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Alastor, Vox assumes, is one of those men. He never confirms it, but he never denies it either, and really, who would confirm such a thing?
It’s a reasonable assumption. Vox had met Alastor a few times during his life, and he’d followed Alastor’s career even before that, and he knows Alastor never married. He knows Alastor never so much as mentioned a close female friend, and certainly not a sweetheart. Sure, Alastor died fairly young, but he was in his early thirties. Old enough that there should’ve been something.
So Vox makes an assumption. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t really want confirmation, but he makes it all the same.
Alastor is one of those men. It only makes sense.
Vincent, Alastor knows, is not exactly as straight-laced as he wants people to believe.
There’s the murder, for one, but Alastor is far too familiar with the dangerous anger that comes from denying a man who has never been denied anything before. He knows Vincent is greedy and egotistical and not entirely sane, not completely right in the head, but Alastor doesn’t think that’s too unusual.
No, Alastor just thinks Vincent prefers men in a disgustingly carnal sort of way.
They knew each other vaguely when they were alive; they were in the same industry and in the same geographical area, so of course they met a few times. Alastor had pretended he didn’t remember Vincent at first, just to play with him, but he did. He had noticed Vincent from the moment they first shook hands and Alastor had seen dried blood under his fingernails. That had made Vincent stick in his mind until the news of his coworker’s death began to spread, and then Alastor remembered him forever.
And the thing was, Alastor is all too familiar with attraction. Unwanted attraction in particular. He knows when to spot it, and he knows how to discourage it, and he saw the way Vincent watched him even as he walked away.
Vincent is hungry when he looks at Alastor. And Alastor just walks away, never bothering to crush his hopes because, of course Vincent isn’t going to say anything. Vincent is one of those men, and surely he knows better than to say anything.
So Alastor notices. He doesn’t say anything, but he notices.
Vox prefers men, or enjoys them equally to women at the very least. It’s obvious.
(Later: Partners, Vox proposes, and he expects Alastor to agree. After all, Alastor is one of those men, isn’t he? Vox isn’t, of course he isn’t, but surely one of those men would jump at such an offer?)
(Later: Partners, Alastor hears, and he refuses. After all, Vox prefers men, and Alastor knows what he really means. He knows what the offer really is, and it’s simply laughable that Vox really thought Alastor would agree, because, well—Alastor isn’t one of those men.)
“I just thought,” Vincent says. I thought you were…
“Friends?” Alastor cackles. You don’t want to be friends.
Vox leaves wondering if he was wrong.
Alastor leaves knowing he was right.
Neither of them looks back, this time.
A few decades pass. Vox’s power grows. He remains resolutely alone. No friends, no partners, no companions.
Sometimes he imagines Alastor approves.
It’s a stupid fantasy. He stops with it after he meets Valentino.
All of Vox’s information on the pimp isn’t much. Vox has been slowly distributing his cameras over Hell, but he doesn’t manage to catch sight of the man even once. The only reason Vox knows he’s out there is the films that keep making their way into adult stores and their constantly growing cast of characters.
VoxTek is doing well, in Vox’s opinion; it’s not growing nearly as fast as he’d like, but his products are selling out, his television shows have thousands of viewers, and he is becoming quite comfortably rich.
But it could always be better. And something about the man that Vox has never managed to spot, something about the moth-wing insignia branded on every VHS tape, something about the mystery and the chase appeals to Vox.
So Vox tracks him down. It takes him a bit, sure, but he figures out what clubs the man likes to frequent, and he catches him flirting with a dancer in a private booth.
Vox walks in, sits down across from the man, and gives him his best TV smile.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says.
The man doesn’t hesitate, seemingly unfazed by Vox’s intrusion and surely aware of his influence. This isn’t Vox’s territory, a bit too far out for that, but Vox is still an Overlord, the only one present. The pimp doesn’t seem to be an idiot.
“Oh, have you?” he purrs, flirtatiously, and Vox almost recoils.
He recoils. Right. Yeah. Because what else would he do, lean closer? Vox isn’t one of those men.
