Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The interior of Vincent’s Buick was clean, on most days. Today it irked him, the slight creak of leather as his suitcase moved around on the backseat had grated his nerves the entire drive, and had the audacity to fall against his chair as he parked, essentially making him fall forward against his steering wheel. Nervousness is not an emotion Vincent feels, he is put together, he is a news anchor for goodness’ sake. And yet, standing here in front of his new house, he could not shake the feeling that this was going to give him more than a few headaches. He was not the roommate kind of man, and yet, here he was, having spent the cost of his last, more lavish house, on an investment in his career. A few minutes passed in the car, staring at the little rock road parting the grass to the little up-step to the small house in Tréme before he collected himself, heavy sigh in the air, and stepped out the Super Riviera. He walked around to the back door, pulling it open and retrieving his suitcase from the back bench, closing the door in one controlled movement. The last nervous tick he permitted himself was a small tie adjustment, before he walked in long, confident strides to the front door, looking at the shiny new key in his hand, and unlocking it. Here goes nothing.The door opened with a creak, age crying out against the abuse of being pushed. That will need to be oiled, he though to himself. He let himself in and put his suitcase against the wall of the closet entryway, making his way to the living area. The place was not too bad, though a bit effeminate for his tastes. The walls were a pale yellow color, adorned with flowery curtains over the windows. The couch was blue, and modern. Far more to Vincent’s tastes, sat across a small coffee table that held an empty but used coffee mug. That would not do, his housemate would have to be tidy if this was going to work out. The corner of the room held a box television, much to Vincent’s amusement. Not so much to it, he noticed it was not even plugged into the wall. A small groan slipped past before he heard a soft humming from the kitchen. At least, he thought that was where the kitchen was, based on the layout pamphlet the previous owner had given him. “Hello?” Vincent spoke, walking over to the kitchen where an old radio was propped on a counter, playing a jazz song he did not recognize, and at the stove was a man. His housemate, curly hair that was groomed into defined coils, falling at most to his mid neck. His skin was burnished, a caramel brown.Vincent noted that business meetings would not take place here, this part of town already had a reputation with folks of darker complexion. He could not let anything get in the way of his work, especially not a temporary acquaintance. The man turned around, leaving his knife on a cutting board on the counter next to the stove. He had glasses, but not like Vincent’s. The old fashioned kind with frivolous beads dangling off the side. The man was handsome, a smile etched in his face, though his eyes wore an expression of shock. He must know who Vincent is, he supposed. Who didn’t? He was the state’s sweetheart, it’s golden boy. Everyone knew Vincent Whittman, the handsome lad on the morning news. Beloved by all, and known by many m-“Good afternoon, sir. Are you my new housemate? My name is Hartfelt, you?”The world slowed a second. Who? Who was Vincent Whittman? “Uh,” He stuttered, hardly able to comprehend that this man did not know him.“Yes, that would be me.” He extended his hand, which Mr. Hartfelt shook, before subtly dusting his hand back off on his apron. Subtle, but Vincent noticed.“Whittman. But I suppose you can call me by Vincent, if we’re going to be living here together.”He put on his most charming smile. “Hm.” Was all Mr. Hartfelt said. A mere acknowledging hum. That little- Just who did he think he was to treat The Vincent Whittman with such little respect.
The man turned back around, humming another line of the song as he removed his pan from the furnace, placing it to the side and washing his hands. “Vincent,” He spoke, and it was only then that Vincent realized he had zoned out staring at the other mans waist. Vincent was not a poof, by any means. The very idea was laughable. But even more ridiculous was that such a thin waist was even possible on anything but a grown woman.He lifted his gaze, smiling down at the smaller, unimpressed man.
“I should think you would like to see your room?” He said, leaning a hip against the counter.
“Ah, yes. I would like to get settled in.” Vincent replied, looking at the hall across with the two doors. One room was bigger on the layout, he should like that one.
Mr. Hartfelt pointed at the door to the back end of the house, before returning to his meal.
“That room is ready for your stay, make yourself at home whenever you have rid yourself of your shoes.”
Wait, why did this guy get the bigger room? Vincent worked plenty, he should have it. He stood unmoving, letting the situation settle in his brain.
“Were you expecting to get the bigger room Vincent?” Came that sing song voice, shattering the thought Vincent found himself stuck in. What the fuck?
“Hm. Well, my dear, life is for the fast. I arrived here yesterday, so I have settled in quite nicely. I’m sure you’ll survive! We are not teenagers anymore, yes Vincent?”Vincent took a deep breath in, he was going to have to have more than headaches if he had to survive here without being plagued by visions of strangling this Mr. Hartfelt to death.
He forced his feet to walk without acknowledging the other man again, returning to the entryway, removing his shoes with a tad more aggression than strictly necessary, and grabbed his case.
This was going to be hell.He dragged his case to the empty, now his, room, and entered. He slammed the door only slightly harder, to make his displeasure known without being able to be accused of childishness. The room was not too bad, but on principle alone, he found himself snarling.The bed was double, made up neatly, placed in the very corner of the room next to the windows that connected on both sides of that corners walls. Off to the right of the bed stood a desk, with an office chair that looked like the next seating would be its last, and a small bin under the desk. The rest of the room held only a standard painting, that Vincent would change with one more to his tastes, a dressoire for his attire, and a full body mirror in the corner next to it. He could work with this, he supposed.He pulled his suitcase next to the bed, then threw it up and on it, so he could sort sitting. It was only high noon but simply talking to that short personification of arrogance had drained him of whatever was left in his repertoire. The suitcase clicked open and landed on the bed, open, in a soft bounce. Vincent started with his important files, grabbing the folder he kept them in and walking over to the desk, pulling open the drawer on the top side of it; leaving that there, before adjusting it so it was pressed neatly against the corner edges. Perfect.Next was his preferred stash of pens and pencils, which found their way to the desk as well. His clothes, folded neatly already, went into the dresser quickly. It had almost enough drawers for all his items, but it seems his ties would have to be stored elsewhere. Great. He bet Mr. Hartfelt’s room had a bigger dresser. The asshole.His barbiturates went into the night drawer, together with more personal items like wrappers, and a comb. His hair was very important.Vincent left his ropes and heavy-duty cleaning supplies in the hidden compartment of his case. Lastly he placed his childhood aquamarine picture book on his bedside table, grabbed his toiletries and closed his case, sliding it neatly under the bed. The room had carpet, he would have to make sure that he never got blood on it. After collecting some house clothes, he exited his room and went for the bathroom, trying not to linger on how good whatever that dickhead had cooked smelled from further in the house. ***A shower was just what he needed after an exhausting day working, unpacking, and stewing over his new.. companion. The towels were soft on his hair too, so he felt twice as light after. Brushing his teeth and cleaning his glasses, he slipped into his casual lounge wear of a plain white wife beater and some beige sport slacks. One more deep breath and he made his way back into the lions den, striding to the living area and plopping himself on the floral recliner off to the side, not wanting to be too close to his cross legged new nuisance on the love seat. “Evening, Vincent, dear.” The man across the coffee table said, still grinning like something was funny that Vincent was not privy to, sipping a steaming coffee.
“..Good evening.” He grumbled back, suddenly envious of not having his very own coffee.
“You never gave me your first name, Mr. Hartfelt.” He said, being irritated by his own name’s syllables being molded by the tongue of a virtual strangers.
“Well, you did not ask it.”
“I am now.”
“Are you?” The man purred, leaning his elbow on the arm rest and leaving his chin in the palm of his hand. Vincent was going to commit murder before the week was over.
He inhaled, trying to steady his composure.
“What is your given name, mysterious Mr. Hartfelt?” He spoke with bite.
The opposing man hummed in pleasure. “Alastor.”
“Alastor,” Vincent parroted, tasting it’s edges on his tongue.
“Tell me about yourself. How did you end up needing a housemate?”
Alastor took another sip of his coffee, making a contented noise. Vincent noted that as irritating as this man was, he had a rather pleasant voice. He could swear it was familiar, but he could not place it.
“Needing is a specific term, darling. It was convenient.”
“What?”
All he got in response was another hum. Was he going to curve around every conversation? Vincent could not stand this man. “Well, I think I might go and smoke a cigarette.” The darker man said, elegantly lifting his leg back from the other, and standing. As he left, he placed a hand on Vincent’s shoulder, leaving a warm imprint from the skin to skin contact, abandoning with it an involuntary shiver. Vincent decided that the feeling was disgust. The air behind lingered with a specific scent. Mysterious, and warm, but with the comment about smoke, he could at least place one part of the smell down in his head. He needed to stop thinking about this man, or he would not sleep. He reached for the remote to the television, pressing on a few times, each time a tad harder. He mumbled a cuss word in confusion before his eyes landed back on the very empty outlet. Ah. Right. Lifting himself up and squatting next to the small table, he ran a hand through his damp hair, before connecting the cable to the socket.

After returning, once again, to the recliner but this time with no reason to sit alone, he turned the box back on, it springing to life on a channel airing “I love Lucy”. He wasn’t particularly a fan, but it was nice to just stare at something until his brain filtered his own thoughts out. This would be fine.

Vincent’s mind refused to fully shut off however, he was home, yes, but home was still some strange building he first entered a few hours prior. And some female-oriented television show was just not distracting him as much as he had hoped. There are many a ways a man can deal with stress, but the most prominent one is out of the question considering all that separated his room from another man’s is one cardboard thin wall. There was also no way he would stoop to cocaine on the first day, either. Especially not around a nuisance of a man. He groaned sightly, dragging his hands over his face under his glasses, sinking somewhat deeper into the couch.

“Is the show truly that bad?” Came that honey-dipped voice again.Great! No, he thought, it is your presence that is bad! Utterly!Of course he couldn’t say that, though brief visions of berating the man plagued him. Not helpful at all.“Just not my personal favorite.” He sighed out, straightening up like he was being preyed upon. “Mostly I am quite tired.” Vincent spoke as a half truth half excuse to leave the room, or well, Mr. Hartfelt, behind. He lifted himself up off the couch, ignoring the agitating groan the piece of furniture makes in complaint to being abused. By being used for it’s intended purpose. Also great, truly. “Good night, Mr. Hartfelt.” He offered a final smile before dragging himself up, past the kitchen despite all urges, to his door.
“Until tomorrow, Vincent!”
And Vincent was sure that that sing song voice would haunt his nightmares for the foreseeable future.

