Chapter Text
New Orleans, in the final breath of the 1950s, had a way of swallowing newcomers like Hell. The heat sank into the bones, the air clung to the skin, and the sound of the city— made up by cacophonous jazz horns, gossipy porch chatter, and the clattering of streetcars— never truly ended. For Vincent Whittman, it was both overwhelming and intoxicating. He took a deep breath of the city air through his nose— the smell of sugary beignets and river grime mingling together, swept through the streets by a light summer breeze offering little mercy from the heat— and got out of his Pontiac Star Chief with his hat tilted. In spiteful defiance of the pressing humidity, his dark shirt was crisp and his darker hair was neat. In his hands, already treacherously beading with sweat mere moments after stepping into the late day sun, he held a freshly signed contract that he swiftly folded in clear-cut lines to tuck into his jacket pocket.
Yes, New Orleans was as loud and alive as the origins of tribulation; teeming with sinful, tantalizing possibilities— and Vincent was hungry for all of it.
The most popular television station in all of Louisiana— Channel Seven Broadcasting— sat on the edge of the French Quarter with an air of defined nobility, as if it knew what it was and wasn't interested in hiding it. It was a refurbished brick building, one that must’ve had its origins in the twenties, but its age wasn’t evident at first glance. Where peeling white trim and chipped-away baseboards made themselves at home in the buildings nearby, such features found no welcome at Channel Seven. The glossy accent paints looked professional and fresh, the windows polished to a mirror finish, and the door handles fashioned in a glistening brass not dissimilar from an untried French horn. The radio tower stood proudly and unflinching atop the station; a wrought-iron crown that Channel Seven wore proudly.
It’s clean-cut presentation wasn’t dissimilar from that of the Station Managers, Valentino Romero and Velvette Derreway. Vincent had been shocked to learn that a woman— and a black woman at that— was dually responsible for the station’s success alongside such a prosperous and wealthy man as Valentino, but that surprise hadn’t lasted long upon meeting her in-person to receive the details of his contract. She was sharp in every sense of the word— voice, attitude, and presentation all chiseled to perfection. Valentino, on the other hand, was a different story entirely. Voice of velvet, flourish in every hand motion and hip sway, and dressed with grandeur dripping off of him like molten gold. Together, they’d built an empire, one Vincent had signed his name to.
What a reputation to live up to.
This evening— his very first in the Crescent City— he’d been invited to meet his colleagues at the annual Magnolia Media Mixer, a loud and lavish event where radio personalities, television hosts, and up-and-coming advertisers pretended they liked each other for one night. To Vincent, this was his baptism into the industry. He had to make the most of it.
With a deep sigh to calm his nerves and a puff of his chest to boast his feigned confidence, he took the brass handles in hand and swung open the double doors.
Immediately, a cacophony of chaos unfurled before him.
The lobby sweltered with the leathery aroma of cigar smoke. The crowd was dense with pressed suits and cocktail dresses, silver and gold adornments reflecting the warm wall-sconce lighting. The conversations were thick, pointless, and endless— filled to the brim with small talk about their respective industries and positions, the state of the country, and whatever else one might try to drink away throughout the evening.
To one side of the lobby, an evening bar had been set up— already swarmed with patrons vying for their own glasses of extortionate champagne and liquor. To the other side, lounging couches and tables overshadowed where the front desk of the station would usually take center stage. And in the back, standing proudly before the main doors that lead to the rest of the station, a raised platform had been constructed, hosting a rousing jazz band that filled any empty spaces between conversations with their soulful songs.
No one noticed Vincent’s entrance.
Vincent observed the people around him as he wove through the thick crowd for a place of his own within it. Everyone here seemed to have spared no expense— women wore diamonds and hung off the arms of their debonair colleagues. Vincent could see their pearly-white smiles, entirely befitting their industries— completely fabricated, only presented to convince their opponents of their superiority or to lull their patrons into casting deals.
Vincent chuckled under his breath. Luxury and status be damned, he fit in well. He was a man of tall stature and crisp fashion with striking bicolored eyes that captivated anyone that met his gaze. Silver-tongued, self-assured, and effortlessly charming. He knew it well, and wore it better. He had a kind of smile that charmed people into believing he knew something they didn’t. His old friends from the city had called him “Vincent the Fox”— shortened over the years to simply “Vox”— due to how many attributes he shared with the creature.
