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Vox shouldered the front door shut against the wind with a muffled curse as he wrestled shut his umbrella in the narrow foyer. He tried to keep residual droplets of acid rain off of Alastor’s shoe rack and mostly succeeded (even if the result was his own shoes bearing the brunt of the damage).
He slid the umbrella into the ceramic pot, alongside Alastor’s sleek, curved handle one, and toed off his worn shoes as he adjusted his receiver to try and locate Alastor’s frequency.
He finally found the man on an extremely low 5 Hz, a rumbling bass that felt like thunder echoing down to his bones. Hmm, not in the best of moods then. But the lack of erratic shifts at least boded well for his temperament.
The epicenter of the broadcast was upstairs, so Vox climbed the steep steps as he considered Alastor’s frequency.
Because of the rain? He wondered as he reached the landing. I think I remember him saying he didn’t like it much. Something about it being boring with everyone cooped up?
He padded down the hall, familiar with the floorboards that squeaked and deftly avoiding them, and entered Alastor’s study.
But his greeting died on his tongue when he saw Alastor.
His friend sat on his wingback chair beside the crackling fireplace, and, instead of his usually impeccable posture and primly crossed legs, Alastor was slouching in his seat, his long legs propped up onto the ottoman so much so he was practically lying down.
His eyes were closed and he had a glass of something amber with ice touching his forehead, the condensation coalescing on his brow and trickling down his cheeks, his chin, and into the collar of his crimson dressing gown.
The record player in the corner was playing a track Vox didn’t recognize, but was heavy in the saxophone, giving the song a moody sort of tone.
Alastor sighed softly, his smile thin and rigid in a grimace. He flexed his empty hand and the corner of his mouth twitched, his brows furrowed. The Hz jumped up to 50 and back down just as quickly, giving Vox a bit of a head rush.
He bumped into a side table as he stumbled from the disorientation, and Alastor’s eyes shot open. Wide red eyes stared at Vox, unblinking for several long seconds.
“S-sorry,” Vox blurted out, unsure what exactly he was apologizing for.
Other than his general existence, that is.
Alastor’s mouth hung agape. Then he closed it. Then he opened it again before closing it and his eyes with a little shake of his head.
Vox didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Alastor spoke, and he sighed in relief at the gentle tone.
“Not to worry, old pal. Apologies for my-” he winced as he sat up, “my state of dress.”
“No, I, I came here unannounced.”
Alastor set his glass aside and closed his dressing gown tighter, covering his chest up to the neck. He took his feet off the ottoman but didn’t move to stand and guide Vox to the other seat like he normally would.
Vox took a hesitant step forward and, when he wasn’t chastised, went to the empty chair across from Alastor and eased himself down. A tendril of shadow soon appeared at Vox’s elbow, a highball glass of liquor on ice in its inky grip.
“Thanks,” Vox said, feeling a little silly when he realized he’d said it to the shadow and not its manipulator.
Regardless, Alastor nodded once at him; at once recognition and approval of his manners.
It was sweeter than the bourbon that passed his lips.
The question, however, sat heavy on his tongue. Unable to be washed away with each successive drink.
He wanted to ask. He really wanted to ask. But he knew his place in Alastor’s life. Even such sentiments from Rosie, Alastor’s closest friend, would likely be met with little more than a scoff and subject change.
And, still, the question lingered.
He tried to keep his mouth busy with the bourbon, but it could only last for so long. The shadow was quick with a refill and then moved on to flip the record onto the B-side.
Another saxophone heavy tune filled the quiet room.
“So,” Alastor asked as the first song played, “what prompted your visit today, my dear?”
Vox drummed his fingers across the cold planes of his glass. “Oh, um, not much honestly.”
And it was true. Vox would have been a bit embarrassed if he had to admit aloud that it didn’t take much for him to want to visit Alastor. And he would be more than happy to keep this fact tucked away in the private solitude of his mind for the foreseeable future.
“Um, see, I was getting a bit of writer’s block on my latest script, and talking with you usually helps. Plus I know you usually stay home when it rains.”
Alastor’s smile went thin, only lips and falling short of reaching his eyes.
“Quite,” he agreed tersely. “So, what is it you’ve gotten stuck on?”
Vox went on to outline his script, with which there was a genuine problem, but he couldn’t fully focus on the plot and nuance of the scenes. Not when he could see Alastor’s tense frame, the rigid way he lifted his arm to drink, the continued buzz of extremely low frequency, the absent flexing of his left hand.
The question nearly tumbled from his mouth several times.
