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Alastor didn’t do Sinsmas.
He tolerated it, at best, and even made an unofficial rule to refrain from maiming any sinners on the day, but that was the extent of his goodwill. The lights, the music, the forced cheerfulness—it all seemed so entirely unnecessary.
But Vox had insisted. No, more like begged Alastor to come to one of his little parties.
And well, even the Radio Demon had moments of benevolence.
Which is why Alastor found himself sitting at a bar, surrounded by said lights and music, and sinners he would rather kill than endure the unfortunate chance of speaking with.
He had fully intended to stay just long enough to be seen, exchange pleasantries with Vox and hand over the gift—which he’d just happen to have on hand—and leave.
That, at least, was the plan.
But Vox, it seemed, was a busy man these days.
Every time Alastor saw even a glimpse of his blue screen, or the sound of his laughter, he was already gone—zapping away to speak with some other big shot that attended.
And it made sense. After all, Overlords don’t gain status or power by standing idle.
But it would’ve been…curtious, Alastor thought, to meet one’s guests.
Alastor took a slow sip of his drink, banishing the thought as quickly as it came.
Well, it was no matter. He would stay here for a moment longer, and then take his leave, perhaps even ’bumping’ into a few sinners along the way—
“Alastor!”
Static fizzled beside him, and then the man of the hour soon followed, barely managing to avoid ramming himself into the bar counter.
He glanced at Vox for a second, taking in his disheveled, and yet somehow pristine appearance. Well, appearing presentable was the least he could do.
“Al!” Vox beamed, somehow far louder than the blaring music. “You came!”
Alastor didn’t bother looking at him right away. “I did say I would, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, breathlessly. “I should’ve walked you in—sorry, I just needed to smooth things over with Val, and then there was this whole thing with Velvette and the lights—”
Alastor hummed, turning his head towards him. “You run quite the busy empire.”
“Right?” Vox grinned, sliding into the empty seat next to him. “Let me get you a drink, on the house.”
It was funny Vox actually thought Alastor paid, but the sentiment was nice, he supposed.
“There’s really no need—” And Vox was already snapping at the bartender. “Besides, I bought you something.”
That did it.
Vox froze, his screen glitching.
“You—what?”
Alastor snapped his fingers, and a small, neatly wrapped box appeared, which he slid promptly across the bar.
“Just a Sinsmas gesture,” he said nonchalantly, “Think nothing of it.”
And because it was Vox, he thought everything of it, as he stared at the box like it might explode, before scrambling to grab it.
“You—You do this kind of stuff?” Vox blurted out, “I mean, not that I’m complaining! I just, wow, this is—” He turned it over in his hands, “Is this satin? Al, you didn’t have too—”
“I think you’ll find,” Alastor cut in smoothly. “That the contents are more important.”
“Oh!” Vox perked up instantly, already untying the bow around the box.
Alastor could smell them before he saw them.
Vox froze, his hand hovered over the box, as his screen flickered faintly.
“No way,” he faltered, squinting. “It’s those, fried things, you said that was the last time you were making these!”
Inside the box were freshly warm beignets, dusted generously with sugar—Vox was obsessed with sweet things—and stacked neatly on top of each other.
“I hardly see how that’s binding.” Alastor took a sip of his drink. “And those fried things have a name, which you would remember if you listened.”
Vox didn’t care, already grinning wide and stupidly, carefully lifting one of the beignets up as if it’d try and run away.
“You made these,” Vox said, “For me.”
“Ah, no,” Alastor hummed, gaze drifting elsewhere. “They simply wandered in there on their own, pesky little things, aren’t they?”
Vox shook his head, a laugh slipping out of him, the sound settling uncomfortably comfortable in his chest.
“You’re amazing.” He said fondly, “You know that, right?”
Alastor’s smile widened, just a fraction.
That was a fact Alastor knew well, but he didn’t mind hearing it from time to time and Vox was just oh so generous with his praises.
“My gift kind of sucks compared to yours—Well, because it’s you, of course, but uh,” Vox’s face flushed slightly, “I got you something too.”
Alastor’s brow raised, momentarily taken aback.
“You got me a gift?”
Vox blinked at him, then laughed, a little breathless, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah, it’s Sinsmas.”
“Is that so?” Alastor hummed, a smile slipping onto his face. “How festive of you.”
“But, it’s not exactly something I can just, y’know, snap my fingers and make appear,” Vox said, “It’s not here—well, it is here, just not, here.”
“Huh,” Alastor said, “And where exactly is ‘here’?”
Vox paused for a second, before speaking again, his words carefully measured, “Would it be alright if I showed you? Somewhere else, I mean.”
Alastor mulled the thought over in his head. He’d already indulged Vox this far, what was a little more?
And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t just a tad bit curious.
“By all means,” Alastor decided, “Lead the way.”
And what he meant by that was for Vox to literally lead the way, as in get up and walk.