***The morning came with ruthless noise of common birds that decided the tree’s were below them, and the roof gutter was more suited to their high and mighty asses. In his hurry to be anything but awake he left his curtains ajar, so his face was molested by the sun. He could only hope that he didn’t sunburn through the window’s magnifying quality.
Vincent tried to groan, but all that came out was a strangled sigh as he rubbed his eyes and slapped around his nightstand with the other hand. Where is.. Ah. There. He lazily put his glasses over his eyes, making the world sharper, and the light seem even harsher. After a disgruntled scratch over his chest, he rose up from the bed, head snapping up to the clock above the door. Six-thirty. plenty of time to get ready for work, which he was looking forward to. At least he told himself he was. His usual routine was soothing, though a bit odd going through the new house. Underwear, socks, shirt, suit and most favorably, choosing a tie. But then mild annoyance flashed as he remembered they didn’t have a proper place yet. He would have to buy a mini cabinet. After some deliberation he chose a deep navy one, and snapped a pin with a anchor on it around it’s mid point. Proceeding to the bathroom he freshened up, brushed the pearly whites, slicked his hair the way he preferred, slightly fluffy on one side and backward on the lesser side of his side part. Perfect. He exited to grab some toast and a coffee before leaving but was struck with a dress? No, a bathrobe, and tan ankles. Right.“Good morning Vincent. Coffee?” Mr. Hartfelt asked, voice somewhat softer due to the hour perhaps, but no less laced with bad intent. Vincent rounded the corner fully, stood in his tracks a second or two at the sight. The man in front of him was leaning elbow first on the counter, wielding a cup steaming warm in the other hand. Wearing a maroon bathrobe that was left slightly falling open at the top, hair still wavy and unstyled. He looked.. Unnatural. Such a sharp tongue on such a lax demeanor seemed wrong. It made Vincent’s stomach tighten. He didn’t like it, he deduced.
“Uhm, yeah. Please.” He mummed, eager to leave as his stomach twists further.
“And how do you take it?”
“What?” Vincent staggered, taken aback.
“Your coffee, Vince. How do you take your coffee?” He was so embarrassed he completely skimmed over the sudden nickname. Straightening his posture slightly.
“Ah, yes! Two cubes of sugar please.” Please? Since when did he know that word?
The man hummed in delight, revealing a second cup from behind his elbow, slightly tip toeing up to the cabinet to grab the sugars, dropping them in gently. “Sweet tooth, huh? So serious in your suit and yet can’t resist to small pleasures.”What the fuck was he even supposed to say to that?
“Uh? I suppose?” He somewhat muttered, half stunned. The hell does this guy mean?
Mr. Hartfelt made a pleased humming sound, handing the mug over to Vincent. He took it with carefulness that has no business being outed to a mug of hot beans, alas he did not trust a thing this man did. He could tell Vincent the sky was blue and he would have to go and see for himself, just to be certain.
“It is lovely weather today. Would be perfect for a walk, if you had no other engagements.” The lax man spoke while gesturing lazily over Vincent’s attire. Lovely weather he said.. It must be. Wait, is it? Jesus, Vincent, it’s not like it matters.
“Ha, yeah. I don’t quite mind work actually.” He smiled, more to himself than the other man, taking a long sip of his coffee. He found himself leaning against the opposite counter, easing into the conversation, but his thoughts kept dragging himself back to one lingering question.
“Mr. Hartfelt?”
“Mmm?” He replied with that usual grace.
“Please do tell me your name. Your given one, referring to you as the latter feels a tad formal for people living together.” He reasoned.
“Mm. Please is a pretty word on your tongue Vincent.” The man smiled, taking a last long sip and placing his mug in the sink. Vincent’s gaze lingered on the small of his back as he turned. Just a second. Millisecond really. Nothing to think about.
“Alastor.”Vincent wasn’t sure what he expected. It was definitely special, not something you hear often, or well at all. He decided he wanted to taste it for himself.
“Alastor,” Vincent parroted. “Good to properly make your acquaintance, Alastor.” Vincent
“Ha!” Alastor placed a hand on his hip, jutting it out slightly. Vincent swallowed, he hated that he noticed. What the hell?
“Proper acquaintance as if you’re not talking to me half naked.” Alastor mused. Vincent nearly choked on his coffee, his face dusting a red shade. He looked at the ceiling a moment like God himself could excuse him for hearing such filth.

“Uhm, that’s- That is rather perverse?” He laughed uncomfortably. “Do you always have to make it so dramatic sounding?” Vincent rubbed his mouth with his sleeve like his coffee was somehow contaminated by sodomite thoughts. Alastor smiled wider like he just completed all his days tasks. “Darling, what is the point if you can’t add a little theathrical flair to life? With no zest all is gray and dull.” He pulled up his sleeves, plucking the mug out of Vincent’s clammy hands. Did he always sweat so easy? After Alastor put the twin mug in the sink, he rolled up the robes sleeves and adjusted to tap water to a pleasant warm, Vincent deduced by watching the water turn from a cold clear to a foggier, more white tinted warm. Calcium. That’s what you get for living in the trenches of New Orleans. Alastor washed the mugs with quick hands. His fingers were long, slender. Connected to bony delicate hands and, this house had the devil in it. He must be right, time for a walk before work. Or, something. “I should, uh, be going now. Best to be early at work and all.” Vincent starts dragging his heavy feet to his shoes in the hall. He managed to make out a small amused “If you say so!” from the kitchen. Enough of that. He shoves his feet right into the tight soles and is out the door, keys in hand.

The walk to his car was refreshing, each step a weight lifts off his shoulders. And the inside of his car felt more like home than this house. Sweet leather, he was sorry he complained about it the day prior. He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter than strictly necessary, earning a squeak from the bothered leather. A sigh he didn’t even know he was holding escapes him, God, he really could not wait to be at work. Soak up the attention. Slip in a little flirt with the honey at the front desk. This house was making him stressed and he could not place what it was, other than the personified mosquito buzzing around his ear, bugging him with obvious taunts to get a reaction. Just who the hell was this guy anyway.

The drive to work was somewhat new for the first half, but once it became auto pilot he found himself relaxing, and by the time he parked and made his way inside the large complex he was a new man. One confident stride after the other, before placing a domineering hand on the front desk, earning a shocked jolt from the lady sitting on it. She batted her lashed before looking up, recognizing Vincent and leaning forward on the desk. Vincent could not complain about the view right down her cleavage. The advantage of height was always a plus.
“Good morning as always sweetheart. Mind clocking me in?” Vincent leans into his palm, looking down at her with a smirk.
“Anytime, Mr. Whittman! I hope you had a good travel!” She stumbles over herself, writing down his time of arrival. Vincent snaps his fingers and points one at her lazily. He took a quick glance at her name card. Too many of these to remember.
“That’s exactly why when I become the boss you’ll have the raise to personal secretary, Miss Elle. Always such a joy.” He smiled down, tucking a small escaped piece of her hair behind her ear. Not lingering a second longer. She flushed bright red, touching her ear like God just blessed her there.
“I sure do hope for the day, Mr. Whittman..” She looked up at him, stars hung, blah blah. God he could do this all day. He gave her a small hum before pulling himself straight and heading towards the elevator, tapping his foot to the jazzy little hit playing in the echo of the metal chamber. Upon reaching his floor he heads straight to his makeup room, flashing a smile at anyone he passes, nodding at some higher ups and winking at a cute lady or two. Maybe three. You never know for what event you’ll need an arm piece. All chess pieces on Vincent’s side of the board are better, the broader his arsenal the easier life gets.

The door with his name in shiny gold opens to the smell of hairspray and a lady, afro styled in a Monroe-esque style through perilous shaping and picking he guessed, seated comfortably on his seat.
“You’re early, shithead.” She spoke, mid painting her nails. How he confused the smell of hairspray and nail polish is beyond him.
“Good morning to you too, Velvette. Got my schedual?” He said, closing the door and striding over, leaning against the vanity. She nods her head to the stack of paper behind him. “Gotta get you ready for the news segment by eight thirty, and at eleven you gotta sit with the talk show host. The people wanna see more of you for some godforsaken reason.” She waved her hand around to speed up the drying process.
“Thanks babe. Now scoot, time for you to work your magic.”
“I do love when you acknowledge my many talents, V.” He swats her off the chair, but doesn’t try to hide the genuine smile, letting out a small chuckle as he finally takes his seat. Crossing one ankle over the other knee, he grabs the script for the news segment. The usual nonsense. Discounts, movie stars, the famous and their rumors, murders. Some his, others not. He tries to seem equally dismissive about all cases, but pride swells whenever he thinks about how his are classified missing person cases while some other sloppy fools have murders. Amateurs. This chair has suited him far better than that last ginger prick anyway.

“Nothing too out of the ordinary.” He says, enjoying the fingers shaping his hair. He heard Velvette sigh somewhere behind him, probably flashing that signature eyeroll of hers.
“You’re so charming when you care deeply about the community murders.” She said, dripping in unobscured sarcasm. He laughed a little, rereading his lines before looking at the descriptors of one case. Interesting. Cannibalistic crime scenes seem to be popping up here and there as of late. No matter. Velvette leans her palms on his shoulders, looking in the mirror to judge her work. “How is that new housin’ situation going for you anyways? Got a pretty little thing living with ya?” She said half minded, adjusting some wisps of hair and setting them with spray. He could practically feel himself stiffen. He groaned, wiping a hand over his brow bone, before Velvette swatted it away, scolding him about her work.
“My flatmate is a flamboyant, and pestering little man. I don’t know how I will survive, truly Vel..” He complained, pouting somewhat at himself in the mirror.
“And does this menace have a name or are you living with a mirror?”
“His name i- Hey what the fuck?” He snapped his head at her, giving a glare, before settling back in the chair.
“His name is Alastor. Annoying little shit.” He crosses his arms, leaning back into the chair as if it could carry his agitation for him.
“Alastor,” She mimics, and Vincent finds he doesn’t like the sound of his name on someone elses tongue.
“Like the radio host from the west wing?” She inquired and a pin dropped.
“What?” He asked, getting a quiet fury pulsing through his veins.
“Yeah, Hartfelt right? He’s the main host for our radio only programs. Been workin’ here for a long while. Do you not take note of your own damn coworkers, fucking asshole?”
“That asshat pretended he didn’t know who I was!” He exclaimed, gripping the handles of the chair. That little- What was he playing at? Was this just to humiliate him?
Velvette laughed, having one knuckle on her hips, the other holding her stomach.
“Oh! Oh that’s great! Serves your ego right, oh how I wish I had seen it!” She continues laughing, even as she packs up her tools, reveling in his anger.
His face was on goddamn posters! In the entrance hallway, with his fucking name on them. Vincent Whittman, the golden boy of New Orleans! What the fuck is he playing at?
He took a deep breath, plastering his smile back on, and standing up.
“Well thank you for your useless work as usual Vel. I look just as good as before.” He said, offering a wave as he left, smiling at her small “Ha!” as he exited. The walk to the studio was short, or it seemed that way because all he was thinking about was strangling Alastor to death with the nearest telephone wire. Or bashing his head in with a microphone.
He sat himself down at his desk, adjusting his tie and neatly reorganizing the script to lay evenly. Staring head on at a camera, all spotlight on him, that is what he loved. That is what felt right. As the little guy, Ethan, or whatever his name was, drops the pages with the three, two, one, before being live on the air, Vincent comes alive. He could be seen.

***

After his late morning shift came to a close, he found himself in the side alley, smoking a cigarette, one hand in his pocket. The live audience at the talk show ate him up. They all loved him, and the thrill of active praise in the room buzzed under his skin. But he still couldn’t help but feel like it should be him that ran the show. The host, the main star. The man, Jeffrey or some generic name of the likes, was so below Vincent in everything that it was offensive. No razzle dazzle, not a single spark, honestly. And as if the day was made to test his patience, who other than Jeffrey Fuck All himself walks into the alley. The whole fucking reason Vincent smoked here was because no one ever came here. And the humanized version of nepotism stood in front of him, asking for a fag. Seriously?

