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Ennui: the feeling of listlessness or dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.
It was a nice word. Beautiful in its structure and simplicity for such a complicated emotion.
But even so, it still didn't quite fit the feeling possessing Vox as he mindlessly strolled down one of the older streets of Pentagram City in the vibrant hours of 1 AM.
Because he had plenty of work to do. In fact, it was probably what he should've been doing now. But the idea of expense reports made him want to shoot himself, and if he had to send one more Goddamn "as per my last" email then he'd shoot the recipient.
And it wasn't a lack of excitement either. He was Vox, Media Overlord extraordinare, King of TV, Master of the Airwaves. Music. Cinema. Social Media. He had it all at his fingertips. He could walk into any restaurant and have the best seat. He could stroll into any club and enter the VIP, no questions asked. He could call up the hottest sinners in Hell and have them in his room and on his bed faster than most people could say "hello".
And yet, he left the confines of his castle and ignored the flashy sights and sounds of the clubs to walk the streets of Hell, alone. Absent of any purpose. Bereft of any desire.
He eventually paused on his lonely sojourn and glanced up at the building he'd stopped outside of. He wasn't sure why, couldn't really sense any reason other than sheer chance, but blinked with a startled realization that he knew this place.
Fontenot's Fountain.
His feet had carried him to this place hundreds of times, and it seemed that, with a lack of any direction, they carried him here again.
It'd been a couple of years since he'd last been. It was still as he remembered on the outside, dark and morbid and vaguely dilapidated. The renovation of Hell's nearby entertainment district hadn't touched it yet, deeming it unprofitable. For now.
The owner was the eponymous Madame Fontenot, who had bumped off in the late 1800's and kept everything in the bar as it had been when she first opened (save, only, for the liquor selection).
She was a quiet, stern woman with a very particular way of doing things and a stubborn streak long enough to accomplish it.
The thing Vox remembered most about Madame Fontenot was her claim that wavelengths of any kind gave her headaches "somethin' fierce", which meant no TVs and no radios. The only time music ever graced the confines of her bar was if someone sat at the piano and tickled the keys themselves.
On the very first night that Alastor had taken Vox here, the old biddy had eyed Vox up and down with a critical, disapproving gaze before reminding Alastor of this rule. Vox was just about to point out that live music was, technically, a wavelength too before Alastor ruthlessly silenced him with a not so surreptitious jab from the end of his cane into Vox's right foot.
Alastor had thanked Madame Fontenot for her hospitality over the muffled curses Vox tried to stifle before settling a hand on the small of Vox's back (which had him promptly forgetting about the residual throbbing pain of his foot entirely) and leading him to a booth in the far corner.
Despite his blatant affinity for the radio and its wavelengths, Alastor had always abided by Madame Fontenot's rule without complaint, because he had always been willing to make concessions for women.
(Sometimes, when he was a few drinks in, Vox used to wonder what might have happened if he'd come down to Hell as a woman. If Alastor might have treated him differently, more kindly. The dysphoria probably wouldn't have been worse than when he woke up with television head, anyways. If he could figure out how to balance the new weight, he was pretty sure he could get used to having a cunt.)
Regardless, the rules of the establishment made this a sort of neutral ground for the two over the decades. Even after their falling out years ago. A place they could go and set aside their roles as entertainers of their respective mediums, and instead spend time together as two creatives.
All that to say, that when Vox walked into Fontenot's Fountain that night and glanced towards the bar and saw Alastor and Alastor saw him and they stared at each other for a few seconds, that Vox did nothing beyond nod at him once and continue on to the opposite end of the counter.
Or at least, that had been his intention until he saw the stagnant puddle of what looked like blood but smelled like piss, so he was forced to sit a little closer to Alastor than he’d wanted.
He could feel the static charge of Alastor’s ambient radio waves press against his receivers. They rolled off of Alastor in this curl of hazy warmth that seeped into Vox’s body and urged him to relax, to lower his guard, to be vulnerable.
The three stools between them were nowhere near enough.
"Of all the whisky joints in Hell, you just had to be in this one,” he muttered after the insectoid barkeep took his order.
