapy.

Then he unpacked the groceries: fresh ginger, honey, a few apples, rice, and chicken broth and a small, plush, red velvet-covered hot water bottle. He remembered Vox’s pallid face and the way he’d pressed his hand protectively to his stomach.

Rice went into a pot with water to boil. Alastor finely grated the ginger, simmering it with water and honey in another small pot. The silence was broken only by the gentle bubbling of the pots and Alastor’s measured movements. Time passed. The rice softened, the ginger tea steeped, filling the kitchen with a warm, soothing aroma. He gently warmed the chicken broth, adding grated apple so it wouldn’t upset Vox’s stomach.

He filled the hot water bottle, carefully checking the temperature so it wouldn’t burn, wrapping it in a soft towel.

Everything ready, he arranged it on a small tray: a bowl of gentle rice porridge, a cup of steaming ginger-honey tea, a bowl of apple-laced chicken broth. He set the wrapped hot water bottle next to it.

He carried the tray to Vox’s bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. Inside, in the dim light, Vox was curled on the bed, back to the door. He was silent, but his rigid posture showed he wasn’t asleep.

Alastor entered quietly. He set the tray on the nightstand. He placed the hot water bottle gently within reach of Vox’s abdomen. He paused, looking at Vox’s unmoving back. There was no sign Vox even noticed.

Alastor’s chest tightened. He wanted to say something, but the words lodged in his throat. Instead, he turned and left, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

Morning came. Alastor stood in the kitchen, slowly sipping strong tea. His eyes were fixed on Vox’s door. It had stayed quiet all night. Finally, he pushed it open, the hinges creaking.

He saw the untouched tray on the nightstand. Even the hot water bottle had been tucked away in the drawer.

Alastor’s chest sank. He set his cup down. “Did you just lie there in pain all night?” he asked evenly, though his voice carried a note of scolding. “You didn’t eat anything. Didn’t even use that heat pack.”

Vox shrugged. "Didn’t need it. I’m better now.”

Alastor suddenly walked right up to him, staring him down. “Does your stomach still hurt?” he asked, voice softer but insistent. “Vox. Tell me what happened.”

Vox avoided his eyes. “Nothing. I told you. I’m better.” He yanked the blanket tighter around his shoulders, like armor.

That was the last straw. Alastor snapped. He lunged forward, clambering onto the bed, fingers digging into Vox’s side.

“Al!” Vox yelped, startled, trying to shove him away but Alastor’s fingers were merciless, tickling him without pity. Vox struggled, face flushing with surprise and fury. Then something cracked. A choked laugh escaped him. Then another. He lost it. He was laughing, twisting, breath hitching, tears in his eyes. “D-Dammit! Alastor! I’m serious! Stop!” He was wheezing, red-faced, eyes watering.

Alastor didn’t stop. Seeing him laugh like that uncontrolled, genuine was so rare it felt like a victory. For a moment, that tight, pained mask on Vox’s face was gone, replaced with raw, childlike laughter.

Then it broke. The laughter choked off. Vox’s eyes went wide, mouth falling open slightly. Tears welled up differently now, spilling down his cheeks. He bowed his head, hands flying up to cover his face, but his shoulders trembled with silent sobs.

Alastor’s fingers went still. He shifted his weight off of Vox, hesitant and stricken. He lightly touched Vox’s back, then pulled away. He didn’t know what to do. Vox’s crying was raw, painful to hear quiet, inward, like he wanted to disappear.

“Vox,” Alastor whispered, voice unsteady. He sat beside him, careful not to crowd him, blanket between them. Vox’s sobs slowly quieted, turning into deep, shaking breaths. He finally lowered his hands. His eyes were swollen, staring blankly at the floor.

Alastor waited. Then spoke carefully, softly. "Maybe I can’t fix it,” he said, words deliberate. “Maybe I don’t have anything helpful to say but... I can listen.” His red eyes searched Vox’s face for any hint of a response. Any chance he’d let him in.

Vox bit his lip. How the hell am I supposed to tell him? he thought, staring into Alastor’s sharp, questioning red eyes. The words tangled in his throat. He could still smell Valentino on his skin.

Just then, Alastor’s pocket buzzed with a beep, slicing through the tense silence in the room. Alastor scowled, fishing out his phone and glancing at the screen. Irritation flickered in his eyes before settling into his usual cold hardness.

Vox seized the opportunity, trying to steady his voice as he changed the subject. “Finally figured out that plastic torture device, huh?” he sniffed, gesturing at Alastor’s phone. “Who’d you save in there besides me? Or did you finally add that ‘mysterious person you’re into’ to the list?” His voice cracked slightly at the end despite his efforts.

Alastor rolled his eyes and handed him the phone. On the screen was a message from Charlie:

Charlie: ALASTOR! URGENT! I’m going to meet Vaggie at the Red Needle. She says it’s dangerous but I got us reservations! Just… to make her feel better, could you maybe keep an eye on us? Note: You’ll need a partner to get in! ❤️

Reading it, Alastor snorted. “The Princess’s endless optimism and blindness to danger,” he muttered darkly. He tapped out a reply with stiff fingers. O.K. He punctuated it deliberately. Pressed send.

Vox leaned closer to see. When he read Alastor’s curt, borderline rude answer to Charlie, he couldn’t help a small laugh. “Just ‘OK’? She’s going to be so hurt when she sees that,” he teased, though there was still a hint of lingering bitterness in his voice. He looked up at Alastor’s face. “So... you’re going?”

Alastor shoved the phone back into his pocket. “I have to,” he muttered flatly. “The Princess has an impressive talent for getting herself into trouble and Vaggie...” He made a dismissive face. “Her protective instinct can be... blinding.”

“Vaggie can take care of her,” Vox protested gently. “Maybe not as... theatrical as you, but she’s effective.”

Alastor’s lips twisted into a mocking grin. “Theatrical can be a deterrent, dear Vox. Shadows stretching, a voice turning into a crackling threat... It distracts people and a distracted enemy is ready to make mistakes.” A spark of amusement lit his eyes. Then, Charlie’s note about needing a partner flashed through his mind. A hint of discomfort crossed his face.

“What is it?” Vox asked, catching the change instantly.

Alastor seemed to be wrestling with rare embarrassment. “That... place,” he began carefully, choosing his words. “Their entry policy is strict. Couples or groups preferred. A man alone... attracts attention. Questions. Unwanted interest.” He shrugged, but the gesture was tense. “I might try observing from outside. From the shadows.”

Vox’s eyes widened, then slowly, carefully, an idea took shape. “Al,” he began softly, his voice less tired than before. Alastor looked at him, red eyes narrowing. Vox continued. “Do you... want to take me? As your partner. It might... distract attention.” He hesitated. He didn’t want to admit it even to himself, but the thought of being in danger under Alastor’s control felt cleansing, like it could scrub away the filth Valentino left behind. “It might actually help me,” he added in a quieter voice.

Surprise flickered across Alastor’s face, a rare expression for him. His brows lifted slightly. “Are you sure, Vox?” he asked, voice low and serious. “That place... it’s crowded. Loud and you...” He paused, picking his words with care. “The last few days have been... difficult for you.” He didn’t say Valentino’s name, but it hung heavy between them.

Vox straightened, shoulders pulling back. “What’s difficult for me is him,” he snapped, meaning Valentino. “This is different. It’s dangerous, yes but... I’ll be with you, Alastor.” He actually said Alastor’s name, rare for him. “And under your control.” A faint defiant spark lit his eyes. He added, with a strained little smile, “Besides, like Charlie said you need a partner. Well. Here I am.”

Alastor studied him, conflict and something else warring in his gaze. Charlie and Vaggie’s safety was a convenient excuse for something he didn’t want to name.

Finally, he gave a small nod. "Alright,” he said simply. His voice was flat, but underneath it was an agreement. A beginning. “If you want to... come.”

Preparing for the Red Needle’s smoky, dim atmosphere became unexpected torture for Alastor. In a luxury boutique’s changing room, he scowled as the silk of a black shirt clung to his pale skin. Outside, he could hear Vox’s impatient footsteps.

“Was this really necessary, Vox?” he growled, cracking the door open just enough to glare at him. The irritation in his voice betrayed his discomfort. “Changing our entire wardrobe just to get into the most dangerous dive in Hell... Ridiculous.”

Vox’s breath caught as Alastor emerged just enough for him to see. The black silk hugged every sharp angle of Alastor’s body, his pale skin a stark, dangerous contrast. The belt wasn’t even fully buckled, the shirt’s top buttons left open. Vox instinctively stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Of course it’s necessary, Al,” he whispered, voice dropping lower, rougher. “We have to look like partners. It has to be convincing.” He approached slowly, almost reverently, fingers reaching for the belt buckle at Alastor’s waist. “Here, let me...”

He gripped the cold metal, carefully pulling the leather through. Each motion was deliberate, controlled but his breath hitched as it brushed Alastor’s exposed collarbone and throat.

Alastor stood rigidly still, feeling Vox’s fingers ghost over his abdomen. Instead of his usual disgust, there was a hot, electric tingling spreading through him. Unsettlingly sexual. He narrowed his eyes at Vox, watching him closely.

Vox, meanwhile, was focused on the belt, but his gaze strayed shamelessly over Alastor’s exposed chest, the line of his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw and lips. In this rare moment of vulnerability, Alastor looked almost feral in his beauty.

“God, Alastor,” Vox breathed, voice thick with something unguarded. “You’re... so handsome.” The words echoed in the cramped space.

A tight knot formed in Alastor’s throat. He averted his eyes, pretending to focus on the faint click of the last belt notch. “Unnecessary compliments, Vox,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Vox handed him a dark blue, embroidered jacket, and the two left in taut silence for the Red Needle.

At the entrance, a massive, tattooed bouncer gave them a thorough once-over.

“ID?” he rumbled, eyes narrowing at the gap between them.

Alastor reacted instantly, wrapping an arm around Vox’s waist and pulling him close. Their bodies pressed together. Vox flinched in surprise, then quickly recovered, draping himself against Alastor’s side, palm splayed over his chest.

“Alastor and Vox,” Vox purred with forced ease. “We should have a reservation. The Magne-Morningstar party.”

The bouncer glanced at his list, then gave a grunt of approval, stepping aside.

Inside, Alastor’s arm immediately fell away, but the heat of the contact lingered.

They spotted Charlie and Vaggie tucked into a shadowy corner of the bar, under the watch of a handful of shady-looking demons but Alastor steered Vox toward a more exposed high-top table and chairs.

“We need to be seen,” Alastor murmured, lips close to Vox’s ear. “Play the part. So the Princess can see us even from a distance.”

A server approached. Alastor ordered a red wine for Vox and only soda for himself. When the wine arrived, he handed it to Vox. His red eyes were serious. “One glass,” he warned, voice low and firm. “You need to stay alert. This place... is a trap.”

Vox accepted the glass, fingers brushing against Alastor’s. A spark. His lips curled into a sly smile. “Sure thing, my love,” he drawled, drawing out the word deliberately, eyes gleaming with mischief as he watched Alastor’s pupils widen.

“I promise,” he added, lifting the glass to his lips, gaze locked on Alastor, “I’ll be a good boy.”

Alastor said with a teasing tone, “Mmm? Really? You’re usually naughty. I don’t quite believe you’ll be good.” Then he hesitated for a moment, his eyes darkening as he continued more seriously, “I haven’t forgotten what happened today, Vox. We’ll talk about that too…” His voice was soft, but the seriousness in his words was clear.

Vox felt uneasy at Alastor’s rare seriousness. He looked away, his hands trembling slightly.

Chapter Text

Vox shrank under the weight of Alastor’s words “We’ll be talking about today’s events too” but the commotion at the entrance distracted them both. The crowd parted, and the couple who walked in drew every gaze in the place. The one in front was visibly pregnant, one hand resting over their rounded belly in comfortable clothes. Their partner, tall and delicate-looking, immediately stepped forward, carefully pulled out a chair, and gently helped them sit. As they placed a cushion on the seat, their low, tender voice reached Vox’s ears. “Easy now, darling.”

Vox stared at them, a sharp, unnamable pang slicing through him. A child... The thought slipped in unbidden, like an unreachable dream. I would have wanted that... Then a bitter reality fell over him. Valentino? Nowhere near husband material as for a father? Impossible. Toxic, selfish, controlling... Exposing a child to him would be murder. Instinctively, Vox turned his head away, eyes catching on the red-coated figure beside him.

Alastor watched the couple with apparent indifference, but Vox noticed the flicker of attention in him. Did he? Vox wondered. Alastor... with a future spouse? He remembered the unexpected, tired but undeniably gentle patience Alastor showed with Niffty. That stubborn effort to keep the small woman out of dangerous work... Did he have that same protective instinct for something of his own blood? Maybe... The thought glimmered with a painful kind of hope when compared to Valentino’s shadow.

But Vox sighed, pulling himself back. Don’t be stupid. This is Alastor. Freedom is everything to him. A child would only chain him down.

The couple eventually thanked the staff and ordered before leaving. Alastor let out a soft chuckle, his voice dripping with mockery. “Bringing a child into Hell. A bold choice. Not exactly... rational, wouldn’t you say? Raising innocence in this chaos.” He shrugged, gesturing to the dark world around them.

Vox’s chest tightened painfully. Alastor’s scorn made sense, but it crushed that tiny, impossible hope that had briefly bloomed in his mind. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low. “Madness.”

Alastor noticed Vox’s shrinking posture. His red eyes studied Vox’s face for a moment, then, unexpectedly, his voice softened, almost contemplative. “Still... I think a miniature version of you would be interesting.” One corner of those dangerous lips curled as he looked at Vox. “Probably sulking all day, stubborn, obsessed with tech. An uncanny talent for pushing my patience to its limits. Just like the big one.”

Vox flinched in surprise. Hearing Alastor talk about his child “my mini version” was... was that a compliment? Or something more complicated? A strained, nervous laugh escaped Vox. “Hey! I’m not that bad,” he half-protested, though there was a surprised warmth in his eyes at Alastor’s unexpected closeness.

A spark danced brighter in Alastor’s gaze. He lifted his glass of soda, the ice clinking. Then he looked straight at Vox, expression suddenly serious. “But tell me, dear Vox. Have you ever thought about it?”

Vox froze. His heart started pounding in his chest. Thought about it? Did Alastor know he was an omega? Was he referring to that potential? How could he dare ask something so personal, so sensitive? “T-Think?” Vox stammered, voice hoarse. “About... what?”

Alastor tilted his head slightly. “Children. Future... heirs.” He paused for a moment, weighing the words, then clarified. “With Valentino. Did you ever talk about that? Plan it?” His emphasis on “with Valentino” was deliberate.

Vox looked away. His shoulders slumped, folding in on himself as if he were sinking into the chair. “No,” he whispered, voice almost inaudible. “No, Alastor. We didn’t... we wouldn’t. Ever.” There was a hard lump in his throat. He knew Valentino didn’t see him as a partner, a spouse, or even a real person. Admitting that in front of Alastor was unbearable.

Alastor saw Vox’s sudden collapse, the raw pain in his eyes. He realized he’d hit a wound. For a moment, an uncharacteristic regret flashed across his face. He looked away, sipping his soda. “I see,” he muttered, voice unusually soft. “Well then,” he went on, deliberately filling his tone with lighter, familiar mockery. “Looks like Princess and Vaggie are still safe under our watch.” He fumbled with his phone, fingers clumsy on the screen.

Vox shook his head lightly, letting out a sigh. “God, Al, you and technology...” he muttered.

Alastor triumphantly set his phone in front of Vox, finger firmly planted on the gallery icon. “There! See, dear Vox? I have conquered the lost kingdom of ‘Photos’ at last! This plastic torture device yields its secrets to me now.” His red eyes gleamed with a childish pride rare for him.

Vox shook his head, forcing a small smile. “Bravo. World-changing achievement.” But his gaze drifted to Alastor’s icy soda glass. The lemon slices and clinking ice cubes looked treacherously tempting to his dry throat. He bit his lip lightly, tearing his eyes away to look at the screen Alastor was showing. God, just a sip...

Alastor noticed Vox’s distracted stare. His red eyes flicked from the glass to Vox’s lips, which moved slightly with thirst. He paused. Then, without a word, he slid the glass across the table toward Vox. The gesture was short and meaningful: Take it.

Vox flinched in surprise, then gave in to the mix of gratitude and thirst. “Thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing the glass. As the cool liquid slid down his throat, his eyes closed with a momentary relief. When he put it back down, he began swiping through Alastor’s gallery. Most photos were blurry or accidental: a microphone piece, Husk’s back, the corner of a building seen through a window... Then, in the bottom corner, he noticed a small icon: the “X” logo. He tapped it.

“Wait... you have a social media account?!” Vox’s voice rose in startled amusement. He opened Alastor’s profile: @TheRadioDemon. Follower count: 3 (probably Charlie, Husk, and someone he’d forced to add him). The tweets were pure Alastor:

Pentagram City weather: Toxic fog and despair. Forecast: Unchanging. #DailyReport

The noise level on the radio waves is unacceptable.

Vox started giggling. “God, Al! These tweets are amazing!” A rare, faint pink spread across Alastor’s cheeks. To hide it, he suddenly grabbed the glass from Vox’s hand and took a big gulp his mouth landing exactly where Vox’s had been.

Vox stared at him, stunned. Alastor set the glass down, looking away. “For the sake of the act,” he muttered, voice uncharacteristically husky. “Partners... share drinks. Besides, it was my soda.” It was a logical explanation, but they both felt the tension under that shared glass.

Vox fell quiet for a moment, then tapped a button on Alastor’s profile: Follow. Next, he typed his own handle into the search bar: @VoxTekCEO. He hit Enter.

The screen shifted. Right there on his profile, a small heart icon glowed. “Following Already” was clearly displayed. Alastor had already added him to his list.

Vox’s lips slowly curved into a smile. He lifted his gaze to Alastor, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Hmm... Are you stalking me, Alastor?” he whispered, low and teasing.

Alastor froze. His eyes were locked on the glass. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped dismissively, but there was a tiny tremor in his voice. “The system recommended it. One click. Means nothing.” He finished his defense and took another gulp. Ice rattled.

But as he set the glass down again, they both noticed: they had each held it, drunk from the exact same spot. Silence fell. The tension in the room grew thick enough to drown out the surrounding noise. Their eyes met for an instant, then both looked away at once. It was all for show, of course. Strictly for show.

Alastor’s eyes wandered over the silhouettes of couples tangled together for comfort, the pairs holding hands at tables. A thin, mocking curl played at his lips as he shook his head slightly. “How strange,” he murmured. “In this rot, this endless betrayal... there are those who claim they've found love. Trying to light a star in Hell’s bottomless pit. Meaningless and a little... funny.”

