Worthy of a Renaissance Painting, My Deer - MightBeOrphanedIdk (2024)

Chapter 1: Kiss of Judas

Chapter Text

Humans are so hideous.

Bare skin drips remnants of shower water, dripping down his filthy, pore-filled skin. Over gross, stubborn shavings, over cuts and scars and leathery skin. The human body is grotesque, he realises, an enlightenment given by superior forces, fingers pulling skin from its place, elasticizing it as far as it can go until it hurts. Too many pores and dots and imperfections.

Why would any sort of god make something so horrific? So… gruesome? Humans are just as ugly on the outside as they are on the inside, gluttonous, greedy, never satisfied. He can’t think of any reason as to why humans were created.

Hands scour over his naked body as the shower mist begins to rise to the ceiling, swirling like a Starry Night in the midst of the overhead lights. It buzzes dim, dying, and filthy. It feels so wrong, to touch his skin. Like touching the plague, like touching the most vile thing known to all kinds.

It feels so wrong, to have such an unsettling layer covering his body. There’s no more than pure wanton, he has, to rip it all off. To take out everything inside and abandon the suit of bloody skin.

His hands find his chest, roaming upon it like explorers in dangerous land. It’s hairy, layered so thick with black fuzz, he detests the feeling of it. A palm laying flat on this ill-written skin, a poem of mock beneath this layer beats. Thud. Thud. Thud. It beats, but for what reason?

He has none, for it to be moving in such vile ways. He holds no sort of desire to keep it moving. Keep it thriving and alive. Yet, here he stands, nude as the Gods intended, staring into his own reflection like an animal in an enclosure.

He looks down. Past his chest, below the mirror, to the bathroom vanity. Barely illuminated in the dying light, a silver glint. Riddled with brown and orange dusting, spreading across it like a fungus. A fungus trying to survive. White spots of shaving cream pride themselves atop the silver glint. It takes him a few moments to process what it is. A razor blade. It’s old. It’s rusted. It’s used. It’s faintly wet, from the shower residue moving around him. It’s revolting.

But he picks it up. Holds it at eye level, staring at it with a certain interest he’s never indulged in before. It’s still sharp. It still has its shine, despite the rot and age creeping into its silver features. An inanimate object, fighting to keep alive. How paradoxical. Why does it want to stay alive? If it has a reason, it surely can share such a thing with the organ beating in its chest. Intertwine the two, and give him a reason to stay alive.

Pinching it between his two fingers, he brings it down to his chest. Ignoring the forests of chest hair and the prickles of water that drip down from his head, through the foggy lighting, he angles it on his skin. The sharpness of the blade pricks his skin, right in the middle of his chest.

He presses. It stings.

Presses harder.

A sharp jolt runs through his body, as the rusty metal pierces the first layer of skin. It draws blood, red liquid that dribbles past the intrusion, down the centre of his chest, like a marked out incision. He follows it with the blade. Drags down and down, until the mark is hitting his stomach. Like pulling down a zipper, stepping out of the filthy suit, letting the shower mist hit his bare body. It hurts. But it is worth it. Because the blade will give him purpose.

The blade will intertwine with his heart.

Alastor hums softly. He draws his hand away from the other man’s chest, getting up onto his two feet with a soft smile. Tries to hide the faint disgust hiding at the back of his mind. ‘Thank you for allowing me to inspect your wound, Vox. Thankfully, you didn’t cut too deep. You shouldn’t have to worry about any sort of infection, I don’t think— I’m not any sort of specialist in physical wounds, afterall–, but do be careful regardless.’

Turning briefly, Alastor rounds the small coffee table separating the two couches, and sits down at the one opposing Vox’s. Picks his clipboard back up, and takes note of the faint relapse on his paper. Hm. Once he lowers his pen, he looks back up at Vox with a patient smile. Vox offers an awkward grin too.

Vox Booker is a man in his late 30’s, with greasy black hair and an unkempt look. There’s a paranoia in his eyes, paranoia that has subsided greatly ever since Alastor began his sessions with the man, and he’s starting to bring the life back into his pale skin with each talk. His skin is pore-filled, sweaty, riddled with a scent of alcohol that Alastor has learned he isn’t planning to take away. Never does he dress in anything beyond a shirt and pants, both stained and faded with age.

Though there was one session the two had where he wore a new shirt; He was excited to tell Alastor about his planned night out with his two friends, Velvette and Valentino. It wasn’t what Alastor wanted to discuss with him, but he let it slide regardless, if it meant getting Vox to open up more about his… eccentric beliefs.

He’s unemployed, but was once a floor manager at a big advertisem*nt company. Vox was fired after 12 years of service due to his disorder. The disorder that brings him to Alastor’s office; Delusional Disorder. He believes things that aren’t real, says things that couldn’t be further from the truth, yet he preaches it all like church.

Alastor picks his pen up once again and begins writing another note, without drawing his eyes away from his patient. He’s a bit red… Must be embarrassed he had another relapse into self-harm, but that’s fine. He had given Alastor the go-ahead to look at his wound he had caused yesterday in another one of his episodes. Thankfully it wasn’t deep— It would have been terribly troublesome to convince him to see a hospital for it.

‘So,’ Alastor begins slowly, tilting his head, ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but these Falsums. They told you to remove your skin today?’

Vox runs a hand through his hair, sighing, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his head. ‘No, no, they— You didn’t listen, they—’ He takes another deep breath. Practising those breathing methods, Alastor notes onto his paper. When he speaks once again, he speaks, defeatedly.

‘Yes. Yes they did.’ Vox’s blue eyes flick up to meet Alastor’s brown, and he lowers his hand from his hair, waving it a bit. ‘I relapsed, I’m sorry.’

Alastor contemplates whether to say he’s sorry or not to hear that. He goes against it, and taps his pen against his clipboard a few times. ‘Well, that’s quite alright, Vox. I appreciate that you are able to acknowledge that you have relapsed, but it is nothing to feel guilty of.

‘Setbacks are always a part of a forward movement. What matters is you know it was a setback. And I am very proud of you, because you do know.’

The therapist makes a small note of the smile that erupts from Vox’s lips. It’s good that he knows Alastor is proud of him. The latter pushes his pride forth with his own smile. Vox beams . Though, it seems there’s no new episodes to discuss from Vox’s end of his delusion, not for now. Alastor moves onto other aspects of Vox’s week.

‘And how have you been since last Monday?’ He asks, creating a new subheading on his paper, titled GENERAL. Last Monday was their last session together.

‘Been better,’ Vox grumbles, his tone suddenly falling sour. Alastor tilts his head with a slight furrow in his brows, lowering his pen. The patient catches the other looking at him so, and scowls, clenching his fists in his lap as he hunches forward.

‘It’s just! Me and Valentino f*cking argued again, the prick .. Haven’t spoken in a few days. He’s such a whiny bitch! He always complains and never appreciates what I do for him, I don’t–’

‘Vox,’ Alastor calmly breathes, holding his hand out. Vox stops staring at Alastor with a widened gaze, though it holds no emotion. He’s simply paused amidst his rant. ‘Let’s do as we practised, and look through your situation brick-by-brick to figure out why you’re angry. Do you remember the card tower we made?’

The card tower the two had made, it was their second session together. Alastor had come in with a deck of cards, and the two had spent an extended session making it. It kept on falling over for whatever reason, and by the time they had finished (33 minutes over their required time), Vox was frustrated, and angry.

He had only grown more so when Alastor told him to take it apart. But, the only condition is, he had to make sure he did it from the apex to the bottom. Smallest to biggest. Surface level to deep beneath. Alastor had explained,

‘This is what I want you to do when you are upset with a situation.’ Vox had looked at him weird as he took the top card off the tower. ‘De-escalate it by starting with the smallest aspect of the situation, or the smallest amount of cards. And as you move down, tackle bigger issues. Or bigger amounts of cards.

‘If you immediately go for the bigger issues, you’ll make a mess.’

Alastor reached forward, and plucked out a card from the bottom, much to Vox’s audible dismay, filled with expletives and angry groans. The entire tower had collapsed. Alastor held up his hand to calm Vox before he had begun fully yelling, and spoke once more.

‘Do you understand what I’m getting across to you, Vox?’

Vox nodded. Albeit reluctant.

‘The card tower…,’ Vox mumbles, soft, before nodding. Alastor gives him an encouraging smile, nodding himself, as if to give him the go-ahead. ‘Well… You know Valentino and I.. We’re friends. With benefits. We f*ck, but we don’t make love, you know what I’m saying?’ Alastor nods.

‘On Saturday the three of us wanted to go clubbing, and we did. But Valentino got more and more drunk, and he kept complaining about how I never give him flowers, or rings, or any of that lovey-dovey sh*t.’

Vox sighs. ‘I don’t want to do that. I just want to f*ck and still be his friend. I don’t want to be his boy-friend.’

‘I see,’ Alastor mumbles, smiling as he writes it down. ‘Well, Vox, it is completely okay to feel that way. You are as entitled to not want a relationship as Valentino does want to. Perhaps you two can come to a compromise. You can give him a rose or two, but keep it platonic. Or, if tensions rise, you can always find a new person with the same mutual desire as you.’

Vox groans. ‘But I don’t wanna lose Val.’ Despite it all, they appear to be good friends. Lasting friends.

‘I understand,’ Alastor smiles. He’s never been in this particular situation before, but Vox doesn’t need to know that. ‘It’s good to communicate, in situations like these, Vox. There is always a solution to be found for all conflicts.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ The man sighs, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck, gathering dead skin. ‘Do you think I should just say yes and date him?’

‘I wouldn’t advise it; That would imply you are leading him on for nothing.’ Alastor’s eyes drift to the ceiling, before falling back to Vox. ‘However, if Valentino is satisfied with the title of being your boyfriend, and you are satisfied with being called his boyfriend, it works. Communicate it, though.’

Words fall flat between the two as Vox lulls over Alastor’s wise words. And, after a few seconds, the man speaks once again. ‘Have your Falsum spoken to you, recently?’

‘Not really.’ Vox’s eyes drift to the grey carpet beneath his shoes, hand falling to his lap as he leans back on the couch.

‘ Not really doesn’t imply no, Vox,’ Alastor chides, falling stern in his words. Vox huffs slightly, wanting to roll his eyes. But he doesn’t, because that would be rude to Alastor. ‘What did they say?’

‘They told me… The doomsday, you remember the doomsday?’

‘When the Falsum have weighed humanity’s conscience, I recall.’ Alastor had noted it down weeks ago. He had made sure to keep a chronological story intact for these sorts of questions, whatever Vox tells him, he adds to the story. He has a pretty good vision of what exactly these Falsum are.

Vox nods, feverish. ‘They told me– The doomsday, I can have a partner. When the world comes crashing down and they send their followers to the Above and the disbelievers to the Below, I can have a partner join me, no matter who they are.’

That’s interesting.

Alastor reflects that much with a quirked eyebrow, noting it down on his paper. After a few scribbles, he sighs, placing his pen down. ‘Now, Vox, I am not accusing them of being fake.’ Yes he is. ‘But, didn’t they say only the followers are to ascend? No exceptions?’ Vox takes a few seconds to sputter something out.

‘They did, but–’

‘Isn’t it strange they’re being so contradictory?’ Alastor questions, noting Vox’s sudden look of confusion over his face. ‘Isn’t it strange they’ve started tumbling over their own words and confusing you? Doesn’t seem like something any sort of god could do. They seem rather artifi—’

A hand slams down on the couch arm. Alastor gazes at Vox’s clenched fist, pressing a slight indent into the tough fabric, a scowl on his lips, eyes narrowing. It’s not rare for him to get mad during the sessions; Most of it comes when Alastor outwardly doubts him like that. But, it is a necessary sacrifice to move towards recovery. Alastor’s seen it all before.

‘They are not. Fake,’ The patient grits.

‘Okay,’ Alastor breathes softly, taking a second to pause, thinking of his response, ‘Okay. I’m sorry, Vox. That was uncouth of me, and I apologise for doubting you.’ He keeps his silence for a few more moments, allowing Vox to remember his breathing exercises, to relax. Instead, Vox sighs, annoyed, falling back into the couch.

‘I’ll make you believe one day. You could be in the Above with me.’ Vox trails his eyes off behind Alastor, to his desk. Alastor allows him to look around for a few seconds, before his eyes meet Vox’s.

‘You— You have to believe in some god, right? Some sort of entity that’s above? It’s wrong, whatever you believe in. All capitalist bullsh*t. It’s the Falsum that’s telling the truth.’ Alastor was never particularly religious. His parents were, but the same never went for him. Still, he feels a tad bit of disturbance. Religion is an awfully touchy subject.

At Alastor’s lack of response, Vox lets out a huff. Like he could tell what Alastor’s response was, needn’t the words. ‘You’re worse than those religious nutjobs. You don’t believe in anything at all, do you?’

‘Let’s keep the focus away from my personal beliefs,’ Alastor redirects, polite but firm, ‘And try a new topic; Why do you think the Falsum allowed you to bring one other person with you?’

Vox seems less tense now that the conversation has moved past denial. Alastor notes this down; He seems to dislike facing reality when it comes to these situations. ‘I think… They let me, because I’m their most devoted follower. And they want me to be happy in the Above, so they’re letting me bring my soulmate, my one true love.’

‘Would that be Valentino?’ Alastor asks, rhetorical in nature. His next question, however, is not. ‘What about Velvette?’

‘No, no, f*ck those two,’ Vox seethes with an abrupt rage that has Alastor’s eyes widening slightly. Collect yourself Alastor. Relax. ‘They don’t believe me. They call me crazy. I don’t want idiots like them in the Above with me, living luxury without making the devotion for it. I’ll bring the man I really love.’

‘And who would that be, if not Valentino? I was under the impression that the two of you were quite close.’ Alastor picks his pen up once again, ready to begin writing. Vox opens his mouth, but no words erupt from him. He goes silent, planting his face in his hands. Alastor frowns. ‘I apologise, Vox. Was I too forthcoming with my words?’

‘..No.’ He slips his fingers apart, blue eyes sticking out amongst the shadows on his face. Alastor nods, tapping his pen on the paper a few times, gentle enough to stay quiet. ‘But the person I want to bring doesn’t believe in the Falsum. He actively goes against it.’

Alastor hums softly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Do you mind telling me who it is? Perhaps we could have a talk with him.’ Talking down this man might help Vox sober himself from this delusion.

Vox shakes his head. Alastor stares at the patient for a bit longer, before nodding, placing his clipboard beside himself, pen rolling off, and onto the crevices of the couch. The patient raises his head, co*cking an eyebrow. Alastor gets to his feet, stretching his arms up and above his head. He lets out a soft groan, that does more things to Vox than he’d like to admit.

The therapist lowers his arms, adjusting his glasses onto his face nicely. Never a hair out of place with him. ‘Would you like any drink? I have tea, coffee, soda. Water too, of course.’

‘Water’s fine,’ Vox mutters, his voice oddly gravelly. It’s not rare for Alastor to offer food or drink while in these sessions. Vox can never tell if he does it because he wants something from Vox, if he wants Vox to relax, or if he’s hungry or thirsty himself. Vox decided long ago not to question it.

Alastor nods, turning his back to the patient, revealing those perfectly tailored slacks, the slight sway in his hips as he walks. Vox finds himself watching the man move past the couch, to the corner near the door, where a small counter is set up with different appliances. He starts the kettle. Moves over to the mini-fridge, and bends over at the waist to pull out a water bottle.

Perfectly. Tailored pants.

The room falls into a peaceful silence as Vox watches Alastor make himself coffee.

Doctor Alastor Beaudeux is a lanky but well built man, who has been seeing to Vox for the past few weeks. He’s tan with enough moles to satisfy a man for life, oval glasses resting on his pointy nose, hitting his late twenties, younger than Vox by almost a decade, young, naive and sweet. Vox finds him always to be wearing some sort of dress shirt with pants and a sweater, no matter the weather, which makes him think of how many of each the man must have in his closet.

The latter has a variety of hairstyles to use, with his soft, dark brown curls that trail to the base of his neck— Sometimes he has it tied with a clip or hair tie. Sometimes he has a headband to pull it back from his forehead. Most of the time, he lets it do whatever. He always looks good, though, so Vox doesn’t complain.

He has the most charming smile that spreads across his face like a ray of sunlight, and the way it forms those smile lines and wrinkles next to his eyes has Vox obsessing over it in his dreams everyday. He’s from Louisiana somewhere, he’s never told Vox, but Vox can hear the accent, as faded as it is.

His fingers are long and dainty, and Vox almost never misses the way he tilts his head when he’s confused, or the way his eyes widen when Vox says something particularly disturbing, like a little scared fawn.

But…

It’s not enough to know about Alastor. It’s not fair.

Alastor knows everything about Vox. He knows about Vox’s love life, work life, and all his different lives. He knows how many medications Vox has to take in a day, and what his life schedule is through the week. He knows what Vox’s childhood was like, where he lived growing up. Hell, he nearly found out what Vox’s co*ck looked like, had he not stopped Vox one time. The latter had come in drunk out of his mind and thought it was gone.

But Vox knows nothing about Alastor. He knows Alastor’s physical traits. He knows Alastor likes to dress up business casual. Nothing past that. Alastor is an open book, if the pages were blank, hidden away with invisible ink that Vox cannot see. He wants to know more about Alastor.

Wants to know more about him as a person, not as his therapist. But Alastor never allows it. Never allows Vox to know more than what’s superficial. He says, he always says , “Let’s keep the conversation professional, Vox” , or he says “This is about you, Vox. Not me.” . Vox doesn’t care! He wants to know Alastor’s view on the matter.

It pisses him off.

Vox is getting desperate, now. He can’t keep knowing nothing about this man, Vox had to know something intimate. Or.. Or anything! He’d kill to know anything!

But, unfortunately, any advancements to learn more about Alastor, they always result in him being shut down with those same stupid responses. So lifeless, it’s like Alastor’s reading them off of a script.

So when Alastor returns with a coffee and a glass of water, Vox decides to make his move, again. He accepts the water from Alastor, face heating at the way their fingers brush over one another, and waits for Alastor to sit down to start drinking. Alastor leans back in his seat with a leg over the other, mug held with his pinky jutting out, waiting expectantly for Vox to begin speaking first.

‘Alastor?’ Vox begins slowly, placing his hands together like a broken prayer, fingers weaving between each other, glass of water immediately forgotten on the table, half empty. Alastor hums, taking a sip of his coffee. He raises his eyebrows and moves his head to the side, showing Vox his eyes.

‘Can I…’ God, he sounds pathetic. ‘Learn more about you? As a person, not my therapist?’

Alastor lowers his mug to his lap, placing it on his thigh. He swipes his tongue over his lips, catching any sort of coffee foam. His eyes are curious and he expresses as much. ‘Would it help you, if I did?’

‘Yes,’ Pours from Vox’s lips without hesitation. Alastor chuckles, glancing off to the side.

‘Well then. What would you like to know about me, Vox?’ He tilts his head slightly, taking a brief sip of his coffee. A bit of the liquid drips down the corner of his lip, and onto his pants. Something which he frowns at slightly, but makes no fuss over as he reaches for a tissue.

‘Anything,’ Comes Vox’s response, tone bordering on desperate. The therapist hums, contemplating, and falls silent for a few moments. After a few seconds of stretched quietude, he turns back to Vox, a cheeky smile rising on his face.

‘I prefer cats over dogs.’

Vox sighs, exasperated, and throws his hands up defeatedly. ‘No! I don’t mean stupid sh*t like that! You know what my co*ck looks like!’

‘Nearly,’ Alastor corrects, voice teetering on a laugh. ‘Nearly, knew what it looked like.’ It appears he too remembers that day well. Vox feels a slight blush of embarrassment rise on his cheeks, but he stuffs it down to continue complaining.

‘Can’t I learn something closer than that?’ He asks. Alastor takes a sip of his drink, seemingly unbothered by Vox, holding the larger sip in his mouth. Vox turns his attention to his hands, how they’re spread out at his sides. ‘Like… Something intimate! Are you a virgin?’

Alastor lurches forward, coughing. Vox jumps at the sudden noise, watching with slight alarm as Alastor’s mug spills over the edges as the man coughs, holding a hand over his mouth, eyes water. Now, if seeing Alastor crying isn’t a sight for sore eyes. The man in question places his dripping mug on the table, coughing into a tissue with alarm.

And when he gets the final cough out of himself, he looks up. A tear gathered in his eye. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Yeah!’ Vox exclaims like it’s the obvious. Alastor attempts to get a word out, but Vox beats him to it. ‘Are you single? Taken? Married? You look like the type of guy to have kids but at the same time you don’t. So what’s the deal there? Do you think I look hot? Swing left or right?’ Alastor, again, tries to get a word in, but Vox continues speaking. ‘If you think I look hot, would you wanna f*ck me—’

‘Vox .’

It’s spoken with such an abrupt harshness, that Vox’s mouth clamps shut. Alastor keeps his gaze stern and his eyes focussed, leaving little room for discussion as he speaks. He clears his throat, adjusts his collar, and reaches forward, pulling a few tissues from the table. Gently, he pats them over his pants, soaking up what coffee can be, and sets the rumpled tissues back down onto the table.

Finally, he turns to Vox. The weight of his glare has Vox heating up.

‘Vox. I understand you want to know more about me. I understand you’d like to garner a… connection between the two of us. But I would like to maintain a boundary; Keep it professional.’ Vox visibly deflates. ‘I’m flattered you want to bond, but these sessions are for you, and only you. I was under the impression you were going to ask me what my favourite animal was! Not….’ He looks disgusted at the notion of intimacy. ‘That.’

Vox sighs, slouching into his seat. ‘Right. Sorry. I just wanted…’ He groans. ‘I don’t know what I wanted. I’m sorry. You probably feel so f*cking creeped out now.’

‘I won’t deny,’ Alastor begins, tone altruistic as always, honest and communicative as always, ‘Your questions made me a little bit uncomfortable, Vox. But I forgive you, because now you know what you asked was personal and unfitting for…’ Alastor gestures between himself and Vox. ‘Us. So as long as you know what you did wrong, there is no harm done.’

Vox lets out a small, half-amused laugh. ‘So… What now, that I’ve f*cked the conversation up?’

‘No you haven’t,’ Alastor assures with a patient smile. ‘People have their little hiccups. I don’t blame you for it.’ He tilts his head, slightly. It’s as endearing as it is analytical, Vox fears. ‘Perhaps, we can take a new approach to your question. Would you like to restart?’

Vox nods. Intelligently. Not like he’s seeing a person with two heads. Because that would be embarrassing, he’s not embarrassing himself, there’s no way to after that trainwreck of a conversation less than five minutes ago.

He quickly comes to realise that Alastor is waiting for him to speak. Vox sits up straight with a startled noise, and clears his throat. ‘...Alastor. I would like to know more about you as a person.’

‘What would you like to know?’ Alastor asks, folding his hands neatly over his crossed legs with that same charming smile. Vox hums, swallowing slightly as he thinks, hand rising to his nape, scratching lightly. To remind himself he is here, in this spot, in this moment. What would he like to know? He wants to know something intimate, but clearly sex is off limits…

‘What’s your lovelife like?’

Alastor narrows his eyes slightly. ‘It’s heavily discouraged for me to talk about that,’ He begins, ‘But, if you so request. This may be beneficial.’ The man takes a deep breath, his chest puffing out, and he adjusts his glasses delicately. ‘I don’t really have one, is the answer you’re looking for. I don’t particularly have an interest for it.’

‘But if you did,’ Vox trails off, nails digging into his skin, causing small indents he’ll never be able to see. ‘Would you… swing left? You know what I mean?’

Alastor tilts his head, but this time, he appears confused. He co*cks a delicate eyebrow, adjusting his glasses. ‘Am I a liberal? That’s quite the turn from the questions you were asking me before, Vox.’ Vox makes a loud huh noise, head slinking forward.

‘That’s what that means? I thought it meant to ask if someone was gay.’

‘No,’ Alastor corrects gently. ‘Swing left, as in being a leftist. Which, yes. I am a leftist.’ He reaches up, adjusting his glasses. ‘And I am also part of the queer community, yes.’

Vox lights up like the lights on a damn Christmas Tree. ‘You are? You’re gay? Oh my gods! So am I– I bet you knew that, though, sh*t, sorry, but you’re gay! Me too!’

Alastor laughs, eyes wrinkling adorably. His smile shows to its full extent, and he holds a hand up, covering those beautiful lips. It swells Vox with pride to know he had been the cause of such raw amusem*nt from Alastor, who normally lays stoic and placid. ‘No, no. I’m not gay specifically, but I see no need to elaborate.’ He lowers his hand. But, to Vox’s dismay, the smile is gone, replaced with a patient smirk.

The therapist picks up his clipboard once again, scanning through it for a few seconds. After a few seconds, he places it on his lap, seemingly satisfied with whatever’s written on it. Vox knows he’s been taking notes throughout the entire session, whenever Vox says something particularly brash.

He wonders how long Alastor spends writing about Vox. About the things he says. Does Alastor think of him at night, pondering the words that flow from his mouth, the things he does? Does Alastor scrawl his name like it’s nothing, or does he pause to look at it every once in a while? What does his name look like in Alastor’s handwriting? He’d love to know.

He’d really love to know.

‘Is there anything else you’d like to know?’ Alastor questions, taking his glasses off his face to clean, pinching the fabric of his sweater and rubbing the glasses in between them. ‘I’m afraid my variety of answers is rather limited, but I hope I can assist nonetheless, Vox.’

‘Uhm.’ Vox exhales, patting his thighs rhythmically for a few seconds, thinking. ‘Dooo… youuuu…What made you want to be a therapist?’ Alastor taps his chin, eyes wandering to the ceiling. He mumbles something about that being a good question, which boosts Vox’s ego more than it should have.

Finally, he speaks.

‘I find there’s a certain sense of pride in seeing those who are suffering slowly recover from their state. It makes me happy to know that I helped people move out from such a bad place to begin with. Being a therapist is also very eye-opening to the different opinions scattered all across the world.’ Alastor smiles, clearly proud of his career choices.

…Huh.

Vox is here, some unemployed f*ck, worked in an office job all his life. He was a nobody. The only time his name left someone’s lips, it would be with scorn. But that would never be the case with Alastor. Everyone must love Alastor. What is there not to? He’s smart, charismatic, good looking, caring, and he remembers. He remembers small details about everyone, no matter how long ago it was!

Alastor is everything Vox is not.

Vox can’t tell if he hates or loves the man for it.

Silence once again falls over the room. Alastor pulls back his sleeve and glances at his watch. He hisses lightly, locking eyes with Vox. ‘Ah, so sorry, Vox. It appears our session is over.’ Lowering his hand to his lap yet again, Alastor offers a sympathetic smile. ‘Are there any parting words you’d like to say?’

‘No.’ Though his heartstrings long to be pulled out, so he can scream the symphony he wishes to bid the other.

‘Alright then,’ Alastor nods. ‘I’ll see you next Monday, then. Goodbye, Vox.’

Vox gets up from his couch, wiping his pants off from no crumbs or debris specifically. He turns towards the exit door and makes a straight beeline for it, feeling the weight of Alastor’s stare on his back.

But right before he reaches for the handle, he stops.

Turns around to face the other. Who tilts his head at him. ‘Yes?’

‘Alastor, would you like to…’ Vox trails off. He’s not a believer. He’ll never let it happen. Not willingly, at least. Any traces of hope dissipate from Vox’s body, and he exhales, submitting to reality. ‘Nevermind. Bye.’

‘Goodbye,’ Alastor repeats, as Vox opens the door. He shuts it behind him with a loud slam. A few of the framed degrees, pictures, and other items rattle on the wall, jostling from the weight of the slam. No matter. Vox is gone, and he’ll see the other next Monday.

Alastor releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Chapter 2: Birth of Venus

Chapter Text

Pinching his glasses off his face, Alastor takes another deep breath, lowering his specs to his lap. That session didn’t go as well as others. But… that’s okay— Setbacks are always necessary in a forward progression.

He places his glasses back on his face and looks down onto his notes, scrawled in a way that is nearly intelligible. He’d gotten a lot down this session, however, so not all is lost. Alastor’s making progress— Had he been so forthcoming with his doubts of Vox’s beliefs just a few weeks ago, Vox would have surely made a fuss, gotten physical, even. Today he had only hit the chair arm. It’s experienced worse. Alastor knows it well.

He’s meant to deal with the more… heavier, patience, if you will, it’s his specialty. Like Anthony (Though, everyone insists on calling him Angel in the office. Alastor isn’t complaining) does sexual trauma, like Husk does paediatric therapy, like Vagatha (Again with the nicknames, what kind of nickname is Vaggie?) does physio.

What he means to say is Alastor is more than adept at handling rowdy patients who lose their temper, like Vox. He’ll admit, he isn’t the most buff man, or the most experienced psychiatrist— He’s only been in the field for two to three years after earning his bachelors, afterall—, and so far he’s gotten lucky enough to avoid being punched in the face by his patients.

Doesn’t mean he isn’t just a little bit freaked out, though. Alastor knows he draws no short ends of no sort of stick when it comes to his appearances, but having a man nearly a decade older than you asking if you’d like to f*ck him isn’t exactly the best experience.

That had caught him off guard, and with Vox telling him about that “intertwined lovers” prophecy or whatever he was going on about, Alastor can’t help but notice the feeling of sweat on his skin become more prominent, his hair standing on edge.

He shakes it off. Calm yourself, Alastor. Focus and relax. You have work to do.

First thing’s first; Pants.

Alastor’s a little bit disgruntled at the coffee that had fallen onto his lap amidst his choking fit; These pants were new, and he’s not exactly looking towards spending an arm and a leg for dry cleaning. Oh well.. He has a spare change in his office somewhere, for these sorts of incidents, so. He’ll grab them and head out towards the staff bathroom, once he gets his office tidied up.

So he guesses pants are not first. He’ll just focus on tidying for now.

Getting to his feet, Alastor picks up his coffee mug and Vox’s abandoned water on the table, moving over to his mini-kitchen to place them inside the sink. He fills both with water, just as a sitting rinse, and grabs a rag hanging over the counter. It’s drenched with warm water at a moment’s notice and Alastor moves back over to the table, wiping it down to remove any spills. The couch seems to have been saved from coffee… good.

He readjusts the pillows and takes the rag back to the kitchen, hanging it over its prior corner, and empties out the mug. Alastor washes it up, places it on the rack, and hurries back over to the couches, grabbing his notes over the backrest. His eyes flick through the files as he lowers it onto his desk, vowing to go through them with more detail once he gets his pants changed; The feeling of lukewarm liquid over your thighs isn’t the best feeling, and Alastor’s starting to get overwhelmed.

To combat such a sensation, Alastor moves behind the desk and kneels down, pulling open one of the larger drawers at the bottom, the polished wood and fine engravings upon it painting a pretty touch. He grabs the first pair of neatly folded pants he sees, making a mental note to have the spare replaced by tomorrow, and holds it up. It doesn’t go with his sweater… Oh well. He’s sure whoever he runs into will just think it's a stylistic choice.

Chucking the clothes onto the desk, Alastor slides his notes over to his side of the table, scanning through. He hums lightly to himself, pulling open one of the top drawers, grabbing his status report files, neatly printed, blank, waiting to be filled with information. Alastor debates whether or not to fill it out at the moment, but he gives in and sits at his chair, rolling it under the desk. He picks up his pen, glances at his notes, and begins writing.

DATE: Monday 09.18.2017

PATIENT: Vox Bookers, Male, Age 37, D.O.B 10.23.1979

THERAPIST: Alastor Beaudeux, Age 25, D.O.B 05.15.1992

PATIENT MEDICATIONS: Risperidone, Olanzapine, Quetiapine, Aripiprazole

# OF SESSIONS: 11

# OF ANTICIPATED SESSIONS: Exceeding 30

TREATMENT PLAN START DATE: 07.10.17

SHORT TERM GOAL: Dissipate belief of Falsum. Reduce Paranoia.

LONG TERM GOAL: Cure Delusional Disorder

NOTES: Vox Bookers has made visible progression in his connection with his delusion. Today, he told Dr Beaudeux (Known to each other on first name basis) of a new message given to him as a devoted follower. He is permitted to bring one other person with him to the “Above” (Supposed rendition of Heaven) on “Doomsday”.

Dr Beaudeux questioned the sudden juxtaposition, as last time Vox was allegedly told it was exclusively followers allowed into the Above. Vox received the comment with ill-intention, and insisted on the “Falsum”’s (Supposed rendition of a god or gods) authenticity. Dr Beaudeux apologised for his comments.

Vox continues on to speak about his lovelife and friendships. Dr Beaudeux gave advice regarding his issues, and noted Vox had been following previously practised breathing exercises and problem-solving techniques.

Vox then asked to learn more about Dr Beaudeux as the doctor made the two beverages (Coffee and water). Dr Beaudeux gave minimal information, turning the attention to the patient. This was, again, ill-received, and Vox insisted on knowing more intimate details. Dr Beaudeux kept the patient calm with a firm warning, and refreshed the conversation. Vox apologised, demonstrating a healthy display of boundary-acknowledgement.

Overall, Vox is showing improvements in his mental health and reality comprehension. More to note next Monday.

-Dr Alastor Beaudeux

Alastor places his pen down, shaking his hand. Now that’s done. He can finally move to getting this wet cloth off of him. And if he needs a change of boxers too, he can either swallow his pride and hope it’s not obvious he has wet boxers, or he can go beg Angel for a pair, should he have one.

Standing from his seat, Alastor puts the report away in his desk, and grabs the spare change of pants. He fishes his items from his pockets and places them on the table, taking only his keys with him as he leaves the room.

The hallways of the Hazbin Help Institute have always been pretty loud. Music flows in from the speakers set up in most corners of most hallways, chatter can be heard from group therapy rooms, video games clicking and chirping from the kids area.

Alastor has yet to decide if he dislikes it or likes it; Most of the time he decides somewhere in the middle— There’s not much noise in his office, put in the most quiet corner of the building.

He sways down the hallway with quick and lean strides, glancing into rooms mostly out of curiosity for their contents. Kids laugh with each other and play games in one. A woman cries into her husband’s shoulder in another. Though, a good majority of them sit empty.

