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In the storm that is his mind, he sees a whirlwind of memories, of colours and lights that pass by so fast he can make not heads nor tails of them. The world narrows to a pinpoint of focus, he is deaf to everything, lost to the chaos around him, only seeing a glint of red and a smile so wide and sharp and mocking.
Vox, Vincent, had not always been this way, lost to the mania that threatened to consume him. In life he was sharp, a meteor, always reaching, always striving to be bigger and better and brighter, the star with all eyes on him, until he burnt out, the sharp tang of ozone on his tongue and electricity in his veins.
The first thing he had seen when he came to in Hell was red, red, red. The sky, the streets, his hands, palms stained with red as he knelt on blood soaked pavement. Red, as he looked up into ruby eyes, the colour of fresh blood.
It began.
Alastor, to Vincent, had always been an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in a tattered red coat. A man with power the likes of which he could never imagine, could only wish to possess, a man who’s name was but a whisper in the streets, a warning and a caution to be careful lest you fall to his cruelty. A man, who had offered him a hand, had watched as he clawed at his head, at his neck, his blood flowing like a waterfall of red, and then bought him a whiskey and said he was fascinating.
It began.
One night at the bar turned into two and then to five, until Vincent had turned to Vox, until he had a company he was building, until he had money and souls and power, and still Alastor remained a mystery, a star he could never quite reach, always just a little out of his grasp.
It was one such night at the bar that Vincent had realised what had happened.
They had taken shelter from the acid rain in a bar, their bar, and one whiskey had turned to two, had turned to five, the soft conversation flowing between them to the pitter patter and screams of the rain outside. Vincent had had no idea when the rain stopped and the music began, a fast paced beat, to which Alastor spun him, once then twice, until his vision swam, the amber of the bar fading to a swirl of colour, in which existed only the two of them, Alastor’s arms around him, his eyes staring at him with something he couldn’t quite name.
He had wanted then, when they had finally collapsed, panting for breath, to peel back Alastor’s layers one by one, to find out what made him tick, what made his smile soften around the edges, to have his eyes only on him, only on him for the rest of their eternity. He watched the amber lights of the bar glint off his hair, lighting it ablaze, the vibrant red of autumn leaves he had so loved to collect in fall. His eyes, crinkled in the corners, bright, so bright, as he laughed about a story Vincent had long since stopped listening to.
He was beautiful, the most breathtaking thing Vincent had ever seen. Vincent had never been in love before, but in that moment, he wanted, wanted with such an intensity it eclipsed all else, to know him, to see him and be seen by him in turn.
He opened his mouth, the words singing in his mind, a cascading loop of I love you, I love you, I love you. What came out instead was, “Why’re you always smiling?” Alastor had stopped talking then, turning to him with surprise, and an unnamed emotion burning in his gaze. He had studied him for a beat, two, and then chuckled, the whiskey softening all his sharp edges, as he said I’ll tell you a little secret pal. His frequency had twined around him then, the airwaves only the two them shared, thrumming with something soft, soft, soft.
My smile is stitched on, see, he tugged on the corner of his mouth neon green stitches appearing in a vibrant glow, biting into his skin and tugging it up. A little gift hell bestowed upon me he had said, casual, always casual like it meant nothing…but…
but the stitches glowed, jagged and sharp. It looked painful, so painful, he had to ask if-
As if reading his mind Alastor said it hurts only when I stop smiling and it has to force me to.
And that was the end of that, their conversation flowing onto lighter topics, the warmth in his chest building at the thought of knowing something about Alastor he was sure few others knew, the feeling of trust, freely given, making him lightheaded.
It was at that very bar, a week later, Vincent put aside the pride, the cunning, the cutthroat competitiveness, that had followed him in life, as he bared his heart and his soul, wrapped in a pretty package of a business proposal, the words he couldn’t say choking him, like a knot in the throat.
(I love you)
It was at that very bar, he ran out, heart rended apart by pretty red claws, the pain so all consuming he couldn’t tell where it ended and he began.
It ended.
It ended, and the pain followed him through every fight, every harsh word and every taunt. It followed him as he became an overlord, as he found himself friends, and an empire, his to command. Though it dulled, it followed him through seven years of silence and dead airwaves, a pain so constant, he thought, it could be nothing but his own.
It was to this pain Vox returned to himself, standing atop the Might of Lilith, staring down the barrel of a canon, to a wide yellow smile, neon green stitches on full display.
It was this pain that slammed into him, waves upon waves, strong enough to bring him to his knees, strong enough that he was drowning in them, the strength of which he hadn’t felt in so many years.
The airwaves vibrated with it, taut and straining, familiar yet foreign in a way he couldn’t name. Familiar, in the way they were precisely seven years, and a lifetime ago.
The realisation hit him with all the kindness of a sack of bricks to the head, his mind reeling with the implications of this, of him.
(it hurts only when I stop smiling and it has to force me to)
Vox stumbled, landing in a heap at the edge of the canon with a loud crack and a sharp pain characteristic of a broken ankle.
Vincent crawled, desperation colouring his every movement, tears falling from his eyes and blurring his vision into blotchy patches of red. All he could feel was pain, his pain, the pain in the airwaves, Alastor’s pain.
He crawled, until he was looking up into ruby eyes, the colour of fresh blood, and wide with an emotion he could finally name. He crawled until he could say what he couldn’t all those years ago, until he could say-
I love you
(I’m sorry)
The last thing he saw before his vision went black were pretty red claws, reaching towards him.