You can become a god, but that is not the same as being the God. The one true God created a dual universe so he might tell us to not be like Him, for he is alone. But you have always worked to be heard...
[ Vox. The people's voice. Hell's equivalent of the Speaker of God, but far more proactive. Far more useful.
And it really is both, because Vox should know Alastor well. He isn't the sort to do things for the sake of it. He would certainly never degrade himself, and so if he's experimenting now, it's because he wishes to. He's testing it out to see how he feels about it for his own sake. To that end, he'll go as far as to guide Vox's hand up, placing his thumb over the others fingers to force them to curl before he pushes his cheek against them.
His fingers slide up the others thigh, toying with and testing with his hem. Nimble fingers slip beneath it, pressing against the edge of his torso and sliding along, coming to play with the button of his pants, sliding it through the hole, and -
And stopping, one eye closing before he gives a little tug, and then again, as he hits the limit of his cable. He doesn't try it past that either, or at least not more than once, because it's embarrassing enough, and his smile thinning out instead and his hand retracting, Vox's hand then gingerly placed back on the armrest, before Alastor finally folds his legs and rests both his hands on his knee, eyelids resting low.
[His fingers being pressed against Alastor's cheek is surprisingly gentle. Affection in a very pure form, if indeed the gesture is genuine. Vox doesn't know whether it would be. If Alastor's jaws were to suddenly open and slam shut again on his digits, it wouldn't be an entirely surprising turn of events. It'd be a hassle and it'd hurt like hell, but it'd be an expected outcome of playing with fire as well. Either way, he adds a very light pressure against Alastor's face of his own volition. Just enough to indicate he's not just ragdolling and willing to be an active participant in... whatever the fuck this is.
Alastor's other hand is up to something much more dangerous, causing Vox to swallow thickly. There's still a chill of goosebumps prickling at him, because while he's uneasy about all of this, there's also a light hint of anticipation weaseling its way in. A twinkle of hope, sputtering and sparking to life against better judgment. His focus slips to the sensation of Alastor's fingers sliding along his torso, and-
And there it is. The distinct sound of a cable pulled to its extreme, refusing any more give. That's as far as it goes.
Vox leaves things as they are. He won't give Alastor any more freedom- especially not after how much he's already given tonight. He's not that stupid. Bitter and unwilling to budge, he uses both hands to button his pants again, then tugs down his shirt to make sure everything's in place. And yes, there is zero intent to talk about it.
Right. The god thing.]
... I'm aiming to be The God, not a god. So once I am that God, I'm the one making the rules. Nobody said the one true God has to be a hermit who refuses to interact with anyone else. So in case that's what you were hoping for, no, you wouldn't be rid of me.
[ Vox is that stupid, because there's absolutely nothing that Alastor could do with any additional freedom. He does fix the other with a bit of a look, the sort that is specifically reserved to inform men that they've done something extremely stupid and ruined the first and last opportunity given to them, but he otherwise straightens himself up more and makes a point of shifting from the other. If this were a sitcom, he would be the wife who will no longer be sharing the bed.
Such is how their relationship tends to go. Alastor pushes, Vox pulls. Alastor shoves, Vox pulls him down along with him. One is used to cushion the other's fall.
He huffs, exactly like he didn't know how this was going to turn out from the start because he had checked the length of those cables for a reason. Is he actually annoyed? Is he not? Does he just want to be difficult? In this particular case, there really is just absolutely no way of telling with Alastor since it's not like anyone else has gotten this far with him. ]
[Nope. Nope nope, Vox is dismissing this whole incident as 'it was never going to happen anyway' and 'letting Alastor hold onto his aroused cock could never end well for him'. He escaped disaster here, that's what he did. He's fine. He's cool. He's absolutely not going to be lying awake at night staring up at the ceiling, overthinking any of this.
He quickly picks up his own glass and drains it all the way. Following that, he reaches for the bottle to refill it without even a second's hesitation.]
I was letting you choose, remember? 'Cause I'm so fucking nice like that? But if you don't wanna take me up on that offer, I'll pick something.
[Just let him drain another glass in one go first. He's fine. HE IS SO FUCKING FINE RIGHT NOW-]
[ Good, because Alastor isn't touching him again. In fact, he's taking that popcorn bucket and putting it on the other side now, wedging it between them while he makes a point of angling himself toward and leaning to the opposite side with his legs crossed. How much of his displeasure is real and how much of it is him dutifully playing the role of Vox's date is hard to say based on the dramatics alone, but there's at least enough of the former that his ears are laying flat back. Maybe he had been messing with Vox, but maybe he had planned on messing with him more, and maybe he is a little embarrassed by what he's decided is a sound rejection.
But he will take a moment to follow suit in draining his glass, placing the glass back in the cup holder before bringing his hand back to his lap. ]
[Vox sees that shift in posture from the corner of his eye, even as he busies himself with the drink cart. It's frustrating, because deep down, he knows he baited this kind of behavior into the open the second he doubled down on this fake, utterly theatrical date. Of course Alastor would play along in the most mean-spirited way. It's really soured the mood, though. Now he can't even feel good about his impending victory anymore.]
Fine.
