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Alastor meant to leave nearly forty minutes ago, but the current weather isn't agreeable for the walk downtown. On the other hand, it's very agreeable for playing piano in the parlor, so that's what he's doing until the sky clears. It's almost there. He glances at the window now and then and sees a sunbeam filtering through the drizzle. Until it makes a lasting impact, however, he's going to sit on the faded pink cushion of the piano bench and keep playing music. His fingertips tap and release keys like the raindrops gently touching down and sliding off flower petals in the garden.
Not a bad way to spend an afternoon. Better than getting his shoes muddy, at any rate.
While he plays some languid, nondescript midday music, he listens to the clatter of dishes and utensils being washed and set on the drying rack. He wonders if he's playing loud enough to be heard over the sounds. As a test, he switches to ragtime, and within moments—right on cue—he hears his mother sigh.
"Knock that off," she calls from the kitchen. "If you're gonna play, make it something nice, at least."
Alastor gasps. "Nice?" he repeats, his hands shifting back and forth, back and forth, until the piece resembles a musical seesaw. "What isn't nice about this?"
"I've got nothing against it outside the house," his mother responds. "But goodness. Enough is enough already. Why don't you go back to what you were playing before? Something classical. Play some Chopin, or Couperin, or that Chaminade woman."
Alastor doesn't point out that not one of the three composers she just named wrote during the Classical period. Instead, he says, "Am I only to play works written by French composers? Whose names begin with 'C?' Shall I only play in the key of do majeur as well?"
"Boy, I'd better not hear you being a wise-ass out there."
"Moi?"
Alastor hears his mother scoff. He adds, more quietly, "I'm a wise-ass everywhere. Since when's the parlor off limits?"
"I heard that."
Alastor chuckles and does as he's asked, mentally riffling through his repertoire. He rules out Chopin. His mother loves his works, and Alastor is usually happy enough to indulge her, despite not being much of a fan himself. He's usually happy to indulge any woman who asks for Chopin, if only because the men tend to roll their eyes, and then the women tend to look embarrassed for making what was apparently an unserious, unoriginal request, and then Alastor simply cannot resist playing Op. 9 No. 2 and pouring his entire heart and soul into it out of sheer spite.
Today, though, Chopin would be too dreary. With the springtime rain so fresh and clear, Alastor opts for the sweet liveliness of Chaminade. He starts with her Thème Varié. It's one of his mother's favorites. She's never said as much—she never even requests it—but Alastor knows she loves it because whenever he plays it, he hears her humming it on and off for the rest of the day. He loves the sound of that even more than the piece itself.
He hears her start to hum along while he's still playing. About halfway through, she abandons the dishes to stand in the doorway. With her attention on him, Alastor gives more attention to his performance. He always strives to play better when she's actively listening.
When he plays the final notes, his mother gives him a round of applause. And when Alastor starts standing up to join her in the kitchen, she gestures for him to sit down again. "I'm taking a break," she tells him, as he settles back down on the bench. "Nice to actually enjoy the music once in a while."
Alastor does his part and starts another piece. It's not quite as fun to play on a technical level, but the dynamics are good. His mother hums along to this one, too, even though she's not as familiar with the melody. Her pitch isn't perfect, but her voice has a fullness of tone that makes up for it. She sings and hums with amateur-level skill and a total lack of self-consciousness. Alastor admires her for it, and he cannot relate to it at all. It's not a trait he managed to inherit from her.
"Is this the same composer?" his mother asks when he finishes up. "It sounds so different."
"It's the 'Spanish tinge.' Very in right now. But yes, that was another Chaminade."
"What's the name again?"
"La Lisonjera." When his mother gives him a blank look, Alastor translates it to: "The Flatterer."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, no wonder you like it, then. It's named after you."
"Well, where do you think I get it from?" he fires back. His mother holds her hand out at him: Exhibit A.
"See?" she says. "There you go again. God, you must be such a heartbreaker out there, huh?"
Alastor finally rises from the bench, lowering the dull wooden fallboard over the piano keys. "Not on purpose," he says breezily, following her into the kitchen.
"Are you going out later?" his mother asks as they stand at the sink and tend to the drying rack.
"I was planning to. Assuming the rain lets up."
"Wanna swing by the store real quick? I just need a couple things. Left the list on the table."
Alastor hesitates. "I probably can," he says carefully. "Again, it depends on how soon the weather clears. Once I left, I was planning to stay out for a while."
"Oh?" his mother asks. "Where are you going?"
"Just out. Playing music with some people." And having a drink or two, though he keeps that to himself. It's not that his mother has any moral objections. But if Alastor goes out drinking, then that means he'll be in a venue where he might cross paths with Mimzy. And if Alastor's mother knows that Mimzy is anywhere within a five-mile radius of her boy, she will have a conniption.
"Which people?"
"Friends. You know most of them. We've performed together before."
"Hmm," she says, a little too casually. Alastor isn't the least bit surprised when her follow-up is to give him a sly look and ask with a knowing tone, "And would any of these people happen to be a special friend, to be keeping you out so late?"
And Alastor, so tired of this conversation, wants to just say, "Yes," to sarcastically confirm that he is heading off to some illicit tryst with a cherished sweetheart whom he has, for no conceivable reason, elected to keep a secret from his beloved mother.
He catches himself just in time. Whatever catharsis he might get out of it wouldn't be worth the hope he'd be inflicting on his mother, the way her face would light up until she realized he was only being facetious. And then her expression would fall, not just from the disappointment of his response but at the casual cruelty of it, the snide treatment of her questions which are, after all, only born of worry. Sure, it would put a stop to all the teasing and inquiries. But at that cost? Alastor would never forgive himself.
Still, he wishes she'd simply stop asking. What began as a joke among the adults when he was a child had become mildly confusing when he entered his teen years, and now, well into adulthood, it's a cause for concern. Alastor frequently tells his mother not to worry, without telling her exactly what not to worry about, because he's not entirely sure himself. Is it his mother's fear that her only son will end up alone his whole life? That she'll never get to dote on grandchildren? That the family line will die out with him? It's occurred to Alastor that his mother might be afraid that he is going off to meet a secret lover after all, in the way so many men in his professional field do.
And he wishes she wouldn't fill her head with these kinds of thoughts, because he doesn't. Not until he gets mired in conversations like this and is made to dwell on it. Not until his own life is pressed up against the rest of the world for comparison, and it becomes starkly obvious how out of alignment he apparently is.
He gathers his patience and says, "No, nobody special. Just the usual group."
She says nothing to this. As much as Alastor wants to get off of this topic, he doesn't like her suddenly dropping it. He raises an eyebrow. "What? You're quitting the interrogation, just like that?"
