Archive of Our Own ^beta

Early May 1952

If the eyes are the window of the soul, then the voice is the bell that leads into it. It rings, calling anyone to look through the window, then to open the door–only if they’re welcomed enough. 

The bell’s ringing is nothing to be undermined, for whoever listened to it could have a vivid image of the soul house already, even before their heads turned. Make a haunting echo and they will be too frightened to turn around. Make a warm cheerful chime and they will stay next to the window, even if the house is crooked. 

A human voice isn’t just a product of vocal cords. It’s a profile. A collective timbre which may define one’s very existence. 

At least, that is what was in the mind of Vincent McGahan–or Vox, as he preferred to call himself. The name which means “voice” in Latin, that he picked since he learned to sing and play music. With that name, he decided to train his own voice to be as clear and enchanting as possible, so he could pursue his dream as an actor, or a singer. Becoming a musical actor would be even better– so his teenager self said.

While his future sadly didn’t come as he wished to be, his voice still helped him to maintain some privileges. Being taught strictly by his businessman father, he became a well-respected marketing manager of his family’s newspaper publishing company.  With all the connection he gained in the ever-growing journalism industry–especially in the surge of television, he had a chance to turned himself as a news anchor on a national TV channel, reporting big news such as the Booing’s huge recruitment to produce commercial passenger planes, resulting on population boom in his hometown Seattle, Washington.

Overall, his voice was still being heard by people, albeit not in the musical way–but even journalism has its own form of art, doesn't it?

It wasn’t enough for him. He couldn’t stay as a reporter under someone else’s watch. Thus, with all the resources he gathered, he tried to expand his route by building his own independent channel, proudly named “VoxTV”--which had been running for a year and a half, with slowly-but-steadily climbing ratings.

Then why did he feel so lost? What was he looking for exactly?

He had his own news report, quiz and music shows, and an advertisement gallery. Perhaps he needed more fresh ideas to compete with other channels. An idea he would wholeheartedly, personally support, if possible.

Tired of TV, Vox switched his radio on a certain frequency.

“To be fairly honest with you, my dear listeners, I have been missing out from theater shows lately.”

That voice again.

“My schedule has been so full it’s hard for me to keep up with the upcoming titles in theatres. I feel bored–no, jaded.”

This broadcast, with that lively, raspy warm voice of a man, had been his favorite for about three months. He’d listen to it while preparing for his TV broadcast, on a ride, working on his finance reports or taxes, or just resting before falling asleep. The host sounded friendly to him. Like a close fellow, a study partner, or a roommate.

A partner , huh?

“The lack of advertising for them doesn’t help at all. What are these extravagant picture boxes doing again? They can garner people’s attraction in no time, yet they’re too focused on the mediocre oh-so-lifelike motion pictures.”

Vox nodded. He assured himself, the VoxTV team already did their best to include promotional scenes, songs, and any info regarding musical titles. Though, it seemed like their efforts were still not enough.

“I wish television studios could be more accepting of theater shows. Just spread the news and schedules, or anything. If they really had to remake them into motion pictures, well, here is an advice from me : don’t make them boring! For example, use animation techniques. I’ve watched some musical animations and they’re fantastic! They could carry human emotions in such fun, whimsical ways. Hahaha! Surely an intriguing form of art. I’d love to see more.”

Drinking his night coffee, Vox was wondering how much capital he needed to spend for an animation studio. 

How he missed that laughter.

A cozy jazz tune played in the background. The radio host was about to set a transition.

“Now, before I get too far with my ramblings, let me present you another queue of lovely songs to lull your night away. Thank you for listening to my train of thoughts, and good night.”

His voice went off, while the music faded in.

Vox propped his chin and sighed, disappointed. He didn’t mind listening to more of the host’s venting. He wasn’t in a mood for random jazz anyway–or anything that wasn’t presented by the host.

So he switched the radio through random frequencies. Once he heard a familiar singing, he stopped.

There it was. A recording of the song “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile”, covered by Alastor.

Alastor. The radio host Vox just listened to.

The name that had been circling through his mind for a few days. The more he listened to him, the more he wanted to know anything about him.

While the cheerful song filled the air in his room, Vox opened a drawer, then pulled a collection of newspapers. He spread some pages, focusing on some portraits and titles about the same person.

Alastor Peters. “The Rising Radio Star”. The potential new stage actor. Stealing hearts with his speech and singing. Setting a new spotlight in the jazz and blues scene.

