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birds-are-sweet · 14 days

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Atypical Occurrence [1/?]

Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)

—

Vincent is late.

Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meeting—their first meeting of the day—started five minutes ago. If there’s anything Yves knows, it’s that Vincent always comes in early.

In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.

It’s five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.

Sienna—who’s presenting—stops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where he’s standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.

Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, it’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, but—to anyone else—not anything worth dwelling over.

It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didn’t know better.

Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is saying—she’s giving a review of a client’s current investment strategies; he’d reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.

Vincent asks good questions throughout—he always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.

Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if it’s taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meeting—as if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, he’s already exhausted.

It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if he’s just reading too much into it—if, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.

—

He doesn’t see Vincent again until lunch.

Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see Vincent again until he’s headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.

“You’re not going to eat here?” Yves asks.

Vincent doesn’t look at him. “I have some work to get done at my desk,” he says. He clears his throat again, like it’s irritating him.

“Okay,” Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.

“You look tired,” he settles on, instead.

He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isn’t true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if he’s surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.

He doesn’t deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.

“The sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,” he says. Yves supposes he can’t argue with that.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like there’s more that he should be saying. “Don’t work too hard.”

Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.

—

Yves is probably overthinking it. There isn’t anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.

Vincent’s lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm he’d forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effect—of recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects he’s on, of last-minute demands from clients.

The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the building—they’re ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.

Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, “HHihH’iKKTSh-hUH!”

A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if he’s too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.

He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket for—something. When he doesn’t find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

“Yves,” Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.

It’s only a few seconds later that he’s turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth for—

“Hh-! hHiH—HIHh’DZSSschh-uhh! snf-!”

“Bless you again.”

Vincent sighs. “Don’t bother.” He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, he’d already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.

Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and there’s a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looks—well, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if it’s been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.

Yves frowns, taking this all in. “You look kind of…”

“Terrible?” Vincent finishes for him.

Yves winces. “...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.”

“I’m… feeling a little off,” Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if it’s not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. “You should keep your distance.”

The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside.

“First floor?” Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.

“Yes,” Vincent says. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”

“You know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,” Yves tells him. “Even if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. “I must look pretty bad if you’re saying this to me.”

“Yes, I was lying,” Yves says. “Clearly, you look terrible.”

It isn’t true at all—even here, even like this, Vincent doesn’t look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at this—a tired smile.

The elevator doors slide open.

“Text me if you need anything,” Yves says, impulsively. “Seriously. Tissues, soup, medicine—whatever. It’s not far of a drive.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Vincent says. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.

—

The next day is rainy—a constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldn’t be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.

Back in uni, when he rowed crew, they’d practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he can’t complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.

Vincent doesn’t show up.

“I think he’s out sick,” Cara says, when Yves asks. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him take a sick day before.”

“For how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,” Garrett says.

“He seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,” Cara says, with a shrug. “Probably came on quickly.” Yves nods.

But that isn’t quite right, is it? Vincent hadn’t seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things he’d noticed—Vincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear he’d been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?

He finds some time just before lunch to text.

Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterday’s offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!

He doesn’t get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case he’s missed a notification.

“Are you expecting a text from someone?” Cara says, looking a little curious.

“Just a friend,” Yves says, which is and isn’t true.

To make a point—to Cara, and possibly to himself—he shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.

It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.

V: Sorry to get back to you so late.

Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.

V: If it’s not too much trouble, there’s a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.

Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.

Y: you’re asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 🤨 Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??

V: I meant to pack them yesterday.

Y: that’s like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me

V: As a genie, you’re quite judgmental

Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller i’ll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A Y: you need anything else?

V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door

A beat. Then Vincent sends:

V: Sorry to trouble you

Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.

—

It’s a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.

Outside, the rain hasn’t even begun to let up—it falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.

Yves has only ever been to Vincent’s apartment once—to pick him up for the New Years’ party Margot hosted—and even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.

For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincent’s door and taking his leave.

But it’s windy, and he’s afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.

It’s silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum.

Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.

There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.

He looks tired. It’s the first thing Yves registers—the unusual fatigue to his expression, which he can’t quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, there’s a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.

It’s only a moment later that he’s taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harsh—

“hHihh’GKkTT—! Hh-!! iHH-’DZZSCHh-uuUh!”

The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. “I thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.”

“You did,” Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “But it’s windy, and it’s raining. I figured you’d prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?”

Vincent blinks at him. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise.

“Alright,” he answers. “Thanks for making the trip here. I… it must’ve taken longer, in the rain.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. “If you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincent’s forehead.

The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you taken your temperature?”

Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t think I have a thermometer.”

“Have you eaten, then?”

Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. “I… was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,” he says. Planning to.

Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, he’d talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I’m feeling a little off, he’d said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as “little.” I will see you tomorrow—as if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work.

“So I take it that there’s nothing in the fridge, either,” Yves says.

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that I slept,” Vincent says, in lieu of answering.

Then he shivers—the sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the cold—and Yves is immediately reminded that the door they’re speaking through is open.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“You probably shouldn’t,” Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and he’s ducking away with a— “hh—! hHih-II—TSSCHHh-UH! snf-!”, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. “This came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, I’ll be careful.”

Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, “I’d feel terrible if you caught this.”

That’s the least of Yves’s worries—he doubts he’s going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincent’s face—Vincent looks upset, as if he’ll really can’t think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.

Yves shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. “Here, I’ll set these down on your desk. Where is it?”

“Down the hallway, to the left,” Vincent says.

Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside.

Vincent’s bedroom is small and organized—it’s the kind of bedroom that’s tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. There’s a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincent’s laptop, its lid halfway to shut. There’s a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.

There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.

Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincent’s desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.

“You’re not going to work on these until you’re feeling better, right?” he asks.

“Only if I can’t sleep,” Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough.

The cough is harsh and grating—his entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.

If it’s upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, it’s even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. So—if only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that there’s something he can do—Yves ducks out into the kitchen.

The pantry is meticulously organized—glasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom.

By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.

“Here,” Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take.

“Thanks,” Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then another—his hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. “You - snf-! - should really go.”

“I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be fine on your own,” Yves says.

“Of course I will be,” Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. “I have been fine on my own for years.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesn’t feel reassured in the least.

