Work Text:
Day 5: Cards-Paper | Digital| Signiture
They started off rare, random, and intersperced by days.
Tiny paper cards.
Sticky notes.
Folded, neatly torn squares of paper.
Velvet found them in her workshop, her studio, her bedroom; sometimes they came with compliments, sometimes with funny little comments, sometimes with playful doodles. She thought they were from Val, at first, until she got the first ones on her sinstagram. The ones that were undeniably, obviously Vox. Stupid memes and gifs and shit that would normally make her giggle. Mean things about stupid people, catty little notes on her videos about the people involved. She tried to ignore them. She was furious with him. He'd tried to ditch them. He'd hurt Val. The fucker was lucky they'd taken him back. Lucky they even let him have a body. She wasn't going to be wooed back to him with stupid mean girl comments and little notes practically pleading for her to talk to him. To notice him.
So even when he left her little pictures of them pigging out when no one could see them or notes that told her how perfect her newest dress was, she didn't answer him. Didn't give him the time of day or the benefit of her grace.
Valentino found them a few days after Velvet's started; drawings of little sharks with hearts above their heads, notes that asked if he'd eaten, if he'd slept well, reminding him where his glasses were and telling him how pretty he looked that day, how beautiful, how sexy.
But he wouldn't forget and forgive that easy. That fucker had tried to run out on him. Ditch him. Worse, he'd tried to give up, to throw everything and everyone away. To throw Val away. Over that stupid fucking deer.
Val was done being thrown away. He'd been done being thrown away for years. Well since before he died. He was not going to let some tv headed creep to it, too. Vox wasn't even a fucking ten! Hell, he wasn't even an eight!
(Okay, he was maybe an eight.)
It was going to take more then notes pinned to his tablet complimenting his latest art, or stupid, racist, offensive e-cards in Spanish singing at him, or notes sitting on his pillow in the bed that Vox was banned from that read, simply, I miss you.
Even if it did make his chest ache to crumple them up and throw them into the garbage.
But they didn't stop. They came more often, more noticably, more often hand-written instead of neatly printed out or pre-made. The handwriting, too, became less precise, neat, more of a scrawl with every note, every card, every letter. Sometimes casual, sometimes playful, sometimes aching- and it got harder and harder to ignore. But both of them held strong. It would take more then that to get him out of the doghouse. This wasn't a hurt feeling or stepped on toes.
This had been so much worse. This had been leaving them. Not choosing them.
They ignored the cute pictures, the soft good morning notes, the cute smiley faces left on doors and almost shy hi, thought you'd like this left with cups of coffee or cigarettes beside it.
They didn't ignore him; but everything was stiff. Tense. The ease between them had been disrupted and it was impossible to notice the way he was practically desperate for interaction with them; every time they so much as spoke to him he'd latch on like a neglected puppy. He wanted them. He was scared and he didn't want them to know it, but not scared enough to do the one damn thing they wanted- they needed- him to do.
Bought you breakfast.
That bitch is pathetic- fuck her up, Vel!!
Did you know that the blobfish isn't actually a 'blobfish'? It looks like that because it turned inside out. Inside out! Isn't that fucking nuts? They look like real fish- normal fish!
I'm fucking bored. Wanna have angry sex, Val?
I get it, Velvet, I got carried away, I went a little too far, but you knoooow you wanna tell me all about that stupid cunt from Sinstagram
you didn't eat breakfast. you should eat breakfast.
please talk to me.
VAL. TALK TO ME.
FUCK YOU
Thrown away. Thrown away. Thrown away. Every one, every time. Well, most of them. A few were tucked carefully into pockets or drawers, touched softly with smiles and sighs and put somewhere safe carefully.
If a few were tattered, a few were wet in places, well, no one said shit. They waited.
The notes kept coming. They never faltered, never stopped, even when he was raging at them. Even when they were filled with hate and anger and vitriol, even when Val got a note that was nothing besides go fuck yourself over and over and over again.
Stubborn and peristent and nothing but willpower. That was Vox all over. Proud, too.
Vel got a note that called her six differant kinds of whore, of stupid bitch, written in a hand that shook.
Proud. Stubborn.
val please talk to me. I fucked up. i
i screwed up. i'm sor
i miss you. i didn't mean to not care. i didn't mean to lose my
you know that i
Found in the trash. Crumpled, torn, scratched through. So close to what they needed. What they wanted.
Valentino pulled each one out, chuckling to himself at how utterly stupid his boyfriend was, smoothed them softly and stacked them together, sharing a look with Velvet that said, simply, he's such a moron. She smiled, softly, at him, rolling her eyes, and he shared it with a little flutter of his wings.
"I think," Velvet said, "they call this rock bottom."
"Yeah, well, he deserves it for forgetting what a fabulous fucking bitch he already has." He replied, adding the apologies to the drawer he'd put every little shark drawing into, carefully closing and locking it. "Is it time to haul his stupid ass back up?"
"I suppppose," Velvet replied, drawing the word out like she was considering whether or not a kid's time out was up. "If only because if you go any longer without fucking him I think you may spontaniously combust."
He grinned laviciously at her, leaning chin on hands. "Oh, honey, no. I'm not that desperate."
"Just because you've got your pick of the buffet doesn't mean you're not sad when you don't get your fav-or-ite!" She sing-songed, dancing out of reach of an 'accidental' buffeting from his wings, towards Vox's room. Vox and Val's room.
"Come on. We've got an idiot to forgive."
"I'm still milking this for all it's worth for like, the next year."