What he certainly didn’t mean was for Vox to wrap his hand around his waist.
Alastor flinched before he could stop himself, his fingers snapping around Vox’s wrist, as he stumbled back, hitting against the chair.
Vox swore under his breath, and pulled away instantly, hands raised like he touched a live wire. “Fuck, Al—I didn’t mean, shit, I’m sorry.”
Alastor exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
A cutting insult brewed on his tongue, something sharp and biting, enough to put Vox back in his place.
And yet—
“It’s fine,” Alastor spoke, the fire on his tongue extinguishing. “Go on.”
If it was anyone else, Alastor would’ve—Well, it was obvious what he would do.
But Vox?
He didn’t mean Alastor any harm.
How could he?
Vox stared at him for a moment, clearly disbelieving, before his hands settled on his waist again, gentle and soft, giving Alastor ample movement to move away if he wanted to.
The contact sent a subtle shiver up his spine, but he swallowed down his distaste.
Luckily, Vox didn’t waste any time, his hands lifting away from Alastor the second they landed.
There was a tense silence.
“I’m going to try something new,” Vox said after a moment, “It’s called not startling you.”
Alastor glanced over, unimpressed. “Shut up.”
“I’m being serious,” Vox smirked unseriously, “I’m evolving into someone with manners.”
The corner of Alastor’s mouth twitched before he could stop it.
Then, Vox spoke again. “So, I’m going to need you to cover your eyes.”
“Vox—”
“Just humour me, Al.”
“Fine.” He lifted his hands and covered his eyes. “There. Happy now?”
Vox’s grin was audible in his voice. “Extremely.”
They both walked for a while, Vox murmuring directions as they went with Alastor following with very, very slight protest.
“Alright,” Vox said, warmth and excitement evident in his voice as they finally came to a stop. “You can look now.”
Alastor lowered his hands.
A door stood before them, and Vox rubbed the back of his neck, already launching into it.
“Now, this is just a prototype, not the finished product—Wait, unless you want it to be, then yeah—”
Alastor had already moved, ignoring Vox’s incessant chirping in favour of pushing open the door.
He was immediately greeted with an onslaught of red.
Not the type of red that decorated the landscape of Hell, but a deeper, richer colour, paired with a golden lining and a gentle green that emitted from the fireplace, carved with intricate filigree.
His legs moved further into the room unconsciously.
Bookshelves lined the walls, already filled with some books that he recognised instantly, and others that..intrigued him, to say the least.
But he couldn’t ignore the obvious microphones that were displayed before him. Old, proper ones that were both before and beyond his time, lined neatly on the shelf like treasured relics. Radios too, collected from different eras, arranged not for decoration, but for actual use.
And then, a single camcorder sat on a small table, that was clearly not his and very dangerously towed the line between modern and vintage.
Alastor’s face was entirely meant for radio, there was no doubt about that.
But—he supposed the picture device didn’t take up too much space.
His gaze lingered on it for a moment longer than necessary, mulling over the thought in his head before ultimately deciding to save his critique for later.
That was when he saw the bed.
It was nothing remarkable, no gaudy decorations or grand canopy. Just a simple frame, with a mattress dressed in smooth, flat sheets, as if someone had taken the time to fix them properly, and well, that would only make sense if someone was meant to live—
Oh.
Oh.
“You always say that I’m too busy these days so—” Vox began, his voice quick and eager, but Alastor cut in before he could stop himself.
“I’m not becoming a Vee.”
He could indulge Vox on anything else, but that was simply too far.
“And trust me, no one is asking you to.” Vox hurriedly reassured, the words tumbling over one another. “I just thought it’d be better…for us?”
For us.
The thought settled uncomfortably in his chest.
Just when had Vox and him become an us?
“So, uh,” Vox said, his voice a touch higher, “What do you think?”
And well, Alastor thought a lot of things.
Like how the colour of red Vox had chosen was slightly darker than Alastor would’ve preferred. Or the bookshelves, unequally filled, their contents clearly picked by someone with a tragic misunderstanding of culinary literature, or perhaps even the carpet, which sat slightly off centre.
So yes, he thought a lot of things.
“I think,” Alastor spoke slowly, turning around to face Vox. “You’ve simply outdone me, my dear.”
The way Vox’s face lit up would be burned into Alastor’s memory. There was something just so captivating about a man, condemned for eternity, who had the ability to look so pure.
He crossed the room in an instant, his hands pressing against Alastor’s shoulders.
“You like it?” Vox spluttered, “Seriously?”
“You know I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Vox laughed, far too fast and loud, as if Alastor hadn’t spoken at all. His grip shifted, fingers fidgeting before settling again like he couldn’t decide where to place them.
“Cause I can change things—or I mean, not change, just—anything you want, Al.”
Alastor’s smile softened. Such a silly man.
