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Vox finally had *him*
Alastor had rejected him in such a humiliating way all those years ago - he had tried and tried to act unbothered, even during their on and off again rela- friendsh.. no. Their time together before they became enemies. Friends and friendship seemed to be Alastor's trigger word.
Although he had the bastard at his mercy, Alastor was still being so bratty and annoying. The Radio Demon was tied up against a chair, had been muzzled by cloth and cables this whole time, and was STILL *baiting* and *mocking* Vox.
Vox was drinking some whiskey, trying to ignore Alastor who was sat in front of his desk. The day was coming to an end, it had been a few hours since their little song and dance..
"You really haven't changed, have you?" Alastor's voice cut through the air like a blade. It was irritating.
Vox took a deep breath. "Hah, and what exactly do you mean by that, Al?" Vox asked, it took everything in him to not snarl.
"You're still so reliant on silly things like alcohol and relations. It's pathetic, really." Alastor mocked, as if he didn't have the odd drink. Damn brat.
"I really am trying to be nice, Alastor." Vox said bitterly. It was a half-truth. "But you really are still a bitch, hm?"
"You didn't seem to carry that same sentiment earlier when we were dancing and you were treating me like a puppet, hm?" Alastor's voice was mocking, a deliberate hit to his pride. Vox knew that. And it still worked. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you missed when we used to dance together."
Vox's eyes widened at the memory. And for the second time that day, a memory flooded back to him. It was almost bittersweet now.
They were both drunk and in some bar that didn't exist anymore. It was one of the lesser known bars, perfect to not have to worry about someone seeing them.
They were dancing together, twirling around the bar with soft jazz playing from the almost obnoxious speaker. Alastor was giggling like an idiot as they stayed close.
Alastor was admittedly the stronger dancer out of the two, partly due to his party days while alive, however he always let Vox take the lead.
The unsynchronised dance that they'd made up on the spot slowly became more proper, Vox had practically swept Alastor into a waltz.
Vox remembered how he'd practically heard nothing except Alastor's laughing and the swish of his coat tails. Vox dipped Alastor without warning, and yet it all seemed so natural. The reds of hell and Alastor in general almost seemed pink, tinged with something Vox didn't dare call love.
Vox's breath hitched as he returned to the present. He wanted Alastor to look at him like that again, but it was far too late for that now.
Vox suddenly slammed his glass down on his desk, he took a deep breath to compose himself before abrupt standing up, the chair scraping against the floor sharply. He adjusted his lapels and bowtie before making his way out of the room, pausing as he arrived beside Alastor.
"Fine. Be like that, then." Vox said, his voice almost venomous. Nothing like the Vincent he knew before.
Alastor raised an eyebrow, but before he could question or mock or speak - Vox grabbed the chair he was on and pushed it violently.
Alastor skidded across the room, spinning as he went. His feet scraped at the floor in an attempt to stop himself, but it wasn't a success. Alastor bumped into the wall right beside the window and glanced down at the wheels of the chair he was tied to. That would've been rather fun if he'd had control of the trajectory and been warned before it happened.
He looked up at Vox with a raised eyebrow, only to see the Television Demon exiting the room, slamming the door behind him like a child.
Alastor rolled his eyes, looking back towards the window and at the view of hell he now had. He could faintly see the outlines of the hotel and cannibal town. He let out a scoff, his nose scrunching up in annoyance as he looked away.
He looked around the room again, it was all sleek and modern, frankly disgusting, in Alastor's opinion. He sighed and looked down, glancing at his chest in an attempt to check on his dammed wound.
Upon seeing that there was no blood, he just looked at the ceiling instead.
He'd have to brainstorm more insults to hurl at Vox, which would likely be very easily. If he couldn't be trusted to walk around on his own when he'd handed himself over, then he was going to do everything in his power to annoy Vox and see that smug expression turn into one of embarrassment and frustration.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, is what he tried to tell himself.