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Winds rustled finely pressed clothing gently as the tall demon stood at the precipice, the chill biting into his bionic frame having nothing to do with the weather. Hidden behind his imposing broadcasting tower, nestled quietly away from prying eyes or judgmental faces, was a small cliff that overlooked Pentagram City. The view was nothing compared to his vantage point in his executive suite in the station itself, nor even from his penthouse; but it was secluded here, a quaint place for him to be still and observe from afar, unhindered by the presence of others, somewhere he could reflect.
Hell was a strange place, full of horrors, monsters, and fire, yet in truth he had never minded the landscape. Somehow, the backdrop of the afterlife seemed to pale in comparison to the prison of the new body gifted upon his arrival. Undoubtedly, he was stronger and infinitely more powerful than he had ever been in life, yet he was merely a ghostly participant in the world around him, a shadowy spectator within his technologically advanced corporeal form. To be so intimately connected to so many, while remaining so very isolated, was his personal perdition. All his senses were muted behind a staticky veil, if he had them at all, and though he had long forgotten their true forms, he would never cease lamenting their diminishment.
Soul-crushing loneliness had been his constant companion when he realized the limitations of his new frame, and still was, if he was being truthful to himself. In his hunt for a real, tangible connection, he had reached out to a beautiful, lustful moth who, through cunning tricks and masterful manipulation, had quickly reduced what was left of him to someone he did not recognize. Soaring anxiety, crumbling self-worth, and even mild paranoia clung to him like a noxious miasma and he was fighting to breathe. It was particularly suffocating today, perhaps because the fight had occurred in his work office, his broadcasting center, his place of power; nevertheless, even here he was so effortlessly broken down to nothing.
Yet, what was the point of wallowing in this sadness, in this baseless desire for hope? What was hope in the desolate realm of the damned? Another day, another screen replacement, another moment of pointless hoping for something different, hoping for a bit of compassion. Even the service delivery imps had ceased casting him brief glances full to the brim of sympathy. Good, he told himself; he didn’t need their misguided sympathy any more than he needed another crack in his screen. Nothing about this situation was good.
Hands fisted in his pockets as he replayed the morning’s events, allowing his legs to give into wanderlust, beginning a shallow back and forth pace. As if caught in a pathetic loop, again it was an argument he had not started, had not participated in, had done his best to end as quickly as possible. It meant nothing. Val had been upset about something he had done, or perhaps it was for something he hadn’t done, and even if he agreed with all the accusations, there was no placating the moth. Once again he was left to clean glass shards off the floor, the sound of high heels echoing as the pimp had stormed off, the frigidness in the air too familiar in the too-frequent winter.
Reflexively, neon-blue tipped claws reached up to the place the projectile had struck, where the crack and inevitable shatter, had blossomed. Though he was once again whole, the memories, the pain, were still very fresh. He could bear it, he reminded himself. His calm, collected demeanor was more trained muscle at this point, a reflex built over time, protective defensive mechanisms kicking in to shield him from the social media broadcasts of his humiliations, the pitiful stares from demons that shouldn’t feel brave enough to even look at him, or the incoming blows from an upset partner.
Mismatched, ruby eyes darted over the shops below, wondering idly to himself if a gift would coax his lover out of his ire, however momentarily. Flipping through his mental catalog, passed the insults, criticisms, and degradation he pulled out a recollection of the pimp admiring an expensive pair of leather stiletto heels a week or so ago. Heaving a detached sigh, his vision burred as he set his mind adrift on the internet to make the purchase. So on autopilot was he that he almost bowled over a shorter, redheaded demon who suddenly appeared in his worn down to-and-fro path, the large ears perched on his head flattening with hostility when he entered his personal space.
“Careful,” the lilting voice warned. “Any part of you that gets too close may not be returned to you.”
Instantly an insincere grin plastered on his illuminated face to hide his melancholy. “Hello to you too. Didn’t see you down there. You need to wear a bell or something.”
Lips pressed into a deadpan smile. “Ah, yes, because if there’s one thing the Radio Demon requires, so named for the broadcasts and music he constantly emits, it’s a bell to make even more noise. Your witty repartee is in fine form today, I see.”
His pixelated lips moved to speak again before sudden realization hit him. “What the hell are you even doing here, Alastor? How’d you get up here?”
The ever-present smirk on his rival’s face twitched higher. “Even from yards away, your singularly annoying face is nearly impossible to miss, especially if said face insists on moving pillar to post like a complete moron.”
