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It had been brighter when he had left. Despite it having been late in the evening then, the night had held promise, anticipation, desires, reachable and seemingly endless under the cloak of darkness. What was left now, but the sobering reality of a new morning peeking through the blinds?
The apartment felt artificial like this, kept pristine outwardly, eagerly awaiting company. Company Vox did not bring. Company he had been expecting, for quite a while now. The apartment felt suffocating like this, drenched in sentiment and reeking of sincerity. It was revolting, pathetic and a result of his human desires pushing their needy desperation. Even his own home had become something for that bastard, overtaken the place like mould. His favourite whiskey, the picture Vox had taken of them, the meat in the freezer, the flowers on the table.
It was not supposed to be like this. There had been a plan, a plan that was supposed to be followed, planned out in minute detail, foolproof and what a fool he had been. To think, to dare to think, that he would have been receptive.
He was supposed to adore him, worship him like everyone else, to acknowledge him to- no, he was not the fool, that damned deer was.
But what else should he have expected? Of course Alastor was a fool, a fool to cling onto a bygone age, a bygone craft, because of nothing but worthless pride. That pride would be his downfall. To slap a hand, extended out so gingerly, so kindly, how nice Vox had been, to save that damned fool from obsoletion. Really, if anything, Vox had taken pity on the poor fool. That was the reason, the sole reason he was feeling this way, it had to have been.
There was no other reason for the blurriness of the screen he now called a face, the shifting reds, blues and greens that muddled his vision and the pit in his stomach that still felt vaguely human, despite the inhumanity of his body. No, surely it was none of these inexplicable sensations that were making Vox feel this way.
It was only him, his pity for him.
Alastor would regret it, regret not taking the offer when he still had the chance, the honour to stand by his side when he subjugated the lesser beneath his heel and crushed whoever would oppose him. If anything, Alastor would have been an asset, one most valuable but nothing more than a tool, an extension of his will, his dreams, his rule.
Fear, fear too was a tool after all, one that the radio demon knew how to use, but there was no security in fear. No, subjugation was found in adoration, in forked tongued promises of forbidden fruit tempting those lesser into obliging their superior. Him. There, in him, that is where salvation was found. He had offered it to Alastor so sincerely, so earnestly and so honestly and.
And he did not take him up on it. Who did he think he was? Vox could tell him, what he had been and what he had decided to be now. Prideful, resting upon a throne of flesh and bones turned rotten and brittle from the passage of time, erected so long ago that none would be able to remember their names. An echo of fear, that was all that kept Alastor on that throne, all alone, in a hell, a hell of his own making in this paradise.
He would come crawling back to him. Eventually. He would be back. Vox could be patient if he wanted to be. Could build himself something, brick by brick, to sit atop and witness the fruits of his labour. He had done it before, what was stopping him from doing it again? Yes, Alastor was a fool, to reject someone like him, someone of his calibre who would have hoisted him higher than he ever could be capable on his own. Without him, Alastor would fade into obscurity, teetering on irrelevancy in a reality pushing him into obsoletion. He had the longevity of radio.
It almost made him want to laugh at how ridiculous he had been, ridiculously single-minded and focused, to put everything into forging this one relationship.
What was hell but an endless supply chain of those ready and willing to offer themselves up for a scrap of his attention, even if they did not know that just yet. He took pity on them, those poor souls, unfamiliar with their lord and saviour who extended his hand so graciously, out of the kindness of his heart.
The flowers he had gotten were pushed haphazardly from the table, shattering from the impact, but he did not care. They had outgrown their use after all, and those that outgrew their use to him, would be discarded.
Space, he needed space, ripping the pin board from its stand and slamming it atop of the table. For just a moment, he mustered the scribbled hand writing, the sprawling branches of connections, schemes and ruses and lingered at the top middle of the board where the source of hell’s future subjugation rested. He ripped Alastor’s smug face from the side the of the picture, crumbling the paper beneath his palm, a pensive expression flashing across his screen.
Oh what a fool Alastor had been. Vox would have to make some adjustments, play the long game here and there, but it would work, eventually. Eventually, there would be an opportunity and he would grasp it, alone. Alastor would regret not taking his hand when had the chance.
Vox would make sure Alastor would bear witness to the glory he would bestow so kindly upon the poor, wretched denizens of hell. A glory that could have been his honour as well. Alastor would adore him, worship him, admire him. If not now, eventually. Vox could be patient.