Such qualities were tested well throughout the evening, but in time, he found himself almost bored with how little he had to try. People naturally loved him. They conversed easily with him as though he’d never belonged anywhere else, and they introduced him to others like an old friend. He shook hands, feigned polite interest, and glided through the deepening hours with little thought.
Just as he was slipping away from his newfound company with the easy excuse of champagne, the lights in the room were suddenly dimmed. An easy hush fell over the crowd, and the music slowed to a close to make room for whatever affair of the evening came next.
A spotlight snapped on and pointed everyone’s attention to the stage at the back, where an announcer— a young, slim man with strawberry-blonde hair— stepped onto the stage, gently tapping the microphone.
“Welcome one and all to the Magnolia Media Mixer! How’s everyone doing tonight?”
Light cheers rose from the crowd, and the announcer continued his trivial speech, to which Vincent paid little mind. He busied himself with ordering a glass of white wine— on the company’s tab, of course— and took a long, slow sip before he bothered turning his attention back towards the stage.
“—and now,” said the announcer, “please welcome to the stage one of the best-known radio personalities of our era and the pride of New Orleans— Alastor Cerfroy!”
The thunderous applause came first. Then, a figure cut cleanly through the crowd, turning heads as he approached the stage. Despite his position at the bar, Vincent’s eyes caught sight of the man before he was able to enter the spotlight. He was thin and slightly shorter than Vincent, dressed sharply in a dark suit with burgundy accents. He walked briskly with a cane in hand— likely an accessory, Vincent thought to himself, as he seemed far too young and agile to truly need one. What caught him off-guard more than the cane, though, was his skin. A rich caramel, too light to be colored but too dark to be white. A mixed-race man.
How could someone like him be here? Vincent himself was far from opposing, but the crowd should have been a different story. These people were wealthy, law-abiding citizens— more or less, once you knew them. This man’s presence should have been protested by the rest of them. He should have been in danger in a place like this. But, bafflingly, the crowd seemed to hardly notice.
It made Vincent pay closer attention. After all, not just anyone like this “radio sensation” could be here, let alone be welcomed with ease.
When the man finally stepped into the spotlight and the applause began to fade, Vincent could see his facial features more clearly. His deep brown eyes, gleaming with an almost mischievous look in them. His sculpted jaw and nose, radiating refinement. His loose hickory curls that caught the light, brushed back expertly. And his smile. Oh, his smile. Out of every one he’d seen this evening, this man’s smile captured Vincent’s attention more than anything. It was like a knife’s edge, beautiful and glistening and dangerous, yet somehow warm enough to pull you in if you weren’t careful enough.
As the applause ceased and silence blanketed the room, the man introduced as Alastor began to speak.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
Vincent’s heart gave a loud, treacherous thud.
This man’s voice was something else entirely.
It held a melodic note to it, smooth as the chicory coffee found in every corner café of New Orleans. The microphone in front of him captured the richness and depth with ease, amplifying it tenfold throughout the entire room. It charmed, captivated, and chased. Irresistible and unignorable.
Vincent felt something inside him jolt. Not only was the man on stage incredibly attractive, but he had an air about him that simply couldn’t be brushed aside like all the others.
It was enchanting.
Vincent found himself drifting through the crowd despite not ordering his legs to move, disregarding the wine entirely. His eyes wouldn’t— no, couldn’t leave the man on stage.
He wouldn’t say it was attraction. Recognition, perhaps. The sense of orbiting too close to a star he hadn’t realized was there. And oh what a star he was. Bright, blinding, and immense in his presence.
Alastor continued speaking with ease, charming the crowd with captivating stories and flattery. Laughter rippled through the room, and Alastor appeared to soak it in, radiating charisma. He was in his element. They paid no mind to his differences that so often set him apart in a crowd. Here, in this moment, every eye in the room was on him and him alone for all the right reasons. Including, of course, Vincent’s.
Vincent wasn’t exactly listening to the crafted narratives or the easy adulations passing from Alastor’s lips as easily as oxygen. He was listening to that damned voice— the way it dipped low before slowly, steadily climbing into a teasing lilt. Alastor appeared confident, playful. Entrancing above all else.
There was no one else like him in all the world. There simply couldn’t be. For that, Vincent was sure.
