Chapter Text
Vox hated two things more than anything else in Hell.
One: being ignored.
Two: not understanding something and having people know it.
Valentino managed to hit both at once, which was honestly not surprising.
They were in Vox’s office. Swimming in the background was where Vox’s massive robo dog-shark things circled in. The glow from their augmented fins matched the ugly, neon blue lighting that bathed the room in a constant, headache-inducing hum.
Val’s coat was currently tossed over the armrest, cigarette burning lazily between two clawed fingers, his other hand scrolling through something that was definitely not work.
“Are you even listening?” Vox snapped.
Val didn’t look up. “Sí.”
Vox’s screen flickered. “Don’t start.”
Val finally glanced at him, lips curling into a lazy grin. “¿Qué? You asked.”
“I asked if you were listening,” Vox said. “Not if you wanted to start speaking in that island language again.”
Val just stared at him. “Ugh, there he goes. Well, what did you expect, Val, he’s a white, privileged man from the 50s,” he thought, rolling his eyes.
It wasn’t even the insult itself. Val had heard worse in Hell and in life. Slurs, jabs, assholes sizing him up like they wanted a piece of him. Ugh, as if! But it was how Vox said it. Like he’d rehearsed this a hundred times in his head already and finally let it slip out. Like his language was nothing more than background noise.
Val felt that familiar snap in his chest, the one that came from having to decide, again, whether to laugh it off or make it a problem. He was tired of laughing things off. Tired of translating himself. Tired of knowing he was actually fucking brilliant in his own language and still being treated like dumb shit the second English slowed him down.
Val’s head snapped up. “It’s Spanish, pendejo.”
Vox waved a hand. “Whatever. Same thing.”
“No,” Val said, sitting up. “Not the same thing. At all.”
“Oh my god, here we go,” Vox groaned. “You always do this. We argue, you get pissy, suddenly you’re casting spells at me.”
Val laughed, sharp and offended. “Casting spells? You sound like an idiot.”
“Then speak English,” Vox shot back. “You know, the language everyone here actually understands.”
Part of Vox already knew this was the wrong thing to say. That part was smaller, easily drowned out by pride.
Val’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I don’t feel like speaking English.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Vox replied.
“You know what your problem is?” Val said. “You think if you don’t understand something, it must be stupid. Cause Hell forbid you act all high and mighty.”
Vox scoffed. “Please. If it was important, I’d know it.”
“Oh yeah?” Val crossed his arms. “Do you even know how smart I am in Spanish?”
Vox opened his mouth, words refusing to come out.
“You want me to lie?” he quipped.
“No,” Val snapped, stepping closer, fingers pointing at Vox’s chest. “Did you ever try thinking in one language and living in another? Have you ever had people laugh at you because you’re searching for the right word?”
That hit closer than Vox expected. He didn’t respond to the question. Instead, he retorted.
“People laugh at you because you dress like a walking STD.”
“'Cause that’s the only thing you think I’m good at, right? Sex, drugs.. You downplay me all the time.” Val gestured wildly, “You never listen when I talk about contracts, distribution, numbers. You assume I don’t get it.”
Vox bristled. “I don’t assume.”
“You do, you interrupt me. You correct my English and make fun of my fucking eyesight.” Val tilted his head mockingly. “Val, I’m just trying to help you not embarrass yourself, or I’m saying this because I care about our image.”
Vox’s eye twitched. Val always did this—turned minor shit into some moral indictment, acting like he owed him constant validation.
“Yeah, okay, sure,” Vox said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe I say those things because it’s funny watching you try to act serious.”
Val stepped back, wings flaring, defending himself.
“For once,” Val said, voice lower, stripped of bite, “it would be nice for someone to care what I think.”
The words hung there, raw and uncomfortable.
Vox’s screen dimmed slightly. He felt something burning in his chest. Not guilt exactly, but something like it. He did care, and that realization was… irritating to say the least. It shouldn’t matter, not really. But the truth aches him, stubborn and insistent. He noticed when Val was frustrated. He noticed when Val’s voice dropped. And the worst part? He hated that he noticed. It made him vulnerable, aware that maybe he had been a selfish asshole in ways he didn’t fully care to admit.
“You really think I don’t care?” Vox’s voice warbled. “I notice everything you do, Val. Maybe you just don’t like the way I show it.”
Val was genuinely trying to decide whether to scream or laugh, or punch a hole through Vox’s screen.
It was all the above.
“Well, maybe if you actually put in the effort for once, I’d actually like it,” Val shot back, “But nooo everything’s always about you: your opinions, your plans, your perfect little image!”
“Ay, ya no puedo con este. ¡Ay, qué estúpido demonio!”
“Oh, my perfect little image, huh?” Vox sneered, screen flickering with irritation. “Newsflash, Val! Everything I do is for a reason. If you weren't being such a brat all the time, you’d actually appreciate what I do for you!”
Val shoved him, “I want you to fucking listen.”
Vox staggered back. Val whispered softly, almost to himself, “I just want to be able to speak in my own language... without you twisting my words into some kind of joke.”
For a moment, Vox looked at him. The tension in Val’s shoulders. The slight tremor in his wings, the way his accent thickened when he was angry, like the words were fighting to escape him. He had messed up, and there was no witty retort, no clever deflection, nothing he could project to cover it up. Vox swallowed. His voice trembled slightly, betraying the control he normally wielded like a weapon.
“Val, I-I’m s-s-s-ssor…”
“Save it, Vox,” Val said, flat, cutting, folding in on himself like he always did when he was both furious and tired of explaining.
Val straightened, wings folding against his back. He didn’t look at Vox again. Before leaving, he paused just long enough to glare over his shoulder. Then, with a forceful push, he slammed the door shut. The echo reverberated, leaving Vox standing alone and the heavy weight of the argument pressing down on him.
“Fuuuuuuck,” Vox mumbled.
He replayed the scene again and again.
I just want to be able to speak in my own language.
It wasn’t even the accusation that gnawed at him. It was how small it sounded when Val said it. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just a want. That pissed him off more than anything. He thought he had already given Val everything. Power. Money. Reach. Screens everywhere that turned Val into a brand instead of just another sinner with a pretty face and a bad temper. Vox had built half an empire with Val’s image woven through it. How the fuck was that not caring?
He’d never denied Val anything tangible. Clothes, influence, a fucking island he asked for on a whim. If Val wanted something, Vox made it happen or made it look like it had already happened. That was commitment.
So what the hell was this, then? Since when was that something he was supposed to account for? Since when did that outweigh everything else he’d built around Val?
The answer came uninvited and unpleasant.
Because none of those things were actually for Val.
They were for the image. Their brand. The version of Valentino that fit cleanly into what Vox was selling. That didn’t make things complicated.
The realization sat heavily.
Vox clenched his fists. “This is stupid,” he growled. “I’m not—”
His gaze drifted to the corner of his desk, where his phone lay face-down.
“…Goddammit.”
He picked it up, thumb hovering over the keys. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered.
The app store loaded.
Spanish.
Vox gritted his teeth. "Stupid Val," and tapped download.
The screen flashed.
A green owl appeared.