Fiddling with his keys, Alastor unlocks the staff bathroom and steps inside, clicking it shut and locking it behind him, hanging his keys from the keyhole. He glances around the yellow-tiled room, grimacing at the overwhelmingly abundant presence of the colour, and decides to just hurry and make do with it.

He starts by removing his sweater to see if his shirt had taken any droplets. Places his glasses on the sink counter, balancing dangerously between the unsanitary floor and the unsanitary drain hole.

Alastor drapes his sweater and change of pants over the toilet paper dispenser, ignoring how gross that may or may not be. He forces himself to think of what Maman would say, when faced with his repulsion for anything remotely dirty.

‘Now then, sha. You’re not gonna be eating off the damn thing, are you? Cus if you were, maybe then I’d think of not letting you put it there. If you aren’t eating off of it, I suggest you put your big boy pants on, and put these pants on!’

Alastor smiles fondly at the memory of his mother. It was such a long time ago.

Reaching down, Alastor makes quick work of his belt and slides off his pants, voiding contact with the floor itself with much caution. Boxers are fine, thank the lord, he did not want to ask Angel for underwear. Alastor puts on the new pants, sliding his sweater on, and moving to the mirror as he buckles his belt.

Bottleneck green with a maroon sweater, He grimaces in his head, I look like a damn Christmas advertisem*nt in July.

Sighing, Alastor takes off his sweater, puffing his dress shirt out a little, and collects himself. He puts his glasses back on, and heads out of the bathroom, taking his belongings with him. Time for his break, and then he has two patients back to back, and finally will he be able to take a breather.

He spends no time dropping his sweater in his office, more tossing it on the nearest chair, before locking the room up and heading to the staff break room. Alastor hasn’t eaten since the morning, and he’s starving.

The staff break room is no special room. It’s a small, kitchen-joint-sitting room, where Alastor tends to find his friends—Coworkers lounging around, chatting. He’s happy this company is so small— He finds, often, too many people with too many different meeting times overwhelms him. So when Alastor walks into the breakroom, he's internally delighted to see Anthony and Husk.

Anthony (Known by most people as Angel for his infamous 2014 slu*tty angel outfit for the Halloween talent show) is one of the few psychiatrists at H.H Institute along with some others. He specialises with sexual trauma clients, those with stories to tell regarding what could be argued as the most intimate form of human closeness. Give him a job, and he gets it done. Angel likes to tease with the people who are close to him, but he lays off once he can see the joke is getting old; Alastor likes that about him.

Husk can be described only as a gentle giant, Alastor reckons. He’s slightly taller than the latter himself, with a gruff voice and a seemingly natural pissed off expression. But, the surprise comes when you find he works with children, for any sort of reason. He comes off as a mean character, stubborn and prickly, but he’s kind. Just to people he knows well. He’ll bicker with Angel every now and then. With Alastor, he’s alright, just a few, small disagreements here and there.

He says “Alastor, having a father like you’ve described clearly means you have some, like, pent-up childhood trauma” and Alastor says “I am choosing to ignore you because I am better than a little slap every now and then.” to which Husk says “Alastor he broke your arm because you dropped a plate what do you mean little slap”.

Small disagreements.

Angel is the first to spot Alastor, sitting at a table playing go fish (But.. They have Uno cards?) with Husk. ‘Heya Al! How was Vox today?’

‘I can’t disclose anything, you know that,’ Alastor chides lightly, opening the fridge to grab his lunch. Vox is a bit of an infamous case in the building, amongst all the staff; Afterall, it’s not everyday a man comes in claiming there’s a doomsday and all these gods. A bit of a wildcard for Alastor to handle at first, but it worked out.

Grabbing a fork from the utensil drawer, Alastor opens up his container. He made gumbo last night, expecting Maman to come over, but something came up at her daycare, so he had a lot of leftovers. ‘Though, he’s making progress.’

‘Sweet,’ Angel whistles, glancing at his cards. ‘Uhmm… how much is a reverse card worth?’

‘What?’ Husk asks, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘The reverse card is worth a reverse card.’

‘I thought we were playing blackjack.’

‘This is Go Fish with Uno cards, Angel, how the hell did you come up with Blackjack?’ Alastor laughs to himself, rounding the counter to sit down at the table with the two. Husk grumbles, slapping his cards face-down on the table. His anger is short-lived once he rakes his eyes over Alastor, frowning. ‘Al. Before I ask you how you are, I have another question.’ Alastor tilts his head. ‘When did Vox leave your office?’

Alastor checks his watch, a brief glance. ‘Around 4.31pm. He wanted to tell me something which delayed his exit, but he stopped and left before saying anything of relevance. Why do you ask?’

‘That’s weird,’ Angel pouts, placing his cards on the table as Husk did. ‘We saw him pass by the breakroom.. Like.. two minutes before you came inside.’ His eyebrows drop and suddenly the air doesn’t seem so fun and light anymore. Angel leans in close. ‘Dude. Was he standing outside your door ‘n’ staring at it?’

‘I’m sure he just got lost on his way out,’ Alastor shrugs, having a spoonful of cold gumbo. Forgot to heat it up in the microwave. Too embarrassed to stand and do it now. Consequences of his actions, what a lament!

‘He’s been coming here for two months,’ Husk frowns. He reaches over and jostles Alastor’s arm a bit, garnering his full attention. ‘Be careful, Al. I know everyone tiptoes around the subject but don’t forget you deal with actual psychos. People who should be locked up, premature. If you end up getting attacked by one of your patients, you won’t be able to make any more excuses for them.’

Alastor hums. ‘Thank you for your concern, Husk and Angel.’ He has another forkful of rice. ‘But I can handle it. I’ll be alright.’

Conversation falls dim.

Clearing his throat, Alastor lowers his fork to the table, tilting his head. ‘How have your clients been doing, may I ask?’ Angel perks up, smiling. Happy for the change in subject.

‘Oh yeah, they’ve been doing great!’ Angel waves his hands around, speaking fast. He talks about how his clients have been appearing happier in recent times, how one of them told him they decided to have intimacy after their last negative experience. He speaks with such a passion that Alastor finds himself admiring the man. It’s rare for someone to have such an enjoyment of their career.

Now, not to say Alastor was lying when he told Vox he had pride in his choice of work. But he doesn’t find enjoyment in his work. Sure, it’s well paid-off when someone shows they’re getting better, and it’s intriguing to see how one’s mind works, but Alastor doesn’t enjoy it. He supposes there’s nothing to enjoy when it comes to working with clinical psychos.

‘Hello? Earth to Smiles?’ Alastor blinks, reeling his head back and away from the hand snapping in front of his face. Something he does not appreciate. He’d rather not be treated like a dog, having fingers snapped at him. He puts his detest aside and looks at Husk, who lowers his hand. ‘You alright?’

‘Plenty,’ Alastor breathes, ‘I just got caught up in my own thoughts. You were saying?’ It occurs to him that at some point, Angel had left the room, seemingly in a hurry based on how the cards are still where they are, if not a bit more messy. Must have gotten an emergency call.

‘I was saying that you and I should bring up that dad conversation of yours,’ Husk smiles, leaning onto his hands. ‘Children of divorce almost always need a person to talk to.’ Alastor rolls his eyes, scoffing.

‘There is no dad conversation to be had, Husk,’ He smiles. ‘I’m aware, from your church-like preaching, that hitting a child is no healthy act, but look how I turned out!’ Alastor spreads his arms out leaning back in his seat. ‘Perfectly healthy, helping the community, with such good looks and charisma I rival Lucifer himself.’

Husk co*cks an eyebrow. ‘Sure.’ He scrapes his eyes over Alastor for a second. ‘You have a bit of gumbo on your shirt, by the way.’ Alastor sits up with a sudden alarm, dropping his fork onto the table to observe the stain. This is his white shirt, if he has a red stain on it, he’ll simply die! And— Oh. His eyes meet Husk’s with the most annoyance he can muster into a blank look. Blank and stainless, much like his shirt.

‘Very funny.’

**

The rest of the day goes by widely uneventful. Alastor makes it through the next few clients with a breeze, filling out their reports, losing his voice as he speaks. It’s never fun on these particular days, where he back-to-back receives patients to deal with, but Alastor supposes no part of his job is really supposed to be fun.

Sighing, Alastor has another sip of his coffee, gifted to him by Angel when the man realised Alastor was a dead man walking by 6pm. It’s currently about to hit eight. He’s always been told he’s good at nursing his drinks to make them last. Most of his friends have gone home, but Alastor had a few extra mounds of paperwork to crush through before he himself could go home.

Signing off another file, Alastor shifts it to the side of his desk, weaving a hand through his hair. Tangling his curls, which he knows will be a bitch to deal with later on, but he may or may not be feeling a little bit stressed. This is a lot to deal with. A lot of heavy cases. Alastor is tired. He wants to hit his bed and pass out.

Uuugghh.

The sound of his door unlocking has him pulling his hand out, shaking off a few strands he had pulled out. He smiles when two women walk in, both with their bags packed, ready to turn in for the night.

‘Ah,’ Alastor greets, ‘Charlie. Vaggie. To what do I owe the pleasure this evening?’

Charlie and Vaggie Morningstar are the two married co-owners of Hazbin Help Institute. Both the building and the business belong to them, hence its small community it owns. They’re two lovely ladies who can only be described as sun and moon, and upon meeting them, even if only for a moment, it’s very easy to tell who is who.

Alastor remembers in his interview for the institute, he had thought the tanner woman wanted to kill him with her eyes, the way Vaggie was staring at him. But Charlie shone only rainbows and sunshine, welcoming Alastor and congratulating him for his accomplishments, moving to California all the way from Louisiana.

The second time he met the two played out when Alastor was getting his office prepared and his finer details cemented. Vaggie was softer around this time, and even cracked a few jokes about having a bayou in the room to make him feel at home. Alastor appreciated it, greatly. Made him feel welcome.

Blinking himself to the present moment, Alastor eagerly awaits Charlie’s response. ‘Well! You’re working late again, which first of all, make sure not to burn yourself out, and second of all, is really admirable for your work ethic!’

There it is, the insistent compliments. Initially, when Alastor kept on receiving little sweet nothings from the woman, he had thought she was trying to get something from him. Have him wrapped around her finger, bending backwards to fulfil her requests.

But no. She just really likes complimenting people. Said it had something to do with how their faces light up and they start blushing! Alastor is yet to fall for her schemes, along with Husk. It's always a nice challenge.

‘What she’s trying to say,’ Vaggie continues, placing a hand on the other's shoulder, ‘Is we’re heading home for the night. Make sure not to overwork yourself, Al. Make sure that green Honda manages to actually be used, hah. It’s been sitting out there all day rotting away in the carpark. You know you’re allowed to use the staff parking too, right?’ Digging in her pocket, she holds up a ring of keys, tossing them across the room into Alastor’s fumbling hands. ‘You’re closing, that cool?’

‘Cool indeed,’ Alastor nods, placing the keys with care on his desk. Vaggie smiles. ‘Well, I suppose you’re to be heading off now. You ladies have a lovely night.’

‘You too, Al!’ Charlie smiles, waving ecstatically. ‘Make sure not to—’

‘Burn myself out, I know, I know,’ Alastor laughs, holding his hand up. ‘I’m not a high schooler anymore, Charlie. I’ll be fine.’ Charlie nods, with such an intensity Alastor fears her head will pop off her shoulders. Thankfully, her wife is there to calm her down, smiling leisurely.

The two ladies send him their final goodnights, and they leave the room.

Alastor dots his i’s and crosses his last few t’s, just about done with writing all day, and places his pen on his paper. He gets up with a soft groan, reaching down to pull his stained pants out from his drawer, along with his sweater. Alastor grabs his bags and places his paperwork in his drawer to be done at a later date.

The last thing he snags are the keys Vaggie had left for him. With all his items in hand, his room cleaned for tomorrow, and his sleep deprivation held at bay with his coffee, Alastor sighs, satisfied. Another Monday.

He shuts off his lights and roams through the darkened and eerily silent hallways, subconsciously wishing for at least a little bit of background chatter as shadows prick sweat beads at the back of his neck. No matter, he needs to stop being so afraid of things so trivial.

Alastor begins power walking. He’s scared as sh*t, he fears.

Stepping outside into the brisk cold, Alastor swirls around to face the doors of the building. He locks them up tight with the keys, smiling as the lock clicks into place, and reaches upwards, grabbing the shutter. It hits the floor with a slam, Alastor locking that too with a smaller lock keeping the shutter to the floor. Standing with a groan, Alastor shoves the keys in his pocket, making a note to come to work earlier tomorrow, and turns to leave.

He unlocks his Toyota and sits inside, dumping his items on the passenger seat with a groan. He’s getting old. As he starts up his car, Alastor hums softly to himself. It’s strange; Vaggie had said he had a Honda. He does not. Must have gotten his car confused for someone else's. Alastor pulls out of the parking look, turning his headlights on.

He’s so ready to just hit his pillow and pass out for the next ten hours.

The green Honda trailing him in the darkness goes blissfully unnoticed.

**

Monday.

Alastor practically trips over himself and his bag, rushing to get inside the Hazbin Help Institute. sh*t. sh*t. It’s 2.59pm, Vox’s appointment starts at 3, Alastor is late.

He was at Maman’s the night before celebrating her birthday. They had been watching one of Maman’s favourite films when there was a pounding at the door. It was late at night, so Alastor volunteered to go check it out. Colour him surprised when his father had stumbled past him, drunken, yelling and screaming for Maman.

There was a little disagreement. Alastor threw a few punches. Busted his lip, and now he has an appearing cut on his cheekbone. The police were called, his father was taken away, and Alastor had spent the night at the hospital drugged up on painkillers. He was taken back to Maman’s home. Next morning he had woken up, he woke up at half-past one. Mind you, it’s quite the long drive between his home and Maman’s.

Alastor barely processes his coworkers asking him if he’s alright as he rushes down the hallways, muttering curses to himself as he readies his room keycard, smashing it against the reader, The door beeps open with an attitude that Alastor returns with a less than professional expletive, and he steps inside.

Vox stands at Alastor’s desk, staring down at a photo of him and his Maman at Alastor’s college graduation. He looks up to see Alastor hurrying in, dumping his items on the desk, fumbling with drawer handles. The man eventually manages to pull out his notebook for Vox, ushering the man to the couches.

‘My apologies, my sincerest apologies,’ Alastor blurts, as Vox sits down, expression amused. ‘Small incident with me last night, but I’m here now. My apologies. Alright.’ He falls down onto the couch opposite Vox, panting slightly. Adjusting his glasses, Alastor writes the date on the corner of his page, taking a deep breath. Relax. You got this.

‘Alright.’ Alastor looks up to Vox. ‘My apologies for my tardiness.’

‘It’s aight,’ Vox laughs. ‘Happens to the best of us, Al. I only got here a few minutes ago, anyway.’

Alastor doesn’t know how to feel about that nickname; It’s mostly for friends. He decides to ignore it. ‘Thank you for understanding. Now that we’ve gotten past that, let’s begin. How have you—’

‘What happened to your face?’ Vox blurts, co*cking an eyebrow. His eyes scan Alastor’s lips and cheekbone, the bandages covering his skin, and frowns. ‘Who hurt you?’ Alastor bites back a scowl at the reminder, and smiles politely.

‘That’s not relevant, I just had a small altercation.’ Eyes travelling over his patient, Alastor tilts his head slightly, frowning. ‘I could ask the same for you, Vox. What happened to you?’ He looks much more dishevelled than normal, eyebags prominent on his face, hair ruffled and jutted out at all angles.

‘Oh, it’s noth…’ He trails off. His fists clench and he narrows his eyes, teeth baring into a sneer. ‘It’s f*cking Val. He said we were over, again.’

‘So you took my advice about the compromise?’ Alastor asks, noting it down on his paper; They had not been a couple according to Vox last week. ‘That’s good. I’m happy you were able to communicate. But, what does garner my attention, is you said again. What’s that imply?’

Vox exhales harshly. ‘It’s going sh*t. I hate it.’ He throws his hands up in the air, dropping them back onto his thighs. ‘He's just gotten so much more clingier, and he keeps trying to make us do more intimate sh*t! I mean, I've already bought him flowers and made him breakfast, what more does he want? I don't do all this lovey-dovey…’ He trails off, grumbling. ‘We broke up, and he's being a prissy bitch about it.’

‘I take it he's not on your one true lover list?’ Alastor humours lightly, subtly redirecting the conversation to his main focus. Vox sends him a nasty sneer, so Alastor raises his hands up in mock defeat. ‘I digress. Have you considered trying to… Hmmm…’ He taps his pen on his bottom lip gently, a slight pain shooting through the cut on the sensitive skin. ‘Have you prayed? To the Falsum? Surely they ought to answer their most devoted follower’s pleas.’

Vox rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat. ‘Whatever. I'm free to f*ck whoever I wanna, anyways.’ Sitting up, Vox clasps his hands together with a loud clap, smile growing on his face. ‘But forget about that. I wanna know what the hell happened to you, Doc.’

‘That's not rele–’

‘I won't tell anyone,’ Vox insists. ‘My lips are zipped, my hands are tied, my ass is up, you best believe I won't say a word.’ Alastor narrows his eyes, grimacing slightly, only letting his expression relax when Vox deflects, disheartened. ‘Such a buzzkill.’

Silence.

Then,

‘My father had stopped by last night,’ Alastor begins slowly, setting his pen and paper down on his lap. Vox sits up, eyes widening with a grin on his face. ‘And he is not… The most pacifistic man. He wanted to hurt my mother. I defended her.’ Raising a hand to his cheekbone, Alastor grazes his fingers over the bandage. ‘And he landed a few good hits. That's all.’

‘Oh man,’ Vox breathes softly. ‘I'm sorry that happened. Your dad sounds like an asshole.’ Alastor presses his glasses closer to his face, pausing for a moment, his fingers pressing into the connecting frame. An agreement lingers on the tip of his tongue, but he cannot force it out.

His father… He must be troubled, he must have had a difficult childhood. His behaviour is not his fault. As much as he hurt Alastor, and his mother, he… It’s not his fault. It's the consequences of his surroundings, not.. His father is a bad man, sure, but it’s not—

Alastor redirects. ‘What about your own father?’

Vox scoffs, rolling his eyes. As if, instead of being upset because he was a hurtful figure, he was a complete nuisance, unworthy of a breath spent on him. ‘He's a total prick. Never home, bought me and my mom’s love with cash and sh*t.. Sent me to a private school too. Sure, yeah, he came to all my school events or whatever, but he never gave me any sort of prize for them past a pat on the back. Total dickhe*d.’

His eyes meet Alastor’s, and they seem soft, fond, even, around the edges. ‘Looks like we both have sh*tty parents.’

That sounds like an ideal father, Alastor thinks to himself, more in a daydreaming haze than rational thought. He blinks it away, focusing himself back on Vox and Vox’s issues. It’s his therapy session, afterall, not Alastor’s.

‘Do you think your father had any role to play in your…’ Alastor’s eyes drift to the roof, searching for the right word. He finds the action hurts his cheekbone, strangely, so he lowers them, falling on Vox. Vox’s slight redness does not go unnoticed. ‘Indoctrination, into the Falsum’s… enlightenment?’

‘Oh yeah, totally.’ Vox sighs, leaning back in his seat, inspecting his nails with a carefully crafted indifference. ‘The Falsum only help those who need it. Those who deserve it and live a life of suffering.’ He gestures to himself, planting his hand flat on his chest. ‘Like me.’ And then he gestures to Alastor, his smile broad and caring. ‘Like you.’

‘I’m happy to hear that for you,’ Alastor enunciates. He averts his gaze, letting out a tiny, half-hearted chuckle.

Vox’s heart fills to the brim with appreciation at the care the other has for him.

‘Any news on Doomsday?’ The psychiatrist asks with a small tilt of his head. ‘On the topic of Falsum, I might as well take the time to learn some more about it, afterall.’ Vox sits up, clapping his hands together with a loud echo, sending the other flinching. The former apologises internally, but continues on.

‘The Falsum told me something new. They told me who I’m to bring up into the Above with me, when Doomsday comes. Who to intertwine with.’ Alastor nods, scribbling something down on his cute little clipboard with those pianist fingers. He gently mouths words to himself as he writes, and Vox lets him fall silent for those few moments, revelling in the younger man’s beauty. 25, and he’s so, so beautiful. He’d look so beautiful with Vox.

‘Do you know who it is? Did the Falsum tell you, today?’ Alastor asks once he’s done writing, shaking his hand a bit in exertion, before picking his pen up. He shuffles a bit in his seat, hiking the clipboard furthermore secure on his thigh. Vox gives an affirmative nod, the red lurking down to his neck and painting his blue eyes brighter amongst his skin.

Alastor readies his pen, prepared to fill in his own little subheading titled PERSON OF INTEREST. His pen tip hovers over white pristine paper as he stares into Vox’s eyes, waiting, listening. Vox takes a deep breath, cracking a few of his knuckles, and leans forward. Alastor places his full attention on the patient, as he says,

‘It’s you.’

Alastor’s not sure he’s ever experienced his brain going silent like this before.

The two stare at each other for what seems like hours, Alastor blinking an incredulous amount of times for whatever unknown reason. His brain struggles to catch up with the logistics of the situation, struggles to comprehend the words spoken to him. He’s the one Vox needs to intertwine (read: f*ck) with? Does this mean— Is Alastor the person of interest?

‘Alastor..?’ Vox asks, voice timid, as if he had confessed to his crush in middle school.

Alastor can feel himself grow nervously hot under the collar, instinctual parts of his brain roaring to escape, to leave the room, to get away from this potential danger in front of him. But he doesn’t, and instead, he places his clipboard down on the couch beside him, pen dropping to the carpeted floor. Then, akin to a robot learning how to walk, he gets up from his seat, stiff as he walks to the kitchen. Mumbles something about needing water on the way there.

The journey to find a glass, rinse it, fill it up with water, and return to the couch seems alarmingly short, as soon Alastor finds himself sitting down, placing an already-half-empty glass of water on the table in front of him. He picks up his pen and clipboard. Vox stares at him with a hurt look, a hurt look he is so desperate to keep on Vox’s face. His body betrays him when Alastor reaches forward, sliding the glass closer to Vox, in case the man needs it.

‘So,’ Come strangled words, words Alastor is surprised to hear come from himself, ‘How did… The Falsum deduce it was me you had to intertwine with?’ An incredulous laugh interrupts him, and he laughs aloud like a madman, shaking his head a few times. ‘Apologies,’ He says, ‘It’s just… a lot for a man like me to take in.’

Vox swallows, visibly unenthused unlike a few moments before, and wipes his hands down his pants. ‘Uhm.. Well! The Falsum told me— They said– You’re—’ He lets his own little laugh go, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘You’re the only one who really cares about me, Doc. You’re the only thing that is consistent in my life, no matter how much to hell it goes, you’re still here, every Monday at 3pm to talk to me.

‘That’s how they knew you were the one, how they knew you and I were meant to be! You care about me, and I care about you. It’s a two-way exchange we could keep going until Doomsday, until we all go and f*cking die.’ Vox clears his throat, lowering his voice. ‘If you were to leave me, one day, Alastor…’ The stare he sends the younger man sends chills up and down his spine. ‘I’ll f*cking kill myself. I won’t be able to bear it. You’re the missing half in my life. You are mine.’

The blaring sirens blaring red in Alastor’s head are far from enough to drown out the silence in his ears.

But, he speaks.

‘Vox. I… Developing feelings, like you have, are completely normal. Many clients… Tend to grow a certain bond with their psychiatrists… And misinterpret their professional relationship for something more intimate.’ Good way to start Alastor, pats on the back. Vox tilts his head at him, confused, as if Alastor had started speaking a foreign language. ‘Just know you are not the first, or only one to develop feelings like this for me. It is okay to have done so. But I regret to inform you, Vox, that I—’

‘Other people have wanted to f*ck you?’ Vox cuts off, his voice deadpan in such a way Alastor snaps his jaw shut. The man snarls, baring his teeth in a scowl, hands sneaking their ways to the couch arms, where he grabs. ‘Who? Who came onto you like a harlot? Was it that blonde chick who owns the building? Or that f*cking… Paediatrician? No wonder the paediatrician came onto you, with looks as young as yours, any pedofil—’

‘Many clients in general,’ Alastor interrupts with a particularly harsh slice to it, ‘Tend to grow a certain bond with their psychiatrists. It happens to all psychiatrists at some point, and it is a normal reaction.’ Taking a deep breath and noting Vox’s words down on his paper, Alastor continues, languid, keeping his eyes straight onto his paper. ‘However. We need to maintain a professional and ethical boundary. You will not advance any further, and neither will I.’

Smiling, Alastor finally raises his eyes to Vox’s. Vox’s hurt, angered eyes, blown wide and furious. ‘But! This is a learning experience, Vox. Now you know what anyone needs in a basic relationship; Love, empathy, a listening ear, and—’

‘You!’ A hand slams down on the couch arm with such a force the water on the table shivers. Alastor reels his head back slightly, gripping his pen just that little bit tighter. Vox scowls, shaking his head. ‘No, it is you. You are the one I need. The one I want. I don’t want some other fake f*ck who will just use and abuse me like some toy, like I’m needing to be discarded.’

He growls, fingers reaching his hair. ‘Don’t you get it? You’re the only man in my life who treats me right. You’re the only man in my life that I want, that gets me like no one else does.’ His voice raises in volume as each worth speaks itself, Alastor sitting in his spot with a stunned silence, forcing words from his chest. They feel like blows of anger, each word.

‘Vox, let’s calm down now—’

‘No! I’ve worked so f*cking hard for the Falsum, and they’ve finally given me my reward; You. And you’re not going to get away from me, from our fate together, not when we’ve done so much, not when you love me this much—’

‘Vox, please lower your—’

Movements happen both in a flash and in slow-motion.

Vox reaches forward, for the glass. There's a brief flash of idiocy in Alastor’s head, where he believes Vox just wants a glass of water. The thought fades as it comes, Alastor dropping his clipboard and pen to the side of his lap with a rush of adrenaline blowing through him like a punch to the gut. The man across him raises the glass up, hand behind his head, and throws.

Water splashes in a deranged spiral as the glass hurls for Alastor’s face. He barely has a moment to react before it hits him, forcing his glasses to shatter. Glass and water splashes over his face as he topples, falling against the couch with a pounding in his head, a dull thrum that has him crying out. The glass broke against his forehead. And it cut deep.

But, despite all that, only one thought echoes in his head.

Glass shards near a self-harm victim.

Alastor moves, mainly of his own volition. His first move is to get Vox away from the shards before he can do anything. Vox looks down at his hand like it had sprouted a hundred more fingers, eyes widening and mouth dropping.

When he looks back up, Alastor is reaching for his wrists. Vox lets out an aborted yell as Alastor tackles him down to the ground, pinning his stomach to the floor. HIs heart flutters and his face brightens with blush. Pianist fingers wrap themselves around his wrists, shifting their hold to one hand, a forearm pressing against the space between his shoulder blades.

Vox feels Alastor’s knees on either side of his hips, co*ck no doubt just inches away from his ass, and it helps none at all for the sudden intrusion of certain thoughts. What the younger man could do to him, how he’d be willing to follow Vox’s every word, how he’d listen to Vox’s word like a puppy trailing after its parent.

Alastor sways slightly. It brings Vox back to reality. The reality that he had just shattered a glass against Alastor’s head.

Vox tries to lift his head to apologise.

‘Do not. Move,’ Alastor sneers into his ear, voice low, wavering. Vox lowers his head back onto the carpet, eyes widening, glaring at the man from the corner of his eye.

Somewhere behind the two, a door opens. Four people come rushing inside, crying out and yelling amongst themselves. Vox feels Alastor’s hands tear away from his skin, his body removed. It’s replaced by someone much more harsh, hauling Vox to his feet, keeping his shoulders pulled back so taut it begins to hurt.

Vox swings his head around to see the attacker. A man with a face guard glares back at him, pulling him backwards, causing Vox to stumble over himself. Another guard of similar attire follows after, reaching down to grab Vox’s legs, putting him up in the air like a pig on a stick. The man flails at such a hold, crying out and trying to kick. He manages a faint glance to where he was a few moments ago.

Alastor rests back against the couch, clearly not on his own volition, mouth pulled into a horrible grimace as his fingers lightly prod at the cut on his forehead. The blonde woman that owns the building dabs his forehead with a tissue.

‘Nothing will stop me,’ Vox mumbles, as the guards begin to drag him out.

‘The hell are you on about, freak?’ One of the guards snaps back with just as much ire, glaring down at Vox through a faceguard he cannot reciprocate.

Vox swings his body side-to-side, prompting the guards to stumble and cry out, dropping his legs. His ankles collide against the carpet with a harsh thud, allowing Vox to sit up, glaring at Alastor.

Alastor looks at him with… fear. His eyes are widened and he seems to have leaned away from Vox, his shoulders trembling as Vox stares at him. The guards collect themselves with just as much professionalism as before, and lift him up. Vox does not protest.

But, Alastor will learn to understand soon. That they were made for each other, and first impressions aren’t always the bestest of impressions. He just needs to learn to get used to Vox, is all. And that can be accomplished by learning more about Alastor.

Nothing will stop Vox from calling the man his.

He promises it.

Vox is thrown out on the road in front of the centre.

Meanwhile, Alastor, hands shaking, picks up a shard of glass from the floor. Charlie and Vaggie watch him from afar as he does, concerned looks flushing over their faces. Alastor feels the weight of it on his back. His fingers hook onto piece after piece of glass, plucking them from off the carpet, digging into his skin, though not enough to draw blood.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ Charlie asks for perhaps what is the hundredth time in ten minutes. Alastor nods, mumbling a small affirmative, not trusting his voice to stay stable despite what had just happened.

‘Babe,’ Vaggie scowls, ‘Is that even a question? He’s obviously not okay, he needs to go home for the day, maybe even the week.’ It seems the latter part of her remark falls on Alastor’s weak defence, like a barrage of blows to a house of straw.

After a few moments of silence, Alastor gathering more shards of glass, and failing to give a response, Vaggie clears her throat. ‘I said, he needs to go home for the day, maybe even the week.’

‘I don’t need it,’ Alastor assures, shaking his head as he gets to his feet, having collected all he can, at least with his fingers. His head pounds and aches where the glass had hit, the third bandage to touch his face in less than a day. First his lip, then his cheekbone, now his forehead.

He turns, and dumps the glass into the bin, clapping his hands in completion while he focuses on the two women.

They both stare at him with unimpressed looks, Vaggie co*cking an eyebrow while Charlie crosses her arms. Alastor smiles, walking over to where water soaks into the carpet, glittered with microscopic glass.

He kneels down, speaking as he plants his hand on the carpet. ‘I was just a little bit startled, I’m sure you understand.’ Alastor begins rubbing his hand back and forth on the carpet, aiming to catch any stray pieces that may have hidden in the carpet stitches. ‘Afterall, it is all apart of the life of a psy—’

Alastor cuts himself off with a yelp.

The others are at his side within a moment’s notice, kneeling down beside him. Alastor stares down at his palm, where a thin line makes itself known, unevening his skin, enough so he can see a sparse glint of his skin within. Blood begins to weep from the corners and his hand throbs, something Alastor grimaces to. So he didn’t get all the glass.

‘Alastor,’ Vaggie speaks, her voice softer, her brown hair falling in front of her face as she leans to get into Alastor’s peripheral. ‘Go home. You need to rest, you need to have time to process what has happened to you.’

‘I need to log the incident,’ Alastor protests, lifting himself up to his feet to grab a tissue. Vaggie and Charlie both get to their feet, following after him as he grabs a tissue from the tissue box on the table. He presses it to his palm, wincing slightly.

‘You can do that when you come back?’ Charlie offers, smiling hopefully. ‘When… you’re not…’

‘Shaking like a f*cking leaf,’ Vaggie finishes for her, ever the straightforward woman. Alastor pauses to look over at both of them, then down at his hand, at the way it trembles and shakes. Finally, he locks eyes with Vaggie, and sighs.

‘Is it paid leave?’

**

‘There’s my boy!’ Hands pull him inside the warm house, the hot air hitting him like a soft wall of ember. He’s wrapped in an embrace Alastor cannot help but reciprocate with just as much love, tightening his arms around her, squeezing tight.

Adelice Beaudeux is Alastor’s beloved mother. Kicking strong and healthy at the age of 56, Adelice has made a name for herself in the neighbourhood as possibly one of the coolest mothers there. She had grown up in Louisiana as her son, married a man who had often hurt and abused her, high on drugs and alcohol. Adelice had fought the long fight, endured years of abuse from her husband, until Alastor had gotten a job in California.

The three had moved to California, where, upon landing, Adelice had left divorce papers atop her ex-husband’s bags in the airport, and left with her son. Legalities had cleared themselves up with due time, a few spats still being dealt with, even years after they had moved. Despite her past, she’s full of life, full of smiles, full of mischief and gleam. Now, she owns a daycare, a small but humble business, all positive reviews from her clients (Except for… eugh, Susan.).

Alastor admires her very much; Anything she says will go. It is a rule to last on forever, past his death.

When Alastor pulls away from his Maman, he smiles brightly down at her, hands resting on her shoulders. She plants a kiss on his cheek, then another on his opposing cheek, hands pressing on both sides of his head. He leans into the touch with love.

‘Now that we’re done being sappy,’ Maman smiles, standing back.

Alastor is then mercifully graced with a slap across the face.

He yelps, holding a hand up to his cheek with a surprised look across his face. Maman places her hands on her hips, glaring at him with a raised gum. She stares at him, as if waiting for him to apologise for something he doesn’t even know he’s done. She looks at him. Then co*cks an eyebrow. Her eyes flick to his forehead.

Oh.

Her eyes move down to his bandaged hand.

Oh.

‘I can explain,’ Alastor lamely begins. Lamely.

‘I keep telling you,’ Maman scolds, narrowing her eyes, ‘That if you’re out there getting hurt so you can be spoiling me with all this green’s game—’ She gestures to the house around the two. ‘Then you can stop. I can provide perfectly for myself, sha, I don’t need you sending me money while you’re getting hurt—’

‘But I want to, Maman,’ Alastor insists, pulling her hands away from her hips to hold. ‘I want to make it up to you, for your bravery all my life, Maman. I’d feel bad if I still had you working like a dog while I’d be living in luxuries.’

