Chapter Text
Mornings in New Orleans could be gentle if one rose before the city’s heartbeat found its rhythm; before the streetcars began their metallic groaning, before the café doors swung open and released the scent of chicory into the humid air.
Before the Quarter fully awakened, one could find peace.
Alastor liked mornings for that reason. They were quiet, subdued, and honest.
He had risen well before dawn despite working late last night. Though, that wasn’t a change in his routine. No matter the hour he began his rest, his body always woke him early enough to watch the sun peek out over the French Quarter.
Slipping from his modest room in his Aunt Rosie’s house with the silent precision of a man who had spent most of his life trying not to disturb others, he made his way downstairs. His room was immaculately kept; the bed was always made with crisp corners, and the wardrobe organized by shade and fabric texture. His personal things were few but carefully arranged. He believed that one ought to curate one’s space the same way one curated one’s person.
Downstairs, the house smelled of last night’s jambalaya, its lingering spice clinging stubbornly to the walls. The worn wooden floorboards creaked in familiar places as he stepped lightly through the hallway towards the kitchen. A faint clatter echoed behind a nearby door. It was probably Niffty Vedalia, the housekeeper. She was always up just as early as Alastor, cleaning something that certainly didn’t need any more cleaning.
When he entered the kitchen, it was blissfully empty, allowing him to make a modest breakfast without interruption. But such stillness only lasted for two whole minutes, as it didn’t take much longer for Rosie to sweep in, enveloping the room in her presence like a summer storm. She wore her morning burgundy robe embroidered with magnolia blossoms, which contrasted beautifully against her light skin. Her faded blonde hair was pinned neatly back with silver hair pins that matched the embroidery. She barely spared Alastor, who had taken his seat at the table, more than a glance before busying herself at the stove.
The polished kettle was filled with water, boiled, and poured over filtered chicory grounds. All the while, Rosie quietly hummed a cheery tune under her breath, something old and implacable.
“Coffee,” she declared, pouring some into a mug for Alastor, “is the only thing keeping this house from falling into wickedness.”
“Indeed, it is,” Alastor chuckled, picking up a folded newspaper from the table. “Good morning, Rosie.”
Rosie walked over and placed the mug in front of him. Then, she sat down across from him at the kitchen table.
“You’re up early.”
“I’m always up early.”
“But never with so much gusto. Breakfast usually waits until nine.”
“I have a meeting to attend this morning,” he admitted. It wasn’t quite a lie, but it certainly wasn’t the full truth. “And, as you know, I prefer to be at my best for such affairs.”
Rosie paused, her expression changing into something more subdued as she gave him a searching look. “You’ve been restless since you came home last night. You didn’t even finish your jambalaya, which I, if I may add, cooked with a lot of love only for you.”
Alastor took a bite of his toast and brushed an invisible piece of lint off of his pant leg, taking his eyes off Rosie in as casual of a manner as possible. “Have I now?”
“Mhmmm.” She stood up again, returning to the stove for her own early breakfast preparations. “Did something happen last night at that Mixer?”
Alastor lifted the newspaper, pretending to read it. He didn’t, however, actually absorb any of the words on the paper. “Nothing unusual,” he replied.
Rosie gave a thoughtful hum that indicated she knew he was omitting more than he was admitting.
“I know you barely wanted to attend to begin with,” she tried again, “and I can hardly imagine it was easy. Didn’t it drain you?”
Alastor thought to himself that it was quite the opposite, that there was someone there that made the whole cumbersome festivity worth attending, but he hardly wanted probing questions on the matter when he himself hadn’t fully wrapped his mind around the evening’s events.
“Not at all,” he stated plainly. “The drink was worth indulging in, and the night slipped by blissfully.”
“But you were careful?”
Ah, there it was. Rosie’s true worry. Alastor had always been subject to discrimination on the wrong sides of town, and the party he attended wouldn’t have exactly been an exception had his reputation not preceded him. Things still could have gone wrong, though. Of course they could have. For people like him, it was more of an unpredictable certainty. Rosie, officially as his godmother and socially as his aunt, fretted over his safety and well-being often. He never found it particularly incommodious or troublesome, but he could handle himself well enough after all these years.
“I was.” Alastor rested a hand atop Rosie’s and offered a reassuring smile. “I can assure you, I stayed no longer than necessary, indulged no more than obligatory, and spoke to no one that didn’t speak first.”