Vincent puts away his cigarette case, keeping the one he had between his lips, huffing out the smoke as he spoke, listening for the queue. And there it was. Rats. Perfect.
“Jeffrey, my good man. I have shared the spotlight with you! That is more than enough, don’t you think?” He peeled his back off the wall, taking a step forward.
“Well, I followed you here actually because well, the people loved you! So I was wondering if you could be a co-host? If that’s amenable to you?” The guy had as much confidence as a rotten tomato. Soft and mold able. Putty in your hands. Yesterday’s leftovers. Co-hosting? Vincent didn’t share like that. Instead of him, it should be Vincent.

Vincent knew this alley like the back of his hand, having ran into an angry rat or two, and shocked himself on active but torn wires before. This was his alley, damnit, and he loved his privacy here, because while people smoke here occasionally, never when Vincent was here because smart people knew not to bother him. Vincent was fast as he could be, grabbing the middle of the hay wire, zapping Jeffrey right in the neck over the pulse point, sending him flying right against the dumpster, angering a good few rats by disturbing them during their dinner. Vincent remembers passing out the first time he got zapped by that wire. By now he’s relatively immune to shockwaves. With one smooth encouraging kick, Jeffrey falls in, and Vincent steps back just quick enough to avoid the splutter of blood. After another second or so he checked his work. Just as he remembered, this dump barely gets cleaned. And there lay Jeffrey, neck burnt from the zap, and the old candle holder spike is launched right up into his, well, what is left of his eye socket. Vincent winces. Not because of the crime scene, but because his brain played a trick on him and for just a small moment he saw Alastor there. His limp, lifeless body, covered in blood. Vincent felt his pants tighten slightly, and shit it hurt. It was the thrill of killing. The idea of getting caught, a normal reaction to adrenaline. He rubbed his eyes a moment, and looked back at the man in front of him, and the feeling of constricted pants dissipated again. Looks like it would’ve hurt. Damn shame. Maybe the electric shock still left him numb when the puncture happened, but if not then his last minute probably sucked.

A tragic accident. An unsafe wire left behind by incompetent cleaning and maintenance staff. Could have been anyone. Vincent dips the ash off his cigarette, but pockets the bud. No need to have anyone ask if he was there that day. His shift is over, for all anyone knows he went straight home like most days. The only difference is that today he was avoiding a certain curly head of hair. Vincent takes a good look around the alley, and it is still empty. Not another soul and yet, for some reason, he just can’t shake the feeling that he isn’t alone. He knows the feeling, the guilt of being young and knowing God is always watching. Doing foolish teenage habits, discovering what women felt like, and always feeling watched. It must be that, some old habits die hard. There was no Pastor of a dad around to judge him now. There was no way to cast hatred into life from below a thick layer of muck, roots and shrub. ***

Vincent’s keys jingled slightly as he turned them into the door, stepping on the small welcome mat inside, dropping his keys in the bowl on the nearby shelf, shrugging himself free of his coat. It had been about a week since his move now, and he was tiring a little of being interviewed about the sad, tragic loss of his costar Jeffrey. Poor little Jeffrey. They will forget him soon, the media is hungry and a corpse only provides news for so long. Especially a closed case, he’d just have to stay on track a little longer. After all, he was practically immediately offered Jeffrey’s old job since the audience meshed so well with him, and my did he enjoy the live attention. And now he was seen by even wider audiences, it was great. And so was the smell of beignets! What was less great is that that smell meant Alastor was home, too.

After relieving himself of his shoes, Vincent walked into the kitchen, grabbing a baked good off the little plate kept aside. It had become a little ritual, Vincent never ate well and, Alastor, ever perceptive always left a small portions aside without saying anything. At least, at the very least, he didn’t bother Vincent about his dietary issues.
“These are good. Where’d you learn to cook anyway?” Vincent popped another sweet treat in his mouth as he loosened his tie and left it to rest over his shoulders, popping open a button. Alastor seemed to always wear an apron when he was busying himself in the kitchen. It was frilly, looked rather ridiculous, though Vincent could assume there were few male centric kitchen supplies. Most men that had kitchens had wives along with them. The idea of Alastor as a housewife forced a small snort out of Vincent’s nose. That earned a turn and a lifted eyebrow from Alastor.
“Uh, the powder got in my nose.” He excused himself.
“Powder often finds itself in your nose, Vincent.” The man replied, dusting himself off on the front of his apron, before leaning his hip against the counter. Vincent had to catch up with his brain a moment. How did Alastor know about that? He had not used any this week, when did.. Did he find it while doing the laundry? They switched the laundry every other day, having split chores somewhat evenly. Before he could utter some kind of explanation, Alastor was already talking again.
“My mother taught me. She was a great cook, lovely baker too. I refuse to let her culinary genius die with her.” He crossed his arms, looking at Vincent over his oval glasses. Vincent wondered what he would look like without his glasses.

“Good man.” He said without thinking too much about it.
“The world would suffer without this kinda food in it.”
Alastor removed his apron, and fuck why was his waist so tiny? It really was nonsensical. Unfathomable. The way his red sweater vest cinched inward and pooled around his hips, and if it already looked near pornographic with a sweater, how small would it look without it? How much of his hands could Vincent wrap around it? Would his fingers touch? And before he went down a very odd path that should not be threaded by any respectable man, he spoke. Had to say something. Anything.
“Wanna watch some television?” He asked, gripping the counter behind him.
“Nope.” Alastor sing songed.
“Really? You work at a television company network and you refuse everytime to use the damn thing?” Vincent asked, truly confuffled. The man in front of him was a mystery through and through.

Alastor walked forward, leaning right up into Vincent’s space, tilting his head to the right slightly. Vincent leaned back further, caged in in his own damn kitchen. What the fuck? Again.
“Stalking me, are you Vince?” Alastor asked, cupping his hands into themselves behind his back.
“What? No! You’re from the radio department, no?” Vincent stammered.
“Not helping your case here, sweetness.”
“Velvette! From the cosmetology department. She’s my friend, told me who you were after asking about my housing situation. And stuff.”
“And stuff.” Alastor repeated, amused. He stepped back, seemingly satisfied with his momentary quota of making Vincent uncomfortable.
“I just don’t enjoy modern media.” He said, final.
“Really? I mean, it’s the future. Before long it’ll be all anyone uses, and radio will become barely a th-” Vincent stops in his tracks as Alastor raises a hand. He’s not actually certain why he shut up when told to.
“Desperation suits you, dear, but it’s not up for debate.” Alastor leans over him again, stealing his last beignet and licking the white powder off his lips and his index finger. Vincent fixates on the movement, forgetting how to breathe through his discomfort. Using his still powdered middle finger, Alastor flicks Vincent on the bottom end of the tip of his nose, rocking his glasses slightly, before moving back and away, grabbing his cigarette case. “Now you have powder on your nose, unlike before.” He waves his fingers dramatically before exiting the room. Vincent really did get unnecessarily high stress levels from this guy. He was glad he was out the room, but at the same time he felt very allured by the prospect of a cigarette. And before he knew it he was up on his feet and walking, up past the front door, to the little porch next to Alastor’s room and stepped out onto the makeshift patio. A small little area, surrounded by a truly useless fence, that would not keep any burglar worth his title out of the house. Alas, it is what they can afford.
“Have a spare cig?” Vincent inquired.
“For you? No.” Alastor grinned. After that he extended his own cigarette, offering it to Vincent. The thought staggered Vincent a minute, but God did he need the relief. He stared between Alastor and the cigarette like it was some evil scheme meant to ensnare him. Hesitation kept it’s claws in his thoughts, as he grabbed the bud while still eyeing as if it somehow was an undercover spy. Alastor chuckled, releasing it to Vincent’s grasp.
“What do you look so suspicious for?” He mused, leaning on his forearms against the railing, looking out at the darkening evening sky. The way the pink hues of a day well spent bleed into the spotted pit of Prussian blue, with the small hint of grey smoke still escaping between Alastor’s lips.
“Sharing a fag is a bit unusual, no?” He said, turning and leaning his back against the wood railing, looking at Al before placing the stick between his own lips. A bit less strong than his usual considering he prefers cigars most of all, but a vogue would do for now. He inhaled deeply, feeling the pleasant burn down his throat, before leaning his head back all the way before exhaling the smoke up into the night without removing the cig from his mouth. His eyes turned to the side, catching the gaze of Alastor, who was now leaning his head in his palm while looking at him.
“Enjoying my property, are we?” He smiled, leaning his head slightly more into his palm.
Vincent smiled, handing back the stick. He gave a slight “ehh” sound, before looking back up.
“Bit weak for my tastes.”
“It’s sophisticated!” Alastor protested. So he could get offended! Great to know.
“Mhm, for little princesses maybe.” Now Vincent was amused.
Alastor flicked him in the shoulder. “Hey!” He rubbed the abused spot, turning to lean on his side too.
“Hit a nerve, did I?” Vincent said, pouting slightly.
“We both did!” Alastor gestured to Vincent’s hand, still wielding his shoulder. Vincent could not help but chuckle, rubbing the spot before letting it go.
“You have a mean flick, i’ll tell you that.” Alastor smiled at him then, seemingly satisfied with his good abuse tactics. The night went on rather smoothly after that, and for just a moment Vincent forgot about his future plans to strangle this man to death.

***

The few days after that, Vincent settled into somewhat of a solid routine. Everyday the same thing. Wake up, shower, dress, drink coffee, try not to kill Alastor, work, write scripts, eat and sleep. Somewhat boring, however. And Vincent was getting a little over the lack of rising. He got used to his audience but with the upcoming movies, the color-film, everything, he wanted more. He needed more, and he goddamn deserved it. And besides all that, being unable to de-stress properly was also taking its toll on the man. He had to get away, for just a moment. And he had just the place to go. The night was young, it was a weekend, tomorrow was God’s designated rest day, and he wanted to get plastered. After the choice was made, he decided to pick the outfit. Formal, but not business. Respectable but alluring, and if he was lucky he might end the night in the bed of some willing lady. After deciding on just some high waisted slacks, a loose white button up and some suspenders, he knew he was ready to go. But just as he was out the door, came that stupid, awful, theatrical voice to annoy him some more.
“And, where are we off to at this hour Vince?”
God fucking damn it all. Burn Rome. Kill him now.
“To a gentleman’s club.” He said, huffing while shoving his second foot in his shoe.
“White’s only?”
“No.”
“Then i’m coming with you!”
Excuse you? Who was he to just decide to come with. What the everloving fuck, he was trying to escape this guy.
“If you’re going to go out someplace and wake me up at dawn by sneaking in, I might as well join you.” He stated like there was not a choice in the matter. Vincent wasn’t even planning to come home until late morning! He was going to- Well, mayhaps it was best he didn’t share that.
“Fine but don’t bug me all night on my day off.” He grumbled, waiting for an annoyingly pleased Alastor to shuffle his shoes on. So bothersome. Little shit.

Once they were out the door, sky littered with what stars were visible, which was most as the neighborhood of Tréme had little streetlights. All there was to these streets was thick, humid hot. A drunk singing a jazzy love song on a bench here and there, and the ambiance. And hell, the ambiance was lovely. Everything felt quite homely, which contrasted nicely to the hustle and bustle of the workplace and the busy streets. Vincent unlocked his vehicle, being mildly perturbed by the idea of another person besides himself in his beloved car. Without much thought, he opened the passenger door and walked to the door to the drivers seat, noticing Alastor trying to stifle a snort. Whatever. He was a proper man, even if Alastor wasn’t a lady.

