Chapter Text
“How was work?”
The words float on a drowsy exhale. An arm wraps around Vox’s waist. Another hand snakes up his chest. A leg hitches up to curl across his hips. His companion shuffles lower on the bed to bury his face against Vox’s shoulder.
The experience of sleeping next to Valentino is not unlike sleeping with an octopus, Vox muses. Too many limbs twisting around and holding on tight until there is no chance of escape.
Vox whispers into the dark, “Fine.”
A hum is all the response he gets.
It had not been fine.
Not really.
Still is not.
There was a scheduled product launch this past afternoon, but right before lunch, some intern pushed a last-minute update, merging it with the master branch. The changes triggering automatic systems to kick in and begin debugging cycles. Staff left to eat, expecting smooth sailing as no issues had come up during the previous check. Besides, this update was minor; if there were errors, the system would alert relevant people and they would fix it when they got back.
All standard protocol.
When asked, Vox always reassured his coders that he received notifications only for major problems. So they figured the big boss would be none the wiser.
But Vox lied.
Vox received notifications for all problems.
Because perfection could not be left up to chance.
Usually, he ignored minor alerts, so his employees were none the wiser. But when his senses were bombarded by a barrage of messages, informing him of a cascade of debug failures across the software that was to be launched in three hours, Vox went apoplectic.
Every employee sprinted back to their desk after receiving a call for all hands on deck, lest they wished for a slow and painful death.
The message did not specify the exact method, but they knew he could be creative.
Vox was no idiot. There were safeguards to these kinds of situations. Updates from low-level programmers went through several layers of approval by supervisors before integration. But for all of Vox’s caution, sloppy still managed to slip through. They will sing all sorts of excuses tomorrow, no doubt.
As his employees scrambled to recover and rebuild, Vox calculated and reevaluated. Of what could be salvaged in time and what could not. Of what he could present to the public now and what could be left for later. Of customer adoption rates, and market share, and stock prices.
In the end, his workers pulled through. Vox gave his speech. The audience applauded.
Only, it all happened an hour behind schedule.
Nothing could ever be perfect, no matter how hard he tried.
A whine reaches Vox’s ear as the grip around his waist tightens. An incoherent stream of Spanish is mushed into his skin before it switches languages, “—stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Thinking.”
How does he always know?
Because Vox had given nothing away. He came into the room on measured steps. Prepared for bed in his usual manner. Slid under the sheets with not a sigh or word. Even kept his screen dark to avoid waking the other demon.
Yet here sleeps Val with his uncomfortably accurate accusations.
So Vox denies it. “Not doing that.”
Another whine, this time more protesting. “Liar.” The hand around his waist slides higher. Fingers tap against his vents. “Fans—noisy.”
Vox finally notices the sound of his internal fans spinning. Their whir is objectively soft, but appears loud in contrast to the quiet around them.
“That doesn’t mean I’m thinking.”
Val groans and the arm moves to wind back around his waist. The moth demon takes a deep inhale, but it sounds sharper, more awake. More like the breath of air one takes before one opens their eyes in the morning.
Vox keeps his face dark and does not look.
“What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” is the immediate reply.
“Horseshit.”
Vox pretends to be asleep.
“Vox.”
He keeps pretending.
“Vox.”
Sharp fingers pinch his side and he jerks.
A chuckle. “I know you’re awake.”
This time, Vox groans. “Seriously. It’s nothing.”
“If it was nothing, then stop running your fans. You’re interrupting my beauty sleep.”
“Or you could sleep in your own bed.”
The body next to him wiggles closer. “No.”
Vox snorts. “Brat.”
“You love it.” Vox can practically hear the grin in Val’s words.
Vox does not know how to answer that, so he lets the conversation fall into silence. He listens to his companion’s breathing slow down and feels the body wrapped around him grow heavy. He tells his own body to do the same.
Predictably, it does not.
Because there is always something he cannot control. No matter how hard he tries, how much he changes, it is not enough. He is not enough. He is never—
“You worry too much.”
Vox jolts. Instead of reaching for denial again, he asks, “Do I?”
“Hmm…”
More silence. It swaddles them in its hold, a bit tight for Vox’s comfort. Or perhaps it is just the consequence of his business partner’s perceptiveness. Val says no more as his breath skims over Vox’s shoulder. In. Out. In. Out. Vox counts them in his head.
He gets to sixty-one before he gives into the urge to think about work.
He needs to check in with investors. Punish those responsible. Analyze public interest and current profits. Set up preventative measures to avoid similar disasters. Review progress reports for upcoming projects. Figure out how to maintain their position, stay ahead, rise above.
There is so much to do and so little time. How will he manage? How—
“You’re more capable than you think…”
The sleepy words yank Vox back into reality. He notices his lack of air, his racing thoughts.
He notices Val’s hand on his chest giving him a pat, then two, each ending with slim fingers drumming across his skin. Almost a caress. Not to seduce. Only to comfort.
Vox then notices exactly where Val’s hand has been all this time.
Right over his heart.