Work Text:
Vox wakes up slowly. It’s not really dark anymore, but the day hasn’t started, either. It’s not the Twilight Zone, because that usually happens at night. The Dawn Zone? No, that sounds weird. But it’s not morning, either, but maybe that doesn’t even really matter.
He starts moving a little, to remove the stiffness from his muscles. It’s a hassle getting out of bed, honestly. Maybe someday he’ll get himself into a position that can work from bed, although if that were to ever happen, he’d probably gain about two-hundred pounds and forget how to walk completely, so maybe it’s a bad idea actually. It just sounds so good right now, it’s criminal. It’ll be fine once he actually gets out of bed and gets dressed and all that.
Vox looks over. Alastor is still sleeping, by some miracle. He’s found the guy in the rain yesterday and had taken him home; put him under the shower and in some of his PJs. Because it had still been raining, the man had stayed and who’s Vox to argue with that even remotely? He’d lock the door and swallow the key if that meant Alastor would stay.
He huffs out some air and spends some time just looking at the man. Honestly, with his reputation, he would’ve thought Alastor looks like a creepy motherfucker in his sleep, but he doesn’t. He looks kind of cute, actually. He’s still smiling, but he’s laying on his side, somewhat curled up. His hands are close to Vox’s arms and it’s possible that sometime during the night, he had been holding onto Vox, even though he has no way of confirming this.
Cautiously, Vox reaches out and brushes his fingers through the man’s hair. It’s still soft from yesterday’s shower and Vox wishes he could stroke it properly. He’d spend every morning softly brushing it with the best hairbrush he could afford. Maybe Alastor would like head massages? His ears are relaxed, an effect from sleep, and Vox is tempted to stroke them. They must be as soft as the hair, right? It would only make sense, but he restrains himself. He should ask first before he’d touch them.
“Salutations,” Alastor speaks up then, voice raspy from sleep, “what are you thinking?”
“That I shouldn’t touch your ears without permission.”
“Hmm,” Alastor says and shakes his head a little, still lying on the pillow. Vox can only see one eye, and it’s barely half-open. He wonders if Alastor is a morning person. Occasionally, he’ll do six AM broadcasts, and he’d always sound chipper on those.
“How considerate of you,” the demon says and scoots a little closer. “You may,” he adds, closing his eyes again.
Vox can’t believe his auditory systems. He’s got permission? Just like that? Well, then, not to squander it or let the man think about it for any more seconds! Onto the ears, we ride at dawn! He can’t stop his hands from shaking just that little bit, but he carefully reaches out and softly enwraps one of the ears. They’re soft, just like he imagined. It’s a little... weird, to feel the actual ear beneath the hair... fur... but well, that’s just how it is. Vox doesn’t tug or tear at it, he just gently moves his fingers through the hair and when there’s no protest coming, he eventually adds scratching to the mix. Alastor sighs contently at that, and Vox feels like he’s hit the jackpot. It takes all he has to reign in his over-eagerness, but he does succeed, and continues to scratch the base of the ear.
Alastor scoots closer and closer, until he eventually tucks his head under Vox’s chin and his hand his laying on Vox’s chest and Vox is so cool he even keeps breathing. Feeling brave, he shoves his other arm around Alastor and pulls him further him, hugging him somewhat properly. The man presses his cold-ass nose against Vox’s neck but that’s the price you gotta pay to pet the demon ears, regrettably. Speaking of, the ears are twitching happily under Vox’s hands and he’s trying very hard to think different thoughts because his morning wood is not going away as quickly as he’d hoped. Sure, of course, he’d love to make use of his hard, impressive friend down there, but he has that unshakable feeling that Alastor would rather bite that appendage off than touch it with his hands. Or worse yet, the man might just decide to leave, and that would be a disaster.
“It stopped raining.”
“So it did. It always does, eventually.”
He’s right, but Vox is still a little sad. As long as it’s raining, Alastor would stay. Now, with the rain let up, there’s no reason for him to remain. But all things come to an end; he just wished the end wouldn’t have come so soon. He stops scratching him behind the ear, and just lies here, staring at the window. It can’t have stopped too long ago, as there are still raindrops on the glass. Alastor waits a beat, and then he sits up. He blinks sleepily, and Vox never would’ve believed the radio demon could look in any way crumpled, but here he is. And Vox gets to see it.