"What was that, old pal? Did you say something?"
"Nothing."
"Oh come now. Don't be so down on yourself. Surely what you say has some modicum of import!"
Alastor took a sip of his rye, the pause only punctuating the incoming barb Vox could see approaching with all the inevitably of a runaway freight train.
"However miniscule that is," he finished with a purr.
"Ha. Ha. Ha. Very clever. Nice to see your wit hadn't eroded in all these years." He took his own slow sip of whiskey. "However miniscule it was."
Alastor chuckled meanly. "Still as original as ever, I see."
"Oh fuck you, it's called a callback."
"I can hardly think it can be referred to as such when there is nothing filling the space between it and the very thing it's calling back to." Alastor huffed before wetting his throat with another drink.
"Okay, fine. Then it's repetition. Comedy comes in threes, after all."
"Seems you're one short, there, friend. Then again I suppose you're quite experienced in falling short of expectations."
"Well, I learned that from the best!" And Vox leaned over to clink his glass against Alastor's, just in case the subject of this insult wasn't already clear.
Alastor, meanwhile, just smiled at him sweetly. With his lips were closed and his eyes half-open in a hooded stare, Vox's heart gave a traitorous little flutter at that fond gaze.
"So, you admit it. You are copying me."
"Wha- no! I'm insulting you! Get with the program!" Vox protested, slapping the bar top between his words.
It only served to send Alastor into a round of hearty laughter.
Vox should have remembered there was no winning an argument against a man whose only impetus was amusement.
The sound of a trumpet echoed throughout the bar over the din of the crowd. Slightly out of tune. Then a pause. Then the clear, crisp reverberation of a well-pitched high C.
Vox spun around on his barstool and saw a band setting up on the stage. The cluster of performers chatted amicably with each other as they set up their stands and shuffled their papers.
They were more or less assembled facing the piano, where there sat a sinner going through their scales with great focus. When the piano and warmup was to her liking, she made a gesture over her shoulder and the rest of the band readied their instruments.
She tapped her foot and waved her hand.
One. Two. Three.
First was the trumpet, cutting through the noise with a beautiful B flat. Then came in the saxophones, burgeoning the trumpet with a swell of the melody.
Soon enough, the song started proper. The pianist pounded away on the keys while a sinner on the upright bass kept a steady rhythm. The trumpet player grabbed a muffler and started up the harmony while the two saxophonists largely handled the melody. The lone flutist just seemed happy to be there.
Alastor started tapping his boot on the metal footrest of his stool and hummed along to the melody between sips of rye.
Vox didn't recognize the song, but it was a lively tune he'd have probably called "jive" back when he was alive. He didn't realize he was tapping his own foot until Alastor turned his scarlet stare towards him.
"Wanna dance?"
The question was as casual as ever. No resentment. No condescension. No hate. Like the past decades of animosity between them hadn't even happened.
For a brief instant, Vox was downright furious at how unbothered Alastor could sound about everything, about them.
But.
The bar they were in. They liquor they had drank. The music they listened to. It was all so...nostalgic.
And everything always looked so nice with a rose-colored sheen.
"Okay."
They stood, leaving their empty glasses behind, and headed for the small space cleared for dancing. There was only one other couple on the floor, who held each other close and looked at each other tender, which left plenty of space to share.
They had danced often in the old days, and Alastor had always led, a by-product of Vox being too new to hell and too intimidated by Alastor's status to suggest otherwise.
Besides, Alastor made for a good dancer and Vox could enjoy turning his mind off and just revelling in the sensation of warm hand in his own, a steady grip on his waist, and the comfortable sway of a familiar rhythm.
So, out of habit, Vox reached for Alastor's shoulder only for Alastor to intercept it and pointedly settle it on his hip.
Vox froze, unsure whether to be sarcastic or reverent.
His resulting tone was a hesitant mixture of both. "Are you sure?"
"Of course! Show me your skills, my dear." Alastor's grinned sharpened and his eyes gleamed. "However miniscule they may be."