Some of the portraits are black and white, while the others had rather vague colors. Though, Vox already had a general image of Alastor’s appearance in his head. A man with glasses, tan skin, slender figure, and a pair of dark, droopy eyes.

The portraits weren’t that special–most of them are promotional bust-up shots. But those eyes and smile made them, in Vox’s sight, as mesmerizing and delicate as oil paintings at museums.

He was dead curious of what those dazzling, ethereal gaze may have beneath–other than his voice, which was a heavenly fit for his looks.

Setting the papers aside, Vox wrote two things in his notebook. One, the list of ideas for an original musical show, made for and by his own TV studio. He felt the need to thank Alastor for sharing the same interest in musicals–recalling his longtime passion and dream.

Which led him to note number two : a plan to meet Alastor in person.

He had been following Alastor’s schedules, and he would try to make some slack from work, to visit any place close to the radio host’s performing venue. No, he wasn’t planning for an interview, which would only make the star feel uncomfortable. He just wanted this to be a friendly meeting. No, he wouldn’t put his hope too high. It was no more than a lucky quest for him. Just to meet an idol. Nothing special.

If he somehow managed to meet him someday, it would be a dream come true.

April 1952

A human voice is a profile. As a radio broadcaster and a singer, Alastor Peters knew this too well.

His late mother, Martha Peters–a Creole woman, taught him the best about it. When he was a kid, she sang him lullabies, and read him folklores or fairytales while doing voice impressions of the characters. The voices she made were convincing but still distinctive enough to comfort him by her presence. She also guided him to practice on singing and playing piano, then brought him to watch a school theater show on Christmas. 

After the Little Alastor learned many different voices out there, he trained his own vocal to sing and act. His mother supported him to join a theater group, and perform proudly with his own voice and dance at a local operette. 

Since then, his interest in musical and storytelling–and entertainment in general–grew.

To make sure no one will underestimate him–for his darker skin and skinny figure, Alastor followed his mother’s advice. First, speak with confidence, poise, and clarity.  Second, smile. That way, he wouldn’t easily show himself as vulnerable. He also tried to fabricate a little bit of his speech patterns–or his accent, making his voice sound higher, to strengthen his profile as a charming, determined character.

For Alastor, a human voice, along with words and tones, is not just a defining personal attribute. It was also a weapon. He had to be careful with it. Else, it will turn against him.

A year after his mother’s death, Alastor proudly used her surname while moving from New Orleans, Louisiana, to Los Angeles. He never wanted to leave his dear homeland, but he had to.

Even after he worked as a bartender, then as a paid writer, then became a winner of a singing competition, until finally started his endeavor as a radio show host and a musician, he still had that name. The name that people loved, as much as they loved his voice and antics.

However, there was one of many unchecked goals of his : To become an actor. Preferably, a theater actor. Though he wasn’t sure if the actor agencies would likely give him a chance–he was aware of it.

While he was not a fan of television or motion pictures, he would admire anyone who clearly can act–popular or not.

On a late night in a deserted bar, Alastor worked on a new script for his next broadcast, sitting with his back on the bar’s television set. His two friends, or assistants–depending on how Alastor saw them, were still in their cleaning duty. Husk wiped the last table, tempted to take another shot of rum. Meanwhile Niffty, who had just finished tidying up the glasses, kept on switching the TV channels.

“You’ll break the picture tube if you keep doing that,” Husk grunted.

“I just want to watch something fun, Husker!” Nifty whined. “All I saw is boring news. Money, war, presidents–Oh, what’s this? Wait, I remember this show!”

It was a quiz show, in a segment where the contestants will guess a song’s lyrics or title. At the moment, one of the teams just got their highest score yet in a round. The host congratulated them with a loud, enthusiastic yet cool shout out, followed by a crowd’s applause.

“To those with lesser numbers, don’t be sad! There are still plenty of songs to be guessed. Keep your inner music encyclopedia with you, and don’t let it get loose!”

Nifty and Husk waited for the question, while Alastor was still writing.

“This one comes with the category of… Musical! Quite a challenge, so get ready!”

The host announced, then started singing a verse of the song.

“I dreamed last night I got on the boat to heaven.
And by same chance I had brought my dice along…”

At the end of the second line, he showed off his strong vibrato. With his bold, silky baritone voice, he didn’t even need background music to help him out. He hit all the notes flawlessly.

Alastor stopped writing.