‘Now I don’t know what the hell you’re on about,’ Maman says, her expression softening. ‘I am perfectly fine with the stuff I can provide myself. I am perfectly fine with my boy enjoying his life. You don’t need to worry about the past, star.’

Alastor hums, but does not give. Instead, he draws his mother into another tight hug, keeping her firm and with him. He really needs it after such a day. Maman lets out a little laugh, competitive undertones rising with the realisation that the coaxing was not over just yet, that one had yet to win over the other.

So, that night, Alastor decides to sleep over.

Chapter 3: An Unequal Marriage

Chapter Text

Alastor steps into Hazbin Help Institute with a bright smile on his face, on a fresh Wednesday morning. His mind is completely cleared, the incident from approximately seven weeks ago fled from his mind. The only remnants of such a time come from the faint scar on his forehead. He has to get himself in check, has to focus himself. He can’t afford to be slacking because one delusional creep got to him.

That’s right; Alastor’s so moved past the incident, he’s name-calling the Vox Bookers.

Narrowing his gaze, triumphant, Alastor breezes past the reception (Not without saying a brief hello to Niffty, who sits at the desk scribbling some doodle to herself; She acknowledged him with dull interest, humming. He doesn’t mind, she’s a sweetheart!), and into the innard hallways of the building, a maze he knows well.

On his way to his office he had run into Husk again. He first grumbled about how “Alastor shouldn’t be back this early”, before asking how Alastor was doing, to which Alastor said he had been doing completely fine, better, even, now that he had had a break and got his mind set and focussed. Husk had stared at him, up and down, crossing his arms with a sceptical look.

It was then, as Alastor was being scanned up and down by the man, that he had noticed Husk got a piercing on his ear, and redirected the conversation to a topic that didn’t make him feel like he was being psychoanalysed.

They had a nice chat, but eventually they had to part, with the promise of regrouping during their break.

As luck would have it, Alastor’s walk was full of interruptions and reunitings. Not to say he’s complaining (admittedly, he very much missed the eccentric crowd known as his coworkers over his seven week absence), of course, but it does feel tiring to copy and paste the same conversation over and over again in a five minute walk.

The next person he comes across is Angel. The latter was stepping out of his office and the two bumped into each other, Angel towering over the other. And Alastor’s fairly tall himself, if he does say so.

The latter steps back with an apology on his lips immediately, while Angel smiles, teasing him about “Wanting to get a feel of these” as he pats his man breasts. To which Alastor scoffs, punching him in the shoulder. He’ll spare Angel the consequences of his innuendos for today.

‘How are you feeling?’ Angel asks with a softer tone, the suggestivity in his tone faded. He places a hand on his hip as his eyes rake over the man, scanning. ‘Feeling better, Al? Bookers’s sh*tshow was the talk of the office for days after you left.’

‘Was it?’ Alastor humours lightly, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘I hope no slander slipped from any lips at all during my absence, for either party.’

Angel shakes his head slowly, a smirk growing on his lips. ‘Nah. But we did hear that a lil insane someone has the hots for our youngest fella.’ He pats Alastor on the head. Alastor rolls his eyes, jerking his head away. Angel chuckles, fading into a hum, and he frowns.

‘But seriously, Al. If you feel like this guy’s dangerous, you should probably call the police, get some legal action done. I’ve seen this case a hundred times before, and trust me, sugar. It ain’t never end pretty when they do nothing about it.’

‘Angel,’ Alastor calmly starts, an earnest smile on his lips. ‘I appreciate your concern for me. But, Vox is unwell. It is not his fault he is acting the way he does.’ Angel frowns, opening his mouth to speak. Alastor cuts him off. ‘But if the situation escalates, doubt not I will seek legal reprieve.’

A bit of silence washes over the two. Angel hums, low and soft, but smiles and nods. ‘Right, Al. Calm it down with the formality, we’re like a family here. And besides, you’re 25, not from ‘25. Take it easy with the doubt not I will blah blah blah.’ He snickers lightly. ‘You’ll start making me think you run a Sunday School or something, all that Bible-sounding bullsh*t.’

‘You— You have to believe in some god, right? Some sort of entity that’s above? It’s wrong, whatever you believe in. All capitalist bullsh*t. It’s the Falsum that’s telling the truth.’

‘...You’re worse than those religious nutjobs. You don’t believe in anything at all, do you?’

Alastor’s smile falters, but Angel doesn’t seem to notice. He moves past Alastor, and the two make an agreement to rendezvous at their break. Angel walks down the hallway, turning the corner, leaving Alastor alone in the corridor. He stares down where Angel had left, then peers into the room of which he had come.

Husk, sitting atop one of the couches, legs spread in a less than modest way, clears his throat. ‘...Hey.’

Alastor blinks a few times. Husk clears his throat again, buttoning up his final two buttons. Smiling, the former tilts his head. ‘I’m not going to ask what transpired here. I’m just going to ask how you got from back there—’ He juts his thumb to where he had come from. ‘--To here so quickly.’

‘You were gone for seven weeks,’ Husk snaps. ‘A lot can happen. For all you know we got mediaeval castle passages. Leave me alone, I was just talking to him.’

‘Sure, sure,’ Alastor muses. He reaches inside the room and begins to pull the door shut. ‘That’s what they all say when I garner some blackmail on them. Say, it’s been quite a while since you’ve treated me to a drink, hasn’t it been? Surely your fossil-of-a-wallet can afford it.’

He shuts the door just as the expletives begin rolling out.

Snickering, Alastor continues down the hallway, pushing his glasses up his nose. His office arrives in no time, the corner quiet as it had been seven weeks prior. Alastor digs in his pocket for his keycard, tapping it against the reader with a calm demeanour, and pushes the door open.

Other than things being a bit dusty, everything seems fine. The only thing askew is the incident report Alastor had left on his desk, completed after the outburst with Vox the next day. He had written it with shaky hands on that Tuesday, and promised himself to come in Wednesday to refine it. He got carried away staying at his mother’s, and never completed it.

Walking up to his desk, Alastor picks the paper up, scanning through the report. Huh. That’s weird. The writing’s different from his normal handwriting. Were his hands that shaky, that his entire handwriting style had changed?

Holding the paper up, Alastor scans through it once more. Something slips out beneath the paper, bright pink, fluttering down to the desk. Alastor hums, setting the report down, picking up the small note. It’s from Vaggie, as signed in the bottom right with that distinctive signature she has.

Fixed your report up. Come back when you’re ready.

Alastor smiles, fond. How unbelievably thoughtful. He sets the post-it note down on the table beside the report, and slings his bag around to his front, setting it down on his desk. Who knew Vaggie would be such a secret caretaker? Alastor would have been completely fine to have done it himself. Oh well. He isn’t one to be looking a gift horse in the mouth.

His door clicks open. Footsteps rush inside, and a gasp fills the air with glee. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Alastor pivots around, smile growing as Charlie hurries inside. Vaggie follows close behind, expression guarded (as always, so Alastor doesn’t really take it personally), as Charlie swoops Alastor up for a firm hug. He lets out a startled noise at the feeling of his ribs being crushed into pieces, gently patting Charlie on the back. She finally lets him go with a wide grin.

‘Ahh!’ She squeals. ‘You’re back! We missed you, Al!’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Alastor smiles, dusting his sleeves off. He flicks his gaze to Vaggie, nodding as a thank you for the report. She gets the message, needn’t the words. ‘I just had to take a little well-earnt sabbatical, thank you for your understanding.’

Charlie smiles, placing her hands in front of her, clasped together, Potentially to save Alastor from any future hug assaults. ‘Well! That’s really good, Al. I’m happy you’re feeling better, and that you’re back!’ Alastor smiles with a wink of his eye and a click of his tongue.

‘Back, and ready to rumble!’ He pulls back his sleeve to glance at his watch, laughing to himself because his words are so funny and Alastor is the funniest man known to mankind. He adjusts his sleeve to how it was before, and looks up at the two. ‘Speaking of. I have a patient coming in quite soon, and I’m sure you two didn’t come around just to celebrate my return?’

‘Oh,’ Vaggie finally speaks, ‘No. We came here to let you know about the Bookers situation.’ Crossing her arms, she nods her head towards the door. ‘After you got injured and didn’t come in Wednesday, we sent him off to another centre. He was coming in for days after you left, so we had him relocated.’

‘Yeah.’ Charlie pouts, fiddling with her indexes a bit. ‘We… uhm… Had to tell him that you also got relocated to that centre…So if he shows up, he might be a lliittle bit mad.’

Ah. Well isn’t that swell?

Alastor takes in a deep breath, bared teeth shutting, tight-lipped. Can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, He thinks to himself in the privacy of his thoughts. ‘Thank you two, so much. I am a little bit embarrassed that I could not handle a patient of which I was assigned to be able to handle, but I understand my safety being prioritised.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Charlie offers. When that doesn’t appear to have helped, Vaggie backs her up.

‘The case was personal the moment he said he was in love with you. It’s standard procedure to change a patient’s psychiatrist if their bond becomes anything intimate.’ She pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, perhaps to take a breath. ‘Not to say it’s your fault, Al. But you have to understand Vox is dangerous, if he thinks he’s in love with you, he’s not a safe person to be around. Especially after he threw a glass at your head.’

Alastor hums, frowning. ‘I suppose that’s fair.’

‘Damn right it is,’ Vaggie snaps, ‘And you know what’s also fair to assume? That you got co*cky.’ Alastor tilts his head. ‘Alastor, sometimes I think you forget that you work with actual psychopaths— Not some normal person who needs to cope with infidelity or something—Insane people.

‘You and I can probably both agree that you fail to see just how dangerous Vox was. He could have followed you home, stolen something from your room, hell, killed you whenever you make your coffee!’ She gestures to Alastor’s kitchenette. ‘Alastor, stop overestimating just how good you are at your job. Not to say you aren’t a good therapist, you are, but you are not the best therapist. Remember you still only have, like, three years in the field.’

Two years, actually. But who’s counting? Waiter’s logic, Alastor will take three years of field experience over two.

Vaggie takes a deep breath, massaging her temples lightly. Charlie places a hand on her shoulder, offering to Alastor an apologetic smile. She steps forward, keeping her contact with Vaggie, and says, ‘We’re gonna go now. Anything happens, call us, okay?’

‘Our pager is in your desk drawer,’ Vaggie mutters, pointing to the drawer. Alastor glances back, and nods. ‘Alright, we’re leaving you to it, Alastor. Actually this time.’

‘Buh-bye,’ Alastor smiles, waving as the two women leave the room, shutting the door behind them. Alastor places his hands on his hips, glancing around his office with a soft frown. He needs to freshen the place up before his next client gets here.

And how excited he is for that!

**

Rosie Brimlow is a 43 year old woman who falls under the title of Alastor’s favourite patient, possibly ever. She’s married with no children to a man named Franklin, her fourth husband after his predecessors had mysteriously gone missing. Rosie runs a fashion boutique in the older parts of the city, and has many repeating and loyal clientele.

Alastor occasionally finds himself at the door to the boutique, wondering if the fashionable suits are worth losing his job— He has to maintain a strict client-therapist relationship, and he doubts supporting a potential murderer’s business is really professional.

Sacrifices must be made, it seems. Alastor’s life is a tragedy depicted in comedy.

She comes to Alastor every now and then so Alastor can talk down her seemingly irresistible urge to cannibalise her husband. On paper, it says she’s going to therapy for the loss of all of those husbands, but after one session with Charlie, she was quickly reassigned. Just by that alone, it doesn’t take a lot to assume what happened to her other three husbands, but Alastor digresses; He’s a therapist, not a detective.

Rosie comes to him every Wednesday at 11am on the dot, and leaves at 2pm. Alastor finds himself very much enjoying the company she provides. She’s modest, but not past gossiping. Outgoing, but not in a way she’s brash or forthcoming. Respectfully dressed, but not in such a way she comes off as stupidly rich. Rosie and Franklin are both acquainted with a lot of the fat cats of the city, the people who drown in cash to the point they can no longer see the surface of poverty.

So Alastor… tends to get… distracted, sometimes, talking about these said fat cats.

‘And then she came up to me and told me the floral patterning was her idea!’

Alastor feels his jaw hit his lap. Rosie snorts, tossing her head back with a hand covering her mouth. She looks back down, wiping a tear from the base of her eye, and continues on. ‘I said, please, this floral patterning has more value through one thread than your entire Summer Collection does! There’s no way you were able to come up with something so expensive when you’re as frugal as a Victorian Child!’

Picking up his pen, Alastor scribbles a note down regarding the spat Rosie mentions, and scoffs, eyes on his paper as he writes. ‘Well, to be fair, you weren’t wrong— It’s the middle of Winter, who the hell comes out with a Summer collection now?’

‘That’s what I’m saying!’ Rosie cries out, throwing her hands out by her sides. ‘She went ahead and got all mopey because I only ever stated the truth, Alastor, then she had the nerve to say I still copied her floral pattern! Then Franklin got involved, then his cousin, you know how the show goes, they’re all buncha circus animals!’

More laughs fill the room. ‘What a mess!’ They cry at the same time, high-fiving over the table.

Together, they remain laughing together, calming down into a chorus of soft hums. Rosie reaches forward, snatching a chip off one of the offered snack plates. Alastor creates a new sub-heading in his notes, titled CANNIBALISM, and looks back up to Rosie.

‘So,’ Alastor breathes softly, the gossip of the session coming to a temporary pause. ‘How have you been doing, aside from all the drama? Any sort of intrusive thought, any sort of itching to do something?’

‘Nope,’ Rosie smiles, popping her P, ‘Been swell, Alastor. No sort of any intrusive thought.’ Alastor raises an eyebrow with a less-than-impressed frown. Rosie giggles. ‘...That I haven’t acted on.’

‘Rosie,’ Alastor sighs, pursing his lips, disappointed. ‘Have you done anything? Honestly speaking?

‘Of course I haven’t,’ Rosie laughs, placing her hands folded in her lap. Alastor smiles, satisfied, and expresses his approval through a little note on his clipboard. He puts his pen aside and reaches forward, plucking a biscuit off of the table. And of course Alastor has snacks prepared for Rosie; What else for his favourite patient?

No biases, of course. Alastor hates all of them the same, they’re bad people, yada yada, therapist-patient relationship.

…Anyway.

Rosie sighs, tilting her head a bit. ‘Al, you’re the only therapist I know that’s such a gentleman. No other psychiatrist out there goes treating me as royal as you do.’ She winks. ‘See your mama went ahead and raised you to be a real man.’

She did indeed.

Alastor can’t stop the flush of red that sparks across his face at such a compliment; He’s always been one for a little bit of praise. Boosts his ego just that little bit. To combat the redness, Alastor waves a hand in front of his face, chuckling softly, before lowering his eyes to his paper.

‘Hope you’re not hit with a little dose of cupid’s arrow, are you? Only said one thing, Al.’ Alastor shakes his head no, the comment not at all helping to calm the redness on his face. He has no feelings for Rosie, of course, the age gap is well hitting 20 years, and even then she’s still a client. Alastor has to admit, he is a sucker for the “potentially-mother-looking-figure-praise”.

The next few minutes go by with relative ease. Alastor barely has anything to note down that’s of concern, only how the conversation went, what they spoke about. Though, throughout these aforementioned minutes, Alastor can’t help but notice the commotion going on outside. He’s said before that his office is in a relatively quiet spot of the building, barely anyone comes here.

It sounds like… a lot of yelling.

Alastor frowns. There weren’t any group sessions that Alastor was made aware of, and even so, he would have been asked to join in with his client… It’s a whole thing, he’d rather not go into it. So many people, so much noise, too little privacy, and he has to sit on the rancid city-layout-whatever carpets used for the kids. He shivers. Vile. Nasty.

But this doesn’t deter Alastor from his point— If there was a group session, he would have been made aware of it, seven week absence or not. There isn’t any group session, he knows it. So why is it so damn loud out there? Who’s yelling?

‘Alastor? You even listening to me?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Alastor mumbles, not even listening to her. His attention is locked on the door, on the yelling going on behind it. Someone appears to be in trouble, that’s the only excuse he can come up with. ‘Please excuse me for a moment, Rosie..’

She hums, confused, watching as Alastor gets up from his seat, dismissing his pen and clipboard and snacks on the table. He moves towards the door, where the yelling only grows louder. It sounds like… At least a good five people, which is a lot of people to be standing in the hallway of the quietest part of the building.

Alastor reaches forward for the door handle, feeling the trepidation grow within his gut like tapeworm.

He grabs onto the smooth, cold metal, and twists it open.

A body shoves past him and sends him stumbling back a little. The yelling starts blasting ten times louder than it was before he had opened the door, leaving Alastor to squeeze his eyes shut as he collects himself. No sooner than a moment later, he opens his eyes and looks at who had come inside so rudely.

Vox.

Alastor feels the feeling in his gut drop further down, physically sagging his shoulders as he whips his head around to outside. All his coworkers, Angel, Charlie, Husk, Vaggie, they stand outside, expressing their own looks of surprise.

‘He just barged in!--’ Charlie begins, cutting herself off. She winces, tongue falling flat in her mouth, as she attempts to speak again. ‘We tried to get him to get out, but he–’

‘Get him out,’ Vaggie snaps. She reaches inside and grabs the handle, moving to pull it shut. But, right before she can close it fully, her expression softens. ‘But be careful.’

Alastor swallows, and nods. Vaggie sends him one last look of apology as the door shuts. He turns back around to Vox, who is glaring at Rosie, yelling incomprehensible things and expletives. A lot of expletives. Rosie looks confused, her shoulders tense, ready to fight if need be. Hopefully not. Alastor hurries forward and gets in between the two, standing next to Rosie’s couch.

‘Get the f*ck out!’ Vox snaps, his appearance even more dishevelled than when Alastor had last seen him. He has to give the other credit, he didn’t think it was possible to do so.

‘I will do no such thing,’ Rosie fights, crossing her arms as she remains in her one spot. ‘Alastor, remove this child from your office, he is interrupting our quality time.’

Vox takes a bold step forward, hand raised to his stomach and balled into a fist. ‘You f*cking—’ He stops. Lulls over Rosie’s words for a second. And then slowly, so agonisingly slow, he begins to turn his head towards Alastor. ‘...Alastor?’

Alastor stares at this man for a couple of seconds, admittedly at a loss for words. He finally speaks, after a few seconds, settling on, ‘Yes. That is me.’

Because that is the only logical and smart response that is sane and smart to say.

‘Alastor!’ Vox lurches forward, wrapping Alastor in a constrictive hug. It feels nothing like Charlie’s hug from earlier, it feels like Vox is trying to keep him in one spot, trying to make sure he can’t leave. Charlie makes sure you won’t want to leave. Alastor grunts a tiny bit, squeezing one of his eyes shut as the hug actually starts to hurt. ‘Oh, f*ck, you have no idea how much I missed you, how much I needed you, those pricks, the blonde and that Latina told me you left and I—’

‘Vox,’ He gets out, ‘Please.. Let go.’

Vox lets go, so quick and compliant, as if a remote had controlled him to do it, rather than Alastor’s words. He stares at Alastor with a smile that could rival his own on a good day. Alastor, a bit disturbed, takes a deep breath, making a motion while he does, as if to tell Vox to do the same.

‘How about we all calm down,’ Alastor says, gesturing between himself, Rosie, and Vox, ‘And we all take it easy, and do all that jazz.’ He takes in another lungful of air, smiling when he hears two others follow close behind him. Satisfied, he looks at Rosie. ‘Rosie, my dear? May you please move to my couch over there?’

Rosie huffs, giving a mean glare to Vox. Vox replies with a smug smile, crossing his arms as Rosie gets to her feet, dusting her dress off. She then saunters across the table and to Alastor’s side, moving the clipboard and pen to balance on the arm rest. Finally, she sits.

Vox spares no time taking her spot, collapsing onto the couch, sighing contentedly. Alastor is the only one left standing, mind racing on what to do, the mark on his forehead pulsing awfully strange, like a reminder of what had happened last time. He hums, drumming his fingers nervously against his thighs as he looks between both patients. Eventually, he settles on sitting down next to Rosie, close enough so their thighs touch, albeit faint. The couches really need to be widened..

The narrowing of Vox’s eyes tells Alastor this does not go unnoticed.

‘So,’ Alastor begins, voice level as he grabs his clipboard, flipping to a new page. ‘What brings you to my office so unannounced?’ He titles a new page EMERGENCY BOOKERS VISIT, and looks up to the man in question, tilting his head.

‘I f*cking hate my new therapist!’ Vox snaps. ‘Those dumb chicks Cheyenne and Valeria or whatever told me you moved to a new institute, so I went there too because I’m your favourite client, right?’ He looks at Alastor. Alastor inhales to speak, but Vox cuts him off. ‘Right! Tried a new chick named Emily or something for a few weeks until I asked about you. But turns out you didn’t go there, those f*cks lied to me so I came back and—’ He takes a deep breath, smiling in earnest. ‘We found each other again. After 37 days.’

Alastor stares at Vox for a few moments, a bit unnerved. He had counted. The days. They were apart. Vox frowns, apparently catching onto Alastor’s uncertainty. Something in his expression shifts, and shockingly, Alastor can’t tell what to.

Suddenly, Alastor recalls what Vaggie had told him not too long ago. That Vox was dangerous. That Alastor was overestimating his capabilities, ability at handling the man. He feels a fit of dread fill his gut, as the two stare at each other, silent and waiting. Alastor doesn’t know what he’s waiting for; Him or Vox to say something, Rosie to do something, or a secret third option.

A tear begins rolling down Vox’s cheek.

Secret third option, then.

Alastor’s eyes bulge almost comically as tears stream down Vox’s cheeks like cracks in glass, linear and intertwining. They manoeuvre around his stubble, some slipping between his chapped lips, slinking down his chin. Rosie lets out a small oh my, as Alastor feels his lips part, mind blanking. Then, the fact that he’s supposed to do something smacks him in the back of the head, and he begins speaking.

‘Deary me,’ Alastor starts, leaning forward to hand Vox a box of tissues that had been on the table of snacks. ‘Are you alright? What happened?’

‘I—’ Vox sniffs, loud. He snatches the box and takes out one, two, skip a few maybe seven tissues, blowing his nose. ‘I’m sorry— I’m sorry Alastor.’

‘Why are you sorry?’ Alastor asks, brows furrowing as he scribbles on his paper, writing things down. ‘There’s nothing to my knowledge that you need to feel sorry for, if that helps you, Vox.’

‘No, I–’ Vox wipes his hand across his face, ridding himself of tears and sadness. ‘I just— The Falsum, they– They showed me another vision..’ Vox pauses, head dropping, staring at his hands. Alastor notices that he’s shaking, an uncommon reaction when Vox regards one of his “visions”. They’re like dreams, if you will, dreams Vox receives time-to-time that usually regard his happiness and success in life by listening to the Falsum.

Rosie glances over at Alastor with a co*cked eyebrow, but Alastor raises his hand to her, silencing her next few words. He looks back down to his page and writes down another subheading labelled FALSUM.

‘What did they show you this time, then?’ Alastor asks, tilting his head. Vox turns over his hands, a finger tracing an alarmingly visible vein.

‘I was… Rotting.’

A disgusting piece of filth, laying amongst a world of equally horrible piles. Each with their own story to tell, each with their own regrets to lament. It smelled of decay and all that is horrible, the misery and disgusting wanton venomous to his lungs.

He tried to call out for solace, tried to scream, but his lungs were drowned, drowned with gunk and blood and water, all murky and old from who knows how long. This was his punishment, he found rather quickly, his punishment for the mistreatment of someone made so well for him, so beautifully. All things, pretty or ugly, handsome or gorgeous, are on his scale, a comparison to him. An Adonis, recreated in his image, yet the epitome of beauty is subjective.

Falsum had worked for him, worked to give him such a blessing, lust and love and desire all wrapped within skin and muscle. Yet Vox had thrown it aside, hurt his prize, his one true love.

And now he suffers, alone, drowning in the filth and rot and decay of the Below. It is a fate well deserved, he tries to tell himself, he had caused this for himself, the catalyst of his pain, nothing but himself. Tears well in his eyes as they embrace the last scope of light, light shaped like a beautiful weeping angel, and he finally sinks, below all the filth. Gunk filling all his orifices, he can no longer breathe, no longer see, no longer hear.

This is punishment.

‘And I’m so scared,’ Vox cries out, wiping his eyes with a couple hundred scrunched-up tissues. ‘I don’t— I don’t wanna rot in the below, Alastor, I— You and me, we were meant to be, and I don’t wanna f*ck that up because I made you uncomfortable..’

Alastor and Rosie exchange a quick glance, before Alastor turns to Vox once again, putting on his facade of patience. ‘It’s okay, Vox. I’m sure it was merely a warning, you needn’t look into too—’

‘Will you forgive me?’ Vox, ignoring Alastor’s words, slips to the floor, on his knees with a sickening crack of joints. Like a coming wave of fear, Alastor watches as he waddles around the table, and to Alastor. His eyes are full of tears, his face is red, and overall he just seems so much more of a mess than when Alastor had last seen him. His words from months ago flash in Alastor’s head, like an alarm.

‘If you were to leave me, one day, Alastor… I’ll f*cking kill myself. I won’t be able to bear it. You’re the missing half in my life. You are mine.’

Alastor’s dragged from his thoughts when a hand cups his knee. Jolting, Alastor’s gaze shoots down to glare at the contact, at Vox gripping his knee. Tight. He lets out another brief sob, a tear racing down his pale skin, and asks, once again, ‘Will you forgive me? Would you ever want to f–f*ck me? Let me f*ck you? I can’t— If you say no, I don’t—’

‘Insane bastard,’ Rosie mumbles as Vox continues going on and on. Alastor turns his head to her, eyes following shortly after. He sends her a stern look, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘What? Am I wrong for mentioning how he’s on something? f*cking look at him wanting to do such vile things—’

‘Rosie, please calm yourself. It is uncouth to be so judgemental.’ When the target is right in front of the two. Rosie rolls her eyes with a light scoff, looking down onto her lap as Alastor notes a couple of things down, bringing himself back to Vox’s soliloquy, at his legs.

‘And—’

‘Vox,’ Alastor cuts off, raising a hand. Vox pauses, wiping his eyes once again. ‘I.. I apologise. Sincerely. Really, I do, but I do not want to…’ He waves his hand around, searching for the right word. f*ck is too informal, intertwine sounds cultish… ‘I don’t want to be engaging with you, in that manner.’ Vox deflates in front of him, hand sliding down his shin in a way that makes him shiver. Alastor continues on.

‘What I do want to have you do is have you continue to take your medications.’ The visible cringing on Vox’s face has Alastor stuttering over himself, squinting his eyes. ‘The medications that I… ordered you to take…’

Silence.

‘Have you been taking your medications, Vox?’

Alastor had them especially picked out… Risperidone and Quetiapine are supposed to balance his serotonin and dopamine… Olanzapine blocks excess dopamine… Aripiprazole is an antipsychotic.

Has Vox been taking none of them?

The patient puts a hand to the back of his neck, scratching the skin there. Alastor places his clipboard on the arm rest once again, bringing his hands up to his temple, pinching his glasses off. He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes as he leans back into the couch, taking a few moments for himself. The hands on his legs tighten, keeping his knees almost locked into the position.

Vox hasn’t been taking the medication. Vox hasn’t been taking any of them. No wonder he’s off the rails. No wonder he’s been so… unhinged. The medications are the best Alastor knows, the best you can get over the counter at the drugstore, and Vox has been taking none of them.

Sighing, Alastor puts his glasses back on his face, and with the most relaxed tone he can offer, he asks, ‘Why haven’t you been taking your prescribed medication, Vox? I thought you were ordered to do so.’

‘The Falsum told me not to,’ Vox chokes out, eyes widening with each blink Alastor gives. His expression cracks into one of misery, seeing Alastor so disappointed in him, the man made for him find a feeling of ire within him. Frowning is no good look on Alastor. Frowning isn’t something Alastor should ever have to do. ‘Please don’t be mad at me, Alastor.’

Alastor offers no response.

The grip on his leg tightens, sliding up from his knee to his thigh, digging into the flesh, almost painfully. Alastor lowers a hand over Vox’s, trying to pry his fingers away. But that just won’t do. His love is mad at him, Alastor is mad at him, and that just won’t do. The intertwinement needs to happen faster, Alastor needs to be coaxed faster, Vox needs to do something before Alastor leaves him forever. And Vox… drowns in the Below.

Vox is drawn from his thoughts when he hears a sudden groan. Looking up with glossy eyes, neck almost snapping to meet his love’s gaze, he sees… tears. Alastor grits out a smile, hand more aggressively pushing at Vox’s. Vox’s hand, gripping Alastor’s thigh…Almost bruising in nature.

‘Oh,’ Vox breathes out, releasing his thigh. Would Vox have left bruises? Bruises all over Alastor’s long legs, of his hands? A mark on his property? Alastor sighs, pinching his glasses off his face as he soothes a hand over his thigh. Is… Alastor mad?

The patient can hear a sob leaving his throat like a bubble threatening to burst, as he submits himself to the other, head resting on his lap. Alastor flinches, hands hovering above Vox’s head, unsure of what to do. Vox would let him do anything, Vox would let Alastor frot against his mouth for release, Vox would let Alastor force his co*ck down his throat, Vox would let Alastor do anything, so long as it’s Alastor doing it.

Alastor, seeing this man on his lap, sobbing and pleading with such unholy thoughts running rampant in his head, grimaces.

And if that isn’t the trigger to set Vox off.

Vox lets out a wail, eyes squeezing shut, a singular tear running down his chin, onto Alastor’s pant leg. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I’ll take your meds, I’ll take whatever you give to me, please, please—’

‘Vox, please calm yourself,’ Alastor says, gently picking Vox’s head up from his lap, with such tenderness, and care, and love, that Vox holistically stops crying, as if a wall had been put up in front of his tear ducts. The therapist tilts his head, looking past Vox, and grabs a tissue. He holds it out to the man.

The other, movements a bit slow, grabs the tissue and wipes at his face. He cares so much for Vox.

So, so much. This must be a hint. That Alastor secretly cares about Vox, cares about him more than he did before. He wants to join Vox in the Above, there’s no other way to interpret this advancement, this… this flirt.

Alastor is flirting with him.

‘Will—’ Vox sniffs, blowing into his tissue. Alastor’s face twists into confusion, cute and naive and wanting to learn. Learn from Vox. For Vox. Be Vox’s favourite vessel. ‘Will you intertwine—’ Alastor sighs, resigned as a look of disappointment washes over his face.

Vox jolts and sits up, straightening his back despite the sting of pain that shoots through his spine. ‘It only takes a few hours. I promise. Only a few hours of a process you’ll learn to love, and— And I promise, I promise, happiness is eternal afterwards.’

Tossing his tissue behind him (“Straight into the chocolate pretzels,” The wrinkly old hag beside Alastor mutters), Vox grabs Alastor’s wrist and draws it to him, coarse, square palms swallowing dainty, almost feminine fingers. They slot together, because they were made for each other. Alastor for Vox, Vox for Alastor.

‘Me and you,’ Vox whispers, smiling, ‘In the Above together. Just us, and forever peace.’

Alastor stares down at Vox with a slight unease, but that’s okay. He’s made the first move, flirting with Vox (Who else would care about a piece of sh*t like him so much?); That means he’s willing to learn. And Vox is willing to teach.

The woman invading Alastor’s space sighs, waving a hand in front of her face with an irked look. She shuffles a bit, moving her thigh away (as she should— No slu*t deserves to be so close with what is Vox’s.) from Alastor, leaning against the arm rest. Her expression shifts from disgust to amusem*nt, staring down at Vox inbetween Alastor’s knees.

‘Rosie,’ Alastor calmly warns, ‘Whatever you plan to say, don’t.’

‘I just—’ Rosie shakes her head, leaning on her arm propped against the arm rest. She lets out a little incredulous chuckle, shrugging. ‘I just don’t get why you haven’t kicked this guy out yet. He just seems like a pervert to me, Al.’

‘I am not a pervert like you,’ Vox snarls, the grip on Alastor’s thighs tightening again. Alastor inhales a bit, trying to lean forward to diffuse the situation.

‘Alright, how about we all just take a breather—’

‘Honestly,’ Rosie continues on, ignoring Alastor. ‘Al, I love you, but you’re just leading him on at this point. Stop enabling him to come into your office like he owns you, going on about all this nonsense, saying he’s for you and you’re for him.’

‘Shut. Up,’ Vox grits. His nails begin to dig into Alastor’s pant legs, causing the joint to flinch, trying to escape such a grasp. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. whor*s like you go straight to the Below.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Rosie snaps, leaning forward in her seat. ‘Don’t get mad at me for waking you up to the fact that you’re a creep, and nowhere near the type of man Alastor needs—’

‘Rosie—’

‘And! And, above all!’ Rosie tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. Vox leans forward in return, baring his teeth into a scowl, eyes widened, grip tightening on Alastor’s knees. Crest-like dents are left on his skin. ‘You can take that fake Falsum bullsh*t, and shove it up your ass.’

Alastor feels a rush of panic flood through his body.

Vox gets up from his knees at Alastor’s feet and clenches his fists. Alastor is the next to shoot up. The sudden movement causes his head to spin for a few seconds as he regains his surroundings. When he’s able to blink himself to a stable level, Alastor looks over to the two patients.

Rosie lurches forward, collar pulled out of shape when Vox drags her forward, knuckles turned white beneath her dress. She lets out an indignant scream, eyes shooting to Alastor. His mind locks onto autopilot, hands reaching forward, towards the connection of the patients.

‘Vox,’ Alastor warns, the altruism in his voice dissipated. ‘Let go. We don’t want a repeat of last time.’

‘I’m doing this for you,’ Vox pleads, only sparing a glance towards Alastor, before his eyes move forward towards Rosie. ‘I am doing this so you know who you belong to. So you know who owns you.’

Alastor frowns, eyes widening as he lets out an indignant scoff. He forces himself in between Vox and Rosie, Rosie collapsing back onto the couch with another yelp of surprise. ‘I am not some prostitute you found yourself to enjoy, Vox. I am your therapist. I am a person. I deserve to be treated as such.’

