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Focusing deeply, Vincent adjusted the camera that faced a backdrop for his upcoming talk show, which was set to air on the weekend. He fiddled with the controls as he adjusted the settings, ensuring that the scene's values would come together cleanly… All that techy, camera shit that Alastor never understood. Reigning as the king of radio podcasts, he preferred his talks to have no visuals, thank you very much. With him, the audience imagines everything, being the theater of the mind, while Vincent’s network demanded precision, staging, lighting, makeup, and framing—a flashy spectacle, but undeniably special in its own ways.
Alastor tiptoed towards Vincent, intensely evaluating his setup, pushing aside a curtain as his last footstep made a faint sound audible enough to make Vincent notice. The man snapped out of focus, a smile growing on his face as he let go of the camera.
“You stalking my studio again?” Vincent grinned, brushing dust off his hands, his head turning slightly to acknowledge the other’s presence. “Al?”
Alastor answered, lips curved inwards, stepping further in as though he owned the place. “Somebody has to keep you from drowning in all these wires, my friend.” He pushed aside carts of equipment, a stage light with wheels, crossing his hands as he stood beside Vincent, eyeing the setup. A red cushioned sofa with a short coffee table in front of it sat beside Vincent’s talk-show podium, a large screen displaying the news network’s signature background. “You’ll be sitting there,” he pointed, “and I’ll be across you. It may seem awkward to be sideways, but I promise it’s better when it actually happens.” Alastor raised an eyebrow, entertained by the idea. “The more I see this, the more I want to go back to my radio show.” He smoothed down his shirt. “It makes my eyes ache. Are you not blinded by these lights?”
Vincent chuckled, hands on his hips, inspecting his work. “Naahh. The lights help in getting the audience hooked. Would you like to watch a show with colors so dull?” Alastor pushed his shoulders back, Vincent taking the hint. “Oh. You would.” A stillness lingered between them, only for the TV star to take Alastor by the hand, startling him, as he pulled him to follow. “Let’s go to my office—I’ll get you a drink,” he beamed, Alastor silent as he was dragged across the studio, Vincent’s office coming into sight.
The door was pushed open as the familiar sight of Vincent’s office, filled with sharks, paraphernalia, pictures of him, his production team, his table, and a large, blue couch, came into view. He finally let go of Alastor, rushing to one of the cabinets with cute baby shark figurines on top of it, opening the panels to pull out whiskey and two glasses. Alastor scanned the view, letting out a slight smile when he saw his gift to Vincent: a tiny microphone, now kept in a glass box, sitting on one of the shelves labeled ‘awesome things’ with poor handwriting.
He stood in front of it and surveyed the other items on the shelf before the sound of glass being loudly placed on a table echoed throughout the room. “Have a drink,” Vincent said, sitting down at the table with a sigh. This was almost tradition, coming into his office on late nights, drinking their asses off, laughing and talking about random shit until Vincent’s assistant, Ethan, would knock on the door and witness them asleep on the couch.
“Thank you,” Alastor chimed, taking his seat beside Vincent. Like he always had.
After finishing up half the bottle and a joke being mentioned, the two of them laughed, the sound filling up the room, followed by an awkward silence when they both took a sip.
To break the silence, Alastor snorts. “What’s your deal with those wigs?” he asks, eyes drifting away from his glass. A pile of women’s wigs lay piled in a box in the corner: some white and fluffy, some exotic colors, some simple and sleek. Vincent beams. “Glad you asked! Sometimes, I let my guests enter from the back, then the audience has to guess who they are—”
“—You have an audience?”
“—The viewers, whoever, wherever they may be, just for funsies.” Vincent’s eyes seem to light up. “What if you do that?” Pure joy and excitement plastered on his face, Alastor dismisses the idea. “Not into that,” he says, with a flick of his hand and a roll of his eyes. “Come ooonn, try one!” Vincent quickly set down his glass, shot up, and rummaged through the box, pulling out various wigs of all designs and waving them towards the radio host for approval. “If there’s anything that matches me, I might,” he says with gritted teeth, standing up. “Remember, I’m only doing this because you look utterly pathetic showing me those horrendous options.”
Vincent rolls his eyes and steps back, letting Alastor look for one that best suits his taste, tapping his leg in anticipation. He strides back to the table to pick up his whiskey when Alastor stands up, recollecting his posture, holding a curly brown-haired wig with lots of volume. “I’ll try this, but I’m not showing you unless it looks good,” he groans, entering the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. Vincent is dumbfounded by the situation, but he sits down, lying comfortably on the sofa as he takes yet another sip of his drink. Sure enough, after what seemed like forever, the bathroom door creaked open, startling Vincent as he slowly dozed off.
Alastor stepped out of the bathroom, his new curly brown hair peeking out from the door, his eyes following, an innocent, amused grin on his lips. “This seems kind of humiliating, to say the least,” he mumbles, tucking his fake hair behind his ear when he bows his head while exiting.
Vincent choked on his own breath, struck silent. It’s just a stupid wig, yet something about Alastor stepping out like that, the shy smile, the curl he tucks behind his ear, knocks the air out of him. Everything felt different, like it had altered something in his brain system.
His fingers tighten around his glass.
“Oh,” he says, too softly. He clears his throat. “I mean—oh. That’s… that’s not bad.”