“And there I stood, and I holiered, ‘Someone fade me.’”

The host stopped singing. He raised a finger, giving a sign for the contestants to continue the song. Most of them were visibly clueless. One was brave enough to push the bell.

“And the passengers they know… uh…”

Sadly, none of them could remember the next line well. The show was in silence for a moment.

“But the passengers they know right from wrong…”

Someone answered, but not from the show stage, nor from the TV set.

Husk turned his head. Alastor, who just sang the line perfectly, was staring at the TV, with a smile of excitement.

“You better lower down your voice before anyone hears you and ask for your autograph again,” said Husk. Alastor didn’t listen–not when the host finally had a say after seconds of silence.

“Yup! Almost there!” The suave gentleman exclaimed. “And the song title is…?”

“‘You’re Rocking The Boat’?” Guessed said contestant.

“‘Sit Down, You’re Rocking The Boat’ from the ‘Guys and Dolls’ broadway. Easy!” Alastor had his answer as well. Not a guess, but a certain recall.

The contestant got a bonus score. Then, the host recited the correct last line of the verse, along with the complete title. Just like Alastor did.

The applause rose once more. “If you have the full answers, that question would give you a score high enough to win tonight’s game right away! How unfortunate,” said the host with a chuckle.

“Alastor! You’re so good at this!” Nifty shifted her attention from the screen, cheering. “They should invite you to compete there!”

Alastor nodded, eyes still on the TV. “That would be a lovely appearance for everyone.”

“Hmph. I thought you’re not into ‘that stupid box’.” Husk smirked.

“It’s not about the television, Husker.” Alastor tilted his head. “There is something quite… intriguing about him. ”

For a while, his attention was locked into the quiz show’s host. A charismatic white man, showing posh gestures, like when he opened his one arm to let a contestant answer, or when he spun from the contestant row to the audience. His sharp charm was supported not only by his inviting voice and articulate speech, but also his sleek black hair, light-colored eyes, and a confident, brilliant smile.

The energy of a true showman filled the host’s whole presence.

“Do we know this man?” asked Alastor. “Is he a new actor I wasn’t aware of?”

“Not sure.” Husk shrugged. “I remember seeing him as a news anchor, though.”

“He showed up more often on this one channel. Vox TV!” Niffty informed.

Nonsense, Alastor thought. That kind of voice would be such a waste just to do mundane reporting or hosting. That voice deserved more songs, more ears to listen, and more promises.

Thus he stayed, watching the quiz, then answering the questions correctly until it ended.

“Thank you for joining us all here! We had such a blast tonight. I am your host Vox, and I will see you again next time on your favorite channel, VoxTV! Goodnight!”

The host waved on the camera, still with an assured smile. Until the camera zoomed out then cut into the end credits, Alastor had not looked away.

This man knew musical. He can sing and act the song wholeheartedly. Even better, he called himself with the same name as the TV channel. What a hilarious gimmick! Not everyone is bold enough to pull it off.

Wouldn’t it be nice if they could meet each other someday?

Alastor imagined the many opportunities he would possibly have with this “Mr. Vox”. Inviting him as a guest on his radio show–only if the station allowed him to, or coming into his show as a guest himself. Regardless of his personal thoughts on the technology, he had to admit, a TV person would make a great connection for him, to help him spread his wings wider in the entertainment sphere.

Although his pride was too high to make an initiative first, something about Vox was telling him, that any new chance he will have next would be a pleasant, promising one.

Late May 1952

That night, the two gazes met each other.

Vox was about to leave the crowded bar after only taking a few shots of whiskey. It was yet another uneventful night for him. His mind was mudded with doubt and fear, waiting for the uncertain–aside from the confirmation from the shooting kit provider team, who was supposed to give him an exact date of distribution, or whether or not those debt collectors would come after him. 

Thankfully, the night didn’t allow him to go earlier.

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen!”

A voice he knew so well was heard, right in the same room. It washed all of his doubts like fresh rainfall. He looked straight to the bar stage, and didn't look away for minutes.

“Thank you for having me here! Such a pleasure! Please, have some drinks while I celebrate your precious evening with a collection of songs.”

That warm voice, much softer without the radio filter, came from a man with glasses and a black bowtie, striking a confident pose before singing a melody, following the cello strums. Vox watched how the vibrant colors of the man’s brown skin and brunette hair shone under the stage’s lights, as he moved so lively–as if he was a hand-drawn animated fairytale prince.