[His hand pulls the touch screen towards himself with a swiping gesture in midair, so he won't have to lean towards Alastor to use it. He's really not in a mood to invade the guy's space for the next... Minute. Five minutes. Who knows? His finger navigates through the movie selection with ease and the next second, he's chosen something called Christmas Past. Santa travels back in time to see his younger self become, well, Santa. It's fucking stupid and if even Vox will hate it, Alastor must hate it even more. That's totally how that works.]
[ Vox only has himself to blame. There's a lot of responsibilities that come with playing house, and most of all when courting such a fickle individual. He's so inclined to be difficult; at his absolute kindest wanting to play at being coy, playing hard to get, and giving strawman excuses to offers coming off as improper while stretching out interactions. Or some distorted version of that, anyhow. Vox always chases; Alastor always baits him.
The slight was minor enough that he's able to move on from it quickly, but he's going to stay positioned just like he is for a little longer. Not overly so, but just long enough to keep form coming across as too placable himself.
But after a minute of looking anywhere but at Vox, he will tu rn his head back, ]
[Ooooh this experience will suck. Vox can already tell from the sweeping aerial shot of the North Pole and the orchestral music that all this great cinematography and scoring will be wasted on whatever the actual plot is. Ultimately, that's always his biggest beef with Heaven's movies: they have the means to craft a masterpiece, but it's very clear that every single script is written by someone who's had no significant life experience. These people haven't suffered the way Sinners have. Not a single emotion they're trying to convey resonates the way it should. Fucking pitiful.
Vox will hatewatch this stuff anyway. Inviting negativity into his life is the exact brand of self-sabotage he subscribes to.
By the time Alastor speaks, the first scene is already on its way and old man Santa is cynical about the meaning of Christmas (typical plot beat). Vox throws an annoyed sideways glance his way, then takes the popcorn with both hands to lift it out of Alastor's seat and onto his own lap.]
It's my movie pick. It has musical numbers, time travel and wasted potential all across the goddamn board.
[ One ear twitches in response to Vox's voice before they both lift back up to attention. There's a small sound of acknowledgment and a nod of the head in response to his answer, because against his better judgment he is half-paying attention here.
That it's wasted potential doesn't surprise him. He likes Christmas movies, though only at Christmas time, but they're written in that sort of way that flirts with the idea of hurt and tragedy without ever truly delving into them. Perhaps that's why Heaven likes them - they want the pretense and illusion of being sad, not the actual discomfort of being confronted with real issues. It's no different than why people consume horror - there's a thrill to being able to experience fear and dread when there's no actual threat to their person.
But he keeps his thoughts to himself for now, as it only takes so much longer before Alastor starts to feel the effects of the whiskey. He's not quite tipsy and far from drunkenness, but there's that little bit of extra warmth, a kind of fuzziness that seems to often the hard edges of the world. It's that feeling which allows discomfort to win out over sulkiness, and he finds himself shifting back into his original sitting position. He adjusts a little more, then sets his arm on the armrest, fingernails lightly scraping against the surface. ]
[The more time passes, the more Vox feels that pent up fury of the earlier incident dissipating. He's still cross about it, but doesn't know where to direct those emotions, so he just sort of ends up strangling them and stuffing them down. At the same time, the effects of the alcohol he consumed are starting to set in. Downing that second glass in one go was a mistake, he's finding out. His thoughts are moving a little slower, more prone to drifting away from the movie. He starts eating the popcorn in hopes of slowing any further intoxication effects. Get something else in what's essentially his stomach to digest.
He becomes aware of Alastor's shifting movement as soon as it happens, and his gaze seeks out the arm that's settling right next to him. The scrape of the man's fingernails is very alluring, somehow. It's a good sound. He considers setting his own arm down right beside it, then decides against it. That could very well set Alastor off again in the worst kind of way. But there's a different sort of gesture to make.
After a moment of debate, he moves the popcorn back towards Alastor, making sure it's within reach even with those cables. (Unlike a certain something else that wasn't within reach.)]
[ it's vox fault for making the cables so short smh
Alastor is alternating between looking at the screen and Vox. He's not finding even the smallest amount of joy in it, save an appreciation for the score, and so in that the man has succeeded in his goal. There is a bit more entertainment in watching Vox's movements. It's been decades since he shared a drink with... Well, anyone, but this man in particular is one of the few who he had once been willing to during his time here in Hell.
He's indulged Vox too much already. He doesn't mind the man acting like a slobbering dog, that works well for his purposes, but too much and he might come to be insufferable. Then again, perhaps it doesn't matter at this point. This will all be coming to an end soon. If the angels don't smite him, Alastor might do so himself. Or maybe he won't, because Vox always seems to have a way of getting away from him in the end. He's the only overlord that ever has - on a good day the average sinner isn't worth paying attention to, but overlords are a different story.
He thinks that, but he still reaches over once the bucket is moved near him, taking a few pieces of popcorn and popping them into his mouth. His fingertips linger there while he slowly chew on it before swallowing, and then his hand drops back down. ]
By the way, I've been meaning to ask: Just what do you plan on doing with the "motherfucking King of Hell" after all this?
