Chapter Text
Two words.
Five syllables.
One name.
His soulmate.
Even before Vox's death the concept of soulmates intrigued him. The idea of having the name of the person you're meant to be with printed on your skin was comforting though he'd never say it out loud. The knowledge that there was someone out there who was destined to love him no matter what was something he often fell back on.
Two words.
It was his greatest dream when he was younger—meeting his soulmate. A stupid thing to dream about but it was still his greatest. He would always imagine what they were like. How their hair would feel against his fingertips, how their voice would sound calling his name, and how their eyes would sparkle with love as they spent the rest of their days together.
Five syllables.
It didn't matter to him that his soulmate was male. He's never really liked the idea of having kids in the first place so having a man as a soulmate was a good thing for him. Besides, so what if his soulmate is male? They were soulmates. They were made of each other. It didn't matter what sex his other half was, what mattered to him was that his soulmate was meant for him.
One name.
They were fated to be with each other so how could they be a mistake? With half of each other's souls, they would complete each other. They would love each other unconditionally despite their flaws and shortcomings. Welcoming each other with open arms and finding home in one another. Vox liked that idea the most.
His Soulmate.
For years, Vox thought that things things would get better after he met his soulmate. He thought that things would just fall into place without any problem. That was how everyone described their experience with their soulmates so why would his be any different? They would prove to everyone that there was nothing wrong with them despite having same-sex soulmates and that they weren't damaged.
Except, that wasn't what happened.
Things didn't fall into place like people told him they would. They didn't go smoothly for him. He didn't find out how soft his soulmate's hair was, how his voice sounded like, or see his soulmate's eyes light up with love because he failed. Vox didn't get to prove that he wasn't broken or found his home within his soulmate because he never did.
That's right. In the five decades that Vox has lived, he never found his soulmate. His home and his love. He never found Alastor Deblanc.
Then he died. He died and woke up to a red sky with a television for a head. He gave up after that, changing his name into a more fitting one in Hell. Vox was his name, not Vincent. Not that anyone would recognize him as the human he once was but he liked it. It helped him to forget. Helped him to separate himself from the failure he was in his former life.
Besides, why keep a name that held no value? It was already useless since he was in Hell so why keep it? That name was meant for his soulmate and his soulmate wasn't here. So why bother keeping it? Why bother with a name that had no use, no value, no purpose, no home, and so loveless when he can have another name that wasn't marred with uselessness?
So Vox it was.
It wasn't easy in Hell, don't get him wrong. He was nowhere near the top of its hierarchy, his life was currently shit and he had a television for a head but for some reason, it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. He could even say that he was happy to some degree despite how shitty his life was.
Yep, he was happy. He was homeless soulmate-wise but he was free. Free from the bigotry, free from the judgment, and free from the stares he would always receive from having a male soulmate. It wasn't what he wanted but he was free and he was at peace.
Then he met Alastor. The feared Radio Demon who tore up the souls of Hell's greatest evils and feasted on their bodies. He was beautiful, he was perfect but he had no interest in Vox. No, he saw Vox as another lowlife that he would gladly feast on if Vox pushed his luck.
Not that Vox would mind of course. Oh, to be eaten alive by Alastor himself. He wondered how it would feel like to have his claws dig into him and have him take what he wanted. Digging into Vox's flesh and-
"Painful, it would feel painful. Now why don't you take your pathetic arse up to your room and fantasize about your little murder twink here alone." Velvette sneers with her hands on her hips.
Right, Velvette, wait–when did she get here? For a moment, Vox stared at her confused, wracking his brain for the obvious answer as he took another sip from the drink in his hand. Then the realization hits him—he wasn't in the shitty apartment he had in the 1980s, drinking cheap booze to forget Alastor's rejection, he was in the V Tower celebrating after watching Alastor have his ass handed back to him a few hours ago.
He was celebrating, right. So why did Velvette look like she was about to use him as a pin cushion, wait, better yet, what did she say again?
"V, Darling, you're drunk," Velvette said in a tone that reminded him of a school teacher trying and failing to tell off a student without making it obvious that they don't give a shit. Huh, Velvette as a teacher, now that's a funny thought.
Vox stifled a laugh, he could already imagine her in a white blouse and a pencil skirt cursing out bratty children and their even brattier parents. Now that was something he'd pay to see and-
Fingers snapped in front of his face and Vox blinked. Now Velvette looked even more furious than before. "What?"