The thing is, he’d assumed this man wasn’t either. Sure, there were a few small, feminine men featured on the covers of his pornos—which had only made Vox do a double take because of how outrageous it was, obviously—but that was just being smart. Obviously, the pimp catered to all sorts, and, well, they were in Hell. There were bound to be a lot of those men around.
And the creature pressed into the man’s side is obviously female, right? Her hair is long and curly, she’s wearing a skirt and heels, and Vox can’t actually tell if she has breasts or not because she’s some sort of bug demon and he never really knows with that type, but…
Vox realizes, a moment too late, that he’s staring at the hooker's chest. He looks back at the pimp.
“Yes,” he says. It’s not awkward. It’s not awkward at all. “I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition,” the man teases. “Fancy. You’re the tech guy, aren’t you?”
Vox curses his own choice of words. “My name’s Vox.”
“Valentino.”
The man leans forward, making it much clearer just how tall he is, and extends a thin hand with long fingers. His red coat twitches and then peels itself back, and Vox realizes it isn’t a coat at all. The man keeps his wings wrapped around him? Odd. But somewhat obvious, he is a moth.
What really makes Vox pause is the outfit underneath.
A sleek black dress, the type Vox only ever saw women wearing at a private kind of bar back in his day. It’s a V-neck with thin straps, and it does nothing to hide the masculine frame of Valentino’s chest. Gold bangles decorate his wrists, and a gold chain drapes from his neck, and when Valentino pulls his wings back, he doesn’t bother to press his legs together. The skirt doesn’t even go halfway to his thighs, and Vox can see a hint of something red and lacy underneath.
Vox would gulp if that sort of thing came naturally to his mechanical form.
Definitely one of those men, then. Scarcely even a man at all.
Which, actually, does work in Vox’s favor. He isn’t exactly a master of flirtation, but he knows how to flatter a lady better than he knows how to deal with a man of ungentlemanly preferences.
He takes Valentino’s hand, then brings it to his screen like he intends to kiss it. He doesn’t actually, he can’t, not easily, but Valentino smiles like he did, revealing pointed, dangerous teeth.
“My, my, a gentleman,” Valentino simpers, and Vox kind of gets the feeling he’s being laughed at, but it doesn’t seem too mocking, and he doesn’t mind being entertaining if it makes the pimp more agreeable. “How about some privacy, pet?”
The little bug nods quickly, yanking herself (?) off Valentino and practically bolting away. Vox smirks at the sight, and Valentino laughs.
“So skittish,” he sighs. “I don’t know what the fuck her problem is.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Vox says. “I have a solution.”
“You mentioned a proposition,” Valentino agrees, and, yup, that look he’s giving Vox is definitely suggestive. Does he think Vox means his dick? Does he want Vox to mean his dick?
Which. Gross. Obviously. If Vox’s father saw this man, he’d be running for his gun, just like he’d always told Vox when he’d cried.
It was good parenting. Vox stopped crying when he was three.
Vox’s father would shoot him if he saw Vox like this, sitting on a couch at a club, talking to a pimp dressed like a particularly slutty broad.
“A business agreement,” Vox says quickly. Partners, he almost says, but no. That’s not what this is. That’s not who Vox is. That’s not what he wants.
Partners, Vox once said, and this Vox, the Vox of now, hates himself for it.
“I’m looking to expand,” he says instead. “You’re a new figure in the industry, but you’re growing fast, and you have promise. I want a cut of your sales, and in return, I’m offering funding.”
Valentino tilts his head, and his lazy smile fades away for a contemplative expression.
Vox does not relax, and if he does, it’s not because Valentino stopped smiling. It’s definitely not because this is the first time he’s made a proposal so similar to the one he gave Alastor, not because he’s more than a little nervous, and smiling almost makes it worse.
It’s not. Because he isn’t. Nervous, that is. He’s not nervous. He’s a strong man, a powerful man, a CEO and a television star and once he was a god. He’s not fucking anxious over offering a deal to a crossdressing pimp.