[ He snorts, because he heard that too. It's a mocking tone, not all that unlike the one he can use for Vox, but with none of the levity. It's darker, more malicious, and just a touch expectant. Alastor thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear it. ]
[Huh. The popcorn was accepted. That's good, right? Vox thinks it's good. The line between fake, performative date and real sentiment is beginning to blur, and he can't be assed to put it back into focus. He's too tired for any of that. He just wants to watch this movie in peace and pretend, if only for a minute, that his emotions towards Alastor aren't a messy, raging dumpsterfire of conflict. Everything will change tomorrow anyway. Once he's taken God's throne, simple little moments like this might cease to be.
He was just refilling his glass again (most unwise to dip back into that, but fuck it, what's he got to lose?) when Alastor raises the topic of Lucifer. Vox had low-key forgotten he even still has that guy in custody. He stares down at the bottle in his hand, then turns his head to peer Alastor's way.]
Keep him, I guess. Once I've conquered Heaven, I could probably kill him with ease, but... Feels like a waste, somehow. He can be a trophy bitch for my collection. [The bottle rolls over in his palm, then gets set back down on the drink cart. A quiet little laugh escapes him.] Or maybe Val wants him, I dunno. I mean, I don't really give that much of a fuck about him. He's just a shiny battering ram to knock down Heaven's gates.
[ That isn't all that surprising, but there is some pleasure to be found in it. It's being more important than someone, it's hearing how insignificant someone who's looked down on you is, because that's really what led to all of this. It was scorn, it was mockery, it was old hurts; it was a different flavor of all those things which spurs Vox on, but with a different goal.
He lifts his glass to push it Vox's way. He won't have much more, because the Vee tower is far too big and has far too many people for him not to feel on edge, but he'll at least go through the motions here. ]
And you'll put me in a dark closet and forget about me?
[ It's looping back to something said before, but there's a touch more levity to it, bordering on friendly, because it's just a bid for attention now. ]
[Vox's hand moves to take the glass as soon as it's pushed his way, since he's still perfectly willing to keep giving Alastor refills. He remembers how docile the radio demon gets with enough alcohol in him, so he might as well keep the booze flowing at this point. His first instinctual response to the question is 'no, I already said I'd never forget', but then he registers the tone in which it was said.
... Huh.
The empty glass is sat down in his lap for now, fingers sliding along the top rim. He's still watching Alastor, but his grin's not quite as toothy as usual.]
Nah. I'll put you in a dark closet and keep you all to myself there. Lucifer's one of the lowly trophy bitches, just for show. You're the real prize of the collection.
[This is his version of flirting. It's as terrible as one would expect.]
[ It's a wonder that he's so bad at it after being with Valentino for all these years. Alastor is quite the opposite. He's quite the gentleman, a natural charmer who can make women swoon, though he had never quite tried. He had a few short lived relationships in his time, but never out of interest; it simply seemed like one of those things that a person is supposed to do. If he had more time, he might have one day married because he'd grown tired, or perhaps his desire to wait until he found that fabled right person would have won out.
Vox is terrible at it, enough that he has to stare at him for a couple seconds. His shoulders quiver, and there's a snort followed by a full blown laugh as what Vox is trying to do registers. It's one of those few occasions when there's nothing mean spirited about it, because the liquor tells him it's fine. It's part of why he he avoids it - on his own its a pleasure, but with others it's drinking pesticide to kill the butterflies in his stomach.
He's not quite there, but just enough to play along a little. ]
I am the only one that matters.
[ And he's quite pleased with that. Their relationship has always been special. It's because they share the airwaves. It's like an invisible red string, but it's around their throats instead of their fingers, and all they ever do is pull at each other's ends in hopes of snuffing the life out of the other - but it never quite seems to work, because one of them loses their grip at the last possible second. ]
Do you always hide your most prized possessions hidden away in a dark closet? No, now that I think about it, that's not possible for you. You'd come running over to opening it every five minutes, no matter how many times I told you to stop, and then complain about not getting anything done.
[ And then if he stopped, Alastor would start knocking on the walls and the door and finding other creative ways to try to get attention because he's needy like that. ]
[Vox is sure there's some kind of joke to be made about that closet, but he can't quite piece it together in a way that works. Rather, the words won't fit together in a way he's comfortable with saying out loud. Either way, the connection to hiding these things in the closet when he was still alive is there, he knows it, he can smile about it. It's all good.
Alastor's glass is set down on the drink cart's surface so he can start refilling that glass, taking hold of the same whiskey bottle as before. It's about half empty now. Or half full..?]
I mean... Honestly? That's not too far off from what'll happen. [He doesn't even mind admitting it. It's obvious anyway.] It's what you walked into when you surrendered yourself to me, Al. I figured you knew that when you made the deal. There isn't a single reality out there where I wouldn't be checking in on you constantly.
[The whiskey is refilled with yet another generous helping and set down in the cup holder. While Vox's arm is in that region anyway, he takes the opportunity to lean in closer with a grin. Not close enough to touch any part of Alastor's body, but close enough to rest his own elbow on the armrest.]
Are you sure that's not what you wanted all along?
[ He had known, of course. He'd known that Vox would drag him about while demanding his attention at all hours as much as he did that the other would demand his approval. Both of these little would-be dates were a surprise, though. He hadn't quite expected the other to accept those curious touches either, though a taught cable had cut it short.
