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The first time Vox met his boy was before he could even be called old, before the kindred when people still used torches and swords. He first glimpsed the head of dusty brown from behind a tree. You could say it was out of curiosity or maybe it was because at the time, Vox spent most of his days listening to the wind, watching the sun and moon dance, or watching plants prosper. To put it curtly would be that he was lonely.
When the boy noticed that he had caught the demon's eye, instead of doing what the rest of the human race did, he stepped out from behind the tree all big eyed because he was only a child, but with that shy smile because it was his boy.
Vox didn't attempt to scare the boy off nor lose him in a game of chase, if anything he invited the boy's company. Maybe it was because Vox had expected the boy to flee when in actuality, the boy grabbed his sleeve, causing shock to appear on the demon's face. And the boy had the gall to giggle. This mortal boy was unafraid to approach a demon that could snap his head off in an instant.
When Vox thought back on it, the boy was most certainly of age to have some basic comprehension, but at the same time it was his boy so he could only laugh.
It started off small, Vox would meet the boy at the same place at the same time the sun was at its peak every handful of days, but then it turned to a few days until it became everyday. And with that time they started talking. Vox was asked question after question until he felt as if his ears were going to fall off and Vox would reply to a select few at first and then it became every question. Before long Vox would spend his days talking to the boy with crystalline eyes until the sun set and the boy went back to his mother.
Its was years after they first met, the boy came to see Vox with a grim expression. It was then that Vox found out that his boy was to be wed to a girl in a nearby village. The boy should have been happy, others his age were ecstatic but he came to Vox with the concern of ‘what if I never see you again?’ And in that moment his boy seemed so much like the child he met all those years ago, all big eyed and sticky fingered. Like the good demon friend Vox is, he talked some sense into the bumbling fool of a boy. It was only when Vox swore on the sun and moon that if the boy were to call for him he would appear.
The next years were simple with his boy sometimes visiting him in the forest telling him of his new home and family. Vox would smile and nod along, avoiding any talk about his own days.
Maybe the demon was finally feeling his age, but the curls of loneliness wrapping around his heart stretched and claimed his heart once again as the visits lessened.
And they grew fewer.
And fewer.
Until his boy didn’t visit at all.
Vox would wait at the same spot, from when the sun stood at its peak until it dipped into the sea but his boy never came.
The demon had thought that his boy had forgotten about him, that was at least until he heard his name being carried by the wind, coming from the direction of a particular village only a blink away.
Contrary to popular belief demons do keep their promises, or at least this one does. Not a moment later the demon was by the doorstep of a small home, ready to knock when the door swung open. A small child was holding the door, eyes big, not unlike the graying man sitting inside.
The old man smiled, now with the wrinkles of age but still with the light of the sun. He looked tired but content, aged but still so full of joy. He was seated on a rocking chair, swaying to an imaginary tune, eyes crinkled into familiar crescents.
They talked, they laughed, they cried and they parted ways.
But this time there’s no going back.
Vox to the forest and his boy to the afterlife.
——
It took another two centuries and just a tad over a quarter, specifically 229 years but who said Vox was counting, for his boy to find him again.
Well, his girl this time.
Their second meeting was similar to their first but different in all the wrong ways.
Firstly it was the faint smell of burning wood, which wouldn’t be too surprising if they weren’t spread out as if it was a search party.
Second would be the barks of dogs, angry and so annoyingly loud.
Third is how his bo-girl stumbled into his small temple in wedding attire.
The traditional whites and reds adorn her body, her hair tied with ornaments and her face painted.
Ah, the yearly ‘sacrifice’ the townspeople give him. Ever since the villagers decided to settle, they have believed that a demon resides in the forest, and that belief wasn’t wrong, it was what came after that seemed so absolutely foolish to Vox. It just so happened that the land was short of water at the time so the villagers believed that it was caused by the demon for intruding on the territory, and eventually they consulted folktales and came to the conclusion that the only way to sooth his rage and anger was to sacrifice a wife.