“I suppose I should get going then. I’d say get out of your hair, but that’s not possible now, is it? Ha!”
Vox pulls a face. What a jerk.
“I can get a wig, if you’d prefer.”
Alastor blinks at him, eyes wide awake now, before he laughs. It’s not the over-performative laugh he would use on his broadcasts or in public. Vox wants to believe that that’s the laugh he uses when something genuinely made him laugh; a laugh he’d share with his friends.
Vox sits up as well and cups the man’s cheek. Alastor looks up, facial features all soft and Vox wants to kiss him. Instead, he gently brushes his thumb over his face and Alastor leans into it a little.
“You’re so funny,” Alastor says, laughter still warming his voice as an echo, “not a lot of people make me laugh.”
“I’ll keep at it, then,” Vox promises and Alastor laughs a little again, not in belittlement, but promised delight. He leans forward and scoots up into Vox’s ready embrace. Vox wraps his arms around the demon and tugs him close, smelling his hair. He’s pathetic, yes, but he’s proud of it. How many people get to say they held the radio demon like this?
“Don’t change, my little picture box,” he says as he puts his hands in Vox’s back, “I like you the way you are.”
Vox wants to kiss him so terribly bad. He wants to promise him everything, anything and forever, if he just stays right in Vox’s arms.
“Change is inevitable,” he says, “I can’t remain stagnant, not forever.”
“I know,” Alastor rubs his face against Vox’s shoulder, “all the rivers flow. And yet, sit at the lake with me for a bit longer, will you?”
“We can change together,” Vox hugs him tighter, “the thought of leaving you behind scares me.”
Alastor laughs, and it’s quiet. “Maybe,” he compromises, “whatever will happen in the future hardly matters now.”
He pushes away from Vox, and Vox lets him. His hands remain on the man’s hips, and Alastor is smiling. It feels genuine. It feels real, and Vox wants to believe it’s just for him.
“I want to kiss you.”
“I know,” the man easily responds, “but I don’t.”
Vox nods, accepting his fate. It’s not cruel by any means, but it’s not the one he’s wished for, either.
“I should go now. I must stop by the bakery on my way back, as I am certain dear Husker has drunk himself into oblivion last night, and I must provide some sustenance for him to get sick on. But,” he says as he elegantly gets out of bed and snatches his now dry clothes, “thank you, Vox, for letting me stay here.”
“Always,” Vox replies to the closed door long after Alastor had left.
Vox has received an invitation to a masked ball. It’s a bit stupid, he thinks, even if he masks up people will still be able to tell who he is; his head shape is sadly very distinctive. But going might be good for networking, even though it’s on a no-name basis. Business talk might not be welcomed there, but even if not, it’s still a ball, and he’s not someone to turn down free food and some dancing.
Plus, Alastor might be there. It’s been a while since he’s really seen the man, and he longs to do so again. What mask would Alastor wear, he wonders? Maybe a smiling jester, or something like that. Vox smiles at that, and he starts thinking about his own mask. He’d want to look dashing, after all, even if Alastor wouldn’t be there.
On the eve of the ball, Vox is nervous. He’s never been invited to an event such as this, and truth be told, he’s not even sure what scored him the invitation at all. Maybe it was an address mistake, but he’s not about to question it; or even mention this to anyone.
He fixes his tuxedo for the thousandth time, even though it’s practically perfect. He’s decided to go with a Phantom of the Opera look because he’s always been good at singing. It’s a reach, sure, but why not? He didn’t exactly have that much time to organise himself a real costume, and this is good enough.
There are a lot of people inside, and Vox isn’t even sure where to start. Does he start with networking, or should that wait until later? It might be rude to get to business right away, but if he waits until later, they might all be too fucking smashed to talk sense. He’s gotta find that perfect middle-ground, and he’s sure he can manage that. Probably. Maybe.
Vox slides up to a group already engrossed in conversation, and he slips in all too easily. Soon enough, he’s leading the charge and they are eating out of his hand. He’s been praising one of his own products; of course without revealing that they are actually his, and at least two of them have already declared some interest in checking it out. One of the women has been stroking his arm for a few minutes already and Vox can see in her eyes how much she’d like to ravish him. He’s not against that, honestly, but she hasn’t been very interested in his tech so far.