After settling in the comfortable cushions of his car, he tuned the radio to some soft voiceless jazz song,he didn’t keep up with the names of all music and he had to focus on driving. In the other seat, Alastor sat with his legs crossed and hands folded neatly on his lap, taking in the interior. Vincent couldn’t fathom how it was possibly comfortable to sit with legs crossed. His balls would crush and wither, and the thought of it made a distasteful shiver run along his spine. Yuck. He started the car and pulled out onto the road, seeking a steady pace to drive at considering he wasn’t alone. Vincent preferred a faster pace, everything he did was at a quick pace. As long as he was capable of looking put together, he would do anything as quick as possible. There would be ascending the ladder by lounging around.

Most of the ride went by quietly, with some minor chatter here and there. The drive wasn’t long enough to get into the deep stuff, so the talk was strained to Alastor pointing out local Tréme shops and who owns them, going on a long, long rant about his dear friend Rosie or Rosette, whatever it was. Once Vincent parked his car in a more secluded, staff only spot, Alastor lifted an eyebrow at him. Vincent looked at him, clicking open the door.
“What? I know the owner.”
“Ah. So you do know how to make friends.”
Asshole.
“Of course I do, you’re just a pain in the ass.” Vincent snarled, leaving the car, not bothering to open Alastor’s door. The man stepped out himself, laughing a bit.
“Ever the charmer, Vince! I feel for the poor saps that are you friends.” Alastor stated while patting some dust off his pants, and the very suggestion his car interior was capable of being messy enough to propel dust was offensive to Vincent. He rolled his eyes, starting off towards the entrance of the club and upon being inside, he felt much more relieved. The smell of tobacco, alcohol, and the sweat of men getting a little to comfortable with the waitresses. It took maybe two entire seconds for the booming voice to fill his ears.
“Vincent! Yoohoo! You came back to me, oh I missed you mi tesoro!” Valentino strutted over, wearing his usual over the top outfits, some very long, slightly flared slacks, with.. Bedazzled gentleman shoes? Some such thing, and a scarcely buttoned up red shirt, covered mostly by a ridiculously large fur coat. Vincent did not want to know how many poor animals died just for Valentino to wear this around his club. The club itself was just as extravagant, being lined by walls and pillars of rich reds, purples with gold lining and accessories, and deep dark wooden floorboards. He remembered Valentino saying he could not have carpets because cleaning bodily fluid out of them would ruin his aesthetic, and hiring maids when there is no one to watch them up-skirt was a waste of good legs. The place had a sensual aroma to it, being filled with candles and incense that had a vague cinnamon smell to it, but then again, Vincent did not know what smell was what. Not his specialty. The room had a bar with a rather large dark toned man behind it, perhaps in his sixties, that looked like he would rather die than keep working. He could easily have been mistaken for a bouncer if he was not shaking a tumbler, and nodding along to the chit chatting of what Vincent assumed was a woman, but could not be sure, knowing what kind of establishment Valentino ran, with a long sparkly dress and a voluminous white wig. The tables held a litter of men, playing card games, drinking, and what-not. Some chatting up women, others had pretty things perched up on their leg and feigning innocence at the car games they’re playing, even though Vincent was willing to bet that Valentino’s ladies could win in cards against any one of these poor saps. And lastly, the stage had some darling short lady singing a song, her bob of tight, blonde curls bouncing around her head as she tapped her feet animatedly. It felt good to be somewhere lax.

Valentino gave him a tight, entirely unneeded hug, before wiping a hair or two off of Vincent’s forehead, much to his chagrin.
“You haven’t come to visit me in weeks, corazon.. Even Vel said you have been distracted at work. Do you not miss me? Oh!” Valentino turned his attention on the man he came with.
“And who is this pretty thing here? Voxxie, I can’t believe you finally decided to try out boys and didn’t tell me!” Valentino speaks, condescending as ever. Vincent feels his face heat up at the allegation.
“What? No, ew! I don’t- I love women, Val, the way men are supposed to. God. This is Alastor, my flatmate.” He argued, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. This is why he only ever came alone.
Valentino hummed, seemingly having lost interest at the lack of spectacle of it.
“Well babe, you know where to find me if you get bored.” Valentino purred.
“Though I doubt you’d tire of my girls, I pick them well.” and such, he was off with a finger wave.

“What a delightful man.” Alastor mutters, seemingly disturbed. All fair, really.
“He’s very.. Colorful. Known him since we were brats, but he didn’t improve over the years, I can tell you that.” Vincent tries to explain off, though he’s not sure why he cares what Alastor thinks. It didn’t even matter much, as Alastor was gone when he turned around. Vincent never even heard him walk off. After some scanning the room in utter confusion he saw Alastor chatting animatedly with the lady singing, before climbing right up on the stage with her. That was, certainly, an odd choice? The pair hugged tightly, it appears they know each other, then Alastor placed himself at the piano stool, and after saying some other thing to the singer, they start playing a song together. Well, that was unexpected. And he was good at piano, Vincent would give him that. Alastor started singing, and oh God, his voice was like honey. Vincent was stunned, then angry. Was this shithead good at everything? Unfair. He tried his best to ignore it and sought a table to place himself at.

It didn’t take long to find a table of agreeable men to play a few rounds of poker with. Even less long before some honey stood behind his chair, leaning her forearms on his shoulders and whispering praises in his ear as he played. Vincent was in his element, winning most of the rounds and drinking more than a friendly drink. The evening was going as he’d hoped. Vincent dipped his head back, whispering in the ear of the woman behind him to get a seat, while patting his thigh. She smirked, entirely unapologetic, and that’s how Vincent liked them. The ones who acted all innocent and childish were a major turn off. And so the evening got even better as plush ass sat comfortably on his leg, leaning both arms around his neck as he played, drinked and laughed. Valentino passed by a few times to share gossip, laugh, and complain about his hooker. The one Vincent thought was a woman, Angel, and how he spent too long at the bar and not enough time getting him money. Through the buzz of warm alcohol thrumming through his veins, the warmth on his lap and the high of winning games. The only thing ruining this lovely evening was his stupid inability to not look at what Alastor was doing. And the longer the hours went by, and the more drinks went past those blood red lips, the less composed he looked. Vincent saw him go from the bar, winning some bet against the bartender, to chatting with Valentino’s hooker, to chugging with the singer he learned was named Mimzy. At current he was watching the man dancing with a few buttons of his shirt open, revealing some slight fuzz on his chest, and a flush covering his face as he spins and turns with Mimzy. Vincent wishes he wasn’t here, as he pets his hand down the spine of the woman he’s with.

Tender fingers brush his jaw, as a voice whispers to him,
“You look bored, sir. Shall we go to one of the rooms?”
And Vincent found himself nodding. Though what really bothered him about it, is that despite him having come here for the purpose of sex, he now found himself leaving more so because he wanted to stop seeing Alastor so.. Happy. And that was a notion he did not know what to do with, or where to place. It made no sense. He often felt bitter, but Alastor did not have something Vincent wanted for himself. No prestige, or power, or notoriety. He was just a man. A very perplexing man.

***

The following morning hit Vincent like a brick, or several. He had way too much to drink, definitely. So now he would have to cope with wishing for a swift death. His back ached from the previous few hours’ activities. The bed smelled horrible, and the woman he had lain with was long gone, probably clocked out. The only thing he was thankful for was the lack of window, so there would be no light to bother him. If the sun was out. If it was he should drive home, that would be nice until he saw Alastor, and, oh fuck, oh shit, where the fuck was Alastor? did he walk home? Was he still here? He was up on his feet, wearing nothing but some underwear and shame. Fuuuuck his head was going to murder him, and his stomach threatened to spill any moment, but he had to go stat. He pulled on last nights clothes with zero dignity, slamming the door open, earning a loud “Hey!” from someone else in the hallway. He speed walked to the open bar, and it was as good as empty. Daytime was no time for drinking for most, and god. Alastor was not there. Vincent was going to get murdered when he gets home. He momentarily considered committing suicide by alcohol poisoning before exiting the building. He was a grown, adult man. Twenty-Six years of age. He could take an angry, short man with a hangover. The walk to the parking lot was spent trying to hype himself up. He unlocked his car, and stepped right on in. And then he just about screamed, catching himself after a yelp.

“Mhhgrn.. Can you.. Be quieter..? Jesus..” Muttered Alastor who was asleep in the passenger seat.
“How the fuck did you get in my car?”
“You left me behind, fucking dick. At least let me sleep.”
“What the actual fuck, Alastor? How did you get in?” Vincent asked again, turning to him.
Alastor looked a mess. His curls were sticking in every direction, some sticking to his forehead. His clothes looked as if a blind man tried to put them on. Did he also sleep around? The idea repulsed him.
“That.. Doesn’t matter. You do not get to yell at me after abandoning me in a club.”
“You forced your way with me, to that club!” Vincent retorted, angrier than he should be.
“Fuck you.” Alastor whispered, covering his eyes.
“Fuck you.” Vincent replied, just slightly louder.
He started the car, pulled out of the lot and started the drive home. The way there was quiet, and extremely uncomfortable. The only sound was Alastor’s occasional pained groans. And to top it all off, someone was parked in his spot. Fucking asshole, he would kill them. He parked a tad further, and stepped out, slamming the door. He opened Alastor’s, and the shorter man stepped out in a stumble. Vincent reached out to touch his arm to stabilize him, but Alastor smacked his hand away.
“Don’t touch me.” He spat out, looking pissed before stumbling back to the door. Vincent stood there stunned for a moment, before slamming and locking the car.

Vincent walked angrily, not stomped but, more controlled, walked with decided annoyance to the door to see Alastor leaning against the wall. So that’s why he didn’t walk home, he didn’t take his key. Vincent unlocked it, and let Alastor walk in first. He would not apologize, he didn’t even want the other man there in the first place. Saying sorry was beneath Vincent Whittman. He shuffled out of his shoes softly, and closed the door. He wasn’t sorry. He walked over to his room and grabbed his medicine, and stalked to the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine. Alastor was a pest. He could not wait to be rid of him. He mixed the medicine in the coffee and walked to where Alastor was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, hunched over the sink. He put down the concoction, looked at Alastor, who didn’t look back and bit his lip.
“Cafergot. Get some sleep after.” Vincent all but whispered, hesitating a second before leaving. He found himself back in the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water. The water ran and the noise of it made Vincent’s head split, but so did his thoughts. The past two weeks have been so off-course that he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He’s never been good with change that he himself didn’t orchestrate. His need for control was heavy in his bones, and everything that didn’t fit in his plan cracked against his bones and pulsed like it had to escape from inside his body. Like a plague sent to destroy him. He had done the absolute most to shape and bend everything to his will, he got rid of competition, he set himself apart, he kept to his routine. But for some forsaken reason he could not place Alastor in all this, and it drove him crazy. Like a dead pixel in a television screen, or an inexplicable change in weather that wasn’t forecasted, or even when he first saw an insect that migrated from elsewhere and had no business surviving New Orleans, but was there anyway.