“Careful now,” he murmured, “You’re going to work yourself into a panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” Vox said immediately, which did nothing to help his case. His face was even more flushed now. “I just want things to be right for you.”
That unfortunately did something to Alastor’s composure.
His fingers brushed against Vox’s bowtie, before pulling it apart, as if it would help him breathe more, or whatever silly reason he could come up with.
“It is,” he said quietly. “Exceedingly so.”
Vox’s breath hitched, his screen glitching “Yeah?” He asked, voice hopeful and thrilled. “You mean that?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
He laughed again, more giddy now, and his hands slid down, his fingers gently grazing Alastor’s, before holding his hands entirely.
“God, I’ve been planning this for months, I even asked Rosie and you know how she is—”
Alastor watched patiently with a slight smile as Vox rambled on and on, as he usually did with things that excited him.
Huh.
Now that Alastor thought about it, this was truly strange.
If someone had told Alastor he would be spending Sinsmas day somewhere other than his radio tower, he would’ve given them a firm correction, perhaps even added them to his broadcast on a bad day.
But, here he was—
Being paraded around a room, made entirely in his image and for some odd reason, hand in hand with another Overlord who had such foolish confidence to touch him so casually.
Whether this was his own personal punishment for his sins, or perhaps a gift from the gracious King of Kings, he did not know.
But what he did know, however, is that perhaps,
This wasn’t too bad.
“—And this,” Vox’s hand squeezed tighter against his, while the other gestured broadly to the room. “Is only the beginning.”
Vox then turned to him, hesitantly taking Alastor’s other hand in his and staring at him with such a passion that Alastor didn’t know what to do with.
“One day, I’m—we’re going to rule hell. Radio and Video, just like it was always meant to be.”
Alastor huffed out a laugh. “Vox, my dear, I’ve already accepted your partnership.”
“No, this is different.” Vox shook his head earnestly, a slight flush to his cheeks. “I really care about you—and our partnership, of course, and..”
He trailed off, averting his gaze, and Alastor couldn’t stop his smile from widening.
They’d been partners—in business—for a while now, and yet Vox still had this tendency to act like a blubbering fool. It would’ve been humorous, if it wasn’t so…
Endearing?
A subtle, unfamiliar heat crept up his neck, and he tilted his head just enough to look away, downward, anywhere but Vox’s face.
Alastor swallowed, his thumb brushing—accidentally— against Vox’s knuckles, the action prompting him to tighten his grip.
“I don’t bite.” He murmured, his gaze fixed on Vox’s collarbone, where his tie remained loose and crooked from his earlier teasing.
“Liar.” Vox spoke instantly. “You’re pretty much known for your bite.”
“Reputation is a fickle thing,” he replied lightly, “It tends to over exaggerate.”
Vox let out a small laugh, softer and more sheepish than usual. He rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders loosening as the tension bled out of him.
“God,” he muttered, “I get—so weird about this kind of thing.”
Alastor hummed in agreement. Vox had always been like that, possessed with an almost irritating sincerity, and a knack for wearing his heart on his sleeve for all of Hell to see.
It should’ve been a weakness.
But, there was something quietly defiant about it. Vox’s openness felt deliberate and so certain, and Alastor had seen loyalties built on fear fester and collapse under their own weight.
Trust, however foolish it seemed, tended to endure far longer than most have it credit for.
It was not, he supposed, entirely a bad thing.
“So,” he said, voice quieter with less bravado. “You really don’t hate it?”
“No,” Alastor said simply.
Vox swallowed. “You don’t have to stay all the time,” he added, “Or at all, really. It’s just—there, if you want it.”
Alastor said nothing at first.
Desire, he had learned years ago, was a liability, one he since learned to ignore. Vox, however, seemed keen to reintroduce him to it, until Alastor would be forced to confront things he’d never even permitted himself to name.
“And if I do?” Alastor’s tongue moved on its own, “Want to stay?”
Vox froze in place, his breath hitching as he stared at Alastor with his wide, beady eyes.
“Then,” Vox said carefully after a moment. “I’ll make sure no one touches a thing. Not Vel. Not Val. Not anyone.”
A faint smile curved Alastor’s lips.
“How serious of you.”
“I am serious,” Vox replied instantly, earnest to a fault. “This is yours. However much you want it to be.”
Alastor leaned in closer, the gap closing between them as they were both now inches away from each other.
“Then do try not to ruin it,” Alastor murmured, “I’ve suddenly grown rather fond of this place.”
“That—That means yes, right?”
“That means,” he smirked, “I’ll need somewhere to put my things.”
Vox laughed giddily, clearly unable to stop himself as he began rambling on about what could be moved for extra space and some other nonsense that Alastor couldn’t care less about but listened to anyway.
Being wrong wasn't something Alastor liked to admit to, in the rare case that he actually was.
But perhaps, Sinsmas wasn’t too bad after all.