Vox doesn’t remember when his reputation started twisting into a monster of fire and rage, but he could recall the smell of fire and burning flesh along with the echoes of screams and cries. To the demon it was what they deserved for what they did. The villagers attacked and tortured his poor kindred, try as he might to be civil he couldn’t when his people were in pain due to human greed and jealousy.
It was too late when the fire started.
Too late to fix the damage, too late to bring back the kindred wrongfully taken, too late to bring back the boy who danced with the wind and told stories of the stars.
That boy was oh so different from his boy. This boy was the one Vox could never make his for the boy had already given his heart away to another mortal. Even so Vox couldn’t help but adore him, but that’s a story for another time.
This person, dawned in wedding attire, looked frantic and the fear increased in her eyes when she saw him. Then the barks grew louder and truthfully, Vox didn't know human eyes could widen to such an extent. Maybe it was curiosity like the first time or maybe it was because it was technicallythe first time but regardless, Vox pulled the girl into his arms and hid her in a nearby temple.
Next was the pesky villagers, first was the light of their torches being blown out by the wind, second was the clouds that shifted to cover the moon, and finally the desolate silence that befell the people and their dogs.
The scene was set.
His voice echoed and boomed because of cause it did, for dramatic effect Vox would later say but it worked wonders against the bumbling humans. Vox could tell from smell alone that a boy, barely a man, wetted himself. He told them to leave and they left, but not without a few empty threats to keep them up at night.
Once the townsfolk were dealt with he returned to the temple he had left the girl in.
But she wasn't there.
Ah, how could he have not predicted such an event, his boy when they first met would wander to and fro, leaving the demon on high alert for when his boy would disappear and reappear in the span of minutes or hours. It seemed this game from all those years ago was back and Vox smiled to himself preparing for the search. It wasn't until a night later that he found the girl under a fruit tree, taking a nap. The old demon tried to wake her, first with nudges, then with pokes on her sides but she only rolled into a different position and wouldn’t wake. So he waited until she woke up.
When she did, she didn’t show any fear this time, perhaps it was because he was in a humanoid form this time or perhaps it was because there wasn’t the fear of death looming over her.
“If I had known that I would be the sacrifice this year I would’ve run away last month,” the girl's voice had a certain lilt to it, not unwelcome but notable.
Vox was taken aback to say the least but smiled, “where would you go then?”
“The north, to the south, to the east, to the west, I don’t care. I just wish to no longer be chained to this small village.”
“Why?”
“Hell if I know.” A pause, “I’m bored, is that a good enough reason?”
Vox couldn’t help but laugh, this little girl seems to have never been taught proper manners or simply disregards it.
“Just a tad foolish but in technicality, it is a reason.”
They fell into familiar bickering, with Vox teasing and her foreign back an insult.
Time passed and the clouds covered the sky, the birds settled in their nests and rabbits returned home. The demon stood up and pulled the mortal girl with him. It was going to rain, potentially a storm. The wind was cold and wet, pushing Vox back to the small temple he called home. The girl went along with furled brows and a drop of caution but allowed the demon to pull her inside when the first wisps of water fell on her skin.
The temple was warm and clean, minimalistic with the bare necessities. Well a demon doesn’t need anything but Vox enjoyed some of the basic comforts of life.
Onigiri walked towards the two with towels and introduced himself as “the advisor and follower Vox couldn’t live without.” While the oni isn’t wrong Vox would never admit it. Onigiri was the only person the old demon of bear to spend time with, cursed with the same immortality that forced Vox to live through the deaths of all that he loved.
The girl was given a room across from Vox’s and with a small goodnight she closed the door. The next morning when Vox knocked on her door no one answered. When he finally decided to push the door open he was greeted with the sight of an open window and a small note stuck to the wall.
Thank you for sparing me.
And that was the last time the demon saw her.
——
It was the year of 1935 when fate decided it was time for them to reunite. Vox had only taken residence in the city of London for a few decades when a young man barged into his café.
