Chapter Text
Usually, when Vox had a clear goal in mind, that was all he thought about. Tunnel vision, laser-sharp focus on that goal.
Usually, when he attended Overlord meetings, he'd have at least done a few productive things.
Today, none.
He hated that his performance was less than perfect, or less than anything, really.
Most of the Overlords had disappeared the second the meeting ended, but a few (more pathetic ones) like Prick and Hatchet, who didn't have the ability to disappear.
Usually, Vox would be with the other crowd, but today, he just couldn't muster the energy to just become a bolt of electricity. No one talked about how exhausting it was.
So, like a loser, he sat across the other two Overlords with his legs crossed at the ankles and was anything but begging Val to come pick his sorry ass up.
He didn't sink so low as to call the fucker. Not yet, anyway.
If Val wasn't coming, Vox would either have to get the fucking car himself (awkward without anyone else with him) or walk. He was an Overlord. He'd rather kill himself than walk.
He really hoped Val would come, though. He needed a little Val today, he'd wanted to whine his fucking ass off. Also, he might be coming down with something.
"Pick up, pick up," Vox begged under his breath as he continued to spam Val paragraphs after paragraphs begging to see him for just a second. Look at him, settling for less. How pathetic.
He pressed a soft hand to the side of his screen, wincing at the heat. His internal readings for his temperature weren't looking up.
A low, staticky laugh sounded from behind him. Vox froze, then blew out a soft, irritated breath. Across from him, Prick leaned forward as if he wanted to watch the performance.
Very funny, Prick. Have you ever considered that's why they call you Prick?
"Alastor," Vox said, not even trying to sugarcoat his irritation.
Alastor leaned obnoxiously closer to peer over his shoulder at his phone screen. Vox locked it in less than a second, but it was too late. Alastor had seen the pathetic paragraphs and Vox was blushing like a madman.
"Cute," Alastor said, his tone condescending.
He didn't dignify that with a response. Alastor didn't take the fucking hint. He sat on the backrest of the hotel lobby couch, leaning over slightly. "You're still here."
"You noticed," Vox said drily.
Alastor hummed thoughtfully. "Wonder why." Vox looked away, not ready for the verbal and very much public lashing he was about to get.
"Is it because you've grown," Alastor punctuated the sentence with a wide unsettling (-ly cringe) grin and unnecessary static, "weak?"
Vox sniffled slightly, resisting the urge to fucking spam call the hell out of Val to get him away from this stupid Radio Demon. "No." Yes.
Alastor hummed again. Vox's hands tightened into fists. "Interesting."
"No it's not," Vox spat. "Are you allergic to talking like a normal fucking person?"
Prick let out a low whistle, elbowing Hatchet who guffawed. Vox glared at them, and Prick froze, but Hatchet either didn't see or didn't care.
Instead of retorting with his favourite retort (at least I didn't beg for help or something along those bullshit lines), Alastor took a seat beside Vox, sitting with his legs crossed and back perfectly straight. Vox gave him the most disgusted look he could muster. "What the fuck is wrong with you, why do you sit like that?"
Alastor gave him a shit-eating grin.
"Could you just—" Vox cut himself off with a cough. "Fuck," he groaned.
"Aww, poor baby," Alastor pouted.
"Fuck you," Vox rasped out, reaching into his pocket for his phone again, dignity already fucking gone anyway.
Alastor's hand laid to rest on Vox's wrist. He froze, open-mouthed, staring at the contact point as Alastor turned to Prick and Hatchet, saying with faux politeness, "Give us some time. Alone."
Both Overlords were gone within seconds.
"You gonna text Val?" Alastor taunted. Vox yanked his hand sharply back, standing up and seriously considering walking across districts, sick, back to the Vee tower.
He swayed slightly, before forcing his ass back on the couch. "No," he bit out. "Why are you here?"
His claws had begun the rapid tapping against his knee again when Alastor shrugged. "I have a room booked." As soon as he said those words, Alastor gave the concierge a look.
He didn't have a fucking room booked.
Now he did, though, because Alastor always got whatever he wanted, didn't he?
Vox blinked back a few traitorous tears at the thought, sucking in a shuddering breath. Alastor didn't comment. He didn't know if it was a mercy, like he didn't know anything when it came to Alastor.