“Forgive me,” an all-too known voice interrupts Vox’s constant wordflow, “may I kidnap that Phantom here?”
Vox turns around and is faced with Alastor. He reaches out his hand and Vox all too willing takes it. He doesn’t even care for the others’ comments as the man pulls him away. Alastor is wearing a black suit, cut differently than his usual one and he’s wearing a near full-faced mask. There’s one hole in it, just enough for one his eyes to peek out. It is indeed a jester’s mask, as Vox thought, but the jester cries; and doesn’t laugh.
“Alastor,” he starts.
“Shh, O Phantom of the Opera, we have no names here.”
Vox hooks his fingers under Alastor’s chin and lifts his face up. He then starts stroking his fingers over the man’s throat while his other hand grabs his waist.
“What may I call you then, dashing stranger?”
Alastor laughs. “I am but a humble jester, oh great Phantom. I must be hardly worth your time, with so much talent standing around, waiting to be harvested.”
Vox pulls him close and dips him a little, the masks giving him unseen confidence. “And still, the greatest talent lies in the humble ones, wouldn’t you say? Why else would they re-direct my ever hungering gaze towards those of lesser interest to me?”
“Dance with me, oh Phantom,” the jester breathes, “put your gaze solely on me.”
So Vox does. He interlocks their hands together, and pulls Alastor onto the dance floor. He perceives nobody else, just Alastor’s body against his own, and the music that leads them both. They dance, and dance, and dance. Vox dips Alastor almost to the floor and the man goes lax in his arms, allowing him to do everything he wishes. Pulling him back up, Alastor uses the momentum to put his hand against Vox’s neck.
“Are you satisfied, my phantom?”
“Nobody here is worth more than you. My gaze is fixated on you and you alone, and all I see, and it’s never enough. Dance for me, my pretty jester, dance more for me.”
“Your heart hangs on none here?”
Vox wants to kiss him so terribly bad. “Just you,” he whispers, “it only ever hangs on you.”
They’ve come to a standstill on the dance floor and Vox couldn’t give a crap. Alastor’s body is pressed against his own in full, and they’re staring into each other’s eyes, and Vox wants to kiss him; even on that stupid fucking mask.
“I invited you,” Alastor says, “I wished you to be here.”
“I want to kiss you.”
“O Phantom,” Alastor warbles, “your wishes are for naught, I fear so. This humble jester knows only how to weep, and kiss nevermore. I have said, so much talent waiting for you, and yet you pick the one who could not fulfil your hunger. Take your pick, and carry out your desires.”
“No,” Vox says, because Alastor has not moved an inch, “my desire is you, whatever form it takes. If it means I’ll kiss nevermore, then it be so. Let us dance, my jester humble, let us dance until the music stops.”
Vox starts moving again, and Alastor lets himself be pulled alongside him. Both of them try to maintain eye contact as much as they physically can, and the room around them might as well not exist. It’s just them, in a room lost in time, in the Twilight Zone of the morning. They dance and dance and dance, until the music stops. They do not separate.
They stand in the room, holding each other tight, with a hundred eyes watching them, or none at all. They don’t matter, as long as they remain here together.
“Forgive me, Vox,” Alastor says, “for not wanting to kiss you.”
Vox shakes his head. How could there be anything to forgive?
“No. You trust me enough to say this, and that... that matters so much to me.”
“Yet you wish more of me. My disposition will not change, my dear, it never will. If you hope it does...”
“No. Yes, I will always want to kiss you, and I’ll never deny it. But I’ll abstain from it, if it means being here with you. Everything you’re willing to give me, I’m blessed to receive.”
“And if it’s not enough? You’ll want more, down the road. Even though you cannot force yourself onto me, because I will rip your very insides apart, how many No’s can you truly take?”
“All of them,” Vox promises. He leans back a little, stroking alongside the crying mask.
“Whatever you give, I will take. Every No you say means you’re still here, and that you still care about me. Every No I hear, means that you haven’t walked away. Hold my hand. Hold my hand, and I’ll never let it go.”
Alastor does, and his fingers slot perfectly in-between Vox’s own. They stand here, forgotten by the world, and forever remembered in the soft light of the dawning day.