He waited for the familiar sting that typically accompanied the scornful feedback issued by Valentino, but it did not come. Perhaps it was the delivery, a combination of the smile and teasing cadence in the other’s voice, even if his glowing crimson eyes were full of harsh sincerity. A bantering Alastor just didn’t pack the same punch as a vitriolic moth.
Grinning back, his tone playful, he responded, “So I’m hearing you saw me up here, looking bored out of my goddamned skull, and you took it upon yourself to come entertain me.”
Making a show of waving flippantly and turning away, Alastor tutted, “If you are, in any way, insinuating I came to check up on you, you are sorely mistaken. Perish the thought! Merely saw an opportunity to catapult you off a cliff.”
Blinking, the TV Demon stared after the deer for a moment before he reared back and laughed. Deep and cleansing, as if a weight was suddenly lifted, the mirth rattled through his weary body, helping him to shake the last lingering remnants of his current bout of self-loathing. Rejuvenated, and still chuckling, he strode forward to match the smaller male’s stride, walking along side him as they descended to the city below.
“I did not invite you to follow me,” Alastor snapped, more irritation in his voice now that he realized he’d acquired an uninvited shadow.
“Shoulda thought of that before you snuck up on me, gramps,” Vox retorted with a wink, basking in the warmth of this rare, harmonious interaction.
Stopping suddenly so that the taller demon passed him a few paces and had to turn around to see him again, the Radio Demon raised a challenging eyebrow. “Is there an ointment or spray to get rid of you? I’m afraid I’m not allowed to bring strays into the hotel you see.”
Smirking devilishly, easy charm apparent in his demeanor, he took a step back toward the stag. “You could kiss me. I’ll be so shocked, I’ll be frozen in place and you can get away without me following.”
For a breath, the smiling demon did not respond, and his heartbeat overflowed with unrealistic possibilities, before the moment was broken when the redhead sidestepped the overgrown appliance and continued on his way. “Egad, for a second I was desperate enough to consider it until I realized I could just tear your throat out.”
“You’ll fall for me one of these days, sweetheart,” he offered, convincing himself not to read too much into the other’s surprisingly open admission.
“Unlikely. At least while my brain is still in proper working order,” the prim demon replied easily.
It had not escaped Vox’s notice that, despite his many complaints, the deer had not done anything to physically separate them. This was either a miracle or he was dreaming. And just with that simple thought, reality started to darken and fade. Wading through invisible mud that was chest high, his limbs moving in slow motion, he fought to keep pace with the deer, yet he could not catch up. Like grains of sand through outstretched claws, Pentagram City melted away; no pavement or dilapidated buildings, no bloodred sky with its demonic sun, it was only they two. Franticly he reached for Alastor, trying to call out in a voice that was swallowed by the growing void, but the darkness began to eat away at the Radio Demon too, and he realized he wasn’t sure if he was more concerned for himself or his rival. At the very last second, the stag turned to look at him, a genuine, heartfelt smile on his lips and in his eyes, and then he was gone.
When his screen powers back on and ruby mismatched eyes squint open, all he can see is his ceiling; bland, blank, empty, not unlike him. Rarely does he power down enough to the point of dreams and all he is left with is a sinking sensation that he had felt more peace in that brief, unhostile time with Alastor than he had ever experienced before in hell; he wants to return, and the fact that he cannot hurts.
He wakes in time to hear someone enter the penthouse and make their way into his room. Long strides and pointed clicks solve the mystery, and it isn’t long until the moth enters his peripheral. The towering overlord is wearing the boots Vox purchased for him, allowing him to realize not all of it had been a dream. Shame that the only part he wanted to be real never would be.
Practiced compassion paints on Val’s face, mixing with unhidden lust and barely concealed annoyance. “What’re ya doin’ in bed, Voxxy? It’s still early.”
“Waiting for you, baby,” he replies automatically, his own smiling façade falling into place.
As the moth undresses, Vox displays all of the expected reactions, knowing better to refuse the advances after the episode this morning. It never is about what he wants anyway. He was well trained after all. Tall and beautiful, his partner approaches, not bothering to even make eye contact, as he leans over, all four hands running along his thighs toward what he wants. Always what he wants. It was late, he is tired, and he wants his lecherous partner to comfort him, to hold him, to care for him. Yet, that is hopeful nonsense, and, after all, what was the point of hope in the unforgiving land of the damned?