The last part was another half-truth. The new face, whose name he couldn’t quite recall through the mild hangover, spoke only with longing looks before Alastor approached him. It was a risk, and regardless of its payoff, Alastor wasn’t about to tell Rosie about it.
She sighed and shook her head. “Alright. I just— well, you know I don’t worry without reason.”
“And I’d never ask you to,” Alastor replied.
She nodded once and stood, moving towards the kitchen counter.
“Well, my dear, eat something a bit more filling before you run off.”
When she returned, she set a plate of biscuits in front of him. Alastor thanked her, but his appetite was faint. His mind drifted back to last night’s meeting, back to the crowd of performers and executives, to the clink of glasses, and to the warm, buzzing jazz music in the air.
In his memories, there stood the man at the bar wearing a trim vest, tie loosened just enough to stand out in the sea of stiff collars. Vincent Whittman, as he had introduced himself. The thought of the name alone made his mind whirl.
He hadn’t expected to meet someone so intriguing, especially not at the Mixer of all places. Vincent was the sort of man who carried ambition in his posture, confidence in his voice, and carelessness in his attitude— and yet, something softer was tucked away just beneath the surface. It was evident when his eyes caught the man’s in the crowd during his performance, and even more so when he’d approached him at the bar. Vincent presented himself like a man who wanted to be seen. And Alastor had seen him. Not only for his veil of politesse, but for the way his breath caught when Alastor found himself closer than he should be.
Usually, Alastor would never do what he’d done. He had appearances to keep up for all that he was, and his reputation was something he didn’t want tarnished. But it went beyond that. For all his politeness and civility, Alastor wasn’t interested in making connections— friends or… otherwise. Friends in business were never real, and outside of it, they seldom lasted. One could never know what might hide beyond a friendly smile. So, to Alastor, there was no reason to engage in any such processes beyond formality and usefulness.
Yet, the contradiction Alastor saw in Vincent was maddeningly intriguing.
Alastor tapped his slim fingers lightly against the black of the newspaper. He could still recall the way Vincent’s eyes widened when he talked to him, the subtle flush he probably hadn’t even noticed along his jawline, and the way his breath caught when Alastor leaned in closer— dangerously, torturously closer. It was only a brief moment between them, but it lingered in Alastor’s mind more than anything else that happened throughout the evening.
Alastor didn’t linger on men often, at least not openly. Yet, Vincent looked at him as if he recognized something he wasn’t supposed to see. And Alastor himself recognized something he didn’t think he’d find.
Alastor’s pulse had quickened far more than was appropriate, but he ensured his breathing was steady as he set the thoughts aside. He would have time for them later. In his mind, it was best not to linger on evening affairs in the daylight.
Behind him, the kitchen door swung open again, and an old friend sauntered in, looking as though the evening had mauled him and sleep had evaded him.
Husker Baptiste— Husk, for short— in all his disheveled glory, sat down heavily beside Alastor at the kitchen table, groaning at the way his back muscles protested the movement and rubbing a hand over his scruffy face to try to brush off the exhaustion that clung to him.
If Alastor had to guess, and his guesses were usually right in these cases, Husk had probably been out for another night of gambling and drinking his life away. He and Alastor were opposites, in those ways and others. When Alastor was put together, Husk was coming undone at the seams. When Alastor radiated a chipper and dignified energy, Husk was slipping from one hangover to another and didn’t bother with any sort of pleasantries. He was the last person one might expect to be living in the room down the hall from people like Rosie and Alastor.
And yet, even if Alastor would never admit it loudly, Husk was his most honored and true friend. Childhood turmoils had never cleaved them apart, nor had their vast differences, and that was something Alastor could never put the right words to in regards to how much he cherished it. The world might not understand them, but it hardly understood much at all these days.
Husk muttered a few undistinguishable things under his breath and reached across the table to steal Alastor’s coffee mug, to which the latter only huffed at. His black hair stuck up at odd angles, his shirt was wrinkled beyond salvation, the bags under his dark eyes contrasted starkly against his darker skin, and his lips pursed into a scowl at the sweet bite to Alastor’s coffee. He was the spitting image of a washed-out bachelor, but not a comment was made on the matter.
“You’re dressed,” Husk grumbled, trying the coffee again instead of putting in the effort to pour a cup of his own. “Horrifying.”
“Good morning to you too, Husk,” Alastor chuckled. Husk grumbled again and lazily grabbed a biscuit from the plate Rosie had set out.