He reaches forward and latches onto Vox’s wrist, dragging him over to the door, to the more open area between the entrance and the couches. Vox’s face glows slightly red, eyes locked onto the contact between the two. It only makes Alastor feel more sick than before.

‘I didn’t want to be so forward in our sessions,’ Alastor bites, tearing his arm away. ‘I truly didn’t. But Vox, your Falsum are not real, your Above and your Below are not real. We are not meant to be together, at all, in any sense of the word.’ Clenching his fist, Alastor feels his composure slipping from him as he continues speaking.

‘All there is to us, is professionalism. I don’t think about you anytime past our sessions, past what is needed to be thought. I try to coax you into putting your affection on someone who actually wants it, not someone a decade younger than you.

‘And especially not your therapist. I feel violated, I feel harassed, I feel in danger because of you.’ Leaning forward, Alastor grimaces at the blush spreading across Vox’s face, from rage or embarrassment he can’t tell. Instead of trying to decipher anything amidst his anger, Alastor finishes his speech off.

‘Vox, you are a psycho.’

To Vox’s credit, Alastor didn’t see his next move coming at all.

Vox raises his hand and opens his palm, moving it across Alastor’s face in such a flash Alastor sees monotone for a moment, knuckles digging into his skin. Pain strikes across his cheek like a lightning flash, drawing a cry from Rosie and a yelp from Alastor. The man tumbles backwards and eventually onto his ass, hand raised to his reddening cheek, tears sprouting in his eyes as not only pain, but memories flood his vision.

Towering over him, a burly man, staring down at him, angry, fists clenched. The sounds of a woman yelling and crying out in the background, as Alastor braces his hands behind him, from his spot below this man. Tears begin to form in his eyes and track down, for he is but a helpless fawn, an animal of prey embracing its final moments. Never has a prey bested a predator. He will be no exception.

But who is standing above him— Vox, or his father?

Alastor cannot tell.

On the floor, he takes a few moments to collect himself, the hand on his cheek moving to take off his glasses. The man stares at Vox in awe, for Vox has never directly laid a hand on him before, never done something so physical with intention to hurt Alastor. Vox returns his gaze tenfold, apathy ridden across his face, a certain darkness overcasting his expression, with the ceiling lights creating a sort of aura around him.

..He almost looks like an angel.

The two continue staring at each other for a few moments, as the first tear Alastor has shed in a while slips down his cheek, stinging the irritated skin of which Vox had hit. It seems to be some sort of trigger for the man, however, and he collapses to his knees, grabbing Alastor’s head while trying to comfort him. Tell Alastor he’s sorry. Tell Alastor he’d never do that again. It’s all a blur, to the younger man, however, as all Alastor can do is stare, lips slightly parted in shock, eyes widened and glassy.

Vox wipes a tear away from Alastor’s eyelid, thumb roughly pushing into Alastor’s lower eye, catalysing more tears to fall. He mentions something about being sorry, for being so improper and hurtful towards his lover. Alastor isn’t listening. And, instead, he only looks up to Vox, pushing the man’s hand away from his face. His gaze has Vox falling silent.

‘Vox, if you’re really sorry, you won’t perform all this theatre,’ Alastor says, voice quiet and collected, as it should be, tears never seemingly leaving his eyes, despite the pain having faded. ‘If you’re really sorry, you won’t be saying it. If you’re really sorry, what you’ll do is go out and seek professional help.’ Vox opens his mouth to speak. ‘From someone else, okay?’

The man nods, frantic and obedient. ‘If that’s what you want, I promise, I’ll do it, I promise.’

‘Right,’ Alastor breathes, shoulders tense. Why is he still tense? Why are there still tears in his eyes? A dull ache in his cheek is nothing. Why is he still crying? ‘Then, you should get on that right about now.’

Vox nods once again, getting up to his feet. He doesn’t try to help Alastor up, only sobbing and whimpering out apologies as he approaches the door. His eyes race back to look at the other, as if Alastor were to disappear should he look away for too long.

Before he can even make it holistically through the door, it slams open, people flooding in. Rosie’s panicked voice overpowers all of them. When had Rosie gotten to the door?

Vox jumps back and braces himself, trying to quietly excuse himself past the people that come rushing in. Rosie is first, followed by Charlie and Vaggie. Alastor reckons he saw a glimpse of Husk and Angel Dust outside, looking into the room. Vaggie moves to grab Vox, clenching tight onto his arm when Alastor calls out to her.

‘Let him leave on his own.’ Vaggie co*cks an eyebrow, incredulous as Alastor gets himself to his feet. ‘Don’t agitate him.’ He looks over at Vox, who shrinks underneath Alastor’s glare, a forced heat, the flame dying as it lights itself. ‘He needs to get out of here himself.’

With a soft curse underneath her voice, Vaggie lets the man go, watching Vox push past both Husk and Angel, before running off and down the corridor. Alastor rubs his cheek with a groan, somewhat impressed, somewhat terrified by how hard it had hit. He didn’t expect Vox to hit him at all. Whenever Alastor would outright say something as he did, something that hinted Vox was believing in a falsity, he would only ever yell, or hit the arm rest beside him.

Well. Alastor supposes that was when he wasn’t yelling himself.

Dusting his shirt off, Alastor sighs, lowering his hand away from his cheek. Charlie seems to have gone to ushering Rosie out of the building, today's session clearly over. Hm. Alastor hopes he doesn’t get fired, potentially, for such neglect on his clients. Vaggie, Husk, and Angel all pile into the room, taking in the state it rests in. A few of the couch pillows are in disarray, and the snacks have been a bit spilt. But nothing too major.

Eyes turn to Alastor.

The same cannot really be said for the man. His hair is slightly dishevelled and his pants are covered in saliva. There’s an alarming redness on his cheek, his glasses clinging onto his sweater for dear life, eyes slightly watery from the hit. He smiles blankly at the three, not truly appreciative for being seen in such a state.

‘Well,’ Vaggie begins, slow, narrowing her eyes, ‘Let me start with this— Are you okay?’

‘He backhanded me across the face,’ Alastor chirps, a faux happiness in his voice. ‘He has never hit me directly. Not only did he hit me, he hit me hard enough to send me to the floor. So no. I am not okay.’ It reminded him of his dreaded father. And much to Alastor’s dismay, the backhand had not ceased its aftereffects. A tear slips down Alastor’s cheek, though he barely feels the pain behind it.

Angel gasps, face morphing into one of dread pity, and he places a hand on his hip, shifting his weight. ‘Oh, sugar, come here.’ He steps forward, and loops his arms around Alastor. Alastor, though he does not want the contact, allows Angel to take him into his arms. Being the youngest out of everyone in the building, he supposes he has no reins to dictate what happens to him. ‘How about we have a seat, Al?’

Suffocated in the hug, Alastor stumbles over himself walking backwards, collapsing onto the couch beside Angel. He reaches up and wipes another lifeless tear from his face, ears heating up as he lowers his head. He’s embarrassed— He gets hit once and all of a sudden he’s burst into waterworks? How lame. How weak. No-one would raise a man to become something such as Alastor. He should be used to it, he should be used to this pain.

…f*ck. He’s just like his father, thinking like that.

‘Is it okay if I touch you?’ Angel asks softly, leaning forward to fall into Alastor’s line of sight. Alastor nods. The other reaches forward and takes his glasses off his sweater, while the other two in the room hop into action, seemingly having forgotten they had a friend to help out.

Husk kneels down in front of Alastor. But not how Vox did. Vox knelt like Alastor was some god, like Vox lacked the room to drop into a full-on prostrate. Vox touched Alastor’s legs and grabbed them and rubbed his hands all over them like they were pillars of beautiful marble, needing to be sculpted. Vox knelt like he would die without doing so.

Husk kneels like he knows what he’s about to do. He kneels like he’s in control, like he’s ready to stand within moments, taking a broken, fallen person up with him. He kneels like a superhero, like a hero within the comics Alastor would read from his friends as a kid. Is Husk a superhero? He certainly seems like one, right now.

…Maybe Alastor should consider Husk’s therapy offer.

‘I told you to be careful,’ Vaggie scolds lightly, passing Husk an ice pack, courtesy of Alastor’s mini-fridge in the kitchenette. ‘What the hell happened in here?’

‘That isn’t what we should be focussing on right now,’ Husk snaps back with minute ire. ‘Alastor’s hurt, because of the same f*cking guy, the day he comes back. We should have done a better job of keeping Vox out, knowing Alastor was inside.’ He leans back and grabs a couple tissues from the table, wrapping the ice pack in them, before pressing them up to Alastor’s cheek.

‘He was already in your hallway by the time we realised he got inside,’ Angel offers, apologetic as he rubs a hand on Alastor’s back. ‘And trust us, Al, we tried to get him to piss off, but he was stubborn. Forced his way past Charlie and Vaggie and all em.’

‘I don’t need to be coddled, thank you very much.’ Alastor sits up, though, he takes the ice pack with him, pressing it into his face. ‘It was my fault. I provoked Vox, I yelled at him.’

‘We could hear that much,’ Vaggie sighs, crossing her arms. ‘But I can’t blame you. At all. I would have reacted much worse, if I were in your situation.’

‘And,’ Angel adds with a hint of malice, shooting a glare at Vaggie as he removes his hand off of Alastor’s back. ‘You are our friend, Al. Not some “co-worker”. Friend. You handled Bookers perfectly, and reacted as anyone else would in your situation.’

Husk groans slightly, sitting back on his haunches. ‘Not to mention Bookers is a f*cking weirdo. People like him will do anything to make you seem like a horrible asshole for not letting them get their way.’ Smiling, Husk continues. ‘You’re not to blame, at all. Don’t let your pride get in the way of you remembering that.’

Alastor exhales a laugh, rolling his eyes. He is not that prideful. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

‘And loosen up with the fancy talk,’ Vaggie (tries to, at least) jokes, punching Alastor’s arm lightly. Her playful smile melts into something slightly softer, as she exhales. ‘Listen. Here’s what we’ll do. We get Vox transferred, and hopefully this time he stays put. And afterwards, you take another break.’

Alastor opens his mouth to object, when he’s shut down with three glares the weight of several suns. Vaggie narrows her eyes, smile morphing into her stoic behaviour, and continues on. ‘Worst comes to worst, you’ll have to be transferred to another clinic.’

‘Which is the last thing we want,’ Angel assures, catching Alastor’s abrupt tension. ‘Trust us, Al, we’ll murder before having you sent away.’

That receives a few incredulous looks.

Angel chuckles, shrugging. ‘Which, again, is the last resort.’

Husk laughs at that, a low rumble that Alastor feels in his own chest, before he turns back to Alastor, patting his knee nicely as he stands. ‘You just get a painkiller in you, maybe a few fingers of rye, and you’ll be right as rain, you hear me?’

‘Of course,’ Alastor smiles, turning his head to look up at the man. ‘I suppose I should get to that right about now, shouldn’t I?’

‘I’ll drive you home?’ Angel gets up from his seat, looping around the couch to Alastor’s desk. He grabs Alastor’s bag and a few of his valuables (Which… Alastor kept hidden away, he’s not sure how Angel found that so quickly), turning around to the other. Alastor groans lightly, getting up to his feet, stretching his arms over his head.

Looks like the game is set.

**

‘...And that’s not the worst part! He comes over to me after Prom, and gets mad that I rejected his missus for the dance!’

Angel gasps, eyes locked on the road. Music blares within Alastor’s car as Angel drives him home, the sun moving to rest below the skyline. Alastor claps his hands as he barks out a laugh, tossing his head back. He’s had maybe… one… two… six or seven swigs of whiskey ever since he’s gotten in his car, courtesy of a secret stash in Alastor’s trunk.

But, it’s all worth it— Alastor hasn’t felt this loose since the last time he went to a frat party with Mimzy in college. Ah, Mimzy. Poor girl dropped out of college and Alastor hasn’t heard of her since. Wonder where she’s at nowadays..

‘Right! He tells me to back off his “princess”--’ Angel snorts out a laugh, resulting in Alastor only laughing harder. ‘And then when I actually back off —when she comes up to me, mind you— He gets mad and thinks my “standards are too high”!’

‘What the hell?’ Angel chortles, shrugging through his hand, slapping it down on the wheel. ‘Man, high school in Louisiana sounds like a f*cking nightmare.’

‘Who said it wasn’t?’ Alastor laughs. ‘I can’t express the amount of times people in Cali have thought Louisiana was some sort of magical jazz land. It’s’all humid and crocodiles and jockey pricks on y’ ass every five seconds.’ Sighing contentedly, Alastor reaches in the back for the discarded bottle of whiskey, taking a long sip from it. He sinks further into his seat, chuckling to himself at the good old memories of high school.

Angel glances over to Alastor for a brief moment, then to his phone displaying the GPS on the dashport. ‘Five minutes till you’re home, Al. Any parting words before you get up and leave for another seven weeks?’

‘I got nothing,’ Alastor chuckles, bringing the bottle to his lips once again. ‘Absolutely f*cking nothing.’

‘sh*t, relax. I know it’s golden hour somewhere, but—’ Snickering, Angel spares one more glance towards Alastor, something that finally has Alastor noticing, as he sends a weak glare towards his friend.

‘What?’

‘Your accent comes out more when you’re drunk,’ Angel comments, shrugging.

‘sh*t, really?’ Alastor asks, as if the news had come fresh to him. He sits up slightly and wipes his hand over his mouth, as if wiping across his mouth would simply fix up his elocution like nothing.

‘I dunno. Stupid thing to note, cus uh. You never get drunk around us at those “office bonding parties”-- Which we all know people f*ck at in the closet near the back— And that… is pretty lame of you.’ Angel rolls his eyes when Alastor scoffs, trying to ignore him. Hard to, when there are only two people in the car with the music progressively becoming more and more of a background noise. ‘I like it, though. You sound like a really cool radio host.’

‘Are you tryna say,’ Alastor begins slowly, trying to recall up from down in his seat, ‘That I have a face fit for radio?’

Angel raises one of his hands, submitting. ‘Ey man. Your words, not mine. I didn’t say anything.’

The GPS chimes lovingly as the car slows to a stop, Angel pulling up to the side of a… relatively small home. It’s one storey and tucked away between two different two-storey buildings, almost hidden. Outside there are plentiful flowers and one little oak tree in the corner, gated by a pretty stereotypical white fence.

Angel drives further within, into the driveway, parking with a sudden jolt. Alastor, who was in the middle of another sip, chokes on the bottle rim lightly, groaning as the glass clashes with his front teeth. ‘Slimy f*cker,’ He mutters under his breath.

‘Well,’ Angel begins suddenly, taking the keys out of the ignition. ‘I guess this is it for a while. Try not to give yourself alcohol poisoning, Al. Take care of yourself.’

‘Yes, yes, spare me the ples’ntries,’ Alastor slurs, co*cking an eyebrow as he lays back in his seat. Angel giggles, snatching the bottle out of Alastor’s hands. ‘Hey!--’

‘This,’ Angel begins, holding up the bottle, ‘Is my payment for being your show-furr.’

‘Chauffeur.’

‘Yeah yeah, fancy f*ck.’ Angel and Alastor both share one laugh, before settling themselves down. ‘’ll be seeing you, Al.’

‘Yeah,’ Alastor sighs. The sentimentality is gone as soon as it had come, and Alastor reaches over to smack Angel in the arm. ‘Okay, get out of my car. I already don’t like the notion of you knowing where I live.’

‘f*ck you,’ Angel laughs, hopping out of the vehicle.

Alastor doesn’t even want to know how he’s going to start on getting back to the institute, as he pushes his car door open, stumbling out. He practically trips over his own two feet trying to get inside his house, subtly reminding himself to lock the alcohol cabinet and toss the key.

Speaking of keys, Alastor thinks as he makes it to his front door, the spare one is missing– It’s normally underneath the third plank beneath his porch, but it’s gone.

Eh. Maman must have stopped by.

Alastor’s home is small and dark and he can’t be bothered to turn any light on. He makes his way past what tiny of an entryway he has, nearly tripping over his bag as he drops it to the floor. And, as soon as he sees it, he’s falling face first onto his own couch, blindly making a reach for the TV remote. Just needs some background noise. He fumbles with it for a few seconds, before turning the TV on to whatever channel. Ugh. He didn’t realise how tired he was until he actually got to lie down.

The serenade of sleep calls him, and Alastor falls overboard at its siren within seconds.

**

When Alastor blinks himself awake, he has no clue what the hell is playing on the TV. Some… silent film from the 1910’s or something, what the f*ck…?

His head pounds like a snare drum as he sits up, a hand trying to soothe the ache in his skull. Groaning slightly, he peers over the back of his couch, towards the wall hiding the entryway. He had heard the lock turning, as if someone had tried to open the door without putting the key in. Huh. Strange. What could anyone be wanting from him at…

Alastor glances around his living room.

Whatever time it is right now?

Getting to his feet and swaying just a little bit, an earlier hangover getting to him like a knife in the back, Alastor navigates his way from the couch to the wall separating the living and the entryway. It’s dark, the house barely illuminated by open windows and blue moonlight. Sounds creaking around the household become amplified in Alastor’s ears, like a deer twitching towards the faintest bite of noise.

He has a little peak around the corner.

His heart drops.

A figure, shrouded in the darkness of Alastor’s household, gently shuts the door behind himself. They toss the spare keys into their pocket, looking around the entryway. Alastor finds himself shooting back into the safety of the living room with a sharp breath. His heart picks up the pace tenfold than from when he was in his office with Vox, eyes widened, panting struggling to mute.

Okay. Okay! Someone is in Alastor’s house! Cool! Coolio! There is currently a thief in Alastor’s home, and they probably want to kill him.

‘Alastor?’ The figure calls out, voice muffled by something, clothing, probably.

Okay! So they just want to kill him!

Deciding not to waste another damn moment, Alastor gets down to the best crouch he can get to while preventing the immobilisation of his legs, and begins jogging around.

He moves back over to the couch and grabs his phone, his keys, everything he left behind in his drunken fall to the couch. Alastor prays beneath his breath that his chosen objects don’t become some sort of audible alarm system for this person to find him.

Panic begins to creep into his bones, as he hears the person take a step into his home, further into his home. Adrenaline begins to kick in and Alastor can feel his mind tormenting between fight or flight. His head pounds and pulse with the aftershocks of hangover, moves slightly unsteady, uncoordinated as he sneaks around in his home. Blood pumps in his ears, heating them up as he sneaks in the darkness, yet he can hear every single thing disrupting the silence.

The shoddy footsteps of someone exploring his home. The sound of his breathing, his heartbeat within his chest. The creak and groan of floorboards as both he and this intruder move around. The faint jingle of his home keys, something he tries to mute with a tight clench over the metal.

‘Alastor? Are you at home?’ A laugh through thick cloth. ‘Who am I kidding, I saw your car outside. Of course you’re home.’

Alastor rounds a corner and slips into his room, eyes scanning the area for some sort of place to hide, as he stands in the middle of the room. His window is open, he could leave right now, but… It’s propped above his bed, and that is awfully creaky. He’d be caught out in seconds. Killed.

Alastor could be killed in his own home.

Or—Or taken against his will to someone else’s home and killed there?

The realisation hits him like a bag of bricks, forcing a visceral lurch of fear out of Alastor. He could die any second right now. He’s wrong to assume this man just wants to kill him. He could do anything to Alastor, he could kidnap him, he could harvest his organs, put him in some trafficking scheme.

Alastor is dragged back to reality when a familiar floorboard creaks just outside his room, in the hallway. He doesn’t have much time. He needs to act now. He needs to hide.

First, Alastor shoves his phone between his teeth, keys miraculously stable on them, trying to ignore the drool that pours out from his bared lips. He hurries over to his closet and pulls the doors open.

His hands work in silent and rapid succession, digging beneath his mounds of clothes (He had meant to organise them long ago, but it’s clear how “long ago” transpired with work). Once sufficiently removed, Alastor steps inside, throwing the fabric over himself, shuffling further into the darkness of the closet.

What… What does he do? Does he call the police? Right now? When this person is right outside his room, probably able to hear the operator on the other side, the frantic whispering and breathing of Alastor? That doesn’t sound like a good option, it doesn’t sound like one at all.

Alastor can’t even humour the idea of calling the police, as much as it seems like the sensible thing to do. This person is too close. They’ll probably be able to recognise Alastor’s voice, since they know his name, what his car looks like, where he puts his spare keys.

‘Alastor? Are you hiding?’ The words send shivers up his spine, forcing him to draw his hands over his mouth, hiding the noise of shaky inhales, ragged breaths. ‘I just wanna talk. I don’t wanna hurt you.’

Alastor can’t see anything. He’s shrouded in darkness, buried beneath clothes in a dark closet in an even darker house, knees pressed to his chest, hands over his mouth. His head pounds and aches like no tomorrow, the pain forcing him to sway in his spot, dizzy and floating. He, however faint through the pulsing, can hear footsteps advancing in his hallway, a hand resting upon a doorknob.

‘Are you…’ The door creaks open. Alastor holds his breath. ‘In here?’

Dreaded hours of silence follow as the person stands in Alastor’s bathroom, just opposite of his room. They rattle a few items within, open a few drawers. But, ultimately, they shut the door behind them, stepping out into the hallway, footsteps pressing into floorboards.

He’s nothing past a mere human, unable to consciously move his ears towards any sort of noise. However, strangely, it feels as though Alastor’s ears perk up at the noise of more footsteps. Like a deer’s ears tilting towards an alienated noise within their forests. It feels like a faint tickle at his helixes, a warmth rushing into his head, delivering information.

Alastor processes the noise of footsteps in his bedroom with a sharp breath.

‘Alastor?’

The call of his name can not overpower the sound of… everything pumping through Alastor’s blood. His heartbeat. His adrenaline. That hangover which has decided to be more of a bitch. It thrums through his body like a colony of ants beneath his skin, vibrations rising through his nerves.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

Footsteps progress into his bedroom. Alastor hears the cracking of knees as a groan erupts through the room. ‘Are you underneath your bed here?’

Badum. Badum. Badum.

Alastor can hear his sheets being pulled up, duvet lifted above the mattress. He had slept in that, this morning. He doesn’t ever want to sleep in it again. Knowing how close he could have been to death, had he chosen to hide underneath that dust-ridden mattress.

The knees crack once again as the person stands. They shift around the room for a few more moments, before chuckling to themself, muted, muffled. ‘I just wanna talk about… us. You don’t need to be scared. Come out, Alastor.’

Badum. Badum. Badum.

Alastor’s eyes dart in all directions, searching for some sort of exposure to the light. If he sees one, he doesn’t know if he’ll embrace it or freeze all over, blood going cold. He doesn’t know what he wants right now, to never find out who's out there, to go out and confront them, to have his death quick and easy, to be taken so he at least has some chance at escape. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know at all. He’s terrified, is what he knows.

‘Alastor,’ The person repeats. ‘This shy act you have going on is starting to get old. Where was the passion, the anger you had earlier?’

Badum. Badum. Badum.

He can hear his floorboards protest in pain as movement goes from the bed to his closet.

Time seems to stop, all of Alastor’s senses focussed on the closet doors, the familiar wrench of noise they scream when touched. The cloth covering him seems to become a hundred times more texturised, the smell of laundry and age almost overwhelming. Sounds amplify in his head in a way that almost hurts, the creases and colours of fabric becoming somewhat recognisable, despite the darkness he finds himself shrouded in.

The closet doors gently begin to open.

‘Are you in here?’

Badum, badum, badum.

‘Alastor? I have a gift for you.’

Alastor can’t see anything past the clothes he buries himself in. Like digging his own grave, a buck trapping itself within its own woods.

‘It’s me, Alastor.’

Badum, badum, badum.

He dares not to breathe. He dares not to take his hands away from his mouth. He sits in silence, eyes shut tight. Prays, prays to gods he has not sought solace in for years, prays to all holy and all demure. Prays to anyone. Anything. Any sort of Falsity he may find.

He’s had thoughts and phases where he’s wanted nothing more, nothing more than to embrace the sweet gelidness of death, but faced with it? Faced with the possibility of death, not at his own hands? It’s so much more scarier, than he could have ever thought it to be.

Alastor doesn’t want to die.

Badum badum badum.

A hand reaches within the closet. He can hear the clothing shuffle. Alastor feels all the nerves near his head tense, warn him of potential danger, mind racing at miles per minute as he trembles. One of his drawers is pulled open and there’s the sound of clothes being moved around, ruffled.

‘Well. You don’t get to do something like this all the time,’ He hears the person mumble, just barely, voice almost indecipherable beneath the cloth he conceals his face behind. Alastor hears something being pulled out, the drawer moving closed, however not completely. The vibrations of its movie rumble within Alastor’s core.

He follows the intruder's footsteps with his ears, listening to the sound recede from his room, back down the hall. Alastor finds his body jolting before he can even process.

Standing, Alastor bursts out of his closet, making a dash for the open window above his bed. And, while he runs to his car through the back of his house, he tries to chase away the faint glimpse of which drawer the figure had left ajar.

His underwear drawer.

**

‘Coming, coming! My oh my, you’d think a fire’s outside with how fast y’knocking!’ Sighing, Adelice slips on her slippers and hurries to the front door, brushing down her nightdress with a frown. The knocking’s been going on and on at her door for only five minutes, and it feels like her head is about to split open from how loud it is! Who the hell comes over to her home in the neighbourhood at this hour? It’s 4am, for crying out loud!

…Adelice was doing other stuff. She was having a nice detox bath with some salts her gals at the daycare suggested to her, don’t ask why she was doing this at 4am, it’s none of your business.

Adelice adjusts her cap above her head, frowning as she opens up her front door, hand on her hip. She’s just about to start going off on this old soul when they stumble in first. Eyes wide and desperate, they push past her, into her home, and she woulda damn thought they were trying to mug her if she didn’t recognise that tacky fashion so well.

‘Alastor?’ She asks, anger morphing into curiosity with a tinge of worry. He spins around, entire appearance dishevelled. ‘What in the sam hell..? What’re you doing here so late at night?’

‘Shut the door,’ Is all her son replies, and she might’ve slapped him across the face for such an order if he didn’t look so downright terrified. He’s pale but sweating all over, and if Adelice doesn’t recognise that look of pure terror, she ain’t his maman.

Adelice shuts the door and turns fully to Alastor, co*cking an eyebrow. Worry begins to leak into her expression faster than any sort of questioning can. ‘What’s wrong, star? What happened?’

‘I don’t–’ Alastor pauses, taking in a long, ragged breath. His fists clench and unclench, knuckles turning white. ‘Maman, I just—’ A laugh sneaking out of his lungs, Alastor reaches up and weaves his fingers into his hair, tugging on the beautiful strands. Adelice sighs, all her previous ire from his incessant knocking disappeared.

‘Come here baby, don’t do that to yourself.’ Stepping forward, she grabs his wrist and lowers it away from his hair, hissing lightly when delicate strands follow their hands. ‘Sit down, I’ll get you some chamomile.’

Keeping her hand in his, allowing him to squeeze rhythmically, she leads the two over to the living room, taking a seat with Alastor. She gets up as soon as she sits, thanking the lord the kitchen is just in front of where he sits. That way, she can keep her eyes on her boy in case he tries to tug out a few more strands.

Getting up and moving to the kitchen, Adelice starts up the kettle, turning to face Alastor. ‘Now, sha, are you gonna tell me what’s happened to you? I hate to see you so scared, it pulls at my heartstrings.’

‘Someone–’ Alastor takes a brief pause, taking in a deep breath. Adelice can’t help but smile at the notion. How often do you see a therapist following their own techniques? ‘Someone… Did you give anyone the spare key beneath my porch, Maman?’

‘Now why would I do that?’ Adelice frowns, tilting her head. ‘I don’ even know anyone who I’d trust with such a precious thing.’

Alastor mumbles a curse underneath his breath, something that Adelice lets slide purely on the fact that he seems too out of it to focus on manners. ‘Someone.. Got into my house using the spare key, Maman. They knew my name, what my car looked like, where the key was n’ everything.’

‘Oh my,’ Adelice gasps, flinching when the kettle clicks to a stop behind her. Turning around, she quickly makes a grab for two mugs, pouring an equal amount of water in each. ‘Tell me it isn’t true… Did you call the police?’

‘No.. They were gonna be too loud on the call, n’ I— I needed a place to hide, Maman..’

‘Well,’ Adelice sighs, holding two mugs of chamomile tea in each hand. She turns around to face her son, her beautiful son, whose eyes are watery and Adam's apple trembling. ‘How about you stay here for a few days, until you get your locks changed? Then, once you can feel safe in y’own home, we can go to the police.’

Alastor nods, as his Maman walks over, passing him the mug. He takes a few sips, trying to ignore the way his eyes water, not from the heat, but from just… today in general. She exhales lightly, placing her own tea on the table in front of them.

‘Come here, baby. I got you. You’re safe in my household, no-one’s going to be getting in here if they wanna hurt you.’

One tight hug from Maman by his side is all he needs. His chest begins to heave and his nose stings as his eyes prickle with tears, slow and forthcoming, almost shy to come out. He’s…. He thought the whole thing with Vox would blow over after seven weeks, but he comes back and makes Alastor’s life worse. And not to mention the break-in, someone following him, and he has a damn good guess as to who it is.

Alastor is terrified. That is what he is, he realises with a shuddering inhale.

When tears begin to piercing tracks down his cheeks for the second time that day, and he finally lets his throat make whatever upset wails it wants to, Alastor falls asleep in his Maman’s arms, broken for the very first time.

And the green Honda sitting outside Maman’s home goes completely unnoticed.

Chapter 4: Coronation of the Virgin

Chapter Text

He doesn’t even know why he’s bothering coming back to work anymore.

Alastor’s body is heavy and he feels sluggish as he pulls up to the staff parking lot, sticking himself in his unofficial official spot. The car comes to a stop with a light jerk, one that sends Alastor’s head spinning, one that causes him to groan, pinching his eyes shut. There had been a lot of ruckus last night at Maman’s, she had been chatting to someone— Alastor had assumed it was one of her daycare employees, judging by the way she would laugh, trying to hush herself. But it’s okay. It’s okay.

No-one knows about the break-in, no-one knows that Alastor spent the better half of last night in his Maman’s arms, no-one knows about his bitch of a hangover from drinking most of a bottle. He can go back to pretending everything is fine, as soon as he gets his locks switched out— Called the locksmith just this morning, and he’ll be over by midday tomorrow.

This will all end if Alastor could just hold out for a bit longer.

Sighing, he takes a few more deep breaths in and out, trying to force himself to relax despite his nerves striking upwards.

‘You are a therapist,’ He speaks to himself, grabbing the visor and dragging it down, angling the thing to stare at his reflection in the tiny mirror planted there.

Alastor hates to admit it, but he looks worse for wear— His eyes are sunken and his skin is pale, slightly clammy. Curls stab the air all around his head, something minimally contained when he had gotten himself ready just this morning.

Maman had something to say when he had tried to (shakily) iron out his clothes in the morning, insisting on doing it herself. When Alastor had protested, she had pulled the “Well if you’d like to be helpful so much, sha, how about you start up some coffee and eggs?”.

There’s always a different feel to things when Maman irons his clothes.

‘You can do this. Go in there, help people out.’ He pushes his glasses further up his nose, solidifying his gaze. ‘And if Vox is in there, if your father is in there, if the figure from last night is in there, damn it all to hell. You don’t care anymore.’ Alastor gives himself a confident smile. ‘You got this, or you go home.’

Slapping the visor shut against the roof, Alastor grabs his bag and pushes the door open, stepping out into the parking lot. He shuts the door with a louder slam than intended, drawing a wince from his mouth, as he loops his bag around his shoulder and heads towards the building.

Today is a normal day, like any other day, today is a healthy Thursday, a healthy free-day. He only has one person to be worrying about today, and they’re but a troubled teenager, easily accessible in the building herself. And besides! Group sessions usually play on Thursday, so Alastor’s free to sit back and offer his advice when needed.

A healthy, normal Thursday.

…Maybe he shouldn’t be actively trying to jinx it.

Niffty is sitting at the counter when Alastor enters the building, bell above the door jingling a pleasant melody. Alastor, instead of his usual smile and nod, decides to linger, hold a chat. He has to see her later on, afterall, for their session, what’s the harm in a prologue to it?

Niffty Asano is a darling teenager from the local high school nearing the building— She’s been going to therapy for a couple years now, having seen Husk before Alastor had come into the equation. She’s not exactly the most… there, if you will, and that much could be told from Husk’s inspections of her.

She wouldn’t’ve been passed to Alastor at all, in fact, had she not gone on a pretty alarming rampage of stabbing and lusting for blood in her final year of primary school. It's always an awkward bit to bring up, so suddenly, especially when Niffty herself is the sweetest child Alastor’s ever come to know. She’s doing much better now, though! All’s well ends well.

Now, one may think it’s insane to have a potential sad*st-psycho-killer-other term as a therapy clinic’s receptionist, but she had approached Charlie about a year ago looking for a job. And who was Miss Bleeding Heart to deny such a request?

Niffty looks up and greets Alastor with a smile. ‘Good morning Mister Alastor! You look a little pale, is something wrong? I have medicine here, a few painkillers, sedatives, anti-psychotics, I probably shouldn’t be telling you about those, but I have them if you need them, all you need to do is ask and you’re allll set!’

‘Such an eccentric bug, aren’t you?’ Alastor laughs. He, with a bit of silent permission, ruffles her hair and steps back with a smile. He’d be lying to say he didn’t feel the least bit fond of the girl. ‘How have you been doing, Niffty? I’m aware you’ve been seeing Husker, during my little sabbatical.’

‘I’ve been doing good! Mister Husk is really nice, he said he hasn’t seen me in while, but he said that your notes are a little confusing, he said they “batsh*t just don’t make sense”, and I laughed, because he didn’t make sense and I—’ She cuts herself off with a chorus of giggles. Alastor laughs along, a small exhale of amusem*nt followed by the squinting of his eyes.

‘Well. I’ll be seeing you later on, won’t I? Are you prepared for another one of those group sessions?’

‘Mhm! I’m super excited to see all my friends, especially Mr Pentious, he always has the funniest stories.’

Pentious is one of Charlie’s patients— Stepfather of many little orphans, jumpy and from Britain. Alastor doesn’t really know what he specifically goes to Charlie for, but he does know that he’s more often than not quite fond of the snacks and bites Pentious brings in time-to-time— His little children make them with him. They’re not that good, not as Alastor has tasted, but the story and tender behind them makes up for error.

