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“Double bass,” Vox murmured into Alastor's ear, static darting over his waist where blue claws gripped him tight. Vox's signal was warm, soothing – but filled with a certain restless energy, his good mood buzzing against Alastor's skin.
Alastor nodded, prepared for the strum of strings when they joined the melody of the band as his steps followed Vox's. He was content to let the other man take the lead – for now. Particularly given the fact that Vox was keeping an eye on things for them, smoothing out Alastor's nerves before they even properly managed to twist themselves into a panic.
The bar was hot with the energy of other dancers, other sinners – all enjoying the live band and the drinks on offer. An old-fashioned kind of place, one which Vox had teased would be perfect; given how old-fashioned Alastor himself was. His grin was easy, his ears bouncing with his movements as the tempo of the music increased and Vox pushed him into a spin. There were a few exclamations of horror when Alastor's body twisted, his head staying in place as he kept his gaze locked on that of his partner.
His neck crunched, bones adjusting themselves when Vox pulled him back. Strong arms caught him, a touch that Alastor might once have scorned but which now felt as familiar to him as his own signal. Vox's hand splayed over his back, taking his weight as Alastor's right foot left the ground, the dip Vox pushed him into almost low enough that his hair was in danger of catching under somebody's heel.
Alastor gripped Vox by the arms, claws pricking out a warning – and Vox's expression flashed in a grin, the man pulling him back up and switching their dance positions without missing a beat, spinning around so his back was to Alastor's chest, arms crossed over his in an embrace almost too intimate to be indulged in whilst in public.
“Cello,” Vox said quietly, a faint spark jumping from the tip of his antenna to tangle in Alastor's hair – to fizz up the strands of it, tickling his antler where it tried to dance on its spindly tips. Though something in Alastor's chest tightened, he nodded, lids sliding shut for the briefest of moments when that new instrument joined the fray.
If he was prepared for it, it wasn't so bad.
The fact that he would consider anything about this kind of music 'bad' in the first place was a weakness in himself that he still despised, but ignoring the problem hadn't yet made it go away. Charlie liked to lecture everyone about the benefits of exposure therapy, and – eager to do his part to help – Vox had latched onto the idea like a shark with a corpse.
Alastor almost hated to admit that it worked – even to himself – and he certainly wasn't going to say as much to Charlie. The girl had no idea he still had such issues, that the scars of his capture had not faded so neatly from his mind, no matter how well they'd healed on his body. And they had healed – the lashings that Lilith's magic had left on his skin, the bruises, the cuts – they'd all faded. Until there was barely any evidence at all of his imprisonment.
Vox was the only one who knew just how deeply the experience had marred him. The only one he'd trust with the truth. As if he could keep the truth from the man, anyway.
“Piano.” Vox spun to face him, gripping Alastor by both hands and pulling him close enough that their chests touched. The move called for Alastor to step back – for him to create space between them once more. He was a talented dancer, Vox knew that – so when Alastor stiffened, his claws escaping Vox's grasp and curling into the front of his jacket, he knew it wasn't a simple matter of a forgotten step.
“No?” Vox asked, so lowly that his voice was little more than a whisper of speaker feedback in Alastor's suddenly flattened ears. Alastor gave him a minute shake of his head, heat creeping up his neck to stain his cheeks, his teeth gritted with the embarrassment of such an admission.
Static rushed up his arms, over his chest. It curled around his throat, Vox's signal buzzing with reassurance as it blanketed him – until he could hear little more than the white noise of it, the music and the chatter around them dying down to an echo, as of a sound heard through deep water. Alastor blinked, the homeowners in his stomach beating their wings against the inside of it when he caught Vox's eye.