His mother wrings water out of a cleaning rag, then starts folding it into triangles—a nervous habit. "I just. Don't you wanna...?" She trails off, as if she's not sure what she really wants to ask, or perhaps not sure she's ready for a definitive answer. Alastor feels a pang of softness and sympathy.
"Mama, worrying doesn't do you any good, does it?" he asks her gently. "I know it's your job. But everything's going swell. I work. I have friends. I play music, I eat well, I'm on my feet. Everything I do, I'm doing it right. Aren't I?" He smiles at her, trying not to be too charming about it. He doesn't want her to think he's being glib, even if her concerns are baseless. He wants, more than anything, to be able to reassure her.
Besides, he thinks, isn't this how a life is lived? Why does everyone always seem to want something to be missing?
His mother searches his eyes, then smiles back, gives his arm a squeeze, and resumes drying the dishes. She doesn't push it. She wants to; Alastor knows she does. She wants him to tell her that he's been a late bloomer, sure, but it won't matter much longer because there are plenty of nice young ladies who've caught his eye, and any day now he'll settle down and start a family, and she'll have grandchildren running all over the house, and everything will be all right.
But it's a quiet, drizzly afternoon, and there are still some chores that need doing, and it's the right time to drop it for now. Like always.
Alastor helps her dry the remaining dishes and takes the plates when she adds the last one to the stack. He puts them in the cabinet, shuts the door, and then laughs when his mother cradles his face and brings him down for a kiss on the cheek. He remembers being a young boy, reaching up to her with both hands for all that affection he craved with the openness and shamelessness of childhood. Now, she's the one who has to reach up to him.
"Swear you're still growing," she murmurs, patting his cheek where she kissed it and letting him stand at his full height again. She shakes her head, marveling, "At this age."
"Good diet," he says with a blithe shrug. "And plenty of sunshine and exercise. Maybe I'll never stop."
It isn't much longer before the rain clears and the sun is out in full force. The world outside is dripping brightness, but Alastor stays indoors until he and his mother finish putting the dishes away, cleaning up the kitchen, and folding the laundry. When she takes the basket of bedding and clothes upstairs, Alastor calls up to her to let her know he's leaving, grabs his boater off the coat rack in the foyer, and heads out the front door.
The sunlight and humidity make every color twice as vivid. Alastor strolls down the sidewalk, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. He thinks about his plans for the day. The errands will come first—he'll pick up whatever supplies his mother needs and drop them off at the house before heading out again. He wants to go dancing. He has an excess of energy today, maybe from the weather, and he wants to work some of it out of his system before tonight. Contrary to what he told his mother, he does have a rendezvous planned with a special somebody. A trip out to the woods. Very private, very secluded. A thrilling encounter in the steamy darkness. He's been trying to tamp down his excitement about it for weeks.
He passes by the neighbor's house, where their cat is sitting just inside the fence. Alastor wiggles his fingers at it in a wave, and it slinks through the posts to come out and see him. He bends down and offers his hand: knuckle side out, fingers slightly curled. The cat sits before him and takes its time sniffing the back of his hand. Alastor waits, well-mannered and patient. When the cat has finished its assessment, it looks up at him, making eye contact and blinking expectantly. Alastor reaches out to give it a friendly scratch around the ears, and immediately, the cat leans back, looking at his hand again. Alastor pauses, then tries once more, and this time the cat stands up. It doesn't hiss, or run, or even go back behind the safety of the fence. It walks away calmly, turning its back on Alastor to let him know that it's not afraid of him, and also to let him know that he has, in some unforeseen way, transgressed.
Alastor stands upright again. There's something about a cat's innate, unyielding sense of autonomy that he respects on principle. And there's something about it that annoys him in actuality.
As he continues his walk, he takes out his cigarette case and lights one. He gets a quarter of the way down the street before he hears the door to his mother's house open, followed by her calling his name. He quickly takes the cigarette out of his mouth and tosses it into a puddle. It extinguishes itself with a hiss.
Without giving Alastor a chance to show that he heard her, his mother calls his name again: "Aa-aaal..." she sings, her voice fluttering through the notes like a bird.
"Ye-esss?" Alastor replies, mimicking her tone perfectly like a call-and-response verse. He half-turns, tipping his hat up to see her better. She's trotting down the walkway, doing a silly tiptoe dance to avoid all the water. She waves the grocery list above her head, pointing at it with her free hand just in case he needs extra help noticing, and with a fond smile and an embarrassed laugh at his own forgetfulness, Alastor dutifully, lovingly, returns to her.
It was a quiet evening, slightly too early for dinner and far too early for anything more fun. Sometimes, on slow days like this, Vox and Alastor specifically sought out dodgier bars, hoping something would happen. Once or twice, they were the instigators, just for the sport of it, for the chance to flex their Overlord status and powers. Those nights had a tendency to end with Alastor demurely wiping blood off his face with a handkerchief and Vox rolling his wrists and stamping his feet to shed the excess electricity. They would then—if the carnage had put them in a generous enough mood—insist to the survivors that drinks were on them, and after covering the tab, they'd see themselves out into the night, barely waiting for the door to shut behind them before they started laughing.
This, however, was shaping up to be a more subdued outing. They'd met up after work, and Vox had said that he knew a low-key place they could go for a bit, just to grab a couple drinks and relax. Alastor had told him to lead the way. They were well past the point where they took scheduled turns planning the evening or picking the place. By now, they'd settled into a much more organic give-and-take that required no keeping track of whose "turn" it was to treat the other.
Alastor still kept track, of course. If Vox somehow went too many turns in a row calling the shots or footing the bill, then Alastor made sure he stepped in next time to even them up. He was sure Vox was doing the same thing. But neither one of them took it too seriously or adhered to any structure too strongly. At this point, they went out together often enough that things were statistically bound to balance themselves out on their own.
The bar Vox had chosen for tonight was quite nice for Hell. Quite nice in general, even. Mild lighting, minimal smoke. Small square footage, but it still felt spacious. "And look," Alastor said, "there's a piano. What an incredible coincidence!"
Vox assured Alastor that he wasn't putting him on the spot, and that there was no expectation of him to provide their entertainment this evening. Still, Alastor gravitated to the piano, finding himself sitting on the bench instead of on a barstool or at a table. Whatever the reason, he did feel like playing. Maybe Vox had subconsciously dropped hints about it. Maybe it was the bar itself, how easygoing the atmosphere was, providing Alastor with a rare opportunity to dust off some of his older, slower favorites instead of something more high-energy.
Vox bought their drinks while Alastor warmed up. He put Alastor's glass on a coaster while he stood beside the piano, resting his elbow on top of it. They chatted for a bit, catching up on each other's latest work and life developments, while Alastor tried to figure out what to play. He settled on a Baroque piece, which surprised him, though perhaps it shouldn't have. He'd always appreciated Baroque music. It was the only piano style Alastor suspected he'd enjoy playing even if he couldn't hear it. There was something satisfying about the methodical press of the keys, the nonstop but unhurried arrangements of notes, with neither gaps between them nor overcrowdings of chords. It soothed him, realigned his brain, trimming the frayed ends and slotting everything into place.