Vox was still feeling the warm, tense flush on the back of his neck from seeing the “Following You” label on Alastor’s profile. Alastor’s words struck him. Gnawed by curiosity, he looked at Alastor carefully. “Did you... did you ever want that, Al?” he asked, voice thoughtful and unusually gentle. “To be one of them? To chase that meaningless little light?”

At that exact moment, Alastor’s body stiffened abruptly. His perfect posture broke, and his left hand shot to the upper part of his abdomen, just below his ribs. A flash of discomfort, even pain, crossed his face. He sucked in a sharp breath, teeth clenched.

Vox noticed immediately. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice filled with genuine concern. The performance had dropped.

Alastor took a deep breath, slowly withdrawing his hand and forcing his face back into that carefully controlled, indifferent mask. “It’s nothing,” he dismissed curtly, voice a little tight. “I’ve just... been drinking too many cold things lately.” His eyes flicked to the shared soda glass. “Apparently my stomach doesn’t approve.” The excuse was plausible, but Vox knew Alastor had an iron stomach. That physical reaction felt like a direct reflection of how deeply the “love” question had struck him.

Vox nodded, taking another sip of soda. “We’re just talking, Al,” he muttered, staring at the glass. “You’re chatting with someone who has relationship experience, that’s all.” His words were deliberately light, offering Alastor an out.

But the emphasis on “relationship experience” hit Alastor in an unexpected way. His red eyes snapped to Vox, a dangerous spark in them. “You always,” he said tightly, voice low, “always steer it to my relationship experience, Vox. As if that’s some measure of my worth. Or understanding.”

Vox blinked in surprise. “What? No, Al, I just—”

Alastor cut him off, voice rare in its raw honesty, almost defensive. “Fine! Since you’re so curious, yes. I’ve had experience. Very short, and... notably unmemorable. The longest was three days.” He spat the words out as if they burned him, eyes immediately turning away.

Vox started coughing, soda going down the wrong pipe. His eyes went wide as saucers. “What?” he croaked, nearly choking. “Three days? You can’t be serious, Alastor! Was that a relationship or a special mission?”

Alastor rolled his eyes dramatically, the tips of his ears turning faintly red. “I won’t go into unnecessary details,” he grumbled. “Expectations were... incompatible and my patience is limited.” He looked like he was preparing to escape.

Vox immediately reached across the table, fingers brushing Alastor’s sleeve in a touch that was far too genuine to be just for show. “Hey, hey! Hold on! You can’t just drop that and run!” he protested, voice still full of disbelief but also a soft, teasing affection. “Three days? How? I mean... you!” Vox thought about Alastor’s sharp intellect, lethal power, even his stubborn grumpiness. “You’re actually... gentlemanly,” he added carefully, picking the word with thought. “At least you seem that way to me. With a little patience and... understanding...” He didn’t even know exactly where he was going with it.

Alastor glanced down at Vox’s hand on his arm, then slowly lifted his gaze to Vox’s face. In Vox’s eyes, he saw genuine surprise, and even a playful curiosity that wasn’t meant to mock but to grasp the weirdness of it all. For a fleeting moment, Alastor’s usual harsh expression softened in rare vulnerability. “Thank you... dear,” he muttered. “Maybe my patience is too precious to waste on something that doesn’t deserve... permanence.”

Vox gathered some courage, his eyes lingering on that rare, unguarded look on Alastor’s profile. Taking a careful breath, he broke the silence. "So…” he began, voice tuned to curiosity, “Those three days… what did you do?”

Alastor’s entire body went rigid. He let out a deep, deep exhale that seemed to carve the air in two.

“Vox,” he began, voice dangerously flat, “There are moments when I genuinely consider killing you. This is one of them.” His eyes cut away from Vox, fixing on the shadows in the darkened corners of the room. Silence stretched, tight and heavy. Then, barely audible, he muttered as if confessing under duress: “People generally... meet. Talk. Discover mutual interests.” Each word sounded like it was dragged through his clenched teeth.

Vox’s eyebrows shot up. “You met? You talked? For three days?” His voice was a disbelieving blend of shock and humor. The idea of Alastor tolerating someone for three whole days while discussing “shared interests” was about as likely as finding a good soul in Pentagram City.

Alastor’s lips thinned into a sharp line. “As long as necessary,” he snapped. Then his eyes suddenly locked onto Vox. “Eventually, I realized all our conversations had turned into an excessive admiration of my cooking recipes and hunting stories. Constantly asking for recipes, how to prepare ‘spiced human stew,’ that sort of nonsense.” He spat the words with disgust. “At one point, feeling like the president of the Cannibal Cooking Club, I called it quits.”

Vox started coughing and laughing, nearly choking on his soda. “You gave cooking lessons for three days?!” he choked out. The absurdity of the image made Alastor’s deadly seriousness even more hilarious.

Alastor leaned back in his chair as if Vox’s laughter physically wounded him. “I can’t say I’m pleased to share such... humiliating details with you,” he grumbled, shifting restlessly in his seat.

Vox quickly reached out and lightly touched Alastor’s arm to keep him from escaping. “No, no, wait! Sorry!” he said between breaths, eyes still watering. “It’s just... so Alastor-like! You seriously gave a recipe for spiced human stew?” His lips trembled as he struggled to hold back another burst of laughter. “So what about... physical affection?” he asked boldly, his voice low and teasing. “Holding hands? Kisses? Hugs?”

Alastor glanced at the warmth of Vox’s hand on his arm, then slowly but deliberately withdrew it. His expression turned icy. “Physical affection,” he repeated coldly, “was offered so awkwardly and carelessly that I recoiled. Hugging? A suffocating nightmare. Kisses? Wet and unnecessary.” He moved his chair noticeably away from Vox. “On the morning of the third day, when I found the other party clumsily marinating a human arm in the kitchen, I had enough and showed him the door.” His eyes slightly widened at the memory.

Vox’s mouth dropped open. “Marinating a human arm?!” he whispered, swinging between shock and laughter. “WHY?!”

With a final sigh, Alastor stood up and adjusted the collar of his crimson coat. He cast a brief glance toward the corner where Charlie and Vaggie were sitting. “The reason doesn’t matter. He was incompetent,” he said. Turning back to Vox, the sharp, threatening smile returned to his face, a warning gleaming in his eyes. “Case closed, dear Vox. If you bring it up again, I’ll leave you alone with the Princess’s songs of joy. You can fend for yourself.” Passing by Vox, he added in a low but clear voice: “And no one sets foot in my kitchen again.”

Vox was left at the table alone. His lips slowly curled into a smile. “Three days...” he murmured to himself, a strange warmth in his chest. “God, Alastor. You’re truly impossible.” But this time, his smile wasn’t mocking. It was like a secret.

While Vox was lost in thought, a figure approached his table in the dim light a silhouette in a sharp black suit with a purple silk shirt that shimmered faintly. His hair was slicked back with gel, one hand holding a cocktail with wisps of smoke curling up, the other resting casually in his pocket. A confident, contagious smile played on his lips. His gaze, sweeping Vox head to toe, was unmistakably flirtatious.

“Vox, isn’t it?” he began, his voice smooth and low, leaning slightly into Vox’s personal space. “Glint. I run a few clubs in the Shadow District. I’ve been following your sparkle on the screens for quite some time. Your performances... electrifying.” The word “performances” hung deliberately ambiguous and suggestive. Setting his cocktail beside Vox’s soda, he added, “Sitting alone… that’s a big mistake in Pentagram City. If you allow me, I’d like to help you correct it.” He gestured invitingly to the chair beside him.

Vox instinctively recoiled. Glint’s approach felt all too familiar poisonous charm like Valentino’s, that same boundary-violating closeness. His fur prickled. “Thanks, Glint,” Vox replied, deliberately keeping his tone distant. “Just resting. My partner will be back soon.” He emphasized “partner,” a subtle dismissal.

Glint’s smile widened, a spark lighting his eyes. “Ah, that ghost in the red suit, huh?” he teased lightly. “Noticed him. A bit... old-fashioned. Doesn’t really suit you.” Leaning closer, hand planted on the table, he whispered, “Maybe it’s time to change your perspective for a more compatible evening?” His eyes drifted to Vox’s lips.

Just as Vox was about to firmly refuse, a familiar chill spread from behind. Shadows thickened, the air crackled electric. Then, a long-fingered hand undeniably Alastor’s pressed gently but unmistakably on Glint’s shoulder.

“My dear,” Alastor’s voice came smoothly as he stepped beside Vox, posture relaxed yet fiercely protective. His crimson eyes fixed on Glint with that wide, dangerous grin. “Is this gentleman bothering you?” The question was aimed at Glint, with no real expectation of an answer. His hand’s pressure deepened.

Glint flinched, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Alastor’s presence felt like a physical weight. “Ah! Mr. Alastor! Not at all!” he stammered, stepping back. “I was merely admiring Mr. Vox’s magnificent presence. That’s all!”

Alastor’s smile broadened further, teeth briefly flashing. “How... thoughtful,” he purred, then turned to Vox, his gaze softening suddenly was this a part of the act or real? “Ready, darling? Looks like this place is triggering your lovely headaches. Let’s go home.” He extended a hand to Vox, open and inviting.

Glint stared, stunned at Alastor calling Vox “darling” and the intent to take him home. Far more... possessive than expected.

Vox reached for Alastor’s hand, fingers sliding between the colder ones. “Yes,” he whispered, voice low. “Very ready... my love.” The word stumbled out, cheeks flushing faintly.

Alastor gently but firmly lifted Vox from the chair. Turning to Glint, he shot one last dangerous smile. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Glint,” he said, voice anything but polite.

As they walked toward the exit, Alastor muttered low enough for Vox alone to hear: “If I had known his intentions toward me earlier, I would’ve dealt with him on the very first day." He was talking about the relationship that lasted three days.

Vox leaned on Alastor’s arm, missing the last words entirely. Suddenly, a wave of panic surged through him. “Alastor, wait! Charlie? Vaggie?” he whispered urgently, turning to glance back at the crowd behind them. “We can’t just leave them, we came here for them!”

Alastor didn’t slow his pace, guiding Vox toward the door with determination. Casting a glance toward what looked like a security camera, he replied in a low, soothing tone: “Don’t worry, my dear. Princess and Vaggie slipped out quietly the back while we dealt with your... annoying admirer. They’re probably safe at the hotel, with Niffty busy making them hot cocoa.” “Annoying admirer” was clearly Glint. “Our job here is done and you,” he gave Vox a meaningful look, “need rest.”

The towering security guard at the door cleared their way, and the toxic, foggy, noisy air of Pentagram City hit their faces. By the time the lights of the club were behind them, and no one was watching… their hands still hadn’t parted.

Vox felt Alastor’s fingers intertwined with his cold, yet surprisingly solid. Alastor’s hand was slender and bony, far less “demonic” than Vox expected. His own palm was slightly damp, heartbeat still racing from Glint’s proximity and now this… continued contact. A warm flush crept over his face. Hopefully, the dim streetlights hid it. It’s just an act. The act is over. Let it go. Why can’t I?

Alastor seemed to wrestle with the same conflict. Walking in a straight line, crimson eyes fixed on the pavement ahead. His ear tips were flushed red, though not as much as Vox’s. He made no move to let go. On the contrary, when Vox hesitated for a moment, slowing his step, Alastor gave a gentle squeeze was it a warning, or an encouragement? Impossible to tell.

They walked on in silence for several more steps. Then Alastor stopped abruptly. Vox nearly collided with him. Alastor turned slowly, looking at Vox. The pale streetlight illuminated his sharp jaw and eyes, less sharp than usual. The need to keep up the act was gone, but his voice was still unusually soft:

“Are you going home?” he asked. A simple question, heavy with meaning. To the luxury lonely apartment shadowed by Valentino? Or…?

Vox held his breath. “Y-yes,” he stammered. “I guess. Lots of work to do…” The answer was automatic, empty inside.

Alastor tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting over Vox’s face with its dark circles, the fatigue returning after the performance ended. “Hmm,” he murmured. Then, before looking back to the pavement, carefully chose his words: “My place is… closer than yours and,” he paused, “my coffee is stronger but I’ll make it with milk just how you like it.” The last part nearly slipped out as a whisper, as if the words escaped him.

Vox’s heart hammered in his chest again. It was an Alastor invitation roundabout, evasive, but an invitation nonetheless.

Still holding Alastor’s hand, Vox met his gaze. Alastor held the eye contact, no longer looking away. There was something in those crimson depths… waiting? Worry?

Vox’s lips curved into a small, confident smile. He squeezed Alastor’s hand gently. “Stronger coffee, huh?” he murmured, still tired but lighter. Alastor led Vox toward his cabin.

Alastor carefully placed two freshly brewed cups of coffee on the table. He added plenty of milk to Vox’s cup, while his own was dark and bitter. As he sat down, the usual theatrical expression on his face was gone, replaced by a rare seriousness.

“Today,” Alastor began, his voice unusually soft yet firm, his red eyes locked onto Vox’s tired face, “that... physical reaction. Your hands on your stomach. That fear. I know it has something to do with Valentino. Tell me. What did he do to you?”

Vox averted his eyes, staring into the milky coffee. His fingers trembled slightly. “It’s not important, Al,” he murmured. “The usual.”

“It is important,” Alastor insisted. “Tell me.”

Silence fell. Vox took a deep breath, his throat tight. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, his cheeks flushed with shame: “Aftercare... He never did aftercare. Never. Today... it was... rough. I needed it and... got nothing. He just left.” His words were muffled and broken.

Alastor frowned. “After… care?” he repeated, unfamiliar with the term. Tilting his head slightly, clearly not understanding. “What does that mean? Care? Care afterwards?” His voice held confusion, not judgment.

Vox’s face reddened further, his gaze fixed on his cup. He barely noticed Alastor rise from his seat and come closer, pulling his chair near Vox’s. Alastor leaned in, bringing his ear close to Vox’s mouth. “I didn’t hear,” he whispered, low and neutral, but the physical closeness crackled with electricity. “Say it again?”

Vox flinched. Alastor being this close, feeling his breath on his skin, that intense, sharp profile it was unbearably attractive and terrifying at once. His heart hammered wildly. “A-aftercare,” he stammered softly into Alastor’s ear. “Sex... after. To comfort. To clean. To hold... to calm. To help heal.” Each word seemed painfully extracted. “He... never did that. He used me and threw me away. Today... it hurt a lot and... I was left empty.”

Alastor slowly straightened, looking at Vox’s face. He seemed confused, but now his eyes held a deeper understanding. “You... expect this? You need it?” he asked carefully, not accusing but truly trying to learn.

Vox nodded, his eyes moist. “Sometimes... yes. Especially... if it was rough. As an omega... my physiology... is sensitive. I need time and... tenderness to heal.” Saying “omega” was almost inaudible, laden with shame. Saying it aloud to Alastor took immense trust.

Alastor raised his eyebrows. “Omega?” he repeated. Then with a puzzled expression: “Is that... a gender designation with potential for pregnancy? Is that your... biological condition?” His tone was scientific, curious, not personal.

Vox nodded again, still avoiding eye contact. “Yes. Anatomical... differences. Sensitivities... recovery process... hormonal swings. That’s why... aftercare is even more important.” He swallowed. “Valentino... ignores that. Doesn’t care.”

Alastor paused, lost in thought, fingers lightly tapping the table. Then he asked a direct question, fully logical but sounding very different in Vox’s ears: “So... before that? Before Valentino? How did you manage this need?”

Vox shrugged, still looking down. “I managed. Medications... sometimes. Mostly... alone but... it’s not the same.” Admitting this made him feel vulnerable.

Alastor’s red eyes scanned Vox’s face. “I understand... I think,” he murmured. Then, with a purely practical deduction, but sounding like he was offering to fix a complex machine, he asked: “Can this need be met? Outside of him? Maybe... another? Could I fulfill it?” The question was pragmatic, like proposing a repair.

Vox’s eyes went wide. His face blazed scarlet. “Alastor!” He nearly jumped from his chair. “Y-you’re... offering me... sex?!” Embarrassment and shock reddened him, thinking Alastor had just made a horribly misunderstood proposition.

Alastor blinked in confusion, then frowned, genuinely puzzled. “What? No! Absolutely not!” he protested, his voice rising in a rare fluster. “I’m not talking about physical intimacy, Vox! Just... this ‘aftercare’ thing! Holding? Cleaning? Calming? That’s not sex! Can’t a... friend do that? Just to comfort?” Even emphasizing “friend” sounded odd.

Vox’s breath was ragged, his face still crimson. He could see how utterly confused Alastor was. The man literally viewed the concept of “aftercare” as a medical/caretaking need, independent of sex. “Y-you mean...” he stammered, “just... calming me down? Comforting me? Keeping me clean? Those... parts?”

“Yes!” Alastor confirmed, visibly relieved to finally be understood. “Basic care and... emotional support. Like drinking your coffee. Giving you something you need.” He indicated the cup, his logic kind but the situation was far from simple for Vox.

Vox didn’t know what to say. Alastor’s naive approach left him stunned. It was both deeply uncomfortable and oddly touching. Finally, a laugh caught in his throat. “God, Alastor,” he murmured, burying his face in his hands.

Alastor shrugged lightly, sipping his dark coffee. “Just a practical solution,” he muttered. “This ‘aftercare’ thing seems like a simple need. Something that can be fulfilled.” His eyes lingered on Vox’s still-flushed face. “But your reaction... I suppose this is more complicated than I expected.”

Vox lifted his head, eyes still wet but now sparkling with a hint of amused surprise. “Yes, Al,” he sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. “Much, much more complicated but... thanks for the offer? I guess?” His mind was still tangled, but he knew Alastor’s intent was pure.

Alastor grunted softly. “Unnecessary,” he replied, but there was that rare, vague warmth in his eyes. “I just... prefer you look less miserable.” They fell silent for a moment, the warmth of the cabin and the radio’s crackle surrounding them. Both minds tangled with undefined feelings and the implications beneath a practical offer.

Alastor’s red eyes froze for a moment. Vox’s words potential for pregnancy, anatomical differences clicked into place in his mind like a puzzle piece. Then, suddenly, his gaze distinctly shifted to Vox’s slimmer waist, delicate body contours, and then to the lower part of his abdomen. He had never looked at him from this perspective before.

“So,” Alastor began, his voice thoughtful and unusually soft, “this means... you can get pregnant.” It was a statement, not a question. His red eyes locked back onto Vox’s face, holding a complex mixture: surprise, the intensity of processing new information, and... somewhere deep down, a vague interest. “Valentino’s child.”

A new wave of embarrassment washed over Vox’s face. “For God’s sake, no, Alastor! We... we use protection. Always.”

