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The Hortequin - or the Five Gardens - are staffed entirely by plant-form demons, whose bodies blend with tranquil ease among the flora they tend. The gardeners stir only when needed, which is to say: in the upkeep and rearing of their botanical charges, and in defense against unsavory intruders.
When Alastor steps foot across the threshold, the nearest gardener's face blooms like a rose. Deep within the folded petals, beady eyes watch him in silent warning. Alastor has never harmed any of the plants here, so he ignores them.
Every gate and door bears the sigil of Buer, marking the property of the Goetic noble who owns these gardens. Buer's tastes are as eclectic as any other of her station. Hence, each of the five gardens differ wildly. The herb gardens, both medicinal and poisonous, are rather restricted in access. Alastor cannot even sneak his shadow past those wards. He would happily spend hours among the poisons, but it simply wasn't meant to be. However, the carnivarium, viridarium, and arboretum are all open to the public.
Alastor has an obvious preference for the plants that make snacks of their visitors. Not merely for their violence, mind. This was the location for one of his early dates with Vox, back when he refused to even acknowledge such affairs as dating.
It might be nostalgia that compels him to arrange another visit here. Vox is amenable, as usual, eager for nearly everything Alastor suggests. Silly little picturebox. He's only endearing because he'll do anything Alastor says.
There are a few other visitors here already. Alastor abruptly decides he doesn't want any witnesses to this date - it's supposed to be special.
They haven't noticed him yet, which is good for his purposes. They also don't realize how close they are to the hellishly-oversized pitcher plants, which is bad for them.
He dissolves into shadow and pools around their feet. Sensation dulls to pressure, vision graying as the world moves above him. It's rare for any sinner to notice him when he falls into the darkness like this. So far, only Rosie and Vox have ever caught him.
These two will not prove the exception. “Hey babe,” a sinner with a goatlike face says, “Wanna make out on that bench?”
Ugh. The standards of society have clearly sunk to a new, atrocious low. Goatface's date, covered in dappled fur, leans in to whisper their answer. Alastor doesn't bother trying to overhear it, and simply springs out from beneath their feet. The dull yellows and browns of the world rush back to him.
“Hello!” he calls out, overly loud. The other sinners scream and scramble back, tripping over inconveniently-placed shadowy tentacles. Sharp tugs on their ankles send both of them tipping into the eager maws of the plants behind them. Alastor waves merrily as verdant jaws snap shut. “Enjoy your dinner, my friends!”
He cackles as the screams abruptly fade to a faint murmur. Digestion will prove torturously slow for those two. Eventually, whatever the plants spit out will be turned into compost by the gardeners.
With that settled, he has his pick of benches to settle at. Legs crossed, ears perked for approaching footsteps, the kind he wants to hear: that hurried pace Vox always takes when he's about to see Alastor. He's always sharper, brighter when they're together.
Alastor hums idly along to a tune only he can hear, though Vox could pick up on it if he were to stray close enough. Which of course he will - soon!
Soon.
Soon?
Soon becomes later, becomes late. Alastor pats his pockets, wishing he still carried a pocket watch. What happened to his last one, again? He vaguely recalls seeing the cracked screen after a fight. Alastor scratches behind an ear, idly, as he rummages through his memory.
Ah, yes, a tussle with some unimportant upstart. Vox had taken the watch off his hands with the promise of repairing it. Well, that clearly hasn't happened yet. It's been nearly a month. A busy month for them both, admittedly. Still. Shouldn't Alastor always be Vox's top priority?
When he notices his legs have started jiggling, like a nervous habit he most certainly does not possess, Alastor stands. Nothing wrong with another stroll through the gardens! It's a lovely day.
He walks another meandering loop throughout the carnivarium. Nothing, nothing, nothing to do. Not a single television in sight. A blessing under most circumstances. His tolerance for screens has waned to one and only one. And that one isn't here, either.
Perhaps Vox misheard which garden they were to meet at?
Alastor strolls through the arboretum, beneath the shade of nearly every variety of tree hell can offer. He dodges low branches with sharp-toothed leaves and the occasional explosive acorn. Gravel crunches pleasantly beneath his feet. He briefly considers toeing his shoes off to let his hooves sink into the dirt of the side paths, but ultimately resists. He mustn't forget that he is still in public. A gentleman must have standards.
Some sort of party has gathered at one end of this garden, overflowing with those fussy Ars Goetia. Harried-looking imps bustle back and forth carrying trays and trinkets and whatever else their masters demand. Hellhounds prowl around the perimeter, doing their best to merely blend in among the trees. Alastor has attended a few such parties in his former life, usually as a novelty among the moneyed guests.