“Thank you again for bringing me the files,” Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.

“You could’ve asked me to get you groceries,” Yves says. “There’s a supermarket not far from here, right? And you’re out of cough drops.” He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. “These—” He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. “—are expired.”

“Just because you’ve extended this kindness to me,” Vincent tells him, “doesn’t mean I should take advantage of it.”

Yves blinks, a little taken aback. “It’s only groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, really.”

“See,” Vincent says, with a note of—something in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. “That’s just the kind of person you are.”

Yves doesn’t know what to say, to that.

Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincent’s breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.

#:000 #its the mentioned house visit fic!!#vincent and yves are so cute 🥰#part 2??

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birds-are-sweet · 1 month

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Folie Induite | H/azbin Hotel

Word count: 7.5K Content tags: snz with feelings, post-s1, possessive!Vox, rivals to sort-of-rivals, insults, casual cannibalism, voodoo, and wendigo imagery, fluff but they're both assholes about it Summary: Vox misses another opportunity to gloat. Though this time, it is voluntary.

༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻

Vox rarely partakes in something so plebeian as mingling in the streets, but a promise is a promise and he’d promised the populi an upgrade to VoxTech’s anti-angel software. A red-market item, as it is, due to its consecrated volatility, and one that has Vox sneaking around the Sulphur District, collar upturned against the putrid, curdling stench of a breeze that smells like the armpits of a sumo wrestler.

But hey. In his unsolicited opinion, a dollar bill is a dollar bill and enough dollar bills is well worth traipsing around the Bermuda Triangle of the Pride Ring for. Even if said neighborhood smells like the pits.

…All this to say Vox finds himself rounding a corner and nearly walking into none other than his purported rival in the flesh.

Ah. He had wondered why the streets had been so quiet and peaceful. The Radio Demon strolling along the edge of a curb like he owns the fucking place is enough to send anyone scurrying away, Vox presumes. He snorts to himself. Cowards, the lot of ‘em.

So, an encounter with his favorite luddite: not what Vox is expecting in the least, but undoubtedly a promise of either something epic or something humiliating (contingent on both what side of quixotic the Radio Demon is waxing at the moment and how much of Val’s soporific saliva is currently wending through Vox’s system).

Well, now. Vox daresay he deserves a boon for trekking out into the boondocks. He might as well have a little fun.

“Alastor!” he exclaims loudly, cheerily. The few smarter denizens on the streets make themselves scarce. If Alastor is surprised to see a guy like him in a place like this, he doesn’t show it. In fact, if it is any consolation to the rising temperature of Vox’s core processors, Alastor looks just as irked to see him as Vox is the Radio Demon. One hand wraps around his speaker staff, while the other clutches a bag of something dripping and tied with a bow that looks eerily like skin. Perhaps it is. Vox is…well acquainted with Alastor’s, ah, unique culinary preferences. You could say he’s well acquainted with a great deal of Alastor’s preferences.

“That is my name,” Alastor agrees, happily. It doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does. “Elected to join the masses today? How quaint.”

“Well, duty calls,” Vox replies. “Can’t say I’m too surprised to see you here, though.” He regards a brackish stain on the sidewalk with thinly veiled disgust. “Seems like the kind a’ place you’d feel right at home.”

“Well, this is my district,” Alastor says, his smile a lit match to the pile of dry straw that is Vox’s ego. Same as ever. Vox doesn’t know why he’s expecting anything different now, after decades. Perhaps it is the, well. Recent events.

It had been all over the Triple Six, Vox News; even printed in the Legion: news that Alastor had crawled back to that blasted Hotel a week following the aborted Extermination. Simply because the fuckfaced flop had failed to be flensed by Adam. Like that was something to be rewarded for.

Screw that shit. “Glad you’re deigning to make an appearance after getting so completely fucked,” Vox says, grinning with a feral sort of satisfaction at the memory.

Alastor’s only retaliation is a bored slant of his eyebrow. “Ah, articulate as ever, I see,” he murmurs, but offers nothing more.

This causes the first twinges of abnormality to start nibbling at Vox’s metaphorical cables. During the rare instances they encounter each other in person, it usually goes like this: campy banter, snappy insults, increasingly violent insults, before it all goes tits up in Vox's face because let's face it, his fuse is considerably shorter than Alastor's (only his fuse, though).

Perhaps Alastor needs a reminder of their little dance.

“It certainly has been a while,” Vox exclaims. Makes a crude gesture to all of Alastor, whose other eyebrow quirks up in response. “Lately you’ve been as useless as the Pope's testicles! Finally realized your channel is no longer relevant?”

“Well, I do have a life outside of my broadcasts," Alastor replies, with a humored smile. It widens as he shrugs at Vox. "But I wasn't aware you missed me so!"

"Please," scoffs Vox. "I savor every moment not spent in your company like a fine wine."

Alastor's grin only stretches further and he angles forward. "Really? You'd think such a little mind would get so lonely in that big head of yours,” he laments.

Vox recoils. "At least I don't look like something that eats its young."

He means it to be an insult, honest to...to Satan. Yet he must be out of practice because somehow it ends up sounding like a fucking compliment. And fine, granted, Alastor still carries that lean, predatory air to him that acts like his second skin, but there's a taut, almost pulled aspect to his delivery that has Vox running diagnostics in the background, trying to figure out what’s off about it.

"This has been," Alastor's lip curls, "nice, but I'm afraid I have better things to do than engage in this mawkish repartee today." The bag in his hand gives a moist crinkle as he jostles it for emphasis. Now, Alastor is a Voynich Manuscript of fucking enigmas on a good day. On a day like this one, when those electrical charges and forces of attraction are more confusing than enticing and the miasma of sulfur sticks to the fabric of his suit, Vox hasn't a hope of picking apart the rotten flotsam that suffices for Alastor's sanity.

So, he does what he does best.

“Well, have fun with your other hand,” Vox salutes, eye pinwheeling. His smile contorts and a molar bites into his lower lip. “…Unless it's wrapped around your Highness's little coochie, that is.”

Hm. Vox wouldn't say that hits a nerve, exactly, but the tufts on Alastor's ears give a twitch, the fur bristling and serrated for a split second before smoothing back down. Each flicker of his ears has Vox's internal sensors practically bathing in the likes of Lake Natron with how scalding they feel against the cool glass of his monitor.