Then those eyes. Dear Lord, those eyes.

The glimmering hazel from the eyes, quite a contrast against the darker shades on his eyelids. Vox felt exceptionally lucky to sit pretty close to the stage, to see how the singer blinked slowly, after he called his audience to sing along or when he reached the lower notes of a song, and when he laughed in a song’s bridge. 

Also, when the singer looked around the audience, until his eyes stopped at Vox for a good couple seconds.

Vox held his breath. His wait was not in vain.

Alastor Peters is here.

The radio star is here, and he is looking at him with a smile.

Had he recognized him before?

Alastor continued to the next song, then had a stare at Vox once again. When the song ended, he had some chit-chat with people, followed by some stand-up humor sections. Then he looked at Vox, again, with a not-so-wide, enigmatic smile.

“Is anyone here willing to sing out their heart tonight?” Alastor asked out loud. “I am quite in the mood to share my stage with someone.”

He said ‘anyone’, yet he didn’t bother to look at the people raising their hands. He almost immediately pointed at a particular someone.

“You! The bright-looking young man over there!”

Vox’s wide shoulders stiffened. No, the radio host couldn’t be calling him like that. He must have pointed at someone else behind.

“Yes, you! The one with a comfy turtleneck. I am inviting you to the stage!”

Vox’s heart stopped for a moment.

Nervous yet vigorous, he walked to the stage, while Alastor stepped down and sat, leaving the microphone stand for the newcomer.

Vox would try his best not to ruin this miraculous chance.

.

.

That night, the two gazes met each other.

Testing someone’s worth with a singing challenge had always been Alastor’s favorite game. He would enjoy watching how people, especially non-performers, struggle to maintain their composure in front of at least a dozen sets of eyes. It usually would result in an awkward act, out of tune singing, missing lyrics, or a rather joyous surprise from a hidden talent.

At that moment, he waited for the latter.

The man he just challenged was a performer–and he knew it. The TV host who, somehow, came into him by destiny. The ‘destiny’ here, though, was Alastor being aware that the host might have been following him recently. 

Not that he disliked such attention, of course.

“How do you do tonight, ladies and gentlemen?” The TV man cleared his throat. “It’s such a pleasure to be here. You can call me Vox. You may have seen me on TV as a news anchor, or as a host on my own broadcast.”

Some guests cheered, while Alastor was listening, with a satisfied smirk.

“Now, accepting Mr. Peters’ generous offer,” He nodded politely to Alastor, “I will present to you one of my favorite songs : ‘My Way’.” 

Alastor still sat down next to the stage, witnessing all of his expectations exceeded, one by one.

Without the barrier of a TV box, “Mr. Vox”’s voice, bold but tender, was flowing honey smooth. His timbre was strong, yet soft. The lower pitches he made stroke ears like a chilling night wind. Throughout the song, he hit all the melody twists flawlessly.

As a jazz fan, Alastor marked it as one of the best renditions of “My Way”. Vox’s modest dance swings followed the rhythm, giving more colors to the performance. Though, Alastor saw no more striking color from the stage than those shining blue eyes. 

Not even the technology of TV screens could replicate that ice-like spectrum. Even better, it was easy enough for him to remember the gazes. Because Vox stared at him, turned his face to him every minute. Alastor dared himself to stare back, as long as he pleased.

In Vox’s eyes, he saw confidence. Curiosity and wonder. 

Passion and desire.

As soon as Vox finished, Alastor had decided. He would like to have a friendly eye-to-eye hour with the media entrepreneur, with a couple glasses of whiskey to lighten up the night.

.

.

.

“Mr. Vox, am I correct?” Alastor was about to take a seat right by Vox’s side.

Vox turned his head in surprise, while still having his charming posture–with straight shoulders, relaxed neck and well-groomed hair.

“Yes! Correct, Sir,” he replied, as Alastor sat down. “Thank you for the invitation. I needed it.”

“Your performance colored me impressed.” Alastor gave his glass a gentle shake.

“I am honored to hear that. Was my singing good enough?”

“Good enough?” Alastor chuckled. “I was actually astonished with the fact that you’re not a renowned singer already. You have talents, my good man!”

“Haha! Thank you. I’m pretty much proud of myself for that.” Vox grinned. “Your songs from the radio broadcasts… they inspired me to sing again after a while…”

“Oh? So you’re one of my listeners!”

“Yes! Not just your songs, but also your talk shows, stories…”

“Why, I’m flattered!”