Vox was a good audience, letting Alastor settle into the music before remarking, "Weird to hear you playing something like this. I thought you were strictly a ragtime and jazz guy." After a pause, he added, "Maybe some show tunes."
"Mmm...afternoon and early evening call for something a little more contemplative." Alastor laughed softly as he continued playing Couperin. "It's actually a bit late in the day for this one. It always struck me as a two-in-the-afternoon composition. The kind of music you'd hear waking up from a midday nap."
Vox scoffed lightly. "You overthink this stuff."
"Maybe I do!" Alastor said agreeably. "But, to be fair, there was never much demand for music like this in public venues, anyway. Always more suited to the household, in a cozy parlor or drawing room. And even then, I tended to prefer the Romantic era. Though I was fairly picky about composers, no matter which genre I was playing."
"Yeah?" Vox said. "Who were your favorites?"
Alastor's ear twitched. There was something about Vox's tone. He didn't sound disinterested, but perhaps a little distracted? He'd been looking at his drink when he asked the question, as if he weren't asking out of any real interest, but just to carry the conversation along. Fair enough, Alastor supposed.
"Well, I was—and still am—quite partial to Chaminade."
"I'm not familiar."
"I'm not surprised." When Vox gave him an indignant look, Alastor tactfully added, "Not many people are aware of her work, compared to her male contemporaries. I've always been a fan, though. The French, they just know how to write such lovely melodies. Chaminade, Ravel, Fauré—now, his songs will get stuck in my head like nothing else, even to this day. And Saint-Saëns! I didn't realize how excellent his piano compositions were until I tried playing them myself. Or how challenging. Fantastic workout, without sacrificing any of the fun. What about you?" Alastor said, when he realized that he'd started to ramble. "You told me once that you had at least some musical education. Did you study the classics, too?"
Alastor's fingers drifted across the keys, playing pianissimo out of politeness while he waited for Vox's response. It wasn't forthcoming. When Alastor glanced at him, he saw that Vox was barely paying attention, looking at his drink again. Keeping his left hand on the keys, Alastor used his right hand to grab his cane, which had been leaning against the side of the piano. He waved it in Vox's line of sight. When this proved fruitless, he gave Vox a light bop on the head with it. Vox looked up in surprise, and laughter—canned, but warm—floated out of the microphone and through the air around them. "'Bout time," Alastor said, swaying the cane back and forth like a giant metronome. "If it was a snake, it woulda bit'cha."
He was playing up the dialect on purpose. It was fun to revisit it, on occasion. Alastor had been rather stressed out back in the day, when Vox had revealed, oh so casually, that he'd clocked the Southern accent lurking beneath what Alastor had been sure was an unimpeachably Transatlantic one. He'd been extra vigilant on the air after that. But nowadays, at least when it was just him and Vox, he was more relaxed about it. Vox even seemed charmed by the drawl, a refreshing response after Alastor had had to work so hard in his human life to eradicate it.
"Sorry," Vox said as Alastor put the cane down again.
"Are you feeling all right? Have you been sleeping enough? Eating enough?"
"Yeah. Well, no worse than usual. Why?"
"You seem...out of sorts. And you're looking a little pale. Well, not pale. More like..." Alastor struggled to figure out how to put it, and Vox gave him a tired smile.
"Like someone turned my saturation settings down?"
"Yes," Alastor said with a grateful laugh. "That's it."
Vox twisted a dial on his face, which did increase the color a bit. "How's that?"
"Oh," Alastor said, "much better! You've got that rosy, Technicolor glow again."
Vox rolled his eyes, his smile faint but fond, while Alastor resumed playing the piano. "Really, though. We can make it an early night, if you need to go home and rest. I promise I won't feel stood up."
Vox didn't answer right away, and although Alastor meant what he'd said, he worried that Vox might actually take him up on the offer. He wanted Vox to take care of himself, if he needed to. He also wanted to not have to come up with other plans for this evening.
Eventually, Vox shook his head. "Nah. I'm all right. Just preoccupied. I'm...actually not sleeping great lately."
"Nightmares?" Alastor asked, with what he hoped was a not-inappropriate level of interest in the subject. Vox hesitated.
"Stress dreams, I'd call 'em. It's fine."
Alastor disagreed. It was not fine for Vox to be feeling as off as he was tonight. And it wasn't fine for his quality of sleep to be suffering. He deserved to have his full energy levels available, to enjoy their night out. Alastor kept playing, trying to think of something he could do to lighten the mood and cheer him up.
He was spared the trouble when Vox let out a little laugh, just to himself. Alastor's ears turned toward the sound. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," Vox said. "It might sound funny, I guess."
That was encouraging. "Go on."
"I was just thinking: this piece, whatever you're playing...it 'sounds' yellow." Alastor raised his eyebrows, and when Vox noticed, he added, "I know it's ridiculous. I think it's just..." He fiddled with his antennae, a habit Alastor found unspeakably endearing. "Since I got here, it's like I process things differently. Sounds aren't just sounds anymore. They've got colors, textures. Movement. And what you're playing now—it sounds yellow to me, if that makes sense. Which it doesn't, obviously."
"Sure it does," Alastor said. "This piece is magenta, of course—but conceptually, I'm right there with you!" He grinned at Vox's look of fake annoyance. "My hearing's been more sensitive since I arrived here, too. These, of course—" He flicked an ear to indicate. "—but I suppose the radio waves, my particular skill set...it all amplifies it. But then, I always thought sounds came with colors and textures, even when I was human."
"Huh. Really?"
"Yes. I've often wondered if that could be part of what drew me to music in the first place, why I wasn't satisfied with learning only one instrument. They all come with different hues, shapes, sensations. Even the different keys—they have their own associations, too."
Alastor was really getting into it. He couldn't help himself. This was something he hadn't given much thought to for a while, and Vox—of course it would be Vox—had gotten him to revisit it. To recall how special this little trait had felt to him, and how special it had made him feel.
"You're joshing me," Vox said. Alastor shook his head.
"Absolutely not," he insisted. "Go ahead. Test me."
There was, Alastor knew, no way to objectively, reliably test this kind of thing. But Vox was a good sport. "All right," he began, "key of...D."
"Excellent choice," Alastor said. "That's the most stately one of all. A warm, rich brown, with just enough texture to keep it interesting. Like wooden banisters, or oiled leather."
Vox raised his eyebrows—skeptical or impressed, Alastor wasn't sure. Either way, he continued the game. "B-flat?"