The water had spilled over the edge of the glass, but he didn’t really have energy to care about that right now. He turned off the tap and chugged the drink, wielding the wet glass and leaving it on the counter, looking out the small window above the counters that overlooked their humble backyard. The very idea that this house he was in was not solely his was even ridiculous. He knew he would have someone sharing the space with him, obviously, but he was Vincent fucking Whittman. Beloved by most, known by more. He had expected someone that cared about his status, and avoided him from fear or spent their time trying to placate and please him. But Alastor was neither. Not a sweet old lady, or a fan, or a young woman afraid for her reputation. He was someone he would have to kill at some point if this kept up, because it was going to affect his work if he kept being bombarded by thoughts of this man and how he isn’t quite right, he would not be able to focus. He knew that it was only so long before he would find someone new to move in, and that the likelihood of anyone important searching wide and far for Alastor if he were to dissapear was improbable. He just had this nagging feeling, this deeprooted anxiety that it would be him. That he would haunt him around corners. That Vincent would find himself searching nooks and keeping an eye open around streets to look for the ghost of him. He didn’t know what this meant, or why he felt so incapable of visualizing life without the other now, even after so short a time, but he couldn’t kill him. He could not kill Alastor.
Fuck.

Chapter Text

Alastor had avoided Vincent like the plague for two whole days and it was driving Vincent up the wall. No, worse, honestly. He felt like he was bouncing off of the walls like a bouncy ball. He would crack soon, he knew it. He refused to keep going on getting ignored. He had to do something.
“Are you even listening, V?” Velvette stared at him, unimpressed.
“Oh, yeah, no sorry. Long weekend.” He awnsered, pulling his thoughts forefront so he could listen to Vel.
“So I heard. Val was whining one of his girls took the next day off because you took out your father’s anger on her.” She crossed her arms, sitting criss-crossed on her makeup desk.
“All consensual. You make it sound so dire, Jeez, Vel.” He grimaced. Way to make him sound creepy.
“No woman would sleep with you.”
“Many women would sleep with me.” He retorted.
“Gross, don’t start that with me.” She sneered, throwing a leg off the table.
He mumbled under his breath, “You brought it up.” Then sighed, peeling at some skin around his nails.

“Really, can’t believe i’m even askin’ this but what’s wrong?” She placed her hands on her knees like that would signal she was serious. It made her look a bit silly.
“Nothing’s wrong, just, you know.” He pulled a piece too long off, leaving his thumb to bleed a bit around the nail.
“Fuck.” He mummed, putting his finger between his lip to stop it from bleeding.
She raised an eyebrow. “Hard time adjusting to moving?”
“Yeah.” He agreed. That must be it. He’s always had a really hard time with change and socializing.
“If you ever need, i’m sure you can crash at Val’s.” She said, smiling slightly.
“And not yours? I see where I stand.” He teased.
“Hell no, you’re not entering my safe space.” She said back, but her soft expression betrayed her. The three of them all had their issues, Velvette’s temper, Val’s promiscuity and Vincent with his socially inept personality. And well, the murders too, he supposed. Velvette knew about his first. He was distraught then, it had been an accident. She was still here, and Vincent was grateful for that, even if neither of the three of them were any good at expressing what was actually bothering any of them at any time. They’d catch bullets for one another, but talking about feelings? Too far.

The work day had ended for him a solid forty-five minutes prior, but he had stayed behind to talk with Velvette during her break. One that technically ended fifteen minutes ago. That’s how he knew she was actually worried, and also how he knew that it was time to leave. Terribly uncomfortable all this. He stood from the chair, sighing as he stood. He was way too young to feel his back ache, and even younger to have the chunks of gray adorning his hair, but it’s hard to be so beloved all the time. Most the time.. He had to go home.
“I ought to get going before you pin the blame on me for why you’re late.”
“I still will.” She replied with little bite.
“All the more reason to leave as soon as possible. I have a reputation to think of.”
“The only reputation I ever hear of is that you’re a whore.”
His mouth gaped. Way to go, Valentino. Everyone he knew sucked. Scrap all that sentimental shit, these two were ants. He gave her a very elegant middle finger as he left, heading straight for the elevator.

Once he hit the bottom floor, he stepped towards the door. But something stopped him. He looked back, at the grime covered door to the radio department. It was Tuesday, he would probably still be there. He walked over, before he really could think too much about it. That is, until Ella called out to him. He stopped, walking over to the front desk and looking at her.
Oh, it was Elle. Whatever.
“Yes, lovely?” He said, smiling, but the very fact she interrupted him from seeing Alastor was lighting a fire in him.
“Friday evening.” She started, nervous. “At the work party, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go with me? Or, i’ll meet you here! But will I see you there?” She asked, her tone was innocent but her face was sly as a fox. Alastor also looked sly often.
“Dear, if I ever say no, it wasn’t me.” He said, giving her a wink before taking a step away.
“I’ll see you there.” He waved with the nonchalance of someone who had far better things to do, which he did.

The door creaked somewhat, but it was hardly audible over the static creeping from every direction. The hall had about six booths, two in use. And at the doorway of booth six stood Alastor. He was there. Vincent had not seen him since he gave him coffee. He made a move to step inside until he noticed the other man with Alastor. Not only that, but Alastor was smiling, and didn’t even flinch when the man touched his shoulder. Vincent’s feet were rooted to the floor, watching. Alastor laughed when the man said something, touching his bicep as he laughed. He watched. They talked for several more minutes. He watched. The man held the door frame as he leaned down and whispered something in Alastor’s ear. Alastor nodded. He watched. Was this why he hadn’t come home? Vincent had been waiting. He had been waiting for Alastor. And he was with this man? Alastor entered his booth, closing the door, and Vincent left the doorway, staring ahead at nothing a minute.

The door opened and in came that man. He was ugly, Vincent thought. Jaw too square, too stubbly. His eyes were so blue it was unsettling. His hair too finely groomed. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled. Vincent had those too, and yet right now they infuriated him.
“Mr. Whittman! What an honor!” The man said, offering a hand to shake. He stood right in front of the busted door that had a poster of Vincent on it. And still, instead of this guy, it should be Vincent that was there, laughing with Alastor. He gave his best smile, teeth and all, even if he usually tried to hide the chip that made the tooth beside his canine look a tad too sharp. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister..?” Vincent shook his hand, firm.
“Bradley White, sir.” He replied, too happy.
“It has been my honor, Bradley. May I call you that? But I am in a rush. I hope to meet you again soon.” Vincent said, flashed another smile and he was off.

He didn’t think much. He acted on pure instinct. He walked right back up to Ella.
“Darling, do you still do the bookkeeping on all the employees and their mailing adresses? I moved recently, and I just realized I might not have updated my new place of living. Could I have a look real quick?” He spoke, standing back and leaning both forearms on the desk.
“Oh! Oh yes, of course, Mr. Whittman! Right away, sir!”
So eager to be helpful. Adorable. She rummages her desk a while before reaching the map she was searching for, and handed it over. He smiled.
“Thank you honey.” He said, opening the map. Alphabetical. Great! He scanned over the letters, adjusting his glasses so he looked focused. And there it was, W. Bradley was just one spot above his own name. And there was his adress. He popped out a note pad and quickly wrote it down, then scratched out nothing below it to make it look like he made a mistake.
“Ahh, I write too fast.”
He ripped out the note, and stuffed it in his pocket, this time writing a new note with his new adress, handing it to Elle.
“There we go, that’s my new residence. Mind updating it for me?”
She nodded, and he put a hand on her shoulder before leaving. He had work to do.

The drive home felt too long and not long enough simultaneously. He stalked up the entryway and inside the house. Empty, shocker. He entered his room and he felt that odd creeping feeling of being watched again. God must be angry about what he’s about to do, but not even God could stop him from getting to what was his. His? Was Alastor his? He didn’t know where that thought came from, but he had no time to think on it. Nor did he want to. His room was clean so it was easy, up in his nightstand between all the medicine he kept he found what he needed. An empty syringe. He pocketed it and his handcuffs that Valentino once gave him as a gag gift. They were handy now. He walked right to his car, stepping back in and realizing he was so hurried he didn’t even lock it earlier. He took the crumpled note with Bradley’s adress on it. He turned on the engine, and he went. The streets blurred in his haste and the darkening sky. Winter did the length of light hours no favors. He parked his car a little while away from the house, and walked the rest. Two houses before the one he was looking for, he dipped behind to the backyards, strolling between bushes but being careful not to brush against any rustling leaves. It was in a nice neighborhood, so he had to make an effort to avoid the street lights. And there it was, a nice open window, because not even winter could defy the New Orleans heat. Vincent shuffled up besides the window and took off his shoes, leaving them tucked against the wall as he slid into the room. He looked around, it was a bedroom. Perfect, he’d have to wait here a while. He tiptoed with his mismatched shark socks over the floor, squatting and lowering himself under the bed. He placed himself pushed against the edge of the wall, and waited. It felt like ages, and it probably was. He listened to the man enter his room and en suite three separate times to go piss before the last time ended with the man changing and laying into his twin sized bed.

It was hard not to get too overexcited and pounce immediately, but good things come to those who wait. The clock ticked for another fifteen minutes if Vincent counted the ticks right before the snoring started. He waited five more for certainty before sliding out. He tiptoed out and up, slowly, ever so slowly, getting the metal piece out of his pocket and clicking one handle over the bedpost. Then he softly lifted the man’s hand and clicked the other. If he was lucky he never would even wake up. He moved to the end of the bed, halting when he heard the snoring stop a second, and then looking when it restarted. He peeled the sock off of Bradley’s right foot, and took the syringe. He filled it with air, and inserted it between his big and middle toe, and sadly that did wake the man up. Just his luck.

“What? ah- What the- Mr. Whittman?” He launched up, but then snagged on the handcuff. Vincent wasted no time and pushed the air inside the man, then removed the syringe, pocketing it.
“What the, what is happ- What is happening?” He struggled, and Vincent watched. He was quiet, he didn’t feel like talking to the man, but of course, as divine punishment the other man landed a solid kick against his chin, and his nose started bleeding alongside the lip he bit in the impact. Seriously? He held one hand under his chin to leave no traces as he fished out a handkerchief and then held it to his nose. He was always prone to those. He was annoyed now, but kept waiting and waiting until the struggling, cursing man got slower and then lifeless. Took far too long for his liking.

He used his clean hand to check for a pulse and when there was none, he grabbed the small key to unlock the cuff, let his hand fall, and put the metal contraption back in his pocket. He stared at the body for another second, and still felt mad. He wondered if Alastor would be home when he returned. Vincent went back out the way he came, stepping back into his shoes and walking back along the bushes, then the street, and into his car. His nose was still persistently bleeding, weak as it was, but he could hardly drive while clutching the damn thing. Unable to think of a solution, he placed the handkerchief on his lap to catch the blood, and awkwardly shuffled out of his jacket, and one handedly struggled his shirt open so he would not bleed on his white dress shirt. He muttered some curse words in frustration, and he knew he would have to clean the steering wheel after, but he kicked on the car and drove.