All London tough boy and pouty lips donned in a coat for someone double his size. There was a frantic air to him and it wasn’t until he sat down that Vox saw the tears that threatened to spill. The man was seated besides a regular that Vox just so happened to be acquainted with.
Said acquaintance just so happened to be the boy that sung stories of the stars, the very one that stole Vox’s heart all those long years ago. Maybe if he was the same Vox a quarter of a millennia ago, he would try courting Ike but the so-called ‘love’ slowly numbed and left all that could be called fondness. All he could say now is that they were friends, even if Ike had never verbally admitted to such.
While it was considered rude to ‘listen in’ on someone else’s conversation but Vox couldn’t help that he was a voice demon and by proxy, had impeccable hearing.
The topic of this conversation was ‘house hunting’ as they called it. Ike would ask something and the boy would grumble in response.
“Mysta, I’m sure you’ll find a place. Worse comes to worse, you can live with me for a bit.”
Mysta.
Peculiar name.
Not unlike the owner.
“Absolutely not. I can't just live off of you!” Mysta shook his head furiously at Ike’s proposal.
Vox slid Ike his regular earl gray tea, taking the chance to ask Ike a silent question.
Need help?
Ike sighed, whether to Vox or to Mysta is unknown to the old demon.
Even if Ike never said yes to the question Vox decided that he would be the friend Ike never knew he needed.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, I just so happened to be planning to rent a spare room upstairs out. If you're interested feel free to call me.” Vox slipped Mysta a piece of paper with his personal phone number on it before returning to his work.
It was only half a lie, Vox did have a spare room above the café adjacent to his bedroom, but it was currently filled with memorabilia from over the years and he wasn’t exactly planning on cleaning it out and renting it.
Ok so maybe it was a total fib but they didn’t know and that’s what matters.
It wasn’t until a week later that he received a response.
The call was expected and room had already been cleared because Vox was almost certain Mysta would take him up on his offer. It wasn’t long before Mysta took residence above the small café and subsequently ended up as Vox’s flat mate.
And he was cautious at first, as any non-psycho person would be, but their interactions grew. From passing each other in the morning to having breakfast together, it was easy to simply be with Mysta. Perhaps Vox was internally waiting for it but the first time Mysta truly smiled at him, it felt like all those painful years ago, when they were just in the forest with no one but themselves.
They developed a routine, Vox would always wake first and start making breakfast and Mysta would soon follow, awakened by the smell of fresh eggs and still covered in hot oil bacon. They would eat together and part ways for the day, Mysta to a full day of class at university and Vox just a floor below to the café. Sometimes their schedules would align and allow them to have dinner together and other times they wouldn’t be able to see each other until the next morning.
There’s a small building just north of London, and if you glance inside the tall windows you would see what seemed like the inside of a tower of books. Old, new, frayed at the edges, or crumpled and tossed aside. There was an assortment of puzzles, a pile of rolled up maps and the patterns of stars and even a cube able to rotate its sides. In retrospect it seemed like a place of fairy tales but it was uninhabited with only Vox coming and going.
The first time Vox took Mysta was because he couldn’t find a book for university, something about blood splatters for his criminology major. The boy was in awe of the high walls, and mountains of books, every title he could think of and it was right by his fingertips.
“Have you read every book here?” The boy would ask the demon.
“Gods no, I’m not much of a reader. The keys were given to me when a dear friend decided it was time for him to leave Europe and travel the world. I'm just the person that deals with the paperwork for him.” Vox still remembers what the ingenious sorcerer said to him just a handful of years ago.
“Maybe you can share this with a special someone.”
Indeed, to Vox, Mysta could only be described as special.
He recalls Mysta asking him for recommendations the next time they visit. Before Mysta would spend his time stationed behind the television but now he claims that the shows were too bland after he’s seen so many. Vox could only mention a tale he had heard long ago, a tale of two souls that meet time and time again but never quite reach the happy ever after they so long for.