The familiarity must be feeding into his disdain. It would be fun to crash this event with Vox. If Vox were here. Which he isn't. Alastor's neck cracks as he glances at the sky, though that rarely changes enough to mark the passage of time down here.
On to the next. The viridarium is his least favorite of the public gardens, as it tends to be the most structured. Here, the gardener's will has been cultivated in aesthetically pleasing curves and rows of color. Plots of lush grass beckon one to lounge, and bubbling fountains keep pockets of cooler air to draw visitors to linger a little longer.
Disgustingly tamed.
Regardless, it's much easier to search for Vox in this more organized space. Alastor quickly concludes that, in fact, Vox is simply not to be found anywhere. The rest of the property is forbidden to him, and Alastor does not allow himself to cast a wistful glance at the poison garden. Vox wouldn't be there, either.
The sudden uptick of static startles a nearby gardener. Alastor doesn't bother to apologize as he stalks back to his chosen bench in the carnivarium. He drops onto it with force, tugging at his bangs in frustration. Has he been stood up?
Him? Alastor?
By Vox?
Vox, of all people, who follows Alastor's every step with rapt attention, whose shining eyes can see no wrong in the Radio Demon. That Vox? Impossible.
Alastor really, truly will eat him the next time he lays eyes on that insolent cad. Rage simmers in his chest, like a hearty stew with the heat on high. He keeps it fed with increasingly violent imaginings of what he will do to Vox for this betrayal.
His ears pop as a familiar signal brushes against his, mere moments before the door bursts open and Vox rushes inside the carnivarium. “Al!” he calls. Alastor watches the smile bloom across his ridiculous screen as Vox catches sight of him. “Alastor, hey! I am so sorry I'm late, I really thought I had, uh, I had to check on a few things that shouldn't have needed it - but. Hey.”
Vox shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks on his heels the way he does when he's trying to play it cool. Alastor finds himself leaping to his feet to meet Vox halfway from the door. “Heyyy, Al.”
“Good evening,” Alastor says. He feels oddly breathless, as though he were the one running to a meeting nearly missed.
Vox rubs the side of his head. “Soooo.”
“You're late!” Alastor says, leaning forward. He wields his staff in mocking threat. “How dare you, my dear!”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” Vox says quickly, nervous grin flickering on his screen.
“I ought to punish you for this,” Alastor muses, nudging his staff into Vox's chest. He could take a bite - just one, just to show his displeasure. And satisfy a craving, perhaps. Oddly enough, the rage that filled just before no longer feels so potent.
Vox looks a little too excited at that threat. “Oh? Uh, I mean-”
Far too pleased, that picture box! “Never mind!” Alastor chirps. He can't do anything so foolish as to accidentally reward Vox for bad behavior. That simply isn't how one trains an obedient pet. “Walk with me.”
Vox keeps pace easily, as they're roughly the same height. “You aren't too mad at me, right? Er, right?”
“I haven't decided yet,” Alastor says haughtily. He doesn't enjoy how rapidly his mood flipped from furious to elated, that Vox can even provoke either extreme. He wraps a firm leash over his own heart to hold it still.
“I'll ask again at the end of the date,” Vox says. He nods to himself. Hyping himself up, the poor dear. “Yeah! You'll see why I - well, I'll just ask again later!”
“I'm not going to take the bait,” Alastor warns, although he is curious.
Vox shrugs. “Worth a shot. Uh, I know this is a dumb question in hell, but can you hear that screaming?”
They must be nearing those plants that Alastor fed earlier. “Nope,” Alastor lies. Honestly, at least one of those sinners has lived a lot longer than he expected.
“Okay.”
The silence is comfortable enough between them, but they can never stay quiet for long. Alastor nudges Vox and points at an oddly shaped bush. “Tell me, is that a plant or a sinner?”
Vox squints at it. “Um, it… kinda looks like a tiny elephant? That was drawn by a toddler? I think - no, yeah, I see eyes, that's a sinner.”
“Wrong! You're looking at berries. See, there's a few on the other side.”
“Ugh. Fine, how about that one?” The plant Vox picks has a bulbous head and a sectioned trunk, with constantly fluttering leaves all around it.
“Plant,” Alastor says decisively.
“Are you sure?”
Alastor jabs it with his cane a few times. The plant oozes a foul-smelling pinkish fluid, but has no other reaction. “Yep.”
“Dammit.”
Alastor points at a short mound of blooming flowers. “Plant or sinner?”
“Um, I think it's a-”
“My name's George,” the flowers say helpfully. Vox blinks.
“It's a sinner,” Vox deadpans.
“That doesn't count!” Alastor says.
“I was gonna say sinner anyway!”
“I doubt that.”