***

By the time he was home, his face had seen better days, his mouth to chin ratio was more red than it was any other color. It had mostly stopped bleeding as mucus had clogged it up, but he wasn’t the prettiest sight he reckoned. He sighed, being a tad dizzy from the blood loss, but collected himself. He left his jacket in the car seat and exited, actually locking it this time. No one but Alastor could get in it so the cuffs were not a problem. He walked up to the doorway, handkerchief in hand, and entered. He shook off his shoes, and groaned in his headache. Then he heard it. Jazz. Alastor was home. And for a moment he forgot what he looked like and just walked straight to the living room and there he was. Curly hair loose and bouncy, fingers playing with the beads of his glasses as he read a book. He looked up from the couch and his expression cracked from his usual smile just a bit.
“Alastor-” Vincent whispered, sounding somewhat snotty from the blood in his mouth. he took a step forward but halted when Alastor rose from the couch in one swift move.
“What happened to you?” He walked up to Vincent, his fingers touching Vincent’s jaw to look at the situation.
“I’m..” Vincent could swear that Alastor’s pupils were blown. Was it worry? He didn’t know.
“I’m really dizzy, Al.” Was all he managed to say. God, he felt pathetic. So weak over a bloody nose. He got stabbed before and walked it off, but his nose was killing him?

Alastor moved Vincent to the side and shoved him down onto the couch. What blood didn’t leak from his nose went straight to his dick. And that horrified him more than anything. He wasn’t a poof, he wasn’t one of them. So why did being pushed around like this get him acting like this. Tears pricked at his eyes. This wasn’t right. He had made peace that some people are fucked up like that, like Valentino, but fuck it couldn’t be him. He couldn’t be like that too. He looked up through his blurred gaze at Alastor who looked down at him, assessing. And fuck. His stomach twisted. This couldn’t be true. And especially not for this man. Fuck.

Alastor walked elsewhere, somewhere, he didn’t know and his stomach clenched, almost having him gag, but he swallowed it down. What the fuck was wrong with him? Is it the high of killing again? It couldn’t be, because it only started now. And the first time it was also after he thought of him. And it was sick. He let out a shaky breath and gripped at his pants. He wasn’t queer. He never felt anything for any other man before. It was something wrong about Alastor. The problem couldn’t be Vincent. He would endure this and it would go away again. It was punishment for what he was doing. But it was temporary, he would get through it. He would get the money he needed, move out, get famous and revolutionize television to things no one had thought of yet, and he would never think of Alastor again. he just had to endure.

Alastor came back with the first aid kit from the bathroom. Oh. That made sense. Vincent watched Alastor pull the coffee table forward and sit on it, looking at Vincent’s face again. He couldn’t help but smile, even if the bloody gunk made his lips feel sticky.
“You came back.” He said, and Alastor furrowed his brows a bit.
“Yes, I live here.” He whispered back, removing Vincent’s glasses from his face. And wow, the blurriness did nothing to help his dizziness. He could usually make out most things so long they were close enough, but it took him several blinks to adjust. Alastor was staring at him.
“Your eyes are..” Ah here we go. “They suit you.” Oh. Oh..
“And you have freckles.. Like a deer.” He smiled again, but winced when Alastor brought a wet wipe to his face.
“Be quiet.” Alastor demanded and his felt his pants twitch a tad. Fuck this was bad. He moved his hands to cover himself somewhat. He had never felt more humiliated in his life.
Alastor’s hands were elegant, they moved with such precision in everything he did, but his breathing was ragged. Maybe he was afraid of blood? But selfishly, Vincent wished he could be hurt forever if Alastor would tend to him like this.

After some more dabs to clean his chin and nose, Alastor grabbed his jaw and pressed a thumb and index in the hollow of Vincent’s cheeks and pressed down hard, forcing his mouth open.
“Ah-?” Vincent jolted a bit, but Alastor kept firm.
“Keep it open.” Alastor demanded. Not like Vincent had a choice with his fingers pressing his cheeks into his teeth. He tried to say “Yes” but all that came out was a strangled moaning sound. He wanted to die. Alastor took another wipe and cleaned the inside of Vincent’s lips, before letting go. Vincent licked the inside of his cheeks when he could close his mouth, it felt weird. The last towel went down his chest, down to his belly button and he shivered. He hadn’t even noticed he had bled there too. He looked down and saw slender fingers pressing right above his belly button and, oh fuck. Oh fuck. His dick twitched and he prayed to God Alastor didn’t see. His stomach clenched, muscles taking form that usually wouldn’t show. The touch was torture but ended way too fast. The man in front of him turned around and grabbed a half-empty glass of water. He tapped the underside of Vincent’s chin twice and for some reason, Vincent knew what to do and obliged. He opened his mouth.
“Good boy.” Oh fuck he was going to die, right here and now. He whimpered slightly, but swallowed most of the sound. Alastor brought the edge of the glass to Vincent’s mouth, keeping two fingers under his chin to angle it up. Vincent drank until the glass was empty, staring at Alastor as he did so. When Alastor put the glass back away, he moved Vincent’s head to the side a bit, looking for any more blood.
“Still taste blood?” He asked.
“No.” Vincent replied, a bit croaky.
Alastor slightly slapped Vincent on the cheek twice, before standing up.
“Good.” He took the first aid kit and looked down once more at what was probably the most pathetic Vincent had ever looked. “Go get some sleep.”
“But I was meaning to-” Vincent protested.
“Now.” And with that, Alastor walked off.
What the fuck? Vincent looked down and moved his hands, and shit that was going to be a fucking problem. Dead birds. Grandmothers. Trees. Ah fuck. He looked around, and seems like he lost his bloodied towel. Alastor must have taken it to wash it. He stood and he legs wobbled, and he hurried off to his room in a very sad, very stupid walk of shame. He unbuttoned his pants and swore when he brushed against himself. After dropping the pants on the floor, he saw the wet tent. Mother of God. He refused. He could not in good conscious rub one out where he might be heard, and not at all if it is to the man who might hear. He was royally screwed.

***

The following day Alastor avoided him again and Vincent considered running into a wall and breaking his arm just so Alastor would look at him again. Instead he moped around work all day until Velvette yelled at him, stalked Alastor behind the radio booth door, went home and ended up passing out in the recliner. The day after went by just as slow and Vincent could have cried. Thursday was a blessing, because when he came home Alastor was there. The house smelled like him, and the kitchen was lovely with the sound of music. Vincent walked in slowly like every step might scare the guy off. But when he entered the kitchen, there was an extra plate. God bless. Life was good. It smelled so good too. And Alastor was there, tapping his foot and nodding his head, wearing that stupid apron.

“Good afternoon, Alastor.” He tested, picking up the plate and fork. Gumbo.
“Ah, Vince, you’re home! Was starting to think you ran off on me.” Alastor sang into the room. Uh. What? Seriously?
“You’re the one avoiding me?” Vincent said, putting some food in his mouth and sitting at the counter’s barstool. Alastor let out a sharp ha!
“Avoiding you? Dear Vincent, always the dramatics with you!” Alastor took off his apron and sat down across Vincent at the kitchen island. He stared at Vincent expectantly.
“Oh! It’s really good.” He swallowed. “It always is.” Alastor then seemed pleased with himself and started eating his own meal. It looked slightly different from Vincent’s, the meat he thinks. Odd.
“Are you attending the work party tomorrow?” Vincent inquired, still eating and leaning an elbow on the table.
Alastor pointed his fork at Vincent’s elbow. “That,” he started, “is rude.” He swallowed.
Vincent embarrasedly removed his arm from the counter top.
“Yes I am, I think it’s mandatory.” He hummed along to some of the music.
“Only the first half, the after party isn’t.” Vincent stared at him.
“Ah, well, who am I to miss a good party?”
And to that, Vincent smiled. He would get to see him there, then, too.

***

Vincent felt a little hot in his suit. The venue was somewhat over packed, and the front desk lady on his elbow for the last three hours was nothing to boast about. She was far chattier with a glass of champagne in her than she was before. And worse than that, he had spotted Alastor several times tonight and each and every time he was charming some different man. They all laughed at everything he said. Sure, Vincent had networked all the same, laughed at higher ups poor jokes, but Alastor was not the higher up. He was genuinely making them laugh. And that grated his nerves. The alcohol in his system did little to stop him from being agitated either. He had been itching to talk to the man all night. All day, even. When he got home to change into a more expensive suit, Alastor had not been home. And he was going to go insane seeing him clink glasses with the sixth man who is beside himself with laughter. These kind of aches were only sated with his murders but he couldn’t come up with a valid reason for going after six men for laughing. Bradley was a one off mistake.

The night went on for another two hours of anger bubbling under his skin. Every hand that touched Alastor’s shoulder was one too many. And every swallow of champagne made his throat dryer than the last. It wasn’t like when Alastor forced him to drink. And the way Elle’s hands kept getting more and more comfortable sizing up the sides of his body. After finding himself tired of all the walking around, he found himself taking this damsel to the nearest fucking chairs. Some creaky foldable plastic ones that stood next to one of the tables that held all the drinks and appetizers. He sat down closest to the table, and she shoved her chair closer to his. Greaaat. Under normal circumstances this would have been the goal. But all he could stare at was him. He knew many others were around the room getting heated with coworkers at this after party, and he wondered if Alastor would too. If so where would he go? Would he find a woman? A man? What kind of man? Would it have been Bradley if he was here? How would he have held him. Would Bradley have appreciated that obscenely small waist? Would he have buried his nose in those curls and smelled. Cinnamon, it came to him now. Alastor smelled of cinnamon and tobacco. He wanted to smell it up close.

Elle’s mouth leaned against Vincent’s neck, and he stared right at Alastor. And knowing he was being hunted, Alastor stared back. He kept talking to the group he was standing in but his gaze was locked on Vincent’s. The eye contact unbreaking. Elle’s lips latched on Vincent’s neck, leaving little wet patches in their wake. And he stared at Alastor. When her tongue ran from the top of his collarbone to the edge of his jaw, he looked at him. He thought about his fingers under his chin. Would he ever do that again? His hand rested on Elle’s ass. Would his feel similar? Fuck it, he could feel the rising tent in his pants, and he didn’t care about anything other than keeping those brown eyes on his. Elle’s mouth found his own, and he held the back of her head, tilting it down so she wouldn’t block his line of sight. Her eyelashes were fluttered closed as she licked and nipped at his lips. And Alastor kept looking. He had stopped talking to the men, he was standing somewhat alone in the center of the room, clutching his champagne glass. Vincent gripped at her hair and she let out a muffled sound, but he barely registered it. Alastor’s jaw tightened, he could see it. He could hear him, breathing. It’s like all the other noise in the room was nulled out around them.

The lips on his mouth detached and found his neck again, sucking little bruises where they hitched, a hand with long nails pushing at his pants. His free hand gripped the table beside him, and he huffed out a small moan. Lips falling open, and head hunched forward somewhat as the hand kept rubbing through his pants, cheeks red with whatever alcohol had made its way there. His eyes stayed on Alastor. God, he didn’t even know what fucking time it was.

