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Vox always knew what to say.
He knew better than anyone how to project the perfect image - or at least, the image he wanted others to perceive. So for all that Alastor teased him about being too easy to read, Vox knew that this was, in fact, untrue.
Otherwise he had no doubt that Alastor would already have fucked off without a second glance back.
See, Vox was good when he needed to be. A consummate professional. Though not strictly an actor, certainly a performer. He’d been doing this shit for decades! But more than that - the real, bittersweet cherry on top - was that he’d been lying to himself for even longer. More than simply second-nature; it might as well be him.
When he’d first spawned down in Hell, one of his first thoughts had been: “Shit, I guess it was the fag thing.” (Vox was, technically, not gay - but much like the society in which he’d lived on earth, he’d just figured God didn’t care about the specifics of his orientation.) Shortly after that came the nauseating regret and disbelief that meant it had all been for shit - the self-loathing, the brutally cold showers, the guilt and self-flagellation as well as the denial he’d carried with him well into his adulthood. All for nothing - he’d still ended up in Hell when he’d never even sucked or fucked a single solitary dick!
Of course, later he’d realised that it was actually the manipulation, blasphemy, fraud, embezzlement, sleeping with married women… and possibly the spot of murder by proxy that had got him here. Not to mention the laundry list of other generally unsavoury activities he’d partaken in.
Still.
All this to say—
Alastor had no idea that Vox was in lo— well, that Vox wanted to fuck him. Ironically, that was the easier truth to swallow. It was also, he knew, incredibly fucking stupid. Vox would freely admit that he didn’t know shit about genuine love, or even friendship. At this point he was pretty sure they were friends - but in a way that made his chest hurt because he’d never had that in life. Was this friendship?
Staying up until the early morning hours talking and drinking and laughing; allowing himself to be dragged from his chair into a clumsy dance with Alastor’s hands on his shoulder and pressed into the small of his back, quiet jazz on the radio. Up top, Vox would’ve said that was pretty damn queer - but Alastor was a force unto himself, never giving a shit about what anyone else thought. And why should he? What use was postured machismo when you were the goddamn Radio Demon? Vox had to admire that, even if Alastor’s touch was as chaste as a virgin dancing at her debutante ball.
Then there was Alastor turning up unannounced after hours at his studio to drag him to dinner, eyes blackening and antlers branching when he protested that he still wasn’t done with work. He could be fucking terrifying when he wanted to be, though honestly it was hot as hell. But, shit, it was because he cared. Was that friendship?
And he thought of the time he’d got drunk off his ass and Alastor had dumped him unceremoniously on his sofa, perching beside Vox to gaze down at him with an –almost equally inebriated– fondness. One of Alastor’s hands had been resting on his chest, distractingly hot through the thin fabric of Vox’s shirt. “Pathetic,” Alastor had sniffed, before dissolving into laughter, free hand moving up to smother his mouth. “Whenever did you become such a lightweight, my dear?” He’d had his shirt sleeves rolled up, then, dark wrists on full display; Vox had wanted to reach up and grab them, to tug Alastor down against him, warm and pliable. He hadn’t. Was that friendship, too?
Because if he had, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stop.
Alastor was too fucking— Alastor.
Most of the time he was fairly standoffish. That was Alastor’s brand after all; he’d make awful jokes and insult you in the same breath, then offer genuinely insightful advice while giving backhanded compliments and swiftly changing the subject. He loved to invade others’ personal space while savagely guarding his own, as Vox had learned all too well within the first weeks of their acquaintance.
Maybe that’s what had started it; Vox had always had a thing for the ostensibly unattainable.
But the thing was, Alastor wasn’t - not really.
Not once he decided that you were one of his people.
He seemed charmed by Vox’s ridiculously ambitious dream; amused and intrigued to watch him grow his media empire from his own two hands - as while he enjoyed Alastor’s company, he refused to ask for favours. Mostly due to his own ego, of course, but that was something else they had in common. There were things that Vox would never ask for, yet Alastor would do them anyway— like that annoying shitbag of an overlord who’d been a thorn in Vox’s side for months. Because Vox wasn’t quite an overlord - not yet, though it was so close he could practically taste it - and then one evening his radio had turned itself on, broadcasting a shared favourite song of theirs. They’d danced to it not even a week before. The melody had soon become interspersed with garbled, desperate screams that cut out occasionally for Alastor’s signature cheerful commentary. That overlord had never bothered Vox’s business again.
Neither of them had said anything about it, but Alastor hadn’t objected when Vox cracked open an aged bottle of his favourite whisky for them to share and slung an appreciative arm around his shoulders. They drank a lot that night, and for once Alastor hadn’t retreated from the brush of Vox’s fingers against his own; to the heat of their thighs pressed together when Vox dragged him to the sofa to watch his newest show. Alastor never seemed particularly enthused, but he always endured with an oddly soft indulgence that made something in Vox’s chest clench - even if he did pepper in his dumbass snide commentary just to see how many times he could get Vox to roll his eyes.
Was it still just friendship when you wanted someone to be with you all the time? When you craved their approval and affection so much that it hurt? For all their attention just to be for you-you-you , no matter how impossible you knew such a thing to be? Probably not.
Now, Vox was not a good man, and he’d embraced this wholeheartedly. He had his sources, his people, his devices - and so he knew Alastor didn’t fuck. Didn't take people home, didn't visit whores. Didn't do— relationships. Women, men, those sinners who barely even resembled humans anymore— no one. Whether he was just uninterested or simply incapable Vox didn’t know, but then, it hardly mattered.
What he did know was that neither his own ego nor this— whatever it was they had —could survive the attempt he was so, so close to making whenever Alastor was tipsy and pliable against his side like this. His arm was sprawled across the back of the sofa, a dumb, cliche move that nonetheless had seemed to work; his hand had migrated to Alastor’s right ear and the soft hair around it - and not only did Alastor allow it but he seemed to welcome it, tilting his head into the points of Vox’s claws.
So how could he not fantasise about it? He still had a working dick and now years of jerk-off material in the form of fond glances and teasing touches, and Alastor purring his name when he was determined to get his way. He figured Alastor was too oblivious to be such an intentional cock-tease, but goddamn it really felt otherwise sometimes.
Vox stared at the television; a semi-factual documentary he'd headed about the alleged salacious scandals of the Ars Goetia, teeth worrying at his lower lip.
Friendship, love, lust— Vox had finally accepted that he didn’t know the goddamn difference. Maybe in this case they were all one and the same, tangled up into some fucked up mess.
“Stop thinking so hard,” Alastor murmured, “your face is doing bizarre things.” His smile was fond yet oddly melancholy. “I don’t know how you expect me to actually watch this drivel when there’s a far more entertaining picture box right here.”
Vox huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as he kept his tone blasé and teasing. “Well, that’s why you love me, huh?”
For a moment there was only the sound of the background chatter of the documentary, and Vox found he had no idea what the narrator was going on about. Alastor tilted his head to one side, resting his alcohol-flushed cheek against Vox's shoulder, eyes unfocused and half-lidded. “I suppose so,” he said quietly, and far too seriously.
Vox froze, claws stilling where they rested tangled in Alastor’s hair.
For once, he found that he couldn’t say a word.