The room faded around him. All that remained was the striking man on stage who commanded the attention of every patron, framed by red curtains and golden light. Vincent’s gaze lingered shamelessly, drawn to him without permission.
And then Alastor’s eyes met his.
It didn’t seem like an accidental glance. No, it held too long for that. It was almost as if Alastor had paused mid-sentence, only for a near-unnoticeable breath, before he broke the connection and continued on with his show. Had Vincent seen the man’s smile sharpen? Was there a hint of intrigue, amusement, and recognition? The wine couldn’t have gone to his head that fast, could it?
Vincent swallowed hard when Alastor smoothly turned back to his story as if the moment had never happened. However, it was undeniable now. Vincent felt a spark light up under his skin— and perhaps elsewhere, too— when those ochre eyes met his.
Hopelessly, his breathing caught more often now. Every shift of Alastor’s hips or sliding of his hands against the microphone stand sent shivers down Vincent’s spine.
When the applause rose again with finality, Vincent exhaled slowly, not realizing before how much he’d been straining his lungs. Alastor took a single, polite bow before leaving the microphone in the care of the announcer and stepping away from the light yet again.
As he did, it was as if the spell had been broken. The wall-sconces returned to their vibrant glow, the band went back to playing their songs, and conversation rose as though uninterrupted. But something, undoubtedly, had shifted. The tenseness in Vincent’s shoulders was gone. His body felt lighter. He didn’t know if the other patrons had changed their tune as well, but to Vincent, one thing was clear—
He had to talk to Alastor Cerfroy before the night was through.
Fate, gratefully, seemed to oblige. A mere twenty minutes later, while Vincent stood alone at the bar with a new glass of wine and a clouded mind, a familiar voice purred behind him— sending shivers up his spine yet again.
“I couldn’t help but notice, my good man, that you stared rather intently throughout my entire presentation.”
Vincent turned quickly. Alastor stood closer to him than he had expected. Close enough, in fact, that Vincent could see the subtle freckles on his cheeks and nose; close enough that he could smell the faint hint of spice, smoke, and scotch on him; close enough to feel the heat of Alastor’s presence.
Alastor tilted his head. His smile was wicked, and his tone was silken as he continued.
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
Vincent parted his lips, stunned for a moment, before resharpening his focus and clearing his throat.
“Something like that.”
Alastor’s grin widened, and the spark within Vincent grew swiftly into a flame.
“You’re new,” Alastor stated plainly.
“I am,” Vincent replied. “Vincent Whittman. Some call me Vox.”
“A stage name?” Alastor asked, tilting his head curiously.
“A nickname,” Vincent corrected. “But it’ll do the job both on and off camera.”
Alastor’s smile curled upwards. “Ambitious. I admire that.”
A beat of silence hovered between them. Then, Alastor stepped an inch closer. Vincent didn’t step back. Something electric sparked in the air. There was a sort of slow, warm thrum in his sternum, almost like a strange awareness of how close Alastor was.
“My dear” Alastor began, his voice low and velvety. It was enough to have Vincent’s stomach in knots. No matter how much he knew it was simply a southern pleasantry, nothing more, his body didn’t seem to get the memo.
“I must say, out of everyone watching my performance this evening, you by far seemed the most captivated by it.”
It wasn’t accusing, merely intrigued.
The truth flared through Vincent’s chest. He steadied his breath, meeting Alastor’s gaze with confidence he didn’t quite feel. “You were hard to miss.”
Alastor laughed. The sound vibrated with light amusement and playfulness. It was yet another thing about the man before him that entranced Vincent. “Flattery will take you to many places in this industry, my friend. But it won’t take you anywhere with me.”
“It wasn’t flattery,” Vincent replied without thinking. “It was an observation.”
Alastor lifted his eyebrows. He seemed delighted.
“Observation, then.” His gaze swept over Vincent’s face with clinical interest. “And what did you observe that kept you listening, hm?”
Vincent intended to give a suave or smart answer. However, his next words slipped out totally unguarded.
“You know exactly how to hold people’s attention.”
Alastor’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Do I hold yours?”
Vincent felt his pulse kick hard. His throat tightened. Time seemed to slow around them. He didn’t really hear the warm buzz of the music or the chatter around them anymore. Faintly, he registered that the station doors had been thrown open and the party began to wander outside into the night air, where fireflies drifted lazily and the light smell of magnolia swirled through the humid air.