And Vox couldn't deny that the barb lit a fire under him.
He stepped off with a light-footed rock step and seamlessly slid in a lively two-step as the melody demanded. Alastor followed obediently as Vox led him into spins, and did his due diligence in selling his kicks and twirls with great aplomb.
Vox called on his past experience with Alastor's preferences and supplemented them with new skills garnered from dancing with Val. Though his experience with Val as a partner would quickly prove to be a bane as equally as a benefit when the fundamental differences in Valentino and Alastor’s statures made themselves known.
Such as when it took nearly an entire song for Vox to realize that he could guide Alastor into spins beneath his arm, a move that Vox had more or less removed from his dancing vocabulary thanks to Val’s height.
And there was also the slight mishap from when he tried to lead Alastor into a dip, only for the man’s significantly greater weight to catch him off guard. He scrambled to tighten his hold and adjust his stance, but Alastor simply propped himself up with a few shadow tendrils sprouting out his back. He stretched across them and laughed deeply as Vox worked to pull him back upright.
Yes, leading Alastor was always a challenge, but it was one that Vox felt compelled to surmount. Despite the differences in Alastor and Vox as partners, Vox was still an overall better dancer now, and pulled out all the stops.
His mind was zeroed in with a keen focus he hadn’t felt in years as he struggled to come up with new ways to impress Alastor. Like when Vox pulled Alastor back in after he spun out and instead of guiding him under his arm for a twirl, he scooped Alastor up and flung him into an around the world.
Alastor laughed boisterously as he was thrown about, and he touched down lightly with a wide grin.
They skipped across the dancefloor, throwing out flashy kicks together with the downbeat of the bass, and when the trumpet started wailing its solo, Vox pulled Alastor in, grabbed him, and lifted him into a tunnel inversion that had them back to back. Like this, Vox locked his arms with Alastor at the elbow and the other seemed to sense his intentions perfectly because when Vox leaned forward, Alastor leaned back and rolled over his shoulders and head to land perfectly in front of him.
Things didn't slow down until six, maybe seven songs later, when the band played a moodier jazz number. Vox caught his breath as he led Alastor in a more sedate two step.
Bastard didn't even look winded.
"You're in a good mood," Vox huffed after he guided Alastor into a simple spin.
"Oh, I am in a good mood! How keen of you to notice!" Alastor smiled. "You see, I had a rather tasty little snack yesterday."
"I know," Vox replied, instinctively. He could remember, vividly, the way Alastor eviscerated those loan sharks.
"Ha! You disgusting little voyeur, you."
Alastor laughed brightly, but Vox's heart thrummed beneath the surface like the wings of a panicked bird trapped in a cage. Did he know? Was there somehow a way he knew that Vox had done more than just watched him?
Would he still dance with Vox if he knew that Vox got hard watching him devour sinners whole?
Would he still laugh so easily if he knew that Vox stroked himself furiously to that recording?
Would he still smile as he did if he knew that Vox came with Alastor's name on his lips?
The next song picked things back up, so words were abandoned as they launched themselves eagerly into the next number again and again and again.
When the band took a break about an hour later, so did they. Alastor complimented Vox's footwork as they strolled back to the bar, and this time, when they sat, Vox didn't leave any seats between them.
Alastor ordered for them both, and they sat for a few seconds in silence as they savored their cool drinks and gave their burning feet a break.
If Vox closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was just another night in the 60's.
Back when his head was heavier and his clothes cheaper.
Back when late nights were from bars and dancehalls instead of time crunches and progress reports.
Back when Alastor looked at him more kindly and spoke to him more gently.
Vox could understand why Alastor reveled in the past. It was familiar. Comfortable.
But even a man steeped in nostalgia wasn't impervious to change. When Alastor came back from that seven-year absence, he came back slightly different.
A different coat. A different demeanor. A different plan. (That was the only explanation as to why he was hanging around that joke of a hotel, anyways; but just what was he planning?)
After Vox got his breath back and his glass was half-full, he turned in his seat towards Alastor.
"So, where are your new friends?"