Alastor doesn't do twitchy. Never has.

“Why Vox! You say that like it's a bad thing,” he declares, drawing out the word. He beams. He beams, but his eyelids are batting. Vox controls the brightness of his screen with effort. Something is very, very wrong here. And he doesn't have a goddamned clue what. Could be Alastor's just fucking with him. Yanking his chain, as it were (though Vox wouldn't be caught double-dead using that expression because he would never, not in a million years). This isn't his style, though. So Vox decides to poke the bear a little more.

“Considering what a messed up little cockalorum you are, that tracks about as much as a wet sponge,” he grumbles, fully expecting to be met with something saucy at minimum. But Alastor merely wrinkles his nose and shows a couple more eyeteeth in lieu of a reply. The disquiet surges in Vox like a reboot, like the whip of dry, crackling deadgrass at his heels because it’s the wrong face, loquacious levels are too low, and his sensors aren't picking up anything glaringly obvious but all the same something here isn't right.

Another moment of silence–and not the fun, funeral kind–passes between them before curiosity finally wins the better of him and Vox blurts out, “What’s wrong with you?”

Alastor pauses. Posturing and twaddle is fine, but even he knows better than to bullshit Vox (at least on certain matters). This isn’t some lowly plaything bound by transactional fetters and obligation; this is the Eye of the Media. Anything less than the truth and Alastor’s signed himself up for a showdown. Pun absofuckinglutely intended.

“Mmmm, nothing I can’t handle,” he replies. The admission curls at the corners of his mouth curling like paper in flames. “And, if I recall, nothing that is even remotely your business!”

Vox snorts. A few sparks fly from his speakers, which Alastor eyes with distaste. And yeah, there is definitely something there, in the way Alastor carries himself, that’s setting Vox on edge (more than usual). He's about to make some sort of snarky comeback, likely involving Alastor's congress with various farm animals, when the Radio Demon goes completely rigid.

On edge turns into high alert. His antennae pop out with a little shick and his gaze darts around. Did someone catch wind of his business here? Vox tries to remember if he'd told anyone other than his assistant about this tr–

“EH’zchzt!”

…and promptly forgets all about it. The fuck. Did–did Alastor just–

“Was that a–”

Vox continues to gape as Alastor quickly and deftly whips out a silk handkerchief and unfolds it with his free hand.

It couldn’t be. But it was.

Holy shit.

With a temperament comparable to liquid acetone when it comes to all things Alastor, it is a wonder Vox doesn’t short-circuit on the spot at the display that is Alastor, the stuff monsters have nightmares about, swiping a delicate cloth beneath his nose in a see-sawing motion.

Although Vox cannot recall Alastor doing anything like this in all the decades he’s been around, him sneezing is nothing world-shattering. Shouldn’t be. They all do it on occasion.

The biology of the Afterlife, Vox has discovered, is more mystery than fact. Case in point being he has a fucking television for a head (and hadn’t that dysphoria taken a good couple of years post-mortem to manage, ladies and gents), but he is not unique in this regard. For Hell’s residents, the concept of physics is all that it is now–a concept, the real thing having died along with their humanity long ago.

But some laws remain. Granted they do still have bodies, albeit grotesque simulacrums of the things that were once called mortal. And even bodies such as theirs tend to do…well, body things.

And, now that Vox has recovered from the initial shock of it, the whole thing is starting to be pretty damn funny. A real side-splitter. He allows himself a chuckle. To think, he had gotten all worked up over the fact that the Radio Demon'd simply had to sneeze.

“Bless you.” Vox takes great care in drawing out the word, rolling it between his teeth and tongue and savoring its sweet taste because maybe this day isn’t shaping up to be a total clusterfuck after all.

Alastor’s face twists in a grimace. “Excuse me,” he says, dabbing at his nose once more with his handkerchief.

And Vox, well, he’s still riding the high of seeing his rival taken down a peg yet again, so it is a minute before the implications of Alastor succumbing to a clearly undesired reflex come crashing down with more noise than Valentino throwing a dildo out the window. Namely, the fact that Alastor– the Radio Demon and near-strongest Overlord this side of Hell–was unable to suppress something so simple, while certainly amusing, cannot mean anything good.

“Nh!”

…and he’s about to do it again. Or not do it, Vox supposes.

That small, swallowed sound of indignation is all it takes for Vox to lose his train of thought. He cannot help but stare, transfixed, as Alastor’s sharp features waver and lose their satanic integrity.

The sneeze is slow to arrive, either due to a lack of urgency or Alastor’s formidable resistance to the process. Vox watches Alastor struggle against it. Lips, already grimacing, peel away from blackened gums as that small, upturned nose of his erupts into tiny little quivers. Alastor’s eyelids do not so much flutter as grow heavy and lidded as he squints in defiance against the mounting sensation.

All in all he puts up a good fight, but Vox knows better than most how difficult it is to stop sneezing once you’ve properly begun.

“҉EHkg’H̴z̴̴c̴̴h̴̴z̴zt!”

Ouch. Vox ignores the zap of feedback that accompanies the sneeze, sharp and crackling like cordite through his circuits and citrine in his wires. A nasty grin wends its way across his monitor. “Have you succumbed to the plague?” he inquires. He cocks his screen to the side. "How jejune. No! How…mortal."

“Hardly,” Alastor replies. The jibe is not enough to break him, and they both know it. He waves a dismissive hand. “The air simply does not agree with me.”

Well, that is something they can both agree on. Or, Alastor and Vox’s fans, anyway. They whirr, generating a hum that on any other occasion would be soothing. But Vox isn’t sneezing, as he is wont to do when cleaning out an influx of irritants from his processors, and now that he’s tuned in (hah) he recalls the weight Alastor’d put on the word hardly. The pieces begin to shift into place.

While Vox is computing, Alastor's snub nose gives a spasm, trying to rid itself of a tickle. Unsuccessfully, if the way he whips to the side with another sneeze not moments later is any indication. This one is louder, and catches on those fuzzed-out vocal chords of his. The action causes him to clear his throat in the aftermath before offering another reluctant pardon.

