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Summary
Alastor's brow furrows in uncertainty as his smile shifts to a small, hesitantly genuine thing—real, it's fucking real like Vox hasn't seen in decades—the white noise that surrounds them intensifying painfully as it drowns out all else. It itches and chafes at the edges of his awareness as if desperate to consume, or—no, to merge. But there's no fucking chance of that—not now, or ever again—so he holds firm against it and can only watch as Alastor's lips move silently, questioningly.
Picture Box?
Vox thinks he might throw up.
Alastor is back after a seven year absence, but is no longer the man Vox once knew. Still, Vox knows one thing: he won't let anyone take Alastor from him ever again.
[update planned for August after I finish other commitments]