Chapter Text
June 7th:
He had been following Alastor for TWO YEARS. Ever since he had met him at a function for the figures in the area's media industry, Vincent had become obsessed with the idea of Alastor Lafleur, the esteemed radio host, being just as happy to see Vincent as he was to see him.
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Alastor - at first - found it somewhat charming, he had had his fair share of stalkers in his time from various backgrounds, and for various reasons. Some desired his fame, others his money. Some simply decided the man didn't deserve the platform in which he had built for himself, and were determined to ruin him.
He thought he had seen it all in the past 11 years since becoming the radio star he had always known he had deserved to become. But Whittman, he was different.
Despite his consistent efforts to shake the parasite that Vincent Whittman was off of him, during the past 2 years, he remained in tact and just as - if not more - determined to have Alastor for whatever Vincent believed he deserved moreso than Alastor did.
Even more strangely so, the man was already climbing his way far up the ranks of his own industry. In Alastor's opinion, the man had done nothing to earn his high position in the new entertainment industry, but it unfortunately remained the truth that he held it, and was on route to climb to the top with apparent ease.
In addition, by having more than Alastor already had, he had no apparent motive behind this unrequited fixation. Yet it remained strong despite Alastor's many attempts to cut ties with the man altogether in hopes of ending this odd fixation before it became something far worse.
The television star eluded Alastor, which is why he had let the strange individual remain with all of his organs in the correct place for so long in the first place, he concluded.
Vincent, of course, had severely
underestimated Alastor's keen observational abilities, assuming his clear obsession was kept a clever secret disguised by simple manners and the pointless social norms in which he believed himself to be far more sufficient at upholding than he was during the occasions in which Alastor had been unable to evade coming into contact with the man.
'Perhaps,' Alastor thought while making his final preparations to set out for another irritating encounter with this most recent problem, 'there may be a better way to dispose of this issue after all...'
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Two years of waiting, and Vincent Whittman was finally ready to get rid of the man standing in the way of him becoming the star he always knew he deserved to become.
Sure, he could've done it sooner, but what's the fun in that? He'd been listening to that radio guy for as long as he could remember. And as much as he hated to admit it, he did enjoy doing so.
But tonight is the night. Everything is ready and in place for his grand finale. He will go to the party, flawlessly execute his usual charm while socialising with the company, isolate Alastor from the rest without issue, and dispose of him gracefully.
It'll be easy, right? Yeah of course! He was Vincent fucking Whittman! The God of Television! The true star of New Orleans! But if that was true, why couldn't he have done this sooner? And what the hell was that weird pit of nerves in his stomach?
He pushed the feeling down so far he was certain it couldn't resurface, and continued his evening preparations.
With decidedly NOT shaking hands, he tied his favourite deep blue tie around his neck and tucked it under his shirt collar.
Running his hands through his short hair, he took a deep breath both in and out, about to exit his home for what would turn out to become the most important night of his career, and possibly his life, if he played his cards right.
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The early-evening breeze pleasantly greeted Alastor upon his arrival into the bustling city outside. He took a short moment to appreciate it's pleasant nature before beginning his journey toward the evening's main event.
The man calmly travelled on foot towards his destination. Arriving fashionably early as he always made an effort to, being careful to avoid the suspicious glances of the general public throughout.
For the majority of his journey, he travelled along the riverside, keen to make the most of the beauty of the city he had grown up in and had learnt to appreciate the beauty of despite the efforts of certain people to pollute it with their hatred and selfishness.
The blue sky of the day slowly faded into a mixture of orange and pink as he continued at his preferred pace, marking the evening's official arrival, soon to be followed by that of the night in what Alastor assumed to be in roughly an hour's time.
Following the movement of the sky's changing hue, the sun slowly made it's daily journey down below the skyline, reflecting across the deep water of the river below before hiding it's fires from all until the morning arrived, when it would continue it's unrelenting movement until tomorrow's dusk eventually relieved it from its' duties yet again.
Finally arriving at the function's exterior, Alastor momentarily paused, mentally preparing himself for the night ahead of him.
All others in attendance remained and would continue to stay unaware of the true reasons in which he held to attend this pitiful display of the apparent social necessity to mingle with those who society deemed important enough to hold the power they did.
Having properly readied himself, he entered the busy scene in which had just fully begun behind the two large doors that marked the threshold of the grand structure.
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After realising the time, Vincent Whittman hurriedly rushed out of his front door and out into the city that awaited him.
Speedily walking with the most elegance he found himself able to muster in front of the public that he had expertly swayed into adoring him, he travelled towards his inevitable arrival at the meeting of the two largest medias of the time. Roughly an hour later than he was due to.
'But there's nothing wrong with being fashionably late!' he thought to himself, knowing full-well that this was far longer than the limit of what any sane person would call 'fashionable'.
Rushing through the main streets of New Orleans, Vincent Whittman payed no attention to the last remnants of dusk before inky blackness settled into the sky for the night.
Instead, he took note of the amazed looks of all those forming the crowds of people in which the new night brought, all of them in awe of the man hastily passing by them.
In a record six minutes flat, the man had arrived at his destination. Already sweating profusely despite the lack of sunlight brought by the dark cover of night.
Tonight, Vincent Whittman would finally take his place as the true star of New Orleans. He would finally be able to climb all the way to the top of not just the television industry, but media as a whole.
And most importantly - though the man refused to acknowledge it - he would finally be rid of that stupid feeling in his chest whenever he set foot in the same room as the radio star that despite his best efforts, he had never quite managed to grow accustomed to.
He was ready to finally be free of the obnoxiously irritating influence that Alastor Lafleur had managed to hold over him for the past 2 years of his career.
'Definitely ready. Totally ready! Ok, 85% ready.' Vincent admitted to himself in thought, before preparing himself and entering the large building ahead of him, acting as though he had not a care in the world.
And a totally valid and NOT stupid reason for his late arrival, he decided.