“Y–” The manual part of Vox’s brain that has been grappling for some sort of witty riposte freezes when it finally catches up to him; when he at last puts its virtual finger on what’s been so off-kilter about this whole undertaking. Because Alastor's also rubbing his chest with an irritated flick of his ears.

His chest. Fucking-A.

It’s almost as if…

Vox zeros in on the center of Alastor’s torso.

… there.

“Oh,” he breathes. Alastor’s eyelid tics when he realizes the conclusion Vox has come to. “Is that–no way. Are you telling me–”

“Not a word, Vox.” Alastor is still smiling behind his handkerchief even as the warning drips from him more caustic than battery acid. The disconnect is disturbing, to say the least. Especially with the veil of static piled thick and high over his normal mellifluous tones like a comfort blanket of sandpaper.

Vox narrows his eyes. He may not be the most intuitive demon out there, but he had just been balls deep in researching exorcist safeguards so he would have been a fool not to spot it. It is unmistakable, now that Vox is looking properly. That aura.

God, Adam. Well, not in the literal sense, but good lord. It barely takes a fleeting recollection of that fracas to get Vox hard. Again. A glimpse of the testosterone, the hubris, the raw power–and the cherry on top of Alastor on his knees–

“Welllll now,” he drawls, mainly to calm himself. And hey, boys and girls, let’s rub some salt in that cut because one, carpe fucking diem, and two, Alastor the A-hole deserves this.

Vox guffaws, loud and showy. Leans into the normalcy of it amidst the abnormal. “Adam leave you a little parting something, huh?” he taunts.

Bad move.

Immediately, Vox feels the horrible sensation of crawling. Unseen tendrils snake their way under his skin, past his firewalls, corrupting his sensors. Outwardly, Alastor’s demeanor has not changed. He’s still tilting his head to the side at an unnatural angle, but his salient Cheshire grin is impossibly strained as he watches Vox struggle against the sickening twists of his insides coiling. Vox grits his teeth as everything he is is divulsed into writhing shadows and wire and fascia, unclear where he ends and Alastor begins.

(And oh-ho, despite the discomfort it has been a good long while since Vox has managed to hit a sore spot on that slippery, oily thing the other demon calls an ego. So yeah, worth it.)

Vox’s bionic eyes roll upwards to meet Alastor’s gaze and he waits for what feels like the first second of eternity to go by (neither one of them possess the biological need to blink, so staring contests tend to become quite lengthy). He waits, because the times he’s seen Alastor genuinely pissed off are…well, Vox can count them on one of his hands. A lesser demon would have been terrified. As it is Vox can taste the desiccated, windless air as it passes his lips and the beating of his heart turns to clicks of a dial. The Radio Demon is known for being a dichotomy when it comes to all things physical: quick to invade personal space, yet builds bastions against any contact not initiated himself. Vox cannot say he was expecting the breach of privacy, and certainly not in such a violating fashion, but he knows Alastor will not be able to maintain it for long, with how he's faring.

He loves being right. Eventually Alastor is the first to break, retracting his neck and antlers, ichor seeping from his sclera like drops of food coloring in clear water. He smooths down his Saint Peter’s cross tie, subsequently giving his chest another rub. Vox takes a clean breath of air as his monitor resaturates to a normal glow.

“Sorry to disappoint, but this will pass,” Alastor declares. He refolds one end of his doggy bag comfortably, but Vox does not miss the way his right nostril tics every few seconds. Testy. Bothered. Vox cannot say he dislikes the new look. But he is preoccupied with giving his ports a quick sweep to eradicate any vestigial corruption, so he almost misses another one of those sneezes from Alastor. The sound is short–half-choked back and nowhere near relieving, if the way Alastor’s face crumbles anew says anything.

“I’ve heard holy light injuries are a special brand of suck,” Vox points out. Slightly less smug than before, but hey. You win some, you lose some. He holds up a palm. “Hearsay, of course. Never been fucked up that badly before.” The hand lowers to rest on his hip. “What’s it like?”

“Itchy,” Alastor hums, though his features are anything but musical. His teeth are bared in an unhappy grin, and his nose creases like the word is a harbinger of the thing itself.

Vox tisks. “And right over your lungs, too. That’s gotta be a biiiiitch.”

“Quite,” Alastor breathes. The crease along the center of his nose has deepened. Vox takes a preparatory step backwards–not because he thinks Alastor is petty enough to sneeze on him, but because he doesn’t think Alastor has much control at all over this display.

How delicious.

Vox drinks it all in: the small bob of Alastor’s throat beneath his bow tie, the ripple of his shoulders, the almost silent gasps as Alastor’s own body accomplishes more damage than Vox could ever inflict.

“Hah, you look so fuckin’ pathetic right now!" he sniggers. “I can’t even!”

Unable to offer any verbal response, Alastor resorts to flipping him the bird as he hitches toward a sneeze. And just like that, Vox’s maniacal grin wilts by a few molars.

Because even for Alastor, the finger gesture is crude and weak and enough out of character that Vox’s enjoyment is soured by the uncomfortable prickling that comes with the natural balance of things being thrown out of whack.

“EH’zchzt! Ugh. Ce qui la b…b-baise–EH’zchzt!”

Something deep within Vox’s programming squirms. With what, exactly, it's hard to pinpoint. He waves a hand at Alastor’s face. “Hey. Stop doing that.”

As if to spite him, a third sneeze bursts forth, breaking the pattern. And then, to Vox’s horror, Alastor just keeps going.

Awkward is never a word Vox would associate with either of them, but he finds he needs to cross his arms while he waits for Alastor’s sensitive nose to conclude its rebellion. This time, it does not seem appeased with simply one or two, and Alastor continues to hitch, gasp, and direct consecutive sneezes into the wilting folds of his handkerchief.

After about six slow, wrenching things that bend and twist Alastor’s frame forward into improbable angles he catches a break, turning away from Vox to blow his nose. Properly, this time, judging by how wet it sounds. When he surfaces at last the skin around his nostrils, cheekbones, and eyes has become flushed and irritated-looking.

Vox smirks as Alastor knuckles and pinches his nose through the cloth, raising an eyebrow. “You finished?”