Niffty rushed in a second later, carrying a stack of towels that was half as tall as she was. Her thick black hair was pinned up neatly in a similar fashion to Rosie’s, hinting that they’d likely helped each other with their hair.
“Good morning!” she chirped, swiftly setting the stack down on a chair and grabbing for a biscuit. “Oh, Alastor! I ironed all of your shirts again last night. Now you’ll look like a proper gentleman going somewhere important.”
“I noticed. Thank you, Niffty.” Alastor smiled thinly. “You always know when I have business to tend to.”
“Business,” Husk repeated through a mouthful with a smug grin, “or pleasure?"
Alastor didn’t take the bait, though Husk’s comment did annoy him. Cheeky bastard. Years of sticking together made him know Alastor too well.
Rosie clicked her tongue from her place at the counter. “Let the man be. If he has business of the personal kind, that’s his own affair.”
Alastor was thankful for her intervention before the conversation could become more awkward, but his grip on the newspaper tightened. Was it personal business? Could this sort of anticipation to see another be called someone's personal business? He pushed the thought away and loosed his grip. It was too early in the morning to be this tense.
“So,” Rosie said casually, “what’s this meeting about? You usually would have told us if something like this was coming up at your station, which leads me to believe it isn’t involved with your broadcast.”
Husk snorted. “Maybe he got the hots for one of those pretty boy news actors who think they run the world. It would explain why he was out so damn late.”
Niffty buzzed around the kitchen with excitement as she busied herself with more breakfast preparations, her almond eyes roving over every surface for ingredients and dishes alike. “Maybe Alastor will invite them over! It’s been too long since we’ve had a real guest!”
Alastor didn’t like the personal turn the conversation had taken. With his next words, he aimed for indifference, hoping they’d all drop their curiosity and move on. “The Mixer’s crowd consisted of unpalatable white men and their wives, none of whom would have dared look in my direction in such a manner for longer than a few seconds. I wouldn’t have bothered with any of them.” He waved his hand dismissively through the air, causing Husk to huff and Niffty to sigh mournfully.
“As for my meeting,” he continued, “I intend to return to Channel Seven. A few advertisers took interest in partnerships with my broadcast last night, and I failed to properly note their contacts.”
“So you got back at eleven because some yappy advertisers wouldn’t leave you be?” Husk pressed. Alastor didn’t appreciate his tone, and his smile sharpened.
“Nonsense. I simply forgot my cane by the bar and had to walk back for it.”
Husk huffed again, clearly unsatisfied, but he turned his attention back to the coffee. To the side, Rosie shook her head. “You boys need to learn to mind your own business.”
“How was I at all involved in this?” Alastor asked indignantly, to which Rosie gave no reply, serving Alastor a fresh mug of coffee.
Alastor’s words had been lies, perhaps, by omission. He wasn’t only visiting the station to retrieve contact information for advertisers. In fact, that was hardly the reason at all. He wanted to go back to where he had last seen Vincent in the hopes that someone at the station might have more information on him. Alastor hadn’t been given information about his profession or his residence, only that he was a new face in a city that never seemed to hold new faces for very long.
He smoothed his red vest, finished the last few sips of his coffee, and rose with a polite bow toward Rosie.
“I have a broadcast at noon, but I’ll be back before supper.”
“Don’t get into any trouble,” she warned, her tone well-indicating that she was only half-joking.
“When do I ever?”
Husk nearly choked on his biscuit through a bark of laughter, Rosie raised an eyebrow, Niffty giggled maniacally, and Alastor slipped out before any of them could say more.
The French Quarter unfolded in a mosaic of sound and color. Street musicians tested morning scales; cigarette smoke lingered in the alleyways, and shopkeepers swept dust from their steps.
Alastor greeted several familiar faces. Every vendor, caller, and long-time radio listener recognized his voice even when they didn’t recognize his face. It was a gift. Only half of their judgements could fall on him; a benefit of his stardom in radio rather than television. No matter what he looked like, they already loved him.
He traversed the city streets with ease, cane tapping lightly on the cobblestones. The morning air clung to his skin. As he walked, his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts were consumed by flashes of memory that felt all too vivid. The delicacy of Vincent’s eyelashes batting against his flushed cheeks. The way his unblemished lips parted when he spoke, the words coming out as a jumble of nervous excitement. How he had leaned in, ever so subtly, when Alastor moved closer.