Alastor’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “‘Protection,’” he repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth as if testing it. Then his red eyes roamed over Vox again, this time with a deeper, more focused curiosity. “Alright,” he continued, voice thoughtful, practical, but with an underlying effort to understand. “Does this... reality have any other effects on you? Aside from Valentino’s roughness. I mean does this biological fact place extra burdens on you? Physically? Hormonally?” When he said “extra burdens,” he was clearly referring to things like the aftercare Vox had described earlier, though his words were indirect.

Vox rolled his eyes, the gesture a tense blend of exasperation and discomfort. “Alastor,” he muttered, “am I giving you a biology class now?” But seeing the pure, earnest curiosity in Alastor’s gaze broke his resistance a little. He sighed. “Yes, sometimes... there are hormonal fluctuations. Heightened sensitivity. Recovery times can change. In certain periods... the need for physical closeness can feel more intense but,” he emphasized, to cut off any wrong ideas Alastor might get, “that doesn’t just mean sex. It means contact. Warmth. Feeling safe. Valentino only uses that as... a tool for control. He ignores my needs and only satisfies himself, when and how he wants.”

Alastor tilted his head slightly, red eyes focused. “‘Pregnancy potential,’” he repeated, as if trying to properly slot the concept into place in his mind. “These needs, this sensitivity... are they a direct result of your ability to become pregnant? Or just... a general omega trait?” The question was purely scientific, driven by analytical curiosity.

Vox was momentarily at a loss for words. Alastor’s brain working this way still caught him off guard. “Both, I guess?” he finally answered with a shrug. “Anatomy affects hormones, hormones shape needs and sensitivity. But not all omegas are the same. I... I usually just think of myself as Vox. These extra layers... get exhausting sometimes.” He fell quiet, staring into his coffee. Talking about something so personal in such a matter-of-fact way felt strange and draining.

Alastor was silent for a while, eyes on the wood grain of the table as he lost himself in thought. “I’m trying to understand,” he finally murmured, voice low and almost as if he were speaking only to himself.

Vox murmured, “Thank you, Al,” his voice still a little tense but genuine. “For… letting me talk about it. For trying to understand.” When he said this, he meant both his biological reality and the things Valentino had done.

Alastor gave a small nod. Then he tapped the table lightly. “Now, I don’t know how well you’ll sleep with that coffee in you, but it’s worth a try.” He stood, picking up his own empty cup. “I’ve got a clean towel and a bed ready. In my room. The sofa in the living room is a traitor to the spine.”

Vox stood too. When Alastor tried to take his cup, Vox held onto it, the empty mug of his milky coffee. “I’ll put it away,” he mumbled, carrying it to the sink. Alastor had already left his there. Vox added quietly, voice still shy, exhausted from the night, “Can I take a shower?”

“Of course,” Alastor replied, gesturing down the hall. “Clean towels are on the top shelf.” Vox gave a small nod and headed down the narrow hallway toward the tiny bathroom while Alastor stayed in the living room but he didn’t sit.

As soon as he heard the bathroom door close and the sound of running water, Alastor pulled that plastic torture device his phone out of his pocket. His fingers tapped quickly on the screen, none of his usual clumsy fumbling now. “Omega aftercare,” “post-intimacy care for omegas,” “non-sexual comfort methods” anything he could think of, he searched for, clicking whatever came up. He even bookmarked some pages. Then he silenced his phone, stuffed it back in his pocket, and before Vox could come out, he turned up the crackling jazz on the old radio, filling the warm cabin with a soothing background sound.

When Vox came out of the shower, his hair was still damp. He wore one of Alastor’s clean, oversized shirts and a loose pair of pajama bottoms (Alastor’s clothes hung baggy on him). He looked calmer, but the deep exhaustion and a hint of tension still clung to his face. Passing through the hallway, he noticed Alastor’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. He went in.

Alastor’s bed had a simple wooden frame, neatly made with good-quality linen sheets. The pillow was fluffed, the blanket folded aside. And beside the pillow, something caught his eye: Alastor’s red velvet coat. Carefully folded, placed like a second pillow.

Vox froze, his heart thudding. Alastor’s most personal, distinctive item… the thing most saturated with his scent. He had placed it there deliberately. Maybe he’d read on his phone that smell and a familiar object could be comforting. Even if he couldn’t say it out loud, Alastor was trying trying to understand, trying to help in his weird, practical way.

Vox slowly approached the bed, lifted the blanket, and slid under it. Settling in the middle, he rested his head on the pillow next to Alastor’s folded coat. Immediately, that familiar scent enveloped him: old books, earth, a hint of vanilla tea, and something sharp and fresh that was purely Alastor. He inhaled deeply, the scent filling his lungs. A physical wave of relief washed through him. There was embarrassment in it too, but undeniable comfort. He curled slightly, pressing his face into the fold of the coat, breathing in that scent.

In the living room, Alastor lay stretched out on the couch. His ears seemed poised to catch any sound from the bedroom but there was only the crackle of the radio, maybe the faint rustle of Vox settling in bed. Then… deep silence. No shuddering breaths, just the sound of calm breathing. Alastor’s rigid shoulders relaxed a fraction without him realizing it.

When morning came, Vox slowly opened his eyes. He was in Alastor’s bed, still surrounded by the lingering scent of that velvet coat. For a moment, he didn’t want to get up. That calm, that safety was rare but responsibilities and Valentino’s likely anger pulled at him. He slowly slipped out of bed, feet touching the wooden floor.

In the hallway, the door to the living room was cracked open. He peeked in. Alastor was lying on the couch on his back. Arms folded over his chest, his usual ramrod posture softened in sleep. Still asleep. It was a rare sight.

Vox stood in the doorway, holding his breath as he watched. Alastor’s pale face, the dark circles under his closed eyes, a few stray strands of hair fallen across his forehead. Those ears. Usually upright and alert, those sensitive, pointed tips now lay softly against his head. They almost looked… cute. Vox’s fingers twitched, tempted to touch one, to feel that rare vulnerability but he held himself back. He wouldn’t allow it. He’d definitely wake up and be furious. He clenched his teeth and killed the impulse.

Then an idea struck him. Breakfast. Alastor had made him coffee, given him his coat as a pillow. Maybe… Vox could offer something back. If he didn’t cause a disaster in the kitchen. With a determined look, he headed for the small, neatly organized kitchen that was unfamiliar to him.

He opened cabinets, looking for ingredients. Eggs? Yes. Bread? Found it. Maybe a simple omelet? Or toast? His hands were shaking, from nerves or just his native incompetence in a kitchen. He nearly dropped a bowl, catching it at the last second. “Christ,” he muttered to himself. “I can run a company but two eggs defeat me.”

He cracked the eggs awkwardly one yolk broke messily, sprinkled a little salt and pepper. He set the pan on the stove, heated the oil. When it started sizzling, he poured in the mixture. For a second he froze, then began stirring it. It wasn’t so much an omelet as ‘egg bits.’ He tried to toast some bread, but one side got too dark. “Shit,” he grumbled, flipping it over. Tea was safer. He boiled water, added Alastor’s preferred harsh black tea leaves. At least that went fine.

He plated the somewhat battered but edible-looking eggs and the charred-edged toast just as he heard a voice behind him:

“Vox?”

Vox jumped, turning around. Alastor was standing by the arm of the couch, red pajama top buttoned perfectly, hair still tousled from sleep.

Vox’s face flushed as he set the plate on the table. “G-Good morning, Al. I… I was trying to make you breakfast.” He tried to hide his hands behind his back, as if he could conceal the evidence of his mess.

Alastor looked at the messy kitchen and the humble meal on the table. His red eyes flashed with surprise before he covered it with that familiar thin smile. “Good morning, Vox,” he murmured, voice still husky with sleep. “An unexpected courtesy.” He didn’t say anything else, simply heading for the bathroom.

Vox glanced at his retreating form and quickly grabbed his phone. The screen was lit up with Valentino’s flood of notifications. Missed calls. A barrage of texts:

Val: Morning, baby. Sleeping?
Val: You’ve been so delicate these days. You always get like this after sex, I know.
Val: See you at the office today. Get plenty of rest. 😈

Vox quickly typed back:

Vox: See you, Val.

He silenced his phone and set it face down on the table, letting out a deep, exhausted sigh. He tried to tidy the breakfast table just as he heard water running in the bathroom.

When Alastor emerged, his hair was damp, ends tucked into the edge of his towel. His ears those black-tipped, deerlike sensitive cartilage points peeked out from under the towel, made even more obvious by the dampness. Vox knew Alastor hated hair dryers, the heat and noise too much for his ears. He always dried them gently with a towel, every motion deliberate.

Vox couldn’t help it. He stood. “Alastor,” he called, voice unexpectedly soft.

Alastor turned, towel still around his head, red eyes sharp and questioning. “Yes?”

Vox took a step closer. “Um…”

Alastor’s ears immediately pinned back. “No,” he said flatly, voice tense but not angry. He was fully awake now.

Vox blinked, then smiled slightly. “I didn’t even ask yet!”

Alastor’s thin mouth tightened, teeth lightly biting his lower lip. There was conflict in his eyes: curiosity, wariness, and… maybe a tiny flicker of consent. Finally, in a voice barely audible but clear, he spoke: “Fine.”

Permission given. Vox stepped even closer, heart pounding in his chest. He lifted his hands slowly, fingers brushing those ears with the gentlest, featherlight touch.

Alastor flinched. A sharp breath escaped him, his eyes going wide for a moment. The sensitivity was physical, obvious but he didn’t pull away. He just froze, eyes half-lidded, breathing faster. This closeness, this contact… it wasn’t repulsive. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just… intense and undeniably vulnerable.

Vox traced those delicate curves with his fingertips, feeling the damp hair. Alastor’s reaction the little shiver, the faint pink on his ears, the carefully controlled breathing fascinated him. It lasted only a few seconds before Vox pulled back.

“Thank you,” Vox whispered, voice husky. Gratitude and a sort of calm shone in his eyes.

Alastor gave a small nod, pulling the towel from his head as he headed to the table, examining the slightly burnt toast and scrambled egg bits. He picked up a piece of toast and chewed carefully. Then, looking directly at Vox, he said something unexpected: “Not bad.”

Vox’s face lit up in a surprised smile. The faint pink on Alastor’s ears hadn’t completely faded. As they ate breakfast together, there was an unspoken but deeply felt warmth between them.

Vox stood at the door of Alastor’s cabin after breakfast, mumbling, “Thank you, Al,” his voice still a little sleepy but sincere. “For everything. Especially… for listening.”

Alastor stood in the doorway with his usual faintly menacing smile, giving a small nod. His red eyes lingered on Vox’s still slightly pale face. “Be careful, Vox.” The warning was his usual vague one, but today it felt just a little more personal.

Vox forced a weak smile and turned away.

At the studio, Valentino lounged in his glass-walled office, long legs crossed on the desk, exhaling elegant curls of purple smoke from his pipe. The moment Vox entered, Valentino’s poisonous smile spread wide.

“Ah, baby! You’re finally here.” He stood up, pulling Vox close and kissing him on both cheeks. The intimacy still made Vox tense.

“I’ve planned something special for tonight,” Valentino whispered, lips close to Vox’s ear. “I invited a few guests over. It’ll be fun.”

Something froze in Vox’s chest. “Who?” he asked.

Valentino shrugged, his hand sliding from Vox’s waist down to his hip. “You know,” he said lightly. “Angel… and a few other familiar faces. Business partners. For entertainment.”

Angel. The name hit Vox like a punch to the gut. He knew Valentino was still seeing Angel, but flaunting it like this bringing him to their home? He swallowed hard. “Okay,” he mumbled with difficulty, eyes dropping to Valentino’s chest. “I’ll be home. Won’t be too late.” Something inside him cracked.

Valentino’s smile widened. “You’re perfect, baby.” He lightly stroked Vox’s chin.

That evening, Vox had cleaned the apartment in a rush, buying expensive snacks and alcohol. When the doorbell rang, his heart raced. Valentino was in front, Angel right behind with a bright pink feathered hat and a mocking grin. Two well-dressed demons Vox vaguely recognized followed.

As soon as they entered, Valentino switched to “host” mode. Nobody even looked at Vox. Angel gave him a slow once-over, raised his eyebrows, then shrugged and clung to Valentino’s arm.

“Pretty empty in here, Val,” Angel joked, running a finger along Valentino’s sleeve. “Don’t you throw parties often?”

Valentino laughed, sliding a hand onto Angel’s waist. “Only for very special guests, darling.” Vox quietly set the drinks down on the table, watching them from the corner of his eye. He sighed. They’ll leave in an hour. I can get through this.

Hours passed. Drinks were emptied, cigarette smoke thickened the air, conversations turned loud and slurred. Vox moved around like a silent ghost, gathering bottles, wiping crumbs. No one thanked him. No one even seemed aware he was there.

At one point, in the kitchen, as he washed dishes with his gloves on, he heard one guest murmur to the other. "Is that one of Val’s new whores? Doesn’t talk much.”

The other snorted. “Idiot, that’s Vox. From VoxTek. Val’s… partner. I guess.” No respect at all in his voice.

Vox’s gloved hand froze. Partner. The word felt painfully hollow. He took a deep, invisible breath and turned the water up, hoping the rushing sound would drown their words.

Vox was still at the sink when Valentino appeared in the doorway, wearing that tired, impatient smile.

“Baby,” he said, flicking ashes from his cigarette. “Angel and I are heading out for ice cream. Can you keep our guests entertained? Don’t let them get bored.”

Vox lifted his head, startled. Words caught in his throat. "Ah… um… I’ll have vanilla,” he blurted.

Valentino stopped moving. His eyes narrowed just slightly, silent for a beat. Then he shrugged. “Fine,” he said coolly.

Vox’s face burned. Valentino hadn’t even asked what he wanted. He’d offered it himself, reflexive, needy. His hands trembled in shame.

Valentino turned away, dragging Angel along. Angel glanced back and gave Vox a mocking wink.

The door shut behind them. Vox wiped his wet fingers on a towel and let out a slow, shaky breath. He returned to the living room.

The two guests sprawled on the couch, drinks in hand, smoke curling from their lips. They finally noticed him. One lifted his chin with a smirk. “Valentino and Angel leave?”

Vox hesitated before nodding. “They went out for ice cream,” he said quietly.

The other chuckled. “Romantic.”

Vox bit his lip, saying nothing. He perched on the edge of an armchair, hands clasped in his lap. He knew he should make polite conversation, but the words just stuck in his throat. Silence stretched.

After a while, one guest sipped his whiskey and asked, as if making small talk, “So what’s your company? VoxTek? You’re like… a TV salesman or something?” The other snickered.

Vox lowered his head slightly. “No… media and tech… investment… a bit of everything…”

The man waved dismissively. “Heh. Fancy.” Then he lost interest and turned to his friend. The topic shifted. Vox rubbed his hands together.

At that moment, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Alastor:
This plastic torture device’s ‘weather app’ says ‘partly cloudy’ for Pentagram City. On which planet?

Vox’s lips curved despite everything. Even in this bitter moment, Alastor’s ridiculous question brought a tiny warmth. He typed back quickly:

Vox:
Al, it’s always partly cloudy. Poisonous smog. The app’s not broken, it’s just hell.

A reply came within seconds.

Alastor:
Hmmm. Want me to call you?

Vox glanced at the guests, nursing their drinks, mumbling to each other. His fingers trembled.

Vox:
Valentino’s guests are here. I’m keeping them company. Can’t talk right now.

Alastor didn’t delay.

Alastor:
Wait. He left you alone with them?

Vox:
They went to get ice cream. [Seen.]

Half an hour later, the sound of keys at the door. Valentino and Angel barged in, a big bag of ice cream in hand. Valentino spotted Vox sweeping up crumbs and shoved the bag into his arms without a word. Then he collapsed onto the couch, Angel curling up next to him.

Vox froze, bag in hand. Then the reality hit. You’re going to serve it. That’s your job. He swallowed the lump in his throat and went to the kitchen.

He opened the bag. Four cups of ice cream: chocolate, strawberry, caramel… and vanilla. Vanilla. His favorite. For a split second, his heart jumped. Maybe… maybe they got it for me.

Then it hit like lightning. Four cups. For Valentino, Angel, and the two guests. They forgot me. Plain and simple. Or they just didn’t care.

His chest twisted painfully. He really, truly wanted ice cream. Wanted that cool sweetness to soothe the burning in his throat. He braced himself on the counter for a moment, eyes closed, then plated the servings. He added the vanilla with the rest. Saved none for himself.

He carried the bowls to the living room, silent. Valentino grabbed the chocolate with a big grin.

“Voxxy, you’re amazing!” he praised, arm draped over Angel. Angel took the vanilla, throwing Vox a mocking look.

Vox turned to Valentino. “I’m… going to lie down for a bit. I’m really tired.” He wouldn’t sleep, but staying here was worse.

Valentino waved him off, eyes still on Angel. “Sure, baby. Don’t let us stop you.” It wasn’t even permission it was disinterest.

Vox climbed the stairs. Laughter and clinking glasses rose behind him. He closed the bedroom door, leaning against it. Silence.

His phone buzzed again.

Alastor:
Was the ice cream good?

Vox shut his eyes. A hot tear slipped down his cheek. His fingers shook as he typed:

Vox:
Didn’t eat any. Good night, Al. I’m going to try to sleep.

He added nothing else. He silenced the phone, tossed it onto the bed, and buried himself under the blankets.

For a while, he curled up under the quilt. Just one spoonful, he thought painfully. Just a little taste... I wanted that.

At that moment, a faint tap tap tap sound came from the bedroom window.

Vox’s heart raced. He stayed frozen on the bed, scared. Who could it be? The window was on a high floor. Slowly, with silent steps, he approached the window and peeked through the curtain.

Outside, a silhouette was climbing the balcony railing, one hand holding a small bowl, the other lightly tapping the glass. His hair fluttered gently in the evening breeze.

Vox held his breath in shock and quickly opened the window. “Alastor?!” he whispered, voice mixed with shock and worry. “God, what are you doing? You’re going to fall!”

Alastor stood balanced, his foot on the narrow balcony railing. His face wore that usual dangerously calm expression, but a small spark of triumph flickered in his eyes. He extended the bowl. Inside was pure white vanilla ice cream.

"I'm chatting with the pigeons a bit. Not very informative. They keep going on about 'crumbs' and 'whose balcony is better.' They've got quite a shallow worldview." he replied with a sarcastic tone. "These little friends of mine whispered that someone was craving vanilla.” He extended the bowl further toward Vox. “If you looked at that plastic torture device of yours, I could have come in through the door.”

Vox’s heart ached. Alastor understood his sadness. Even without a reply to his message, he had come here for him. He stepped back. “Come inside, crazy man. Before you fall.”

Alastor nodded gladly, placing the bowl into Vox’s outstretched hands. Then he grabbed the window sill with one hand and prepared to pull himself inside with the other foot. Just then, the old balcony railing creaked softly beneath him and his foot slipped. His red eyes opened wide in surprise.