‘Then I suppose I’ll be catching up on your little escapades later on.’ With another head pat, Alastor steps back, excusing himself. Niffty waves him goodbye, turning back to her work to continue on. Alastor internally scolds himself for distracting her when she seemed to have been doing so good doing whatever she had been doing, but shrugs it off, continuing down the hallway.

He’s just made it to the second floor where all the singular offices are when he hears someone calling out for him. Alastor turns with as much of a smile he can muster, and is greeted with Husk, a fond expression resting upon his face. ‘There he is, the f*cker. How’re you holding up?’

‘Tired,’ Alastor tries to laugh off, already feeling the exhaustion reap into his bones. Husk’s face morphs from fondness to something worth calling concern, as he tilts his head, crossing his arms. The two begin walking together, towards Alastor’s office.

‘Are you sure you should be at work? ‘m sure Charlie won’t mind you taking a few more days off if you need to.’

‘No, I…’ Alastor trails off, frowning. The notion of taking even more time off makes him feel queasy, the notion of not earning money, potentially going broke (Even though it's a wild gesture, Alastor’s quite well off, actually). ‘I need this job, Husker. There aren’t many quality clinics nearby that won’t require me travelling at least an hour, and.. I didn’t—’ He groans softly. Can’t even form a proper sentence anymore.

Husk’s brows furrow, narrowing his eyes. His voice is soft and gentle as he speaks, the same voice he always uses on his patients. Alastor finds himself angered, the protest that he finds within himself lacking. ‘You didn’t, what?’

‘I can’t have my mother and I moving all the way from Louisiana for nothing,’ The younger explains, tossing his hands out in front of him, exasperated. They turn a corner, chatter from offices becoming significantly more quiet.

‘My mother gave up her birthplace, her family n’ all she’s ever known for me. Moved to California just for me, put herself in an entirely new place just for me. I don’t wanna have all that loss end up with squat, with nothing.’ Alastor turns his head to the side, not wanting to meet Husk’s gaze, analytical and sympathetic as it’s always. ‘Not because I couldn’t handle a patient.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Husk begins slowly. ‘I moved from Nevada to here when I was a kid, so I can’t really empathise, Al, but I know it ain’t your fault if some freak decides he likes you a bit too much.’

The man takes a deep breath, before continuing. ‘Y’know, Al, all this mess is new for us, too. We’d never had a psychologist who deals with crazy people before you came in. Charlie can’t blame you for not knowing what to do if she don’t know herself. And, if it makes you feel better, psychologists don't exactly come around here a lot— You’re our own secret weapon, you.’

Alastor raises his head to the other just as they approach Alastor’s office. Alastor takes a few moments to absorb Husk’s smile, before offering one himself. ‘Thank you, Husker.’

‘You’d do it with anyone else, ain’t nothing to thank.’ Placing a firm hand on his shoulder, Husk squeezes lightly. ‘We’re always here to talk, Al. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I know it all too well. You lot’ve drilled it into my skull.’ Alastor knocks on his head, letting out a small laugh. ‘Trust me, Husker, somethin’ pops up, this crowd’ll be the first to know.’

Husk nods, approvingly. The two agree to reconcile at break, and the other walks off down the hallway. Alastor exhales a laugh as the other turns the corner, and spins around to his door, grabbing his card to press to the reader. The door clicks open with a small ding and Alastor steps within. Slightly off put by the scent of coffee.

‘There you are!’

Alastor’s head whips around to the kitchenette. The door swings shut of its own accord, locking itself tight. His eyes widen and any sort of good mood vanquishes from his body, replaced with dread, his heart sinking right down to his feet.

Vox dumps two sachets of sugar into a mug of coffee, a mug of coffee from Alastor’s kitchen— That is his mug that he has put his lips to, and all he can do is stand there in shock as Vox makes himself at home. But eventually the scare wears itself off, and all Alastor can feel is sudden rage, annoyance. He’s already been through so damn much in a couple of weeks— Must Vox make it worse?

‘What the hell are you—’

‘Shh..’ Vox smiles, placing a finger over his lips. He moves out of the kitchenette and approaches Alastor. Alastor shivers at the feeling of Vox’s hands running along his shoulders, taking his bag off for him, dropping to the floor with a soft thud. ‘Don’t wanna make a fuss in the most quiet place here, do you?’

Alastor finds himself disgustingly silent. Vox is right and he hates it, this area is one of the most quiet for a reason, there are people in nearby offices that need to have quiet to be able to heal. Alastor can’t yell. He usually never does. Hence why he was put here to begin.

But he’s never told Vox this, no, he’s never said anything about needing to be quiet for other patients, meaning Vox had watched, observed, and listened. Learning things that Alastor would have never thought he needed to learn.

He stares, with widened eyes, as Vox runs his hands down Alastor’s arms, then back up, around his shoulders, then to his neck. Squeezing, just a little bit, coarse skin rubbing against his own, before cupping his jaw. Thumb running across Alastor’s cheek.

‘That’s a good boy.’ Vox lets out a little chuckle at the visible repulsion on the other’s face. ‘You and I… Alastor… We both know, we don’t want anyone sensitive having their session interrupted, right? Lord knows what that would do for the institution.’

He pulls a hand away from Alastor’s face, spreading it out beside him. Drags it to the side, as if outlining something, eyes following his every move. ‘I can see the headline now. Hazbin Help Institute sends patients spiralling further into insanity! A place not fit for true aid.’

Vox looks back at Alastor. ‘And you don’t want to be the cause of that, do you? Not when you’ve come here, your mother and you moving all the way from Louisiana.’

Alastor feels a chill run up and down his spine.

He opens his mouth to say something. Anything. At first it’s nothing but a whimper, something Vox laughs at, his gross, warm, humid breath running onto Alastor’s skin. But then, Alastor swallows, jerking his face away from Vox’s hands. ‘How did you get into my office without the keycard?’

Vox stares at him. Then, he looks over at the window on the opposite wall. It’s open, wind flowing in with soft brushes, disturbing the monogamy of the curtains Alastor was sure he had closed when he had left yesterday.

He takes a moment to process the gesture, before looking back at Vox, incredulous. ‘I work on the second floor.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Vox laughs, shaking his head. ‘Just sit, relax. I made us some coffee.’

Alastor, albeit reluctantly, grabs his bag from off of the floor and sits himself down, this time on the couch facing the kitchen, where Vox normally sits. Vox saunters across the office with two mugs in hand, and places them both on the table, sitting with a groan. Alastor grimaces at the way their thighs touch, rubbing against each other as Vox hangs his arm on the couch’s back, hand brushing on Alastor’s far shoulder.

‘No sugars, one cream, just how you like it.’ Vox reaches forward, hand bracing on Alastor’s nape, brushing against it like a spirit. He grabs one of the mugs and hands it to Alastor, leaning again to grab his own. His own being in the mug Alastor normally uses. ‘It’s been a wild few weeks, baby.’

‘Don’t call me that, Vox,’ Alastor says, trying and failing to hide the ire in his voice. But, just to keep his composure together, he adds, ‘Please.’

‘Feisty,’ Vox chuckles, patting Alastor’s nape a few times, before laying off. He takes a sip of his coffee, smiling. ‘Know I said I'd go looking for actual help. But psychiatrists don't come easy in this part of Cali.’ Turning his head, Vox leans in close, his breath, smelling of coffee and rot brushing against Alastor’s cheek. ‘You know that, don’t you? You're my own lucky charm, Doc.’

‘What do you want from me?’ Alastor asks, tilting his body to face Vox, garnering a bit of distance between his nape and Vox's hand. Vox hums, running his eyes up and down Alastor’s body, smirking.

‘Just want a normal session, Doc. Go back to how it was. Now that all that sh*t about the glass and the slap and the break-in is behind us, we can relax, take it easy.’ Alastor nods, confused. The coffee Vox had offered steams in his hands, but he’s smart enough to leave it as is. Who knows what he put in this? He keeps his eyes down to the liquid, wanting to deconstruct the concoction with his eyes.

Vox takes another sip from his mug, licking the rim, lewd. ‘One normal session. It's all I want. And then, I'll never come back here, ever again.’

And if that doesn’t grasp Alastor’s attention. His eyes shoot up from his drink, brows furrowed. He says not a word, the question in his expression alone. All Vox does to this is laugh, hearty and deep, taking another sip from his drink. ‘Yeah, I mean it. Falsum contacted me again.’

‘What did they say?’

‘How about you—’ Vox reaches forward with his free hand and flicks Alastor on the nose. It’s more painful than the latter would have liked to admit. ‘Get this session started up, and I’ll tell you when you ask me like my therapist?’

Alastor hesitates for a breath. Vaggie’s words flash in his head, her words from the last time Vox had been in his office. That Vox could kill him the moment he turns his back, steal something from his room when Alastor isn’t looking.

All of a sudden, even in the comfort and supposed safety of his own office, Alastor feels endangered. Like he’s a deer, wandering through the forest, the smell of gunpowder and man lingering in the air. But from when, and where, he isn’t sure.

He hears a twig snap, and suddenly Alastor’s on his feet, rushing through the woods he’ll never be in, to the other side of the table. Vox stares at him, his blue-eyed gaze more akin to staring down the scope of a rifle, and smirks, watching Alastor sit down.

‘Alright,’ The deer bleats, his voice unsteady, his limbs trembling, bones shaking. Leaves rustle somewhere beyond the room door and he can hear the chatter of other animals beyond it, and how the prey yearns for their embrace. ‘How have you been since our last meeting, Vox?’

‘Oh,’ Vox laughs, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I’ve been doing fan-tastic.’ Another chortle escapes his lips, so loud, it echoes throughout the room. If the deer can tune its focus properly, readily, he can hear the sudden hush of the animals beyond the door, the abrupt alarm rising in the air.

Alastor lulls over Vox’s words for a few moments, when something dawns upon him. A new wave of horror flashes over his body like a shiver parading across his skin, Alastor losing himself more and more to his thoughts, glancing down to the floor.

Vox is scary, yes, Alastor isn’t emotionless, he doesn’t face the world with apathy— He’s afraid of Vox, anyone would, should they be in Alastor’s position. Vox is a cultist, actively trying to drag more and more people to their deaths with his delusions. But that’s not what makes him scary, no— It’s the fact that he seems normal.

Thinking back to their earlier appointments, seven or so weeks ago, Alastor comes to realise just how much of a change Vox has made in his absence. He used to talk about his love life, complain, laugh about his friends while thinking back to his exercises he had completed. He seemed like a normal, decent guy, hell!

If he wasn’t in therapy for what he believed in, Alastor would have been tempted to befriend him, the way those eyes sparkle with vigour, a passion to create and inspire. It seems like an unhinged idea, that Alastor had always wanted the sessions to be about the Falsum.

But now they are, that’s all that appears to be on Vox’s mind nowadays; And how Alastor longs to retract his wishes.

‘Why’s that?’ Alastor tilts his head, folding his hands in his lap. No clipboard to write on. Nothing to fidget with. Nothing to occupy his eyes, nothing to turn his attention to, to distract himself. He’s forced to lay all his attention on Vox, forced to stare, forced to paste that smile onto his face.

‘No reason,’ Vox sighs, that smug grin so irritating Alastor wants to look away. But he doesn’t, he keeps his gaze locked on Vox’s, hoping, praying to some sort of god, any sort of god, that his stare is so wildly uncomfortable, Vox gets up and leaves. Alas, all this contact does is force an exasperated— but amused— scoff from the patient. ‘You’re begging to know the answer, aren’t you?’

Alastor holds his breath for a second. Scrunching his fists into his palms, feeling the sting of his nails pushing into his skin, he takes a deep breath. ‘I am indeed. What’s gotten you so upbeat today?’

‘Welp.’ Vox groans, stretching himself too comfortably over the couch, spreading his legs and arms across the cushions. Something rectangular shifts in his pocket, something Alastor assumes to be his phone. Weirdly shaped phone case, though. ‘Just… Just the Falsum; They talked to me recently, and they’re so proud of me.’

‘Mhm?’

‘It’s because they’re proud of me, Alastor.’ Leaning forward, Vox runs his eyes up and down the map, tongue swiping over his chapped lips for a moment. Alastor folds one leg over the other, feeling much more naked than he should be. ‘You wanna know what I did, Alastor? What I’ve accomplished over the weeks you’ve been missing from my life?’

Alastor thinks on it for a few seconds. His head feels like it’s floating above clouds, fear rushing through his blood at an almost feverish pace, hands trembling as they rest on his lap. He nods, though he can barely process the movement until Vox narrows his eyes, baring his unbrushed teeth. The yellowing has evolved into decay and plaque between the incisors.

‘I’ve done so much, Alastor. So much to you, so much for you. The Falsum are proud of me for treating you so well. My own little vessel, my own sweetheart.’ The words send chills up Alastor’s spine, and he expresses as much with a grimace and a squinting of his eyes. A warning. The others are right outside the door.

And judging by how quiet they are, they’re listening in.

‘But,’ Vox laments, leaning back, ‘They’re proud of something else. I revealed the truth to someone, showed them the Falsum.’

Alastor speaks, his voice barely audible, drowned in fear and repulsion. He doesn’t want to know who, he doesn’t want to know who could ever possibly feed into such delusionment, such insanity. ‘Who… Did you indoctrinate?’

And if Vox disliked the wording, he said nothing of it. All he does is scoff, humoured, and narrow his eyes at the other, licking his lips once again. ‘I think you know.’

He doesn’t. That terrifies him more than not knowing— The thought that Vox reckons Alastor’s already pieced it together has Alastor worrying. It isn’t any one he knows, is it? No-one he knows would be that stupid. Obviously no-one at the clinic, Maman has never even heard of Vox, and honestly, Alastor could care less if his father was tricked.

It comes to Alastor in a brief flash of becoming; He knows so few people in this town.

And strangely, he thinks he’s interacted with Vox the most out of all of them.

Deciding to test his luck, Alastor speaks once more, forcing more stability into his voice, forcing more focus. Alastor is a psychologist. He is trained to deal with Vox’s type of people. ‘Is it Valentino, that you…’ He waves his hand around. ‘You know. Velvette, perhaps?’

‘Oh no!’ Vox laughs, tossing his head back. Alastor can see he’s let himself go in terms of shaving, his stubble growing into a soft fuzz. He decides not to comment on it, instead letting Vox speak on. ‘Oh no, you sweet summer child…’ His voice drops to a whisper, and Alastor has to lean in a bit to listen.

‘I’ve been alone for so long, so long, ever since you disappeared I’ve been waiting. And waiting. And waiting. They left me a long time ago, Alastor. They both left me to rot and called me insane for waiting on you, said I needed to get actual help.

‘Abandoned me when I needed them most. But I don’t care, they could leave. I didn’t need to get attached to sinners doomed to rot in the Below, anyway. I just need the one I need to intertwine with.’

Alastor feels his line in the sand shifting, mounds of yellow specks flying across with turns of the wind, wind that is forced upon the dunes. He takes another deep breath and hardens his gaze. ‘Vox, we have been over this—’

‘Don’t be so full of yourself.’ The sudden ire has Alastor’s glare faltering. Vox sneers at him with a juxtaposing scowl on his face, tilting his head towards the window. ‘I have a new path to take, Alastor. Using someone who will take me, believe me. Doesn’t call me batsh*t insane, f*cking crazy….’ He looks back to Alastor. ‘A psycho.’

Alastor refuses to feel the guilt Vox imposes upon him. ‘And who is this someone, exactly?’

‘Just a special little lady,’ Vox explains. ‘I met her last night— It was raining, I was cold. Car ran outta gas, so she let me sleep over.’ He sighs, almost dreamy in the way he stares off into nothing. ‘Really think she’s my key to intertwinement. Gonna meet her again tonight, actually. Think this could be my time to make my move, y’know?’

All the fear that had been rushing through my veins, the stress and the lightheadedness, it all comes crashing back down onto his head, a liberating and drowning act all the same. Alastor almost feels suffocated in what is now dissipated, a smile growing across his face, body tensing. But not in fear, or excitement, no, not anymore. Of joy.

‘That’s great Vox! I’m happy for you.’

‘Yeah, gonna surprise my soulmate good. Visiting her tonight, actually. Planning to Netflix and Chill, you know what I mean?’ He scoffs, averting his gaze for a second. ‘There’s another person in the house, though. Might take him back to my house, embrace ‘im in the privacy of my bedroom.’

He licks his lips, looking all too smug, Alastor past elated to care to look into it. ‘All it took was a little convincing, doc. And I've gotten what I wanted. Wrapped right around my finger.’

Vox smiles, and this time, Alastor has the confidence to return it with the same amount of passion.

After a few more minutes of idle chatter and pleasantries Alastor lacks the care to remember, Vox makes his leave. He opens the door and the therapist is surprised to see his friends waiting patiently by the doorframe, all scowling at Vox has he saunters by, careless, or perhaps simply uncaring. The moment he’s made his way down the hallway and turned the corner, people come flooding into Alastor’s room.

‘Are you okay?’ Charlie is the first to speak, eyes scanning Alastor up and down. Alastor smiles, and nods.

‘Did he do anything to you?’ Vaggie is next, clenching her fists as her eye flits to the window, alarm rising within her posture. Angel hurries over and leans out, muttering something underneath his breath as he slams the frame shut, rattling the clear pane atop it.

‘I think it’s high time we consider a restraining order,’ Husk adds when the room falls into a tense quietude. His suggestion is met with an uproar of agreement, eyes turning to Alastor as he stands, gathering both mugs of coffee off the table. He feels… strangely… Light. As if he floats wherever he walks.

There’s a beam of relief shining within his core, spreading through his body like a fungus, a fungus welcomed with opened arms. It’s wrong to have, Alastor knows he shouldn’t let this fungus spread over his taint, scarred, leathery skin, but it feels so damn good, he can’t help but spread his arms wide and let this fungus consume him through Starry Night-like mist.

He feels…. Enlightened. Like a whole new world, a whole new before and after and now had been presented to him like a blessing placed within a god’s cupped palms. Alastor’s lived a short life of suffering and he practically deserves some sort of reward for it, and something Above has given it to him.

Vox is over him; He’s never coming back, and Alastor is free.

f*ck trying to fix Vox. f*ck trying to see reason in his ramblings and hope within his heart. That’s somebody else’s f*ckin’ job now, let that be known. He’s never coming back, Alastor is free to go back to how he was living before Vox, happy, at peace, safe enough to not need to be glancing behind himself every second. He’s so ecstatic at the change he feels tempted to squeal and jump around like a child.

‘I’m going to take a long break,’ Alastor begins softly, dumping the coffee down the sink, ‘And I am going to forget about all of this. Vox has said he moved on from me, found someone else.’

A few seconds of silence as his words are processed.

‘I don’t trust that,’ Vaggie mutters, folding her arms as Charlie cuts her off, sparkles and rainbows emanating off of her like her own barrier of toxic positivity.

‘That’s amazing, Al! You do deserve the break! I’m so happy for you!’ Alastor manages to smile back, but at Vaggie’s words, his expression falters. His thoughts nag at him until he can no longer keep up his cheery facade, ushering everyone out of his room. Was Vox actually telling the truth? Or was it some Falsity?

No, no… There was such sincerity in his eyes, no way he was lying. Alastor is actually rid of the psycho. He can go back to living life normally, living life happily. Why, he’s so happy he might just vibrate out of his skin with joy!

And, Alastor is so giddy at the day’s events, he doesn’t even notice the adored graduation photo missing from his desk.

**

Group therapy with everyone else in the clinic goes as it always has. The moment noise and chatter begins to rise from outside his door, Alastor quickly wraps up his 15 minute pre-session with Niffty, signing off on his form before flipping to a new one. He’s able to title the new page GROUP SESSION 11.09.17 right as the door flies open, Charlie’s cheer and whimsy flooding through akin to a rain washing over drought-infested barrens.

Niffty is up and out of her seat across from Alastor within seconds, hurrying over to the door to get her shoes on (A familial behaviour, she had once explained in her own words, it’s polite to take off your shoes when you enter someone’s personal area. Alastor tried to tell her the floor was barely clean enough for that, but she had refused. Oh well— He wasn’t going to try interrupt family-set manners. Occasionally, he had even done the same as her, to make her feel more comfortable), rushing out of the door.

Charlie watches her dart off to another room just around the corner, before turning to Al. ‘You gonna join us?’

‘When haven’t I?’ Alastor humours, getting up to his feet. ‘Allow me to pack up our drinks, and I’ll meet you in there. You can start without me.’ Charlie gave him one last glance over, a hint of worry twinging in her expression, mixed like dye amongst pristine water, and closed the door, enough so it remained open a smidgen.

Alastor picks up the two mugs of hot chocolate he had whipped up for the two, and heads over to the kitchenette. He had thrown out the mug Vox had used— After seeing how lewdly he had licked it under the guise of picking up droplets of coffee, Alastor never wanted to use the mug again.

True to his word, Vox had up and left the moment their impromptu session had ended, he had driven away and Alastor watched him through the window, watched him drive away in a dingy green honda.

Alastor was relieved, don’t misunderstand, he was practically collapsing to his knees in joy when Vox had finally left him alone, moved on to some other poor bloke that could match his kinks. But the therapist can’t help but feel worried, feel as though Vox is much more rooted into his life than anticipated.

Alastor hadn’t told many people about the break-in, ever since it had happened. He told Maman, and the locksmith. Maman cared, bless her heart, gave him a proper place to stay while the locksmith had gotten his locks changed. The locksmith, well. It was just another cheque for him, and he couldn’t give much past an apology and guarantee Alastor would be safe with the locks.

Locks don’t stop windows from smashing in, he had thought to himself when the locksmith had hung up the morning preceding the break-in. But, he could feel assured knowing the spare key the intruder had is now useless. He needs to stop being so negative— Break-ins are widely a one time thing, and if the intruder had gotten what he wanted (From his underwear drawer, a grimm voice reminds him), Alastor would probably be left alone now. Hopefully.

Sighing, realising he had lost himself in his thoughts, holding two (now empty) mugs over the sink, Alastor lowers them into the basin and rolls up his sleeves.

The group sessions in the clinic follow a process of check-ins and collective activities the two Morningstar owners had garnered. In the first 20 minutes, everyone goes over what their days had been like, how they had improved over the past few weeks with their respective doctors, and what their life is like in general.

Then, in the next 10 minutes are dedicated to going around the circle and doing whatever activity Charlie had set the group to do at the time. And after, the last 15 minutes belong to “patient bonding time” in which, as the name implies, other patients chat with others. This is often when Pentious serves up his treats. After the hour is up, patients go back with their therapists for more one-on-one time.

He gets to washing the mugs. Niffty, in her first few sessions with Alastor, wouldn't separate from him for more than a couple minutes. She would get erratic, dangerous, occasionally, sending out threats like casual comments.

He remembers one incident the clinic had; It was their third session together after she had been transferred from Husk, and Alastor had excused himself from the group exercise to grab a few files, write some notes down as Niffty participated in group activities.

Files in hand, Alastor strides back down the hallway. Group activities this time were trust falls, and Niffty had been displaying some sort of sadomasoch*stic behaviour in the time Alastor had her. When the activity was announced, he saw fit to make some notes as Niffty took part. She never had an issue before, got along with all of the other patients swell.

But, upon approaching the door, Alastor finds himself hesitating to open it. He can hear an unusual amount of yelling, an almost disturbing chorus of panic that orchestrates a haunting choir. After a few seconds of processing the alarm bells ringing in his head, Alastor had shoved the door open with such force the framing around the room had rattled, shuddering.

He could first process a group of people on one side of the room. They were all whimpering, afraid, and Vaggie was standing in front of them, acting as some sort of shield. Charlie, Husk, and Angel were all some sort of first trench, surrounding something on the opposing side of the room that Alastor couldn’t see, Husk’s figure standing in the way.

‘Just put it down, kid, there ain’t no reason to be doing this,’ He had yelled, voice level, calm yet stern. There was a loud, high-pitched sob, almost akin to one coming from a toddler.

‘He left me! He left me, he left me, he left me to die,’ What Alastor had come to realise was Niffty’s voice cried, amidst sobs, ragged inhales and desperate whimpers.

‘Put the knife down,’ Angel reiterated, taking a step forward. He passed Husk’s figure, invisible from where Alastor stood. Then, there was a loud yelp, Angel staggering back, clutching his arm. Alastor watched for a few seconds, eyes widening as he had come to process the maroon oozing from his arm.

The violence had only drawn more screams and panic from the patients, Vaggie having to yell and coax them into place like a dog herding sheep. Husk dropped his negotiation immediately to treat the other, helping him to his feet and away from Niffty, his absence allowing Alastor to get a good look of what had happened.

Niffty, cowering in the corner of the room, teary eyed and crying, made eye contact with him. The glint of the knife in her hands almost blinded him.

Where did she get the knife from?

‘Niffty,’ Alastor had begun, voice soft. He let the door click shut, gently, oh-so gently behind him, files placed on some miscellaneous surface. His eyes remain locked on the girl, who now turns to face him, the knife one silver slit from his view. ‘What’s going on? Why are you doing this?’

‘You left me!’

‘I would never,’ Alastor breathed, squinting his eyes, worried. ‘What made you think that?’ He took a step forward, closer to the girl. His breath only hitched for a brief moment, when she tightened her grip on the knife. She choked out another sob, staring at him for a few moments, black hair (previously cherry red, though faded over time) pasting to her skin with sweat and tears.

‘Can you lower the knife, please?’ He reached forward, fingertips brushing the tip of the knife, cold beneath his fingertips. ‘I won’t leave you again without telling you, I promise. You just need to give me the knife.’

And there was a flurry of movement, a brief moment to stumble back a little, then a startled gasp. Alastor felt hands wrap around his waist, almost crushing in their embrace, tears soaking into his shirt. He took a few moments to let the chills across his skin lower, patting a hand across her back for a few seconds. The therapist smiled when a sharp line dug across his back pocket, a heavy weight deposited inside.

‘Alright.’ He shot his eyes back up to the crowd, all of whom stared at him with alarm, anger, or some secret third option. ‘I suppose we’ll excuse ourselves for now.’

And with that, Alastor had shuffled out of the room with a Niffty clinging onto him.

After a scolding from both the Morningstars about his carelessness, and a few more sessions with Niffty, Alastor had managed to get her to open up. Be more places without his supervision. She’s a star child, that one.

Shaking wet water off his hands, Alastor deposits the two clean mugs onto his drying rack, hurriedly making his way to the room for the group session. His coworkers smile when he steps into the room, quiet and with a soft apology, amidst Pentious’s recount of his step son’s first day at school.

Niffty waves him over and shuffles to the side a bit, allowing Alastor to have a seat beside her, one leg tucked up to his chest, the other folded beneath him. He has to admit, hearing such a trembly man bring himself to tears talking about how many friends his sons had made on their first day of school is slightly touching. Almost makes one sentimental.

He hasn’t missed much at all, everyone is still in their “how was your day” section of the activity. A circle of 12 people, Alastor included, sitting atop a god-knows-how-old rug, sharing stories and recounts of their day. He feels a tad bit gross sitting on this rug, not knowing how old it is, what’s touched it, but he supposes he could deal with it.

He’s not gonna eat off the damn thing, is he?

**

The sky is darkening and Alastor’s cleaning up the last few bits of his office. He had finished writing Niffty’s weekly report not too long ago, and is now preparing to head home. Well, to Maman’s home. For a brief moment, though, he wonders where Vox is. What he’s doing, or, as he had implied, who he’s doing. He wonders where Vox’s friends are, Velvette and Valentino, how they’re taking the situation in.

Oh well. Not his problem anymore.

Dusting his hands off as if to brush Vox’s case off his sweaty palms, Alastor takes a deep, relieved sigh. He moves over to his desk from the kitchenette, shuffling through a few papers, more to get to the wood of the desk than to find a specific paper. Alastor taps open his phone, squinting a bit as the brightness hits him, a lovely sight of his graduation photo with his Maman as his wallpaper— Where did the photo on his desk of that go, anyway?--, and he taps in his password.

A few swipes later, he’s holding his phone up to his ear, other hand on his hip. Alastor props himself up on the very corner of his desk as he listens to the insistent buzz echoing in his ear, a smile on his face. Waiting for Maman to pick up.

While she had said it was okay to stay at her home for the time being (More, aggressively told him to come back to hers instead of his “because I have some clothes of yours here anyway, and you need to stay out of that house until it’s 100% safe!”), Alastor had supposed it wouldn’t hurt to call, check in, see how she’s doing, if she’s still up for the sleepover. It’s not like Alastor doesn’t have many other friends— That are not his coworkers, thank you very much, he has friends outside of work.

They’re just.. In another state.

Sometimes Maman likes to have these late nights with the gals that work in her daycare, sometimes with the ladies down at the soup kitchen she and Alastor happen to volunteer at when they get the time. They stay up late into the night gossiping and doing each other’s nails like it’s the 80’s and they’re still young and happy.

Alastor doesn’t like to interrupt them, often, because when he does the aforementioned gossip suddenly turns into some sort of matchmaking consultation, and he walks out of it blushing like a madman and with his nails painted.

For women born in the 60's, they’re awfully crude about what their son is interested in. He didn’t even know a voice kink was a thing until one of Maman’s employees whispered it in his ear.

The buzzing stops and Alastor is hit with a bombardment of noise, causing him to flinch the phone away from his ear. There are a few seconds of laughter, muted chuckles, before Maman’s voice comes into fruition. She speaks with a laugh teetering in her throat. ‘Alastor, baby, how are you?’

‘I’m good, Maman,’ Alastor smiles, feeling oddly warm at the sound of her voice. ‘Just finished work. I just wanted to ask, am I staying at—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Maman cuts off, the sound of a lowered movie playing in the background. Sounds like the opening to a Netflix original, which is strange, considering a good majority of them suck. Alastor’ll have to teach her about the ways of finding good movies when he gets back…

‘You are sleeping in my home, Doctor Alastor Beaudeux.’ He winces. It’s not often she brings out the full name. ‘That is not negotiable. So I don’t wanna hear anymore of your insecure rambling about whether or not you can sleep in y’ Maman’s home, okay?’

‘Of course, of course,’ Alastor smiles, bracing one hand behind him on the desk as he hikes himself up further. ‘Just wanted to make sure, Maman. You’re not having any of your…’ He pauses, searching for the right word, eyes scanning the room as if to help. ‘Gals, over, are you? As much as I love you lovin’ them, I’m not lookin’ for anymore impromptu The Bachelor episodes with me as the star.’

‘I know you love making fun of those shows,’ Maman laughs. ‘Maybe it’s because y’ Maman likes them so much! You hate everything I love.’

Alastor opens his mouth to respond, when he falters. There’s a voice at the back of the call, louder than the movie, quieter than Maman.

‘Wait, does he actually?’

It sounds deep, but then again, many of Maman’s friends have deep voices. He hesitates for a few more moments, sending her radio silence, only blinking himself back to focus when she calls his name.

‘You have any friends over?’ Alastor asks, not wanting to blatantly call out his Maman and disrespect her like that. If she wants to tell him, she will. Maman hums for a few moments, then laughs quietly.

‘I do, I do. When y’ come over, star, I think I’ll find you might even like this friend a’ mine!’ She drops her voice into a whisper. ‘My friend, your first and forever part—’

‘Maman…!’ Alastor hisses, dragging the phone away from his ear before she can finish her sentence. He only puts it back when he can hear the laughing from the other side, albeit returning the phone with a frown. ‘Thank you very… very much for caring. But I don’t need it, Maman.’

‘I’m teasing,’ Maman says, her smile audible through the call. ‘But you never know!’

‘I’m going to hang up, now, Maman.’

‘I'd let you two hit it off like teenagers, but I just don’t want you two causing too much noise in my house. And in my guest bedroom, star.’ There’s the sound of someone choking in the background, probably Maman’s friend. Alastor only stares blankly at the floor, with a less than genuine smile, trying to block out the innuendoes.

‘I’ll see you soon.’

‘And heaven forbid you go ahead and try to do it anywhere but the privacy of the bedroom, Alastor. You show y’ privates in private, and y’ publics in public. Except for beach changing rooms, there seems t’ be some sorta exemption in the changing rooms at the beach, what’s the deal with that?’

‘No clue, Maman.’

‘Make sure you use protection, I think I have some rubbers n’ oil lying around in case y’ old Maman ever got lucky when she’s out and about. Oh! There was this one time I was—’

‘I don’t want to hear about that, Maman.’

‘Oh well. There’s always another time.’ She releases a soft chuckle, tender through the microphone. ‘Make sure y’ get home safe then, sha. I’ll be here waiting for you when you do.’

‘Alright, buh-bye, Maman.’ Alastor lowers his phone from his ear, a fond smile on his face he hadn’t even noticed growing on his face staring back in the reflection.

‘I didn’t even tell you his name! It’s—’

Alastor hangs up. He exhales a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, and shoves his phone in his pocket, ready to head out for tonight. Meet this mystery man Maman’s so sure will have Alastor acting a succubus by midnight.

His door behind him opens, the sound of two people entering within. Alastor swings his bag over his shoulder in time for Husk and Angel to step inside, both smiling. Husk crosses his arms and looks the other up and down, before huffing lightly.

However, surprise hits Alastor when Angel is the first to speak, cutting Husk off, stepping into the metaphoric spotlight. ‘Wanna get batsh*t drunk with us? Or are you too scared to live life?’

Alastor reels back in sheer surprise, eyebrows rising as his smile twists into a nervous one. ‘Huh?’ Is all he can say in response, truly the most smartest, educated, respectable response to give when greeted with such a statement.

‘New bar opened up downtown,’ Husk explains. ‘It’s s‘pposed to top the Fruit Fest, me and Angel are going to confirm. Wondering if you wanted to join, too. Pay off that drink I owe you.’

The Fruit Fest is a rather popular queer bar in downtown California— Alastor’s only ever been to it one or two times, and each time he’s come out either extremely overwhelmed and wanting to just go home, or intoxicated enough to dare flirt with a couple people that pique his fancy.

All drunken escapades, he fears— Thankfully the flirts have never moved past humorous brush-offs and “You are so drunk; Where are your friends?”, replied (drunkenly) with “Wherever your bed is”.

