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They didn't really fight. No one is fooled.
He’s trying his best. He blames his former friend, raises his voice, clenches his fists, and puts on a defiant air to hide his tears. Alastor barely acknowledges him, a smile on his lips and his eyebrows furrowed, before his shadow—not even Alastor himself—grabs Vox and hurls him toward the nearest wall.
“I don’t have time to waste on you,” he declares just before turning away and walking out.
And with his departure, Vox’s entire world comes crashing down.
They did'nt fight because Vox wouldn’t have survived. That’s all. But the confrontation still took place.
Vox doesn’t bring it up, obviously. It’s a defeat, no matter what. And it’s too humiliating. It still touches that little part of him that’s still mourning his best friend, even if he was a psychopathic jerk. But others see things differently. After all, there was a confrontation between him and the Radio Demon that bar patrons witnessed. And Alastor, against all odds, didn’t kill him.
Vox can’t build his life or his reputation on that; he’s incapable of it. But the rumor persists.
Sometimes he tries to make sense of Alastor’s final act. To see it as some kind of twisted gesture of affection. Letting him live when others have died or been tortured for far less—that would be affection, wouldn’t it? At other times, he remembers how little regard Alastor had for those he deemed insignificant, and the fact that he had no interest in going after them.
That would make sense. That Alastor simply ended up finding him insignificant. It’s very… Alastor-esque.
Even seventy years later, his fists still clench at the thought.
So Vox goes looking for him. After his return, Vox has friends; he’s at the head of his own empire. He provokes, seeks conflict.
He realizes just how much he still wants him. One way or another. He knows full well he shouldn’t, but he also knows he’s never been able to stop himself. It’s visceral, it… it’s part of him now. Despite Valentino and Velvette, whom he loves more than anything in the world. Despite the time that has passed.
“Are you still mad?” Valentino asks him.
Of course Vox is still mad. Vox is mad at him for everything that happened… for everything he thought there was between them. And for what came after. For abandoning him like that, but also for all the times he was unable to tell Valentino or Velvette that he loves them.
He knows it’s true. The three of them. But every time the phrase comes to mind, he’s reminded of a toothy grin and the needles of an old radio, and this time, as always:
“There are no friends in hell, Vincent. I thought it was something you understood.”
There’s no friendship in hell, and yet there they are, the three of them, putting up with each other just to be together. Laughing and just enjoying spending time with one another. He’s never known anyone better than Valentino and Velvette.
Except maybe Alastor. The Alastor from before. But he doesn’t like to think back on that.
He misses him. It was an illusion, but he misses him. That Alastor who let him get close, who let him believe he was important to him.
To impress or destroy the man Alastor has become—that would be a victory, wouldn’t it?