George shuffles in place. “I just think you should know, this game is kind of hurtful.”
Alastor's head snaps as it turns all the way around. “Do you know what else is hurtful?”
Vox chuckles darkly behind him. George's flowers start to wilt.
“Uhh. Uhh.”
“Showing up late to your anniversary!” Alastor spins his head back around and taps on Vox's screen for good measure.
“I said sorry!” Vox protests, swatting Alastor's hand away.
“I haven't forgiven you yet,” Alastor tells him.
George speaks up again, “Aw, happy anniversary, guys!”
“Shut up!”
“Hush, we're busy!”
Alastor takes Vox's arm and drags him away from George. Vox accepts the manhandling - like always. Always content to let Alastor do as he pleases. He's even allowed Alastor to take a few bites out of him. Usually when they're both too drunk to know better, or in the, ah, heat of the moment.
Really, Alastor could forgive Vox being late, if he weren't so confused by how much he hated the thought of being stood up. He catches Vox looking at his watch - the sheer audacity of this man, Alastor truly will kill him one day!
“Let's go to the arboretum,” Vox says urgently.
“Now?”
“Yes! Right now!” Now, it's Vox tugging Alastor along. He shouldn't have the right to make demands of Alastor, but somehow, this is permissible.
“The carnivorous plants are more fun,” Alastor says. He doesn't dare to mention that he's already walked through the arboretum once today.
“Humor me,” Vox says, like Alastor isn't already.
Outside, the trees haven't changed. There are a couple of drunk nobles tittering on a bridge, so that party must still be ongoing. Alastor debates asking Vox if he wants to crash it after all, but Vox apparently has a destination in mind.
Alastor lets himself be led to the central gazebo, surrounded by a ring of blood trees (exactly as awful and gory as they sound. Alastor adores them, of course, nearly as much as the carnivorous plants). There's a band already set up, and they start playing as soon as they see Alastor and Vox approach.
“Darling?” Alastor says.
“Yeah?” Vox grins. “Wanna dance?”
“Out here?” Alastor asks. “It's hardly a dance hall.” But the grass at their feet does remind him of the parties of his youth, being small and underfoot as the adults drank and danced and enjoyed snatching moments of life in a world that didn't want them.
“Come on, this is your kind of music.”
And it is. Alastor realizes the musicians are even from Cannibal Town, sporting their own ghastly smiles as they strum and drum away on the gazebo.
“Is this why you were late?” Alastor asks. He lets Vox lead - he usually doesn't, but this time, he's too preoccupied with taking in the surprise.
“Nah, these guys were on time,” Vox says. “It's Buer that - ah, fuck it, so I cut a few deals to get us into her poison garden later. You can even take a few cuttings, if you want.”
Alastor's ears perk up.
“Which of course, you do want. You little freak.” Vox sounds unbearably fond. “She actually stopped me on my way in to tell me she was going to this party instead-”
“They're causing a fuss thataway,” Alastor says, waving his hand in their vague direction.
“Yeah, so, I think she's going to poison them and make finding the antidote a fun little party game.” Vox grimaces. Not Vox's idea of fun, no, but Alastor is intrigued. “Anyway, after that she promised to show us around the garden. So. Sooo.”
“So.” Alastor halts their movements, soaks up Vox's attention for a moment. He can hear Vox's heart pounding in his chest. “You did all this for me?”
“Gotta do something special for an anniversary,” Vox says. “I mean, I just wanted to - ow! What the fuck!” Alastor digs his teeth in a little deeper into Vox's shoulder, drawing blood. He punctures straight through Vox's light jacket and the thicker sweater beneath, and grapples to hold Vox still. Vox squeezes him, tenses up, but doesn't actually fight it. “Owww whyyyyyy,” he whines.
Alastor growls, and releases Vox only when he's ready. “Utterly unfair,” he hisses, licking blood off his teeth and chin. Vox stares at him, wide-eyed. “All I planned to do was ask you to move in with me! You aren't allowed to be more impressive than me, I simply can't permit that.”
“Wait,” Vox says.
“Shall we dance under the blood trees? Shall we stroll through the garden while listening to the plants devour foolish sinners?”
“I fucking knew I heard screaming earlier!”
“And then shall we explore a forbidden garden and dare to pluck the fruits of a Goetic prince - ugh!”
“That - that all sounds like things you'd enjoy!” Vox says defensively.
“Yes!” Alastor snaps. “I am… very pleased.” He glares at Vox's chest, unwilling to watch his screen as another gooey, smitten look no doubt appears.
“Aww.”
“It's good,” Alastor admits.