“Hmm, it seems to me like you need to think about what it is that Isabel truly wants, and find a way to keep it from her. Consider establishing the one line she would never cross to achieve her goal. And then make her cross it.”
Vox blinked, fully registering Alastor’s advice halfway through. “Uh, yeah, okay. So, what do you think that line should be? I’ve already had her murder her rival in love.”
“Well, perhaps her next rival in love is someone she actually likes? Someone she might hesitate to kill, so she must find a new way to remove this new rival from competition? Or perhaps her friend does something to make Isabel no longer stay her hand?”
Alastor spoke as smoothly as ever, though Vox noted his hands merely sat limp in his lap. No longer the conductor leading his performance that was conversation.
“Or, consider having this dead woman return! This show takes place here in Hell, doesn’t it? Now Isabel must hide her misdeed and is at her once-dead enemy’s mercy. What is her enemy going to force Isabel to do under threat of revealing her crime?”
“Yeah, that does sound like an interesting twist.”
And it did. But Vox couldn’t get excited. Not when Alastor seemed so…so dim.
Alastor narrowed his gaze, keen as ever despite his state.
“Something the matter, old pal?”
Vox hesitated. Alastor didn’t like invasive questions, but he hated dishonesty more. Especially if he sensed that such subterfuge came from a place of sparing his feelings (which Alastor seemed to hate being reminded of his ownership of).
Are you feeling okay, was too open ended. It allowed for too much leeway in an answer.
Tell me what’s wrong, was too accusative. Alastor would deny everything on principle.
Find the middle ground. The right thing to say.
“You seem stiff. Got in a bad scrap recently?”
Alastor stilled the glass halfway to his lips. He hesitated and proceeded to take a sip.
Vox waited. He doubted Alastor had actually been in a fight recently, he’d have heard of the carnage if that were the case, and he was banking on the hope that Alastor would rather admit the truth than bear the indignity of feigning an injury to some nameless nobody.
Alastor’s right ear twitched right before he sighed in defeat. “It’s the rain.”
Vox dipped his head towards Alastor, searching his askance eyes for any clarification.
He found none.
“The rain? Like, did you get caught in it?”
“No, it’s,” he worried his lip, his left hand flexed, his eyes looked away, “my scars ache when it rains.”
“Your scars? I, I didn’t know you had any.”
Not like Vox would know, Alastor barely showed any skin. His current state of dress was actually the most casual Vox had ever seen the other.
“It’s hardly the subject of polite conversation.”
Vox watched him flex his hand again.
“Do you-”
Alastor’s gaze flicked to him, and Vox faltered, but no attack –verbal or otherwise— came, so Vox continued.
Carefully.
“Back on Earth, they used electrotherapy on muscle pain. Do, um, maybe I could try? See if it helps?”
Alastor agitated his glass, watching the bourbon swirl and ice clink the sides. His right ear flicked again before said, quietly, “alright.”
Alastor lifted his left hand while Vox stood from his chair. He perched on the edge of the ottoman and cradled Alastor’s hand in the palms of his own. He took a moment to catalogue the appendage.
His fingers were long and bony. Perfect for tickling the keys or his victims somatic nervous system. His palms were cold and sapped the heat from Vox like a greedy abyss.
Vox already knew all of that from holding Alastor’s hand while dancing or when their fingers brushed while passing objects (or the rare times Alastor teasingly caressed his screen, delighting in the warped static his touch caused).
But this close, Vox could see the multitude of scars covering Alastor’s hand. Thin as cracks and criss-crossing across palms and wrists and fingers.
There was an especially deep one in the center of his hand.
Roughly the width of a blade.
Present on both sides.
Vox did the same with his hands as he sandwiched Alastor’s hand between his own. He held them gently and focused on sending a low jolt of electricity through his palms.
A pop of lightning. The singe of flesh. A gasp of pain.
Alastor flinched, but didn’t pull his hand away.
“Sorry! Sorry! I’m- I’ve never done this before.”
“That’s quite alright,” Alastor grimaced. “But I’m not sure I want to continue if that is what this ‘electrotherapy’ feels like.”
“I’ll try to make the voltage lower,” Vox promised.
He held Alastor’s hand, his thumbs kneading Alastor’s hand as he tried to soothe away the residual pain of his previous discharge. All while focusing on controlling his current voltage.
Keep it low. Low. Like Alastor’s low frequency. Match it. Match him.
A low pulse echoed between his palms. No more than a static shock. He sent another pulse. And another.
Back and forth.
Over and over.
He worked until the discharge became natural and he could release a consistent buzz while he massaged Alastor’s hand. He focused on kneading away the knots of tension and loosening stiff fingers.