His ears are tilted toward Vox now. They stay in place, promising his full attention. This isn't what he wanted in the least, but that's not what's really being asked here, and so he doesn't answer immediately. He doesn't move away when Vox starts to lean in either, though one ear flicks.
He doesn't regret rejecting the offer of partnership. He can see how Vox treats the other Vees, and Alastor is tired of being beneath others. But he does take a moment to wonder how long Vox's interest would last. It might be another decade or two, or perhaps something longer. The more years that go by, the faster time passes and the more he loses, so perhaps those centuries would be akin to a mere few years.
He lifts the glass without thinking before bringing it to his lips. He takes it a little slower this time, because he tells himself it'll be just a bit, but the glass is empty once more when it sets it down. The more glasses a person has, the easier it is to justify the next one.
It's a waste of time to think about complicated things. ]
[... Right. That's... Okay. Vox doesn't really know what it is he's supposed to be trying again, because that remark can be interpreted quite a few ways. The conclusion? The flirting? He doesn't want Alastor to think he's stupid, so he'll pretend to understand. Just keep doing what he's doing, even if he doesn't know what it is he's even doing right now. It was supposed to be torment for Alastor and it's clearly not, but maybe it doesn't have to be torment? Whatever the fuck this is feels nice enough to keep going on this track.
He takes a handful of popcorn for himself, laying it out on his palm for easy access. That same palm that's hovering around their shared arm rest. One flake is popped into his own mouth, but the rest remains there in a silent offer, just to see whether Alastor will react in any way. It's also a rather unnecessary offer, since Alastor could still reach the actual bucket, but that makes it much more interesting.]
No, no. Come ooon. Just admit it. This is nice. Kinda like old times, right?
[Which is either the right thing to say, or a very wrong thing to say. He's about to find out.]
[ It was a little bit of everything, and nothing at all, because Alastor isn't quite sure what he's looking for in this interaction anymore. There's some quiet, almost inaudible part of him that wishes Vox hadn't made that proposal all those years ago. There's a much larger part that's glad that it ended before he could get hurt. But then and now, he would be happiest if things could stay just the same way that they are.
He reaches over to pluck one of the popcorn kernels from Vox's palm, but he only rolls it between his index finger and thumb. The taste of whiskey sits on his tongue, a spicy-sweet blend of spices with just a hint of bitterness; a nostalgic flavor that he'd like to keep for awhile longer. ]
I don't recall the part where you tied me to a chair.
[ But it is, a little. He considers a moment more before adding, ]
[... It was the right thing to say? Really? Nothing too snide being sent back at him? And the popcorn was taken from his hand too? Amazing. Vox still doesn't trust the situation- maybe he never will, no matter how docile Alastor becomes. Even so, it's refreshing not to be met with constant hostility. Soothing, almost.
He takes some more of the popcorn to flick into his own mouth, keeping the rest where it is. The balance of his body shifts somewhat, so he leans in closer to Alastor. Not too far, just a few inches, but it's happening. The movie's still going, but he isn't paying much attention to it anymore. Alastor is a far more fascinating watch. No, not fascinating. Captivating.]
You don't hate it. Huh. Sounds like maybe I should be stepping up my torture game.
[He should, but also he shouldn't. The only reason he keeps doing these things is to get Alastor's undivided attention. To stop the relentless antagonism. If he's at that point now, this should be it. This should be what he's been searching for. Or a first step, anyway. It's not enough. He wants more. Is torture the wrong way to go about it, though? He really doesn't know.]
[ He quips, but there's no bite to the words. He's always been in this way - give him a couple fingers of rye and put on some jazz music and he becomes a kitten. The latter is missing, but he tolerates it for now, just as he allows Vox to lean in that little bit more.
He lifts his glass to his lips once more, tipping it back so he can catch the last drops of whiskey and the ice cubes. They've shrunk enough to ruin the texture of anything else he has, so he chew them up and swallows them. Vox's hands are full, and at any rate, he's someone who knows how to appreciate the finish of a drink before moving onto the next one, so he sets it back down once he's done.
Alastor tilts his head back, eyes briefly moving to the ceiling before they come back down. ]
It really is a shame that you don't own a phonograph. It really is the only proper way to listen to music. Your devices can't produce sound the same way.
[ It sounds like a dig, and it is, but it's not quite that; he's an intelligent man, but not overly so, and primarily in specific subjects. He lacks the words and language to find some more palatable way to say it, and his emotions are too strong to want to, so he settles on simpler assessments. But the way that sounds is produced is different. They're too clean, too efficient, lacking all those little imperfections and additional sounds that came with it the turning parts, the scratches and skips... It's no different than radio. Radio is a living thing, its a sound that can't be recreated. ]
[Vox chuckles at that first remark, not taking it as an insult at all. It's just a playful barb, and regardless of what was actually said, that's already a significant thing in and of itself. The rest of the popcorn in his palm is made to disappear with one quick gesture so he has both hands free again, and with that, he reaches for his own glass. Vaguely, he hears the crunch of ice cubes coming from Alastor's mouth and a light chill rolls down his spine. That sure was... something. His gaze slips sideways, towards Alastor's lap, then he quickly takes a sip from his drink.
This is weird. It's like old times, but it's weird.