“ALASTOR!” Vox’s voice burst out in panic. Without thinking, instinctively, he threw the ice cream bowl aside and grabbed Alastor’s arm, shoulder, and coat lapel with both hands. He pulled with all his might.

Alastor stumbled forward in shock from the unexpected strength. He lost his balance completely and fell right onto Vox. They tumbled to the floor, Alastor on top, Vox beneath. A sharp thud echoed and Vox let out a sharp “Oof!” before silence engulfed the room.

Vox’s back hit the hard floor, his breath knocked out of him. The weight above was surprisingly solid. Alastor’s breath brushed his ear, that sharp, earthy scent filling his nose.

They remained motionless in stunned silence. Alastor lifted his head, his red eyes focusing on Vox’s face, filled with surprise and quick alarm. “Vox? Are you hurt?” His voice was tense, unusually frantic.

Vox, breathless, squinted his eyes. His back hurt, but the greater pain came from worry. “I... I’m fine,” he struggled to say. He didn’t even look at the bowl he’d thrown.

Alastor used one hand to lift himself slightly, easing the weight on Vox, but didn’t fully get up. With the other hand, he gently touched Vox’s face, carefully lifting his chin. “Are you really not hurt?”

Vox flinched under Alastor’s touch and that intense, searching gaze. His heart was still pounding wildly. “My back... it aches a little,” he finally admitted, voice still low. “But it’s nothing. Are you... are you okay?”

Alastor nodded. “Perfectly.” Then suddenly, his eyes scanned the room and his ears focused on the noise coming from downstairs. “Those sounds? Did anyone hear?”

Vox shook his head, grimacing in pain. “No. They don’t care. They didn’t even hear the noise all the way here.”

Alastor’s eyes finally dropped to the bowl on the floor. Miraculously, it was intact, just tipped over, the vanilla ice cream slightly melted but not spilled. A small, genuine smile of relief appeared on Alastor’s lips. “Ah,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Saved.” Then he looked back at Vox. “Your ice cream?”

Vox looked at the sturdy bowl on the floor. Then all his feelings hit him at once. A short, muffled laugh escaped him, then another. Tears of relief slid down his cheeks.

“Alastor,” he hiccupped between laughs, “you’re... you’re such a madman!” He wrapped his hands around Alastor’s shoulders, pulled him close, and rested his forehead on Alastor’s chest. Laughter mixed with soft hiccups. “You scared me so much!”

Alastor froze for a moment, then slowly, with a strange comfort, put one hand on Vox’s back and gently stroked his head with the other. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice mingling with Vox’s hair. That word was almost impossible to hear from Alastor. “I saved the ice cream. Does this... count as making up for it?”

Vox lifted his head, his eyes still moist but now shining brightly. “It does,” he whispered, smiling broadly. “Definitely counts.”

Chapter Text

Vox was lying back on the bed, propped up on pillows. He slowly licked the melting vanilla ice cream off his spoon and swallowed. Alastor stood by the window, arms crossed, pretending to watch the view outside. Finally, he spoke, trying carefully to keep his voice steady. "Valentino… drank all night. He’ll be drunk, won’t he?” The question was simple, but the worry beneath it was clear.

Vox froze with the spoon at his lips. His eyes fixed on Alastor’s tense back. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Probably. Why?” He already knew the answer.

Alastor slowly turned, his red eyes roaming over Vox’s face. He had to avert his eyes as he asked it. “When he’s drunk… does he force you? Into things you don’t want? Especially… after days like today?”

Vox set the spoon in the bowl, “Sometimes… yeah,” he admitted, voice tired and resigned. “But… this time…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “…I kind of need to relax. Physically. Like I said, hormonal fluctuation. These times… I need contact more. Not just sex but… sometimes that too. So… maybe it’ll be fine.” He sounded like he was defending himself against Alastor, and himself.

Alastor’s brow furrowed. He looked confused. Vox putting “physical relief” and “sex” in the same category was a puzzle Alastor hadn’t fully grasped. “So…” he began, voice low and cautious, “you plan to? With him? Tonight?” The words left him with difficulty, and his face flushed slightly. It embarrassed him to be so direct, but worry and a sort of protective instinct overpowered it.

Vox turned to look at him. That rare shyness, those reddening ear tips… something in Vox stirred. “Alastor,” he whispered, voice low and just a bit teasing. “I’m going to ask you an honest question. Don’t run.” He paused. “Have you ever actually done it? Sex?”

Alastor jolted. His ears stood up then flattened. He let out a strangled cough-growl. “Vox!” His voice cracked. “That’s… completely inappropriate and unnecessary!”

Vox grinned, not mockingly but with amused surprise. “You can’t be serious! You had a three-day ‘relationship’ but never did it? What did you do for three days? Trade spicy stew recipes?! That’s clearly a lie!”

Alastor growled in irritation, ears burning red. “This is why I hate people! Reducing everything to that!” He paused, then looked away, muttering so softly it was almost inaudible: “And no. That… part… never happened. Like I said, expectations weren’t met and I… didn’t want to.”

Vox’s grin faded slowly, replaced by real surprise and a gentle warmth. He studied Alastor’s tense jaw, blushing ears, averted eyes. Inexperienced. That thought sparked something in him that felt unexpectedly warm far more appealing than Valentino’s overconfident touch.

“Don’t worry, Al,” he whispered, voice soft and sincere. “Inexperience… can actually be very attractive.” He picked up the spoon again, bringing a bit of ice cream to his lips with deliberate care. “Personally,” he went on, voice dropping a bit further, almost thoughtful, “I’d rather the hands touching me… tremble a little. More curiosity than perfect technique. Feels more… real and a lot warmer.”

Alastor choked. His face was on fire. Vox’s words conjured dangerous images in his mind. “Enough!” he snapped, voice strained. “This conversation has gone far enough for one night! I’m leaving.” He took a step toward the window.

Vox, warm and amused in bed, called after him. “Hey, don’t run! Friends talk about this stuff! It’s normal!” He reached out, as if to stop him. “One more question? Please?” Mischief sparkled in his eyes.

Alastor froze at the window. He sighed, turned back to Vox with an expression that clearly said “just finish already.” “What?” he grumbled wearily. “What’s this personal question?”

Vox voice was still playful, but underneath was genuine curiosity. “I was just going to ask: Why don’t you try? Aren’t you curious?” He tilted his head slightly, watching Alastor’s tense back. “Or…” His voice dropped lower, softer, almost provocative. “…are you waiting for the right person?”

Alastor rolled his eyes, ears burning even redder. “Vox,” he said, voice crackling with threat, “another question. Now. Or I’m jumping out the window. Your choice.”

Vox lifted his hands in surrender, though the mischievous sparkle in his eyes remained. “Okay, okay! Fine.” He paused to think, then asked: “Then… during that three-day… thing… What bothered you most? The constant recipe questions? Or those… clumsy physical advances?”

Alastor took a deep breath, closing and opening his eyes like he was scraping the bottom of his patience. “Both,” he said sharply. “The constant recipe questions were pathetic ass-kissing. The physical contact…” He pressed his lips tight, with clear disgust. “…was aggressive and incompetent.” He shrugged. “The human body isn’t some machine. Touching someone without basic decency and… emotional connection is disgusting.” He seemed uncomfortable even saying “emotional connection.”

Vox’s eyebrows shot up. “‘Emotional connection?’” he repeated, surprise and interest in his voice. “Alastor, are you serious? You’re waiting for an emotional connection for sex?” He sounded incredulous, but there was real curiosity there.

Alastor’s face reddened even more, this time not from anger but from defensive panic. “I’m not waiting for anything!” he snapped, voice cracking. “I’m just saying treating it like a biological task is revolting! Reducing someone to meat! Without feeling…” He waved his hands, struggling for words. “…being that close is… frightening.” That last word came out as a whisper, surprising even him. He turned his face to the window again.

Vox looked at him: that tense back, those red ears, the vulnerable slip of the word frightening. He felt a warm, tender ache in his chest. “Alastor,” he whispered, voice low and completely sincere, stripped of all teasing. “Come here. Just… talk with me. I won’t ask anything else. I promise.”

Alastor slowly turned. His red eyes searched Vox’s face, looking for trust. He hesitated for a moment, then let out a barely audible sigh and took a few cautious steps toward the bed. He sat at the edge, leaving a full arm’s length of space between them. His gaze stayed fixed on the wooden floor.

Silence stretched out not tense, but thoughtful. Vox didn’t speak, keeping his promise. He just sat there, listening to Alastor’s breathing.

Finally, Alastor spoke, voice low and unusually fragile: “That ‘emotional connection’ I mentioned…” He paused, choosing words with effort. “…without it, being that close… feels too vulnerable. Like losing control and I…” He pressed his lips together. “…I hate losing control.” He lifted his eyes to Vox, and in that red depth was a confession. “So… yeah. Maybe I am waiting. For the right person. Someone I could want to lose control with.” When he said “right person,” his gaze lingered on Vox’s face a moment too long before darting away.

Vox’s breath hitched. That admission that vulnerability was huge. He lifted his hand slowly, reaching toward Alastor’s hand, wanting to feel that warmth…

Just then, loud laughter and the crash of glass rang out from downstairs. Valentino’s drunken voice echoed up. Alastor flinched and jumped to his feet. That fragile moment shattered.

“I’m leaving,” he cut in, voice flat and distant again. He turned toward the window. “We’ve said… too much tonight.” Before leaving, he glanced once more at Vox. 

Then he vanished into the shadows.

Vox was left alone on the edge of the bed. He rested his hand on the empty spot where Alastor’s had just been. He ignored the drunken noises below. Alastor’s words circled in his head: Someone I could want to lose control with. The right person…

For a moment, the possibility of being that “right person” felt far scarier and far more alluring than anything going on downstairs.

Soon enough the door burst open with a loud bang. Valentino strode in through a swirl of purple smoke, reeking of alcohol and heavy cologne. He gave a sloppy grin. "Voxxy!" he slurred, stumbling toward the bed. "The party... was amazing. I... missed you." His hands slid clumsily toward Vox’s waist, grip unsteady with drunkenness.

Vox sighed, his body tensing unwillingly. The hormones were still coursing through his veins, leaving him craving some contact, some release... but Valentino’s glassy-eyed stare proved he was thinking only of himself. "Val," he murmured, "I’m... a little sensitive today. Could you go slow?"

Valentino’s eyes were glazed. He didn’t seem to hear. He dropped his weight onto Vox. "Hmm? Yeah, sure... whatever you want," he mumbled, but his hands roamed roughly over Vox’s hips with no delicacy at all.

Alastor’s words about emotional connection flickered through Vox’s mind. What a joke, he thought bitterly. There’s no such thing in Hell.

Valentino tried to straighten up over him but wavered, drunkenness winning out. His eyes slid shut. "Just... let me nap," he slurred, his head dropping heavily onto Vox’s chest. Within seconds, the room filled with his deep, rattling snores.

Vox stared at the ceiling. Valentino’s weight pressed the air from his lungs. Frustration and unease coiled in his gut.

Towards the morning Alastor hesitated for a moment as his fingers hovered over the cold screen of his phone. Video call. The most revolting feature of this plastic torture device. The idea of his face appearing on screen made his stomach turn but the Niffty matter was urgent. That small, hyperactive creature had been buzzing in his ear about Baxter since last night. He sighed and pressed the camera icon on Vox’s profile. Once… twice… “Connecting…”

Vox was curled up in bed, his forehead buried in the pillow, on the verge of deep sleep when the urgent ringtone startled him. He blinked at the screen. ALASTOR – VIDEO CALL. He sat up in shock. Alastor? Video? Given Alastor’s hatred of technology, this had to be something serious. He turned his head slightly to the side. The other side of the bed was completely empty. Valentino was gone. For a moment, his chest tightened, but he didn’t have time to think about it.

The screen lit up. Alastor’s sharp jaw, tense mouth, and his usual dangerously unreadable expression appeared until he saw Vox. Vox was wearing only a thin, black silk pajama that clung to his skin, highlighting the lines of his shoulders, the graceful curve of his neck, the shadowed shape of his ribcage. Sleepy eyes, messy hair... Unexpectedly vulnerable and... sultry.

Alastor eyes got stuck on Vox’s shoulders peeking out of the silk, the line of his neck, the hint of his collarbone. His lips parted slightly, his breath seemed stolen. That perfect control, that chilling calm, vanished in an instant. Why is he so... distracting?

“Al?” Vox’s voice was still drowsy, but carried a note of concern. Alastor’s uncharacteristic silence was unsettling. “Is everything okay? Is there a fire? Monster attack? Say something!” A flush of embarrassment crossed his face as he instinctively tugged the thin pajama fabric higher over his chest.

Alastor was flustered. Baxter. Niffty. The things he’d meant to say flew right out of his mind. Vox’s image burned away all reason in his head. “Ah,” he croaked, his voice uncharacteristically low and tense. He forced his gaze away to a corner of the room, an empty spot. “I... thought you’d be awake. Never mind. We’ll talk later.” His words were rushed and nonsensical.

Vox’s brows knitted. Alastor would never call for something trivial, especially video call and his current skittish behavior... Then he remembered Alastor’s gaze flicking over him just a moment ago. Slowly, meaningfully, he tilted his head to the side. “Alastor,” he asked in a soft but pointed tone, “are you this flustered because you got caught staring at me?”

Alastor’s ears went crimson immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous, Vox!” His eyes flicked back to Vox briefly, then darted away again, a rare look of panic on his face. “I just... wanted to talk about Baxter. Niffty.” The words tumbled out awkwardly.

“Baxter?” Vox sat up straighter, confused. “The genius at VoxTek? The fish man? What is the connection between these two?” His curiosity briefly eclipsed his own embarrassment.

Alastor took a deep breath, recalling Niffty’s morning enthusiasm. “Apparently,” he said, voice more controlled but still tense, “she witnessed some ‘explosive demonstration’ in his lab yesterday. She now describes him as a ‘weird, wet, but bright-brained bad boy.’ She’s been pestering me all day asking if she can meet him.” Alastor’s tone was laced with both discomfort at Niffty’s persistence and a sort of grudging protectiveness. She was like a daughter to him in his own twisted way.

Vox knew Baxter brilliant, obsessive, and very much a loner. Niffty was... a tornado. This could be either perfect synergy or total disaster. A genuine smile spread across his face. “Let’s introduce them,” he said simply, clearly amused by Alastor’s distress.

Alastor immediately opened his mouth to object: “Vox, that’s absolutely unnecessary, she just—” But the words died. He saw Vox’s warm, sincere smile on screen, the elegant line of his shoulders under the silk. He unconsciously bit his lip, his throat dry. He ripped his gaze away, staring out the window at the city lights. “Fine,” he muttered, so quietly it was nearly inaudible, the sound of someone admitting defeat. “Maybe... a coffee meeting. Short. Supervised.” And I’ll be there, he added in his mind, to protect Niffty from that so-called ‘wet bad boy.’

Vox’s smile widened. He’d seen that brief, caught look in Alastor’s eyes. “Perfect,” he whispered. Then he yawned, stretching exaggeratedly, the silk fabric highlighting every graceful line of his body either knowingly or completely unconsciously. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Al... thanks for the urgent video call, but it’s four in the morning. I really need to sleep.” He winked.

Alastor felt a lump in his throat. A swallow attempt did nothing to stop his voice from cracking. Vox winking at him, combined with that thin silk pajama he was wearing… it was a complete disaster.

“Ah… yes. Of course,” he stammered. “Sleep. Important. Absolutely. I… I’ll handle the Baxter… Niffty… thing.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, getting all mixed up into incoherent nonsense. “See you. Now. Immediately.” His fingers fumbled on the screen for the “End” button but kept missing it because they were shaking so badly.

Vox could see Alastor’s panic-stricken gaze and his utterly lost, out-of-control state on the screen. “Al, calm down, it’s just—”

But Alastor finally managed to hit the damn “End” button. The screen went black.

Vox stared at the now-silent phone in his hand. He leaned back on the bed, heart racing. Alastor’s reaction… that overwhelming embarrassment… but also those brief, caught glances…

Feeling wanted.

It was both terrifying and incredibly alluring.

The thin silk of his pajama clung to his skin. He ran his fingers over the fabric, imagining the path of Alastor’s gaze. A horrifying thought struck him for a second: Did I like that?

The answer came in the form of his face heating up even more and his heart beating faster. Yes.

When Alastor told Niffty about his plans to introduce her to Baxter, the petite woman’s eyes lit up. “With that soggy bad boy?!” she shrieked, bouncing around while pumping her tiny fists in the air. “I need to pick my outfit! I’ll wear my fanciest apron! Maybe even my lab goggles!” Then she stormed into her room like a hurricane, tearing through her closet.

Meanwhile, Vox had returned to his bed in his thin silk pajamas, drifting off into a peaceful sleep as the ghost of Alastor’s gaze still lingered on his skin.

A few hours later, Alastor sat in his cabin, his fingers rhythmically tapping on the desk. Vox must be awake by now. He picked up his phone and typed a message:

Alastor: Could you suggest a time for Baxter and Niffty to meet? The little lady is quite eager... and preparing enthusiastically.

The message was sent. The “Seen” mark appeared almost immediately. Alastor’s heart sped up. He read it. He’s going to reply now.

But minutes passed. Still no response.

The “Online” status kept flickering on the screen, but Vox remained silent. Alastor straightened in his chair, a chill of unease spreading inside him. Why isn’t he replying? His mind flashed back to the panic he felt after the video call the fragile look on Vox’s face, that silk fabric... Did I make him uncomfortable?

The thought slithered through his brain like poison. Of course I did. He’s with Valentino. He has a boyfriend. He’s sleeping in his bed, and here I am video calling him at four in the morning, then staring at him like...

He clenched his fist. He felt like a complete fool. I crossed a line. Like always. He was about to put the phone down with a sinking heart when it buzzed.

Vox: Are you free today? Maybe around 3 PM? We could host Baxter at the studio. It’d be a safer environment for Niffty.

Alastor read the message. He looked relieved, though the anxiety hadn’t fully left his eyes. He typed quickly:

Alastor: That works. 3 PM. I’ll bring Niffty.

Then, unable to stop himself, he added with a tone that still stung from the earlier silence:

Why didn’t you respond sooner? You were active. It said seen right away.

This time, the reply didn’t take long but it wasn’t a text. A small voice message icon appeared. Alastor tapped it and leaned in to listen.

The recording played. Vox’s voice came through, still heavy with sleep, scratchy and low, like he was buried in a pillow:

"Al... I literally just woke up... There were messages from a few Overlords... Velvette and such. Some dumb crisis. I probably glanced at yours and closed it without realizing. It must’ve gotten buried in the mess."

As Alastor listened to that sleepy mumble, a warm smile crept onto his face without him realizing. It made sense. He wasn’t upset. He had just been asleep. The poisonous guilt and self-loathing started to dissolve... but that relief quickly morphed into a new kind of panic.