“For–” a cough that grates on Vox’s internal speakers. “Excuse me. For now, it seems.” Alastor gives his head a little shake as he pockets the ‘kerchief, monocle chain rattling softly with the motion. Vox feels his smirk curdle. He had fully anticipated that weakness to fuel his delight, light the fire in his pants and all that, but somehow, it has the opposite effect. Which is bizarre, because Vox should be rolling–no, fucking bathing in Schadenfreude. Seeing Alastor miserable is what Vox lives for, after all.

(He hasn’t always.)

The handkerchief is suddenly whipped out with a speed and deftness Vox hadn’t thought possible, as Alastor gives a wavering gasp, and–

“EH’̴z̴̴c̴̴h̴̴z̴̴t̴!”

There is a pop and a fizzing crackle from some nearby electronic too weak to handle the frequency. Alastor, likewise, looks like someone just pissed in his Rice Krispies as he snarls in annoyance.

Vox should leave him. Or better yet, film it. Have people assume he did this. Oh, but the ratings would be subpar at best, Vox concludes, with a disgruntled pinwheel of his hypnotic eye. Something so subtly weakening is not befitting his grandiose style one bit. No siree.

He is contemplating the best course of action when Alastor stumbles forward.

Well, not exactly. It is more of a sidestep; a shifting weight that gives the illusion of perfect balance as Alastor rights himself without a second’s notice. And promptly sucks in a gasp of air.

Vox watches this display with an incredulous snort. “Seriously? Again?”

Now Alastor is the one scowling, though it warps and writhes on his face in tandem with his flaring nostrils. He takes a final breath before snapping forward with an itchy “H’zchzt! Snf! It is n-nahhEHg’҉H҉҉z҉chzzt! Ah, fuck.”

Like Alastor cannot seem to help the sneeze, Vox cannot help the hiss of secondhand embarrassment that escapes him through pursed lips as Alastor does not get the handkerchief up in time for that second one.

“Eyysh, good gods, Alastor.”

Over the folds of the cloth Alastor gives Vox a watery look that, on anyone else, Vox might have called apologetic.

Then Vox reminds himself of who this is they are talking about. Gumption is a lost thing on the Atelier of Screams. No; Alastor would not feel sorry for something he cannot help. Just as Vox would not feel sympathy for something he is supposed to savor.

Alastor gives one side of his nose (turning a permanent pink, Vox observes) a swift rub and says, “Beezer’s working hard to expel irritants, it seems.” He taps his chin with a plum-gloved finger. “Though I cannot tell who is winning.”

You sure got that right, Vox thinks. Guy’s really not looking too good. If he so wished, Vox could tap into Alastor’s demonic energy on a higher frequency, as easy as sliding a knife through warm butter. Now that he knows what’s up he is supremely glad he didn’t do so before. With that holy light, it would have been like sticking his hand into a toaster.

“EH’zchzt!” A soft groan. That was what, sneeze number eight, now? Jesus.

“Well, in the words of Vonnegut,” Vox informs him, smile definitely not forced in any way, “they say if you die horribly on television, you will have provided us with adequate entertainment.”

Fuck, even their scathing repartee is suffering from this. Resorting to quotes? What sort of monster has he become? Unlike Val, who has difficulty ad-libbing farts after a baked bean dinner, comebacks come smooth as cream to Vox. Alastor too, though the latter tends to spout stale, dated junk like a Pez dispenser (shit, maybe Vox is a little hungry).

“Speaking of,” Alastor notes, cutting into Vox’s food for thought, “why aren't you filming?”

The right answer, the correct answer is there’s little point in gloating over something Vox can’t take the credit for. No way he’s ever gonna admit he wants Alastor all to himself when he’s like this. Everyone knows Vox and his dick are drawn to power, but he also goes nuts for the exertion of power over others in a base, Darwinian way that those with crasser vocabularies would deign to call “lizard brain.” That’s giving lizards too much credit, in Vox’s opinion.

So, the truth? Vox is a possessive piece shit and his desire to see a little more of this subdued, weakened Alastor is climbing through the fucking roof right now.

Vox’s dry throat clicks as he swallows. Also. The idea of anyone else feasting their unworthy eyes on Alastor when he’s like this–

Unacceptable. The Radio Demon’s humiliation right now belongs to Vox and Vox alone, and fuck sideways anyone who claims otherwise.

In the end Vox settles for, “Not worth my channel,” and grins when Alastor’s ears give an annoyed twitch to the side.

“Now, now,” Alastor chides, waggling a finger at him, “that’s nothing new. You couldn’t afford me then, and you can’t afford me now!”

“Okay, fine! I’m on top-secret business, fuck you,” is the answer Vox serves up. “Notttt exactly legal.” Technically, it’s even true. Alastor opens his maw to retort but instead barks out another two of those awful coughs that sound like a cassette tape being puréed in a NutriBullet.

Vox’s antennae give a pernicious blip. He doesn’t do concerned. It’s not in his code. He’s a sinner, sycophant supreme, top-notch blasphemer and fucking proud of it, thank you very much.

“Eh…”

Alastor is struggling grimly with the urge to sneeze now. Vox waits, but after a minute the Radio Demon emerges from the folds of his handkerchief victorious, thumbing the pointed tip of his nose and exhaling with a little, “Whoo.”

Vox’s top lip curls in revulsion as his rival lets out a wet, clogged sniffle. The bastard is intentionally making this more difficult for him. He is sure of it. Another sniff and massaging of sternum, and for the love of–

“H’zchzt! Snf! Ng. HehhhEH’kzgt!”

Jesus's balls.

Vox hears himself asking, “‘The fuck you come out like this?”

Alastor gives a mildly surprised blink. After a moment of deliberation (and more sniffling) he shrugs and holds up the goddamn skin-bow bag. “Man’s gotta eat,” he says.

No, Vox doesn’t do concerned, but this isn’t turning out as fun as he had anticipated. Kicking a dead horse–or deer, as it were–sounded like a gas, but in practice Vox can think of better ways to get his jollies.

As if hearing this wavelength, Alastor tilts his head. Just his head. His neck stays in place. “Penny for your thoughts,” he drawls. The filter does a poor job of masking how wrecked his voice is.

Now, the sensible thing to do here is to loudly inform Alastor just where he can shove his penny, along with the whole fucking piggy bank because that is the Natural Order of Things. And the Natural Order of Things is bitter. Bitter and sharp. Not mushy.