Alastor put his glass on a plate a server walking by was holding, and cocked his head to the door, before leaving. Vincent didn’t have to be told twice. He excused himself away from a very confused Elle, who thought this was leading to them leaving together no doubt. He apologized, but God he did not care. Not at all. He all but ran out the room, and felt a rush of adrenaline. He wasn’t thinking, he was tipsy, and fucking stupid, but seeing Alastor, cross-legged in his passenger seat like he owned the damn car was doing things in Vincent’s trousers he didn’t know what to do with. He got in, and before he could say anything, all Alastor said was “Drive.”
And fuck it, he did.

***

Once he parked with all his might, trying not to hit the mailbox as he did so, he scurried out of the car, and opened Alastor’s side of the car door.
“So you do still have some manners.” He hummed, seeming like he’s contemplating some things. Vincent didn’t know what but he hoped they involved him either way. The way inside was thrilling, but made him feel sick all the same. He trembled as he opened the door. Alastor pointed to the kitchen and told Vincent to go wait for him there. And Vincent, more and more anxious by the minute, sits down at the island. He peels and picks at his fingers, shuddering out a breath. He looked at the clock, somewhat past midnight. Home earlier than he would be otherwise. He gulped. Just under the clock hung a cross, a haunting reminder. A choice. Who is your God, Vincent? Is it Him, or is it Alastor? And he hesitated.

Alastor walked in a few minutes later, positioning himself at the opposite side of the island. He stared at Vincent as if he was still figuring something out about the man. He looked at Vincent’s shaking hands, the small pieces of bloodied skin at his nails, and the teeth pulling at his lips. He examined it all, and Vincent felt himself panic a little.
“I shouldn’t-” He trailed off, staring at Alastor, and then the cross.“And why should you not?” Alastor stated. His usual bravado was missing, as if for the first time something was serious.

Vincent stammered. He had no reply. He was glued to the bar stool at the kitchen counter, staring over it at the leisurely pose Alastor adopted against the other side of it. Alastor smiled, subtle, but present, as his gaze dropped to the tremble in Vincent’s lips.
Vincent swallowed the cotton in his mouth down, down and away and yet when he spoke he could not sound any less stuffed.
“Do.. Should- Should not do what?” He tried to demand but his voice was barely a whisper, he could hardly remember anything he was saying with those eyes on him.

Vincent had seen the life drain from eyes before. Had witnessed the end of the world. The wilt of flowers. And nothing was ever so terrifying. He would wager that he forgot that he ever had morals at all when all that he could see was the curtaining of thick lashes, covering doe eyes as they soaked in the fear on his own face.

“I know you want to kiss me. I think you always have.” Alastor mused, but at a lower volume than his usual venom.
“So, Vinnie, what is stopping you?”
The world would end.
He would die.
His life would be over and nothing would ever be the same.
And yet.

And yet when Alastor’s knee lifted, up on the counter, and his hand placed itself up against Vincent’s, pinky grazing his own he did not flee.
When the fabric of Alastor’s pants tightened around his thigh when he crawled over and he lowered his face until it was parallel to Vincent’s he did not run.
When his other hand found Vincent’s jaw and lifted it slightly so he would have to look into the dark chocolate of those eyes he remained anchored where he was.

Alastor’s breath came as the heatwaves of a coal fire to his lips.
“Tell me not to.”
He didn’t. There was no timeline where he could have.
Instead, he found himself bracing his hands on the counter, leaning up to close the short distance between them. Alastor’s lips were soft, softer than any word he had ever spoken. Softer than anyone else’s. When-
The contact was awkward, desperate, and inexperienced. Vincent’s fingers trembled against the table, fearing if he moved them he would snap. Alastor’s mouth moved like he was eating, rather than being sweet, mostly teeth and when he bit Vincent’s lip that is when the dam broke. Vincent lurched up, the bar stool falling behind him and hitting the floor with a loud clang on the tiles. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. His hands found the sides of Alastor’s hips, fearing if he touched him too much he would leave. He couldn’t have that. Instead, Alastor slapped Vincent’s right hand away, moving his thighs under the now empty space to face him on the counter, hand moving up from Vincent’s chest to his tie, loosing it just slightly and Vincent whimpered at the ministration.
“Will you be good and listen Vinnie?” Alastor hummed against his lips. He registered words somewhere but couldn’t peel his mouth away fully. He would die. “What..?” He murmered.

Alastor yanked the tie, taking Vincent’s head along with it until his chin hit Alastor’s knee, ratteling his skull a bit and leaving him with a loud huff and a moment of panic. Why? Why was he stopping?
“I asked, dear, if you would behave?” It came out as more of a demand. A test that Vincent was powerless to fight. He opened his mouth, a small droplet of blood on his lips from biting his tongue on the yank down. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Yes! yes I- I’ll be good! Please just-” He whined, trying not to grasp at Alastor, waving his hands aimlessly before pressing them at his crotch, trying to alleviate the pressure.
“Please don’t stop.. Al please I- I can’t.” He cried out, leaving his jaw open slightly to huff out. Alastor smiled down at him. “Sit.”
Vincent didn’t need to be told twice. He slumped down to the floor, looking up desperately. “Al it hurts. It- Fuck.” He moved to undo the button of his pants as Alastor hopped down, standing between Vincent’s legs and the counter, leaning back against it. Vincent had to free himself, he would explode, implode, all of it. It ached so bad, like never before. He didn’t even know it could feel so restrictive. And then the tip of a leather shoe pressed down on him. He yelped, lurching forward and being unable to brace himself without grabbing Alastor’s knee to keep upright. “Wh- What’re-?” is all he managed to get out before the sharp tip of the shoe dug down, pressing hard, mean.
“You said it hurt?” Alastor asked, voice low and lacking that honey sweetness.
“Yes! Fuck, so bad. Ah- it. It’s g- I can’t do this anymore. Please..” He begged. Whoever he was he couldn’t recognise. Alastor smiled and Vincent felt his heart leap to his throat at the approval. Would he let him back up? He didn’t have time to wonder.
“Good.” Alastor hummed. “Then rut from where you are to prove you want this.”
Vincent’s face burned with shame. He couldn’t do that. That’s humiliating and.. And it hurt. And still he bucked and the strangled noise that escaped him was almost inhuman. Or at least emasculating. He gripped the fabric of Alastor’s pants tighter, leaning his forehead on the lower thigh just above his white knuckled hand. His other hand took a risk and slid from the ground up to the heel of Alastor’s shoe. Alastor ground down on his dick, making him wince, but Alastor didn’t pull away. So he kept going, trailing up his sock, his ankle, all the way up to where the sock left and became a tight garter. He slipped his two fingers in there. It was a cram fit, his fingers would turn blue he was sure, but he kept them there. He took a deep breath in, shuddering the whole way. Sweat dripped onto the shirt that slicked to his back. And up. He grinded up into the shoe and moaned, moving in an uneven rythem, incapabable of thinking properly. All he knew was the tears burning in his eyes, and the painful rash his pants were leaving on his swollen dick. He looked up a moment, through the tears and whimpers at Alastor, who stood still, watching, arms crossed like he was evaluating needle and thread handiwork. Vincent swallowed hard, but kept pushing until the pain and pleasure became interlinked, both so high he couldn’t do anything else but cry and moan like some cheap pornstar. He couldn’t bear hearing himself and bit at the fabric above Alastor’s knee, trying to muffle himself out. His dick was so, so sore. And he was so close. Alastor seemed displeased by the assault on his pant leg, lifting an eyebrow and grabbing Vincent’s hair and pulling it back until he neck cracked at the impact. And that did it, he convulsed, whole body twitching as he came in his pants with his head held still by a firm hand. The shock trembled through him, twice, thrice more. Before the last labored breath came and his throat ached at the dryness and exertion, and the pleasure became just pain. Alastor tugged his hair back a bit further and studied his face, looking at the blood, sweat, spit and tears before leaving a dry laugh. He dropped Vincent’s head and peeled his hips off the counter, lifting his shoe and using it to shove Vincent back a nudge on his chest, where Vincent almost fell if he hadn’t caught himself on his hands behind him.
“Pathetic.” Is the last thing Alastor said before shoving his hands in his pant pockets and strutting out of the room, leaving Vincent panting and defiled on the kitchen floor, struggling to regain consciousness. Fuck. He would not be able to live truly until the next time he was allowed liberties. His hand would never suffice but he doubted he would be able to go on without touching himself to this. He was so astronomically fucked.

***

The morning came with it’s usual cruelty, and Vincent was very much not in the mood to get up. The night was long. He was humiliated, ashamed, afraid and yet he touched himself to several more completions with a pillow choking him out so he would be quiet. He was anxious, again, and he didn’t know how to face Alastor without disintegrating or shooting himself in the head. Or both. He pulled himself up and forced himself to put on something casual. Some tee with a shark on it, and Pajama pants. His glasses, and while foregoing the hair gel, he at least brushed his hair. That’s when it dawned on him. Alastor didn’t watch television, and the voices were too clear to be radio. So that meant someone was here. He looked up at the clock, ten in the morning. Hm. Early for a saturday, and also, the first time someone else is here.

He opened his door. Alastor was laughing from the living room, and there was a female voice that was telling some sort of story. He toed around the corner until he was in the line of sight of them both. Alastor put his cup down, and waved him over. Vincent could barely stand being seen by Alastor right now, and he had the luck of a princessless toad to have to see him while he had a guest. The woman was gorgeous, a bit older. He guessed fifty. She had fully grayed, her hair was a soft white that curled in an old fashioned bob. Somewhere from when Vincent was just a baby. Her clothing was elegant, beautifully detailed. But for some odd reason she was wearing a massive hat indoors. Her lipstick was a deep maroon, the kind Alastor often wore as waistcoats. Vincent stepped into the room, scratching at his neck a little. He sure hoped whatever damage Elle left was not there anymore.

“Rosie, this is Vincent, my co-habitater.” Alastor gestured to him. Vincent realized they were both dressed up and Vincent stood there in a shark tee. That was just fucking awesome.
“My, he is very handsome! You never introduced me before, my sweet and it’s been weeks!” She smacked Alastor with a little handkerchief, making Vincent realize he never found his back.
“I should have raised you better than that! Such a rude boy. You’re too old to do this to me, pet.” She scoffed, standing up.
“Thirty-two is not that old, Rosie.” Alastor seemed wounded.
The woman, Rosie, walked up to Vincent, grabbing both his hands in hers.
“Let me take a look at you, boy.” She hummed and ahh’d at his face. Nodding, before looking at his neck. She raised an eyebrow and gave a side eye to Alastor, who simply took his cup and shrugged his shoulders like it was news to him too. Bastard.

“It is so lovely to meet you Miss Rosie.” He managed, trying to will away his very own rose. The one spreading viciously over his face.
“Charmed.” She smiled, squeezing his hands in hers before returning to the recliner. Meaning he had to sit next to Alastor. What sort of punishment was his life. He walked to the other end of the couch and sat, for the first time ever probably, not with his legs spread. He had never felt so damn small. Vincent looked at Alastor, lost as all hell.
Alastor smiled, those sharp canines poking out slightly over his bottom lip.
“Vince, this is my Aunt Rosie.”
Ah. Ah? Vincent looked at the pale, blue eyed lady, and the golden skin on Alastor and tried not to ask any questions. He just made a small “Ohh..” before shuffeling somewhat to get comfortable. Alastor uncrossed his legs, pushing his knee against Vincent’s and he stiffened immediately. This was horrible and he hoped it never ended. He sat so, so still after that, afraid that if he moved Alastor would realize and remove his knee.