“What sort of funding?” Valentino asks, which is already more than Vox expected him to ask, but then he continues. “How big a cut? Do you want control, or just money?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Vox says, which is a lie. It’s looking like Valentino might have a brain cell or two after all, both unusual and inconvenient for Vox because he was kind of intending to take over Valentino’s business and kill him in a few years, and now it’s looking like the pimp is going to want safeguards put in place. Shit. “VoxTek already produces film equipment for our own programming, and you would receive the same cameras and lighting setup that VoxTek studios are outfitted with. You’d be supplied with technicians to operate the equipment, of course. You would receive a set budget for individual films, provided you draw up an outline of expected costs and predicted revenue for each one produced. It would cover costuming, editing, special effects, makeup artists—do you pay your souls? I’m assuming you own most of your employees.”
“Not all of them,” Valentino says. “Only the ones I don’t want to replace. Anyone with actual talent is mine, and they get paid if they’re actually useful.”
“That works,” Vox says. Only the highest earners, then, so not much money lost there. “What do you say?”
“The cut?”
“Of course. I want eighty-five percent.”
“Eighty-five?” Valentino scoffs, leaning back. “No.”
Vox looks at him, incredulous, a feeling of mounting horror growing inside his stomach. “No?”
“No,” Valentino repeats. “What am I, a glorified director? Mm, no. You can have forty.”
“Forty?” Vox sputters. Negotiation. He…forgot that was a thing. “That’s highway robbery. With forty, I’d be better off grabbing a demon off the street and shoving him in front of a desk.”
“You could’ve done that already, but you didn’t,” Valentino points out. “You came to me instead. Too dirty for you, maybe? Big businessman above this sort of thing, hungry for money but too good to get it himself? With me, all you have to do is write a few checks. Much cleaner, isn’t it?”
“You think you’re some kind of smart guy, huh?” Vox mutters.
“I don’t think I’m dumb,” Valentino says with a shrug. “You do.”
Vox stares at him. He does not stare at the place where black fabric meets dusty purple skin. He does not stare at the long tongue. He does not stare at the edge of a nipple peaking out from the neck of the dress. He does not stare at the sharp teeth, and he does not think about all the times he spent not thinking about Alastor biting him, and he does not wonder if Valentino’s fangs might give him the same thrill.
“Seventy-five,” Vox says.
“Try again,” Valentino says.
“No,” Vox bluffs. “Seventy-five. Your area isn’t exactly unique; you realize I have other options. Even if I do want someone with more experience.”
“I’m unique,” Valentino says with a smirk. “Sixty, and I’ll make it worth your while, big man.”
Sixty percent. Vox doesn’t think Valentino’s dumb, he thinks he’s insane. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know,” Valentino says in a low, seductive voice, and he crosses his legs, tugging his skirt down a bit with one of his lower arms. Vox has no fucking idea how he thinks he’s seducing Vox by covering up when all Vox can think about is not being able to see red lace anymore. “What do you say, mm? I know you don’t need anyone, but don’t you get cold at night?”
“I’m not like that,” Vox snaps, unable to make himself meet Valentino’s eyes all of a sudden, but he hears the smile in the man’s reply.
“Does it matter?”
Yes. No. Shit.
“Seventy,” Vox says. “And if you cost a penny more than you make me, I get your soul.”
“Sixty-five, and we’re equals. I’m nobody’s bitch.”
“Fine,” Vox concedes. “Do you agree to my condition?”
“Whatever,” Valentino says. “Sure. I won’t, so it doesn’t matter.”
Vox doesn’t respond to that. He just says, “In exchange for funding your films and providing equipment and technicians—“
“I want a studio with it,” Valentino interrupts. “You’re not just throwing my stuff in a warehouse somewhere. I want a studio, and a good one.”
“And for use of a well-equipped studio of good quality, I will receive sixty-five percent of your profits. If you lose more money than you earn, I will obtain ownership of your soul, but until then, I will treat you as an equal and not a subordinate. Deal?”
Vox offers his hand, and Valentino shakes it. The lights of the club flicker with Vox’s blue electricity, and a shroud of pink smoke surrounds Valentino. He leans into it like a cloud, and Vox’s body sparks with his power.
“Partners?” Valentino asks, and Vox drops his hand.
“Associates,” he says firmly, and then he stands. “I’ll be in touch. Pleasure doing business with you.”
“That doesn’t have to be the only pleasure,” Valentino calls after Vox as he dissipates into electricity and teleports away.