Alastor clicked his tongue softly at himself. This was ridiculous. He had entertained countless admirers over the years— men and women alike, though only the men had interested him for longer than a few days— but something about Vincent had clung to him, creeping back into his mind without permission. It was almost unsettling. Not in the usual ways of shallow thrills and risque games played behind curtains and locked doors.
This situation felt dangerous in its gravity, and Alastor did not indulge himself in dangerous pleasures anymore.
He inhaled sharply and forced his stride to steady. The broadcasting building loomed ahead. Channel Seven’s glass windows gleamed beneath the rising sun. It was a place full of noise and ambition. A place that chewed pitiful souls up for breakfast. A place Alastor detested.
Alastor’s steps slowed. Technically, he had no invitation or appointment at the TV department. He’d have to keep himself entirely composed as he gathered what information he needed, steeling himself against any comment or stare.
No matter what anyone thought of him, he reassured himself, he was a part of the industry whether they liked it or not.
________________________
Vincent wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.
He had been working in the station since dawn. His day began with clipped instructions, the scent of hot bulbs, and Velvette, his superior, snapping her fingers in every direction like a conductor drunk on her own orchestral command.
“Camera three is crooked – who did that? Oh wait, never mind, it’s fine. No, I actually hate it, fix it! Vincent! You’re tall and delicate! Come over and fix it! I already know Val’s being a piss baby again, and I don’t want to hear any more shit about it!”
Her British accent was full and rich. It didn’t match the words she took into her mouth, nor her appearance as she flitted about the studios, but that was what Vincent liked about her from the first second onwards. She was brutally honest. She moved at a ruthless pace, dragging Vincent through the labyrinth of sound booths, editing rooms, and studio floors. He tried to absorb everything— lighting specs, broadcast regulations, storage closets, staff names— cataloging it all with practiced precision. This was his home now, and he was responsible for its technical upkeep.
By nine o’clock, Velvette had finally abandoned him to his own duties. Vincent exhaled sharply and rubbed his temples. The chaotic floors of Channel Seven felt nothing like the event last night. It was far more overwhelming, bright, loud, and competitive. He probably shouldn’t have drank as much as he had, nor stayed awake as long as he did, but those regrets were unreminable now. He was just grateful to finally have a slower moment.
He longed, embarrassingly, for calm confidence, something that made everything quieter. If he was even more honest with himself, he longed for Alastor’s voice too. It was ludicrous. He had only met him last night and spoken with him for a few minutes at best, but apparently one interaction was already enough to keep Alastor pressed into Vincent’s thoughts.
He kept himself occupied with work; testing microphones, recalibrating the new studio monitors, and fixing a feedback issue on Camera Two. Despite his position as a new hire, he was in charge of all of the other technicians— who, surprisingly, warmed up to him quickly and without hesitation. He had a knack for solving even the most stubborn of problems, and even if he himself still felt like an outsider, no one protested his directions.
As he busied himself with adjusting a set of cables near the sound board, seeing as the prior cable organization was disastrous, he heard two interns whispering in the hallway.
“I heard from Mindy— you know, the receptionist’s friend— that the radio star is here.”
“No way! Why would he of all people come to the TV department?”
“Maybe he’s finally ready to take up Valentino on his offer.”
“I heard about that! Do you really believe he would?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Who wouldn’t want to work with Valentino?”
“You’re just saying that so you don’t get fired if he hears you!”
Vincent paused; his heart jolted. Could they be talking about Alastor? Why would he be here?
He immediately shoved the thought away. It was a foolish thing to get distracted by, and he had work to do. He didn’t have time for such… juvenile curiosities. After all, he was a grown man in a professional environment, a new leader in his field. He had to stay focused to set a good example for the others. Yet, the hope lingered.
After a few agonizingly imaginative minutes, Vincent stepped away from the tedium of his task to fetch an order of replacement microphones from the front desk, hoping a new distraction might finally take his mind off of the events of last night.
He wasn’t expecting Alastor to be the first thing he saw.
When Vincent opened one of the doors to the lobby, there he was— standing casually at the reception desk, leaning lightly on his cane as he spoke with the secretary. He wore a pressed vest with burgundy accents, not too dissimilar from yesterday evening’s outfit. His voice was light, his smile casual, and suddenly Vincent was tripping over himself all over again.
He thought he must be dreaming. Surely, his imagination had overflowed into reality. There was no chance that the broadcaster would actually be here, not when the nearest radio station was across town.
And yet, there he was anyway. Alastor’s gaze brushed casually over to the doorway that Vincent stood in, drifting away just as casually before he did a double take and stared more intently, as if he too couldn’t believe that he and Vincent were in such close proximity by such chance.