It’s ironic in a sense because that’s exactly what Vox is doing but the difference is that he’s alone.
When they leave, Mysta has a small stack of books in his hands. Vox offers to help but for some unknown reason Mysta so furiously refuses. And Vox tries again the next time. And the next time. But again and again the boy would refuse, it wasn’t until a few years later when the poor boy confessed.
Mysta had just graduated and had received a position working with the Scotland yard. They were celebrating with a round of drinks at a nearby pub. Unplanned but easily predictable that the newly minted detective would fail to slow his alcohol intake even when Vox desperately tried to keep his hands away from the bottle. They stumbled home with Vox supporting most of Mysta’s weight, kicking the door shut as soon as they were through the threshold.
Vox would be lying if he said he wasn’t just a tad surprised when the boy didn’t relinquish his grip on the older, going as far as to latch on even tighter. And so Vox found himself lying on his bed with a very inebriated man child clinging onto him.
Even if Mysta was intoxicated he didn't stop talking, blabbing about anything and everything. It was also then that Vox found out that Mysta was a sentimental drunk, watery eyes and runny nose threatening to spill .
“I’m sorry that I’m like thi-hic, that you have to deal with me.”
“Hey, nono dont be like that,” Vox couldn’t help but internally panic at what Mysta said.
“I wish you weren’t so nice to me. When you're nice I start wanting more and I get greedy and then I have to hold myself back because there's no way you would want me.” tears were making their way down Mysta’s cheeks that he furiously wiped away.
“Hey don’t say that, and your poor eyes are going to be swollen if you continue.” Vox gently pulled the detective's arms away.
“You just did it again!” the boy pouted, “just like how you ask to help carry books or offer to pay when we go out, you always treat me so well and I feel so guilty because you give and give and give and all I do is take and take and take…”
It was a full flood now and Mysta didn't even bother to try to hide it anymore. Fat droplets flowed down his cheeks and Vox couldn't help but smile.
“My boy, listen to me,” Vox pulled the boy to face him, “when I allowed you to live with me, I never wanted anything in return.”
“Bu-”
“No buts my boy, just sleep ok?”
There wasn't a verbal response, just the tug on his shirt and the salty wetness Vox could feel on his skin.
It was comfortable to have someone so close, to hold. Granted Vox has had his fair share of partners but something about holding Mysta felt so right to Vox, like a missing part of himself was just found. And maybe he was being greedy when he shifted Mysta into the crook of his neck but it wasn’t like the boy was resisting.
His boy.
His boy.
There were changes afterwards, the exchanging of soft smiles and the nights they curl together simply because they could. Mysta didn't try to refuse Vox’s help anymore and Vox didn't treat Mysta as if he would one day leave.
They were happy, content with where they were.
But fate would only be so nice.
Britain joined the war in 1939 and all able bodied men were enlisted and of course that included the boy that Vox grew so fond of.
The military were making rounds in London and it was only a matter of time before they were both drafted. There were people trying to flee, but where was there to flee to? And even if you could find a place to go, Britain was a fucking island.
Vox was settling in for bed when his door creeped open. Mysta stood in his doorframe twisting his shirt with his fingers.
It was an unspoken question but it was so easy for Vox to pull the boy into his arms, to whisper soft nothings into his ear. That night Vox memorized the curve of his hips, the softness of his skin, the stretch of his legs, and the slope of his nose. He filed the soft huffs and moans away in his brain and imprinted that look of pure adoration onto his brain, afraid he would never see that look again. His boy withered then pulled taut in his arms, molding into the crook of Vox’s necks as small beads of tears rolled down his cheeks.
They laid, limbs entangled and sore, until the sun rose and they involuntarily pushed the covers aside and set onto their normal routine.
As normal as it could be because this time Mysta whispered a “goodbye” and not the cheerful “cya later” Vox was so used to.
Mysta didn’t come back.