So Alastor isn’t really good at the dirty talk. It’s okay— He’ll never need to be using it.

‘Who knows?’ Angel waves his hands around, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘Maybe this time you’ll walk outta there with a hot lay without being drunk out of your mind.’ Alastor flushes at the memory.

The poor guy, bless his heart--Must've been much much older than Alastor himself— had to deal with him while searching for Charlie and Angel in the moshpit or whatever a group of jumping drunk people is called.

He doesn't even remember what had him so drunk that day, but regardless, Alastor had made sure to profusely apologise the next day when Charlie had somehow gotten the guy's number. “In case you were actually interested!” She had said. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Alastor met Zestial.

He thinks about the offer Angel had extended for a few seconds. Get drunk on a Thursday night, go home to Maman (probably) blackout levels of not okay, embarrass himself in front of the guy she’s “prepared” for Alastor, get scolded with a hangover, go to work with a hangover, suffer with his coworkers with a hangover.

Sounds like an amazing plan!

**

Alastor was clearly not in “proper” clothing to be going into a queer bar. Because said bar is for queer and queer only, he was stopped by the bouncer at the door asking if he was straight or not. A truly humiliating experience! How does clothing dictate if someone’s queer or not?

‘It’s about the vibe you give, Al,’ Angel explains in the bathroom at the back of the club. He had taken Alastor’s sweater from him and promptly tossed it onto the stall floor the two stand in.

A few anonymous men from outside the stall cheer them on and tell them to use protection. ‘See, coming here dressed in a sweater, button down, and slacks either makes you look like the most f*ckable, innocent guy in the room, or the straightest. And you give off straightest man in the room.’

Alastor cringes at the crass words, glancing away. Now standing in just his plain white button down and some slacks, Angel hums, stepping back, his calves brushing against the toilet seat. ‘How do I fix this…’

‘Uhm, you let me go out there and go home, mayhaps?’ Alastor smiles, eyes twinkling. Angel snorts, rolling his eyes. He reaches forward and undoes Alastor’s belt, much to the brief panic of Alastor, and tucks his shirt inside. Then, he yanks the pants up high (so damn high, Alastor thinks he’s back in high school getting wedgies like some typical sitcom or something), puffs out Alastor’s shirt, and undoes his top two buttons.

‘I look like Elvis, but not Elvis,’ Alastor frowns when Angel displays his pocket mirror to him. Angel ruffles his hair a little, his neatly groomed hair that he had brushed out, and sends him out of the stall.

The anonymous men outside pat him on the back as he makes the walk of shame out the bathroom, burning holes into the tiles, ears heating up. Angel doesn’t share the same sentiment, and almost looks proud of the notion that numerous men think he’s f*cked someone in the gross stall of the bathroom.

Husk meets the two at the bar. He’s already nursing a drink as the two approach, eyebrows rising at the sight of Alastor. ‘You’re kinda like Elvis… But not Elvis at the same time.’

Alastor sputters, exasperated. ‘That’s what I said!’

‘Whatever,’ Angel snickers, placing a hand on his hip. He slides his gaze to the moshpit of cheers and strange drunken jumping, a smile growing on his face. ‘We should join the mosh pit.’

‘That’s gross,’ Both Alastor and Husk mutter in tandem, sharing a chuckle with each other. Husk leads on the conversation. ‘But it looks fun. I’ll do it.’

‘I will not,’ Alastor huffs, pushing his point through by sitting down on one of the stools behind him (and nearly missing). Angel and Husk exchange a look, then turn back to Alastor. ‘I will be here shoving all my future drinks on Husk’s tab, like he owes me.’

Husk narrows his eyes. ‘Just make sure you don’t drink me into an early grave.’

‘I wouldn’t be so cruel!’ Alastor laughs.

The other lightly punches his arm, then steps back next to Angel. They make quick plans to meet at the spot Alastor sits at if needed, say, one of them were to go missing in the writhing mass known as the mosh pit, and soon, Angel and Husk become two more bopping bodies in the crowd. It doesn’t come as a surprise when they become hard to distinguish from everyone else.

Alastor sighs, leaning back against the bar counter, wooden edge pressing into his back. He has a couple drinks, nothing too out there. Just typical fingers of whiskey, enough to get the world spinning a bit, the noises amplified in Alastor’s head. But he has enough of a brain to keep himself level-headed, focused.

It’s been quite a while since he’s been so relaxed like this. The past few weeks have been filled with stress, Vox, stress, panic, emotional repression, and now it just feels nice to get that lump of emotion down his throat with some whiskey.

He eventually has to stop himself from sliding his glass forward with a polite ask for more, simply holding the glass of melting ice by its rim, swinging it back and forth absently as he stares into the crowd. He doesn’t know many of the songs blasting through the speakers, but he can nod his head along with the beat.

‘Your drink’s looking empty there, baby.’ Someone takes a seat in the stool next to Alastor. Alastor jolts at the sudden conversation, sitting up to look to his right, raising an eyebrow, his movements sluggish from the waning effects of alcohol.

Before him sits a man… Pretty f*cking tall man. His feet are firmly planted on the floor as he mimics Alastor’s position, a sultry smile on his tan face. He wears a flashy coat, hot pink with ruffles at the neck, gold necklaces lacing his chest. The man has a buzzcut that, when it was longer, was some sort of light purple. Looks to be around Alastor’s age, if not a tad bit older.

‘Mind if I get you another?’ He twists to face Alastor. Alastor exhales, amused, and places his glass on the counter. Man’s not half-bad in looks, Alastor’s planning to get blackout drunk, and he’s not really anticipating his suitor at Maman’s. So why the hell not?

‘Be my guest,’ He replies, curt. The man waves the bartender over and orders some sort of co*cktail Alastor wasn’t paying attention to. ‘Alastor.’

The man’s expression falters, his charismatic mask slipping into something more analytical. Alastor can’t help but feel a little bit off put; Four words in and he’s already messed this up? Surely he can’t be that bad at conversation when he’s drunk. They sit in silence for a few more moments, the bartender sliding them two matching drinks. The man speaks. ‘Like… Doctor… Alastor?’

Alastor frowns. ‘...Yes…?’

‘Holy sh*t,’ The man sighs, sinking into the counter, sudden charm disappeared into a much more awkward persona. His voice is trembly and cringing as he continues on. ‘You— f*ck me. You’ve probably heard about me, I’m so sorry man.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Valentino.’

‘Oh!’ Never has Alastor wanted to run away so quickly! But habit kicks in first and Alastor returns the handshake firmly, taking it back before reaching for his co*cktail. He’s too sober for this. ‘Well! What brings you here, Valentino?’

Hopefully Vox hadn’t set Valentino up for this, despite their alleged falling out. But Alastor sometimes forgets he’s a therapist, he’s good at reading people. Valentino’s abruptly gone to chewing his bottom lip, tearing dry skin, hands picking at strings on his clothes.

Though the juxtaposition Alastor laments towards is the fire blazing in his eyes, hot and sharp. He looks nervous, but angry. Anxious to meet Alastor, yet prepared as he’ll ever be.

‘Just looking for some one-night stand,’ Valentino answers, his voice slipping back into its mask from moments before. He leans forward and winks at Alastor, circling the rim of his co*cktail. ‘You interested?’

‘Aren’t you and Vox…’ Alastor waves his hand around, humming softly. ‘Committed?’ Who knows if Vox was lying or not? Alastor sure as hell doesn’t. The moment Vox was no longer his problem, all tells he may or may not have had wiped themselves from Alastor’s mind.

Valentino groans, rolling his eyes. ‘Look, I know you’re his therapist, but you don’t have to be dick-riding him, even though he wants you to so much.’ He takes a sip of his co*cktail, downing an impressive amount of it, before sighing.

‘We’re not anything. f*ck him.’ Despite the scowl resting on his face, he sneaks a sidewards glance at Alastor, who tilts his head. ‘Am I allowed to say this to you? Are you gonna snitch on me, or is there still the “privacy of the client” or whatever bull?’

‘Valentino,’ Alastor begins, slowly. He takes a brief sip of his co*cktail, the sweet taste setting his tongue ablaze in flavour, before resting the stem of the glass in the dip between his index and middle. ‘I don’t know how in touch with Vox you are, as of recent.’

‘Not at all,’ Valentino mutters, bitter. He grabs the lemon on the rim of his glass and bites a chunk of it. Alastor supposes sour is the better way to describe him. Haha.

‘But I no longer tend to Vox,’ Alastor continues, amused as Valentino perks up. ‘He’s not taking my services, and I’m no longer entitled to maintain respect for him.’ A few seconds of silence, Valentino staring at Alastor confused, before Alastor huffs. ‘I’m saying we can talk sh*t if you’re up for it.’

Valentino snorts, and Alastor reciprocates by taking a sip of his co*cktail. It’s a vibrant magenta and pretty damn strong— He’s already had a few fingers of rye, and he still needs to drive to Maman’s. Alastor should lay off for now. The other tosses back the rest of his drink and slides it forward, inwards to the bar.

‘I’m always up for talking sh*t,’ He says, motioning for a second drink to the bartender, ‘But do tell me, Doctor— Why? I thought Vox would have rather died than spend a moment’s away from you.’

Alastor hums, watching the bartender shake up a new drink. Pomegranate, vodka… No wonder it’s so strong. ‘A few legality issues— He became infatuated with the idea of having sex with me, and it grew into more of an issue.’ Once the bartender’s done, Alastor quickly catches his attention and quietly asks for a dry martini. ‘I tried to get him to lay off, but after about three, four incidents, I had him leave me alone.’

‘Wish I were you.’ Valentino pouts, resting his cheek on his hand. ‘Vox barely paid any attention to me— Said we were boyfriends, and then kept on ignoring me in place of his False or what-the-f*ck-ever he calls it.’ Scoffing, Valentino tosses his free hand into the air, rolling his eyes once again. ‘Constantly going on about that insane sh*t, about needing to intertwine with you. Makes a man jealous.’

Alastor grimaces. He wouldn’t wish his situation upon anyone else. But, he doesn’t voice such a thought, allowing Valentino to complain for a while’s longer about Vox and his situationship and their issues and whatnot. Alastor honestly zones out halfway, thinking.

If he does say so himself, Alastor is not that unattractive— He’s gotten plenty of attention from all types of people, so the impression that he at least had some good qualities eventually imprinted on him. Valentino and him seem to be polar opposites, yet Vox has dated (or, at least, tried to) both of them. What draws Vox to Alastor specifically? It can’t just be the Falsum.

Well, Vox did say Alastor was “the only consistent thing in his life”, so him suddenly going silent for seven weeks must have messed with Vox, at least a little bit. Hm. Must have gotten Vox thinking Alastor would disappear if he weren’t at the other’s hip every other moment. Alastor guesses he understands where Vox’s possessive streak came from.

‘Anyway,’ Valentino continues on, seemingly unaware Alastor hadn’t been listening, ‘I came here cus I wanted to see if I could either, A, get a one-night stand, or B, get another partner or some sh*t.’ He glances at Alastor, catching his confused look. ‘Yeah yeah, I know we were in some kinda f*cked up relationship, but honestly I think the prick broke up with me without saying it. He just kinda ghosted me and Velvette— My other friend, you probably know her—, haven’t spoken to us in weeks.’

Alastor frowns. ‘That’s strange.’ Valentino hums, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘That’s not what Vox told me.’

‘Then what’d he say?’ A new voice rises over the crowd of screaming and drinking. Both Valentino and Alastor turn to the voice, Valentino smiling and Alastor tilting his head to see a woman emerge from the crowd. She has curly hair, but not frizzy, with streaks of magenta shooting through it, and her makeup enunciates a certain boldness that her demeanour had already radiated. The woman looks a bit younger than Alastor, and much shorter than both of the two.

She looks at Alastor, scanning him up and down. And when she speaks, she has a heavy British accent, one that admittedly catches Alastor off guard. ‘So you’re the lad that’s got Vox arse over tit.’

‘Velvette!’ Valentino cheers, holding his half-empty drink to her. She takes it and downs the rest in one fell swoop, handing the glass back to him. ‘Me and Alastor were just talking about that imbécil. Wanna join us?’

‘He had me hooked with “that’s not what he told me”,’ Velvette chortles, taking a seat next to Alastor, sandwiching him between the two. She mocks Valentino’s position and leans forward in her seat, co*cking an eyebrow. Waiting for Alastor to speak on. ‘So, go on, pretty boy. What did that lump of rocks have to say?’

‘Uh.’

Very intellectual starting, Alastor.

Velvette smirks, and Valentino stifles a laugh. Alastor swallows, taking a sip of his dry martini. It doesn’t help at all with the sudden drought in his mouth. ‘He told me that you guys “left him to rot and called him insane”. That you abandoned him when he needed you the most.’

A few passing moments of silence, before Velvette snorts, co*cking an eyebrow. ‘We abandoned him? Babe, listen, he’s lying to you and you’re taking the bait like some lamb to slaughter.’

‘Mhm,’ Valentino purrs, swirling his glass around. ‘You wanna know what really happened?’

Vox had been acting…. Weird for the past few weeks. Valentino could tell, anyone could tell. While he had been a bit stubborn and a loose guy before, now he was just… creepy. He would always be staring off into the distance, zoning out, giving all but Valentino his attention.

The other couldn’t help but feel a slight sense of dismay. Vox had finally accepted his proposition to be his boyfriend, but it still feels as it was. Is Vox cheating on him? While it would hurt for the answer to lay in the affirmative, Valentino isn’t expecting much else.

He knows Vox has some weird stalker thing for his therapist— Anyone knows it. He never really thought it to go past a crush on someone who is everything Vox isn’t. Valentino had rationalised Vox’s infatuation to be simply a phase of extreme smite, never really looking into it further. But recently it’s come to his knowledge that the therapist moved clinics or quit or something, because (according to Vox) “Someone had laid his hands on him and scared him away from Vox”. Which, a little weird to say, but everyone has their quirks.

Today he, Velvette, and Valentino sit at a new cafe downtown Velvette wanted to try, waiting on the food. Valentino watches with a frown as Vox stares down at the table, as if to burn holes through them with his icy gaze. He’s clearly lost in his own thoughts, Valentino’s doting partner has been ever since his therapist went missing.

‘Amorcito,’ Valentino calls out, reaching across the table to brush his fingers against Vox’s stubble-ridden skin, coarse and pore-filled. ‘What’s on your mind? Take today to relax, have some fun.’

Vox doesn’t say anything. He looks up to Valentino, though, narrowing his eyes, as if to search for something within his eyes. ‘You’re not him.’

‘Him?’ Valentino tilts his head. Vox seems to dislike the action, reeling his head away from Valentino’s caress.

‘You aren’t Alastor.’

‘Your therapist?’ Velvette finally cuts in, lowering her phone to the table with a confused look. ‘Yeah, no sh*t, we haven’t even seen this therapist’s face, dude, I doubt Val could have—’;

Vox slams his fist down on the table. Chatter in the cafe from other tables tumble into dead silence, a low hum of murmurs like the static of an unchanneled radio. Eyes turn their way, and Valentino has to fight the blush off of his face. ‘Vox, how about you calm down—’

‘You aren’t Alastor.’

‘I know I’m not,’ Valentino softly speaks, shoulders easing as people go back to what they were doing moments prior. ‘Can you tell me why you’ve brought this up? What made you think of Alastor, amor?’

‘Cus he’s batsh*t insane with his Falsity bullsh*t?’ Velvette snorts, holding no malice as she does. Vox, however, doesn’t share the same sentiment. He whips his head to face the woman, sending her a glare that has her mumbling an apology as she turns back to her phone. Satisfied, Vox looks back at Valentino, frowning.

Valentino can only sigh in disappointment as Vox stands up and exits the cafe. Sometimes he does this, gets upset and leaves without a word. He always returns a few days later as if nothing had happened, continuing on with life. Each one of these instances has Valentino’s heart twisting just that little bit more. But he never voices it— Vox would probably say his heart belongs to Alastor.

The waitress lowering three plates onto the table with two occupants, Velvette huffs, angling her phone over the food to grab a photo. She speaks nonchalant and with an unsurprised tone, looking down at her pictures. ‘Was it something I said?’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Valentino grabs a fork and nudges his chicken sanga a bit. He’s not as hungry anymore, to be honest. ‘He’ll come back in a couple of days, anyway, baby doll. This is nothing new.’

‘I’m so sorry I did that to the three of you.’ Alastor winces, the effects of whiskey, co*cktails, and martinis hitting his systems tenfold. Valentino shrugs, continuing to drink as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just lamented all his relationship issues onto someone who hadn’t even been in one for more than a week. Makes one ditsy, giving advice without the knowledge of experience to follow.

‘You f*ck one cultist, you f*ck ‘em all,’ He says, taking a sip of whiskey. Velvette hums in agreement, holding her drink out to that. She glances over to the moshpit, then down to her drink, frowning for a moment. Aslam of glass against wood draws Alastor and Valentino’s attention, as she stands, clapping her hands with a finality.

‘Welp. I’m done with this sh*thole. Let’s go.’

Valentino gets up to his feet,placing his glass on the counter. The bartender walks over with the ATM machine, when Valentino smirks, whispering something in his ear. With a nonplussed expression and a blush rising on his face, the bartender walks off without another word. Alastor hums. Maybe he should start to head home, too.

Getting up, Alastor pats down his pockets to see if he has everything on him.

Then the first step he takes, he nearly faceplants onto the floor.

Valentino helps him regain his balance, he laughs a bit and pats Alastor’s back. The latter already feels nauseous, the world spinning. ‘Maybe we should drive you home, Al. We were gonna head home anyway.’

‘I have my own car,’ Alastor explains, world growing just that little bit more stable than before. He runs his hands over his pockets again and withdraws his car keys, jingling and shining in the club’s illumination. ‘I can drive myself.’

‘Yeah,’ Velvette chuckles, ‘Drive yourself into a river. It’s no big deal. No parking ticket either, it’s a Thursday Night and the government didn’t think people’s lives were this f*cked up to be drinking.’

‘You can come pick it up in the morning.’ Valentino guides Alastor’s keys back into his pocket, and at the man’s narrowed look, he sighs, amused. ‘Al, baby, I just spent the last 20 minutes or so sh*ttalking my ex with you. Then I watched you drop with one step— That automatically eliminated any and all desire to f*ck you.’

When eyes turn to Velvette, she motions a… less than respectable motion with her fingers. ‘Fraid not, dude. I’m a puss* licker.’

‘Crass,’ Alastor laments, shaking his head. ‘Alright, I’ll come with you. Just let me go tell my friends that I’m going home— They were supposed to accompany me tonight, but you know how lovers are in the mosh pit.’

Velvette makes a motion of “We’ll be standing right here” (At least, that’s what Alastor thinks she meant to convey), and he walks off into the mosh pit. He’s shoved by a couple people who had been jumping and dancing or whatever, but after a few apologies and cheers, his ears pick up on two familiar voices.

On the opposing side of the mosh pit, through the crowd, Alastor spots both Husk and Angel, leaning against a wall. They’re sweaty and it’s very obvious what schemes they plot together, with Angel towering over Husk, pinning him to the wall. Alastor very suddenly understands what it’s like to be that kid that walked into his parents having sex.

He just about hears the end of Husk’s sentence as he approaches. ‘Make sure the world knows you’re– Alastor!’ He shoves Angel off of him.

Angel sends him a puzzled look, following his gaze behind him. Alastor gives them both an awkward look, not really wanting to have heard that. ‘Sorry to interrupt your little tryst that you were having. In public.’

‘What’s up?’ Angel places a hand on his hip, surprising calm for someone having just been caught choreographing the Devil’s Tango later tonight.

‘I’m gonna head home for tonight,’ Alastor explains. Husk co*cks an eyebrow. ‘Had quite enough to drink, and I need to head to my mother’s.’

‘Oh sh*t,’ Angel curses. ‘If you had other plans you shoulda told us, Al, we wouldn’t’ve offered it like we had.’

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Alastor laughs. ‘My mother’s on some sort of tirade of being my matchmaker, so I wasn’t too keen on getting there. Besides,I did find some company tonight; Velvette and Valentino.’

Husk snorts, eyes wide as he covers his mouth. ‘Two people? Alastor, Jesus Christ! Know you have to go bold or go home, but—’

‘As friends.’ At least, that’s what Alastor thinks they are. ‘I’m in no condition to be driving so they’ve extended the offer. I’ll pass on my car keys to you, because I was the one who drove us here.’ He sends them an unimpressed look, speaking volumes as he hands Angel the car keys. ‘Just don’t have sex in my car. The scent is distinguishable and if I have to be distinguishing it I’ll exorcise you two.’

‘Sure, sure.’ Angel rolls his eyes and messes Alastor’s hair up a little more. ‘We’ll have fun, thanks for hoping for us.’ Alastor smiles, and Angel’s look becomes just that little bit more fond. ‘Have a good night, Al. Stay safe getting home and don’t make any dumb decisions.’ Angel leans closer to Alastor, smirking. ‘Like f*cking a guy who’s shorter than you.’

‘I heard that,’ Husk adds in, though he seems indifferent to it. Alastor chuckles.

‘I could say the same for you as well. Have a good night, guys.’

And with that, Alastor turns and this time, walks around the mosh pit.

**

‘I don’t think we ever properly introduced ourselves,’ Valentino starts up once Alastor gives him Maman’s address. He pulls off the road from the sketchy car park he had stopped in, and begins driving off. Alastor sits back, resting leisurely in the backseat, the entire space to himself. There are a few alcohol cans and that’s a used condom over there he swears, but other than that, it’s clean. Alastor could have a roadtrip in this seat.

Velvette turns around from the passenger seat. ‘Lemme start. I’m Velvette, I’m in uni, doing a fashion related degree, cus the style in America sucks and you all need some UK influence. Born in the UK, I automatically have a better sense of fashion. Moved for uni, actually.’ Explains the accent. ‘I met Valentino and Vox on the streets, because they were fighting and I bought them both flowers to get them to shut the hell up.’

‘They were nice bouquets,’ Valentino adds from the driver’s seat, glancing at the GPS.

‘And yeah,’ Velvette finishes, shrugging. ‘Not much else to say. I’m in my second year and I swing left, like puss*. Don’t like the government.’ Alastor sees where Vox had gotten the “swing left means gay” thing from. Hm.

‘Never like the government,’ Valentino comments, distracted. Velvette sits back and lightly hits his bicep, to which he clears his throat. ‘You know my name, Valentino, I’m 25. Dropped outta college but I was doing a chemistry degree before that, wanted to be in the labs, y’know?’

‘Find the cure for balding?’ Velvette snickers, glancing up to his buzzcut. Valentino scoffs, rolling his eyes, and turns a corner.

‘I met Vox on a dating website, and he seemed like a normal guy on the first date or two. Then we just agreed to be friends that f*ck—’

‘The F.T.F,’ Velvette dramatically adds.

‘And it’s been like that ever since. I wanted to be boyfriends, Vox is a good looking man, you know? But he didn’t want to, some religion sh*t or something. Honestly pisses me off but whatever. I was born here, Hispanic upbringing, I like doing drugs.’

Silence. Alastor patiently waits for Valentino to finish, but he never does. So, in turn, Alastor clears his throat. ‘My name is Alastor. I was Vox’s therapist. Born in Louisiana, moved to California for my job, and I live in the state with my mother. I’m 25, too.’

‘Cool, now that we know anything and everything about each other with those cheesy introductions,’ Velvette snickers, ‘How about we get some music going?’

‘I control the aux, I’m driving.’

‘I don’t even have a licence, this isn’t fair,’ Velvette snaps. Alastor smiles, amused, but offers no comment as the two continue to bicker. Their words become background noise as Alastor looks out the window to think, allowing his mind to wander aimlessly.

Maman wants to introduce him to someone new. Alastor isn’t really willing to be getting into a relationship, but he doesn’t want to strip Maman of the gift of having.. A further lineage. Eugh. The notion of Alastor having children makes him cringe.

She’s probably at home right now laughing her mind out with this person, and Alastor’s going to walk in slightly drunk, with no apologies for his tardiness. He should get them something. Alastor glances at the GPS from his spot in the middle seat and clears his throat, summoning attention.

‘If it isn’t too much of a bother,’ He says, ‘Could we stop at this food truck? It’s on the way, I’ll get you two something from it as compensation. I want to get my mother some food.’

‘Oh yeah, sure.’ Valentino pulls the car over and twists in his seat, looking at Alastor. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Valentino knows all the food trucks nearby,’ Velvette explains, ‘Because he’s a fat*ss.’

‘One time, a food truck I went to had my order prepped the moment I arrived and they told me I helped them get out of debt. Still haven’t recovered, my fat*ssery is far too much for me to handle.’

‘Great power comes great responsibility,’ Alastor chuckles, shrugging. ‘Uh, it’s called the Hot Shrimp Mami.’

Valentino gasps. ‘Oh, I f*cking love them. Yeah, yeah, I know which one you’re talking about, hold on.’ He pulls onto the road again and begins driving, GPS remaining unchanged from Maman’s address. Alastor smiles, sitting back.

Maman said she doesn’t know a lot of people in this state. Neither does Alastor.

So who could this person be?

Chapter 5: The Last Judgement.

Chapter Text

Valentino and Velvette wave him off, food in their hands as Alastor stands at the entrance of Maman’s home. The home emits a warm hue, bleeding through the window like a guiding light through a night’s storm. It’s not raining, though, haha, it was just a funny comparison, the storm. Or maybe it is raining. Alastor doesn’t know. He’s still seeing doubles and triples and quadruples, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue, his sense of touch fuzzed with the grit of liquor.

(The poor food truck employee had to ask him to clear his throat and take a few moments several times just to get out his order. Alastor made sure to pay an extra tip for his inconveniences.)

Either way— Raining or not, the sky is dark, it settles at a dim, navy blue, stars glistening through light from cities, more akin to the dots Alastor sees in hazy vision than true stars. He holds a plastic bag of food in his hand, some of it already a bit eaten, though he didn’t take much!

Just one… two… maybe an entire container of shrimp, but that’s why he bought extra. Look at him planning things ahead. God, sometimes he blows himself… blows himself away. Not… blow him, that's just– That would be tough to do and..

Alastor needs to stop hanging around Angel.

Now– Does he have…. Alastor pats his pockets down with his free hand, standing in the driveway of his Maman’s home… Maman’s house keys? He should have them. Because that’s convenient. If not, he’s sure they’re laying around here somewhere— It was Maman, afterall, who had told him to hide the spare key.

Aha! Spare keys. Dangling in Alastor’s free hand, a little New Orleans Souvenir keychain hanging off of the main ring. He doesn’t know, and will never know, why Maman would get a souvenir keychain— Imagine how weird it must have been, for those employees in the souvenir store, to get into a conversation with a local about buying souvenirs… not for locals!

Back on the track that isn’t the main track but one Alastor wanted to converse about anyway. He forgot about that break-in. Assuredly, it’s nothing to forget about, but sometimes Alastor tends to let the fact that his home got broken into slip from his mind like sand between outstretched fingers. He should call the locksmith, call him right up, see how he’s going…

Alastor digs in his pocket for his phone, hesitating. But it’s nearly midnight, the locksmith is probably snoozing away, like Alastor probably should. So, the man refrains, and lets his phone fall back into his pocket.

Well then; How easy is it to tell he’s still just a little bit tipsy?

Alastor knows he wanted to embarrass himself in front of this alleged suitor so they’d leave him alone, but he doesn’t want to… embarrass himself. Like, there’s a difference between embarrassing yourself and embarrassing yourself; If Alastor made a few clumsy mistakes, say, bumped into a wall or two, no more than two walls, he’d be embarrassing.

But walking into your Maman’s home drunk and stumbling and stuttering like a sailor who’d found the liquor storage is embarrassing. You know? It’s a fine psychology. Many call it overthinking, or insecurity, but Alastor likes to give it the label of being aware. Anyways. He should probably somehow try to sober himself up at least just a little bit before heading inside.

Alastor gently and quietly places the bag of food on the porch, and hurries off to the outdoor tap Maman has in her garden— It’s for fueling the hose, lord knows how much she loves her plants. She once said it was for nothing, absolutely nothing, other than her plants. But she once said that Alastor was her own little flower, so he better count.

Washing his face with some of the lukewarm water, Alastor takes off his glasses and wipes them off on his shirt, running his hands down and collecting all the water on his face, flicking them onto the other real plants. He grabs his phone and turns on the camera, trying to make himself look at least half-decent, not as if he had gone clubbing, gotten hit on, went in a stranger’s car because they knew his psycho patient, and then bought them fast food.

Man. What a day. How could any of this get even crazier?

Head feeling much more clean, Alastor turns and hurries to the porch, grabbing the food, his phone and keys in his other hand. The porch light flickers on at his movement as he strides up to the door, however, he doesn’t enter quite yet. Instead, he leans in and presses his ear against the door, listening in.

‘And this is him in high school, he was part of the drama club— Ha! My boy was such a star, ain’t he?’

‘He’s adorable. This was him when he was 13, you said?’

‘Mhm! Poor boy was so shy about his little growth spurts he grew up havin’ here n’ there, did I tell you about the stretch mark he has alongside his—’

That’s quite enough.

Alastor shoves the key into the keyhole and frantically twists it, as well as someone can with one of their hands occupied by a phone. Conversation pauses as Alastor fiddles with the keys for a few more moments, before swinging the door open. His footsteps and the plastic bag crinkling as he moves encompasses the home, swallowing all noise like a void, stumbling a bit as he tries to gain his senses.

‘I’m home,’ He calls out, though he knows Maman and this mystery man could guess so. ‘Who’s this bachelor you have ready for me, Maman?’

Alastor takes his time walking down the hallway, towards the living room. He stops at a mirror perched up on the pale green walls, floral patterning making Alastor’s bold outfit stand out like a sore thumb. Leaning forward, Alastor finger-brushes his hair just enough to be presentable, and does up his buttons. It’s only then, does he remember, his sweater is lying somewhere on a dirty gay club bathroom floor. Angel owes him.

‘Pray tell, what can he provide for me that I cannot for myself?’ Alastor continues, shrugging nonchalantly, his appearance the best he can get it in this state. The world has yet to stop swaying and Alastor’s voice is slightly hoarse. Oh well. Makes him less appealing, it’s only a win for him. ‘I’ve enough money to have me set for life, I’m perfectly content in my solitude, and I have no interest for… You already know. Ha.’

Silence. Alastor co*cks an eyebrow, tearing his gaze away from the mirror, down the hallway. A corner hides the couches of the living room from sight, so Alastor can’t help but feel a little bit unnerved at the quiet. ‘Maman? I’m drunk, but I am not that drunk. I heard you two talking from outside.’

Lifting the bag up into his arms, Alastor shivers at the warmth spreading onto his skin via takeout, and moves further down the hallway. Still no response, no shuffles, no stifled giggles. Just dead quiet. The hallway seems to spread on for unreasonably long, twisting and turning like a warning. Do not proceed. But Alastor is far too late to turn, far too alarmed.

The bag shuffles in his grip and he can’t help but feel the urge to call out once more, drop his bags on the floor and rush forward. But he doesn’t. Instead, turning the corner, Alastor looks into the living room.

And only the light from the muted TV paints his blanched face visible. It feels as though his sobriety comes crashing down across him.

Spread across his Maman’s couch with an arm around her, Vox smiles. ‘Welcome home, Alastor.’

**

It’s not really… that Vox followed him. No. Vox wouldn’t. He simply observed Alastor’s schedule, the places he frequented, to get to know his soulmate better than he had. If Alastor wasn’t going to tell him about himself, then Vox was going to have to do it on his own. Hard-to-get, is what Alastor is. And how Vox loves a challenge in his lovers.

If anything, it’s Alastor’s fault for being so dim-witted. He was practically asking, begging for Vox to take him; Letting him get into his office on more than one occasion, never once mentioning or even noticing his green Honda, never talking about the break-in to anyone. He was teasing Vox, and Vox did it in return. His flustered expression when Vox had called him a good boy had all the blood rushing to the latter’s pants.

On the night of the break-in, Vox knew Alastor had run out of the house through the window. He mocked the sounds of his footsteps receding down the hallway, and watched as Alastor had scampered out of the window, his ass hanging through the frame as he crawled through. Alastor didn’t even notice, is what a liar would say. Alastor knew, and was teasing, is what Vox would say.

Vox watched Alastor drive off, and then followed him, his headlights turned off, travelling a fair distance away. Alastor— And he could tell from how his love had driven so quickly— was too hysterical to notice, so it didn’t matter if, coincidentally, a green honda had been taking the same turns as him. Alastor is asking for it. He’s just being a tease.

So as Vox stares up at Alastor from his very own couch, a hand just brushing against his mother’s shoulder, he lets out a little laugh. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost there, Al. Something wrong?’

‘What…’ Alastor’s voice trails off, shaking in that adorable way it does when he’s afraid. Then, much to the surprise of the two other residents, he frowns, eyes widening in a rage Vox has seen one too many times. ‘What the f*ck are you doing here?’

‘Alastor!’ Adelice scolds, sitting up, abrupt, hands on her lap. ‘Is that any way to be treating our guest? Where’s y’ damn respect gone? One night of drinking and all of a sudden y’ too good for some manners in my household?’

‘No–’ Alastor cuts himself off, outstretching a hand towards his mother, before faltering. His ire turns into nothing but regret, wincing as he takes a brief pause. ‘I don’t— I’m sorry, Maman. I just—’ He flickers a look at Vox, who winks with a smirk, bringing Adelice closer to himself. The sudden spark of fire in his lover’s eyes has Vox scoffing, amused. ‘Him?’

‘Yes, him,’ Adelice frowns, setting into the crook of Vox’s elbow atop the couch rest all too perfectly. ‘How about you apologise right here right now, and serve us that food on plates like any respectable host should?’

Alastor doesn’t move for a few moments, turning his glare to Vox with the stare of a vowed murder. But all the latter does is frown, glancing at Adelice. ‘He’s not good with guests, I take?’

‘He normally is,’ Adelice grimaces. ‘I don’t know what they’ve been serving him at that club he went to or whatever... Standing there like a bumbling fool with his maw hanging open. Alastor. Apologise.’

The other doesn’t reply for a few seconds, his eyes locked onto Vox. But, just as Adelice is about to speak again, tearing a new one into the man, he grits out the words, ‘I’m so sorry, Vox.’ He looks at his mother. ‘Allow me to serve you some food.’