“I still remember when you talked about theater shows, and I agree with you.”

“I knew you would. The way you recited musical lyrics on your show told me so.”

Vox’s eyes widened. “Wait! You watched my shows, too? I thought you don’t like TV.”

“Well, I might have changed my mind, or not. Who knows.”

“My channel, VoxTV, is rather new compared to the others. I’m still looking to improve the quality of my programs. If you have any feedback, you may–”

“First of all,” Alastor squinted, “is the name really just ‘Vox’?”

“Yes. It’s my brand name. Just need to make it simple enough to–”

“No, no, not the TV thing. Your name.”

“Huh?”

“Yes! Is your name just Vox, or do you have other names I don’t know?”

“Yeah, but… The thing is, I’ve been using that name since high school. I was in a band, playing guitar and a little bit of violin. So I wanted to pick a name that sounds less… generic.”

“I see. How charming! Pretty much reminds me of my school days back then. I played piano for the church and the school theater.” Alastor took a sip. “I didn’t have any desire to change my name, though. My best branding is my own authentic self.”

“That’s why you’re awesome.” Vox, following Alastor, also took a sip. 

“What’s wrong with your real name?” Alastor asked.

“Nothing. It just feels less desirable. It’s not marketable either, in my opinion.”

“Well, I won’t know how ‘undesirable’ your real name is, unless I know what it sounds like.”

“Do you think so?” Vox asked in a rhetorical tone.

Alastor gave a brief nod. “So, your real name is…?”

“Vincent.” Vox answered, smiling before looking away for a moment. “Vincent McGahan.”

“McGahan? Hmm! Have I heard that name before?”

“You probably have, especially if you worked for a publisher before.”

“Apparently I did. It was a long story–too long even for this evening.” Alastor cackled. “Anyway…”

Both seemed to successfully cut the topics they avoided talking about. Vox with his family company, and Alastor with his past career.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of your name.” Alastor looked at Vox, inviting him to smile along. “It fits you better as a showman.”

“That’s so kind of you. Though, I already made my own brand. I still need to separate it from my personal life.”

“Oh, how rude of me! I haven’t greeted you properly yet.” Alastor grabbed Vox’s hand. “Alastor Peters. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vox McGahan!”

They shook hands. “My pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Peters. Really!” Vox said with genuine excitement in his small laughter.

“There goes my first feedback for you. Next is about your channel.”

“Please tell me.”

“I don’t watch it often, but I think it lacks variety.”

“I agree. I have some plans for it, such as…” Vox pulled a small notebook out of his jacket, then opened a certain page, showing it to his drinking partner, “an original musical!”

“Huh! Quite an ambitious idea you have here, my friend.”

“I already minimized the scale to be more reasonable with the budget we have currently.”

“I hope you can execute it well into fruition. The premise is promising enough–it made me miss those bedtime folktales. I’m intrigued!”

“I’m glad to hear that. I wrote it all myself.”

“Impressive! But it’s still too brief here. Can you tell me more?”

“Sure thing!”

Vox never had been so agitated in a pitch–not even in front of producers and investors. He could feel heartbeats between his own words, making sure he won’t mess anything up. Meanwhile, Alastor listened to him.

He was listening, looking rather relaxed, resting his head on a hand while playing with his whiskey glass, still smiling. It was up to Vox whether he could guess the radio host’s impression of him or not.

“...And then, the tragic fate prevails for the hero–”

Vox stopped, as soon as Alastor started to laugh for quite a moment.

“Is there something funny?” said Vox, after giving Alastor more time to laugh. He enjoyed his laughter anyway.

“My apology,” Alastor chuckled. “It wasn’t about your story–it’s a decent narrative for a musical, I can say.”

“Then why were you laughing?”

“Nothing much. I was merely, for a few seconds, imagining you playing the hero role yourself.”

“Really? Do you want to see me acting?”

“Yes! Why not!”

“I’d love to try. I always wanted to perform in a story myself. Though I think it’s too late…”

“Do you mind if I give you a more honest opinion?”

“I wouldn’t mind. Please do!”

Alastor folded his arms on the bar counter table, still in a laid-back position.

“You look overwhelmed,” he uttered.

“What?”

“You look young and fit, but also tired. Something must have worn you out.”

Vox laughed awkwardly. “Are my eyebags too obvious?”

“Actually no, they are not. Your face is still fair and fresh. You seem happy while also hiding pressures inside you.”