"Round shapes," Alastor said confidently. The old associations were coming back to him, the same as ever. "And light shades of blue. Robin eggs, bubbles in a pond...and there's the faintest potential for heartbreak, but it's so faint it's hardly worth mentioning."
"Hmm. How about...E?"
"Frogs on lily pads." Vox gave him a bemused look, and Alastor played the scale to demonstrate. "I think it's all the black keys," he explained. "It gives a sense of trying to stay above the surface, instead of in the water. As it were."
"God," Vox said, laughing again, "you're on another level with this shit. Key of A."
"Oh," Alastor said, almost sighing, "this one I love. White wings and sunlight. Bright and soaring. Completely earnest and unselfconscious."
"Nice. F-sharp."
"Bright green! Practically phosphorescent. I always thought F-sharp major was the bravest, boldest key. Full of confidence, courage, personality...almost admirable. F-sharp minor, on the other hand..."
Vox prompted him with a, "Yeah?" but even then, Alastor hesitated. "This one is tricky for me," he conceded. "To be honest, I've never been comfortable with it. First of all, pieces written in this key tend to be so dreary. They're not worth the trial of learning how to play them. And in terms of sound...it's the coldest key. It makes me think of a place I've never been. Snowy mountains. Pine trees covered in ice. A green so dark, it's almost black."
Alastor was aware of Vox watching him. Shaking off the suddenly somber mood, he said, "I suppose that's all part of the allure! Something daunting and foreign is always bound to draw the attention. And the intrigue."
Vox looked at his drink. "I don't know about 'alluring.' Snow and ice were a real pain in the ass to deal with." After a moment, he added, "I do kind of miss it, though. Never thought I'd say that since I was old enough to do the shoveling. But there's just...something about it, I guess."
"Something like what?" When Vox shrugged, Alastor said, "No, really. What's it like? I've never seen snow. I suppose I never will now, unless Hell really does freeze over at some point."
Vox chuckled. "That'd be great, actually. You can go sledding, and I can track down Connie Bobrow and tell her she's finally gotta go on that date with me."
"Perfect," Alastor said with a laugh of his own. "But, until then..."
Vox smiled faintly. "I dunno. It was just nice to see it around the holidays. Didn't feel like Christmas if there wasn't snow on the ground. And sometimes—it wouldn't happen often—but sometimes, you'd wake up around two or three in the morning—maybe four, just sometime when everyone else in the house was asleep—and you'd look out the window and it'd be snowing. No wind, no noise. Just these big flakes falling from the sky straight down to earth. And with the streetlights..." Vox paused, seeming to realize that he was getting more wistful than he'd intended. "...it was just nice. Plus: snow carrots. Those were a winter staple growing up."
Alastor's ears pricked up at this. It was rare for Vox to talk about food. He didn't seem to have much of an interest in it. Alastor wondered if he'd always been that way, or if it was somehow the result of having a television set for a head. "I've never heard of snow carrots before," he remarked. "How are they prepared? Or is it the name of a variety, like snow peas?"
"Neither," Vox said. "They were just plain, raw carrot sticks. But before dinner, my dad would go scoop a cupful of snow off the back deck, and then I'd dip the carrots in it and eat them."
Alastor's smile thinned. "You know I don't like it when you tease me like this," he said. "It was an honest question."
"You got an honest answer," Vox replied. "That's what snow carrots are. It's not a real dish. It's just something my dad came up with to get me to eat my vegetables."
Alastor stared. "I don't understand," he said slowly. "You had...nothing else you could have dipped them in? A dressing, or...anything?"
"Nope. Snow was free. Besides, if you were eating snow carrots, that meant there was a fresh snowfall. Pretty exciting for a kid."
Alastor shook his head. One of these days, he thought, he'd prepare a dinner for Vox. Just bring an entire pot to his house, keep the poor man fed properly for a week or more. Seafood, maybe. God, Alastor was craving seafood. It was so difficult to get ahold of down here. Catfish. He would've killed for some catfish.
He needed to derail this train of thought. Part of his demon form that he never, ever discussed with others was the constant, low-level hunger. He'd always been thin, even in life, but it was impossible for him to put weight on in Hell, impossible to ever feel sated. It wasn't drastic—there was no stabbing or gnawing pain in his gut, no feverish crawl of blood through his limbs, warning him of malnutrition. But the feeling was always there, on a simmer. He'd mostly gotten used to it.
But it helped not to dwell on it.
With a soft laugh, he murmured, "'Snow carrots.' Oh, weren't you just precious?"
"Yeah. I wasn't the brightest kid."
"No, no, no," Alastor said, laughing more, "I wasn't saying that." Vox gave him a yeah, you were look. "Really. I just meant it was sweet. The things our parents did for us." How had they veered off into this, Alastor wondered? He needed to course-correct. "You didn't really answer my question, though. Tell me about snow. We were talking about sensory details—so give me the details."
Vox shrugged. "I mean, there's not much else to say. It's basically what you'd imagine."
"Well, I don't want to imagine it. I want you to tell me about it."
Alastor knew he was being pushy. He was prepared to become even pushier, if Vox continued to put up resistance. Luckily, Vox didn't seem to need more persuading. "Well...it was a lot more fun as a kid. Waking up early to check the news and see if school was canceled. Sledding, building forts, knocking down icicles. Throwing snowballs at cars."
"Scoundrel," Alastor said, with playful disapproval.
"Hey, it's not like we ever caused an accident or anything. Anyway: catching snowflakes on your tongue, that was always fun for about five seconds. Same with snow angels. Honestly, as lame as this sounds, I just liked walking around in it. That crunch under your boots when it was a wet snow instead of powder...that was the good stuff."
"Hmm. Sounds satisfying. Worth the cost of Jack Frost nipping at your nose?"
"Hardly," Vox said. "The trade-off to all the fun was helping Dad shovel the car out, slipping on black ice and falling on my ass, or waking up to find out the toilet froze in the middle of the night. Plus, it wasn't always just snow. Sometimes it'd be hail. Or sleet. Nasty stuff."
"Oh," Alastor said, "try living in a place with a hurricane season."
"Yeah, I think I'll pass," Vox said, as if he had the option. "You've never seen snow, and I've never seen the ocean. Let's each stick to what we can handle."
Alastor chuckled. After a minute, when the mood had quieted slightly, he said, "There really was something about the change of seasons, wasn’t there? Springtime, especially. It was so...slimy. Mucky. Arguably the messiest time of year."
Vox was taking a sip of his drink, and when he lowered the glass, he said, "It's the world being born all over again. Always gonna be messy."
"Yes. But there was something special to it. Leaving the house...going from indoors to outdoors and actually being able to feel the difference."