His gaze somewhat unfocused, he takes in Alastor's musing and rolls it over his mind. It's true, he doesn't own a phonograph. There's a few things in Voxtek's archives; rejected projects and older prototypes of what's been released into Hell at present day, but nothing that goes that far back. Still, an old memory resonates deep within him.]
No phonographs, no. But... Dunno if I ever told you this, but when I was a kid, we had a gramophone. Not too many records for it. Three, maybe four at most. But I liked it. Thought it was fascinating.
[His father kept telling him not to play with it, which just made it even more desirable in his young eyes. It was something grand, expensive, off-limits... He'd touch it and get in trouble for it. He can't remember what happened to that thing. Maybe he sold it at some point, maybe he trashed it out of spite. Either way, he looks back on it with fondness now, because that fascination with media did get the ball rolling.]
Aha, I remember buying one of those! You know, I didn't even manage to get it home before I saw it damaged... I couldn't tell you what witchcraft she used to fix it either, [ A small laugh, ] That woman was capable of creating greater miracles than God.
[ The thing never did work quite right, but that just gave it a bit of character. It allowed replacing it to be pushed back in favor of other expenses, again and again, until it was no longer possible... But none of that needs to be said. It's rare for him to even say this much. Alastor speaks of the era he's from, of his career, of other people, but he always stops just short of speaking of himself. It's only at rare moments like this that he offers hints any at all. ]
She has a lovely singing voice, you know, and quite the dancer, to say nothing of her art and stortytelling... In fact, I don't think there's much that woman couldn't do.
[ Alastor's expression brightens as he goes on. It's a subtle change, but it's present, a sort of luster that's never present in him. He gestures as he continues on until he pulls a cable taut, at which point he gives up on the endeavor and drop his hands back down.
But he's derailed from Vox's original point enough now. He shakes his head. ]
You never did tell me what sparked your interest in the entertainment industry.
[Vox's expression dips into a confused stare halfway into Alastor's ramble. He's not sure whether he's the one who's too drunk to understand this, or Alastor's too drunk to provide vital context. Either way, who the fuck is he talking about? What woman? His mother? Feels real fucking weird to compliment her singing and dancing if that's the case. Sibling? Best friend?
Fuck, this is going to keep him up at night, provided he even remembers this.
He'd ask, but he knows Alastor probably won't answer. So instead, he takes a sip from his drink, focusing on himself. When the glass is set down, he's leaning sideways again, a smile on his face.]
It was... Well, it wasn't just one particular thing, I guess. It was more like a realization. Entertainment gets people's attention. It draws them in as a crowd and unites them, 'cause it's even more enjoyable when you share it with other people. Families sitting around radios, groups of people standing out in the street watching the TV in a shop window... All that stuff, you know? If you're the person being shown on that TV, it means all those eyes are on you. It's up to you to make 'em laugh. Or cry. Or... feel some other kinda way. Give 'em what they came for, anyway. [He chuckles under his breath, a little embarrassed somehow. It makes perfect sense to him, but he doesn't know if he's making enough sense to get it across.] You... You get it, right?
[ Alastor considers for a moment before nodding. He does. ]
No one else can reach people in the same way. People listen to you. They love you. They actually hear you. And why not? If you think about it, artists and entertainers are the only ones who actually want their audience to enjoy life. Politicians are only interested in telling you how to live, and preachers exist to prepare you for death.
[ As far as he sees it, the two are really the same in wanting to control people, but one promises a longer life and the other promises a peaceful death. It's quite the difference. ]
But that's not what people want at all. They want something that breaks up the monotony of life and all the endless worries that come with it. And I must admit, performing did the same for me. I found that life was growing increasingly dull before before I started broadcasting.
[ Really, when he was on the airwaves is the only time he felt something like happiness. ]
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[ Vox. The people's voice. Hell's equivalent of the Speaker of God, but far more proactive. Far more useful.
And it really is both, because Vox should know Alastor well. He isn't the sort to do things for the sake of it. He would certainly never degrade himself, and so if he's experimenting now, it's because he wishes to. He's testing it out to see how he feels about it for his own sake. To that end, he'll go as far as to guide Vox's hand up, placing his thumb over the others fingers to force them to curl before he pushes his cheek against them.
His fingers slide up the others thigh, toying with and testing with his hem. Nimble fingers slip beneath it, pressing against the edge of his torso and sliding along, coming to play with the button of his pants, sliding it through the hole, and -
And stopping, one eye closing before he gives a little tug, and then again, as he hits the limit of his cable. He doesn't try it past that either, or at least not more than once, because it's embarrassing enough, and his smile thinning out instead and his hand retracting, Vox's hand then gingerly placed back on the armrest, before Alastor finally folds his legs and rests both his hands on his knee, eyelids resting low.
They're not talking about it. ]
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Alastor's other hand is up to something much more dangerous, causing Vox to swallow thickly. There's still a chill of goosebumps prickling at him, because while he's uneasy about all of this, there's also a light hint of anticipation weaseling its way in. A twinkle of hope, sputtering and sparking to life against better judgment. His focus slips to the sensation of Alastor's fingers sliding along his torso, and-
And there it is. The distinct sound of a cable pulled to its extreme, refusing any more give. That's as far as it goes.