Vox wasn't worried, not until the clock struck two in the morning and even Mysta, with his love of fruit cocktails wouldn’t stay out so long without at least calling. There was something so nerve racking about spinning the dial this time. It was a familiar combination of numbers, the one he would always call if Mysta couldn't be found. The person on the other side picked up but the response was cryptic.
“It’s not my place to tell you but I do have something that will answer your questions.”
The next day Vox found a letter slipped under his door, it was addressed to him in familiar handwriting and when the seal was broken, a letter and a ring were all that was inside.
The letter indeed did answer all the questions Vox had.
Mysta had been enlisted into the military and of course the little fool had thought it was better if Vox hadn't known.
The letter was short, in the same squiggles that were littered around their flat.
The ring could barely be considered a ring by most people's standards, being nothing but silver wire twisted around a gem but Vox had seen the little creations Mysta made out of boredom. The boy always said his hands could only destroy, but Vox thought his creations of wire and metal to be little embodiments of life, full of whatever emotion Mysta felt when making it.
The gem itself was a brilliant blood moon red but if you held it up to the light it dispersed orange light into the room. It was a ruby Vox would later find, not perfectly cut like the ones you would buy from a jeweler, irregular on the left compared to the right, a chip here missing and a scuff there but that was the charm to it.
A creation of Mysta that made Vox smile as he slipped it onto his left ring finger, a promise to the future.
The war raged for just over half a decade. Vox was able to flee just in time to avoid enlistment but that didn’t mean he avoided the sounds of war. No longer was the quick clung of two swords, now it’s the booms of artillery and pops of gunshots.
Even if he was able to hide away in a small forest just on the countryside of Sweden, so many times Vox woke in cold sweat to the screams of terror, still able to hear the echo of bombs from the little time he was on the newly weaponized battle field.
As Vox made his way down familiar streets with war worn buildings he greeted a woman who carried the wrinkles of age. She was looking for her son who she claimed resided in London before the war. When she told Vox the address it was as if a bucket of ice water had just been dumped on his head.
“Your Mysta’s… mother?”
The lady turned and nodded at the demon.
“And are you by chance Vox Akuma?”
Vox chuckled “Yes, yes I indeed am.”
They made their way to Vox’s little café that is miraculously unscathed. Standing by the door is a familiar sorcerer carrying a green messenger bag.
Vox unlocked the door and beckoned the two in.
The demon went and started the kettle and grabbed a few teacups. “You don’t visit for nothing so what’s the occasion?”
“What? I can't visit a friend?” The sorcerer gave a hollow laugh.
Shu Yamino, unknown to the world, slipping from place to place on a whim. Vox had met him by chance when he was at a showing of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. While the crowd cheered at the tragedy, Vox was criticizing how the play was modernized. Shu had laughed at Vox’s reaction and the two quickly became friends from mutual interests.
“You spend your time either holed up or in some foreign land, you can’t expect me to believe that you're visiting just because you could.” Vox lifted an eyebrow.
“I met a man during the war.” Shu finally turned to face Vox properly “he spoke of someone dear to him.”
“Since I'm intruding, I'll just be outsi-”
“Ms. Rias, he would want you to hear this too.”
The woman was spooked but sat down regardless.
“I first met him in the brackets, he was shaken from being ripped away from all he knew and so I would stay up and tell him stories until he fell asleep. In exchange he would keep me company when we made our rounds.
He told me tales from when he was a child, tales of how he jumped from home to home but loved the thrill of what he would call ‘unknown territory’. Stories of how his mother worked from sunrise to sunset but still made time to help him with arithmetics. Little facts about himself like how he prefers his coffee more cream than coffee or how he can never seem to find his glasses after he takes them off.
Later he moved to the city in search of the slot that he just perfectly fit in. He then told me tales of a friend that took him in when he was desperate. He later told me that that place was where he felt like he just clicked in place. The man described his flat mate as annoyingly witty, smart to a fault, and could weave essays out of thin air. The flat mate was said to be, in the man's words, ‘probably the best thing that ever happened to me.’