Alastor glanced over at him, his questioning look expressed by a tilt of the head and quirk of the brow.
"You know, those people at the hotel?"
"Oh!" He chirped in realization. "Well, that bunch are off having a night of revelry. I believe they headed somewhere in that nightlife region that just renovated."
Vox nodded in recognition. "Ah, that block of town. Val likes to go there a lot. He actually invited me out tonight, but I wasn't feeling it, so he took some of his girls with him instead."
"His girls? It was to my understanding that you two were an item, at least from what dear Rosie told me."
"It's...complicated."
"Complicated," Alastor chuckled, like the word itself was a joke. "I certainly hope that's not what you had in mind for me."
"No." Vox snapped. Immediate.
He could feel his screen glow warm from the event Alastor was referencing, but refused to let that embarrassing memory get the better of him and continued with a laugh, even if it was a bit forced.
"Besides, you can't even handle simple. You know, sometimes I think your heart got lost on the way down here with the rest of you."
Alastor considered Vox's half-hearted dig with a hum and a coy finger to his chin. "Hmmmmm, no, I don't think so. I am as I always have been."
That tracked. Alastor was a strange character. But to have him any other way would be...well it wouldn't be Alastor.
"You know, together we almost make two normal people."
Alastor quirked a brow, and Vox gestured between them. "I care too much. You don't care enough."
Alastor took a measured sip of his drink. "Maybe, but I prefer being myself."
"Yeah, me too."
And he did. He didn't regret his feelings, nor his confession.
Even if it still hurt all these years later.
They sat for a moment in silence. A moment that slowly stretched to a small eternity. Like a rubber band, it pulled and strained, growing thinner and weaker.
Vox could feel the anticipation of it, hanging on this precipice, waiting for the abrupt snap.
But Alastor sat primly beside him and continued to sip his Sazerac with quiet little hums of pleasure. Despite being the Radio Demon, Alastor had never seemed to have a problem with silence quite like Vox had, or still did.
So Vox cut the rubber band, controlling the break before it could catch him unawares, with the only question he didn't have to think to ask. Constant, as it was, in the back of his mind.
"Alastor, why did you say no? Back then, I mean. And I'm not talking about the business deal, I honestly kind of expected that. I mean, why did you say no about me, about, um, us?"
"Because you wanted something simple, Vox." Alastor smiled, and while his grin was no different, Vox's heart tensed when he saw how gentle Alastor's eyes were.
"And I'm afraid, when it comes to us, it's complicated."
Vox sighed. He should have known better than to receive a direct answer, let alone closure, from this guy. Misdirection was a passion of Alastor's, and cryptic non-answers a second language.
He rested his chin on the bar top, sucking his whiskey down in a manner that, objectively, could be recognized as a pout but he preferred to think of it as morose.
Much more grown up.
"You know, you didn't have to say no so quickly," he huffed. "You could have at least thought about it."
"Mm, yes, well, I didn't want to go and give you any false hope."
"False hope about what?"
"That I was actually considering it."
"Oh fuck you."
Alastor chuckled. "Oh, you can certainly dream."
His laughter was easy to match, and with the liquor in his stomach and the residual endorphins in his blood, Vox joined Alastor in his mirth.
Halfway through his next glass, Vox could feel his head start to buzz.
Then, as it lingered, he realized it wasn’t because of the liquor.
“Oh, hang on. Think I’m getting a call.”
Alastor chuckled, leaning his head on his hand. Some fringe slipped down to lie across his face, and Vox suppressed the urge brush the hair aside so he could better meet the amused glint in Alastor’s eyes.
“Bringing those wavelengths of yours into Madame Fontenot’s establishment, hm? Tsk. Tsk.”
“Pft, says the walking radio tower.” Vox scoffed as he stood. “Don’t worry, I’ll take it outside.”
He shuffled towards the door and once he was on the sidewalk, answered the call by the fifth ring. Before he could even speak, Valentino’s voice flooded his receptors.
“Ugh, fucking finally. Thought you were never going to pick up.”