Not like his heart is a beating thing rather than the binary code he pretends it is.

Oh, Vox is going to regret this bigtime.

“Listen up, fucknuts,” he snaps. Alastor raises an eyebrow at the lame insult, but lifts his hands in an amused, placating gesture when Vox growls at him. And maybe Vox does it just to see the Radio Demon’s glib return, despite it pushing all of his buttons.

Because the alternative is just too fucking weird.

“I need a damn drink,” Vox informs Alastor, jabbing a finger at him. “And you’re coming with me.”

The smile pulls taut. Alastor squints at Vox like his television has grown wings, or some shit. “Funny, I don’t recall a rendezvous on my schedule.”

“Yeah, funny,” Vox grouses. Because isn’t it just? He gnashes his teeth, hoping it distracts Alastor from the noise of his fans whirring. He scans his databases for nearby cafés that won’t put him in a coma and locates one not far from them. He informs Alastor of such, and for good measure tacks on a, “And you’re gonna get something hot in you so you can get back to your shitty-ass broadcasts because I haven't had anything to insult all week 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.” This last bit is squeezed out with some extra station static on his end; an admission carefully enunciated so it's clear Vox isn't talking out of his ass. Or any other orifice in question.

“And just why would I do that?” inquires Alastor. “Don’t tell me you wish to be my friend again, Vox!” He grins. “People who try that generally tend to disappear.”

“And resurface in your plumbing system,” Vox adds, with a roll of his eyes. Then continues before Alastor can protest. “Look, dickface. This isn’t a deal, or anything. Hohh, no. I’m not into that Faustian fuckery.”

“No? And yet you bind yourself to others for success. That does seem a bit contradictory there, doesn’t it?”

Vox pulls a face. “I’m not binding my–you–” he gives an exasperated sigh. “You know, you’re so unwilling to try anything new it’s fucking sad. And before you say some shit like–” he raises his voice and warbles out a piss-poor imitation of Alastor’s trill–” ‘newer isn’t always better, hyuck, hyuck,’ just remember that there is strength in numbers.”

Alastor looks unimpressed. “If this is you trying to proposition me, you’re doing an extremely bad job of it,” he declares.

“See, this is why it never would have worked,” grumbles Vox.

“Exactly! We are rivals, after all.” Alastor leans forward on his microphone, eyes mydriatic and just a touch too rheumy to be healthy. “Or was all that bluffing?”

Vox shows a bit of his own teeth. “We’re trucing, you dolt.”

Alastor, to his credit, jut blinks. “Last I checked, that is not a verb.”

“Whatever it is, shut up before I change my mind.”

Alastor tries another tactic: annoying Vox into reconsidering. “Why, a change of mind, you say?” he asks, grinning. “And what makes you think this one will be an improvement?”

Asshole. “Uh, breaking news–have you seen yourself?” Vox scoffs.

“Breaking news? Docusoap, more likely,” Alastor mutters, though quieter and so layered with static Vox almost doesn’t hear it. He’s begun to wriggle and twitch his nose around, almost like a rabbit would.

The sight makes Vox cackle. “Oh my god, you’re so off your game this isn’t even fun anymore,” he crows. He twirls in contradictory glee. “What would the press say?”

Alastor starts with a, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a…” before he crunches in with a sound Vox did not think possible for demonic vocal chords to make. Vox assumes that was a sneeze, or a cough, or some weird hybrid of the two mixed in with a little radio feedback for shits and giggles. Well, minus the shits and giggles part. Alastor straightens up, looking less than pleased with the whole affair.

“This is too pathetic,” Vox tells him, snickering. “I can’t afford to be seen with you–that’s how fucked up you are right now.”

“No one’s forcing you to remain here, my good man.” And there are too many nasal consonants in that taunt to sound even remotely offensive.

“Good point,” Vox says. “Let’s split. The menu’s a fucking Ripley Scroll so I’m sure you’ll find something that, ah, suits you.”

Alastor eyes him suspiciously. Whatever mind Vox has substituted for his own, it seems he’s made it up.

“Very well,” he sighs, with a shrug. Vox doesn’t miss the way all of this is done with his eyes, like he is avoiding any extraneous movements.

Alastor manages not to embarrass them en route to the café–mainly because there is literally no one around to bear witness to a pair of Overlords strutting the streets. Alastor probably has something to do with that, if the low-hertz buzz Vox detects around them says anything.

The café, to Vox’s relief, is similarly deserted, save for a barista with far too many hands and legs for comfort. Alastor hangs back in an umbra of skeined shadows, but eventually pokes around to observe the menu in more detail. After some deliberation he hums and points to the most expensive drink on the menu–a fancy thing the color of hysteria with heather leaves. Naturally.

“To go,” Alastor corrects. And just because he can, adds a bit of glittering vèvè against the walls of the parlor, casting it into weird angles and glows. Vox recognizes Ayizan among the cosmograms, but cannot decipher the others.

The barista may not know Vodou, but nevertheless is practically shitting themselves. Good, Vox thinks. Can’t have anyone thinking they’re all chummy, or some equally detestable happy-crappy.

The drinks arrive with unnatural swiftness: Vox’s a dark and gristly coffee with half-soured cream and Alastor’s, well. Vox doesn’t even wanna know. It smells vile, mingling with the odors of meat and rotten eggs and thank Hell Vox’s fans can filter most of that dreck out.

The register beeps, and Vox nearly spit-takes when he glimpses the total. Nearly–he does have some manners, after all. “Uh, my treat,” he says, in a small voice filled with regrets for his afterlife choices.

“Why Vox! I do exclaim,” says Alastor, looking comically miffed, “go Dutch, or go home and stop wasting my time.”

Vox’s monitor glitches. “Are you shitting me right now?”

“I can assure you, there is no shit ihhn…snf! Involved.”

You know what, fuck manners. Vox is going to kill him. He has to visibly stop himself from becoming unhinged, because then that really would attract the cameras.

“Actually, I have a better idea,” he says, turning towards the barista. His left eye lights up the room.

“𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚊𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜.”

And okay, he may have laid it on a bit thick because the poor soul simply stares off into space afterwards, slab of drool depending like a yo-yo closer and closer to the countertop. Sue him; he needed to let off the steam.