A rational man would have stepped back to put some space between them; would have remembered the risk woven into even the smallest implications.
But Vincent had never been good at choosing rationality over temptation, and that certainly wasn’t going to change now.
“Maybe,” he answered quietly.
Alastor’s smile sharpened, but not maliciously. In fact, its upturned edges seemed almost gentle. The combination struck Vincent as odd— it was like a knife wrapped in velvet.
“Well then,” Alastor murmured, “perhaps we should ensure your certainty.”
Before Vincent could dare to respond, the moment was abruptly interrupted by two other guests approaching them, cheerfully greeting Alastor by name. The small distance between the two men swiftly increased to brush away any poor appearances, and Alastor himself seemed to morph into someone different before Vincent’s very eyes. With one last sly glance towards the taller man, Alastor turned to greet the new company with warm enthusiasm. His posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and his easy smile seemed to change into something more controlled. It was almost disheartening to see. Gone was the Alastor that laughed and looked freely, and here was the Alastor that held courtesy and clean appearances at the forefront of his presentation.
Vincent muttered something about wine and lost conversation before dipping his head and taking his leave. He inhaled shakily as the distance between himself and the radio sensation increased. He’d made it out alive. Somehow, his body hadn’t given out, though he wasn’t sure how much longer that would have remained true. For that, he was grateful for the interruption. At the same time, though, he found a spark of irritation heating his heart. He hadn’t finished his conversation— far from it, in fact. And how likely was he to have another chance like that again? This city was big. Not as big as New York City, but still immense in a different kind of way. Whereas the Big Apple could drown someone in its size and grandeur, the Crescent City could overwhelm someone with its people— every one of them a story eagerly waiting to be told.
He felt crestfallen at the thought that the very first time he’d ever been able to speak with Alastor Cerfroy might also be his last.
He needed some air, or at least something less intoxicating than Alastor’s presence or the abundant liquor. He spotted an unoccupied lounging couch beside a tall window and took his chance, weaving through the crowd to stake his claim on the precious free space. When he was finally able to sit down and let out a sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he turned his attention away from the crowd and to the city beyond the window. His eyes wandered over the mismatched buildings and glowing street lamps below as his mind drifted back to the minutes prior.
What was that?
Vincent had never reacted to anyone so quickly— especially not a man. No one had ever drawn him in like that in the past. Something about Alastor felt magnetic, almost hypnotic, like a radio frequency he’d tuned into accidentally and now couldn’t bear to turn off.
The last thing on his mind was turning this frequency off.
Once he’d settled into his quiet nook of the event, he was reluctant to let it go—left alone with his spiraling thoughts and the fading rays of light from beyond the window. Time trickled by with a painful slowness, and no matter what it might have done for him, Vincent couldn’t bring himself to return to the easy conversings that had occupied his time before.
He didn’t want to be inauthentic again. Not tonight.
Eventually, after what seemed like hours of agonizing thought, the sound of the music began to dissipate and the event faded into late evening. People trickled out of the building like blood from a wound without returning, and the Magnolia Media Mixer slowly found its close. When Vincent finally decided to make his exit, he tried to spot Alastor amidst the thinning crowd but couldn’t catch any sign of him. Perhaps he’d left long before, not bothering to make his exit known. Vincent shrugged it off as he headed for the double doors, though a sting of disappointment pierced his heart. With one final and futile backwards glance, he joined the rest of the crowd and walked through the cool night air towards his car, doing his best to stave off the strange melancholy that settled more and more easily onto his shoulders with every step away from the station.
His arrival at his new flat was untriumphant and slow. He’d only finished signing his lease in the days prior, but he’d never gotten a chance to see it for himself. Only the movers had that privilege, evident by the presence of boxes scattered about the space as the door creaked open, letting in the amber glow of the streetlights scattered outside. He’d lived modestly enough in New York City, but this…
Well, he’d have to make do.
There were hardly any furnishings, save for those that came with the apartment— a chipped kitchen counter, a rickety stove, a leaky sink that drip-drip-dripped with perseverance, and a bedframe that creaked when he moved his mattress onto it and made his bed for the evening. The walls around him smelled faintly of mildew, the paint peeling in certain places on the walls, and as he laid down to rest, he could make out faint water stains on the ceiling in the dim light filtering through the tattered curtains of his bedroom window. The only items in the apartment that looked like they belonged to him were his black briefcase set by the door, his jacket and hat draped over a chair, and himself.