"Oh fuck me," She mumbled to herself, and the next thing Vox knew, his drink was gone and he was being dragged off the couch and thrown into the elevator. Was she always this strong or was he missing something here? There was his sweater anyway? He could have sworn he had it on while he was drinking a while ago so where..?
"I swear, you can't keep doing this to yourself, V, moping around because of some bitch not wanting to have sex with you is low, even for you" Velvette pulled him into his room and unceremoniously shoved him onto his bed. "So stop it, sleep it off, and find the radio freak tomorrow. Fuck him or kill him, I don't care just get this shit out of your system."
She pulled the cover over him and left with the door slamming behind her. Vox stared at it, waiting for the doll demon to burst in and tell him it was all a joke. When she didn't, he laid back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Were his receptors deceiving him or was Velvette going soft on him? But better yet, him? Moping? Him? Over the Old Timer?
Nope, Velvette was definitely going soft. He was not moping over that bastard thank you very much. He was just.... bothered, yep, that was the word for it. He was bothered that an angel had beaten Alastor and not him. Because who did that angel think he was putting his hands on Vox's rival? Alastor was his rival for Lucifer's sake. His! He was his and no one else's! Only he had the right to fight Alastor and no one else!
And now, Alastor was probably out there bleeding somewhere in the rubble of that shitty motel the Princess had and-wait bleeding out? No. Vox shot up from his bed and stumbled to the nearest monitor he could get his hands on. Manically scanning through the footage like a madman while his drones scoured the airspace of the hotel.
No, Alastor couldn't be bleeding out. He just couldn't. Surely someone in that crappy hotel noticed him injured and got to him by now, right? He had two of his little minions there, one of whom was practically obsessed with him so there was no way they could have just left him there to bleed out and die when the Princess's thing was to literally help everyone, right?
There was absolutely no way that could happen.
Then one of his drones spots something. At the far edge of the hotel property line, Alastor's radio tower lay broken on its side. Shattered glass and entire chunks of metal were bent and twisted around its frame, it was almost impressive how it hadn't collapsed in on itself all things considered.
Wait-was that? Vox zoomed in to get a better view at the inside of the tower and paused. Alastor was inside. He almost couldn't believe his eyes, he was actually wrong about the Princess. Vox laughed, claws digging into the wood of his desk as his drones zeroed in on Alastor's form.
There laid the great and powerful Radio Demon bleeding out, abandoned by those he called friends. So much for Princess Bleeding Heart yapping about protecting one's friends and comradery. His so-called friends didn't even know he was dying if the live feed Vox was watching held true. They were celebrating inside the new hotel and having drinks while Alastor laid rotting inside his tower.
It was a joke, it had to be a joke. Alastor could not be dying because the Princess's stupid hotel. He couldn't be. Surely, this was just some sort of plot by Alastor to get Vox to put his guard down and attack him. There was no way he could really be dying, right? Surely the reason why Vox could see Alastor so clearly in his feed wasn't because he was weakening and close to death but because he wanted Vox to see him, right?
That was it. That had to be it. Alastor was not dying. He wasn't! He was just playing a trick on Vox to see if he was stupid enough to believe it. He was trying to see if Vox was willing to leave the safety of his tower and finish him off.
Why else would he let himself be vulnerable out in the open like this if not to tempt Vox into having a fight with him? Why else would let himself be seen as weak and injured unless it wasn't really him?
Well if Alastor wanted to fight him, who was Vox to decline? He's been itching to have a go with that bastard since he left seven years ago so why let this opportunity go to waste? Vox laughed to himself giddily, this was it, finally, the rematch he was waiting for. Finally, after all these years waiting he would be facing Alastor off and this time, he would show him who's boss.
Without a second thought, Vox zapped through the electric currents of his monitor and into Alastor's Tower through his drones. By Lucifer himself, the image shown to him was a real understatement of how damaged everything was. The inside didn't even resemble a radio tower anymore, it just looked like a pile of scrap metal thrown around. Broken glass and shards of metal littered the once proud station of the Radio Demon.
This couldn't be real, Alastor would never let this place stay trashed like this. This had to be some sort of illusion, it had to be, it needed to be because there was no way he could accept the alternative.