There is a secluded bench out back, just as the Hellp reviews stated. Alastor lets his Vaudevillian veneer wilt a bit as he sags onto a high-backed stool. He rests the side of his head against the seat and closes his eyes. It is, Vox realizes, a frankly shocking display of submissiveness from his arch-rival.

Alastor's drink bubbles. Vox can see the heather floating atop the thing like slimy bruises. Ugh. If the tea looks like that, he shudders to imagine the main course. So he kicks his foot in the direction of Alastor’s doggie bag with a disgruntled blip to gain Alastor’s attention.

Alastor’s eyes slide open and follow where Vox is looking. “Peckish?” he jokes. “You could have just said.”

“Ugh, as if,” Vox groans. “Just. Please don’t eat that here. I don’t think this place has a ‘bring your own…viscera’ policy. Heh, probably can’t handle, uh, whatever it is. Whoever it is.”

“Sounds like this place isn’t the only thing,” Alastor remarks. He gives an obscene little wink. “Just an inkling.”

Gods, Vox doesn’t need a coffee; he needs a motherfucking Head Cleaner when he gets back to the Tower for the severe emotional trauma this outing will cause. Something must display on his screen, because Alastor’s face brightens.

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little plasma off,” he chuckles. Despite the abstruse humor it sounds washed-out and tired. At least to Vox. “Besides. I don’t partake in gourmet delicacies within such…establishments.”

“Oh? But you’ll keep doing that?” Vox asks, as Alastor gives his nose a light blow. Alastor simply hurms, electing to take a sip of his drink.

Big mistake, as it turns out. Vox almost rushes to get the proverbial popcorn as Alastor’s nose wrinkles violently at the condensation and he lets out a rapid, furious “HGshht!” that has Vox nearly snorting coffee through his screen.

A gateway sneeze, as it turns out, paving the way for others brought on by the drink’s flavored steam. Alastor teeters hopelessly on the cusp of another, his face an itchy mire of helplessness and desperation before he slams down his mug and veers away from the table with–

“EH’zchzt! EH’zchgzt! HG–”

In a rare lack of grace (hah) Alastor crushes his nose between the sides of his thumb and index finger in an attempt to satisfy that deep-seated itch. However, the act only succeeds in trapping the tickle thoroughly in his nose and making things so much worse.

Ah, holy light: the gift that keeps on giving. Vox finds a sliver of mirth returning.

The stifles…aren’t working out so great for Alastor. With no relief to be found his body attempts the same thing over and over, resulting in a paroxysm of sneezes unlike Vox has seen in anyone before.

Vox grins around his coffee. “By all means, keep going,” he exclaims. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of repeated stifling. “I do love watching you making an ass of yourself. Shit’s better than one of Val’s telenovelas.”

“Ngzxkt! Hh! Ngzxkt! HNgzx̵k̷t! Ngz̶͖̣̜͆x̵̥͕̂̓̀k̴͓̰̉̀́t̴̛̟̦͋!̶̲̕ ̵̹̑ Fuhhckȼħħƶǥŧ!”

Perhaps it is the pink tears squeezing out from between Alastor’s closed eyelids. Perhaps it is the sheer ludicrousy of watching the Radio Demon felled by a case of angelic sniffles. Perhaps it is the mounting static in the air. Or. Perhaps it is something Vox himself cannot put into words. In the moment, he is unable to say why he does it.

“Ngzxkt! Hk'Ngzxkt! Nk'G҉z̶͖̣̜͆x̵̥͕̂̓̀k̴͓̰̉̀́t̴̛̟̦͋!̶̲̕ ̵̹̑! Hg’Ngz҉z̶͖̣̜͆x̵̥͕̂̓̀k̴͓̰̉̀́t̴̛̟̦͋!̶̲̕ ̵̹̑! Nch–!”

Grabs Alastor’s hand, that is–the one clamped in a deathlock around his nose. The skin is cold and buzzes unpleasantly under Vox’s own as he tugs Alastor’s hand away from his face.

“̴!̸?̵”̶

Alastor’s eyes fly open in unbridled surprise. Between one sneeze and the next all he can manage is a strangled yelp, and if Vox weren’t so peeved by the whole thing he would have found it hilarious.

As it is, that feedback under his skin is starting to get on his literal nerves, so he scowls. “Don’t, you ass,” he bites out.

“Wha, hahh–”

“Squelch them like that.”

Confused as he is Alastor tries his best to respond, or at least to retain some semblance of courtesy ‘till the very end but alas, the sensation proves too much for him. His teeth are clenched in a prickly snarl, nose crinkled and spasming, tears flowing from his bleary vermillion eyes.

Fuck. Forget seeing Alastor on his knees and bleeding. This is, is–

Most of them here are intimately familiar with the tools of the trade. And by that Vox means torture. The Judas Chair. The Rack. Scold’s Bridal (to hold your tongue). The Heretic’s Fork. Even the Spider.

But holy sneezing? Huh. Who woulda thunk this better than all of them?

“V-Vahh, ahhx, ̷h̷̷h̷!!”

Right, Alastor. The demon is a fucking wreck, so thoroughly overtaken by gasps and hitches and itch that it’s doing something to Vox, goddamn it. Vox almost forgets to release Alastor’s bony wrist in time.

Alastor takes a shaky step back, hiding his face. Vox can still see his slitted eyes, open mouth, blown nostrils trembling well past the point of no return. The sneeze balks, recalcitrant now that it’s been given its desired freedom. As it crests the world seems to still, waiting.

But the dam soon breaks.

“Ah, hah, hohdear–EhhHG’Ⱨ̸̢̮͈͊̌̑̌͋Ⱬ̴͇̮̽͋͆̏̇ͅͅ₵̷̠̕Ⱨ̴̬̏̃̈́Ⱬ̵̝̩̔̕Ⱬ̷̞͗₮̶̂̈̚ͅ!̴͖͂̾̉̕͝”̷̞̙̺̳̩̑͐̑”

Every bulb in the back patio of the café shatters. Vox curses and pivots away from the shower of glass. His suit is Benson and Clegg, dammit, not Bits-o'-broken Bulb and Clegg.

“Hah, Ⱨ₲’ⱧⱫ₵ⱧⱫⱫ₮!”