He worked until the B-side reached its end and finished the treatment. Reluctantly, he allowed Alastor’s hand to slip from between his and watched as Alastor gave his hand a testing flex.
His chest swelled with pride when Alastor made a pleased hum.
“That’s quite interesting,” Alastor complimented, and Vox felt his screen buzz warm with a static blush.
Alastor’s smile grew, reaching his eyes and he switched his drink to the other hand to hold out his right.
Vox eagerly took it in his hands and got to work.
Alastor’s shadow switched the record out for another, and Vox realized, when the first song started up, that it was the Sinatra album he’d gifted Alastor last year. He hummed along to My Funny Valentine as he focused on electrifying the aches and massaging the pain. Five songs later (I Get a Kick Out of You) and Vox was finished.
He watched Alastor stretch his hands and recalled the stiff way in which he sat and moved that afternoon.
“Do, um, do you have any other scars you’d like me to treat?”
Alastor froze, hand aloft, but swiftly recovered. “Hmm, I do, but I rather think you’ve done more than enough.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind, really.”
Alastor paused. He didn’t outright deny the offer, so Vox pushed a little more.
“I mean, you’ve already done so much for me. I want to pay you back for all your kindness.”
Alastor’s eyes softened, his ego thoroughly stroked.
“Well, if you insist. But,” he paused, his hands lingering on the lapels of his dressing gown. He rubbed his hands up and down the silk, as though soothing himself with careful pets. “It’s…not very pleasant to see.”
“Oh, come on Al, it’s Hell. Can’t be worse than some of the real ugly fucks I’ve seen in the streets.”
His play at acting casual brought a quirk to Alastor’s hesitant grin and the dressing gown off his torso.
And Vox was met with…a lot.
Hair, or fur. Alastor’s torso was covered in a fine layer of ashen grey fur, with an especially thick tuft on his chest. It looked soft to the touch. His claws twitched to find out.
His body was thin. Downright emaciated. Alastor had always told Vox how hungry he was, and this was the body of a man without an ort of food for weeks. The bottom of his ribcage jutted out. His hip bones were steep ridges that led to a plunging valley of his pubic region. A thin waist. So thin he could encircle it with both hands. Maybe one if he really squeezed.
And the scars. They littered the expense of his body. A mosaic of jagged tissue that stretched across Alastor’s body, leading from one wound to the next. A savage gouge on his right shoulder. A deep puncture in his gut. Slashes across his chest. A bullet entry wound in his bicep.
Vox was startled from his thoughts by Alastor shrugging his dressing gown back on.
“If you’ve changed your mind-”
“No!” Vox threw his hands out, desperate to stop Alastor, terrified what Alastor might have taken from his silence, “no, it’s just, I’ve never seen a sinner with, with scars before. You know, since we heal and revive and all that.”
“Yes, well, I suspect they have something to do with my punishment.”
“Why do you think that? Because they hurt when it rains?”
“No, because,” Alastor hesitated. “These scars, they’re everywhere I’ve ever been injured.”
Vox blinked, dumbfounded a bit at the sheer amount Alastor had accrued in his thirty or so years in Hell. “But, you’re so strong? How’d you get all of these?”
“Most of them are from when I was alive.”
Alastor lifted his hand and pointed to the gash on his shoulder. “From a dog, when I was a boy.” Then he gestured to the bullet wound in his arm. “From a man who assumed I was bedding his gal.” Then a slash across his chest. “From a victim who had a bit more fight than I’d expected.”
And so Alastor went, detailing the scars of his life with a blasé emptiness, like he’d been vigorously washed and beaten dry. Scars from the animals in the bayou, scars from the animals that wore the faces of men, scars from his father, scars from his victims, scars that were an accident, scars that were a near miss.
When Alastor was finished, he seemed to collapse into his chair. Limp. Exhausted. Defeated.
It was a terrible look on him.
“It’s an everlasting patchwork of every mistake I’ve ever made.”
Vox felt something recoil in his mind at the proclamation. The same way he might if someone said the Earth was flat or Hitler had a good point or any other completely wrong thing.
And it wasn’t so much that what Alastor said was wrong; these scars were, insofar as, mistakes. But, they weren’t just that. To say they were just mistakes made Alastor sound…regretful. Which went against everything he knew about perhaps the proudest man he’d ever known.
“I think it’s more like a tapestry of everything you’ve endured.”
Vox nearly flinched when Alastor leveled a glare towards him. Which. Fair. It was a bit corny, what he’d said, but that didn’t make it any less true. And, despite his apprehension, he was determined to prove it.