Vox didn't respond to that, but Alastor knew he was on the same page. One of the most insufferable parts of Hell was the atmosphere. Not just the cultural or aesthetic atmosphere, but the literal atmosphere: the temperature, the air pressure, the humidity level or lack thereof. The sameness of it all. Every denizen of Hell, no matter where they were originally from, knew the feeling. They all remembered the things they were missing.
Alastor wondered if it was time to get off the subject. He wasn't entirely sure how they'd gotten so far into it, and it was bound to do anything but help Vox's already oddly pensive, introspective mood. But Vox, surprisingly, was the one who kept it going. "What else do you miss?"
"Oh...lots of little things," Alastor said, keeping it light. "The food, the music. Though I suppose the music would have changed through the years whether I was still alive or not. Overall, I guess I miss home the way anyone does. The places I knew, the people I grew up around."
Vox nodded slowly. "All right, then. It's your turn to paint me a picture. Describe a night out. Get me right there in the thick of it."
Alastor waved him off. "It's exactly what you're imagining, I'm sure," he said, trying to use Vox's earlier deflection. "Humidity. Jazz. Gumbo. Hot sauce that would melt your face to the bone."
"C'mon. Say you get to go back and plan one perfect night on the town. Where do you go? What do you do? Who are you with?"
"...go back...now, in the present day? Or to my own time?"
"Good question." Vox thought it over, but he didn't need long. There was really only one answer. "Your own time."
Alastor paused. He didn't mind this particular line of questioning, but he hadn't been prepared for it. However, like Vox, he didn't need long to think about his answer. There was really only one.
"If I could go back," he began, slowly, "and plan one more night on the town...I'd take my mother out. Treat her to a nice dinner, maybe a show. Maybe just go out to dance and listen to music and have fun. She never had as much fun as she should have—never as much as she could have. It's not as if we didn't have the means." Alastor was playing some quiet, idling piece on the piano now, looking straight ahead at the empty music rack. He raised his eyebrows as he shrugged and shook his head, some answer eluding him as it always had. "I don't know why she didn't. Quite a source of frustration for me, I'll admit, both then and now. If I'd known that my opportunities would end up being so limited, I would've dragged her out of the house more often."
Vox's claws clinked as he adjusted his hold on his glass. "That's...a more wholesome answer than I expected to get out of you."
Alastor shrugged. "Well, granted, she wouldn't have liked having fun at quite my speed. But we could've done whatever she wanted. I would've taken her anywhere, treated her to anything." He felt like his smile was getting brittle. "I was quite selfish, really. I could have insisted. And there were plenty of nights when I could have done all this for her. I could have set just one aside once in a while, instead of..."
It was a bit alarming, Alastor thought, how much he was saying and how readily he was saying it. He was lucky the bar was empty. The few patrons who'd been here when he and Vox had arrived were long gone, and no one else had come in since. Even the bartender, seeing how slow the place was and how long it was taking Vox and Alastor to get through their drinks, had gone to the back some time ago. So that, at least, was a relief.
Still. Alastor felt...not tense, but a little strained. Because now, for the first time in ages, he was once again confronted with the fact that his mother had outlived him. There were plenty of reasons why he'd earned his spot in Hell, but this was the only reason that made Alastor believe he truly deserved it. It was, bar none, his most unforgivable sin.
He was aware that Vox was watching him, probably wondering if Alastor was going to pick up the trail of that unfinished sentence. When he didn't, Vox broke the tension by asking, in a tone of voice deliberately too casual for the question, "And what were you doing all those nights instead of taking your dear mother out? Reserving your seat down here?"
Alastor didn't answer, nor did he look at Vox right away. Then he let his smile grow a little playful, but cryptic, as he gave Vox a slow, sly look. He mimed sealing his mouth shut, locking it at the corner, and placing the key in his breast pocket.
Vox rolled his eyes. He'd likely expected nothing more than the non-answer he'd been given. After a moment, Alastor retrieved his imaginary key and unlocked his mouth to ask, "What about you? What else do you miss about the world above? What would you do with a night back home?"
Vox thought about it. "You know what? Probably floss. And get a haircut. And shave."
Alastor gave him a quizzical smile. "You miss all that?"
"Yeah," Vox said, drumming his fingertips against the side of his head. "I do."
Alastor winced—more inwardly than outwardly, he hoped. He couldn't believe how often he still did this. He never truly forgot about Vox's television-set head, but even something so blatant and visible slipped the mind occasionally, when it was someone else's cross to bear. "Ah," Alastor said, with a self-reproaching flare-up of static in his voice. "Of course. I'd imagine so."
They went quiet for a bit after that. Alastor couldn't help feeling that he'd somehow driven their conversation into a marsh, although he'd just been following Vox's lead, he thought. Maybe it was the lack of conversation, the contemplative mood, but he found himself slipping into an old Chopin standard. It was an étude, and one of the more overplayed ones, but Alastor still liked it. He'd always thought it was a nocturne at heart. When he reached that beautiful rise in the melody, the crescendo, the turning point of it all, he resisted leaning too hard into the dynamics. But he did try to bring out the emotion of the piece. He always played better with an audience, especially an audience of one.
"I love this song," Vox said, to Alastor's surprise. "How do you even know it?"
"How could I not?" Alastor replied. "Aside from that maudlin nocturne, this was the most frequent request I used to get from lovesick young ladies."
There was a pause before Vox said, "Wait. What?"
"Well," Alastor clarified, "the most frequent request where Chopin was concerned, anyway."
"Oh. I...didn't realize he wrote this."
Alastor gave him a curious look. "Where do you know it from, then?"
"There's a song that came out a few years ago," Vox said. Then, like a reflex, he amended his statement to, "Well, a few years before I died. I guess it must've lifted the melody from Chopin, and Jo Stafford just put words to it."
"And what were his lyrics?"
"Her."
"And what were her lyrics?" Alastor asked, with the exact same inflection. Vox laughed, but he shook his head.
"Nah, forget it. I mean, talk about maudlin. The melody's nice enough on its own."
Alastor wasn't about to let him wriggle out of it that easily. "Oh, you are always insisting that I perform. Anytime you see a piano, you prod me into playing it, and you never join in. You told me you studied piano and sang in the choir—don't think I've forgotten that."
Vox wasn't looking at Alastor. He seemed flustered, which encouraged Alastor greatly. He improvised some intro chords in more of an easy listening arrangement. "Come on, now," he said, cajoling. "We'll start from the beginning. Don't be shy. If your speaking voice is anything to go by, your singing voice must be superb. Especially with that name—Voooxxx..."
That should've done it. This was the point in their back-and-forth where one of them would have pressured the other just enough to relent, to make a show of agreeing begrudgingly, while secretly relishing the opportunity to show off. Alastor loved that feeling. He wanted Vox to enjoy it for a change, too.