He took a deep breath in, and let it go.
If someone told him a month ago that this would be his new residence, his new life, he would have scoffed and sent them back into the streets where they belonged. Now, though, he looked like riffraff himself.
It had begun with a promotion.
Not his, of course. His superior’s, at a little station tucked away in New York City. It was a smaller set of studios in comparison to Channel Seven, but they’d squeezed into their nook of the city and made it home. Over the years, the station had only grown in popularity, and he was undoubtedly a part of its success. None of their technical workings would have even flickered to life without his magic touch, nimble fingers working their way over the controls as easily as a musician’s might glide over harp strings.
They needed him. Or, at least, that’s what he thought.
But when the station had gained enough traction to look into purchasing slots on day channels, the hierarchy of the station had to change. One of those changes involved his superior being promoted to a director's position. The other involved his new superior, the replacement for his old one, terminating Vincent’s employment contract.
He well-remembered the words that damned him.
“It’s nothing personal, son. It’s just that a station this big needs new talent, new blood. Trust me, it’s just business.”
He spent two days drowning in scotch— his drink of choice— before an envelope arrived at his doorstep. His name was scrawled across the front in neat, sharp cursive, the loops of the letters cutting into the paper in a manner befitting of importance. And importance it certainly held.
Upon the cream-colored parchment that fell from the envelope were the details of a lucrative employment opportunity. Channel Seven Broadcasting had taken notice of his absence on the airwaves, despite only being responsible for the airwaves themselves, and wanted him to drop everything to move to Louisiana and usher in a new era of entertainment.
He took a day to think it over, but it wasn’t a difficult choice to make. The city had squeezed him tighter and tighter over the years, and he had nothing left to stay for. A change of scenery, he reasoned, might be just what he needed.
The agreement was made, and his employers flew all the way up to New York to personally shake his hand and outline the details of his employment more clearly. It was an honor in and of itself to have been noticed, but they treated him with a respect he hadn’t known in years. His talent, they agreed, was nothing to scoff at. Before the ink of his contract had dried, they were handing him his new lease, new car keys, and a train ticket. The rest was arranged in the following days that led up to this one.
Vincent let out a sigh and stood. His new residence might not be to his liking, but he didn’t have to wallow. He loosened his red tie, unbuttoned his dress shirt, and chose a box to unpack. Slowly, as the moon rose higher above the city, he laid out his meager belongings. A few more dress shirts to hang, a toaster and a few plates, and a busted-up second-hand radio he’d fallen in love with over the years.
He set the radio on his nightstand out of habit. He needed something to fill the silence around him. The dial cracked; static hissed. Then, he was met with a warm, rich voice that slid into the room like honey.
“—od evening, my dear listeners. This is Alastor Cerfroy speaking, and tonight, I’d like to tell you a story.”
Vincent froze as his heart climbed to his throat. Yet again, he couldn’t focus on what Alastor was talking about, but his voice wrapped around him, soft and intimate in the solitude of his room. Alastor spoke with the same effortless charisma he had displayed earlier, weaving some whimsical tale for his late-night audience before continuing with the latest news. Vincent walked over to his bed, leaning back on its edge and exhaling slowly.
He smiled. It was small at first but grew wider with every second. What a ridiculous thing to smile at; a voice on the radio. What an impossible and dangerous thing to be drawn to another so quickly after one measly conversation at a party, especially when that other was a mixed man.
Vincent laid back on his bed, arms draped over his forehead. Tentatively, he left the channel on, and soon enough he was listening to the broadcast until the very last word. His smile stayed even after Alastor bid his farewell for the night and the channel faded into evening jazz.
He wasn’t sure what had happened. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen. But he knew this much: he had to see Alastor again. The party couldn’t have been his only chance to hear that voice in person. He could still feel the frequency beneath his skin.
The Magnolia Media Mixer had been his introduction to New Orleans. Yet, Alastor Cerfroy alone was the spark that made the city feel alive.
Vincent was a lot of things. Charming, intelligent, and confident, to name a few. But what he was most grateful for tonight was that, in this grand and unfamiliar city, he wasn’t as alone as he thought he’d be.