Their eyes met, and Alastor’s smile shifted, deepening past pleasantry and into something more authentic, more dangerous, and more honest.
“Ah, there you are. Good morning, Vincent.”
Vincent’s breath caught, and he tried to control his surprise. “Alastor. What, uh, what are you doing here?”
“Passing by,” Alastor said lightly. “I had a few contacts from yesterday evening that I hadn’t properly connected with. And what of yourself, hmm?”
Vincent’s pulse quickened. “I— well, I work here.”
“I suspected as much,” Alastor replied with a chuckle, his eyes roving over Vincent’s body. Vincent suspected he was inspecting his uniform— nothing garish or flashy, just a simple black button-up with matching slacks and a leather belt, his nametag pinned over his heart— but something about the shimmer in Alastor’s eyes made him feel exposed. He resisted the urge to fidget with his collar or brush invisible pieces of lint from his sleeves.
Composure was usually Vincent’s strong suit. Why, then, was he struggling so much with it now?
Alastor gave the secretary a polite nod, pocketing a small notepad and pen, before stepping closer to Vincent. Vincent could smell his cologne, a pleasant mix of cedar and pepper. It was almost intoxicating with the way it made his head spin. Or was it Alastor’s invasion of his space that threw him off? He couldn’t tell. He was only keenly aware of the man approaching him— the way his pinstriped vest hugged his thin waist, the way he maneuvered his cane so skillfully with his delicate hands, the way the sharp cut of his jawline framed his growing smile. Vincent’s throat tightened.
Had the room gotten hotter, somehow? Perhaps someone had left a door open, he reasoned to himself, knowing full well that no one here would.
Vincent took the barest step back, which Alastor seemed to notice immediately. He paused in his approach, barely two feet in front of him.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to finish our conversation yesterday evening,” Vincent began, rubbing the nape of his neck. Quieter than before, he added, “I enjoyed it.”
“Not at all,” Alastor replied easily, waving his hand through the air. “You were hardly the reason it was cut short. I merely had business to tend to.”
“I could tell,” said Vincent, his eyes shifting away from the radio sensation. He wouldn’t say it aloud, not to anyone, but he didn’t want to see Alastor shift back into his rigid composure again. He didn’t want another reminder of how the evening had slipped away from him. How he was practically helpless to it.
Above all else, Vincent hated being helpless. It was the antithesis of everything he stood for, everything he presented. He wasn’t weak. Never.
There was a moment of silence that passed between the two of them, taken up by the distant ringing of a phone and the shuffling of others rushing around them with papers and briefcases in hand. Then, Alastor spoke again.
“I didn’t just come back here for business, you know.”
It was barely a murmur, but Vincent caught it clear as day. His eyes shot back up, catching Alastor’s ochre gaze yet again. There was a note of sincerity in his expression, in his tone.
Before Vincent could open his mouth to ask what Alastor meant, a sharp voice cut through the lobby.
“Vox! Finally, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Valentino descended the staircase at the far left side of the lobby and swept through the room in broad strides, his heart-shaped sunglasses pushed back into his black hair and his red floor-length coat lined with zebra-print fur billowing out behind him. Every inch of him was gilded in golden accents, which caught the fluorescent light with a painful glare.
Even though they’d only started working together this morning, he’d already made it a habit to call Vincent by his nickname.
His white suit gleamed perfectly, and a dark smirk adorned his flawless face. Once he stood properly before them, his deep brown eyes flicked between Vincent and Alastor with keen interest.
“Well, this is a delightful tableau,” he drawled. “Our cherished little radio phantom is visiting my department. How quaint.”
Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but Vincent saw the sincerity behind it drop. “Mr. Romano. Always a pleasure.”
“Oh I’m sure,” Valentino purred, stepping closer to Vincent. He set his hands heavily onto Vincent’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “Vox, darling, don’t you know it’s rude to keep your superiors waiting on your first day? I thought I told you that the microphones in Studio B needed replacing, and here I find you distracted.” He clicked his tongue condescendingly, making Vincent’s heart drop. “Carelessness isn’t a good look on you.”
The word darling made something dark flicker in Alastor’s eyes. Something Vincent didn’t catch.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Vincent said, nearly stumbling over his words with how fast they came out of his mouth. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m sure it won’t,” Valentino replied smugly, patting one of his shoulders. To their side, Alastor watched them pointedly.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Romano,” he started, “I was just having a riveting little chat with your new employee here. It won’t take very long for me to finish it.”