Vox tried to wave him off, still not fully looking at him. Alastor was always taken by this kind of response. Vox was so good at selling the confidence, so unflappably charming and put-together on the air and in business in general. He accepted compliments in a way that made the complimenters feel like they were the ones who were being flattered. But one-on-one, off the clock, he was shockingly easy to embarrass. Alastor couldn't explain why, but something about getting that reaction out of Vox was like catnip to him. With a grin, he twisted the screws a little. "Come ooonnn..." he purred as he reached out, slipping his hand past Vox's open jacket to pinch his waist. It was a bit presumptuous, certainly, a bit familiar, but ultimately just a fleeting, impish gesture, meant to loosen one of the stones in Vox's defensive wall, to jar him out of that 'faux humility' thing he'd accused Alastor of earlier, and get him to join in on the fun.
Instead, Vox flinched at the contact, much more sharply than Alastor expected. It was such a sudden motion that Alastor instinctively yanked his hand all the way back. It hovered before him while his other hand fumbled on the keys, then went silent.
Vox looked just as caught off guard. He stared at Alastor, who smiled uncertainly, his lips parted in surprise, his eyes slightly bigger than normal. Both he and Vox remained still for a few seconds, trying to catch up to the speed of their own reactions. Finally, not knowing how else to respond, Alastor stammered out a quiet, awkward laugh. Vox didn't join in, though his posture relaxed, just a bit. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, as if he were silently chastising himself. Alastor slowly began playing again, picking up the music from where he'd left off. Clearly, he'd overstepped. He didn't think it was enough to warrant an apology, but—in a rare moment for him—Alastor wasn't sure what else to say.
He liked to fluster Vox. And he had enough experience doing it to know that, most of the time, Vox enjoyed it, too. Alastor had learned by now what kinds of teasing would make Vox return fire and banter with him, and what kinds would make his screen glow the faintest bit brighter and make him look away for a moment, to subtly compose himself. But this went beyond being flustered. This had, at some point, crossed over into genuine discomfort, and Alastor could've kicked himself for not picking up on it sooner.
But he had picked up on it. That wasn't the problem. The problem, apparently, was that Alastor's go-to method for easing away Vox's negative moods was to pour attention and flattery over him. And it had always worked well enough that Alastor had never had to think about why he resorted to it, or whether it really was the best method overall. Now, out of nowhere, he was faced with the possibility that it might have made the situation—whatever it was—worse.
Alastor kept playing and let Vox drink in peace. Vox didn't have a sudden change of heart, didn't summon up a burst of confidence and come in with the lyrics after all, nor did Alastor expect him to. Eventually, however, Vox did start to hum along to the melody. Alastor resisted the urge to smile at him, or to look at him at all, not wanting to put him even more on the spot. Besides, keeping his eyes off Vox allowed Alastor to absorb himself purely in the sound of his voice, which had just as much lovely, rich musicality as he'd known it would. They reached that bittersweet turn of phrase again, and while Alastor kept the dynamics subdued, he did slip in quietly underneath Vox. He let Vox hold those plaintive, lingering notes while Alastor hummed an improvised harmony, a little run of ascending notes until he met Vox on the melody line.
It produced a gorgeous effect. They complemented each other well, though unconventionally. Alastor didn't think their ranges were too far off from each other, but his own timbre had always been so bright, verging on reedy at times. While he could hit lower notes with ease, they always had a shimmery, nasal quality. Not bad, necessarily, but distinct and noticeable. Vox, on the other hand, had the inverse effect. Even in a higher range, even humming, he retained a rich, smooth, masculine tone.
Alastor had never been able to bring this particular music to life in this way before. It didn't lend itself to collaboration and improvisation the way jazz did. Their little duet thrilled and delighted him, and Vox seemed to enjoy it, too, but something was still off. It was so subtle that Alastor wondered if he was just being paranoid. But there it was: something in Vox's expression, in his smile, that was throwing off the ratio of bitter to sweet.
Alastor was starting to become genuinely bothered by it. What was hanging over him? More importantly, why wasn't it going away? Why did every effort Alastor made to fix Vox's mood only seem to reinforce it? He hated that. And he hated that Vox was suffering this odd melancholy mood to begin with. He shouldn't have had to.
When Alastor finished the piece, he took his hands off the keys and shut the fallboard so he could rest his arm on it and finally enjoy some of his drink. "You know," he said, with careful offhandedness. "That sound thing—all those color and texture associations—it doesn't just apply to musical instruments. I get it with voices, too."
"Oh yeah?" Vox said flatly, giving Alastor a look that said I see where you're going with this; you aren't slick. Alastor gave him a smile that said good—I'm not trying to be.
"Yes," he went on. "Certain people have more colorful voices. Others produce textures. Finishes. Some people have a sort of matte finish. Not unpleasant, but not very exciting. Consistent volume, tone, cadence..." Alastor took another sip of his drink, and with his free hand, he made a firework gesture, touching his fingertips together before splaying them. "Others have this bright, metallic sheen," he said. "It's very individual, much more than musical instruments. It can be hard to describe sometimes, even when it seems so vivid."
Alastor kept an eye on Vox, waiting for the obvious follow-up question. Instead, Vox asked, "So, what does your voice sound like, then? In these terms."
Alastor paused, not expecting the spotlight to be turned on him. Still, he was comfortable enough in it, and he knew how to improvise. "Oh, well," he said lightly, "did you ever make one of those telephones out of tin cans and string?"
Vox laughed, just a little exhale—a syllable and a half, measured generously. That was good, Alastor thought, but they could do better.
"All right, lose the 'faux humility' thing," Vox said. "You've never been able to pull it off." Alastor laid a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "You've got a great voice," Vox went on, and Alastor lowered his hand again, smiling more broadly at the compliment. "It's way more versatile than I would've guessed. You've got incredible range. And the control you have over it is..." Vox shook his head. "You're a broadcaster's dream. I'm kinda jealous, if you want to know the truth."
Alastor did want to know the truth, especially when it was presented like that. Compliments nurtured by envy were some of his favorites. It sent a little ripple up his spine to know that he was in possession of some trait or skill that others coveted. But even more than that, Alastor found that he truly valued Vox's opinion on this sort of thing. Partly because Vox's career path had a lot of overlap with his own, and his opinions were therefore professional and informed. And partly just because it was Vox.
"Oh, go on," Alastor urged, slipping from faux humility into real vanity.
"You're just...fun. Fun to listen to. You're an entertainer—a real one." At this, Alastor beamed. "Plus, the accent's nice. It suits you."
"Which one?"
"...well, I meant your usual one. But both, now that you mention it."
Alastor grinned. "Why, thank you kindly, darlin'," he said, dialing up the drawl just a tad. Vox laughed again, and this time it was less reserved, less restrained. Still brief, but more at ease. Better, Alastor thought. Slowly but surely, they were inching their way back to normal.