Vox leaves things as they are. He won't give Alastor any more freedom- especially not after how much he's already given tonight. He's not that stupid. Bitter and unwilling to budge, he uses both hands to button his pants again, then tugs down his shirt to make sure everything's in place. And yes, there is zero intent to talk about it.
Right. The god thing.]
... I'm aiming to be The God, not a god. So once I am that God, I'm the one making the rules. Nobody said the one true God has to be a hermit who refuses to interact with anyone else. So in case that's what you were hoping for, no, you wouldn't be rid of me.
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Such is how their relationship tends to go. Alastor pushes, Vox pulls. Alastor shoves, Vox pulls him down along with him. One is used to cushion the other's fall.
He huffs, exactly like he didn't know how this was going to turn out from the start because he had checked the length of those cables for a reason. Is he actually annoyed? Is he not? Does he just want to be difficult? In this particular case, there really is just absolutely no way of telling with Alastor since it's not like anyone else has gotten this far with him. ]
I wouldn't dare hope to be.
[ HUFF!!! ]
You still haven't picked a movie.
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He quickly picks up his own glass and drains it all the way. Following that, he reaches for the bottle to refill it without even a second's hesitation.]
I was letting you choose, remember? 'Cause I'm so fucking nice like that? But if you don't wanna take me up on that offer, I'll pick something.
[Just let him drain another glass in one go first. He's fine. HE IS SO FUCKING FINE RIGHT NOW-]
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But he will take a moment to follow suit in draining his glass, placing the glass back in the cup holder before bringing his hand back to his lap. ]
Just pick something. I don't care.
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Fine.
[His hand pulls the touch screen towards himself with a swiping gesture in midair, so he won't have to lean towards Alastor to use it. He's really not in a mood to invade the guy's space for the next... Minute. Five minutes. Who knows? His finger navigates through the movie selection with ease and the next second, he's chosen something called Christmas Past. Santa travels back in time to see his younger self become, well, Santa. It's fucking stupid and if even Vox will hate it, Alastor must hate it even more. That's totally how that works.]
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The slight was minor enough that he's able to move on from it quickly, but he's going to stay positioned just like he is for a little longer. Not overly so, but just long enough to keep form coming across as too placable himself.
But after a minute of looking anywhere but at Vox, he will tu rn his head back, ]
What's this?
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Vox will hatewatch this stuff anyway. Inviting negativity into his life is the exact brand of self-sabotage he subscribes to.
By the time Alastor speaks, the first scene is already on its way and old man Santa is cynical about the meaning of Christmas (typical plot beat). Vox throws an annoyed sideways glance his way, then takes the popcorn with both hands to lift it out of Alastor's seat and onto his own lap.]
It's my movie pick. It has musical numbers, time travel and wasted potential all across the goddamn board.
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That it's wasted potential doesn't surprise him. He likes Christmas movies, though only at Christmas time, but they're written in that sort of way that flirts with the idea of hurt and tragedy without ever truly delving into them. Perhaps that's why Heaven likes them - they want the pretense and illusion of being sad, not the actual discomfort of being confronted with real issues. It's no different than why people consume horror - there's a thrill to being able to experience fear and dread when there's no actual threat to their person.
But he keeps his thoughts to himself for now, as it only takes so much longer before Alastor starts to feel the effects of the whiskey. He's not quite tipsy and far from drunkenness, but there's that little bit of extra warmth, a kind of fuzziness that seems to often the hard edges of the world. It's that feeling which allows discomfort to win out over sulkiness, and he finds himself shifting back into his original sitting position. He adjusts a little more, then sets his arm on the armrest, fingernails lightly scraping against the surface. ]
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He becomes aware of Alastor's shifting movement as soon as it happens, and his gaze seeks out the arm that's settling right next to him. The scrape of the man's fingernails is very alluring, somehow. It's a good sound. He considers setting his own arm down right beside it, then decides against it. That could very well set Alastor off again in the worst kind of way. But there's a different sort of gesture to make.
After a moment of debate, he moves the popcorn back towards Alastor, making sure it's within reach even with those cables. (Unlike a certain something else that wasn't within reach.)]
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Alastor is alternating between looking at the screen and Vox. He's not finding even the smallest amount of joy in it, save an appreciation for the score, and so in that the man has succeeded in his goal. There is a bit more entertainment in watching Vox's movements. It's been decades since he shared a drink with... Well, anyone, but this man in particular is one of the few who he had once been willing to during his time here in Hell.
He's indulged Vox too much already. He doesn't mind the man acting like a slobbering dog, that works well for his purposes, but too much and he might come to be insufferable. Then again, perhaps it doesn't matter at this point. This will all be coming to an end soon. If the angels don't smite him, Alastor might do so himself. Or maybe he won't, because Vox always seems to have a way of getting away from him in the end. He's the only overlord that ever has - on a good day the average sinner isn't worth paying attention to, but overlords are a different story.
He thinks that, but he still reaches over once the bucket is moved near him, taking a few pieces of popcorn and popping them into his mouth. His fingertips linger there while he slowly chew on it before swallowing, and then his hand drops back down. ]
By the way, I've been meaning to ask: Just what do you plan on doing with the "motherfucking King of Hell" after all this?
