Work Text:
The world suddenly became very different. It only took a brief moment after the initial shock, after the initial euphoria, caught up in the excitement, in the intensity. Post-celebration happiness gave way to something terrible in Vox’s heart, a darkness. He couldn’t keep up the appearances for very long, giving some weak excuse to Valentino and Velvet before he fled the room, hand over where a heart might have been, where his central wiring thrummed uncomfortably harshly. He didn’t go to his room, to their room, it felt so wrong to do, especially after what they’d just done. No, somewhere else, quickly, to his desk.
A drawer was opened, shakily, and a small album pulled out. It was dusty and locked up, but he fell into his chair as he rummaged frantically for the key, breathing more and more ragged while he struggled to find the tiny piece of metal. Finally, finally his fingers found it, unlocked the small book, and he flipped it open.
Pictures. Dozens of photos lining the pages, all from so long ago now. Spanning through a total of what had to be close to ninety years. Maybe more. He didn’t have one for every year, or anything, although if it had been up to him, he probably would have. They went from black and white to colored photos, some in poor quality and others in the best. Some were even ones they hadn’t posed for, as both of their popularities soared through the years. Alastor, looking radiant and happy all through the years, Vox getting more and more cocky and gaining his confidence per each picture.
Fuck.
The distancing started in the 90’s, and he knew it. He could see it now, probably even then. The upgrades kept coming, he was obsessed with them, with keeping up, with following the potential. He wanted to prove himself so badly, but he only …
Something splashed against the laminated pages. Vox sighed, quickly, trying to wipe tears away. It was unsuccessful; they kept flowing, unabated by any mental thought, by any reprimand he could give himself. The room was so quiet, the frequency was gone , the one he’d grown so used to. The one who only Alastor could turn off, but never would, not unless he was fucking dead.
And he was fucking dead.
Sobs racked through him, shaking his shoulders, as he flipped through the pages.
He’d stopped putting a hand on his shoulder, had stopped mentoring and checking on him as often. It was always Vox, seeking him out so desperately, vying for his attention, his approval, his presence. He needed him, so badly, back then, in almost every way. He would have done anything, anything at all that Alastor asked. He could have asked him to amputate himself, to bite off his own tongue, to fucking burn his building to the ground and he would have only asked for the deadline. It was pathetic, so goddamn pathetic. He hated himself for it, it was so ridiculous, and yet he could never see the easiest solution, the root of the problem.
Alastor didn’t even mind his desperation; it was the way he changed, so easily and readily, into something so other. And Vox always just assumed it wasn’t good enough, that it just wasn’t impressive, that it needed to be more. Alastor valued power, success, he could achieve that, he swore he could, he knew he could rise to the occasion, but all it ever did was push Alastor away. Their talks became less, as Vox got busier and busier and more and more different. They saw each other less, replied less often. Vox became more and more desperate, but it was so futile.
And he thought he saw the light. He thought he could resolve the problem, now that the Vee’s were more established, he could ask Alastor in. He could partner with him, share this life in some way. He was too scared to ask anything else, the rejection of something real being so much more likely to be devastating. Why would Alastor want that? But they had been working together for so long that this felt safer. Vox could easily invest in his radio show, could easily spread it through his networks, no need for cameras, just more accessibility. Alastor could do anything he wanted, he just …
He wanted him by his side.
And he’d looked him dead in the eye and told him no, and had completely destroyed him. There was shock and sadness and pain, and just … nothing. He left, with Vox still there to pick up the pieces of who he was. Alastor hated him. Hated everything he’d ever done, everything he’d been doing to try to impress him. How could he have been so misguided? How did he mistake so many obvious signs? Why couldn’t he just have been happy with the basics?
He was worthless. And then Alastor was gone, for seven fucking years, and he thought he learned. He thought he had moved on. He and Val were in a mostly often good place, save for the whole Angel situation, the Vee’s were doing well as a company, taking over basically every corner of entertainment and advertising. It all went through them. He was happy, he barely thought about the silent frequency in the background of everything he did. He convinced himself he was dead, he grieved then, too, for himself and for Alastor, and for everything he lost. For weeks he was nearly inconsolable, but he regained himself. He threw himself into his work, kept doing what he was good at, kept on his path and refused to upgrade further, telling himself it was because he didn’t need to anymore, that it had nothing to do with Alastor.
He convinced himself, somehow.
But then Alastor came back, showed his goddamn face again at that stupid hotel, and shattered every ounce of composure he thought he’d found. His mind was filled with thoughts of him, about who they were and maybe could have been. His mind and his soul ached for him so much, he didn’t know what to do with the feelings except be angry. He wasn’t angry with Alastor, he was so angry with himself, and what else was there to do except turn this love to hatred?
It didn’t work. It would never fucking work, and he knew that, but he could try. He could pretend, couldn’t he?
He was always good at pretending.
But the day would end, and the energy would be gone, and if it was a bad one, the tears would come. He would sometimes be unable to sneak away, and he felt bad when Valentino had to handle him like that. He knew he hurt him; he knew it was obvious but he couldn’t say anything to explain, he didn’t know how to. It was a pointless discussion, one more likely to tear them apart, too, and he couldn’t handle that, he just couldn’t. When he did manage to get away, he would lock himself in his office, and he would find a corner to slide into and sob into the early morning, begging for some insight into fixing it, himself, them, fuck, anything .
And now here he was. Sitting in silence, staring down at a book of memories he had because, what? He missed him? He regretted his death again? He was mourning, for a second goddamn time, and it hurt so much more now. He’d shown him nothing but hatred and contempt, and for fucking what? To make himself feel better? To get over him? To prove to someone that he was fine? To himself? To Valentino? None of it mattered, none of it did anything, none of it changed anything! He should have apologized, he should have made any attempt to change things, to rectify something, Hells, even to explain himself in some capacity. He knew his mistakes. Why couldn’t he have done something before it came to this? Before he was fucking actually gone?
Quiet sobs became wails. Tears dripped down onto the pages of photos, each one flipping faster and faster to the very last one. The last picture they had ever taken, seven and a half years ago, almost to the damned day. The rest of the book was full of papers and written letters that Vox never sent. Confessions, apologies, explanations, vents. Poems, stories, some of his own and some that just reminded him of Alastor, of them. His eyes scanned each one, watery, full of static and color filtration, his wiring overheating, thrumming hard in his chest and his head. It hurt. It hurt so fucking bad, goddamnit.
He put the book down, covered his face, and screamed static into the empty, disconnected frequency they once used. He’s so sorry, he’s so fucking sorry, please…
Come back. I’ll do anything.