Alastor as a fucking game no one knew the rules to, and kept. Fucking. Losing.
Vox blamed the tears on his watery eyes (fever, not— never mind). Alastor was still sitting in that weird fucking posture. Vox wanted to both stab him and crawl into his lap and sob his heart out.
"I have to go," Vox said, finally. His voice cracked at the end.
Alastor's head tipped to the side like an idiot. "Val texted," Vox explained lamely, knowing damn well no one fucking texted him.
Slowly, he pushed himself up to stand, feeling much safer looking down on Alastor instead of at his face. Alastor sprung up, grabbing onto Vox's hand as if in a panic, then releasing it slowly. "There's no car."
"Stay with me," Alastor said, so softly he may as well have kept quiet. Vox gulped, his own grip on his wrist where Alastor had touched (twice, mind you) almost tight enough to bruise.
Stay.
Don't stay.
Stay.
Don't stay.
"I don't feel…" Vox began, then flinched at himself for giving the secret away.
Stay.
Don't stay.
Stay.
Don't stay.
Alastor's expression wasn't the same anymore, he was still smiling, still prideful, but his eyes were silently begging Vox to
Stay.
Don't stay.
Stay.
Don't stay.
His heartbeat was a dull thudding in his chest as he opened his mouth then closed it again.
Getting into a hotel room with Alastor was a bad idea. Staying anywhere with Alastor was a bad idea, but Val wasn't going to reply any time soon, and he was so, so tired…
Alastor's hand shifted slightly, not quite being held out but Vox noticed the movement nonetheless.
His heart raced, his vision blurred and tunnelled on that outstretched hand as the panic settled in. He wanted to stay. He wanted so bad to stay, he wanted—
Embarrassing Alastor was the solution. He could reject Alastor at his lowest, as Alastor had once done to him, let him taste the bitter tang of rejection, disgust and self-hatred, but he really wanted a second chance with the other man.
"I—" Vox tried again, but his voice was gone, along with his survival instincts.
Do not fucking agree to stay with him.
Vox sneezed multiple times into his elbow, cringing as Alastor gave him a disgusted look but didn't move the outstretched hand one bit.
His fucking heart couldn't take it.
"Let's go," Vox whispered, letting the shame wash over him as he followed Alastor to the lifts.
Bile rose in his throat, which he choked back as he entered the same lift as Alastor.
The scene was so achingly familiar, he could almost taste the pain and nostalgia.
"Stop it!" Vox laughed, shoving Alastor. Alastor grinned and ducked Vox's not-so-playful slap aimed in his direction.
"Funny, I thought you were past that," Alastor mused, a finger tapping his chin.
The numbers displayed on the lift rapidly increased and Vox dreaded the number 82, the level they would surely get off on.
His heart was racing as he got closer to Alastor, their fingertips brushing. Tracing Alastor's gaze, he stared at the numbers. Level 42.
Alastor turned to look at him, the gaze now different. Not so playful anymore. Vox returned the stare. "I l—"
I fucking love you.
Metal-on-metal sounded as Vox's claws scraped against the lift handlebars at the painful memory. Alastor barely spared him a glance as he found himself suffocating at the memory of the look he was given in a scene so similar to this just a few years ago.
A few changes ago.
"Is there something wrong?" Alastor asked, though Vox knew better than to think he was actually concerned. This time, he wouldn't let his guard down, he wouldn't let Alastor hurt him again.
"Nothing."
Silence. Stupid fucking Vox, not asking what level their room was or what number. He doubted Alastor knew, either, the fucker was probably going into a room and hoping for the best.
That was the way things worked in Hell.
Or at least, that was the way things worked for Alastor.
And Vox was on the receiving end of that again. All over again, he could feel his heart breaking.
He wasn't that breakable now. Really. Truly.
"Not feeling so amazing right now, hmm?" Alastor asked, the question probably meant either as concern or as a jab.
Vox's whole entire soul warred on growling and shrinking away and whimpering. He was still so, so afraid of everything Alastor-related.
Sure, if they were playing this stupid game Vox didn't know the rules to, sure. Fine. Fuck everyone, they could shove a cactus up their butthole for all the suffering Vox had to go through.
"My temperature's at 39°C, you tell me." The awkward silence that followed told Vox that perhaps the great and amazing Radio Demon wasn't going to remain undefeated, after all.