When Vox reforms, he clenches his hands into fists.
It is not to get rid of the feeling of Valentino’s skin. Vox is not one of those men.
Valentino does not lose money. He makes Vox rich, and they are equals, associates, so Vox returns the favor and supplies Valentino with clothes and jewelry and custom guns and whatever else makes his eyes light up and look at Vox with that strange, strange hunger.
Valentino surprises Vox. Vox wants to surprise him too. Just to make it equal.
The moth lives in a rundown apartment building much too close to Carmilla’s territory, so obviously Vox has to find somewhere else to put him, and if that somewhere else ends up being Vox’s own apartment, it’s just to save money. Vox has multiple spare rooms. Finding somewhere else for Valentino to live is just a waste of time and money, and Vox is nothing if not efficient.
Valentino sleeps in until twelve every day of the week, and he never comes home back before three in the morning. He drinks like he’s forgotten water exists, he smokes cigarettes with cloyingly sweet pink smoke and never opens a window, and he never brings any of his workers over but he describes the sex he has with each of them in vivid detail when Vox absolutely did not fucking ask.
Vox makes the executive decision to install security cameras in the studio, and he is rewarded with the knowledge that Valentino spends several hours a day fucking instead of doing anything productive. Vox watches all of it, just to really get a grasp on the situation, and by the time he’s done, he’s decided he doesn’t need to talk to Valentino about it. That’ll only tip him off about the cameras, and Vox doesn’t want to deal with that headache.
That’s totally why. Right.
They talk, sometimes. Sometimes when Vox is ordering food, and Valentino happens to be around, he’ll order for both of them, and they’ll eat together while watching reruns of “Yeah, I Fucked Your Sister, So What?”.
They don’t talk about much, but somehow Valentino figures out Vox used to be friends with know the Radio Demon, and Vox learns the names of all the sluts Valentino fires. Valentino knows Vox had a cult and died in the fifties, Vox knows Valentino died in ’75 and changed his name to avoid the Vietnam draft. Vox slips up and mentions his wife, and Valentino makes a joke about never having parents.
Valentino comes back high as well as drunk one night, and Vox learns about the stripper who got pregnant with Valentino’s son but gave birth to a stillborn baby. Vox drinks sometimes, but he never takes any drugs, so Valentino never hears about the time Alastor Landry shook Vincent Whittman’s hand.
Vox mentions Texas, and Valentino says he’s from Florida. Vox hears him speaking another language on the security tapes, but it takes five years before Valentino stops changing his swearing to English when he knows Vox is around.
It takes eight before Valentino calls Vox a Spanish pet name like he does with his whores, and it’s late at night and they’ve both been drinking. Vox isn’t drunk, and he knows Valentino isn't either, but he lets himself pretend when Valentino kisses him and Vox can’t make himself pull away.
“I’m not a homo,” Vox grunts, but he gasps groans when Valentino slides one of those long-fingered hands down his pants.
“Then fuck me from the back,” Valentino whispers, and it’s when Vox doesn’t that Valentino shrieks, “Papito!”
“If your boyfriend storms into another one of my lives to scream about confidential shit, I’m going to kill him,” Velvette tells Vox. It’s ironic considering she’s sitting on Vox’s desk and keeps interrupting his work, but Vox doesn’t get to appreciate it because her words send a jolt down his spine, and he shoves his chair back.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Vox spits out, clenching his fists so his hands can’t shake. “I’m not a fucking homo.”
Velvette raises one eyebrow. She does not look up from her phone.
“Chill the fuck out, babe,” she says. “It’s 2019, no one cares if you’re gay. You’ll get canceled faster than you can make an apology video for snapping like that.”
Vox stares at her.
“I’m not gay,” he says.
“Bi?”
“I speak English.”
“Not bilingual, bisexual. If you like men and women, you’re probably bi.”
“I don’t like men.”
“Women and Val, then. Fucking boomer.”
“I’m not dating Val! That’s not what’s fucking happening!”
A few sparks fly off his head, which gets Velvette to actually look at him. “Vox,” she says slowly. “You are an old man. Your toxic masculinity bullshit is outdated and cringe as fuck. And you’ve been banging Valentino since before I was born, so you don’t get to pull that I’m straight bullshit with me.”