Vox took a deep breath. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No, not really,” Alastor answered, half-lying. “I just wish you would be more careful with the way you present yourself. You don’t want people to see you vulnerable this way.”

“Well. I need some rest, honestly.”

“Why don’t you take more sips? It may calm you down.” 

Right after saying so, Alastor took a little sip from his glass. This time, Vox didn’t follow him.

He couldn’t stop staring at that man. The harmony of piano, bass and saxophone on stage, subtly brought smooth vibrations to the moment. A warm soothing jazz, and the golden lighting around the bar; a perfect panorama for the man’s figure on his side. That side profile alone could become a new artistic masterpiece, Vox thought.

“I was serious about you being an actor, Vox,” Alastor continued. “You have everything; well-built looks and voice, and you clearly know how to perform. Signing yourself up to the agencies should be a walk in the park.”

Albeit not having another drink, Vox did feel less tense and nervous. Alastor called his name casually, complimented him, even cared for him enough to give him some advice. He couldn’t ask for more.

Or could he?

His breath got steadier, easier for him to speak his heart out.

“You can be a good actor as well, Mr. Peters.”

“Oh?” Alastor raised his eyebrows. “Why do you think so?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Alastor smirked. “I’ve heard that word a million times already. Anything else?”

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

His smirk twisted. “Pardon?”

“I said what I meant.” Vox rested his arms on the table, slowly. “Your eyes, your face, your voice… everything in you would be an excellent view on a stage, or in a frame. I couldn’t get enough of picturing it.”

Alastor held his chuckle. “Eager tonight, are you?” 

“What? Is that weird?” Vox decided to let out a chuckle first. “I’m sure those women who were swooning over you would agree with me.”

“The only one who is looking at me with such affection right now is you, Mr. Vox.”

“Can you blame me?” Vox won’t hold anything back anymore. “You had me captivated for months.”

“Then I should be amazed by my own appeal, while also being more careful with it. I don’t want to entice a hungry tiger to pounce on me.”

Alastor giggled. Vox, once again, followed him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Peters. This tiger put enough respect on you to prevent himself from doing any harm on you,” he said with an assuring tone.

“And how can I make sure of it?” Alastor asked tauntingly.

“You can ask me anything–aside from my work!” Vox said, brighter than before.

“Let’s see, then. What have you been planning for me, for the last few months?”

“Well, I’d like to give you a special offer : to join an actor agency! I can give you a place in my creative team as well, if you want.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Because… I heard you wanted to become an actor.”

“Fine. Interesting offers. Sadly,” Alastor let out a short sigh, “I believe most agencies will not likely accept profiles from people like me.”

“Why is that?”

“Because our faces are less… ‘marketable’, as they put it.”

“Then you came to the right place!”

“Frankly, I can’t see how your commercial visions differ from anybody else.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Sir!” Vox snapped his fingers. “My creative team and affiliates believe in artistic integrity more than just ‘pretty faces’. For talent scouting in particular, acting skill requirements are above anything else. We may be new, but we have standards!”

“Thank you for the sweet promises, Mr. Vox. But, I’m afraid I can’t join your plan any sooner. My schedule is quite full for the next few months.”

“That’s fine. We can save it for later.” Vox took a slow sip. “Now I wonder. If you become an actor, what kind of show or movie do you wish to be a part of? That could be a reference for me.”

“Anything energetic is fine by me, Vox. Even the terrible ones.”

“Are you sure? Don’t you mind the bad publicity?”

“Bad publicity is still publicity, my gentle showman! I’d rather play in a hilariously bad show than in a good-but-boring one.”

Vox giggled. “Heh! Fair enough!”

“Besides, I said ‘energetic’ because, I have to admit, I’m not really good with mellow, sappy roles.”

“I see. You never tried a melancholic play before? Even the classic titles, when you were younger?”

“Well, I’ve tried some. I did try to recite my lines slowly and somberly… only to turn into a pathetic jester at the end!”

Alastor laughed hard. As he continued recounting the plays he had in his adolescence, Vox’s smile widened. The radio host was known for his seemingly-everlasting smile, and to witness more shades of his expressions was truly a rare moment for Vox. His frowns, his whimper, and so on.

Alastor didn’t show too much–his smile still persisted. But they were there, when he recalled a role where he was supposed to be angry in despair, to cry in silence, or to portray a creeping fear. He wasn’t really capable of showing subtle emotions–so he claimed.

