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A year had slipped by in the blink of an eye. Vincent had been in New Orleans for seven years, known Alastor for seven, and they had officially been together for three. It was a long, arduous journey that Vincent had endured to finally reach the heart of that "Black Pearl." Alastor was like a hidden treasure tucked away in the port city, waiting for Vincent to use his bare, blood-stained hands to dig him out and claim him as his own.
During the first year of their relationship, Vincent spent the entire time persuading the radio host to move from his modest apartment in the colored district to his own spacious, well-appointed home. No matter how many "baits" Vincent laid out, he remained unmoved by material wealth. They had even nearly come to blows when Vincent secretly moved Alastor's belongings to his house. Alright, admittedly, he shouldn't have been so impulsive; his boyfriend loathed coercion, and Vincent needed to learn restraint. That episode only ended when Vincent was nearly caught due to a particularly "noisy" murder. Alastor had given him quite the lecture—truly a man of the radio, he could berate Vincent for four hours straight without ever repeating a word. Eventually, the Creole man decided to move in with Vincent, if only to keep a closer eye on him.
The second and third years were relatively peaceful. They celebrated Christmas together and welcomed the New Year by the hearth. On these freezing days, Alastor was like a lazy cat curled up in Vincent’s lap, demanding warmth and indulgence. Despite the radio host being twelve years older than Vincent, he possessed a slender, lithe frame with long legs and a waist that could be encircled by a single arm. In his wine-red sweater, Alastor looked even more captivating, evoking a primal urge in Vincent to hold him close and shield him from the biting frost outside the window.
Vincent had heard that during his years living with his family, Alastor was never allowed more than two bundles of firewood for warmth. He and his mother had to huddle together under five layers of quilts just to survive the winter.
Vincent swore that would never happen again.
Vincent never imagined that living with Alastor would be this comfortable—a feeling he had never known since the day he was born. He had spent over twenty years hiding his true nature, pretending to be normal while his bloodlust never simmered down. But with Alastor, he felt truly "alive." He didn't have to hide the bloodstains on his shirt sleeves or explain why he came home so late. They would even spend hours with wine glasses in hand, sharing stories of their "hunts." The only downside was the occasional startle Vincent got upon finding human fingers in a half-cooked pot of Gumbo (don't ask him about the taste; he still couldn't stomach it, and fortunately, Alastor didn't mind). Ultimately, Vincent loved waking up with the person he loved in his arms. After work, they would drive around town just to shop or do nothing at all. Vincent’s calloused hands would be held by hands equally calloused, yet he swore they were the most beautiful, softest hands he had ever held.
And he swore to God, on Christmas night, he would never let go.
This year was a bit special. Vincent received a telegram from his family in Virginia; it seemed his philandering father was finally about to meet his Maker. His mother urged him to return (likely to fight for the inheritance). While Vincent didn't care for the money, more power meant a better chance at protecting his boyfriend from this godforsaken society. He gritted his teeth and packed his bags right after a Christmas dinner with Alastor at a restaurant near the radio station.
They parted at the airport as the flight to Virginia prepared for takeoff. Alastor still looked at Vincent with that smug smile of his. "Oh, come now, don't be so soft. Nothing grand can happen in just a few days without you."
Vincent knew Alastor was always strong and independent.
"Make sure you get enough sleep, don't stay up too late, and don't get so caught up in the hunt that you forget to eat healthy..." And yes, Vincent was the one fussing in this story.
It wasn't until Alastor grew annoyed and kicked Vincent—literally—toward the passenger gate that Vincent finally gave up on his lingering farewell. He smiled warmly at Alastor’s adorable irritation, promising himself to bring back some local gifts for his boyfriend.
Two days apart. This was the first New Year Alastor had spent alone since meeting Vincent. He didn't take the initiative to call, knowing it would only make Vincent worry more; sometimes Alastor felt like a long-suffering mother caring for a clingy son. Once they heard Vincent had flown to Virginia, Rosie, Husk, and Niffty repeatedly dragged Alastor to their places for the New Year, and who could refuse that? Rosie dragged him along to prepare dishes for the neighbors and forced him to try on sweaters she had hand-stitched—a peculiar hobby of hers. Despite their professional relationship as hitman and client, Alastor sometimes felt Rosie enjoyed playing "dress-up" with him more than discussing the violent business at hand.
It was still a peaceful time, save for Susan constantly pestering them with insults like, "All the handsome men nowadays are gay."
"Oh, ignore her, darling. She just broke up with her twentieth boyfriend this year. She’s just jealous of you," Rosie said while drawing the curtains.
Alastor chuckled. The feud between them and Susan would likely go on for a long time. He remembered someone had even set up a headstone wishing for Susan’s swift arrival in the grave.
Another New Year's Day passed. Alastor returned to the quiet apartment he shared with Vincent. He walked past the fish tank, dropping a few pellets into the feeder, still vividly remembering Vincent’s whining about taking proper care of their "children." Alastor had crossed his arms with a bored expression, saying, "They’re just fish," to which Vincent snapped back, "They’re our sons!"
So, despite claiming he wouldn't look after those pointless finned things, he still diligently fed them and cleaned the tank while Vincent was away. But Vincent didn't need to know that.
Having finished the household chores, Alastor leaned back in the plush armchair by the fireplace and poured himself a glass of Sazerac. The burning warmth slid down to his stomach, heating his body. Another day gone; he wasn't in the mood for books or the radio, so he just sat there in a daze, the firelight dancing on the spectacles perched on his nose. Alastor wondered, Was my life always this quiet? It had been, for over thirty years—skulking in a small corner, counting the hours, silently giving thanks for another day lived.
Then, Alastor detected a strange noise at the door. The apartment was so secure that even a stray cat couldn't get in. He drained his glass, a dagger sliding from his sleeve into his palm as he approached the door.
The doorknob turned. Alastor’s hazel eyes narrowed, filled with alert.
The door creaked open slowly. The moment the first foot stepped onto the floor, Alastor lunged with his blade, swift and practiced. But the intruder’s reflexes were just as sharp, immediately backing away to dodge. Alastor didn't let him escape easily; he closed the distance with predatory speed, seizing the man’s collar and pressing the knife against his carotid artery.
"Al! It’s me!" Vincent’s voice rang out, his heterochromatic eyes looking at Alastor as he raised his hands in surrender.
"I know," Alastor replied, retracting the knife and lightly licking a thin smear of blood from the blade. "That’s your punishment for daring to return without announcement."
"I just wanted to surprise you!"
"And what have we said about surprises, Vincent?" Alastor flashed a wicked, toothy grin, looping his arms around the neck of the taller white man. "One day, you’ll lose your life to your own foolish games."
His voice was low and enchanting, leaving Vincent dazed. The CEO’s gaze flickered to the tea table by the fireplace—an empty glass. Oh, he understood now.
Vincent took the opportunity to wrap his arms around that slender frame. "I know you wouldn't have the heart. You love me, old man."
"You’re more confident than you have any right to be." Alastor’s tongue flicked lightly over the shallow, bleeding nick on Vincent’s neck.
Vincent suppressed a growl in his throat, tilting his head back to let Alastor play with his sensitive skin. Alastor was truly endearing after a drink—proactive and enticingly clingy, just like a lazy but haughty cat.
His Alastor.
The apartment door shut behind them. There were stories meant only for the two of them on that New Year’s night.
And Vincent figured he’d have to burn the bedsheets tomorrow morning if they got a bit too "enthusiastic." (He didn't want to answer the question of why his bedsheets were soaked in blood.)