He said that the thought of home kept him going. Said that he couldn’t wait to lay on his warm bed again. And six years passed like that. We were lucky enough to be able to stay together when we were shipped to the trenches. Everyday he would wake me up with a smile, even when we were being shot at, he smiled.
I watched him die in the trenches.
With his dying breath he gave me two things, one a letter for his mother, and a full journal for his flat mate.” Shu handed a crinkled letter to Ms. Rias and a leather bound journal to Vox.
The sun had set before the demon opened it. He showed Ms. Rias to the guest room and gave back the keys of the building back to Shu.
Vox was careful when opening the journal. The pages were falling out and a number of torn pieces of paper were stuffed between the pages. The paper was stained with gunpowder and mud, some sticking together. The very first entrée dated back to the day Mysta left and never returned.
If you were an onlooker that night, you would’ve seen a man, bathed in blue moonlight but still glowing red. He was sitting, one hand holding a battered journal and the other a small box that he had once kept hidden inside his bedside drawers. There was a certain melancholy to him, covering him in a curtain of sadness.
Vox knew he shouldn't be outside with the winter chill still biting at his skin but he couldn't stand being suffocated with all that was Mysta. Every last thing was left as it was, not a thing moved from its place. And his scent still permeated throughout the interior, haunting Vox from beyond the grave.
It would be so easy to just forget it all, to stop his spiraling emotions, to save himself from the ever consuming pain and have his memory wiped. But there's something that makes Vox cling so closely to his memory, to the memory of crystalline eyes and overly smug smiles. The feel of warm hands holding his and the lilt of his voice are all ingrained into Vox. Soft kisses in the summer and intertwined hands in the winter.
Vox wishes he could will himself to ignore the gaping hole in his heart but the angry throb of pain is like a constant stab, ebbing away at him until there’s nothing left.
It’s raining now, the rhythmic sound soothing. He’s going to drip water on the floor when he goes back in but Vox couldn’t find it in himself to care. The worn pages on the other hand, were shielded by his haori. In his other hand is a box small enough to fit in his fist. Inside is a ring, not that dissimilar to that of the one that now hangs around Vox’s neck. It was crafted out of silver and a singular Burma ruby picked up from his travels. It had been sitting in Vox’s bedside table for the seven years, waiting to be gifted to that special someone.
The rain is on it now and maybe it isn’t instant but Vox’s couldn’t bear the thought of it tarnishing before it could be gifted.
And so it went, with the journal, back into Vox’s bedside table.
——
The year of twenty-twenty-two.
It rolls off his tongue like butter.
He stayed in London. He’s made new friends. He’s made new enemies. He's made new memories. He’s learned how to love again yet not the same. He’s grown as a person yet the gaping hole is still there.
Vox saw him by chance.
The demon was at a new club his friends had dragged him to. Something about letting loose but Vox couldn’t concentrate on anything else after he saw him.
The sway of his hips matched the beat of the song playing, his arms long and outstretched, his eyes lazy and half lidded. He was a bit taller than the Mysta Vox knew, hair a little lighter but to Vox, it was unmistakably him.
His boy.
And maybe it was temptation, maybe it was the alcohol in his system, maybe it was the blinding lights and blaring music but it was oh so easy to reach out, to pull him into Vox’s arms, to sway with him.
Vox would never admit the giddiness that engulfed him when the other’s cheeks flushed with a brilliant pink.
And there are many other things he would never admit to. Like how that one time Vox stole Mystas plushies when the boy left for a visit home. Or how he secretly swapped Mysta's dumb bar soap for a liquid soap.
Mysta definitely noticed and knew but never asked.
But there was one thing Vox would admit time and time again
That he loved the boy that he first met in that forest, that he loved the girl that he met for only an inkling of time, that he loved the man that swept him off his feet and gave him a reason to continue.
And that he would learn to love the person in his arms now.
The quirked smile and crescent eyes were all he could see and when the song came to an end, Vox brought his hand to his lips.
“May I ask for your name?”