Yet, Vox couldn’t appreciate his effort more.

Alastor kept on retelling his past plays, until he saw how Vox was getting closer to him. Their knees touched each other. So did their whiskey glasses.

Their hands also touched. Almost.

Four eyes met, closer.

Alastor stopped talking.

“Ah! Sorry,” Vox looked away for a while–not moving, even his hands were still in their place, just an inch away from Alastor’s fingers. “Please continue! I’d love to hear more.”

“I think that’s all of it.” Alastor shrugged. “As you can see, I need to spend more time practicing to truly become an actor, which is something I could barely do amidst my broadcasting days.”

Vox nodded. “You did it pretty well, though.”

“How well was it?”

“Well enough for me to realize that your smile isn’t the only beautiful thing in you.”

Alastor cackled once again. “Oh, please! Enough with all the flattery!”

“I meant it.” Vox lowered down his voice a little. “It fascinates me to see the other sides of the radio star.”

Alastor stared at him. Seeing that soft smile and endearing bright eyes, he knew Vox held his words tight. He took a sip, glared away and had a little chit-chat with a bartender and some wandering admirers.

Vox’s smile was still there, as close as before.

He looked at Vox again, then let out a small sigh. “Unfortunately, you won’t see those ‘other sides of me’ as often as you wished for, my dear friend.”

“Understandable,” Vox answered gently. “It must have taken quite a courage for you to show them to anyone, and I really appreciate it.”

This was far from the first time for Alastor, to have someone trying to get closer to him. Normally, he would change the conversation if he is in a group, or just find a way to leave the spot if he is alone. If they followed him, he’d tell them to stop. As much as he liked any kind of attention, having someone disrupting his personal space is one of many things he despised. 

However, this time was different. Vox was a different case to him. 

Alastor enjoyed his attention–no, his admiration, more than he ever expected. He had those bizarre feelings, of being stared at by those ice-clear eyes, and hearing that voice near to his earlobes, all creeping under his skin.

And he enjoyed it.

It was probably a sign of finding a like-minded friend–so he told himself. Not wanting to end this encounter in a sour taste, he held Vox’s hand.

“I still have plenty of time here. Why don’t we sing together on stage, my charming fellow?”

Vox startled as Alastor pulled his arm. “Wait, wha–”

The radio broadcaster let the party go on.

That way, perhaps, he could get rid of those strange, unwelcome feelings faster.

That night, the audience cheered for the two showmen.

“Now, sing us another song, my honorable TV host!”

“Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to sing first, Mr. Radio Star?”

“Alright, if you insist! I hope you won’t mind if I give you a sudden challenge.”

“I will gladly take it!”

“Try not to embarrass yourself, my friend.”

“I will make you proud. Trust me.”

A human voice defines one’s existence. Like a chiming bell, it may stay in other’s minds long after they visit their soul house. The visitor would dream to listen to its ringing over and over again, regardless of whether they’re welcomed to stay longer or not.

Vox already knew that quite well–he embraced it even more after that night. Alastor, on the other hand, still tried to decipher the whole new meaning of it. He really needed to.

Sitting in his apartment room, he was preparing scripts for various shows–news report, storytime, and a quirky bit of an audio drama–while his thoughts were floating away from anything in those stacking papers.

As far as he remembered, the only voices he loved to listen to were his late mother’s and a few of his favorite singers. Even his reasons for them were entirely different from whatever he was feeling about this new man’s voice.

Alastor was aware, his curiosity for Vox went further than he expected. Where did he come from? How long had he been in the media field? How did he get all those theatrical ideas? Does he enjoy other kinds of music than jazz? Would he like a serving of Jambalaya? More importantly, why would he ask this much about him?

There are only a few reasons for him to pay on such details about someone else. Either he hated them so much that he wanted to do something about them, or he found an opportunity for his own benefit, be it wealth or influence.

He was sure, in this case, it was the latter. Thus, he accepted Vox’s request to meet again in the same bar before leaving.

That man might look like a young desperate salesman, but he certainly had skills and potential–and more money, for sure. He would try to take Vox’s interest in him to his advantage. If necessary, he wouldn’t mind making him a close friend to share drinks and games with.

Nothing more.

“You’re beautiful.”

“...Your smile isn’t the only beautiful thing in you.”

That voice soothingly echoed in his head. It won’t stop any sooner.

He just needed a sleep. It will be gone in the next morning, surely.

.

.

.

(End)