He didn't think he would ever stop appreciating the way Vox looked at him. Not with malice, not with suspicion. Not with any hint of hidden intentions, though the way their signals merged rather precluded him from telling that lie, just as it hampered Alastor. There wasn't a single mote of judgement in his gaze when he tipped his head forward, careless of the dancers moving around them as the glass at the top of his screen pressed against Alastor's forehead. Strands of his bangs lifted, clinging to Vox's glass just as surely as his claws were wrapped in the other man's shirt, and Alastor let his eyes close with a sigh when Vox muttered another question.
“Time to go?”
Just that. Just those three simple words, and they meant more than any grand declaration could possibly manage. Alastor nodded, swallowing thickly when the buzzing of Vox's signal failed to blanket out the plink of jazz piano keys entirely.
He hated that this exposure therapy was working.
But he hated the fact that he couldn't even stand to touch a piano even more.
* * * * * *
“You did great,” Vox assured him, the elevator doors closing at their back and Vox's hand on Alastor's waist guiding him forward. Alastor scoffed, huffing a derisive blat of static into the room as he stepped away and fidgeted with his coat buttons.
“Please. I used to be better on the piano than Maestro, and now I can barely stand to look at one. It's pathetic.” He slipped out of his coat, draping it over the back of an armchair as he refused to look at Vox. He could feel the denial budding on Vox's tongue long before the other man uttered the words, his cheeks reddening once more.
His own signal sputtered, something in him silently begging Vox not to offer those useless platitudes, and Vox paused. What might have been an argument was over in the span of a few seconds, and neither of them had even snapped at one another.
Damn Vox for being so in tune with his frequency.
“Do you want to try, then? While it's just us?” Vox suggested. His words twisted something deep in Alastor's guts, and he whirled around with a glare of suspicion, ready to accuse Vox of petty mockery – but of course, there wasn't a hint of it on his screen.
Alastor's static swept across the room, Vox's expression flickering and one eye squinting when motes of Alastor's signal darted over him, chasing the lie. His shoulders dropped a fraction, hesitation blooming like a living thing in his chest; the idea of confronting such a useless fear threatening to suffocate him.
“How?” He asked, a question instead of a refusal, and Vox aimed a spark of electricity at a panel on the wall. The wall shifted, opening up into a room Alastor hadn't even known existed, the floor rotating in place to reveal one of the finest grand pianos he'd ever seen.
“Trust me. I've got an idea.”
Vox usually said such a thing to appeal to the masses, that meaningless assurance of trust. Sinners would be fools to believe him – though as he'd once again started to take an interest in the quality of his products, perhaps that was too harsh a judgement. Regardless, Alastor knew that it was never an empty phrase when Vox said it to him, one of his ears twitching with interest as a faint furrow lined his forehead.
At his lack of a refusal, Vox lifted a brow and jerked his screen towards the piano. He strode towards it, talking all the while – that easy, casual tone, that banter he so often used to his advantage. And Alastor followed, like a fawn called by the bleat of its infernal mother.
“She used it to hurt you, right? You don't have to answer that,” Vox assured him, the question purely rhetorical. “I've been thinking about it. Fuck, I have nightmares about it – but I think I've figured out a way to help. What if we replace the... uh... the association of pain – with something else?”
Alastor cocked his head, watching Vox take his place at the piano – facing away from it, his back to the keys. He patted his lap, like he thought his thighs were the most inviting possible seat.
Amusement curled in Alastor's chest, warm affection for how his dear Picture Box thought.
“And shall I start calling you Pavlov, Picture Box?” Alastor murmured – though he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea. Rather intrigued, in fact, and even more so when Vox's signal wound its way across the room – looping around his wrist, tugging him forward with a flirtatious little spark against the thin skin over his veins.
His smile sharpened a fraction as Vox's grin took on that charming lopsided imperfection, the honesty of a smile not meant to be shared with anyone but him. He'd long since given into the knowledge that he was hopelessly infatuated with the man, so Alastor crossed the room with a subtle sway of his hips and clambered up to straddle Vox's thighs.
The piano beckoned, its ivory keys gleaming like broken bones, and Alastor's pulse thumped against his throat as his ears dropped. Vox lifted a hand to catch his face, claws pressing against his cheeks and redirecting his gaze.