His cheeks burn up, his heart racing. He suppresses whatever odd feeling his making his stomach rumble, forcing his gaze to stay on that wig, that wig, that wig, but all he thinks of is Alastor, Alastor, Alastor, looking abso-fucking-lutely… gorgeous.
But he can’t stop staring.
The silence stretches. Time freezes as the two stand stiffly across from each other.
Alastor runs two hands through his hair, giving it volume. “Well,” he laughs at the idea, “It looks ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Vincent blurts, far too quickly. “No, it—actually, you look…”
He swallows hard. “You look good.” He laughs it off, but he knows. He shouldn’t have said it. He feels the panic rise, hot and sharp, hoping the dim lighting compensates for the way his face has gone a horrible shade of pink.
Pull it together, Vincent. Men don’t say things like that. Men don’t think things like that.
He feels his brain fogging when he passes out.
Vincent jerks awake with a gasp, sitting bolt upright, forehead clashing with Alastor’s, who had apparently been leaning very close to check his breathing. The two of them draw back, clutching their foreheads in pain. Vincent goes to open his eyes, just to see…
Alastor was still wearing the same wig.
He coughs. “Vincent? Are—are you alright?” A faint smile forms at the sight of Vincent blinking, his vision blurry and his head heavy. “Maybe the amount of whiskey you’ve drunk caused this,” he mumbles, picking up the bottle and noticing how it was almost empty.
Vincent freezes. Alastor’s there beside him, curls bouncing slightly as he bends closer to the table, placing the drink back, turning to face Vincent again, worry etched across his face.
“Oh fuck—” he croaks, staring straight at the curls, admiring how wonderfully they framed Alastor’s face.
Alastor blinks, stunned. “What? What’s wrong? Does your head hurt?”
“No—no, it’s just—why are you—” He lets out a shaky exhale. “Why is the wig still… on?”
Alastor touches it instinctively, confused.
“This? You fainted so fast, my friend, I didn’t have time to take it off. Plus, I feel quite dapper with this lady-like appearance. So elegant!”
Vincent squeezes his eyes shut, bringing his hands up to cover his face, unsure of the emotions he is feeling. “What the fuck.”
Alastor’s voice softens. “You gave me quite a fright, you know.” Vincent opens one eye. That damned wig is still on? His pulse explodes. Alastor leans even closer, curls brushing Vincent’s forehead. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Vincent lets out a weak growl. “Get the fuck away from me—and don’t look at me like that—”
Alastor pulls back, baffled. “Like what?” Vincent points accusingly at the wig. “Like—fuck—nevermind—”
Alastor’s wig tilts slightly when he tilts his head, and Vincent nearly passes out again. He stays silent as he curls up into a ball, processing everything that he’d felt. Why was he so nervous? Why did Alastor look like such a girl? Why were his cheeks burning up? Why did he feel like he wanted to kiss—
Alastor yanks him forward just enough that their faces hover inches apart, close enough to feel each other’s breath, warm and shaky. He grasps onto the arm that was gripping his collar, his hands trembling feverishly.
“Explain,” Alastor murmurs, his voice low but unsteady.
“Why does this wig upset you so much?”
Vincent can’t think, breathe, or move; their noses are almost touching. The two stare into each other’s eyes. They stay like that for a heartbeat, the radio host holding the TV host’s collar, Vincent’s hand sliding to the back of Alastor’s head, fingers sinking gently into the curls, his thumb brushing the warm nape of his neck. It’s inherently intimate, the two almost sharing a kiss, time stopping.
They were two men from the same world, shaped by different corners of it. Alastor, the voice of entertainment built on audible charm and mystery, Vincent, the face of entertainment, built on visuals and spectacle, possessing different mediums sharing, different approaches, yet equipped with the same wonder, one meant to be heard, one meant to be seen—
One, suppressing emotions he wouldn’t dare tell.
One, completely oblivious to the storm he’d stirred in the other’s heart.
Maybe that’s why the moment felt so charged, so electric—like opposite forces drawn together, creating something that shouldn’t exist. Because for men like them, affection this close could bend the laws of the world they lived in.
Because two men admitting love would split reality in half.
The two of them broke apart, closeness dissolved, inch by inch, until nothing was left but the echo of it.
Alastor looked off at a distance, disregarding what had happened.
However, Vincent wanted more. He wanted to pull Alastor in, feel him, taste him, let his hands roam freely, grab those lustrous curls and twirl them with his fingers, do unholy things to him—that fuzzy feel in his stomach turned into a bitter taste resting on his throat as he pushed away the thoughts filling his mind. What horrible, horrible thoughts.
The radio host stood up, pulling the wig off and walking over to the corner as he tossed it aside mechanically; the TV host watched as the simplest of moments drove him crazy. Though his forehead was beaded with sweat, Alastor was back to normal. Vincent faced reality, which crushed him like a speeding train. No more of that girl. Fucking finally.
“It appears that you’ve recovered,” Alastor awkwardly muttered. “So I’ll make my leave.” He picked up his things, which were sprawled on the table, Vincent’s arms resting on his knees as his eyes pointed upwards, his head kept low. “Thank you for the drink,” he paused. “And see you on Saturday.”
On that note, Alastor had gone.
Vincent dove backwards into the sofa, hands covering his face as he kicked his legs and shrieked.
A breathless screech erupted from his throat.
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!?”
Little had he known that little encounter would change his life forever.
And the afterlife.