Why did I care this much? Why did it matter so much when he read or replied to my message? He grew frustrated at his own weakness, at the lack of control. His fingers moved sharply across the screen as he typed a cold reply:

Alastor: I don’t care when you wake up or when you check your Overlord messages. I don’t even know why I asked about something so pointless. We’ll be at the studio at 3.

Vox frowned as he read Alastor’s curt message. Alastor had put his walls back up. Vox sighed and pushed the phone aside. Forget it. I need to focus.

In the studio, Baxter was poring over lab reports. The fish-like Overlord, with his blue-grey skin and cyan freckles, was curled into his oversized lab coat, eyes locked onto the monitor data. His sharp teeth gave him a tense “smile.” Vox asked. “Did you consider an alternative resonance circuit to stabilize this energy leak, Baxter?”

Baxter mumbled without looking up, pushing his glasses up his nose. “N-needs more testing...” The tiny lamp on his dark blue hair flickered.

Just then, the studio door opened quietly. Alastor entered, trailed by Niffty in a brightly colored maid dress, her single huge eye gleaming with curiosity. Alastor’s red eyes instantly locked onto Vox. Vox was bent over Baxter’s screen, deeply absorbed in a schematic, completely unaware of Alastor’s arrival.

A pang hit Alastor. He's busy and I’m about to bother him with this Niffty-Baxter nonsense.

Baxter noticed them and jolted upright, recoiling in his chair. He whispered to Vox. “M-Mr. V-Vox! They’re here! R-right there! Th-the little one!” His cyan eyes widened in panic, finger pointing at Niffty.

Vox lifted his head. “Al! You’re here.” His eyes briefly met Alastor’s, then flicked to Niffty, and finally to Baxter, who looked like he wanted to hide under his lab coat. “Ah, Baxter, Niffty. Let’s introduce you two.”

Niffty nearly lunged in front of Baxter, her big eye darting over his sharp teeth, cyan freckles, and blinking lamp. “Ooooh! You’re a really wet bad boy!” She clasped her tiny hands. “Your scales are so shiny! And those teeth! Terrifying! Perfect!” She tried to touch the hem of his lab coat. “Is your lab tidy? I’ll sweep! I have knives! For hygiene!”

Baxter practically leaped backward in his chair, nearly toppling over. “D-don’t touch! It’s clean! Everything’s sterile! C-contamination risk!” He adjusted his glasses, breathing hard.

Alastor’s brows snapped together. He took a step forward, voice sharp and warning. “Baxter,” he said coolly, “rudely rejecting a young lady’s... enthusiastic interest is most unseemly. Be polite.”

Vox immediately stepped in to soften the tension, seeing Baxter’s distress. “Don’t be harsh, Al. They’re just meeting. It’s like a first date. A little awkwardness is normal.” He smiled, small and understanding.

Alastor let out a long, annoyed breath, eyes rolling. “First dates,” he repeated, voice dripping with exasperation. “Are they always such... chaotic, irrational panic attacks?” He seemed to be thinking of his own three-day disaster.

Vox sidled closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Hold on... You have had date experience, right? That three-day thing?” He was deliberately teasing.

Alastor didn’t break his posture but dropped his gaze slightly, voice flat and quiet. “Yes.” He added with clipped precision: “But it was nothing like this.”

Vox’s brows rose in surprise. “Wow and what did you expect, Alastor? Two logic machines exchanging data? Pure analysis?” His tone was lightly mocking.

Alastor immediately bristled, ears turning red. “Of course I expected a reasonable conversation! Discovering shared interests! Intellectual alignment! Mutual respect and—”

Vox leaned in dangerously close, intruding on Alastor’s personal space. His voice dropped to a soft, almost conspiratorial whisper. “Al,” he said, locking eyes with him, “I think what you really want what you won’t admit is feeling. Passion. You want the other person to blush because of you, to get excited, to have their heart race.” Vox’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “You’re a flirt, Alastor. You just can’t admit it.”

Alastor’s face went scarlet. "Don’t be ridiculous, Vox!” His voice came out harsh, uncontrolled. “I don’t waste my time with those stupid ‘flirting’ games!”

Vox watched Alastor’s momentary panic with obvious amusement. He didn’t back off. “Oh really?” he asked, tilting his head slightly with a sly smile. “Then tell me, Mister Logic Machine, what do you actually want? In a partner? What’s the ideal for you? Go on analyze it. No vague emotions, right? Just... data.” His question was challenging, but his tone was soft, almost encouraging.

Alastor drew a deep breath and took a small step back, trying to put a bit of distance between them. His eyes wandered to the far side of the room, where Niffty was frantically trying to “clean” Baxter’s lab coat while Baxter let out a shrill scream and tried to flee. When he spoke, his voice was unusually thoughtful almost distant, turned inward:

“First of all,” he began, interlacing his fingers, “absolutely intellectual compatibility. I have no patience for empty chatter or shallow interests. They need to occupy my mind, challenge me... even defeat me from time to time.” He paused briefly. “Respect. Mutual and unconditional. For my identity, my boundaries, my space. Forced intimacy is... revolting.” Another pause, longer this time. “Reliability. Keeping one’s word. Sudden betrayals... are unacceptable.” His gaze remained faraway, but his voice dropped a little lower. “And... loyalty. The ability to focus on one person. Scattered affections, being relegated to second place...”

Then his gaze landed on Vox, standing right in front of him, brows slightly raised, listening intently.

Someone who can occupy my mind... challenge me...

Vox definitely did that. Every single day.

Respect for boundaries, personal space...

They both had keys to each other’s homes.

Reliability. Keeping one’s word...

He faltered there. Not to him, but he'd turn to Valentino.

Shit.

Each of those traits, inevitably, pointed to Vox in his subconscious. That was impossible. Dangerous. Weakness. He slammed that door in his mind shut immediately, masking his face with that familiar, sharp, dangerous smile.

Vox tilted his head slightly, lips pulling into a thoughtful expression. “Makes sense,” he murmured, voice free of mockery, utterly serious. “Those are very logical criteria, Alastor but...” He paused for a beat, eyes darting away from Alastor’s flushed ear tips to watch Niffty chasing after Baxter’s lab coat. “Do you really think you can find those? Here? In the middle of Hell? Do you actually believe things like loyalty, trust, respect... really exist here?” His question wasn’t accusatory just a weary acceptance of a harsh truth.

Alastor’s smile flickered briefly, widening, something unnameable sorrow, mockery, or both glinting in his eyes. “Of course not, dear Vox,” he replied. “This was purely theoretical analysis. It has nothing to do with Hell’s reality. Just... data.” He put a subtle emphasis on “data” and smiled.

Vox’s brows furrowed. That smile... wasn’t genuine. It was one of Alastor’s typical evasions. “Why are you smiling?” he asked directly, eyes locking onto Alastor’s crimson ones.

Alastor’s smile froze. That fleeting expression disappeared. “No reason at all, Vox,” he answered flatly, voice suddenly cold and distant. “I’m simply hoping this ridiculous introduction task will end soon.” He turned his head away. His gaze fell on Vox’s screen.

There was an unsent draft message open on the screen:

Val, this hormonal mess is unbearable. The slightest bit of kindness sends my brain straight to sex. Someone held the door for me at the studio today and I nearly... Never mind. What am I supposed to do? I’m thinking of going back on the meds.

Alastor froze for a moment, then quickly turned his head away. His voice came out sharp, laced with forced disinterest. “Niffty! Stop tugging on Baxter’s lab coat! You must learn boundaries!” It was a little louder than necessary.

Vox noticed the way Alastor had frozen. His stomach dropped. No. That window was still open! His face flushed bright red in an instant. In a panic, he grabbed the mouse and slammed the window shut, as if the screen had caught fire. "A-Al! That was... just... work notes! For Baxter’s project!” Please let the ground open and swallow me.

Alastor pretended not to have seen anything. His expression remained unreadable, but the slight tightening in his jaw and the noticeable red creeping up the tips of his ears betrayed the ripple it had caused. He kept his voice flat borderline bored. “Of course, Vox. Project notes.”

Vox wanted to die. His face was burning, the shame settling deep into his bones. The fact that Alastor was pretending not to have seen was somehow even more humiliating than if he had said something. “Y-Yes,” Vox stammered, voice tight and high-pitched. He quickly switched the screen to something else anything else landing on a page filled with meaningless graphs. “Very technical. Totally boring,” he added with a nervous wave of his hand toward the display, the gesture exaggerated and stiff. “Baxter’s latest... energy-dampening... thing.” His words tangled hopelessly.

Alastor could practically feel the panic radiating off of him. At last, he turned to look, the dangerous smile still curling his lips but in his crimson eyes was an expression Vox recognized too well. “Looks very technical indeed, Vox,” he said in an even tone, letting his gaze linger on Vox’s crimson face, trembling hands, and visibly stiff posture. “It’s surprising that such an intense project detail gets you so worked up. Your face is on fire.”

Vox shrank further under Alastor’s gaze. “A-Air!” he blurted out, waving his hand in front of his face. “It's a little warm in here. I’ll turn on the AC.” He snatched the remote and cranked the unit to its coldest setting, fan blasting at full power. The machine whirred to life, its loud hum offering at least a momentary distraction from the mortifying silence.

Alastor spoke over the noise of the AC fan, his voice deliberately flat and disinterested. “Your personal notes to Valentino don’t concern me at all, Vox. Whom you share things with is entirely your own business.”

Vox couldn’t take that act anymore. He switched off the AC and turned to face Alastor directly, his voice trembling but defiant. “Oh really? Then why did your stare freeze like that? Why are your ears still bright red? You saw it. Admit it, Alastor. You saw that window!”

Alastor flinched slightly. His eyes darted away for an instant, then he forced that dangerous smile back onto his face but his fingers went up to his temples, rubbing hard, betraying how tense he really was. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. “It was just... an unexpected format. It distracted me. That’s all.”

Vox watched Alastor rubbing his temples, and the panic on his own face slowly gave way to bitter resignation. His voice dropped, low and weary. “So yeah. You saw it. This torture called hormonal swings... Even the simplest courtesy, like someone holding a door...” He broke off, covering his face with his hands. “I feel disgusting, Al. I hate myself. The fact that I even wrote that to Valentino just shows how desperate I am.”

Alastor’s fingers froze against his temples. He realized what he’d seen wasn’t a violation but a plea. His harsh expression softened, replaced by a complicated discomfort.

“Vox...” he began, his voice unusually gentle, almost hesitant. “That... physical need... doesn’t make you weak. It’s just...” He searched for the right word, his gaze holding something closer to pity than disgust. “...a biological fact. Something to be controlled. Managed.” He spoke like he was analyzing a lab report, but his tone was surprisingly free of judgment.

Vox slowly pulled his hands away from his face, his voice hardening. “Al... that’s not the problem.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

Vox tried to be clearer. “I mean, why would I need medication? I have a relationship. A partner, right? In theory, there’s someone who can meet that need.” The shameful panic suddenly gave way to angry disappointment. “But that’s the thing. Valentino sees those things... as business. He satisfies his needs, sure, but with his ‘escort’ crew. His own workers. Sometimes I watch! Isn’t that interesting? ‘Partnership’ is something like that. An ‘open arrangement.’ Ha.” There was a biting coldness in his tone. “But of course, there’s hardly any pleasure in it. He just gets the job done.”

Alastor frowned. He lowered his eyes. His voice lacked its usual cold sarcasm and came out hesitant, almost awkwardly sincere. “...Are you saying that someone who runs the porn industry... doesn’t have a good sex life?” His voice dropped further as he said it, as if afraid to disrespect a private secret.

Vox stared at Alastor for a moment. The only sound was the soft hum of the studio equipment. Then he replied in a dry tone. “Isn’t that surprising?”

Alastor was silent for a moment. His fingers trembled slightly. He averted his eyes. He couldn’t look at him directly.

But Vox didn’t hold Alastor’s gaze any longer. He made a slicing motion in the air with his hand and his voice changed, turning more artificial. “Anyway. That wasn’t the point. Look how cute they are.”

After Niffty bit Baxter, Alastor left the studio with Niffty. Alastor’s steps were slower, heavier, and more thoughtful than usual.

Vox pulled out his phone in the quiet studio he’d left behind. His finger trembled slightly as he tapped the screen and quickly typed a message:

“Al, sorry. I feel like I’ve been messing with your head about these things the past few days.”

The message sent. He sighed deeply, tired.

The phone vibrated a few seconds later.

“No worries, Vox.”

Vox bit his lip, looking carefully at the words on the screen, then started typing again.

“You’re kind, I know but I also know you don’t like these topics. I don’t want to pressure you, but sometimes I just need to vent.”

Alastor’s reply came a bit later.

“I know, Vox and tolerating you... is sometimes difficult but that doesn’t mean I won’t listen. Besides, who else would you tell? That’s what I’m here for on the hard days. :)”

Vox smiled faintly, feeling a small part of his tired, wounded heart warm up.

Chapter Text

Vox stepped out of the studio’s suffocating silence into the dim corridor of his apartment building. Even turning the key in the lock, he could feel the weight on his shoulders. When he opened the door, a faint clinking sound from the kitchen and an expensive cologne hit his nose. Valentino.

Valentino was leaning against the kitchen counter, his long legs casually crossed, swirling red wine in a glass. A smile spread across his lips when he saw Vox. “Welcome home, baby. You kept me waiting.”

Vox sighed as he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack. “The meeting ran late,” he muttered, heading straight for the kitchen. He was hungry. As he reached for the vegetables on the counter, Valentino approached silently. Suddenly, cold hands wrapped around Vox’s waist, and a chin rested on his shoulder. Vox flinched.

“Darling, are you really going to cook at this hour?” Valentino’s breath was a warm breeze on Vox’s neck. “Leave it… Come on. We can do it tonight. We’re both here. It’s the perfect time, isn’t it?” His hand slid up toward Vox’s chest.

Vox tensed, shifting slightly to free himself from Valentino’s arms. “No, Val. I’m tired. I just want to eat something and go to sleep.” His eyes drifted to the couch in the living room. A small brown box sat there. The medication. Omega hormone regulators. Prescribed to keep his symptoms under control. Valentino’s gaze followed his.

Valentino’s expression changed for an instant. That fake tenderness returned. He hugged Vox again from behind, this time tighter. “Baby,” he whispered, lips brushing Vox’s ear. “Is it what I said to Alastor that upset you? But you know he provokes me on purpose.”

Vox took a deep, patient breath. Without trying to escape his arms, he leaned against the counter. “Val,” he said, voice flat and weary. “Let’s drop it. Really. I don’t have the energy to talk about this right now.” His eyes went back to the pillbox. He needed to take it. The restless churning inside him was getting worse.

Valentino noticed where he was looking. His face hardened. He grabbed Vox’s chin, turning his face to him. “You’re not going to talk to him, are you?” The softness in his voice was gone, replaced by command. “You’ll stay with me tonight. Don’t let his words poison your mind.”

Vox stared into Valentino’s eyes. He saw jealousy, possessiveness, and a hint of fear there but then Angel Dust came to mind. Valentino’s endless, sleazy, mocking flirtations with him. Something broke inside Vox. “No,” he said, his voice finally clear for the first time that night. “I won’t talk to him but…” He shoved Valentino’s hand off his face. “Did you ever stop talking to Angel just because I asked you to? You let him flirt with you, touch you. Even more than that.”

Valentino’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not the same, Voxxy. Angel… that’s business. Fun. That’s all.” He shrugged, trying to hide his discomfort.

Vox let out a bitter laugh. “Of course it’s not the same, Valentino. Because what I have with Alastor is friendship and what you have with Angel is just part of your job but that doesn’t change the fact that you did stop thinking about me while you were fucking him.”

Valentino’s face darkened with anger. “Baby,” he said. “These hormones are making you irritable. You’re overthinking.” His hand clamped hard around Vox’s arm. “Come on. Rest. Take your meds. Maybe some wine… It’ll calm you down.”

Vox gave one last effort to wrench free of Valentino’s grip. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice suddenly drained. His shoulders slumped. “You’re right. I’ll take my meds and grab something to eat before bed.” Without looking at Valentino, he walked heavily toward the couch and picked up the small box, closing his fingers around it.

Valentino held out the wine glass to him.

Vox felt the edges of the pillbox digging into his palm where he was gripping it tightly.

“Take it, it’ll help you relax,” Valentino whispered.

“I haven’t even cooked for myself yet,” Vox protested, his throat tight. “I shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.” It was true, but he was also afraid of falling for Valentino’s “relaxation” trap. One glass of wine always led to a second, a third, and then… he lost control.

Valentino pursed his lips, disappointment flashing in his eyes for a brief moment. Then he shrugged. “Fine, baby. Have it your way.” As he set the glass down on the counter, his fingers deliberately brushed Vox’s hand. “I’ll go take a shower then. You just… rest.”

Vox watched him head toward the bathroom. As soon as the door closed, he let out a deep breath. He opened the pillbox, took out one tablet but didn’t swallow it. Instead, he slipped his phone from his pocket. His fingers trembled as he scrolled to Alastor’s message thread.

In the background, he could hear the sound of the shower echoing. He typed:

Vox: Hey. What's up?

Seconds later, the three dots appeared. Vox’s heart sped up.

Alastor: Now? I’m wrestling with a microphone malfunction. It’s making static noise. Annoying. You? How’s Valentino?

Vox couldn’t help the small smile on his lips as he answered:

Vox: He is in the shower. I’m in the kitchen. I should cook but… I’m lazy tonight.

Alastor: Cook. Your delicate stomach goes on strike if you skip meals. You remember, don’t you? That terrible night.

Warmth spread in Vox’s chest. Alastor remembered that night when he’d had a severe stomach spasm and Alastor had fussed over him with chicken broth and ginger tea…

Vox: Maybe I’ll just make a grilled cheese.

Alastor: That’s fine but add something. Tomatoes? Cucumber?

Vox: Okay. I’m also thinking of making ginger tea. Like you did that night. Do you remember the recipe?

Alastor: Of course. Fresh grated ginger half a tablespoon, one cup of water, let it boil then steep for 5 minutes. Then strain it and add honey but add the honey when it's warm, not boiling. So it actually helps.

Vox: I love how detailed you are.

Alastor: Rules matter for perfect results, darling. Did you chop the tomato?

Vox reached for the tomato just as the bathroom door swung open. Valentino stepped out, wearing only a towel around his waist, hair dripping as he walked into the kitchen. Vox quickly locked his screen, but Valentino noticed the movement.

“Who’s got you so entertained, baby?” Valentino smirked, eyes flicking to the phone.

“Peppermint,” Vox lied instantly, voice tight. “We were sorting out tomorrow’s broadcast schedule.” He turned back to the counter, pressing the knife into the tomato.