“You’re a bitch,” Vox snaps.
“Say that again, and I’ll post the photo I took of you two cuddling,” she says lazily, but her eyes are narrowed, and she’s got a dangerous look on her face. “You know I’m a lesbian, right?”
Vox did not know that.
“Why do I bother,” she mutters. “Ugh, blah blah blah, rainbows and sunshine, gay is okay, love is love, unicorns shitting gay marriage. Which is legal topside, as of fucking years ago. I don’t think it was ever illegal here, because hello, it’s Hell. Get over yourself and accept that you’re in stupid old man love with a pimp.”
Vox contemplates stabbing her, or maybe just shooting her and teleporting her body to the top of V Tower so he can throw her off.
But she sees…something, and she turns her phone to show him the aforementioned photo. It’s in Valentino’s bedroom, where Vox sleeps most nights, because when they first moved in, Vox didn’t have time to sleep, and he only did when Valentino got sick of his hyperactivity and dragged him off to bed, so Vox never ended up using his own room much, and it’s cold and sparse. Valentino’s room is comfortable and lavish, with a monstrous bed more than large enough for a demon as tall as Val, and it smells like spices and sweets, and it makes Vox relax like nothing else.
In the photo, Valentino is sprawled out on his back, nothing but a sheet draped over him, with his wings spread out over the bed. Vox is half tucked into his side, half on top of him, his stupid TV head resting on a specially made pillow while the rest of him is wrapped around Vox’s torso. One of Vox’s lower arms is wrapped around Vox’s waist, and the upper one is cradling Vox’s pillow.
Valentino is smiling in his sleep. He’s wearing the gold ring Vox bought him for their fiftieth business anniversary, and he hasn’t bothered with the other three he wears to make Vox’s gift stick out less.
Vox is vaguely aware that his ring is on Val’s upper left hand.
The photo is…it’s fucking sweet. It’s sweet, and Vox knows Velvette only took it because it’s sweet, and he knows she only made the threat and showed him the picture because she’s never once told him she cares, but it is painfully clear to him that she does.
Vox looks at the photo of him and the person he’s spent most of his afterlife circling, and it’s a man. It’s not Alastor. It’s a pimp from Florida who drinks vodka like water, who sings with an accent but only in the shower, who cried over a child he never had decades after he never had it, who drags Vox to bed and smirks at him with sharp teeth and has never once made Vox feel pathetic.
“Whatever,” he says. “If you’re not going to let me get any work done, I’m done.”
“Ta-ta, gay boy. Have fun with the husband.”
That night Vox doesn’t bother waiting for Valentino to seek him out. He goes to his room, changes out of his suit and into his pajamas, which are definitely not covered in sharks, and he gets in bed and puts himself in sleep mode.
He wakes up a few hours later, at three, according to his internal clock, and it’s from the shift of the comforter as Valentino pulls it back, and the sag of the mattress as Valentino’s weight settles onto it.
Vox only has to wait a few seconds before Valentino is tugging him close, and he goes easily, shifting into Valentino’s arms while the moth kisses the edge of his screen. His breath smells like liquor and his special cigarettes. Vox doesn’t breathe, not exactly, but he imagines inhaling the scent and relaxes into Valentino’s embrace.
“Night, guapo,” Valentino mumbles, and Vox thinks that maybe this is love. Maybe Val loves him, and Vox isn’t so sure he loves Val, but maybe that doesn’t matter. He’s not one of those men, but maybe that doesn’t matter either, because he can’t quite remember ever feeling this safe with Alastor. He can’t quite remember ever feeling this safe, at all, alive or dead, so maybe this isn’t love, but it’s the closest Vox is ever going to get to Heaven, and that’s good enough for him. Maybe Valentino is the closest Vox is ever going to get to Heaven, because now that he thinks about it, he came pretty close to feeling this safe the first time he managed to sleep during an Extermination, tucked into Val’s wings as Valentino kept watch over their hidden bunker.
That’s love, probably.
Vox kind of likes it.
(On an unrelated note, the whole never getting to Heaven thing, that does make him think…)