He gestured to the gouge in Alastor’s shoulder. “You said that happened when you were a kid. Why?”
“Dogs never really seemed to care for people like me. People of my,” Alastor vaguely gestured to his face, “countenance.”
Vox’s heart dropped at the brief image Alastor conjured up, of a time that was, embarrassingly, really not all that different from his own and he really didn’t want to think about that. Because for all their similarities in the afterlife, their actual life had been very, very different.
He forced himself to keep his voice light, casual, as he went on.
“So people were racist, okay, don’t really see how that could be a mistake on your part. What about your arm? Where you got shot.”
“What about it?” Alastor bit back.
“How is that a mistake?”
“I got shot.”
Vox scoffed. “It’s a gun, Alastor. What were you supposed to do? Dodge the bullet? Fight him off barehanded? Honestly the fact that you were able to walk away with just your arm wounded is pretty badass.”
Alastor glared at him, his eye twitching. “Yes, but I wouldn’t have needed to fight off a gunman if I hadn’t been so careless.”
“And how were you supposed to know she was spoken for? What, you can’t talk to any women because some numbnuts might have dibs? Please.”
Alastor opened his mouth but, in a rare instance of bravery (or stupidity) on Vox’s part, he cut Alastor off.
“Alastor, I know you think they’re mistakes. And you can think that if you want, but what I see when I look at these scars is a kid who grew up in a world that hated him and lived despite that. I see a man who was quick witted enough to avoid being shot by a possessive asshole. I see a guy who is strong enough to remove the garbage of his society by any means necessary.”
Vox glanced down to Alastor’s left hand, at the stab wound. He didn’t let himself hesitate, or second guess, and reached out to hold Alastor’s cold, scarred hand in his.
“I see a guy smart enough to know taking a knife through the hand leaves his opponent open and ballsy enough to actually follow through!”
He gripped that cold, scarred hand tightly and stared at the man who let him.
“Maybe they are mistakes, Al, but having so many of them, means that you survived long enough to make them. And, I don’t think you should have to suffer because of them.”
Alastor stared at him, his thoughts hidden behind a smile. The Sinatra record ended. The only sound was the quiet patter of acid rain outside. Alastor didn’t move, didn’t speak.
And he didn’t retract his hand from Vox’s.
“I think,” he finally began, his voice a soothing balm to Vox’s mounting nerves, “that this might be a rare instance in which you might be right.”
Vox could feel himself perk up and was too proud of himself to feel any shame. "Sooooo,"
Alastor's smile reached his eyes and his empty hand gestured for Vox to come closer. He eagerly scooted the ottoman up while Alastor perched on the edge of his chair.
They sat with their legs interlaced and their knees bumping into each other's thighs, and Alastor leaned closer so his torso was within Vox's reach.
His forehead nearly touched Vox's, and he could feel his screen buzz from the interference of Alastor's proximity.
Hesitantly, Vox reached out and placed his hands on Alastor's torso.
His fur was just as soft as it looked.
While Alastor's shadow put on a new record, Vox coaxed a low voltage from his fingertips. He kept his eyes on his work, taking in the way his cyan blue claws looked buried in the ashen grey fur of his friend.
And he tried very hard to ignore the soft, little sighs of relief Alastor made under the touch of his hands as he rain pattered on outside and Sinatra crooned on.
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Decades later, Vox stood in the living room of V Tower. From his castle in the sky, he stared out into Hell below, watching sinners duck and scurry to get out of the sudden downpour.
A glass of bourbon, the drink he always craved when it rained, was held loose in his hand as it dangled at his side. Sinatra echoed from the Bluetooth speakers scattered around the room, his sonorous voice a fitting track to the morose weather outside.
He raised one of his hands and, in an inexplicable desire to check, coaxed a low surge of energy into his palm. The electricity thrummed gently, a soothing pulse in his hand.
He still remembered the exact voltage.
He cut off the discharge with a flick of his wrist and took a long sip from his glass, the bourbon a sweet burn across his tongue.
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Across Hell, in a newly constructed hotel, the Radio Demon slouched in his wingback chair with his feet propped up onto the ottoman.
He rubbed his chest, the gnawing ache of his newest scar, his latest mistake, bringing waves of pain that he swallowed down between sips of bourbon, his preferred drink in this accursed weather.
Sinatra crooned on from his record player in the corner, his sonorous voice a fitting track to the morose weather outside.
A pained wince was hidden beneath the music as a fresh wave of agony pulsated throughout his scarred body.
He took another sip of bourbon.
And he flexed his empty hand.
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Now with art!
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