Vox had some more to drink while Alastor soaked up his little sun shower of praise. After another minute or so, Vox sighed. "Fine," he said, as if Alastor had only just brought it up. "I'll bite. Tell me what my voice sounds like."
Alastor kept his elbow on the fallboard and rested his chin in his hand, studying Vox like he didn't already have his answer locked and loaded. He swirled his drink contemplatively, just for show, while Vox sipped his own and almost convincingly pretended he wasn't hanging on Alastor's reply.
"Well," Alastor began, "without getting all poetic about it: you have a marvelous voice for broadcasting, no matter the medium. Perfect diction. And infused with just the right amount of personality to keep your audience engaged, without distracting from the message. Unless, of course, it's a message you want to distract them from."
Vox raised his eyebrows with a smile. "Good start," he said, sliding down into a deliberately smoother, suaver tone. "Keep it up—don't get stingy with the compliments now, doll."
Alastor appreciated that Vox was playing along, adopting a tongue-in-cheek showman persona as Alastor had done with his Southernisms. But Alastor also got a very involuntary, very genuine, and very pleasurable shiver at the sound of Vox's voice.
"Beautiful timbre," Alastor went on, trying to coax him into speaking more. "Naturally rich; nice and low." He brought his drink to his chest and raised his index finger off the glass, tapping his sternum with it. "Right in the sweet spot."
Vox gave him an easy shrug. He knew all of this already. He likely hadn't had to put as much work in as Alastor did to achieve his professional speaking voice, but it was clearly still something he'd spent a lot of time and effort crafting, down to every diphthong, every last bit of inflection. "Sure," Vox said. "And now, the poetic version?"
"Hmm. Your voice is..." Alastor leaned on his hand more, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized Vox. "A river stone," he finally said. "Dark, rich color. Not too deep. Solid, well-rounded, smooth...and surrounded by exquisite clarity."
He was proud of that description. Alastor was no poet, but the things he was passionate about—music, vocal talent—tended to bring it out of him. However, when Vox looked at him without responding, Alastor felt a twinge of self-consciousness. He wondered if perhaps that had been a little overwrought. He had a tendency to get carried away at times, to be "a bit much." Usually, he didn't mind it. He reveled in being more than others could keep pace with. But he didn't always want to be that way. And he was more sensitive to the feeling around Vox, in particular.
Then Vox took another sip of his drink, using that gesture to break eye contact. It was a little tell of his that Alastor had picked up on years ago, during one of their earliest social outings. Vox was the one who was self-conscious now, and trying to downplay it, and that put Alastor at ease again.
He let Vox enjoy his drink, and Alastor had some more of his own, too. Then he set the glass on top of the piano, flipped the fallboard open, and rubbed his hands together to warm them back up. "All right," Alastor announced, while Vox's gaze drifted from his face to his hands, then back again. "Enough sentimental nonsense. Time for some energy!" Alastor whipped his hands across the keyboard a few times, drawing some slightly out-of-tune arpeggios from the keys before noodling around with some bluesy chords. "I'm open to requests. Anything you think I might know, from the Baroque to the Jazz Era, just name it! Or start singing it, and I guarantee I'll pick it up in no time."
"Everything you play sounds a little jazzy," Vox pointed out. "Even the classical stuff. It's like it's in your DNA or something. I mean," he went on, more casually, "it's nothing fancy, nothing much—a Schubert tune with a Gershwin touch."
Alastor groaned. "You're keeping all these songs a secret from me," he said petulantly, almost whining, and drawing a laugh from Vox in the process. That was promising. Alastor was fully comfortable being the jokester, the jester, the sillier one, if it was for the sake of getting Vox to loosen up. "You wouldn't sing that other song, that Jo..."
"Stafford."
"Yes. And you've bullied me into performing often enough. I think it's high time you know how that feels."
Vox looked amused, but still reluctant. "I dunno. I'm pretty tired tonight."
"And I'm not?" Alastor shot back, trying out a few well-known numbers, some familiar chord progressions, and watching Vox's face for the light of recognition.
"You're never tired," Vox said. "I swear, you just jam a crank in your back and wind yourself up throughout the day."
"Untrue!" Alastor declared. "Slander! I also require tuning." He drifted up to another key and started playing a jaunty accompaniment. Vox's gaze darted to the piano, his eyebrows raising slightly, and Alastor pounced.
"Ah-ha," he said, "now we've got something."
"Al, seriously. I'm not in the mood."
Like some kind of novelty word-association act, Alastor immediately started playing the opening riff of Miller's "In the Mood." Vox, who had been resting his elbow on the piano, now slumped against the entire instrument for support, laying his face on his forearm. Alastor, delighted by his melodrama, took the opportunity to reach up and toy with one of Vox's antennae, pinching the end of it and shifting it back and forth until Vox raised his head again. He rested the bottom edge of his face on his arm and muttered, "Do you ever turn off?"
Alastor shook his head, smiling proudly, and went back to playing the song Vox had clearly recognized. He scooted over to the far right of the piano bench, leaving the other half empty. When Vox still hesitated, Alastor went the extra mile, drawing his eyebrows together and pushing his lower lip up. It was a fairly theatrical bit of silent pleading, but it did the trick. Finally, worn down by Alastor's insistence, Vox sighed and took a seat.
"You can handle the bass, can't you?" Alastor asked. And then, without giving Vox a chance to say whether he could, he added, "It's easy. Watch."
Vox did watch, attentively, as Alastor demonstrated. He didn't share Alastor's ear for music, but he had an almost photographic memory to compensate. After watching Alastor play the left hand part a few times, he had it down. He still fumbled occasionally—the knowledge didn't translate perfectly to practical skill—but it only added to the sincerity of the performance. Alastor let him practice, riffing a few octaves up to give Vox something to work off of, and to help distract from his mistakes.
Once Alastor was satisfied with his progress, he started to sing: "Tiiimes have chaaanged..." He was undeterred by the fact that Vox had apparently forgotten the words to the intro entirely. When Alastor mentioned how "the Puritans got the shock," he poked Vox's head, drawing a flash of static from him. Vox kept playing but gave him a sidelong look, and Alastor winked at him as he continued to sing.
When they entered the song proper, the lyrics came flooding back to Vox. Alastor cued him in with, "In olden days, a glimpse of stocking—" letting Vox take over for, "—was looked on as something shocking, but now God knooows..." Alastor grinned and joined him for the title drop: "Anything goooes!"
Their duetting only confirmed for Alastor how well their voices complemented each other. He was comfortable in a higher register, and with satirical songs like this, he could've easily carried the performance alone. But Vox provided a rich, baritone foundation that was positively irresistible. Vox's skill, Alastor admired, but it was the natural quality of his voice that Alastor adored.