A feeling of dread washes over him, and the smell of blood hits him. There was no way he could deny it now, it was all real. The mess, the strong scent of blood, there was no denying it. There was absolutely no way in the Seven Rings of Hell Alastor would let his radio tower stay like this with how much of a neat freak he was and if he hadn't already done something then...
Vox swallowed, he was almost afraid to look around because of what he could find. Which was ridiculous considering he came here to fight Alastor in the first place. It must be the alcohol, he concluded, that was it and nothing else.
Then he sees a shoe. It was behind the control panel so he couldn't really see who was wearing it and it could be anyone though realistically, there was only one person that could be attached to it. There was no doubt that if he continued forward, he would see the owner of it and he was almost afraid. A part of him screamed to just turn around and look, to stop acting like an idiot and walk over there before Alastor ran. The other part of him, the naive and idiotic part, begged him to stay put—afraid that what he'd seen on the monitor was true and Alastor was dying behind the control panel.
Vox walked over and then–oh. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, please this couldn't be true. Please, he couldn't–no. His eyes had to be deceiving him, they had to be—Alastor—he had to be playing a trick on him right? He has to be. This couldn't be him, not him, not-
It felt like time had stopped for Vox as he stood there with his eyes wide and his mouth gaping open. Denying what was right in front of him and refusing to believe what he was seeing as his own two eyes stared at it–at him. Alastor laid motionless on the ground in a pool of blood. His chest barely moving as his hand laid on his chest, unable to cover the wide gash that spanned his entire chest.
No.
No.
No.
No.
Vox stumbled on his feet, his hands shaking as he knelt down beside Alastor. He looked so peaceful like this; on his back with his eyes closed shut and his smile barely present on his lips. It was almost as if he was sleeping and not bleeding to death. Vox leaned over to touch his cheek but stopped midway, he couldn't, Alastor—he didn't like to be touched and for some reason, Vox couldn't.
He couldn't bring himself to push and take what he wanted when Alastor was literally dying in front of him. Now if only he had realized that sooner. That was why they fell apart in the first place because Vox couldn't help but try his boundaries. Always pushing him and demanding more, it was his fault they fell apart. Or was the blame on both of them?
Come to think of it, Alastor had never seen him as his equal. To him, Vox was always below him, always not enough to be considered a threat, always just a little annoying sinner who wasn't worth his time and attention. It didn't matter that Vox owned one of Hell's largest empires, it still wasn't enough for Alastor to treat him as an actual rival and not just a whiny kid to put down and reprimand.
It was almost ridiculous to think of how much Vox had done just for Alastor to see him. His empire, his power, his status, everything he had started–he hungered for, started because he wanted Alastor to look at him. Not as a child but as him, the Overlord and Television Demon, his rival. But now he was dying.
Alastor, the main driving force for his ambitions was dying. He was on the floor bleeding from an angel's wound because he chose to believe in the Princess's stupid dream. He was dying and no one except Vox knew.
That thought didn't bring Vox nearly as much satisfaction as he thought it would. On the contrary, it infuriated him because how dare they—the people that Alastor chose over him—leave him out here to die? How dare they forget Alastor and sentence him to die a lonely death? Better yet, how dare Alastor let himself be injured by someone who wasn't Vox? By a person who had no right to touch even a single hair on his head?
Now Alastor was dying because of it, but Vox couldn't let that happen. He refused to let that happen. If there was anyone in this shitty afterlife that was going to have the satisfaction of hurting and killing Alastor, that would be him. That should be him and only him.
Without a second thought, Vox scooped Alastor up in his arms and zapped through the monitors into his own room. There, he dumped Alastor onto his bed and rummaged through his cabinets for a first-aid kit he knew he had.
Alastor was not going to die on him, Vox refused to let him. He was going to bring him back from double-hell whether he liked it or not and then he was going to kill him himself. That's right, that was the only reason why Vox trying to save him and nothing else.... wait.
Vox paused, eyes landing on Alastor's thigh where his pants were cut and hung on by a tread. There was a name there but he could hardly make out the letters of it from the blood and cloth covering it.
For a moment, he debated whether or not he should give in to his curiosity and take a look at it. On one hand, soulmarks were private and shouldn't be seen by strangers, but on the other hand, what Alastor didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Fuck it, Alastor owed him anyway. Vox gave his pants a tug and froze.
Vincent McKlaney.
What the actual fuck.