Valentino bit his lip and sauntered over to him. “The moment you’re alone you go running to someone else,” he murmured. “Maybe I need to find something to keep you busy.”

Vox held his breath. Here it came. Either a fight or… another demand.

But Valentino suddenly pulled back, catching his slipping towel. His voice turned artificially cheerful: “Actually, I had a surprise for you when I came out! Let’s get away for a few days. Just the two of us. Away from that toxic city, away from... distractions.”

Vox dropped the tomato, the knife clattering against the counter. A tiny spark of hope flickered in him. Maybe… maybe sea air, a different setting, might calm Valentino down. Or at least give Vox a chance to breathe.

“A vacation?” he asked, keeping his voice deliberately flat. “Where?”

Valentino’s face lit up in triumph. Vox wasn’t resisting. “The southern wine estates. That romantic stone château hotel you know. Fireplace, private pool… privacy.” He moved in, still damp fingers brushing Vox’s chin. “I’ll spoil you there. Take you so far away no one can hurt you.” His words were gentle but the threat beneath them was clear: No one will interfere.

Vox closed his eyes, enduring the touch for a moment. Then he gave a small nod. “Okay, Val,” he whispered, the exhaustion leaking into his voice. “Let’s go.”

Valentino’s grin broadened, looking almost genuine. He leaned forward, pressing a firm, possessive kiss to the center of Vox’s forehead, right over the faint mark of his medication. “Perfect,” he murmured against Vox’s skin. “Get ready, sweetheart. I’ll make the reservations.” As he turned to walk back to the bedroom, the towel slipped off entirely but he didn’t care.

Vox felt the damp imprint of Valentino’s lips on his forehead as he leaned on the counter. He quietly slid his phone across the counter and opened Alastor’s last message:

Alastor: Did you chop the tomato? Add a bit of fresh thyme too. It helps your stomach.

Between the whispers of Valentino making reservations in the bedroom, Vox quietly escaped to the bathroom. He locked the door behind him, feeling his hands tremble as he pulled out his phone. He called Alastor, his heart hammering faster with each ring. Pick up, please pick up…

“Alastor?” Vox’s breath was ragged, voice a hushed, excited whisper. He pressed his back to the cold tiles. “Something… I wanted to tell you.”

On the other end, Alastor’s silence felt heavy, taut with worry. “Vox?” Just the one word, but it was thick with concern. “Where are you? Your voice… sounds strange.”

“In the bathroom. I found a moment before Valentino falls asleep...” Vox bit his lip, trying to contain his rush of excitement. “He’s taking me to that stone château at the wine estates! Tomorrow night! Just the two of us… Al!”

There was a long, brutal silence. So long Vox wondered if the call had dropped. “Al?”

“The wine estates…” Alastor’s voice turned suddenly smooth, dangerously neutral. That terrible pause came from the thought he couldn’t shake: Valentino is going to propose. This ‘getaway’ ends with a velvet box and a poisoned ring. The idea hurt him like a blade but when he spoke, his voice was controlled. “...Sounds like a wonderful plan, darling.”

“Doesn’t it?” Vox missed the subtle crack in Alastor’s tone, too relieved to hear his agreement. “Fresh air, quiet… maybe I’ll actually get some peace. Away from all the hellish noise.”

“Absolutely,” Alastor’s answer was automatic. His fingers clenched around the old radio microphone so hard they hurt. “And this... getaway... is there anything else he’s planning?” The question was asked gently, but the steel beneath it was sharp. Tell me, Vox. Tell me so I can kill this cold fear.

Vox let out a tiny laugh in the bathroom. “Valentino loves surprises, but I think this time he just wants to relax. I hope.” The last two words slipped out, unguarded with quiet doubt.

Alastor heard the uncertainty buried in Vox’s “I hope.” It did nothing to soothe his fear only fed it but it was time to close the subject. “Well then, have fun, Vox. Really.” That last “Really” scraped out of his throat like glass. “I need to go. This stubborn microphone…”

“Okay, okay. I won’t keep you.” Vox’s voice was still laced with that eager, hopeful excitement. “Talk to you later, Al. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Vox.” Alastor hung up and immediately hurled the old microphone at the wall. It didn’t shatter, but the metal body rang with the force of the impact.

“Just the two of us.”
“The wine estates.”
“Peace.”

And his mind latched, with sickening clarity, onto a single image: Valentino dropping to one knee in the vineyards at sunset, offering Vox a poisonous ring that would trap him forever. The ache in Alastor’s chest throbbed painfully. “...No.”

As the night wore on, his room grew colder. Alastor didn’t move. He turned the radio up to full volume, trying to drown out his thoughts but Vox’s voice resisted: “Fresh air, silence… maybe I’ll finally find some peace.” Every time he heard that innocent hope, it twisted deeper into Alastor’s chest. Peace? Under Valentino’s shadow? Impossible.

When morning came, Alastor was still in his chair, dark circles under his eyes, his face taut with stress. Sleep had never come just a sort of numbness and despair.

His hands trembled as he pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers pressed so hard on the screen they might have carved grooves into it as he dialed Angel Dust’s number. Each ringing tone pounded in his skull.

“Heeelllooo?” Angel’s sleepy, mocking voice crackled on the other end. “Who died that the Radio Demon’s calling me at the crack of dawn? Isn’t it too early for Charlie’s sing-along breakfasts?”

Alastor cleared his throat, forcing his voice into its usual flat, menacing calm. “Angel. I trust I’m calling at a convenient hour?” The sarcasm was strained.

Angel’s laugh was short and sharp. “God, Al. Talk. I’m all ears. You’re being so polite, so you’re either on your deathbed or you really need something.”

Alastor paused, glancing around the room. He’d have to swallow his pride. “Valentino,” he began, voice tight. “I heard he’s… leaving town. For a few days.”

“Oooh, that fancy château in the wine country?” Angel’s voice perked with familiar interest. “Yeah, I heard. He’s taking Vox on some romantic getaway.” The mockery was thick. “Why, Al? Getting jealous?”

Alastor ignored the bait. “This ‘getaway’... I’d rather it didn’t lead to any unwanted consequences.” Every word was chosen carefully. He wasn’t about to say “Protect Vox” outright. “Do you know a way to keep Valentino’s attention in the city... distract him?”

There was silence on the line. Then Angel spoke slowly, sounding surprised. “Damn. You’re serious.” He paused, then continued with a sly, scheming edge. “Hmm... Val’s my... business partner. I know his weaknesses. Flashy parties, being the center of attention... and certain kinds of entertainment.” His voice dropped. “Maybe... I could arrange a little ‘surprise’ to keep him busy. A very good reason for him to stay in town but you know, these kinds of favors come with a price...”

Alastor’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of price?”

“Simple,” Angel replied, all business now. “Next time, I want a date with Husk.”

Alastor considered it for a moment. Threatening Husk was nothing to him. A date? Trivial. Meaningless next to keeping Vox out of Valentino’s trap for a few more days. “Agreed,” he said with a thin smile. “But listen carefully, Angel. Distract Valentino, yes but don’t touch Vox. That’s outside the deal.”

Angel cackled. “Ah, Alastor! Always the romantic. Alright, alright. I’ll keep Valentino busy. In the city, public, and hopefully... away from Vox. You have my word.”

The call ended. Alastor set the phone down on the table, exhausted but slightly relieved. Vox would be waking up about now, maybe packing his suitcase, smiling with that hope in his eyes. Alastor’s fingers dug into the window ledge.

For your own good, Vox. he thought, the words in his mind like a silent prayer.

Valentino’s cologne was thick in the hallway as Vox opened his suitcase on the bed. Silk pajamas, light sweaters, elegant outfits chosen with the cold stones of that romantic château in mind... Every careful fold fed a tiny spark of hope inside him. Maybe... maybe there, away from all the noise, we can finally breathe. Maybe he will too...

The sharp ringtone from his pocket startled him. Valentino’s custom tone. He could hear Valentino’s low voice in the hallway, not clear enough for words, but the tone was different softer. Flirtatious. Angel.

Vox clenched the folded sweater in his hands. The fabric dampened with sweat. The voices outside went quiet. Valentino entered, sliding his phone into his pocket, that familiar, mischievous, satisfied smile on his face. He didn’t even look at the packed suitcase.

“Voxxy, darling,” he began, his voice coated in fake sorrow. “I’m afraid there’s been a little... complication.” He stepped closer, resting a hand on Vox’s shoulder. “Something urgent came up in the city. Work. I had to cancel those reservations. I’m sorry, baby.”

“Cancel?” Vox’s voice was barely a whisper. The neatly folded sweater fell onto the bed in disarray. Something inside him maybe the last little crumb of hope shattered completely. “What... what kind of work? I... I rearranged everything for today. We were supposed to...” He cut himself off when he saw the look in Valentino’s eyes.

“Ah, sweetheart, you know how it is.” Valentino shrugged, withdrawing his hand from Vox’s shoulder, taking a step toward the door. “I’ll sort things out during the day. You... get some rest. Stay home. Maybe watch one of your lovely shows, hmm?”

Vox couldn’t breathe for a moment. The tightness spread through his chest. “So...” He forced the words out, voice shaking, face as blank as he could keep it. “You just don’t want to spend time with me. Is that it?”

Valentino turned back, eyebrows raised slightly. He looked surprised maybe even a little annoyed. “Oh come on, Voxxy, don’t be like that,” his voice suddenly hardening as the fake gentleness fell away. “Like I said work. We all have responsibilities, right? You of all people should understand.” He pulled his car keys from his pocket, gave them a little shake. “See you tonight, darling. Maybe... some other time.”

He opened the door and left without looking back. Vox heard the quickening footsteps fade down the hall.

The sound of the door clicking shut was the final blow to Vox’s resolve. His hands trembled as he zipped the suitcase closed, half-folded clothes left in disarray inside. He shoved it to the edge of the bed and collapsed face-first onto the mattress.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t even have the strength to sit up. He fumbled for it, unlocked the screen. A message from Alastor glowed brightly:

Alastor: Enjoy your little vacation, Vox. I hope those vineyards give you peace and quiet. :)

Vox didn’t want to start explaining and rambling to Alastor.

Vox: Thanks.

He switched the phone to silent and shoved it under the pillow. Valentino’s don’t be like that still rang in his ears. As if disappointment was just something he wanted to feel.

Meanwhile, Alastor scowled at the short, cold reply on his screen. This wasn’t the kind of message Vox would send if he were simply cancelling a fun getaway. There was something off about it. Unease twisted in Alastor’s chest. Had Angel’s plan failed?

He quickly dialed Angel’s number. Angel picked up on the second ring, loud club music and laughter blaring in the background.

“Alastor!” Angel’s voice was cheerful and a little slurred. “Calling me minutes after our deal? Got urgent business? Want that Husk date already?”

“Angel,” Alastor’s voice was tense. “That distraction plan. Did it work? Did Valentino leave town?”

Angel’s laugh cracked through the speaker. “Leave? Oh my god, no! He’s planted tighter than ever! Right now he’s at the fanciest, dirtiest nightclub in town, two fresh pieces of meat in his arms, booking my private stage show! He’s not going anywhere, darling. Don’t worry. Vox isn’t even on his radar right now.” There was a gulping sound as he took a drink. “You don’t have to ask if it worked. They’re not going.”

Alastor ended the call. The plan had worked. Vox was safe, yes but he wasn’t happy and that fact gave Alastor's chest pain. 

A couple of hours later, Vox sighed as he sent another message. Alastor’s name was flashing on the screen. Narrowing his eyes, he opened it:

Alastor: How’s the trip going, darling? Did you get to try any of their famous wines? :)

Vox’s throat tightened. Keep lying would be worse.

Vox: We didn’t go. Something urgent came up.

The phone buzzed almost immediately:

Alastor: You didn’t go? Ah. What a shame. I do hope whatever “urgent business” kept Valentino so busy gets resolved quickly.

Vox noticed the quotation marks. He could hear Alastor’s tone in his head: mocking, sharp, acting like he saw right through everything. He sighed, burying his face in the pillow. Not worth replying. The phone buzzed again.

Alastor: So, how will you spend this unexpected free time? Locking yourself away in the office? Or… trying to breathe?

Vox read the words “trying to breathe.” Last night in the kitchen, he’d told Alastor hopefully: “Fresh air, silence… maybe I’ll finally find some peace.” Now those words were being thrown back at him like a hook. He replied with a bitter smile:

Vox: Breathe? This is Hell, Al. The air’s poison, there’s no such thing as silence. My options are limited. I’ll either stay in these four walls and work or… I don’t know. The movies? Alone.

The reply was quick:

Alastor: The movies alone? How boring. Lucky you I was actually thinking of going out of town today, to that old lakeside spot near the radio tower. You know, the quiet one. The sky’s clear, there are birds non-poisonous ones and nobody’s around. It’s honestly a bit too… calm for me but for your “peace” quest, it might be ideal. If you want… you can come. We’ll drive. You can rest on the way.

Vox read the message once. Then again. Alastor’s “too calm for me” and his emphasis on your “peace”... It all felt too convenient. A suspicion gnawed at him. Could Alastor have had a hand in Valentino’s cancellation?

He grabbed the phone and called directly. Alastor picked up right away.

“Alastor,” Vox’s voice was flat, exhausted, like he’d seen through everything. “This… outing of yours. It’s about me not spending time with Valentino, isn’t it?”

Silence. On the other end of the line, he could hear Alastor breathing maybe a little unevenly. Then, in that usual controlled, lightly mocking tone, Alastor spoke.

“Valentino? Ah, no, darling. What you two do doesn’t interest me. I just…” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully a rare thing. “...remembered you talking about wanting to breathe yesterday and I also need to get out of the city today. I need a special part for a microphone repair, and there’s a supplier in that area. Thought it would be nicer to share the trip, that’s all.” There was a hint of defense in his voice. “But if you put it that way… Maybe I was misunderstood. Forget it.”

Vox heard the “microphone repair” excuse. He also heard what lay beneath that rare pause, that small defensive tone: worry. Alastor didn’t want to leave him alone. Didn’t want him rotting in those four walls after another of Valentino’s disappointments. Fatigue won out over the hurt. His shoulders slumped.

“Alastor,” he murmured, the harshness in his voice melting into weary acceptance. “That lakeside… Is it really quiet?”

Alastor’s breathing hitched slightly. “Yes,” he replied, voice softer, a little hurried. “Very quiet. Just the wind, the sound of the water…” He added quickly: “And the supplier stop will only take half an hour. The rest of the time… is yours.”

Vox closed his eyes. Staying behind to stew in his own pain in those four walls… Or a quiet lakeside. Non-toxic air and… Alastor. Maybe he could actually breathe.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice fragile. “I’ll come. Where should we meet?”

As Alastor’s car left the city’s noise behind, Vox sat leaning against the window, staring at the grey landscape outside. Deep in thought, silent.

Alastor gripped the wheel tightly, eyes on the road. Now and then he glanced sideways at Vox’s profile, noting that pensive expression and the dark circles under his eyes. When they stopped at the supplier for the microphone part, Alastor watched Vox, waiting in the car, stare at a message from Valentino for a long time before deleting it. Something twisted inside him.

When they reached the lakeside, the air was starting to cool, but the sun was still shining on the water. It was truly deserted. Just the soothing rhythm of water hitting the shore and the distant call of birds. Alastor spread a blanket under the shade of a tree. Vox sat on a rock, pulling his knees up to his chest. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

Alastor didn’t sit beside him. He stood a few steps away, looking out over the water with his hands in his pockets.

“Feeling better?” he asked. “City noise doesn’t reach here.”

Vox took a deep breath, feeling the clean, cool air in his lungs. “Yeah,” he murmured, eyes closing. “Better. Thanks, Al.” He didn’t say for doing this. Not yet.

They sat like that for a while. Vox watched Alastor’s back; careful, tense, but also as if surprised by this natural quiet. He let out a breath without realizing it.

Alastor turned, his red eyes resting on Vox’s face for a moment before sliding away again. “Even silence can be heavy sometimes, can’t it?” he murmured, as if to himself. “Thoughts get… too loud.”

Vox nodded in agreement.

As the air grew colder, Vox shivered lightly. Alastor noticed. Without a word, he took off his coat and approached, holding it out.

“Al,” Vox began to protest, “You’ll get cold, I—”

“My circulation works better than yours,” Alastor cut in, his voice back to its usual firm tone, but the gesture of holding out the coat was stubborn. “And you’re shivering. Take it. It’s soft inside. Might even smell… comforting.” The last sentence was mumbled so low it was almost inaudible, his eyes flicking away from Vox’s.

Vox looked at the offered coat. Then at Alastor’s face. Under that hard expression, he could see a fine line of worry. With trembling hands, he took the coat. The heavy wool settled around his shoulders, instantly warm, carrying that familiar, calming scent. A deep warmth spread through him. He closed his eyes, burying himself in the fabric.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice muffled in the coat.

Alastor nodded with his head down, his expression unreadable. He sat beside him on the edge of the blanket, leaving space between them. He kept looking at the water. Vox held the coat’s collar tightly, watching Alastor’s quiet, steady profile.

The air cooled faster than Alastor had expected. A sharp chill spread along the lakeshore. The wind blew lightly, rustling the trees’ leaves, making Vox clutch the collar of Alastor’s coat more tightly. The wool lining inside still held Alastor’s body heat and that familiar, calming scent. Unlike Valentino’s heavy cologne, this scent seemed to soothe Vox’s tense nerves.

Alastor noticed Vox shiver slightly. His red eyes shifted to Vox, who was bundled in the coat and staring out at the lake. He didn’t want to break the silence, didn’t want to ruin this rare moment of calm, but Vox’s lips had gone pale and his shoulders trembled faintly.

“You must be hungry,” Alastor murmured, his voice lacking its usual harshness, sounding softer instead. “And these lakeside nights get unexpectedly cold. Let’s go to the cabin. I can cook something warm.”

Vox turned his head, surprise and a flicker of deep gratitude showing in his eyes. “Cabin?” he repeated, his voice still a bit hoarse.

Alastor gave a small shrug. “An old radio station cabin. Near the supplier where I got the microphone part. Has the basics. A stove, a few pans... enough.”

The lie about the microphone still left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he wouldn’t admit that. It was just an excuse to bring Vox here. That quiet desperation, the weary surrender after Valentino’s pathetic cancellation, had driven him to offer this.

Vox didn’t even consider refusing. Exhaustion and maybe a bit of hope made him say, “Okay. Let’s go to the cabin.”

The cabin was a short drive from the lake. Wooden, small, a little rundown, but clean. Inside, it was warmer and more inviting than expected. A simple kitchen corner, a small dining table with two chairs, and a tiny bedroom in the back. Alastor was at ease, as if he’d been here before.