Besides, Vox's measured, effortless-sounding tone allowed Alastor to indulge in more theatricality. He trilled his r's and put a brassier timbre in certain vowels, like verbal pantomime. This mischievousness spread to his piano playing, too. He refused to stay on his half of the keyboard. He jumped into Vox's space, crossing hands briefly to add some ornamentation to the music, and then jumped back out while Vox fumbled his notes and tried to get back on track. After a few more teasing trespasses, crossing hands turned into crossing arms, and being that close, it was easy for Vox to lean over and bop Alastor admonishingly with his shoulder. Alastor retaliated with a hip-check, sliding down the piano bench to nudge Vox a few inches to the left.
Alastor was so wrapped up in the performance, in their play-fight, and in the sound of Vox's singing, that he wasn't even thinking about the "those little radios" line. When they got to it, Vox poured some extra embellishment into the words and reached up, taking Alastor's face in one hand and giving it a soft, affectionate little smush. Alastor swatted him away, trying to keep singing through his laughter and, for the most part, failing. The harder he tried, the more the laughter seized control. Vox laughed along but prompted him with, "All right, c'mon. Big finish, now." Alastor gathered himself just enough for the final declaration of, "Anything goes!" He and Vox both faltered at the end, laughing stupidly at their own antics, but Alastor saved it with a two-handed tremolo to give the song its grand finale after all.
Vox applauded, and Alastor was laughing so much—he wasn't even sure why anymore—that he had to rise to his feet, just to feel like he was getting the excess energy out of his system. "Oh," he said, "you are just the loveliest singer, aren't you? And not too shabby on the piano, either, I have to say!" He offered Vox his hand to help him off the bench, and as unnecessary as the gesture was, Vox accepted it. They seemed to have reached a natural and unspoken agreement that that performance signaled the end of their time in this particular establishment, and they were finally ready to move the evening along. Alastor retrieved his coat and cane and lowered the fallboard back over the keys, while Vox brought their glasses to the bar and left the tip on the counter. He caught up with Alastor at the door, and together—Alastor abuzz and Vox aglow—they stepped out onto the street.
It was well into the evening now. The nightlife was getting active, though they were still in a quieter part of town. It felt like a summer night—not just in the temperature, but in the invitingness of it, the sense that there was such a stretch of evening and night ahead that the end wasn't even in sight, let alone in mind. Alastor kept his coat off, folding it over his arm, though he did retrieve his cigarettes from the pocket. He stuck one in his mouth, and as he snapped the case shut and put it away again, he sighed and asked Vox, with softer-than-usual enunciation, "So, my dear. Any thoughts on dinner?"
There was a flash of light at the corner of Alastor's eye—just a glint—but it made Alastor draw back slightly, an instinctive flinch not unlike Vox's from back inside. He saw a wiry loop of electricity coming off Vox's fingertip as he touched the end of the cigarette.
It faded away as Vox lowered his hand. Alastor grinned, holding the now lit cigarette gingerly between his sharp teeth. He wondered why he was still surprised by this side of Vox, still caught slightly off guard whenever he took the initiative to handle the little niceties, and to do it with a personal flourish. Alastor could play that role indefinitely—the gentleman, the showman, the doter. And he enjoyed it, truly. But it was nice to know that there was someone else down here to whom he could hand it off, on occasion.
Vox had been right earlier: Alastor was "on" more often than not. But Vox might've been overlooking the small ways that Alastor had let his persona slip around him over time. There were the obvious examples, like indulging Vox with occasional Southernisms, or caving to his requests to show off with just enough calculated reluctance and hemming and hawing to make it fun. But there were things that were harder to quantify. Just a general loosening up when Alastor was around Vox, the way one might loosen his tie or unbutton his shirt cuffs or slip off his suspenders when he was at home.
Alastor removed the cigarette from between his teeth and blew a thin stream of smoke in Vox's direction. He liked the way it rushed against Vox and dispersed across the glass plane of his face, the way it peeled off to the sides in tiny curls and gusts and eddies. There was something oddly and enchantingly delicate about it, a visual effect that a regular, three-dimensional human face wouldn't have allowed.
There was also something presumptuous about it. But they'd known each other long enough, and Vox knew Alastor better than to take offense. Besides, Vox wasn't a regular organic being. It wasn't quite as uncouth as it could've been.
Still, Vox waved the smoke away and gave Alastor another one of those looks of fake annoyance. Alastor grinned as he put the cigarette back in his mouth. "Ah, Vox," he said, half charming, half charmed. "You're one in a million."
He wasn't totally sure what had prompted him to say it, other than the general pleasure of Vox's company, and his own enjoyment of bestowing compliments on the man. Vox took out and lit his own cigarette, murmuring, "Conservative estimate."
And Alastor—playing along, but without any trace of teasing or sarcasm—said, "Indeed it was."
Vox scoffed at the ego-stroking, as if he himself hadn't invited it. It was one of Alastor's favorite little dynamics between the two of them: Vox making self-aggrandizing claims, only to backpedal when Alastor treated them more seriously, more sincerely, than Vox had intended. And then Alastor got to be magnanimous and generous, lavishing Vox with the attention and praise he so patently deserved.
Vox gave Alastor a nudge, shoulder-to-shoulder, both to be playful and to alert him to the fact that he was about to start walking. Alastor didn't yield to the contact—he stayed close, and after a few steps, he slipped his arm through Vox's. Alastor was not a cooperative person to have on one's arm; he knew this about himself. He talked too much, and his talking always came with gesticulations. He'd lay his hand on Vox's forearm, and moments later, he'd be swiveling his wrist as he searched for the right word, as if he were tying to pluck it out of the air, or he'd point down the road in the direction of some restaurant he thought would be a good choice for dinner tonight, still miles away. Sometimes he would let go of Vox just to grab his upper arm instead and give it a little shake for emphasis, when he was particularly excited or enthusiastic about what he was saying.
Vox was patient and steady, not seeming to mind Alastor's physical flightiness in the least. He walked on, keeping his arm in place for Alastor to return to. And every time Alastor let his hand alight on him, he thought Vox felt a little more relaxed.
Alastor still didn't know what had been bothering Vox in the first place that evening, whether it was truly just a lack of adequate sleep, or something more. But no matter—it was gone now, whatever emotional stormcloud it had been. Under the light and warmth of Alastor's attention, it had broken apart and evaporated away, leaving behind the endearing, engaging Vox that Alastor knew and liked so well. Leaving him more vivid, brighter, and richer in color for the passing rain.
And Alastor felt satisfaction, contentment, and no small amount of pride that he had that ability, that reliable power to bring Vox back around. To walk down the street, arm in arm, and feel that the two of them had regained some equilibrium, and that they were back to where they should be: exactly as they'd been.