“You can tell me if you're not liking it. Can I look after your control for a bit?” Vox murmured, manifesting his lips and mouthing against Alastor's jaw.
Alastor's eyes dimmed, his lids dropping to half-mast at the invitation. Because it was an invitation, though Vox had posed it as a request, and they both understood as much.
“Yes,” Alastor answered with a huff of static, Vox's frequency skimming over his skin where it crept under his collar and in between his buttons. “Take it, Vox. It's all yours.”
Already, he could feel some of the tension dropping from his shoulders, this surrender of his rigid self-control into Vox's hands. He'd been on edge all night, waiting for the next instrument – waiting for the wail of a violin to shatter his mind into a thousand pieces, right in front of everyone else on the dance floor.
Something between them shifted, as if Alastor had given himself permission to press up more tightly against Vox's chest, shameless in how he nuzzled against the other man's screen. There was a subtle change within Vox, a kind of quiet confidence that reaffirmed the fact he could be trusted.
“Okay.” Vox's hands wandered to Alastor's waistband, tugging his shirt loose. One stayed at his hips while the other ventured higher, claw-tips brushing the shorter hair just above his nape. “Play a couple of chords for me, Alastor.”
Alastor shivered, apprehension once more creeping into his veins – but he followed the instruction all the same, reaching under Vox's arms to lay his fingers on the keys. Vox's warmth practically radiated against him, seeping into his thighs and stomach and chest – and he tentatively pressed down.
His ears twitched, his muscles going rigid as the sweet notes he'd chosen vibrated in the air. Something in him waited for a blow, for a lash to open across his back – and he jolted, his stomach twisting when the tips of Vox's claws slipped into his waistband, pleasure sparking over his frame when they brushed the end of his quivering tail.
A squeak echoed in his throat, Vox's signal soothing over his own static before its erratic buzz could venture any further towards anxiety. This was what Vox had meant – what he'd intended all along?
Silicone lips pressed against his cheek, and it was only then that Alastor realised he'd turned his face, the pins and needles of Vox's screen dancing over his skin where he trembled against the other man. Faint pinpricks of lightning were racing up his spine, his nerves drawing tight in anticipation as Vox's claws pressed against his lower back. He swallowed a whine, the proximity of Vox's hand to his tail as addictive as any drug, and he didn't know why Vox wasn't already touching him.
“Amazing. You're a musician,” Vox teased. Alastor's lip curled from his teeth, his answering retort choked before he managed to give it breath when Vox fisted his other hand in his hair, tugging at it until Alastor's scalp prickled and heat crept into his cheeks. “Play a little more for me?”
How could Alastor do anything but oblige? He felt as if Vox were holding him suspended over a bed of nails, each key he pressed threatening to open a vein – but with every note he played, Vox's gentle touches and soft caresses only grew more insistent, until his claws were wrapped around Alastor's tail – and the hard length of his cock was pressing against his zipper, Vox’s pleasure twining with Alastor's as he felt the way arousal swam through Alastor's signal in kind.
Lips pressed against his jaw, and Alastor turned his head to capture them with his, the last few notes he'd played still hanging in the air. Every inch of his skin felt as though he'd been standing under a cascade of near-scalding water, his breaths echoing quick and shallow, misting against Vox's screen. Words of encouragement echoed in his skull, squashing the fear and resentment he'd built up towards the idea of ever touching a piano again – and he whimpered, trying to somehow press even closer when Vox's grip around his tail tightened, his own dick aching where his pleasure had risen to answer Vox's call.
“Mm. You want more?” Vox asked in a mutter, and Alastor didn't need to stop to consider the answer.
“Yes.” Breathy, needy – almost desperate; everything he would have despised himself for being until Vox had managed to prove that this surrender wasn't anything to be ashamed of. He almost whined aloud when Vox's grip in his hair loosened, his hand dropping down between them to fumble with first his own zipper, then Alastor's – and he did groan when Vox pushed his undershorts down, easing his dick out and letting it slot up against the flushed length of Vox's cock, its head glowing a bright, hypnotic cyan.