Lack of flirtation. Heavier accent. Little squeak between huffs. Yep. Valentino was in one of his pissier moods, likely already halfway into a proper fit.
“What is it Val,” Vox asked, cutting straight to the point.
“You won’t believe what happened. Fucking Angel Dust shows up to the club and you know what he said to me?”
“No. What did he say?” Vox asked blankly as he checked through the window. Alastor was still sitting where he’d left him.
“That assless little twink thought he could tell me, me, to fuck off!
“Uh-huh, did he now?” He watched Alastor take a pull of his drink. He was nearing the bottom of his glass, so he was tipping his head back to compensate. The pull of his neck, the sliver of skin just underneath his jaw, the roll of his throat.
“What?! You think I’m lying??!!?”
Vox straightened up, forcing his stare out into the street. “No. I have no doubt. Angel Dust has always been difficult. You know that. I seemed to recall you saying that’s why you like him.”
“Well, yeah, I mean, who doesn’t like a little wildcat in their sheets? But there’s a limit, Vox!”
Vox would’ve held up a mirror if the idiot could see well enough. “Okay, so then, what do you want me to do about it?”
Valentino clicked his teeth before growling, “obviously I need to do you.”
Right. Of course. Why should Vox have expected any different?
Valentino would come over. He’ll be pissed. They’ll fuck. It’ll be good. Vox would wake up the next morning, alone, with bruises on his hips and an ache in his legs. He’d get started on his work, with maybe a few loving texts from Val interspersed throughout his day.
Vox glanced back into the bar. He saw that Alastor had finished his previous drink and had ordered another. The toe of his boot tapped on the footrest of his barstool, presumably to the beat of whatever song the band was playing.
He probably wanted to dance some more. And he'll probably want to lead this time, because Alastor always got this strange sort of manic energy when he drank and it was easier to just let him drag Vox along than to try and anticipate his impulses. It was fun that way too. Just to let go and be swept along in the whirlwind of it all with Alastor’s deft hand to guide them.
And then Vox noticed that the drink at Alastor’s elbow, his drink, had been topped up as well. With fresh ice. Because while Alastor drank his whiskey neat, Vox always had it over the rocks.
Vox knew that if stayed with Alastor, well. They’ll trade insults. They’ll dance. It’ll be good. Vox would wake up the next morning with his legs and hips aching for an entirely different reason. Still in an empty bed though. And he’d get started on his work, with absolutely no contact from Alastor until the other man saw fit to play again.
It really was a no brainer.
So simple.
And yet…
“Not tonight, Val. I’m busy.”
“When are you not?" Val grumbled. “Come on! It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to take care of you, Papi.”
"I've got a feeling you're the one who needs taking care of tonight," Vox replied. He meant for it to sound more cajoling, but his frustration accidentally carried through.
"So then come and take care of me, baby. I miss you."
"How miniscule that is," Vox muttered.
"...what was that?"
"Nothing, listen, just, I don't know, didn't you take some of your girls out just for this? What are they doing?"
"It's not the same," Valentino whined. "They fall apart so easily. They're not you after all, Voxxy."
"Okay, well then you're just going to have to put your kiddie gloves on then. Because I'm busy."
"Ugh, doing what?"
"Not you,"
"You know what, fine! Be a frigid little bitch. See if I care! But the next time you come crawling to me expecting to get some, remember this night!"
Vox looked back through the window and saw that Alastor was still there. Waiting. For him.
"Oh I'll remember it. Don't worry about that."
He hung up, cutting off a string of snarling Spanish and re-entered the bar. Alastor glanced over at the sound of the door and his smile softened as Vox approached.
Vox knew that being with Alastor for any extended period of time was dangerous, for obvious reasons.
But for more than just the murder, the cannibalism, and general assholery, Alastor was pure nostalgia injected straight to the veins. A bygone of a time when things were simpler and the days were slower.
Alastor was the better times, the good ol days, the rosy colored past.
But when you view everything with rose colored lenses, it's pretty hard to notice any red flags.
And Alastor had a lot of fucking red.
But, you know what? This was Hell. Red fucking central. So, realistically, what was a little more?