[ He snorts, because he heard that too. It's a mocking tone, not all that unlike the one he can use for Vox, but with none of the levity. It's darker, more malicious, and just a touch expectant. Alastor thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear it. ]
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He was just refilling his glass again (most unwise to dip back into that, but fuck it, what's he got to lose?) when Alastor raises the topic of Lucifer. Vox had low-key forgotten he even still has that guy in custody. He stares down at the bottle in his hand, then turns his head to peer Alastor's way.]
Keep him, I guess. Once I've conquered Heaven, I could probably kill him with ease, but... Feels like a waste, somehow. He can be a trophy bitch for my collection. [The bottle rolls over in his palm, then gets set back down on the drink cart. A quiet little laugh escapes him.] Or maybe Val wants him, I dunno. I mean, I don't really give that much of a fuck about him. He's just a shiny battering ram to knock down Heaven's gates.
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He lifts his glass to push it Vox's way. He won't have much more, because the Vee tower is far too big and has far too many people for him not to feel on edge, but he'll at least go through the motions here. ]
And you'll put me in a dark closet and forget about me?
[ It's looping back to something said before, but there's a touch more levity to it, bordering on friendly, because it's just a bid for attention now. ]
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... Huh.
The empty glass is sat down in his lap for now, fingers sliding along the top rim. He's still watching Alastor, but his grin's not quite as toothy as usual.]
Nah. I'll put you in a dark closet and keep you all to myself there. Lucifer's one of the lowly trophy bitches, just for show. You're the real prize of the collection.
[This is his version of flirting. It's as terrible as one would expect.]
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Vox is terrible at it, enough that he has to stare at him for a couple seconds. His shoulders quiver, and there's a snort followed by a full blown laugh as what Vox is trying to do registers. It's one of those few occasions when there's nothing mean spirited about it, because the liquor tells him it's fine. It's part of why he he avoids it - on his own its a pleasure, but with others it's drinking pesticide to kill the butterflies in his stomach.
He's not quite there, but just enough to play along a little. ]
I am the only one that matters.
[ And he's quite pleased with that. Their relationship has always been special. It's because they share the airwaves. It's like an invisible red string, but it's around their throats instead of their fingers, and all they ever do is pull at each other's ends in hopes of snuffing the life out of the other - but it never quite seems to work, because one of them loses their grip at the last possible second. ]
Do you always hide your most prized possessions hidden away in a dark closet? No, now that I think about it, that's not possible for you. You'd come running over to opening it every five minutes, no matter how many times I told you to stop, and then complain about not getting anything done.
[ And then if he stopped, Alastor would start knocking on the walls and the door and finding other creative ways to try to get attention because he's needy like that. ]
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Alastor's glass is set down on the drink cart's surface so he can start refilling that glass, taking hold of the same whiskey bottle as before. It's about half empty now. Or half full..?]
I mean... Honestly? That's not too far off from what'll happen. [He doesn't even mind admitting it. It's obvious anyway.] It's what you walked into when you surrendered yourself to me, Al. I figured you knew that when you made the deal. There isn't a single reality out there where I wouldn't be checking in on you constantly.
[The whiskey is refilled with yet another generous helping and set down in the cup holder. While Vox's arm is in that region anyway, he takes the opportunity to lean in closer with a grin. Not close enough to touch any part of Alastor's body, but close enough to rest his own elbow on the armrest.]
Are you sure that's not what you wanted all along?
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His ears are tilted toward Vox now. They stay in place, promising his full attention. This isn't what he wanted in the least, but that's not what's really being asked here, and so he doesn't answer immediately. He doesn't move away when Vox starts to lean in either, though one ear flicks.
He doesn't regret rejecting the offer of partnership. He can see how Vox treats the other Vees, and Alastor is tired of being beneath others. But he does take a moment to wonder how long Vox's interest would last. It might be another decade or two, or perhaps something longer. The more years that go by, the faster time passes and the more he loses, so perhaps those centuries would be akin to a mere few years.
He lifts the glass without thinking before bringing it to his lips. He takes it a little slower this time, because he tells himself it'll be just a bit, but the glass is empty once more when it sets it down. The more glasses a person has, the easier it is to justify the next one.
It's a waste of time to think about complicated things. ]
Hmm... Try again.
[ Is what he eventually settles on. ]
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He takes a handful of popcorn for himself, laying it out on his palm for easy access. That same palm that's hovering around their shared arm rest. One flake is popped into his own mouth, but the rest remains there in a silent offer, just to see whether Alastor will react in any way. It's also a rather unnecessary offer, since Alastor could still reach the actual bucket, but that makes it much more interesting.]
No, no. Come ooon. Just admit it. This is nice. Kinda like old times, right?
[Which is either the right thing to say, or a very wrong thing to say. He's about to find out.]
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He reaches over to pluck one of the popcorn kernels from Vox's palm, but he only rolls it between his index finger and thumb. The taste of whiskey sits on his tongue, a spicy-sweet blend of spices with just a hint of bitterness; a nostalgic flavor that he'd like to keep for awhile longer. ]
I don't recall the part where you tied me to a chair.
[ But it is, a little. He considers a moment more before adding, ]
But... Well, I don't hate it.