“And if I did mind?”
Alastor’s jaw tightened. “Then there would be nothing I could do about that. I’d simply have to be on my way.”
Valentino hummed pridefully, seemingly satisfied with Alastor’s submission.
“Well!” he chimed, clapping his hand down on Vincent’s shoulder, “I suppose I could lend him to you for a few minutes. After all, he should get to know all sides of the industry— for better or for worse.”
His smile was wicked and cocky, which Alastor returned sharply. Vincent, pinned in the middle of the tense exchange, suddenly wished he were anywhere else.
“Be careful with this one Vox.” Valentino brushed Vincent’s sleeves with feigned casualness. “Men like Alastor can be… overwhelming.”
Alastor’s eyes sharpened. “And men like you can be overbearing.”
Vincent felt the tension coil tight in the air between them, and stepped subtly out of Valentino’s reach.
“Watch yourself, mulatto. You forget your place here. You should know how to present yourself a little better than that.”
The word dropped heavily, making Alastor freeze in place, and before he knew what he was doing, Vincent stepped out in front of Alastor. There was an unmistakable warning hidden in the gesture.
“I’ll handle the microphones in a minute,” he stated, forcing the caliber of the conversation to shift. “You should go talk to Velvette. She was looking for you this morning.”
A lie, yes, but an easy one. If Vincent had learned anything this morning, it would be that Velvette was almost always looking for Valentino, who always seemed to be somewhere other than where he said he would be.
A second passed, and then another. Valentino seemed to be caught between pressing further or backing down. It wouldn’t be unlike him to make a scene, but here? Now? It was a guessing game, and a deadly one at that.
Finally, the spell broke. Valentino straightened his posture and his collar, turning his chin up at them.
“Mind your manners. And your company,” Valentino replied coolly, eyes brushing over the two of them once more before he turned sharply on his heel and ascended back up the staircase. His heels clicked harshly against the marble, and neither Vincent nor Alastor moved until he was out of sight.
Vincent swallowed hard. His pulse was racing. The whole situation was incredibly uncomfortable, and no one around them had even noticed. Or, if they had, they hadn’t dared to intervene like he had.
A heavy silence lingered between Vincent and Alastor.
“Forgive me. I hadn’t intended to cause a scene—” Alastor began quietly, but Vincent cut him off.
“No,” Vincent murmured. “It wasn’t you. He never should have— I can’t believe he would say something like—”
This time, Alastor stopped him, raising a hand up before he spoke. “It’s the least of your concerns, Vincent. I’d rather you be more attentive to how that may have impacted your standing here— on your first day, no less.”
Vincent shook his head. “This isn’t about me, and it shouldn’t just be brushed off,” he answered decisively. “Besides, they brought me here all the way from New York. I doubt they’d get rid of me that quickly just because Valentino and I aren’t starting out on even footing.”
The warmth in Alastor’s gaze flickered back for a moment, making the spark under Vincent’s skin light up again, but the warmth didn’t linger, replaced by something more subdued.
“Another conversation cut short,” he sighed, a subtle smile playing over his lips. “Our time seems to be in quite the demand these days.”
“More like our platitudes,” Vincent replied, eliciting a soft chuckle from the other man. It made the tenseness in his shoulders ease again.
“I should let you work,” Alastor said, though neither of them moved. “I am glad to have seen you again.”
Vincent’s breath hitched, and he couldn’t contain his smile. “The feeling is mutual.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, Alastor’s eyes flickered down to Vincent’s lips and away again.
“I’ll be on air this afternoon,” Alastor muttered, low enough so only Vincent could hear. “If you decide to tune in.”
“How could I not?” Vincent asked earnestly. “You’re sensational.”
The moment after he’d spoken, an immediate change occurred in Alastor. Vincent couldn’t discern it; maybe it was his posture, or maybe it was his breathing. Maybe it was something else entirely. Nevertheless, Alastor wrestled control over whatever it was, simply humming in reply.
“Do take care, Vincent.”
They parted reluctantly. Alastor’s cane tapped slowly on the marble floor as he walked away, and Vincent could only watch him leave.
Vincent stood still long after Alastor disappeared out the doorway. His heart was unsteady, and his body thrummed with something warm and frightfully hopeful.
New Orleans was loud, and Vincent felt the static of it all the way down to his bones. But he hardly minded.
Who better to cause such a sensation than the radio charmer himself?