Adelice nods, humming approvingly as Alastor walks off into the kitchen, disappearing around the corner. The room falls into a harsh silence, and Vox turns to Adelice. ‘You know, we've met before.’

‘I could tell,’ Adelice laments, mouth downturning. ‘I ain't never seen him be so snappy to a guest a’ mine, specially at first glance! I'm so sorry.’

‘It's okay. Actually, I got something to return to you.’ He reaches into his pocket, lifting his hips a little to make the slide easier.

Out comes a little golden photo frame, old and paint peeling. It’s of his gorgeous Alastor, smiling bright, almost elated, in his hands a degree, dressed in black robes and a graduation cap. His mother is beside him, looking just as happy. Vox had borrowed it when he was in Alastor’s office for a while, a couple hours in his car… You know. If he enjoyed the photo this much, imagine the real thing. It makes his pants feel just a little bit tighter, that thought.

‘Oh my,’ she says, taking the photo from his hands. ‘Where'd ya go ahead and nab this, you cheeky man?’ Reaching up, Adelice pinches his cheek, something Vox laughs at.

‘Here and there, here and there. Alastor dropped it and I've been waiting for a chance to give it back. He carries it with him all the time, you know.’ And so will Vox, a miniature photocopy sitting in his wallet. It's not the same as the original photo or (even better) the original person, but, it does the job for Vox. Makes the anticipation for Alastor all the more satisfying.

‘That’s my sweetheart,’ Adelice smiles gazing down at the frame. There's a look in her eyes Vox doesn’t really recognise, and he frowns, staring at her. It almost looks like the photo makes her smile, as if Alastor were right there with her. Vox bites back a huff.

He doesn't like sharing.

After a few more moments of relapsed quiet, Vox slaps his thighs with finality, excusing himself. Adelice insists that Alastor can grab whatever he needs, taking her attention away from the photo, but Vox says he doesn’t want to be a bother, especially seeing as the man already looks a bit tipsy. “Happens to the best of us,” And Adelice couldn’t help but laugh and agree.

Vox closes the kitchen door behind himself and leans against it, fingers caressing the cold metal until the lock clicks into place. He grins at the way his love tenses at the sound, back turned, placing some food onto plates. ‘You look happy to see me.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Alastor mumbles, not bothering to turn around. ‘Why are you here? I thought you said you found someone new.’

‘Not to intertwine with. I could never give up on you, baby.’ Vox huffs, hopping off the door, towards the counter. ‘Here are your options, Alastor Bookers.’ The name rolls off his tongue so naturally. It simply has to be, him and Alastor. ‘Me and you, we can intertwine like we both want, right here, right now. Your mother will hear all of it, and she’ll only be able to cheer us on. You know how much she was talking about us being the perfect match?’

Alastor shivers, angling his face away as Vox comes to loom behind him, hands circling his biceps. He’s no longer plating any of the food, hands balled against the counter. Forced to listen to Vox. The latter watches a bead of sweat form at the back of Alastor’s neck, his hair standing, goosebumps rallying in their wake. With a slow inhale, bringing his face closer to his lover’s, Vox continues.

‘Or you can come up with an excuse. Get us out of here. Lord knows it’ll be too easy to do that. We can do it in private, and no-one will ever have to know.’

‘Get away from me,’ Alastor trembles, stepping further away. Vox reels his head back, eyebrows raising, though aside from that, nothing of his face gives away surprise. He had been expecting this. He watches with an expectant look as Alastor picks up two of the three plates, hands shaking slightly. With a clearing of his throat, he takes another step back, and turns to Vox.

‘If you will, food needs to be served. Please go back outside with my…’ He pauses, as if saying the words brought him great distaste. ‘Mother.’

‘Will do, Al. I’ll let you think on it for a while.’ With a gentle smile, almost tender-like, Vox reaches over and squeezes Alastor’s shoulder. He turns and hurries out of the kitchen, leaving Alastor to stand within its confines for a little bit longer, letting him stir.

When Alastor comes back outside with the third plate for himself, he takes a seat opposite Vox, staring him down with a grimace on his face. Adelice glances between the two, seemingly oblivious to the tension rising in the air. ‘So you two already look like ya know each other.’

‘Hardly!’ Vox guffaws, a bite of seafood in his mouth. ‘I think the only other time I met your… amazing… son, was when we met at the store. Bumped into him and made him drop a few things, probably why he got mad when he saw me.’ Adelice chuckles, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Drunk actions are sober thoughts, afterall.’

‘Well! Y’ better hope he drunkenly confesses his love for you, eh?’ The two snicker.

Alastor’s teeth bite down on his wooden fork harder than he needed them to. It cracks in his mouth and stabs his upper maw, causing him to yelp aloud, drawing the wood from his mouth. None of the other two seem to notice aside from a brief glimpse.

‘Well, let me introduce you two!’ Adelice smiles, clapping her hands. ‘Alastor, this is Vox. He’s a floor manager at a big advertising company! Y’know the one that made the ad you were always scared of as a kid?’ She laughs, shaking her head. Vox raises an eyebrow and snipes a look at Alastor. ‘He’s a lovely man, let me tell ya, ha! Hell, if he weren’t your age, I’d’ve remarried by now!’

‘My age?’ Alastor parrots, abrupt as his eyes shoot up from his plate. ‘He’s not—’ His eyes fly to Vox, who shrugs. ‘Mam— Mom, he’s more than a decade older than me.’

‘Nonsense! He told me he was from the fresh 90’s! Just y’ age, sha.’ Frowning, Adelice tilts her head. ‘What’s gotten into you tonight? You can normally hold y’ liquor like a sailor. Is something wrong?’

Alastor clears his throat, turning his eyes back down to his plate. ‘Just… stressful day at work, Maman. Nothing too out of the ordinary.’

Bringing a hand to the back of his neck, Alastor can’t help but let a few strands be pulled out of place. His stalker, in his mother’s home, about to be courted with Alastor? It’s all his nightmares and worse combined. Alastor can feel his heart beating in his ears and his palms grow sweaty. He needs out. He needs to get Vox out. Who knows what he’ll do to Alastor? What he’ll do to Maman? No matter how much Vox insists “Alastor is the one for him”, Alastor isn’t going to be taking any risks.

Adelice huffs, rolling her eyes. She drops her utensil onto her plate, and, almost petulantly, chucks it on the table, crossing her arms with a harsh glare that has Alastor looking down. And after a few more seconds of quiet, Vox exchanging the two with an amused look, Maman speaks.

‘Was it that creep again?’

A tension runs across Alastor’s skin like a wave. He freezes in his position, fork rested in his plate, staring down at the food with a blank look. The room falls into a sort of quietude Alastor would normally love. But right now, he wants Maman to be chattering away, chattering about anything but this topic. Not with Vox here, staring at Alastor with a blank look, an empty gaze that expresses more than need be.

Alastor bites back a wince. ‘No. No it wasn’t. I’m fine, sorry, Maman.’

‘Nonsense,’ Maman bites back. ‘Alastor, y’ gonna tell me the truth and y’ gonna tell me right now, mister. I know my son is stressed when I see my son stressed, so don’t you go saying I’m wrong.’

‘Wh..’ Vox takes a pause, abandoning his plate in his lap. He looks at Maman first, then over to Alastor, a feigned look of concern written on his unkempt face. Alastor doesn’t dare look, only venturing to flicker glances at the two. ‘What creep?’ Though it’d be impossible to tell if you didn’t know him like Maman did, Alastor can hear Vox’s voice drop a bit, possessive. ‘Who is it?’

‘There is no creep.’ Alastor looks up, sucking up his fear and storing it away, deep within his mind. He exasperatedly switches looks with the other two, shrugging. ‘Can we just drop this, please? I’ve been out and about all night, Maman, just dealing with the hangover for it.’

Maman narrows her eyes. ‘You aren’t lying to me.’ It is not a question, nor a voicing of acceptance. It is a command. He knows better than to disagree with his Maman, the mantra he’s always repeated at the back of his head chanting at him like a summoning. Anything she says will go.

Alastor nods, shaking his head as if to express the genuine confusion at the notion of being followed around by some creep. ‘I’m not lying to you, Maman. Why would I lie to you about something like that? You know I’d tell you if… he came around again.’ Alastor shifts, pushing his glasses further up his face. Vox frowns.

‘Who is he?’

‘He,’ Maman begins, much to Alastor’s dismay, something which he cannot express quite enough, ‘is some schmuck that’s been terrorising my poor star! Broke into his home just two nights ago, y’know?’ Maman turns over to Alastor, her eyebrows twitching upwards. Alastor feels a pang of guilt, causing his Maman this much stress for no reason, but he voices nothing.

Vox’s expression twitches into something worth calling rage, but it smooths out as quickly as it had come. Maybe it was never there— Alastor, too used to seeing wrath written on the man’s face. ‘Do you at least know who it is?’

It’s you, Alastor wants to scream at the top of his lungs, leaping from the couch, you’re the one causing me this much grief, you’re the one ruining my life. But he doesn’t stand, he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t even lift his eyes from the floor, something that must have happened when he wasn’t paying attention.

‘I have my suspicions,’ Maman snorts, rolling her eyes with a folding of her arms. ‘It must be that joe at the grocery store that always signs y’ receipt off like a pervert, star.’

‘It’s a security measure,’ Alastor groans, his head falling back against the couch. ‘She has to, it’s her job, Maman.’

‘Job my foot!’ Sighing, Maman shakes her head. ‘This is why I keep telling you to get a band on y’ hand. Singles stray from them married ones!’ Vox’s mask slips from concern to anger, and Alastor has to look away to avoid his own carefully crafted mask of stoic slipping. ‘Now that we’re on the topic, let me tell ya about this lovely little lady that goes to my daycare…’

Alastor wants to say something, wants to scream at his Maman to stop, to shush before Vox realises the creep is him, that Vox realises Alastor’s been telling people of their encounters. He yearns to screech until his voice goes out, until there are tears in his eyes and his throat itches in a way he could never scratch. Claw at something, but at anything, just until she goes silent. But Maman doesn’t, and soon, the anger radiating off of Vox and Alastor alike is too much to bear.

He can’t handle it anymore.

With a harsh jerk upwards, Alastor stands. Maman goes silent, looking up at him, raising an eyebrow. But, before she can begin to verbalise it, Alastor raises a hand. ‘I’m going to bed. Good night, Maman.’ He casts his gaze over to Vox, narrowing his eyes and subtly twitching his lips into a scowl Maman cannot interpret. ‘Vox.’

‘Calling it a night so early?’ Vox smiles, tilting his head. The other huffs, and it takes far too much willpower to resist rolling his eyes.

‘Yes, yes I am. I’m already feeling the effects of a hangover and I wouldn’t bother my poor mother with such a mess.’ Stepping around the table, Alastor bends down and pecks his mother on the cheek, smiling softly. Though, there was a certain uneasiness in his eyes, that had pulled a wary look from Maman— She didn’t comment on it, only pecked him back, and wished him a good night.

‘Good night, Alastor,’ Vox calls out, but Alastor takes no heed of it, turning and walking off into the bathroom.

Shutting the door behind himself, Alastor takes in a deep breath and runs his hands over his head, fingers catching onto loose strands here and there. He waves them off onto the bathroom tiling and turns the ventilation fan on, sincerely for the purpose of background noise; He doesn’t want to know if anyone is listening, at all.

Alastor makes quick work of brushing his teeth, spitting out the vile combination of mint toothpaste and shrimp into the sink, rinsing and brushing and repeating until his gums start to bleed, until there’s nothing but water and hints of blood on his toothbrush. Weak gums..

Sighing once more, as if his lungs hold far more air than he can handle, Alastor puts his toothbrush back in its cup and steps out of the bathroom, closing both the fan and the light behind him. Maman and Vox stand in the living room, plates in hand, and when Maman looks over, she frowns, though, not with the ire she held minutes before for his outburst.

‘I told ya to be more gentle when ya brush y’ teeth, star,’ She says, her eyes falling to Alastor’s bottom lip. Vox follows, licking his own dry lips. Alastor lazily wipes his thumb across his lip, staring at the watery blood that puddles on his thumb, and shrugs. ‘Are ya sure you’re okay? I’ve seen ya drunk, my love, you’ve never acted like this before.’

‘Did someone offer you a drink, or something?’ Vox asks, which earns a panicked jolt from his mother and a hasty flicker of looks between the two. ‘Who knows? Pretty thing like you.’ A pang of discomfort hits the therapist in the chest.

‘I didn’t run into anyone of alarm,’ Alastor says, though he can suddenly, very vividly, might he add, recall the co*cktail Valentino had bought him. He surely wouldn’t— He seemed like a good guy, and even if he did, he didn’t do anything to Alastor. ‘though I did run into some.. old friends, of yours.’

Vox pales, and his muscles go stiff where he stands. He stares at Alastor a long while, dirty dishes in hand, as he asks, ‘You ran into Valentino and Velv?’

Alastor squints, and shrugs. ‘Maybe.’

‘Now hold on, who are these two new characters?’ Maman looks at Vox first, then at Alastor. ‘Did they buy you a drink, sha? You took drinks from people you didn’t even know?’

Well, in Alastor’s defence, he did say he wanted to get laid while being so inebriated he’d make a sailor jealous, tonight. But he didn’t, woe is him.

‘They did,’ The man begins, slow, as if one hasty word were to set the bomb off, ‘but I watched the bartender make it. Pomegranate and vodka. As well as a hundred other items but—’ He shakes his head. ‘What I’m trying to say is I’m fine. I’m just dealing with the hangover a little early, Ma, I want to go to bed.’

Maman’s face contorts into something that squeezes Alastor’s heart, but all he can do is turn and walk off into his room.

He shuts and locks the door behind him, trying the handle to make sure it’s locked, before walking over to his window, shoving the curtains aside. The window bolt clicks into place and as another precaution, he tries to open it from the inside– It doesn’t budge, thankfully, so he draws the curtains shut, turning to the rest of his room.

It’s nothing big— There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a single, and it’s draped in floral sheets that look like they haven’t been used in a while, freshly drawn from the sheet cupboard. Beside it, a tiny bedside table with standard things like a hairbrush, razors, and a Bible accompanied by a cross. Maman was always pretty religious. In the corner, a closet, full of the spare clothes Maman had mentioned just earlier today, and a desk beside it, facing away from the bed.

It’s one of the smaller rooms in Maman’s home, but it is the perfect room for Alastor. Cosy and decorated enough to make it seem nostalgic, akin to the hotels Alastor would sleep in with his Ma once she had divorced his father.

Alastor can hear the faint chatter coming from Maman and Vox outside, and he can’t help but frown at how he thinks he might have ruined the mood of tonight. He tries to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault, that it was Vox’s for even coming to his home, his Maman’s home, but hearing the woman in question dejectedly murmur her concerns for her son twists Alastor’s heart. He doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it at all, especially when he hears Vox pulling her in for a hug, but he does nothing to stop it.

Maman doesn’t even know who Vox is. She just knows there’s some creep dragging Alastor around; The woman has no name, no age, not even a description— Alastor was scared she would take action, roping herself into his mess. His mess that he is due to get himself out of.

Walking around the bed and to the closet, Alastor draws it open and stares inside. He can feel a grimace rise upon his face when he realises all the clothes are far too small for him. In fact, Alastor’s pretty sure the last time he wore any of these clothes were in his senior year of highschool. The thought counts, it really does, but Alastor’s going to choose to sleep in the clothes he has on his back tonight.

So Alastor shuts the closet and moves over to the bedside table, pulling it open and taking out a hair tie, binding his hair up. The curls aren’t long enough to be anything stunning, or even neat, but it’s something. His glasses are deposited on the table, left shining and stainless.

Running his hands down his shirt and buttoning up a few more buttons, the collar pressing into his neck like a chokehold, Alastor checks the door lock once more. Then the window, and when he’s sure no-one can get in, no-one can even look inside, he lays down on the bed, his back to the soft mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Listening to the conversation outside.

‘You’ll stay over tonight, won’t ya? Now that you’ve come and he’s made some villain outta ya, you can bet y’ bottom dollar I’m gonna try make you two boys get along.’

‘How could I refuse such a bodacious claim? Of course I’ll stay over tonight. Just… Where will I…?’

‘Oh my! I hadn’t even thought a’ that!’ A little, small chuckle, one that makes Alastor smile, despite everything. ‘Y’know, this old woman woulda thought you two’d be sharing a bed tonight.’

‘I wish, I wish.’ Combined laughter, the deeper pitch igniting a certain conviction of hatred in Alastor’s chest. ‘I can sleep on the couch, maybe?’

Maman sighs. ‘I really hate to shove my guest there, but maybe. Normally you’d sleep in the guest room, but my boy’s gone and hogged it all up!’

‘I’m happy to… share the room with him?’

Alastor tenses. Maman hums aloud, clicking her tongue as she does when thinking. ‘I don’t suppose why not.. Hell! Maybe he’ll even cave and let ya up there on the bed wit’ im!’

‘Wishful thinking, Maman.’

‘He always locks the door when he sleeps— Let me grab the keys, and we’ll getcha set up.’

Alastor squeezes his eyes shut, his breathing frantic as opposed to before. This has to be a nightmare. This has to be a nightmare, this can’t be real. There’s no way Vox will actually get what he wants, what he craves for most, the decrepit pervert. He won’t be sleeping in Alastor’s room, Alastor won’t let him. But his eyes begin to grow heavier, his muscles more relaxed, despite the stress winding his head up like an alarm waiting to blare.

With his eyes shut, Alastor is dragged into a slumber he cannot crawl out from.

**

He doesn’t know what had happened when he had slept.

But Alastor feels a hand, ridged knuckles travelling down the side of his face. It’s loving, it’s soft, and it tempts Alastor to tilt his cheek towards it, eyes not daring to open, a gentle noise travelling past his lips. He shifted, his head leaning on the hand, his ground on reality amidst soft blankets and sweaty club clothes. An amused huff has his eyes fluttering, threatening to awake.

‘Good morning, Alastor.’

Alastor jolts back and his eyes snap open, staring up at the person standing over his bed. He screams, or at least attempts to, before a hand slaps over his mouth, wrapping from one cheek to the other. Alastor, though fruitless, tries to pry the hand off of himself, panic well and truly settling into his skin.

‘You make a noise, Maman is going to wake up.’ Leaning down, Vox shoves his face in front of Alastor’s, their mouths only separated by a breath of air and Vox’s hand. Alastor huffs through his nose, tickling the back of Vox’s hand. ‘Are you going to scream when I move my hand, star?’

The other stares at the former client, with widened eyes and a look of true and pure terror. Star is something Maman calls him, something only Maman calls him. But, after a few seconds of eye contact he cannot avert, he shakes his head, wiping his lips when Vox moves his hand away.

‘What… time is it?’ Alastor asks, his voice hoarse from sleep, his head pounding, eyes adjusting to the darkness. The hangover is beginning to kick in, but it isn’t as bad as it could be. Alastor can shove the headache away, get used to the swaying of the world.

‘Roughly three.’ Vox glances to the door, which is shut, and from what Alastor can see, locked. He looks back to the latter with a hard glare, fists clenched. Alastor can just barely see him in the darkened lighting of the room, faint outlines and glimpses of light highlighting Vox’s features. ‘You need to make your decision, Alastor. Make it now, or I’ll have no problem making it for you.’

Alastor stares at the other for a few seconds, before sighing, wiping his eyes. He sits up on the bed and crosses his legs, reaching blindly for his glasses. Vox sits at the foot of the mattress, his arm stretched out to grope Alastor’s knee. Alastor lacks the energy to react to such a touch, only grimacing slightly.

‘Before I answer,’ he says, ‘what is intertwinement? I should know what it is. The meaning is somewhat given, but I want a genuine, thorough explanation of what it is.’ Alastor takes a brief pause, frowning. ‘Come to think of it, you never elaborated during any of our sessions… There was definitely a level of..’ He averts his gaze, almost virginal how he heats up. ‘Suggestivity, to it.’

Vox smiles, fond, and shuffles forward on the bed, ignoring the way Alastor winces as the bed sinks in front of his crossed legs. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ He reaches forward, and steals Alastor’s hands, taking them into his own. The former grimaces, shivering as a callous thumb runs over his knuckles. ‘So… Is this a yes?’

‘Tell me what it is,’ Alastor begins, his gaze intense, ‘and then I’ll humour you.

‘Okay,’ Vox nods, hobbling just that little bit closer. His fingers wrap around Alastor’s, almost ironically intertwining the two. How Alastor wishes it was so simple. ‘So basically, it’s.. Sex.. But! Before you say anything..! I know you don’t like it, baby, but it.. It only takes one, maybe two seconds.’

Alastor somehow doubts that, and he expresses as much with a narrowing of his eyes. Vox lets out an amused scoff, rolling his eyes, his grip on Alastor’s tightening. It squeezes his muscles and his bones, almost locking his hand into place, unable to move, unable to back out. ‘So, what happens, is we go somewhere private…’

His fingers trail from Alastor’s knuckles, to the back of his hands. They trace over his veins and bones, feathers on rocky roads, dampened with sweat and the lingering scent of alcohol. ‘And then I’ll take you to bed, spend a while teasing..’ Goosebumps rise in the wake of light touches over his skin. Lines of gasoline pouring themselves atop surfacing, igniting with fear and contempt.

‘Just—’ Alastor pulls his hand away. ‘Tell me how it ends.’

‘With a special some full of my seed, sleeping peacefully in my arms,’ Vox explains, his tone crass and forward. Alastor grimaces, glancing away.

‘You know, Vox, you could do this with someone else. Anyone else who is more willing than myself.’ Waving his hands around, Alastor exasperatedly lets his eyes wander to the ceiling. ‘Valentino, he was going on and on about how he wanted to be in my position. What… Why not him? What is so special about me?’

Alastor’s had people grow unusually attached to him before, it happens in his line of work; Niffty, sometimes even Rosie, they both share this… Possessiveness for Alastor. But none to Vox's extent. None to his desperation.

Yet, Alastor perseveres.

‘Vox, you have a partner that is completely willing to.. you know. Intertwine with you. Don't you think the Falsum would want you to be happy with someone who will reciprocate that?’ Alastor lifts his eyes to the ceiling, though, he can't see anything of note, not with the curtains drawn and the lights out.

‘You said the Falsum let you pick whoever. And it's far too late for your… soulmate to be found. Not with me.’ He doesn’t remember if that’s true or not, but hopefully Vox isn’t analysing his words too thoroughly. Even if it's useless to do so in the dark, Alastor smiles. ‘But with Valentino. Why don't you pick him, who is completely willing— He told me himself!--, and leave me be? Win-Win. Right? Right. So why not go ahead and—’

‘Because!’ Alastor yelps as hands slap onto his face, squishing his cheeks. ‘Alastor, you are like.. No, no, you are the light in my life, you know? Light at the end of my tunnel. You are my dear, my innocent deer, and you’ve done nothing but encourage me to live the entire time I’ve known you.’ Tilting his head, Vox moves just that bit forward. Alastor reels his own backwards, uneasy.

‘We go past Falsum, it goes past what will get us into the above. I’m so in love with you I’m practically crazy for you.’ HIs hands move down Alastor’s cheek, running along his jaw, to the lobes of his ears. Alastor stares, speaking not a word, uttering not a syllable. He's not sure how to take this. His coaxing didn't work.

For the first time in Alastor’s life, he isn't seeing a way out of his predicament.

‘I can’t live without you. I need you to be with me. And with the Falsum telling me it was meant to be on top of that…’ He takes a shuddering breath, humid and sickly upon Alastor’s lips. ‘We can’t deny what was written for us since the beginning.’

‘Vox…’

The man groans. ‘I love it when you whisper my name like that. You’ve repeated it so many times but I’ll never get sick of it.’ Leaning in, close, so close Alastor’s nose brushes against his, Vox laughs, more a series of ragged exhales through the nose. ‘I want you to say my name like that, forever and always. You sound so f*cking adorable, you have no idea.’

Alastor reaches up and pushes Vox away from his personal space. ‘What if— What if I say no? What will you do then?’

Vox frowns, squinting his eyes. ‘Why would you say no? It takes less than an hour, it’s literally all I want from you.’ He leans in forward, and Alastor can only just see him in the darkness of his room. His face seems to shadow over, pitch black, yet his eyes illuminate like beacons, two sapphire specs amidst an endless abyss. An abyss Alastor finds himself trapped in, unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling.

‘You’re smarter than that, Alastor.’ Rough skin slides down to the sides of Alastor’s jaw, thumbs caressing the skin beneath his masseter. ‘I know you’re smarter than that. You wouldn’t want to put anyone else’s lives in danger, would you?’

‘Was that a threat?’ Alastor moves his head back, allowing Vox’s hands to drop to the former’s lap. They stay there, pinching the sheets of Alastor’s quilt, grinding the fabric back and forth between his index and thumb. ‘You aren’t going to be hurting anyone, let me be clear with that. If I say no, you won’t do anything in response to it.’

They stare at each other for a few more seconds, before Vox huffs. ‘I don’t want to make you cry. I don’t like seeing your tears of grief. But, if you say no, I won’t be as kind as I’ve been, Al.’

‘Oh?’ Alastor co*cks an eyebrow. He lets a small chuckle escape him, shaking his head. ‘Enlighten me, Vox. How kind have you been recently?’

‘Notice a little something-something missing from your office?’ The hands slide down to the columns of Alastor’s neck, fingers running across skin in circular motions. ‘Hm? Did you notice it, Alastor?’

‘What… did you take?’

‘Only your graduation photo.’ At the sound of Alastor’s hasty inhale, Vox continues, ‘But don’t worry, my deer. I gave it back. Just needed a few copies of the most important person in my life.’

Alastor decides, though with a backhanded curiosity, not to question Vox’s words. He doesn’t want to know what the other is doing with photos of him, especially with the patient’s comments of Alastor being young, young enough to… Eugh. ‘You’re a pervert.’

Vox laughs, leaning in close. ‘I’m your pervert.’

Alastor quietens, narrowing his gaze. Though Vox cannot see it, his hands are clenched into fists, knuckles turning white with force, perhaps a tinge of exasperation, nails digging crescents into pale palms. Their silence seems to elongate for hours, pitch black consuming the two, breaths shared between each other, humid and gross. Alastor yearns, how he yearns to draw away, to lay back down and go to sleep, but he can tell that won’t be happening any time soon.

He knows Vox is waiting for his decision, and he won’t leave Alastor alone until he makes it. But either side is a loss, either Alastor risks putting his loved ones in danger, or he himself will most likely be put in danger. Alastor has to choose— His world, or himself? His world or… himself..?

No. No, no no. Alastor isn’t going to let Vox corner him like this, let this hunter back him to a wall of rock amidst his forest. There’s no sort of difficult decision, no ultimatum that has beads of sweat growing on Alastor’s nape, none of that. Alastor is in control here, and Vox is making him forget that.

They’re in Maman’s home, and despite it all, despite how mad at him she may be, Maman will always pick Alastor’s words over some stranger’s. Some criminal’s.

And Alastor be damned if he doesn’t take advantage of that. If Vox does do something as stupid as trying to harm Alastor and his friends, they can deal with the aftermath together. Testify against Vox together.

He bears no fear in his body, no hesitance in his words, as he simply says, ‘No.’

Vox tilts his head, the movement made obvious not through Alastor’s eyes, but the slight ruffling of his shirt, weight being pressed upon one side. ‘No?’

‘I’m not an idiot, Vox. I’m not some bumbling fool who will let you manipulate me. You forget my job. You forget who I deal with for a living; People exactly like you. I’m not going to f*ck you, I’m not going to do any of that, feeding into your perverted delusion, whether it be for your precious Falsum or not.’ Taking a deep breath, Alastor reaches upwards and takes Vox’s hands off his neck.

‘If you even dare to try make a move on me, try to force me or even f*cking touch me, I’ll scream. I will scream as loud as I can, so loud you’ll hear it across the country. The police will be here in seconds and you’ll be sent to jail full of other predators. Perhaps then you’ll find connection.’

Vox doesn’t reply for a few moments. It makes Alastor think he’s finally knocked some sense into the other.

But all he does is let out a little giggle, akin to a kid about to steal an extra cookie from the cookie jar, and shifts forward. His nose bumps against Alastor’s. ‘Will you really, really do that? Are you actually going to scream?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Alastor seethes. He goes to shift back but Vox reaches forward and grabs his arms, keeping him in place. Alastor tries to squirm, but Vox only digs his fingers into his flesh deeper, threatening to leave marks, even with his chewed and short nails. ‘Vox!--

‘I guess I just have to keep you quiet, then.’

Vox’s mouth crushes into Alastor’s.

Alastor gasps at the violation, but it’s muffled with Vox’s lips over his. Lewd noises fill the air like disease as Alastor scrambles to push Vox away. Vox’s eyes are closed but Alastor’s are wide open, the former gripping Alastor’s wrists and pinning him to the headboard. The kiss turns wet and gross, saliva tasting foul with nights lacking basic hygiene. Dead skin of lips runs over Alastor’s, and it adds to the experience of just how grotesque this is. It’s disgusting. It’s unsanitary. It’s assault.

After a few seconds, Vox pulls back, panting. His lips remain unaffected, save for a bit of moisture (mostly from himself— Alastor’s lips were pursed shut), and he holds a certain type of haze in his eyes, fogging them over. Alastor feels… Hm. Kissing wasn’t some magical thing as the books described, the world didn’t fade around Alastor, in fact, it amplified its presence, and Alastor felt nothing but contempt.

Vox, with a hoarse voice, murmurs, ‘You know better to bite, don’t you?’

And he goes back in for the second time, keeping Alastor’s hands to the headboard. He advances so quick Alastor’s head bonks, dizzying him, Vox’s lips pushing his head into the wood behind him, unable to turn, unable to redirect. They keep going, and Alastor tries to scream, he tries. But the moment he tries to open his mouth, push a sound through, Vox’s tongue slips into his mouth.

It feels even more foul than the first time they had done it, somehow. Vox’s muscle touches Alastor’s and forces the other to grimace, gagging with his mouth open, bile threatening to slip down his chin, hopefully into Vox’s mouth. Spit is swapped, and the sounds only grow more lubricated and loud. Alastor thinks, for a moment, of what his Maman may be able to hear, how she must think it’s consensual, and he whimpers, the noise slipping into Vox’s mouth.

Vox seemingly approves of the sound, as he shoves his face further forward, so hard Alastor can feel Vox’s lips on his teeth through his skin. The client bites on Alastor’s lower lip, and it hurts, stinging and drawing a yelp from him when blood draws, Vox nibbling on the piece of skin he had torn off.

Why is he letting this happen to himself? Why is he sitting there and taking it?

He doesn’t want this. But with how he’s limp and just accepting anything and everything, he might as well want it. Angel’s voice rings at the back of his head as Vox groans, low and rumbling, vibrations venting through their lips.

‘I’ve seen this case a hundred times before, and trust me, sugar. It ain’t never end pretty when they do nothing about it.’

Alastor supposes this is what not pretty looks like.

Vox finally lets Alastor go. Alastor’s hands zip to his face, wiping off saliva and Vox’s remnants, fighting back tears and gags as he does so. The other chuckles, breathless, his lips plump, swollen, and glistening with Alastor’s spit. ‘That should keep you quiet for now, shouldn’t it?’

Alastor can’t even fathom the words for a second.

‘Get the f*ck off of me!’ He brings his hands away from his face and shoves. Vox startles, tumbling back, laying on what little of the bed was left unoccupied. Alastor gags, ripping the covers off of him. His legs find the floor, and he stumbles against the wall, hands searching blindly for the curtains. Gripping onto the fabric peels them back within seconds, and light fills the room, warm from the streetlights outside.

Vox stares at him, eyes wide, leaning back on his bed with his elbows keeping himself up. ‘You’ve… You’ve never sworn at me before.’

‘You need to leave,’ Is all Alastor can say in response. He looks through the room and spots a small sponge mattress on the floor— Presumably Vox’s bed for however long before he stood to watch Alastor sleep— so he kneels down and gathers the sheets. He doesn’t even want these to be in his Maman’s home. ‘Get out of my mother’s home. Get out now.’

‘Alastor—’

‘Get the f*ck out!’ Alastor spins around, sheets in hand. He decides trying to get Vox to hold the sheets is a fruitless endeavour, so he lets them fall to the floor, landing with soft ruffles. Vox stares at him with a nonplussed expression, as if his mind follows through with the happenings around him, delayed. ‘I’m not going to repeat myself, Vox. You need to get out before I call the police.’

‘But.. you’re my therapist!’ Vox tries, sitting up. ‘You’re supposed to listen and help me!’

‘I’m not your anything,’ Alastor bites back, clenching his fists. ‘I am not your therapist nor your friend. Let alone lover.’

‘I just wanted to meet…’ Vox trails off, but Alastor already knows what he determines to speak. He barks out a heap of laughter, head tossing back, almost incredulous, had he not expected something as desperate as this.

‘Meet the parents?’ Alastor asks. ‘You wanted to meet my parents? Vox, we are not lovers. We are not dating. We’re not even client and doctor anymore.’ Raising a hand to his hair, Alastor brushes through his curls, bending his fingers to drag along strands of hair with him, plucking them from his skull. It’s as grounding as it is painful. His eyes begin to sting with tears.

‘We are nothing. You are a psychopath, and a pervert. But that’s not my problem anymore. You are no longer my problem.’ Pointing to the door, Alastor narrows his eyes. ‘I want you out of my life, Vox. I want you gone. And since murder is illegal, there’s really only one way for you to do that.’

Vox stutters for a few seconds. ‘Alastor, baby, I—’

‘Don’t you dare call me that. Leave.’

A rage begins to spread across Vox’s features, and Alastor only begins to see the weight of his words when the other stands. His fists are clenched, his shoulders are hunched, and even with Vox’s hurt carrying Alastor’s confidence with buoyancy, Alastor begins to worry.

Vox takes a step from the bed, to Alastor. Alastor, perhaps on instinct, steps back, like a deer cornered by hunter. He sees himself staring down the scope of the rifle, but this time, he can truly see the bullet in the chamber, glistening.

And then the door clicks open.