“Can you keep playing? One handed? Because I want your other hand down... here,” Vox almost growled, catching Alastor's left hand with his and dragging it between their bodies, curling his claws over Alastor's fingers. A staticky gasp left Alastor's throat as the sticky warmth of their combined excitement smeared over his hand, nerves within his frame lighting up like fireworks celebrating a New Year.
“Keep playing, Alastor. I wanna hear what music you can make while you're jerking us both off,” Vox demanded, his hand leaving Alastor's to push up his shirt – to seek out a nipple, heat rolling over Alastor's chest and spots sparking behind his urgently shut lids as his dick throbbed against Vox's.
What could he possibly even try to play with one hand? His fingers were long, yes, but even Chopsticks seemed out of reach. A burble of static caught in his throat as Vox's thumb pressed into his hip, the other man's claws still buried in his tail – encouraging his hips to roll against Vox, to slide their cocks in his hand.
He whimpered, shivering, as Vox's free hand ventured over to his other nipple, tweaking it between his claws. “Come on. Play.”
Mindless, Alastor started to tap out the notes for Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star, and every time he finished a phrase, Vox rubbed his claws over the thin, delicate skin hidden under the fur of Alastor's tail. His hips jerked at the touch, his dick rubbing against Vox's and pre-come dribbling from his tip, his veins and nervous system on fire.
This heat didn't threaten to burn him, though. This wasn't a heat he was desperate to extinguish, and his own hand moved almost of its own accord, thumb swiping over Vox's tip when the other man let out an encouraging groan, the whirr of his fans speeding up and sparks leaping from his antenna to play with the strands of Alastor's hair.
Each note plinked its way into Alastor's mind. He was losing time. Hitting the wrong keys. His fingers were trembling over that gleaming ivory, his guts tightening in his abdomen as Vox's pleasure seeped through his signal, heavy against the back of his tongue when he gasped for air. A squeak echoed in his throat, a wordless plea – and Vox grabbed his hair, roughly dragging him into a kiss that threatened to smother him or break his nose, but which Alastor welcomed with all the greed he'd always had such a penchant for.
A sharp tug on his tail, a yank of his hair – a roll of his hips as he squeezed his own hand around their cocks, pleasure radiating up his spine and over his thighs – and his free hand slammed onto the keys, a cacophony of noise wrenched from the piano as he spilled over his fist. As if the hot spurt of his release was all Vox needed, he moaned, almost lifting Alastor in place as his hips jolted up – and his spend joined Alastor's in dripping over his knuckles and staining Vox's shirt.
It was long moments before they managed to untangle their signals, static looped and threaded so tightly together it briefly seemed impossible. Finally, Alastor felt the distinctive buzz that was Vox run over one of his ears, soothing him before he needed it – before he could start shivering anew.
“I don't think classical music and classical conditioning were meant to go quite so hand in hand,” Alastor muttered, sitting back and blinking the blurriness from his vision, focusing on Vox past the brightness of his screen.
A lop-sided smirk grew on his expression, and Vox made no protest when Alastor wiped his hand on his already ruined shirt, fumbling a little as he tucked himself away. His breath left his lungs in a whoosh as Vox pulled him against his chest, no room between them at all.
“It'll certainly be interesting. Imagine – if we do this enough, maybe you'll pop a boner every time you sit down at the piano.”
Static squealed, and Alastor shoved at Vox's shoulders in protest, struggling to escape his grip. Vox laughed as he let him go, wiggling his eyebrows when Alastor stalked over to the bathroom with a huff.
His cheeks burned, the idea positively ludicrous.
Still – they'd addressed the piano. He couldn't help but wonder if the same treatment might assist him with other instruments, though some would prove more challenging than others.
~fin~