“Here,” Alastor said. “The basics.” He moved to the kitchen counter and pulled out a small cloth bag. “Brought a few things. Just in case.”

Inside were fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, a few tomatoes, and a small jar of olive oil. “A simple dinner should do. Quick to make.”

Vox still had Alastor’s coat draped over his shoulders, standing at the edge of the small kitchen area. “I can help,” he offered, his voice still a little weak.

Alastor looked at him, one eyebrow lifting. Vox’s pale face and the dark circles under his eyes worried him. “You can set the table,” he said, giving him a simple task rather than rejecting the help. “Knives are on the top shelf. Plates... should be in that cupboard.” He gestured with his hand.

Vox nodded and finally took off the coat, carefully hanging it over the back of a chair. He followed Alastor’s instructions, setting the small table for two. As he laid out the knives and forks, he watched Alastor work at the counter.

Alastor’s movements were precise and efficient as always: dicing the tomatoes into perfect cubes, slicing the bread just thick enough, crushing a clove of garlic and mixing it into the oil. Everything he did was measured, deliberate, and perfectly timed.

They barely spoke. Only the rhythmic thock thock of the knife on the counter, the crackle of bread in the toaster. The silence wasn’t tense; it was peaceful. Vox finished setting the table and sat down, waiting for Alastor.

Alastor carefully spooned the tomato mixture onto the toasted bread, sprinkling a little salt and freshly ground black pepper. Then he carried the plates over, setting one in front of Vox while briefly glancing at his face.

“Here,” he said. “Simple, but filling. Hope it doesn’t upset your stomach.”

Vox looked down at the plate. The bread was perfectly crisp. Seeing the care Alastor put even into such a simple meal spread a strange warmth through his chest. Valentino had ordered extravagant meals at fancy restaurants but had never cooked for him. This felt... more valuable.

“It looks amazing, Al,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Alastor didn’t answer, just gave a small nod before sitting down himself. He paused for a moment, as if waiting for something, then picked up his fork. Vox followed suit.

The first bite exploded on his tongue with fresh tomato and garlicky olive oil. The bread was perfectly crunchy. A stifled sound of satisfaction slipped from his lips. “Mmm.”

Across the table, the corners of Alastor’s mouth twitched into the smallest, almost imperceptible smile at Vox’s reaction. It faded quickly as he turned back to his own plate, carefully spearing a piece of tomato.

“Did the supplier like it?” Vox asked, breaking the silence and maybe testing the microphone story. “The part?”

Alastor set his fork down lightly, meeting Vox’s gaze. His red eyes showed a flicker of surprise, but not defensiveness. More... thoughtful. “The part was suitable,” he replied simply.

They finished the meal in silence, just the clink of cutlery and the warm hum of the stove in the background. When Alastor stood to clear the plates, Vox rose as well.

“I’ll wash,” he offered immediately.

Alastor turned, brow creasing slightly. “You need to rest,” he countered.

“Please,” Vox insisted, his voice stronger this time. “You cooked. Let me at least do this.” It was his small way of showing gratitude.

Alastor hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “All right. Kettle’s over there. Dish soap...” He gestured to a cabinet.

Vox walked to the sink, gathering the things Alastor had pointed out. As he filled the sink with warm water, Alastor stood by the table, arms folded, watching. His gaze wasn’t judging. It was careful. Measuring. Watching Vox’s hands move in the water, seeing how his shoulders slowly relaxed.

Through the small cabin window, Vox could see the darkness outside. Only the pale light of the moon and the reflection of the electric heater in the glass. Inside, there was warmth, the smell of food, and, strangely, a sense of safety. Valentino, the ruined vacation, the disappointment—all of it felt far away, outside this quiet refuge.

When he dried the last plate and turned around, Alastor was still there. Their eyes met. This silence felt different. Full, but not uncomfortable.

“Thank you, Vox,” Alastor finally said. “The cleaning... better than I expected.” It was a small compliment, but coming from Alastor, it meant a lot.

Vox gave a faint smile, setting the drying towel aside. “I should be the one thanking you, Al. Today... it really helped.”

Alastor nodded, turning his gaze to the darkness outside the window. He smiled.

Hours later, Vox had eaten, and comfort draped over his shoulders like a blanket until a sudden, familiar wave of heat spread through his groin. Did the medicine not work? The thought clawed at him. He flinched, clamping his jaw shut to keep Alastor from noticing.

Alastor had his back turned as he placed another log onto the blackened hearth stones. The flames lit up the sharp lines of his narrow waist and spine. Vox’s breath tangled in his throat. He could hear the rush of his own blood in his ears. That repressed desire surged like a flood the medication couldn’t hold back. He pushed reason aside. He stood, letting his feet carry him to Alastor’s back, toward the heat of the fireplace.

He hesitated for a moment. Then, mustering all his will, he set his hands on Alastor’s shoulders. Alastor went rigid, dropping the log but not turning around.

“Vox?” His voice held a mix of warning and surprise.

Vox didn’t answer. With trembling strength in his wrists, he wrenched Alastor around. Those red eyes were wide, startled and something deeper, darker, flickered in them. Vox’s gaze locked onto Alastor’s thin lips. He lunged forward.

The touch was gentle. Alastor’s lips were softer than he expected but frozen, unyielding. Vox persisted, his palms sliding to Alastor’s cheeks, trying to pull him into the kiss. Alastor’s breath hitched, his hands hovered in the air. Then, with a sudden instinctive jerk, Alastor’s hands locked around Vox’s waist not gripping, but as if he were holding on.

That contact only fanned the fire inside Vox. He plunged deeper into Alastor’s mouth, a moan breaking in his throat. Alastor’s hands, after a moment of hesitation, roamed Vox’s back, fingers digging into the thin fabric of his sweater. Then, with ravenous hunger, they slid lower, grabbing Vox’s hips and pulling him in. Their bodies pressed fully together in the fireplace’s heat.

Vox kissed down to Alastor’s neck, to that sensitive spot under his jaw. Alastor’s breathing quickened; a guttural sound escaped him. His hands left Vox’s waist and slipped under the sweater. His palms burned against Vox’s bare skin, traveling over his stomach to the soft dip beneath his ribs. Vox threw his head back, eyes closed, surrendering to the torturous pleasure of Alastor’s touch. Alastor’s lips were on his neck now, teeth grazing his skin before going still.

Then Alastor’s hands began to rise. His fingertips traced the lower curve of Vox’s chest, found the hardened nub beneath the thin fabric. A choked cry tore from Vox, but it ended as a muffled moan. Alastor lifted his head, eyes fixed on Vox’s face closed eyes, parted lips, lost in sensation. A spark lit in those red eyes, a decision.

Vox, driven by the pounding of that pent-up need, pulled back one step from Alastor. His breathing was ragged, his eyes dark with want. With a shaking hand he reached for the half-full whiskey bottle and the single glass on the table. He drank it in one gulp, the harsh liquid burning his throat. He poured another, offering it to Alastor with a hoarse voice. "Take it. Drink. Please. Don’t think. Just... feel.”

Alastor took the glass, his red eyes searching Vox’s face. Fragile hope, desire, a trace of fear. He tipped his head back, draining the whiskey in one breath. Droplets ran down his chin onto his shirt. As the glass fell and rolled off the table, Alastor’s hand slid to the underside of Vox’s chest, the other to his belt. Not to feel the heat of his skin, but to undo the button. Vox’s breath caught. Alastor’s fingers tugged the zipper down with a soft rasp. Then, without hesitation, he slipped inside, over Vox’s lower belly, onto the thin cotton of his underwear. His palm cupped Vox’s heat, the soft curve of his groin. Vox’s whole body tensed; he pressed even closer, his head falling onto Alastor’s shoulder.

“Al...” It was a breath, full of want and surrender.

Alastor felt the damp patch forming, the proof of Vox’s arousal. It made him groan; his own body reacted the same way, erection straining against his pants.

Then, with a sharp intake of breath, Alastor’s hands stopped. His fingers rested at the waistband of Vox’s underwear, right where his thigh began, just above the pelvic bone. They were touching that limit. Just a single movement, a single tug would have pulled the fabric down.

Alastor’s breathing was fast and hot on Vox’s neck. His hands trembled. Vox could feel how hard Alastor was pressing against him, how close he was to losing control. He waited. Waited for the underwear to be tugged down, for that final contact.

But it didn’t happen. Instead, the heat of Alastor’s hands vanished. His fingers, still gripping the waistband, pulled up. The cotton fabric bunched against Vox’s waist and lower belly, tightening against his skin but fully covering him, protecting him. Alastor’s palms rested on his bare, safe belly instead, just stroking the soft curve above the tense heat below.

Vox’s eyes flew open in surprise. He looked at Alastor’s face. Those red eyes were wide, dark with desire, but also filled with deep conflict. His lips were pressed tight, his jaw clenched. That control, that willpower, had kicked in at the most critical moment. Vox felt a hollow open in his chest—a mix of disappointment and a kind of gratitude.

Alastor pulled his hands away from Vox’s stomach as if burned. His breathing was still rapid, his chest heaving. His gaze shifted from Vox’s face, to the line of bunched-up underwear, then back to his eyes. His voice was hoarse and uncharacteristically fragile.

“I’m... I’m sorry, Vox.” There was real regret in his eyes, maybe even fear. “I... lost control. I didn’t want to hurt you. This... this wasn’t right.”

Vox’s hands trembled as he pulled his zipper up and fastened the button. The bunched underwear chafed his waist, but he didn’t fix it. Alastor’s apology, his regret... it was so different from what he’d expected. Valentino would never apologize. He would just take. Vox’s eyes filled with tears; he turned away, throat tight.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t apologize. I... I started it. I pushed you.” It was true. The hormones, the frustration, the urgent need in that moment had made him start it. “I... I can’t always control it. The medicine doesn’t always work.” The admission stung.

Alastor shook his head, still trying to steady himself. “That’s not an excuse,” he said harshly, but his voice softened. “You’re exhausted. Go lie down in the bed.” He rubbed his temples, exhaling shakily. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” He turned away, staring at the dying fire, refusing to meet Vox’s eyes.

Vox saw the tension in Alastor’s back, the way his shoulders hunched. He felt the same shame and confusion himself. He nodded, voice so quiet it was barely there:

“Okay.”

Vox slipped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. When his back hit the cold wood, the breath he let out shook in his chest. Alastor’s touches still burned on his skin. The faint bite mark on his neck, the ghost of those hands roaming his chest most of all that final moment... when Alastor’s fingers slid beneath his belt, over the thin cotton of his underwear, only to jerk back at the last second. An involuntary whimper escaped his lips. His hands still trembled. I lost control. I made him lose it too.

He needed a shower. Under the water, he could try to wash away the traces of this humiliating desire, this hormone-driven weakness. He headed for the bathroom, stripping off every piece of clothing until he was naked, the cold air biting at his skin. He cranked the faucet all the way open and shut his eyes tight so he wouldn’t have to see his pale, miserable reflection in the fogged mirror. Under the pounding water he lowered his head, hot streams hitting his shoulders and back. His hands roamed his body, but Alastor’s imaginary fingerprints still burned into his skin. Around his nipples, the soft slope of his belly, just above his groin... Right where he’d stopped. He felt another unwanted clench. God, enough! He ground his teeth, pressing his palms to his back, trying to focus only on the water. Just get clean. Try to forget.

When he stepped out, his skin was flushed, his mind a blur. He tied the thick bathrobe tightly around his waist. Wet hair clung to the back of his neck. He returned to the bedroom and sank onto the edge of the bed. He could still hear Alastor’s regretful, hushed voice in his ears. “I’m sorry, Vox. I lost control... I didn’t want to hurt you.” Hurt him? No. The real hurt was the burning emptiness left behind by those touches. Unlike Valentino’s harsh, transactional use of his body, Alastor’s brief, controlled touches had felt... precious.

He dropped his head into his hands. A deep, shuddering sigh broke from his chest. He was too affected. Far too much. In this mess, there was only one thing he could cling to: routine. He reached for his phone. The screen lit up the dim room. A few work notifications, a message from Peppermint... then the glaring red dot on the social media icon. Instinctively, he tapped it.

And there it was.

A new video posted by Pentagram City’s most infamous, sleaziest nightclub’s official account. Title: Exclusive Show: Angel Dust & Valentino – On Fire in the VIP Cage! The preview image was blurry but unmistakable: Valentino’s purple silk shirt, Angel Dust’s recognizable form. Twisted together behind the cage bars, bathed in lights.

Vox’s finger trembled as he hit play. He’d muted the sound, but the images were clear enough. Valentino had Angel pinned in a corner of the cage, one hand on his ass, the other tangled in his hair. Angel’s head was thrown back in laughter, Valentino leaning in toward his neck. Then the camera cut closer. Valentino’s hand roaming Angel’s body, Angel whispering something in his ear with a wink. Low, pulsing music and the crowd’s screams were visible even without sound.

Vox shut the video off. The phone fell onto the bed. He straightened up, yanking the robe’s belt tighter around himself. There was a sharp pain in his chest, his breath catching. Tonight. The night he’d canceled their plans for this? Rage surged. He snatched the phone back up, thumb hovering over Valentino’s number. He was going to scream at him. Expose him. That filthy, two-faced...

But just as he was about to hit call, his hand froze. The living room of the cabin flashed before his eyes. In front of the fire. Alastor’s eyes, wild, barely controlled. His own mouth on Alastor’s, pulling him in. Alastor exploring him... then recoiling in fear. His own sin. His own betrayal.

He froze. Blame Valentino? With what right? He had just crossed the same line hours earlier, sunk into the same swamp of desire. Maybe worse: Valentino was doing his job. Vox had... lured his only true friend in during a vulnerable moment.

His fingers loosened. The phone slipped onto the pillow with a quiet thud. He closed his eyes. Two hot tears slid straight onto the velvet of his robe. There was nothing he could say. No right to say anything. He simply lay back, pulling the cold sheets over himself. For a moment, he wondered if Alastor was comfortable out there. Then, in the dark, he felt small and horribly alone.

Chapter Text

When morning came, Vox was sitting on the couch, tugging at the sleeves of his sweater to warm his hands. Alastor was at the kitchen counter, brewing coffee with his usual meticulousness, his back turned to Vox.

There wasn’t a sound between them, only the faint static of the radio and the bubbling of water.

Alastor poured the coffee, filling two cups. He took both and sat down in the armchair across from Vox. His eyes lingered on Vox’s face for a moment those dark circles, that tense jawline. Then he dropped his gaze to his own coffee.

“Did you sleep?” he asked. His voice was even neither too warm nor too cold. It was the sort of routine morning question, but the tips of his ears were faintly red.

Vox lifted his head, met Alastor’s eyes for a heartbeat, then looked quickly away into his cup.

“A little,” he muttered. “You?”

“Enough,” Alastor replied, taking a sip.

Another brittle silence fell. The effort they both made not to talk about the night before was palpable in the air.

Alastor’s fingers traced the rim of his cup. “Want some breakfast?” he asked, still not looking up. “Maybe something simple.” A chance to make amends, to return to normal. The offer was a gesture, a small bridge.

Vox shook his head slightly. “Thanks, Al. Not hungry.” His stomach was tied in knots from tension anyway. Eating would just make the silence more unbearable.

More silence. The soft strains of jazz crackled from the radio. Eventually, Alastor stood, placed his cup on the counter. He turned to Vox, and this time Vox couldn’t look away. There was a steadiness in those red eyes, but beneath it lay something uncertain.

“Vox,” he began, his voice unusually gentle but controlled. “Do you want to... stay here?” I don’t want to send you away. “Or...” He hesitated, choosing the words carefully. “...would you rather leave?” If you want to go, I won’t stop you.

The question was simple, but the meaning beneath it was heavy: After last night, do you want to stay with me? Or do you want to run?

Vox looked up. In Alastor’s gaze, behind that usual mask, he saw a rare vulnerability. It struck him harder than any “I’m sorry” could have. His heart beat faster. He wanted to stay. He wanted that warmth, that safety, that strange comfort that came from being next to Alastor but he was terrified of having to talk about the night. Shame and confusion weighed him down. Even his guilt toward Valentino nagged at him.

“I should go,” he blurted, too quickly. He got up, realizing his hands were trembling. “Studio work... must’ve piled up.” The excuse was weak, and they both knew it.

Alastor’s face froze for a moment before settling back into that familiar, dangerous smile. The vulnerable moment vanished from his eyes.

“Of course,” he said, voice returning to its flat, distant tone. “Work always waits.” You refused. I understand. He inclined his head slightly. “Be careful, Vox. Don’t let that... bug bother you.” Calling Valentino “bug” was routine, but today there was extra venom in his voice.

Vox tried to fold his clothes from the night before, but his hands were clumsy. Alastor silently stepped closer, took them from him, and folded them perfectly in his own style. That small gesture made Vox’s eyes sting. Why? Why does everything have to be so complicated?

He turned toward the door. Hand on the knob, he heard Alastor’s voice behind him, unusually low. “It’s cold out there.” Take care of yourself.

Vox turned to look. Alastor was holding out the neatly folded clothes, face unreadable. Vox took them, his fingers brushing Alastor’s for a moment a spark, like an electric jolt.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “For the coffee... and... for everything.” For stopping last night... for not pushing me now.

Alastor just gave a small, precise nod. “It’s nothing.” Everything’s fine. Go.

Vox stepped out into Pentagram City’s toxic air. The door closed quietly behind him. Inside, Alastor stood motionless for a moment, then turned, picked up Vox’s unfinished coffee, and poured it down the drain.

When Vox entered his apartment, he found Valentino sprawled luxuriously on his most expensive chair, long legs crossed, elegant pipe trailing curling violet smoke.

The moment Vox stepped in, Valentino slowly turned his head, lips twisting into that poisonous smile. “Darling,” he purred, voice sticky and threatening. “Finally home. Where did you run off to at the crack of dawn?”

Vox felt his stare. He was exhausted, still weighed down by the complicated mess of feelings from Alastor’s cabin, and now this toxic welcome... But he did nothing.

Valentino expected an outburst. Jealousy. Tears. Begging. None came. Only a deep, hollow silence.

Valentino’s brow furrowed slightly. This lack of reaction irritated him. He stood, closing the space with his tall frame looming. “Voxxy? Did you hear me?” His voice hardened. “Where were you at eight this morning? You didn’t even check your phone.” He reached out, trying to grip Vox’s chin, force him to meet his gaze a classic move to reassert control.

Vox brushed his hand away with a graceful but firm motion. Still no eye contact. He headed for the kitchen, filling the kettle. His voice was completely flat, drained of emotion. “Out. Getting fresh air.” Alastor’s coat still smells like him on me...