Vox gently bumps his screen against Alastor's forehead. Alastor's nose smooshes on the glass, just a little. “I'm happy too. Hell yes I wanna move in. That's amazing. I think you beat me, actually.”
“Did I?” Alastor lets Vox hug him, lets their bodies sway to the music. “I suppose. Oh, sweetheart, Buer has herbs that can rot your tongue in your mouth.”
“Gross. I'm so happy for you.”
“There's one bush whose leaves can make you believe that your own eyeballs are parasites, prompting you to dig them out of your face!”
“Absolutely disgusting. Can I suggest a few test subjects?”
“You'll watch it all happen,” Alastor says with relish. “Because you'll be living with me.”
“Fuck yes,” Vox agrees. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”
Swaying under the blood trees, dancing deftly between limbs that reach down hungrily for Vox's blood - it's the closest Alastor has felt to true romance. The taste cakes like cloying sweetness on his tongue. Too much and he may be sick of it. But here, like this, it doesn't feel too overwhelming. It simply feels like - like what it is.
Like Vox has made a study of Alastor and built a thesis on what Alastor would enjoy. Like someone has cared enough to bend to his will, to match to his preference. Terrifying. Somehow worse than Alastor’s initial fears, back when Vox first proposed their partnership and Alastor rejected him in the cruelest way he knew. But Vox didn't give up. Alastor realizes that he never will.
A weight pulls in his pocket, drawing Alastor's attention. “What did you just slip into my pocket, sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” Vox says, too quick.
Alastor hums. He recalls an item he was missing earlier. “Is it a pocketwatch, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Vox echoes, too cocky in his answering grin.
Alastor's own smile sharpens. “Then you're doing too much,” he warns. He thinks if Vox keeps going like this, he will have to kill him because he simply couldn't handle it.
Vox stares at him, weighing the statement - and after their next spin, Alastor's pocket has grown lighter again. “Vox,” he sputters through a laugh.
“T-told you it was nothing,” Vox insists.
Alastor pokes one claw through the holes in Vox's clothes, pushes the bite into a fresh bleed. Vox whines again, and shifts closer. If they keep this up, then they stand a chance of getting terribly distracted. This behavior already feels scandalous in public.
Oh, and they might miss their chance to walk through the poison garden! Alastor can't allow that. He withdraws his hand and sucks the blood off his finger with relish. Vox's eyes remain glued to his tongue.
“I want to see Buer,” Alastor declares. Vox nods, distracted. “Come along.”
The prince of the gardens isn't hard to find. She stands heads and shoulders above even her towering peers, feathers a shimmering spectrum of blues and greens. Another goetia gibbers and moans into the dirt at her feet. “Come now, dearie! Haven't you paid any attention to the clues? Even an imp could figure this out!”
This must be the result of her party game. She sees them on the approach, and waves them closer. “Oh! Mr. Vox, get over here. And you, Mr. Alastor the Radio Demon, yes?”
Alastor sketches half a bow - not because she's a noble, but because she's a woman, and in many ways he will remain a traditional man. “Lady Buer. Your gardens are a delight, as always.” They all ignore the dying demon at their feet.
“I so adore your show,” Buer says, startling a real smile from Alastor. “Especially the torture sessions. Inspirational! Hell needs a fresh mind like yours every once in a while. Why, you're the reason this cute little box and I started talking!”
Vox coughs into his fist while Alastor smothers a laugh. “I can count on my number one fan to find others of like minds,” Alastor practically purrs. He pushes Vox away before he can be elbowed for it.
“Mr. Radio Demon,” Buer says.
“Just Alastor will do, m'lady!”
“Alastor, do promise me you'll feature some of my babies on your little show. You will, won't you?” Buer asks.
Alastor tilts his head. “Your, ah, babies?” Well, the family lives of nobility have always mystified him.
“The plants,” Vox prompts.
“My poisons,” Buer says, dropping the words with more pride than any mother has ever used in uttering her child's name.
“Of course! Why, it would be a genuine and absolute pleasure!” Alastor enthuses.
“Good man! Yes, I'm sure you're eager for the tour? Come along, dearies. Oh, this party was so dull. I couldn't even liven it up with a few deaths!”
“Then there's simply no salvaging it,” Alastor agrees. Buer walks on, expecting them to follow with the innate confidence of one who's never had to wait on others.
Alastor seizes Vox's hand and squeezes. “Happy?” Vox asks in a low voice.
Alastor smiles, broad enough his stitches show, and pull taut at skin. He tilts his head against Vox's casing, his voice a whisper against the audio receptors. “Next year, I will win the anniversary.”
He doesn't understand the bemused look Vox shoots him, and doesn't have the focus to decipher it yet. There is a garden full of deadly delights waiting for him.