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Summary
Vox had always been his most ardent audience, and he certainly had literal stars in his eyes now, looking up at Alastor like he'd hung the moon. Alastor didn't want to close his eyes, because if he did he knew it would take him back fifty years to those early days in his own run down apartment. He wanted to hate the way Vox was touching him— and he did, he did —but there was a chaste, gentle familiarity to it that was causing static to crackle in the air around them.
Alastor hadn't thought Vox would touch him in anything other than violence ever again.