Valentino watched Vox’s back. This coolness, this indifference this was new. Dangerous. His anger flared. He needed to strike back another way. He forced a saccharine smile and softened his tone in that familiar, fake tenderness. “Ah, sweetheart. In one of your moods again? Hormones all out of whack?” Using Vox’s omega status to belittle him, to reduce this defiance to something natural, something petty. He moved to wrap an arm around Vox’s waist. “Come on, relax. I’ll fix something up for you. Maybe take a few days off that boring studio work and just spend time with me.”

Vox switched on the kettle. Finally, he turned to face Valentino. Their eyes met and Vox’s were empty. No anger. No jealousy. No fear. Just a bottomless exhaustion and... indifference.

“Valentino,” he said, voice still flat as if reading a report. “Last night. Red Needle. You and Angel Dust. VIP booth. Your ‘private show’.” He described the video in words. Not accusing, just... stating it.

Valentino flinched, surprise flashing for an instant. Then he shrugged, lips curling in mocking amusement:

“Oh, that? Darling, it’s part of the business. Entertainment industry. Had to evaluate Angel’s performance. A little work trip.” The usual defense, trying to invalidate it. He expected Vox to accept it, as he always had before. Vox used to rage, cry, confront him. Valentino would call it “overreacting,” then bribe or threaten him back into line.

But Vox did nothing. It was like he hadn’t even heard the words. He just looked at Valentino. That empty, meaningless stare. Then, almost imperceptibly, his lips curled into a bitter, weary, mocking smile. He shook his head slowly, as if saying “Don’t bother, Valentino. You can’t fool me anymore.”

Valentino’s patience snapped. That non-reaction, that dismissal it was infuriating. He felt his control slipping. His voice rose, venom returning. "Vox! What’s with that face? I’m explaining it to you! You used to understand these things! Why are you playing this stupid silent act now? Or is it that creepy radio ghost you’re thinking about? He’s never going to want you the way I do, you know that?!” The last words were practically screamed as he slammed his fist on the kitchen counter.

Vox didn’t even flinch. The kettle had finished boiling. He calmly poured a cup of tea. One of those relaxing blends Alastor had suggested. He ignored Valentino’s tantrum, took the cup, and walked to the living room, sitting directly opposite Valentino’s chair.

He took a sip. Pulled out his phone. Checked the screen as if looking for a message from Alastor. Then lifted his eyes and met Valentino’s. Still empty. He said nothing.

Valentino was left panting, realizing all his words, all his manipulation tactics were useless now. Vox wasn’t reacting. Vox wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t invested. This was something Valentino didn’t know how to control. It was... an ending.

Vox returned his focus to his phone. He scrolled. Alastor. Their last messages were still there. He scrolled down. No new messages. No notifications. Not even a “online” next to Alastor’s name. As if even in the digital world there was now a void.

A deep, rasping sigh rattled from his chest. He slowly, almost reverently, set the phone on the coffee table. Covered his face with his hands. His palms dampened.

Valentino’s betrayal could make him angry, but the thought of losing Alastor... that gutted him. Alastor had said it was fine, but it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t.

Alastor cared about touch, about closeness. Could they ever go back? Vox thought bitterly.

He remembered that final look in the cabin how that rare vulnerability had been swallowed up in walls the moment he’d said, “I should go.” He felt rejected and that was Vox’s fault. He lowered his hands. Tears glistened, not from anger at Valentino, but from a deep, biting self-loathing.

“Our friendship...” he whispered hoarsely to Valentino, “...is ruined.”

Those simple words barely scratched the surface of the storm inside. What he’d lost wasn’t just a “friendship.” It was a refuge in the dark, one of the rare real bonds he’d found in this hell and he had destroyed it with his own cowardice and confusion.

He buried his head in his hands. His shoulders trembled slightly. Valentino’s betrayal could be met with anger but the thought of losing Alastor... that was what hollowed him out completely.

Valentino saw Vox’s shoulders trembling slightly. That quiet collapse, those tears... This wasn’t his Vox. The sense of losing control gave way to an angry curiosity. He leaned forward on the edge of the chair, his voice filled with threatening softness. “Voxxy, my darling. Look at me.” Vox didn’t lift his head. Valentino’s voice hardened a notch. “Now. Look me in the eyes and tell me. What happened? What is this... this fragility? Who are these tears for?” He didn’t say Alastor’s name, but it felt like an unnamed presence haunting the room.

Vox drew a deep, shaking breath. He met Valentino’s eyes those poisonous, interrogating red eyes. He had to confess. Maybe it would ease the pain. Maybe Valentino would finally understand. Or... make it even worse. It was a risk worth taking. “I was at Alastor’s,” he began, voice broken and very quiet. “Last night and... this morning.”

Valentino’s lips thinned to a hard line, but did he interrupt? No. He waited. The poison would come.

Vox went on, the words catching in his throat: “Things... got out of control, Val.” He dropped his eyes again, burning with shame. “I... I started it. I kissed him. Touched him. He... responded.” Valentino’s breathing sharpened, but Vox didn’t stop. He had to tell the truth. “It was... passionate. We were losing control. Right when... right then...” Vox paused, pressing his forehead into his palms. The hardest part was coming. “He... stopped, Val. He stopped us.”

Valentino rocked forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "Stopped?” he repeated, voice icy and disbelieving. “He rejected you? That smug, filthy bastard rejected you?”

“No!” Vox’s head shot up, eyes flashing with sudden fire. “He didn’t reject me! He stopped himself! He stopped me! Because...” Vox’s voice shook, echoing Alastor’s words in his head. “‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. ‘I lost control, I’m sorry.’ He stopped to... protect me, Val! Do you get it?” Vox’s voice finally rose, the pain and astonishment spilling out. “He didn’t use me! He could have, he could have taken me! But he stopped! Because... because he cared about me!”

Valentino stood up. He paced slowly, menacingly, until he loomed in front of Vox. His expression wasn’t rage, but something worse deep, dangerous contempt.

“He cared about you?” Valentino mocked, voice dripping with disdain. “He was worried about you? Oh, darling. How touching.” He stepped even closer. “So after this little noble moment of his, what happened, hm? Did your perfect Alastor throw you out in the morning? Or...” Valentino’s mouth twisted into a disgusting grin. “...did you stay? Did you sleep in his fragile, worried arms?”

Vox’s cheeks flamed red. “I stayed,” he admitted, voice small again but defiant. “But... but nothing happened. We slept. Apart... we slept.” He was trying to reduce that night to something simple, but they both knew exactly how big it really was.

Valentino tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity. "Ah! Is that so!" He suddenly burst into laughter, harsh and loud. "You're trying to fool me, darling! Saying you spent the night with Alastor and that 'nothing happened!' And you..." he jabbed a finger into Vox's chest, "...expect me to accept that? Are you serious?"

Vox averted his eyes. "I’m telling the truth," he mumbled, but there was no confidence in his voice.

Valentino’s voice dropped to a threatening buzz. "Understand this, Vox. This little rebellion... this ‘anxious’ radio ghost you ran to... was just a fleeting whim." He placed his long, sharp nail under Vox's chin, forcing his face up. "Now the game’s over. You're home. My home and I..." There was a dark gleam of triumph in his eyes, "don’t want any more cheating. Got it?"

Vox felt the sharp pressure of the nail against his chin. Valentino’s breath hit his face, thick with cologne and tobacco. He didn’t look away. That empty stare had returned. “Cheating?” he repeated, voice flat with a hint of incredulity. “Valentino. We never officially vowed fidelity to each other. You never miss a chance to remind me you can have anyone you want. Angel, others... I accepted that. One night with Alastor... how is that cheating?”

Valentino’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Vox’s logic threatened his control. “Because you are mine, Voxxy,” he snarled, pulling Vox closer. “I can’t let that filth Alastor use you. He’ll taint you.” His nail scraped along Vox’s skin, leaving a faint scratch.

Vox felt the sting but didn’t react. He just stared deep into Valentino’s eyes. “Taint me?” he whispered. “He... he stopped, Val. When he lost control, he stopped. He didn’t want to hurt me. Did you...” He faltered, the words catching in his throat. “Did you ever stop? To not hurt me?”

Valentino’s face froze in shock for a moment. Then it twisted in fury. He swung his hand, striking Vox’s cheek with a hard slap. Smack! The sound echoed in the silent apartment.

"You insolent bastard!” he roared. “You’re lecturing me? You’re in this position because of me! You’re powerful because of me! Without me you were nothing but a broken-down old TV!” His breath was ragged, chest heaving with anger. He eyed the red mark on Vox’s cheek with satisfaction. “You’re staying here tonight. The studio, Alastor, that fucking club... all of it is over. You’ll stay with me. Understood?” He leaned in close, voice dropping to a cruel, mocking whisper. “Don’t forget... you were in love with me. You chased me. Don’t act like you didn’t want this.”

Vox felt the heat of the burn on his cheek. He saw the possessive madness in Valentino’s eyes. That look used to scare him, make him submit. Now... it just filled him with exhaustion and a deep disgust. He thought of the quiet safety of Alastor’s cabin, the peace there. The air here felt poisonous, suffocating.

His phone buzzed silently in his pocket.

Valentino flinched. His eyes darted immediately to Vox’s pocket. “Who is it? Him? You’re going to answer, aren’t you? Go running back to him?”

Vox didn’t take out the phone. He felt the vibration in his palm. Was it Alastor? “Nobody,” he muttered, voice flat and dead. “A notification. Nothing important.”

Valentino didn’t believe him. He stepped closer. “Show me,” he ordered, hand outstretched. “Give me your phone. Now.”

Vox hesitated. His eyes flicked from Valentino’s outstretched hand to his furious face. He glanced at the door in the hallway. Leaving would only make things worse. His fingers trembled against the hard edge of his phone. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. He was tired. Too tired to fight. “Not Alastor,” he murmured, voice worn but stubbornly flat. He pulled the phone from his pocket, turned the screen to Valentino, and swiped to unlock it. “See? Pepper.” On the screen, his assistant Peppermint’s name and the start of the message were visible: "Boss, waiting for your approval for the emergency meeting. Anomaly in VoxTek servers—"

Valentino didn’t even read it. He took Vox’s movement as a sign of victory. He snatched the phone from Vox’s hand with a poisonous grin. “Good boy,” he sneered, slipping the phone into his own pocket. “Now you won’t be distracted.” His long finger traced the mark on Vox’s cheek, this time not to hurt but to mock. “Tonight is our night, Voxxy. Remember. That little radio ghost... is gone.”

Vox felt the loss of his phone like a cord being cut. His only link to Alastor gone. Valentino’s arm wrapped around his waist, pushing him toward the bedroom with force masked as guidance. “Come on, darling. I promised you a night you wouldn’t forget.” Vox didn’t resist. He let himself lean into Valentino’s strong arm.

Valentino pulled him to the center of the bedroom, setting his smoking pipe aside, purple smoke curling lazily. “Now,” he whispered, voice dangerously sweet, “it’s time to remember you belong to me.” His hands went to Vox’s collar, fumbling, rough, eager.

Vox froze for a moment. Then he slowly raised his own hands, not to push but to stop Valentino’s. His eyes met Valentino’s. There was no anger there, only bottomless exhaustion and something new: calm determination. “Val,” he said, voice unexpectedly clear. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe... never. Anymore.” The words drew a boundary, unflinching.

Valentino’s eyes widened first in shock, then in furious disbelief. He jerked his arms back. “What? How dare you, Vox? You’re rejecting me? I didn’t realize that scum made you so weak and stupid!”

Vox shook his head slowly. His face was still pale, but his eyes were steady. “It’s not about Alastor. It’s about me. I don’t... want this anymore.” A simple, devastating truth. In Valentino’s world, it was incomprehensible rebellion.

Valentino’s face turned bright red. He was shaking with rage. For a second, his fist clenched like he might lunge at Vox but then, abruptly, something changed. A toxic calm settled over him. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Very well, my darling,” he whispered. “You say you don’t want it. Fine.” He stepped back, retrieving his pipe and placing it between his lips again. “But remember... there’s a price for rejecting me. I have other ways to own you.”

The door clicked shut behind Valentino, leaving Vox alone. The sting in his cheek burned. The absence of his phone felt like a wound. He hurried to the desk drawer, pulling it open to reveal an old cell phone kept for emergencies, known only to a few. His fingers shook as he powered it on, quickly dialing Alastor’s number. Each ring echoed in the hollow space inside him but he hung up immediately. His heart was beating heavily. He couldn’t tell him.

Their near-surrender in Alastor’s cabin was still too fresh to talk about Valentino now. Alastor seeing him like that… it had been both a miracle and a shame. Their closeness had taken them a step further. Their fingers had found each other, their lips had given in to a hurried, heated hunger. They might have been ready to go further. They both knew it, but they had stopped. Tell him about Valentino now? Say he took my phone, he slapped me? He exhaled. The sound was low and raspy, echoing in the empty room.

He imagined Alastor’s face. That anger. That cold silence. Maybe even guilt. He couldn’t do that. He closed the phone and set it aside. He dropped his head into his hands. His hair slipped between his fingers. His eyes burned but he didn’t cry. Instead, he let out a long, hoarse breath. Even the air felt heavy. The walls were closing in on him.

At the same time, Alastor was standing at the desk in his hotel room. The pale light from the lamp lit up his notes, but the letters blurred, the lines ran together. Suddenly his phone buzzed in his pocket. Alastor flinched. He let go of his cane and reached for his coat pocket. The screen lit up: an unfamiliar number. His brow furrowed. It wasn’t the number Vox usually called from.

For a moment, his heart sped up. His finger hovered over the screen with trembling hesitation. Vox? Ridiculous thoughts swirled in his mind. Maybe he’s in trouble. Maybe he won’t be able to reach me again.

He quickly opened the message screen. He typed a single word. Short. Direct.

"Who?” After hitting send, he held the phone in his hand. He swallowed. He picked up his cane again, pacing the room with agitated steps. The carpet creaked underfoot.

Please be you, he thought. Please let this stupid number be you. He set his phone down on the desk and kept watching it, waiting for the message to be read.

Meanwhile, he turned to look out the window. The city lights were cold and foreign. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders drooping slightly. He rested his forehead against the glass and he waited.

Vox saw those one words from Alastor on the flickering screen of his old phone: “Who?”

For a moment, he didn’t know what to type. Then, with a shaky breath, he tapped at the keys. Answering directly was hard.

Vox:
It’s me. This is my old phone. I… lost the other one.

A few seconds later, the screen lit up again.

Alastor:
Lost? You? Interesting.
Where are you?

Vox closed his eyes. Valentino’s cologne still hung heavy in the air. His cheek still stung where it had been struck. He couldn’t tell the truth. He was afraid of worrying Alastor.

Vox:
Home. Just… bad signal.
You? Are you at the cabin?

Alastor’s reply was instant. As if he’d never left the phone:

Alastor:
If I were at the cabin, I’d be listening to my radio instead of this plastic torture device.
Hotel. Charlie’s project.
Who took the phone you “lost,” Vox?

Vox’s breath caught. Alastor knew. He always did. His throat tightened. Fingers shaking, he typed:

Vox:
Doesn’t matter. I’ll get it back.
Today… my head’s a mess.

This time the reply didn’t come right away. The minutes stretched. Vox stared at the screen, imagining those red eyes. Finally, a notification buzzed:

Alastor:
A messy head usually comes from ignoring the truth.
Breakfast will be ready at the cabin tomorrow morning.
If you come, we’ll turn on the radio. Quietly.

Vox read the message again. Alastor wasn’t asking. He was inviting. Saying “if you come.” Leaving him an out but “quietly”... it was like whispering “You don’t have to talk.” His eyes burned. When he typed his answer, his fingers trembled less:

Vox:
Radio… sounds good.
9 a.m. I’ll knock.

Alastor’s final message was short. Direct:

Alastor:
You have the key :)

8:55 a.m. Vox was on the steps of Alastor’s cabin. The wooden boards creaked softly with each step. He lifted his hand to knock, but hesitated. The mark from Valentino’s slap still burned faintly on his cheek. He took a deep breath. You have the key :). That small, oddly cheerful emoji glowed in his mind. His fingers brushed the cold metal in his pocket. The key was there.

He opened the door quietly. Inside, there was the smell of fresh coffee, toasted bread, maybe even a hint of cinnamon. Alastor stood at the kitchen counter with his back to the door, preparing breakfast. He wasn’t wearing his usual red coat and shirt; instead, a dark, casual sweater and trousers. His hair wasn’t its usual perfect slick it was slightly tousled. The unusual softness of it all surprised Vox.

“Good morning,” Vox murmured, his voice still a little tense. He closed the door gently behind him.

Alastor turned. His red eyes lingered on Vox’s face for a moment. He saw the faint redness on his left cheek, the dark circles under his eyes, the general exhaustion. The usual sharp grin didn’t appear. Instead, there was a plain, almost gentle expression. He gave a small nod in greeting.

“Vox. I’m glad you came.” He moved toward the counter, picked up two full coffee cups. He set one on the small kitchen table in front of Vox. “Sugar? Milk?” he asked, voice unusually calm, quiet.

“Both, please,” Vox answered, sinking onto a chair. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little. The warmth of the cabin, the familiar old furniture smell, and the soft background crackle of the radio wrapped around him. He felt safe.

Alastor brought over the sugar and milk, placing them within Vox’s reach. He took his own black coffee and sat down across from him. For a while they didn’t speak, just sipped their coffee. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who didn’t need words to understand each other.

Eventually, Alastor stood, turned to the stove. He plated the omelet carefully onto two dishes. He added toast, jam, cheese, and a few slices of tomato. Bringing them over, he set one in front of Vox.

“Enjoy,” he said as he sat down again.

Vox picked up his fork. He took the first bite. It was warm, tasty, and... normal. Everything felt incredibly normal. Valentino, the slap, the lost phone, the tension from the night before they all seemed to exist somewhere outside this warm, quiet cabin. His eyes welled up, but this time with relief, with gratitude. He quickly bowed his head, wiping at his eyes.

Alastor saw it. He didn’t say anything. He just took another bite of his own omelet, chewing calmly. Then, as if commenting on the most ordinary thing in the world, he spoke in a quiet voice. “Using that little smiley... was surprisingly enjoyable.” He took a sip of coffee. “I might ask you to show me the emoji version. Maybe... I’ll use that instead of just a smile.” He turned his red eyes on Vox. There wasn’t the usual mockery in them. Just a small, genuine curiosity and maybe a hint of the warmth hiding beneath that emoji.

Vox was momentarily speechless. Then, faced with Alastor’s unexpected digital curiosity, a slow smile spread over his face. Valentino’s mark was still there, but now it felt forgotten. He took a sip of coffee, eyes still on Alastor. “Of course,” he whispered, his voice a little steadier. “I’ll show you everything, Al. You’ll just... have to be patient.” He smiled softly. “Technology isn’t your enemy. It’s just... a different kind of radio.”

Alastor’s lips curved just barely in answer to Vox’s smile. He gave a small nod and took another bite.