Alastor took a sip of his tea.
“Do continue your story Rosie, it was getting so entertaining.”
Rosie smiled, dipping her head inwards like she’s flattered.
“Oh, you. If you insist, little minx.” She folded her hands in her lap comfortably.
“So as I was working, the new housekeeper at the morningstars, Niffty, small little thing mind you, was making an entire ruckus all over the place!” She leaned forward. Vincent understood where Alastor got his dramatic flair from.
“It took an entire two hours to locate where poor, dear Charlie’s cats had run off to in the chaos! Oh she was besides herself. Her dear friend Vaggie was there to calm her, thank the heavens!” Alastor chuckled beside him. He liked that sound.
“And so that is how Charlie’s eighteenth birthday went. True disaster! We were so sad to not have you there, Allie. You may be adopted, but you know you are as true to us as family can be.”
Alastor shrunk a tad.
“Haha, yes. My apologies Rosie, I did wish to attend.”
Vincent furrowed his brows somewhat. He wondered why Alastor hadn’t gone.
“When was the party, if I may ask?” Vincent popped in.
“Oh, last monday afternoon and evening. And yet he was nowhere to be found. The scoundrel.” She pouted, and Vincent had the realization that as polite as this woman is, he wanted absolutely nothing less than to cross her. What a terrifying creature this woman was. Though it did confuse Vincent somewhat, because that evening Alastor was at home. Sitting and reading some book in the very couch she was seated in now.

“I expect you to be at the morningstars next time I invite you dearie.” She added.
“Of course, my sincerest regrets Rosie.” Alastor opened his mouth to speak more but the landline was ringing.
“Oh, i’ll get it, you don’t have to stop your conversation!” Vincent stood.
“It was so endearing to meet you Rosie, truly.” And after a small hand over mouth giggle from Rosie, he was off. He took the telephone off the hook and brought it to his ear. Over some static interference he could hear a very familiar voice.
“What’s the password?” She spoke.
“Velvette, what are you playing at?” He asked, leaning his back against the wall besides the phone.
“Well ya never know! You don’t live alone, and I wasn’t going to give some random coworker my gossip.” She defended.
“He’s busy anyhow. His aunt was here when I woke up.”
“Ah, is she attractive?”
Vincent stammered a second.
“Why the-” He looked over at the living room and started whispering.
“Why the fuck would you ask that?” He cupped the phone receiver like it might jump out and harass his guest personally.
“Because I love making you feel horrible. Anyhow, I gots to update you before you get it from the whirlwind himself.” Uh oh.
“Valentino’s up in arms about his bartender leaving. Said some guy named Alastor won a bet or some such thing, and that he’s now workin’ for some fancypants family up in the rich part of town. Not only that, but his favourite workin’ boy keeps goin’ to visit the barkeep and missin’ his shift hours.”
She paused, probably checking her nails, if Vincent had to guess.
“I didn’t tell Val who Alastor was for your sake, but I doubt there’s two fuckers with a name like that in this city. So to say, figure out what your little boy is up to, yeah?”
Vincent was perplexed, so he just ended up saying “He’s older than me, y’know.”
He wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information. I mean, sure, it is odd but Valentino is known for temper tantrums. A bet over where someone works is also not the most standard thing someone would wager on, but hell, he was occupied.
“That is not what I said, now is it idiot?” She countered. Touché.
“Alright, i’ll see what that’s all about Vel, but I really ought to go. I can’t be on the line the entire time while there is company in my home.”
“She must be a total bombshell.”
“Goodbye, Vel.” He put the phone back on it’s handle, pinching his nose. Dear God.

After returning sheepishly to the room, he noticed that Rosie looked at his throat before his face again first.
“Was that your girlfriend, dearie?”
As if today couldn’t get any worse.
“Ah, no, my childhood friend. Something has upset our other friend and she just wanted to let me know.” He replied, true enough.
She hummed. “Well, young love is in the air in which way.” She sipped her tea.
He took a deep inhale through his nose. Before he could be crucified some more, she patted off her skirt and stood.
“It was good to see you well, Allie. I will be on my way now.” She turned to Vincent.
“Vincent, darling, would you mind seeing me out?”
“Of course not, ma’am.” He replied, standing straighter.
“Ma’am! Oh, do I look so old?” And the blood drained from his face.
“No! No not at all, you look gorgeous.” He panickedly walks behind her, opening the door for her like he might just die any given second. He had been feeling like that a lot as of late. As she stepped out she patted off his shirt some, removing some creases.

“My dear Alastor is a very serious man, darling. I do hope you respect his ambitions and don’t litter the house with little escapades.” She said as she pressed on a bruise on his neck, frowning slightly.
“N-No, not at all. So sorry, uhm. Never at the house, I respect his space too.” He practically fell over himself trying to force the words out at a speed he was unfamiliar with. His face felt hot, and he was grateful that this was at least the end of this interaction.
She smiled at him, patting both gloved hands on his chest once, twice.
“I like you dearie, you’re adorable. Be careful around my Allie, yes?” She looked stern.
“Okay.” Was all he managed, confused by the interaction. What did that mean? Was it a threat? Warning? he had no goddamn clue. Her smile returned and she stepped off the little step up stair to the door. She waved.
“Goodbye, Vincent!” And she walked away, deploying a little lacy parasol, dissapearing to the left side road of the pavement. That was strange.

He closed the door, turning to the living room again, standing in the doorway rather awkwardly.
“She’s actually terrifying.” Was the first thing he said. Alastor laughed, full chested.
“Oh, that she is! Glad you noticed so quickly.”
He remained quiet a minute, debating on what to say.
“I’m glad you’re still able to look at me.” It came out soft when he said it, uncertain, like Alastor might still change his mind. Alastor looked at him for a moment.
“Come here, Vinnie.” And so Vincent did, he walked up, stopping in front of the couch. Alastor looked down at the floor, then back at Vincent. So Vincent sat on the floor, on his knees, looking up at Alastor. The man looked at Vincent’s face a moment, before placing a hand on his head. Vincent placed his chin on Alastor’s knee.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t? Do you have anything to tell me?”
“No!” He found his fingers clutching Alastor’s pant leg before he had time to think about it. This man ruins him. The Great Vincent Whittman, on his knees, teary eyed. This wasn’t real, it literally couldn’t be.
“It was some fun for you. That’s all it was. If you’d rather forget it happened, then do so.”
Vincent couldn’t place it but that hurt. It wasn’t sensical, but nothing was lately. He shook his head.

Alastor peeled Vincent’s glasses off and placed them on the table in front of them.
“You can pretend i’m a girl if that helps you sleep.”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t pretend Alastor was anyone but himself. No one compares to him. He couldn’t even imagine what he would look like as a woman. God he wished he could. He wished Alastor just was a woman, this would be so much easier. Burt he can’t. He can’t. He looked up at him, opening his mouth but it took another while before the words left his mouth, unable to truly grip what he was trying to formulate.
“No one is you.” He said, softly. Followed by “I hate you.”
He doesn’t know why he said it. It just came from deep within him. Did he hate Alastor? Did he hate him, or everything he stood for? Everything that meant for Vincent’s worldview and reality, and everything that it crumbled. Alastor smiled, bringing a hand from the couch to Vincent’s face, running a thumb over his chin, dipping slightly between the dimple in his chin. His finger ran up to his lip, pulling it down slightly. His finger pushed in, and Vincent didn’t stop him. He didn’t even try. He let Alastor press down on his tongue. He opened his mouth a little wider, and Alastor moved his thumb up to his teeth, pulling his upper lip back a bit, then running his finger over the little chip of missing tooth.

“Tell me that you hate me again” Alastor said, pressing his finger back down on Vincent’s bottom lip with his nail, just hard enough for a small drop of blood to pulse out of his lip.
“I can’t.” He inhaled shakily. “I can’t.”
Alastor hummed, removing his thumb but Vincent still felt the phantom of it and the stinging pressure of a cut in his lip. Alastor moved the digit to his own mouth and licked the little droplet of blood off. Vincent felt it in his lower stomach. Alastor stood up, walked around Vincent, then bent down behind Vincent. He ran his hand from Vincent’s lower back up his spine, digging his fingers in the fuzzy hairs at the nape of his neck and up, up in his hair, gripping there and yanking him back a bit. Vincent yelped a bit, feeling Alastor’s breath hit the edge of his jaw and the shell of his ear.
“Try.” He whispered in his ear. Low. A proposal, a dare. One Vincent was too weak to fight.
“I,” He started, breathing in. All his nerves were on fire and the place those nails were holding tightly on his waves tingled.
“I hate..” He grabbed the couch in front of him as if it could support him. He swallowed.
“I hate you.” He whispered.
“Yes. And what do you want to do to the man you hate?” Alastor replied.
“I want to fuck you and.. I want.. Fuck, please let go. Please.” His grip tightened on the couch but he made no move to snag his head away.
“I want to feel you inside and,”
“And?”
“I want to kill you.” He admitted, as if he had zero control of anything anymore.
“Mmhm. How?”
“With my.. With my hands around your throat. I want to see your face.” He felt Alastors lip graze his ear for a moment, before he heard a laugh.

Alastor let the grip on his hair go, and Vincent almost fell over, holding the couch with both hands now and looking back, vision blurred with tears.
Alastor was standing again, hands clasped behind his back.
“There! Was that so hard to say?”
“What?”
“You’re much cuter when you’re honest, Vinnie.”
Alastor started off, walking to the door, before stopping, looking back only slightly.
“I would like to see you try and succeed in either.”
He hummed to himself, some song, like none of this impacted him in the slightest, and left through the front door like it was the most opportune time to get a midday stroll in and smell the roses, feel the rays and breathe in the fresh fucking air. Go tap dancing around the damn pavement like life is full of whimsy and wonder for him, and this house is a little playhouse he can come to when he feels like he needs some entertainment. Vincent let himself fall over against the couch. He barely recognized who he was when Alastor was around. Vincent was the kind of man who took what he wanted, used whatever was convenient and threw away what didn’t serve. He had no qualms about stealing an orange from a neighbors tree and selling it for a profit to unsuspecting bystanders. He had two people he cared about, and everyone else was a means to an end. People were material bricks he could use to build a staircase to stardom. His very own tower of Babel. He would get there one way or another, he always told himself and never once did he doubt it. He didn’t kill all those people, his own father, to not get there now. But here he was, sobbing onto the edge of a couch over a subordinate. A man beneath him in every way of class. A poorer man, with a lesser ranking rob, that probably spent his whole life in this place with the drunks on the road singing to the moon. And he had Vincent wrapped tightly around his finger. So tightly that Vincent felt like he couldn’t breathe when he was near, but somehow even less when he wasn’t. He wasn’t the kind of man who had these kinds of feeling about anyone, ever. Let alone a man. It was wrong, so wrong, and it was like blue was red, and the sky was the ocean, the sun was the moon. He couldn’t cope with feeling this way. He would have to kill him sooner than later, so he could go back to living life the way he was supposed to, climbing until he was at the top of the ladder and kicking all climbers below. There was a throne there somewhere and he had to sit on it. He couldn’t spend any more time feeling anything for Alastor. And God, he was sorry.