Eyes shoot over to the intrusion as Maman steps inside, the yellow lighting from the living room pouring inside, fighting the window’s illumination with ease. She glances between the two, then blinks a few times, yawning. Her robe appears to have been messily thrown on, the bow of it done a bit asymmetrically.

But, despite her visible fatigue, she manages to smirk. ‘Was I interrupting something?’ Her eyes find Alastor’s, but even with the lighting of the room, she fails to see the panic written in his eyes.

‘No,’ Alastor says, at the same time Vox yells out, ‘Yes.’

Maman frowns, wrinkles growing into place on her face. It only makes Alastor cringe, but he says nothing. Vox chuckles, gritted through his teeth, and fully turns to face her. ‘Maman, why don’t you go back to bed? You must be tired, and didn’t you say you had a daycare to run tomorrow?’

She co*cks an eyebrow, and, without response, turns to Alastor. ‘Star. Was I interrupting something?’ Alastor opens his mouth, but he fails to say anything. After a few more prolonged seconds, Maman widens her eyes, as if to stare at the truth teetering behind his eyes, and moves further into the room. ‘Alastor?’

‘Alastor was having a nightmare,’ Vox cuts in, smiling. ‘I woke up, and I tried to comfort him, but he got scared and backed away from me.’ Turning to look at Alastor, his expression hidden from Maman, Vox smiles. ‘Isn’t that right, Alastor. You needed me to comfort you.’

‘I..’ Alastor pauses, swallowing what little saliva hydrates his mouth. The air feels stuffy and his ears begin to heat up, almost a stinging pain beneath his skin, at the back of his neck, on his cheeks. ‘Yeah. I was just… having a nightmare, Ma.’

‘Oh.’ Maman huffs, fond, and smiles, that shining expression brightening the room on its own. With the outside light pouring in, her standing in front of it, she almost looks like an angel, a halo surrounding her. ‘I see. Well ain’t that sweet? You want some more alone time, Alastor? I can take Vox for a midnight snack just outside, sha.’

Alastor’s eyes flicker to Vox. It feels like he’s lost all the confidence and all the control he’s managed to garner before, as his head lowers to the floor. He knows he said they could deal with Vox’s actions together, but when Maman is standing right there and smiling so obliviously… He can’t let her stress like that. Let her blame herself for letting Vox into their home. Alastor can deal with Vox on his own.

‘No, it’s okay. He–’ Alastor struggles to get the words out. ‘He can stay.’

‘If you say so, sha.’ She laughs, shaking her head. ‘You two boys tell me if you need rubber, alright? And don’t do this inside of my house; You better be scrambling outta here to do this in peace, away from my beds.’ Placing a hand on her hip, she sizes Vox up and down, then looks at Alastor. ‘Your ol’ Maman can’t afford to buy any new bed frames, not with this inflation, star.’

‘Maman..’

Maman chuckles, tossing her head back a little bit. ‘I was playing with you. But seriously, none a’ that in my home. You both oughta be outta here before you even try anything like that.’ She looks between the two once more, before sighing, tilting her head. ‘I’m proud a’ you, baby. Love you always. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ Alastor murmurs, watching Maman turn and close the door behind herself.

The two remain in silence for a few more seconds. Alastor bites back fear, a terrified wince as he looks back to Vox. Vox stares at the door, before eventually turning to Alastor. ‘Well. You heard your dear Maman. We better get out of here.’

‘I said no,’ Alastor seethes, fists clenching. ‘Vox, you should know I’m more than adept at using my fists. I don’t care about the police or how badly it tarnishes the institute’s reputation. I’ll kill you right in this room, and you’ll die trying to get your dick wet.’

Vox lets out a taunting, indignant scoff. ‘Alastor, you wound me. Alright, how about this.’ He steps forward, and tries not to coo at the way Alastor shuffles back, against the wall. ‘We’ll go on a drive, and talk about this during that. If we can’t come to an agreement, I’ll drop you right off here, and I’ll leave.’

‘You said you’d leave last time.’ Vox said he’d never come back. Never bother Alastor again. Well look at them now, Vox standing in what Alastor thought was the safest place on Earth, invading his personal space.

‘I said I’d leave the institute,’ Vox clarifies with a sing-song voice, waving his finger back and forth. ‘And I did that, didn’t I? Never came back.’

‘It’s the same day—’

‘Details details.’ Vox huffs, placing his hands on his hips. ‘So. Are you gonna take up that offer, or am I going to have to find another way to coax you?’ His smile turns sinister. ‘Because my next plan involves that darling mother of yours, and I’d hate to do that to you.’

Alastor stares at Vox for a few more seconds. This doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real. It feels like he’s drowning beneath waves of nightmares and repressed emotions, untelling which way is up or down, left or right. He waits, and he waits, and he waits, patiently.

For someone to shake him awake, sweep him into their arms, tell him none of this was real; That Vox never existed to begin with, that it hadn’t come to this, to driving Vox’s car to god knows where, that Alastor hadn’t led him on. But it’s real. It’s all too real, and Alastor hates that fact with all the ire he’s ever held in life.

Stepping forward with trembling legs, Alastor shoves past Vox. ‘I’m driving.’

**

Vox’s heart has never pounded like it has right now.

Alastor stares ahead at the dark road, and the two are driving around some random motorway, the world seemingly a void beyond the confines of the paved route. No-one and nothing for miles. At least, that’s what it feels like. Animals and creatures lurking in the void are probably staring at the car as it drives by, trying to deduce when the best time to strike is.

It’s finally happening. It’s finally going to happen. Months of courting and observing and watching, and Vox is finally going to be sent Above with the one person he longs for. And the other agreed. He agreed willingly. Said he would go for a drive, but that’s practically a yes. Vox has never quite felt so overwhelmed yet prepared for something to happen in his entire life.

And it all stems, all of it stems from when he was fresh out of high school, fresh from the woes of education, of the bullying and the snide looks. All of that work, all that suffering, for good cause.

f*ck all those who said Vox was a creep. A weirdo. Vox is getting to go to the Above. They aren’t.

Vox turns his gaze from out the window and into the car, to the driver sitting to his left. He takes a few moments, smiling with a loving warmth, admiring his lover. Alastor sneaks a sideward glance at him, before sinking in his seat a little, grip on the wheel tightening. They appear to be nowhere of note, nowhere with identifying features, when Alastor pulls over to the side of the road.

There are no cars coming, or going. There are no welcoming lights shining through the windows of small suburban homes. Only darkness, darkness, and the illumination of the car’s headlights paving the motorway ahead.

The car comes to a stop with a gentle groan of finality, yet the lights stay on. Alastor shifts in his seat to face Vox, his seatbelt straining against his opposing shoulder, keeping one of his hands on the wheel.

‘Vox…’ His expression is pleading, desperate. There’s a melancholy in his eyes that, if Vox had to describe desperation with, he would use Alastor’s face at this moment. Vox watches his knuckles whiten on the handle, feeling a stirring in his gut. His lover is desperate. Pleading. How Vox loves it.

‘What’s wrong?’ Vox’s voice is husky from whispering for so long, from keeping quiet on the entire ride to their current spot. ‘Just a drive.’

‘Vox,’ Alastor repeats, breathy and helpless. Vox subtly shifts his thighs closer together. ‘Please just… leave me alone. I can’t do this anymore. I really can’t.’ A shuddering exhale escapes Alastor’s throat, and Vox frowns, watching the man take his glasses off his face, pinching his eyes. ‘I’ve been using the drive to think, and I just— I can’t, Vox.’

Vox watches Alastor’s hands, licks his dry lips at the glistening residue that retreats from them. ‘I don’t want to– I don’t want to do this Vox, please, please. Please just leave me alone, go to someone else.’

Vox sighs, lifting one of his hands from his legs. He reaches over and gently cups Alastor’s cheek, using his thumb to wipe a glimmering tear track from Alastor’s pretty skin. ‘You know I can’t do that. We were meant to be together, Alastor, you know this.’

‘Then leave—’ Alastor cuts himself off with a sob. A loud, broken breath. His voice hitches, his throat trembles, and his face heats up a lovely red. ‘Leave the others alone. Please.’

‘I haven’t done anything to them,’ Vox reminds softly, raising an eyebrow. ‘Alastor, I’ve only ever wanted you. Why would I feel the need to do something to them, my love?’ Bringing his other hand across the glove box, he takes Alastor’s hands into his, trying to mask the excitement that arises in his stomach when Alastor doesn’t protest. ‘Talk to me. Why don’t you trust me? I’ve only ever wanted you.’

‘You befriended my mother!’ Alastor cries out, his tears tracking down his face unchecked and unwiped. They trickle down his tan skin, past his freckles and imperfections, to his chin, dripping, slow, softly. Like a feather falling from a wing. ‘You made her trust you, and you– You got into the one place I thought I was safe, and I—’

Another gasp, an intake of air as Alastor’s eyes squeeze shut, tears clumping his long eyelashes together. Thank god he has his eyes closed. Vox wouldn’t be able to explain his own issue down there.

‘Harassing me was enough,’ Alastor continues, just as Vox pulls his hands away, to his own lap. ‘You could attack me a hundred more times, say anything you wanted for as long as you liked, as long as the harassment stayed with me. But my mother? You followed me to my mother’s home?’

Vox averts his eyes to his lap, fiddling with his hands. Hearing his love sound oh-so-heartbroken… It sends both a pang of guilt and arousal shooting through his body like a drug. He doesn’t know how to react. Doesn’t know whether he wants Alastor to keep crying, or to be so happy with Vox, he never has to again.

Opening his eyes, the whites tinged pink with exertion, Alastor wipes them with the heels of his palms. ‘I can’t– You can do whatever you want to me, Vox. But leave my family out of it. Please. If you’ll harass me, at least spare my family the same burden.’ He blinks a few times at Vox, adorably startling when Vox wipes a bit of snot from his nose off with his sleeve. ‘You—’ Alastor hesitates for a second. ‘Place all your affections on me, Vox. I want you to.. I want you so bad. I need all your attention on me. No-one else.’

There’s no hiding Vox’s boner now. Vox can’t even feel sorry for it anymore— Alastor, pleading and crying like that? He wants this reaction. Vox can tell. With his love being such a tease over the months he’s known him, it was only a matter of time before Vox could pull apart his tells, dissect his love and watch his inner workings function, like cogs to a machine.

He’s finally realised why his heart beats. It beats for Alastor. It beats to the melodies of his laugh, flutters to the flash of his smile, thuds for the tears he spills.

‘So…’ Vox raises his hand again, and pulls Alastor’s to meet atop the glove box, cold leather pressing into their hands. Vox watches Alastor shiver at the contact. ‘Does this mean you want to be my lover, officially? You want to intertwine with me?’

Alastor sniffs, and wipes his face with one palm. ‘Will… Will you ever try stalk or even contact my loved ones again, if I do?’

‘Of course,’ Vox smiles, leaning forward, cupping Alastor’s hand in his two. ‘Of course, my deer. I’ll never even think of them again, I know it.’ And for once, Vox isn’t lying at that promise. ‘The Falsum will be so happy. We could be so happy together, in the Above. Just eternal peace.’

Alastor hums. His tears have long receded, yet his chest still flutters with tearful breaths, and his eyes are slightly red, glossier than usual. They fly off to the side, to the wheel, as if the answer to Alastor’s every problem lay written within the skin-like patterning of the leather. It makes Vox realise just how physically similar cows are to cattle. But that’s not important right now.

‘Vox..’ He hums, questioning. Alastor swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, almost teasing Vox, tempting him to take a bite, becoming the very first humans in Eden. ‘It’s.. This will be complicated. You know that, no? You’re over a decade older than me, I’m your therapist. Even being at my mother’s home could get both of us in trouble.’ Their eyes lock, and Alastor squints his, unsure. ‘I don’t want us to be anything public.’

‘We don’t have to be,’ Vox assures, gripping Alastor’s hand tighter.

‘And I don’t want to call you anything. No babe, dear, love, darling. None of that. You are simply Vox to me.’ His tone clearly indicates no other deviation.

Vox tries to hide the hurt that flares across his face, but Alastor is smarter than that. ‘Okay, yeah. I’m just Vox to you. You’re my everything. I’ll treat you as such.’ Alastor grimaces, lowering his eyes down between the two once again. ‘Anything else you don’t want?’

‘I don’t want to have sex.’

A burst of flames ruptures through Vox. It feels like all his veins have been callously set aflame, left to wither and rot within the confines of his skin. He feels Alastor’s palm begin to sweat, his breath beginning to pick up, consuming the chilly air inside the car, turning it to a humid aftermath.

Vox scowls, pulling Alastor closer to him. The latter startles, falling forward, leaning over the glovebox, where Vox grabs the back of his neck. Keeping him in place, akin to keeping a rabid dog in place while applying its muzzle.

‘We are going to f*ck. That is the basis of our foundation, how we’ll get into the Above together. I have lost f*cking everything to, and for you, Alastor.’ Alastor stares at Vox, eyes widened and afraid, lips parted ever so slightly. ‘All you have to do, the only part your pretty, perfect body has to play, is to take what I give you. There’s nothing else you have to do. Just enjoy yourself. And then we can be free, free in the Above together.’

Vox laughs, exasperated. One of his hands slither up to Alastor’s cheek, cupping it dearly. Alastor’s breath tickles Vox’s wrist. ‘Isn’t that what you want, baby? Don’t you want to be happy with me?’

‘I just—’

‘Because if not,’ Vox continues, cutting his love off as much as it pains him, ‘I’ll kill you and f*ck your mother like a whor* over your half-assed grave. Bring your darling, dear Maman with me instead.’ Alastor whimpers, and Vox feels his anger dissipate into love once more. ‘But if you don’t, if you just go one round with me, just one night, I’ll leave them all alone. I’ll never touch them, or even get near them.’

Alastor thinks on it for a second. Vox will let everything go, if they f*ck? Just once? If Alastor does this one thing with him, if Alastor just goes for this one night with him, this will all end. Alastor won’t even have to tell anyone what had happened between the two. He could tell Maman that Vox wasn’t for him, that they nearly got into it but never did. He could tell his friends that Vox just simply left him alone. This could all be fixed with one night.

Had all this end with simple one hookup, Alastor would have done this earlier.

‘So?’ Vox asks, his voice low and hoarse. Alastor swallows.

‘Alright. Let’s do it.’

Vox lights up like the lights on a damn Christmas Tree. ‘Okay! Okay! Yes! I’m so happy you finally came around, deer.’ Reaching over the glovebox, Vox swoops Alastor’s cheeks into his hands and presses a kiss to his lips. Alastor doesn’t protest, and after a moment, he even relaxes into it. Pulling back, Vox releases Alastor’s head. ‘We have to go to my house. Locksmith will be at yours, so.’

Alastor nods, turning away to grab his phone. He opens up the GPS, washing his face over in a white hue, reflecting in his brown eyes. ‘What’s the address?’

‘Oh, you don’t need that thing.’ Vox grabs Alastor’s phone from his hands and clicks it shut. Alastor makes an indignant noise of alarm, raising an eyebrow. ‘No phones, you have to get rid of yours.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Government scrambles your brain with it, yeah?’ Vox holds the phone up, wiggling it back and forth for a few seconds, smiling devilishly. ‘Cmon, you wanna do this or not? You won’t be missing anything on this piece of junk, anyway.’

Alastor purses his lips, resigning to place his hands on the wheel. After a few moments, staring at the road ahead of the two, still pulled to the side, Alastor sighs. ‘Okay. Chuck it.’

‘Attaboy.’ Vox pushes open his door just as the car begins moving, and he throws the thing into the darkness. It lands somewhere atop grass and grime, forgotten to the abyss as Alastor pulls back onto the road. ‘I’ll give you directions as you go. But for now, my deer, we’re only moving forward.’

Alastor inhales deeply, keeping his eyes locked on the road, trying to ignore the whirlwind of emotions in his head. This can only go good. Vox promised to leave him after one night. Sure, Alastor’s never done this before, but he’s willing. Might even spur Vox onto getting it done quicker.

And if he needs therapy, well, he’s got himself, afterall.

Win-win.

**

A ruffling of clothes. They’re tossed aside to unsweeped wooden floors, as the bed creaks, weight settled atop it, demure in its embrace. A huff echoes through the room.

‘Give me a sec. I’ll grab some drinks.’

Perhaps it’s needed, for tonight. It’s a bad idea, having sex inebriated, but enduring this sober cannot be a fathomable thought. Not in this timeline. So he waits. He waits, cold and shivering, sat underneath some cheap blanket, breathing in the musk and sweat of an uncared for home. He’s not sure what else he expected.

‘Back. Made you a special; I call it the Love Potion.’

‘..Thanks.’

‘Wanna toast to it before we begin?’

‘It?’

‘Us finally intertwining, you know? It’s been months, and it’s finally come to this climax. Deserves at least a clink of glasses, yeah?’

‘I don’t… see why not.’

A solid, blank clink of glasses. There is no celebration behind it. Any passion for it is one-sided. There’s a small murmur of the drink being to us, before bottoms are raised and glasses are empty. It’s strong. Really strong. The bed creaks as weight shifts, advancing further and further up the bed, body suffocating body. Someone whines. He’s not sure who it came from.

‘Wha’s….’ His words are slurred.

His tongue feels heavy, and the world begins spinning. He’s dizzy, and something was put in his drink, he knows it, but he cannot form the words to accuse anyone of anything. All he can do is lay in his spot. Take in sensations, how the sheets feel too rough on his back, his behind.

How the air is too cold but too stuffy, how multiple figures sway above him, smiling down at him. It’s hot. He feels hot. Everything burns, all the nerves across his body wash over with magma, molten lava. And he can’t stop the whine that escapes his throat.

‘Do you want this?’

The voice sounds far away. Very, very far away. He doesn’t reply, deigning to squeeze his eyes shut and grit his teeth, the back of his head digging into the sheets. It feels so hot. And the hands, the hands trailing all over his body, they feel like ice. Makes everything beneath his skin— Whatever is going on down there— feel so, so much more better.

‘Dear, do you want this?’

And there is only one word that escapes his wanton lips.

‘Please.’

Please stop the burning all over his skin. Please tell him what’s wrong with his body. Please cover him up. Please send him home. Please bring him familiarity. Please let him rest in Maman’s arms. There are so many things he could say please to, off the top of his spinning head, but his body only begs for one of these pleas.

He can tell, he can see the pleasure getting to his love’s head, one caress has him preening, twitching and shifting to get more of the touch.

Please touch me.

And who is Vox to deny his lover?

**

Sweaty skin sticks to his front. He feels hot all over, and the shuddering, shivering deer in front of him is no help. The deer is crying. He is weeping, shivering, afraid and alone, his blood mixing in with the perverted mix of sem*n and sweat pasting to both of their skins. It’s alright. It happens, he tells the deer, whispering into his sensitive ear, biting on the lobe. It’s okay to be scared. But I’m here, I’m here with you, and you needn’t be scared. We’re all done. Rest easy, my love.

But the deer persists, and his tears never cease.

Drawing his arm away from the other for a few moments, he reaches blindly for the final part of intertwinement, the item clacking lightly against the wood of his bedside table. The handle slips into his hand, smooth, rubber yet firm. Metal glints in the dim lighting, and he shivers.

It’s okay. We’re nearly done, He tells the other, pressing kisses and pecks along his sweaty back, his anxiety ridden posture.

His love cries. He cries, What did you do to me? What now? Please let me go. But Vox knows what he really wants. It’s blatant. Aftercare is always needed.

His lover winces when contact is made, slim, sharp metal against the soft flesh of the neck. He cries, but he does nothing more than whimper as it drags across his skin, his pretty, tan skin. Red metal leaks through, slipping past the blade. His love continues to cry and whimper, shaking and shivering oh-so-heart-breakingly.

But it’s nearly done, He tells him. We’re nearly done. Just relax.

He feels the tension leave his lover. The cries stop, choking on each other, on wet crimson. They recede like fading memories, a snuffed out flame, and the choking dissipates. More liquid joins the stained sheets below the two. Fingertips grow cold and warm breaths slow to a halt, the rise and fall of ribs easing. There he is, He whispers into his love’s ear, Relaxed, aren’t you?

Withdrawing the tool, he shuffles forward, pressing himself against the other. He wraps his arm around the man, dragging him closer, locking them in further. The blade is warm, it’s warm and wet, and he can’t help but resist his own shiver. It pulses out of his body, soiling and dampening the sheets beneath the two even further.

This is perfect. This is exactly what the Falsum would want. He feels tears slip down the creases of his eyes, because of pain, because of satisfaction, gratitude, he will never know. All he can do, is hug his love closer, even as the strength leaves his body, and shut his eyes. Forever fulfilled.

Humans are hideous.

But this one, resting, eternally asleep in Vox’s arms?

Worthy of a Renaissance Painting.

Chapter 6: Betrayal of Christ

Chapter Text

October Sixth, 2017

A phone goes to voicemail once again. A sigh rings through the air, defeated and melancholy, hand defeatedly slapping onto thigh. Where are you, Alastor? Where did you go? It’s been a week, since both you and that friend of yours left amidst the night. Your dear Maman misses you so, and there is only so many grey hairs she can get before she has a mop of it. None of your calls ever go through, your location seems to be in the middle of nowhere, from what your phone says, and your lovely boss says you haven’t been in for work. So where have you been?

Maman feels useless. She mopes all day and keeps on dialling that same digit, in hopes that one of them will get you to pick up. It never works, Alastor. You never pick up. And it breaks her heart, one crack at a time. Unfortunately for her, cracks spread like disease.

Your boss called, Alastor. Charlie. Well. She tried to. Rang your number on Friday, but stopped when your coworkers, Husk and Angel, told her you probably had a hangover. Alastor, she started laughing immediately. Isn’t it funny, how you can make someone laugh, even when you’re not there? Guess it’s a feeling you’ll have to grow used to, Alastor.

Vaggie tried again on Monday, mind you, Alastor. The second of October, four days after you dissolved into radio silence. A white noise that’s as loud as it is quiet. You still didn’t pick up, Alastor. Where were you? Where was your phone, Alastor? Everyone was worried about you, and no-one knew where you were. Are you satisfied, Alastor? Did you get what you wanted from this?

Today is the sixth. It’s been a little over a week since that night. The night you made that decision, that decision that catalysed your absence. Maman finally decided to relay your little sabbatical to the police, after days of moping in the darkness of your room (Her guest room, really. She wanted to remind herself of you, of the room you slept in the night you left her without a word). Made it into the news. Would you like to have a look, Alastor?

LOCAL THERAPIST GONE MISSING

Have you seen this man?

It’s a picture of you, Alastor. Smiling bright and wide, it’s your employee ID card, Alastor, that you always used to open your office door. Never mentioned it, not even in the privacy of your mind, because you thought it looked horrendous, your uncanny smile and informal gaze. Everyone else liked it.

Guess it doesn’t matter anymore. To you, or to them.

Last seen 10/28/2017, 3:25am, dressed in rumpled clubbing clothes, at his mother’s home. She reports that he was hungover if not tipsy, and was acting more jumpy than ever when he had come home. Tan skin, brown eyes, brown-black hair, plentiful moles, age 25, African-American origin. Faint cut across forehead, now healing.

If found, please contact nearest police station and ensure Alastor Beaudeux is in safe and mobile condition.

That’s it. That’s all your missing poster said the first week. The flyers were sent out and strung along everywhere in your local area. But you drove pretty far, the papers wouldn’t’ve infected your current apartment of residence. Do you regret it, Alastor? Taking that drive, following his directions like a dog learning new tricks, despite all you knew? Despite how dumb of a decision it was?

Are you proud of yourself, Alastor?

**

October 27th, 2017.

So nothing turned up.

Well, that’s actually a slight lie. A few people did step forward. Random Johns and Janes who say they had seen you in the club, awkward, sitting at the bar alone. Someone even said you looked anxious, eyes skimming the club like that. Guess you were just looking for your next old guy to hit on, huh? Hahah.

…Hm.

You’re not much of a talker anymore, Alastor. What happened to your charm?

Well anyways. Your Maman was thankful they had stepped forward, thanked them greatly. Same day she went in to give her statement to the police. She told them what had happened, how you, Alastor, had acted with him in your Maman’s home, and she wept. She cried, and blubbered about how she was a fool, how she didn’t see it coming at all, how she was the monster who got her son taken.

But you weren’t taken, Alastor, you know that too well. Afterall, you went willingly. In fact, if anything, Vox was the one taken; You were driving, you could have turned around at any point to return. But you didn’t, and instead, you broke down in front of your metaphorical sniper scope, your tears framing the outline for a perfect shot.

It’s easy to blame you, it really is. You didn’t do much to stop what was happening. Though, who could blame you? People know people who know victims that have done the same thing. The only difference between them and you, is that they had lived. Shame it can’t be said for you, too.

You came up in the news again. Made it onto the headlines this time.

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

They tried personalising it. The headline went from “this man” to “me”. Did you notice that? Oh wait. You couldn’t’ve.

It has now been nearly an entire month since Alastor Beaudeux had gone missing in the middle of the night from his mother’s home. Witnesses and reports claim they had seen Alastor at a new queer club in downtown California, drinking at the bar. Many CCTV and witnesses report seeing Beaudeux announcing his leave to coworkers Anthony Letteralmente Solo Ragnoand and Husk Katze before exiting the building in accompaniment of Valentino Puta Polilla and Velvette Mada getting into their vehicle before driving off.

Reporters garnered an interview with both Puta Polilla and Mada.

“So, you said you met him at the bar?”

“That’s right,” spoke Polilla, “We met him lounging at the counter, and we bonded, so me and Velv decided to drop him to his mom’s house.”

“True,” chirped Mada. “His car got towed, ha. Al if you’re seeing or reading this, sorry dude. Said it didn’t apply on Thursdays, but I guess it did.”

“And did Alastor seem off that day about anything?”

“Other than having a couple drinks,” Polilla said, “Nah. Acted pretty normal, but then again, it was our first time meeting him.”

The search for Beaudeux is persisting. If found, please contact your nearest police station for guidance.

To be honest, going missing for nearly an entire month and getting only that for your report? A little bit sad. You’re just another headline for that news agency, another interview for the police or reporters. You ever think about it like that, Alastor? That logic could be applied to you.

People could be going through the worst event in their lives; Divorces, death, sexual assault. But to the police, it’s just another case. To lawyers, another debate. To therapists, another client. It would be unfair to say you have no humanity because of your indifference, Alastor; If you had been half as empathetic as your average guy, strangely, it wouldn’t be difficult to believe how small the medical or law field would be.

No-one can blame you for doing what you had to do.

In a way, that logic could be applied to Vox.

**

November seventh, 2017.

Thanksgiving month. What are you grateful for, Alastor? Are you grateful the nightmare is over? Are you grateful that Vox will never disturb anyone ever again? Are you grateful where you are, floating or burning or celebrating in whatever ethereal you were sent to? But “burning” would be a bit harsh— As far as saints go, you’re practically lounging on a seat next to God himself, so.

It’s such a shame that people like you have been subjected to the worst deaths. Bad things happen to good people. Is that saying a way of telling people you need to be an ass to get through life? It’s not a very good one.

Speaking of good people and bad things. Maman’s getting worse. Your bosses shut the institute down for the time being. So not only are you affecting your close ones, you’re affecting the people who simply happen to be collateral. Was your decision really the right one?

Eh. Too late to mourn now. You made headlines once more, after drowning in other news.

NEW LEAD FOUND ON BEAUDEUX DISAPPEARANCE

On the 28th of October earlier this year, local Louisiana therapist Alastor Beaudeux had mysteriously gone missing in the early hours of the morning. His car was left downtown, over a half hour’s drive from his mother’s home— where he resided last according to reports—, his phone had gone offline along the local motorway, and no-one had seen him leave.

Upon tough and extensive search, detectives have found Beaudeux’s phone. It was tossed out the window, presumably of a slow moving car, a lazy chuck. Yet nothing was wiped off the phone; It was simply thrown outside the window. This may suggest a struggle.

Last use of the phone documents 4.15am the morning of his disappearance. Beaudeux had opened his GPS device, but did not input any address. He opened the app, and left it open as it was chucked outside the window, on the passenger side.

New CCTV footage resurfaced across the local area of California, catching a car moving out of the suburb at the time of Beaudeux’s disappearance. He was caught being in the passenger seat, with another man, unidentified. The car, a Green Honda, was found to be owned by one Vox Bookers, a patient Beaudeux had catered to. Interviews with his coworkers teach the public that Bookers had been possessive and borderline dangerous when in conversation with or of Beaudeux.

Search parties have been distributed across the route his phone was founded in.

The search for Beaudeux and Bookers continues. If found, please contact your local police station for guidance.

Well. At least you’re not the only one in the spotlight anymore. We all know, Alastor, how you like to drink up the attention.

Your poor mother, at this point, she was a mess, Alastor. Not even her girlfriends at the daycare or soup kitchen could rectify it. Even dear old dad was seen approaching her home, sitting with her in silence, a heavy weight in the air that seemed to be more dense than any fight they’ve ever had.

Your coworkers, any and all of them, they all aren’t doing much better. Angel and Husk blame themselves for taking you. Charlie for letting you work all that overtime. Vaggie for not firing you on the spot the moment Vox had first laid hands on you. Niffty misses you, too, Alastor. Who knows how long until she relapses into what she was. Rosie’s eyeing her husband up nicely. Where are you during all of this, to lend a hand?

You’re slacking on the job, ey? Ha! Who could blame you? You needed a rest didn’t you, Alastor.

An eternal one, by the looks of it.

**

November 23rd, 2017.

A month until Christmas, and you’re still not home. Who will help Maman stick the Christmas star upon her dying tree? Send her gifts and love and cook with her in the kitchen, drunk on eggnog, however it’s possible. Alastor, this isn’t very becoming of you.

To be honest, it doesn’t look like you’ll have to be worrying about Christmas, Alastor. Maman hasn’t even touched the box up in the attic, it’s been collecting dust since you had taken the decorations down February this year. Do you remember that? Or is your mind decaying already? In all fairness it has been nearly two months, going on three when it’s Christmas. Maybe the cold is preserving your corpses, fusing them together like truly intertwined beings.

What a repulsive thought.

You went with Vox thinking you could dress yourself in the afterglow of assault and morning sun. You stripped yourself in front of him under the presumption that you were doing this for a better future that you were forbidden from having. You drank the offered alcohol, head held high with the belief that it would make you forget everything. But it didn’t. Made it worse. You laid in his bed thinking you’d forget the feeling of rough bedsheets and gross quilts with years of treatment and therapy.

He didn’t even do you the mercy of pulling out, no. That, perhaps, is the worst aspect of it all. He kept the two of you locked together, but why? Was it so, when someone found you— Should they ever— Your death looked willing? Was it so, when people smelled your corpse through thin walls or open windows, or maybe leaking through the carpeted floor like diseases, they would think you and him were some perverts with a knack for pain? In the midst of a scene gone too far?

You’ll never know why he didn’t pull out. You never will. Not even if you somehow lived, in the end, he’s still dead, Alastor. The notion that he’s passed doesn’t make you feel better, does it?

That morning, when the sun began to rise, you cried, Alastor. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and the world seemed too hot as sweaty skin clung to yours. You felt the blade, Alastor, didn’t you? You felt its cold sliver pressing into your neck, and you cried. He tried to assure you, Alastor, but did you hear it? Too lost in your own manic, adrenaline-crazed hysteria, to hear him at all?

Blood spilt from your airway, and you choked.

Red dripped from your mouth, and you could no longer cry. He took even that from you, Alastor. But you didn’t seem to care at the time. There was an odd sense of relief, wasn’t there, for you? You felt your soul, in fragments, dripping out your neck, pumping along with what blood it could, and all you could think was, it’s over.

Your chest stopped working as hard as it was. Your tears ran dry and only really watered down the blood and sweat on your face. Your eyelids grew heavy, and your body felt cold, as if it wasn’t your own. Is that right, Alastor?

In those few seconds of flickering life, you felt… everything. Grief, joy, pain, pleasure, warmth, coldness, love. Your experiences, traumas, memories and thoughts, they all rushed in front of your eyes like a slideshow, your brain scouring desperately for a way out of your predicament. But you knew. Your body knew. It was your time to go, and if it wasn’t the way you wanted, well. Death holds no bias.

But life. Life is different, Alastor. Life hasn’t been fair to you, Alastor. Not at all.

You didn’t get to say last words, send last messages. You didn’t get to choose what to dedicate to whom. You didn’t get to choose how you died, or even how you looked in this death. You didn’t get to tell Maman you loved her more than anything, your coworkers that maybe they were more than just peers, your new friends that you loved your companionship. You didn’t get to hear their voices once more, no. The last thing they all said to you, they said with the inference that they’d see you again.

Angel’s words echo to you.

‘Stay safe getting home, and don’t make any dumb decisions.’

Was this a dumb decision, Alastor? The nightmare is over. Vox is gone. But you’ve lost it all. Dared to face humanity’s ideologies, see which is real, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, reincarnation, or simply nothing. What is a dumb decision?

Suppose you could start with this question; Do you regret the choice? That’s key to determining dumb and smart. Do you regret it?

A new headline arrived for you today.

BEAUDEUX MISSING PERSONS CASE RESOLVED

In an unfortunate turn of events, police had located the bodies of Alastor Beaudeux and Vox Bookers. Found 60 miles from his mother’s home, Alastor Beaudeux was found in the apartment of Vox Bookers, lying together in bed. Residents of the building had complained of the smell originating from Bookers’ room, which resulted in the landlord investigating and coming upon the unfortunate sight. Reports and forensics deduce that both Bookers and Beaudeux had died the night of their disappearances. No parting message was found.

Many speculate this to be elopement, Bookers and Beaudeux fleeing from their respective homes to meet in private, and embrace each other once and forever. Others speculate assault, Alastor having been driving the car. Whatever the case, the motive of this tryst remains unknown, and perhaps forever will be unknown.

Ms Beaudeux is taking no questions.

No-one at Hazbin Help Institute is taking questions.

Polilla and Meda are not taking questions.

We offer deepest condolences to both the Beaudeux and Bookers’ family.

If you need someone to talk to, feel free to call the National USA Helpline, at 988lifeline.org.

One thing about death that is never pleasant; You never get to mold how you’re seen on your way out.

So, allow me to ask again.

Was it worth it, my deer?