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He takes some more of the popcorn to flick into his own mouth, keeping the rest where it is. The balance of his body shifts somewhat, so he leans in closer to Alastor. Not too far, just a few inches, but it's happening. The movie's still going, but he isn't paying much attention to it anymore. Alastor is a far more fascinating watch. No, not fascinating. Captivating.]
You don't hate it. Huh. Sounds like maybe I should be stepping up my torture game.
[He should, but also he shouldn't. The only reason he keeps doing these things is to get Alastor's undivided attention. To stop the relentless antagonism. If he's at that point now, this should be it. This should be what he's been searching for. Or a first step, anyway. It's not enough. He wants more. Is torture the wrong way to go about it, though? He really doesn't know.]
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[ He quips, but there's no bite to the words. He's always been in this way - give him a couple fingers of rye and put on some jazz music and he becomes a kitten. The latter is missing, but he tolerates it for now, just as he allows Vox to lean in that little bit more.
He lifts his glass to his lips once more, tipping it back so he can catch the last drops of whiskey and the ice cubes. They've shrunk enough to ruin the texture of anything else he has, so he chew them up and swallows them. Vox's hands are full, and at any rate, he's someone who knows how to appreciate the finish of a drink before moving onto the next one, so he sets it back down once he's done.
Alastor tilts his head back, eyes briefly moving to the ceiling before they come back down. ]
It really is a shame that you don't own a phonograph. It really is the only proper way to listen to music. Your devices can't produce sound the same way.
[ It sounds like a dig, and it is, but it's not quite that; he's an intelligent man, but not overly so, and primarily in specific subjects. He lacks the words and language to find some more palatable way to say it, and his emotions are too strong to want to, so he settles on simpler assessments. But the way that sounds is produced is different. They're too clean, too efficient, lacking all those little imperfections and additional sounds that came with it the turning parts, the scratches and skips... It's no different than radio. Radio is a living thing, its a sound that can't be recreated. ]
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This is weird. It's like old times, but it's weird.
His gaze somewhat unfocused, he takes in Alastor's musing and rolls it over his mind. It's true, he doesn't own a phonograph. There's a few things in Voxtek's archives; rejected projects and older prototypes of what's been released into Hell at present day, but nothing that goes that far back. Still, an old memory resonates deep within him.]
No phonographs, no. But... Dunno if I ever told you this, but when I was a kid, we had a gramophone. Not too many records for it. Three, maybe four at most. But I liked it. Thought it was fascinating.
[His father kept telling him not to play with it, which just made it even more desirable in his young eyes. It was something grand, expensive, off-limits... He'd touch it and get in trouble for it. He can't remember what happened to that thing. Maybe he sold it at some point, maybe he trashed it out of spite. Either way, he looks back on it with fondness now, because that fascination with media did get the ball rolling.]
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[ The thing never did work quite right, but that just gave it a bit of character. It allowed replacing it to be pushed back in favor of other expenses, again and again, until it was no longer possible... But none of that needs to be said. It's rare for him to even say this much. Alastor speaks of the era he's from, of his career, of other people, but he always stops just short of speaking of himself. It's only at rare moments like this that he offers hints any at all. ]
She has a lovely singing voice, you know, and quite the dancer, to say nothing of her art and stortytelling... In fact, I don't think there's much that woman couldn't do.
[ Alastor's expression brightens as he goes on. It's a subtle change, but it's present, a sort of luster that's never present in him. He gestures as he continues on until he pulls a cable taut, at which point he gives up on the endeavor and drop his hands back down.
But he's derailed from Vox's original point enough now. He shakes his head. ]
You never did tell me what sparked your interest in the entertainment industry.
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Fuck, this is going to keep him up at night, provided he even remembers this.
He'd ask, but he knows Alastor probably won't answer. So instead, he takes a sip from his drink, focusing on himself. When the glass is set down, he's leaning sideways again, a smile on his face.]
It was... Well, it wasn't just one particular thing, I guess. It was more like a realization. Entertainment gets people's attention. It draws them in as a crowd and unites them, 'cause it's even more enjoyable when you share it with other people. Families sitting around radios, groups of people standing out in the street watching the TV in a shop window... All that stuff, you know? If you're the person being shown on that TV, it means all those eyes are on you. It's up to you to make 'em laugh. Or cry. Or... feel some other kinda way. Give 'em what they came for, anyway. [He chuckles under his breath, a little embarrassed somehow. It makes perfect sense to him, but he doesn't know if he's making enough sense to get it across.] You... You get it, right?
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No one else can reach people in the same way. People listen to you. They love you. They actually hear you. And why not? If you think about it, artists and entertainers are the only ones who actually want their audience to enjoy life. Politicians are only interested in telling you how to live, and preachers exist to prepare you for death.
[ As far as he sees it, the two are really the same in wanting to control people, but one promises a longer life and the other promises a peaceful death. It's quite the difference. ]
But that's not what people want at all. They want something that breaks up the monotony of life and all the endless worries that come with it. And I must admit, performing did the same for me. I found that life was growing increasingly dull before before I started broadcasting.
[ Really, when he was on the airwaves is the only time he felt something like happiness. ]
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me trying to hit the preview button like:
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