The air spits ozone and Vox forgets about his sartorial worries. He can feel the surge of interference, of Makaya and bone-bending pins-and-needles Loa burbling forth like Pompeii. The wind around them picks up without warning and their drinks shake on the flimsy, ramshackle table. By some force, they do not spill, even when Alastor’s body shifts, becoming merely a window for Something Else, something Beyond. A manthing, nitid and twirling between this Plane of existence and the Next with such brightness that Vox has to tear his gaze away lest he go blind from atropine.

And Alastor still has one left in him.

“Hhg’T̙̥̻̰̻̀͡T̩̙̰̬͙͖̮͓̗̮̹͕ͅͅZ̵̵̶͔̞̥͙̜͕͇͓̱͉̳̠͢C̴̢̩͍̳̱̥̺̤̠̲̟̳͘͠H̴͖̠͓̥̺̤̠̲̟̳͘͜ͅH͖̠͓̥̻̲̭̜̠̭̳͚́͜ͅź̸̩̲̥̻̲̭̜̠̭̳͚ͅz̸̵̩̲͈̤̩̝̣ͅṱ͓̬̕͟c̟̪̝̙̲̰͚̗͓͝h̢̨̟̲̣͕͉̫̜͠ͅI̴̞̦̦̗̥҉̶̡͕͓̪͚͕̩͈͔̩E̱̭̘̫̮̗͈̳̙̕ͅŲ̵̼̳̱͙͎̲̘̩!”

The final sneeze is hoarse, guttural. Void of anything Vox can call a soul. And just for a fleeting, near-imperceptible second he swears he can hear the rattle of chains.

(It is reminiscent of the night Vox witnessed the Goetia in action, some twenty years ago atop the Brocken. That same cobweb tarantella of pants-creaming fireworks and infernal fractals–only cold and coated in the rime ice of the damned.)

Alastor shifts back into the confines of his own body again, leaving Vox almost disappointed with want. What a display of power. If unintentional.

Vox shivers. “Fucking bless,” he breathes, impressed despite himself.

Alastor remains hunched over with his hands covering his face for a moment longer before straightening up with a sharp (but finally clear) sniff. “Goodness,” he exclaims, brushing an errant fringe from his brow. “My deepest apologies for the display.”

Vox rolls his eyes as Alastor makes quick work of his handkerchief. Back to his prim and proper self. Read, fucking pussy.

“We could have been so powerful,” Vox laments aloud, unable to stop himself. “Had full control of the media.” He clenches his fist and looks to the claret afternoon sky. “Ruled over this cesspool like there was no tomorrow.”

“Oh, but there is a tomorrow,” argues Alastor. He too is gazing at a point somewhere beyond the horizon. “There always is.”

Vox surveys him out of the warped corner of his screen, lips curling around a drop of coffee cream. “Uh, your point?”

“It’s not aaalllways about power! Despite how, ah, attractive it may be to some with flatter notions of the Spheres.” Alastor sniffs and gives Vox a shit-eating grin.

Honestly, it’s one of the straighter answers Vox has gotten today. Even so, he flips him the bird. “Oh fuck you, Alastor. You and the goddamn horse you rode in on.”

“You should really think of the bigger picture, Vox,” Alastor chirps. Cheerful again on a dime. “It’s why I said no!”

This time Vox really does do a spit-take. “Sa–you didn’t–” he splutters around a half-swallowed mouthful of coffee–”you didn’t say no, Alastor. You left! For seven fucking years!”

Alastor shrugs with a small, noncommittal sound. “My problem.”

“Hah! So you admit it’s a pro–”

“I’m not admitting a̴̴n̴̴y̴̴t̴̴h̴̴i̴̴n̴̴g̴,”Alastor says, his voice dropping a full octave and gaining several eldritch overtones. Prevarication reincarnated.

And maybe that is the problem. Broadcasts, breaking news–they are all about establishing those ley lines of communication. Kind of doesn’t work with without connection. The transmissions lose their way in the ether.

Maybe Alastor needs it that way, right now. And maybe–

Maybe Vox is not meant to understand. Not yet, anyway. Not in this lifetime. But perhaps another. When they might cross the Acheron together, as Damballah and Ayida Wèdo, instead of running sabotage and interference around all the strings attached that they never speak of.

So with Alastor staring at him red-nosed, wan, and puffy-eyed, Vox does what is least expected.

He begins to sing.

“For a second there it felt like old times, Before the shit hit my fans. Before you refused, Made three of four And soiled our beastly plans. Overlords foiled with a grin! We're just something to be used, Could have been something great, Now just a Hazbin, A piece of eight. Do you remember? How you used to greet and dismember, Then eat the meat, raw and tender. What a contender, that Dream Team Ender! Now I’m happy to steer clear Of that tailored veneer, My dear, blackmailer Bambi– Or should I say, Rudolph? 'Cause I glean it, you really are getting soft! But I won’t even stream it–yeah, I mean it! Why? You said it, This wasn’t done by my hand, so I cannot reap the credit, Your big band’s been outdone by Divine hand! Keep the glory, it’s not mine, So I’ll let this story slide, Be it on my own hide. Yeah, here’s the thing, I suppose, What I propose–hold on, you’re gonna sneeze– –Geez louise you fawn, blow your fucking nose! Now, ding-ding-ding, Yahtzee! A word of advice From your favorite Vee. Heck, I’ll even offer it for free–how swell! Oh shut it, I ain’t being nice. Stop your teasing! It’s just this freezing fire and ice I’m unable to quell. Cause despite your sneezing, you always inspire. Call me a liar, but something’s not right, real wrong, I can tell. You never tire, never fail to steal someone's song. So get to it! Fuck grace, face your shit or shit will get real. Even though you’re dressed to the nines, I see the signs. Made me call a truce, choose to loosen the noose– How grotesque! But now I’m done with this goddamn burlesque. Let me be clear, And inquire without fear, if I may be so bold. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚍? So many fell, see, to blood of gold. Maybe one day you’ll tell me the untold, Or remain a liar through and through. Do you dream of fire too, Alastor? Because you’re so, so cold.”

End.

#tbh..not really sure why he’s sneezing #but it doesn’t matter because he is #the interactions between vox and alastor are *chefs kiss*#snz #This is so goood 😭

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