Archive of Our Own

- “I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”

Vox hates how free Valentino is with his ‘love.’ 

Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t mean in terms of sex.

Sex and anything sex-related is a given with Valentino. He’s a deviant. A disgustingly charming exploiter and opportunist. Vox can concede these points readily enough. Actually, they’re things that he’s come to like about Valentino over their years together, admire about him even, but he would never tell Valentino that. His head would only get bigger than it already is.  

Sex is Valentino’s shtick. His bread and butter. Something so naturally ingrained in his being and everyday life it almost seemed predetermined. Vox can’t hate something predetermined. It just wouldn’t be logical. You wouldn’t applaud a fish for swimming. Why get pissed at a wild dog when it bites?

It’s really in terms of words. The words are what he hates.

Valentino is far too free with his words. 

“Oh, I just love this outfit! It makes my ass look so good. Don’t you think so?” 

“Do you remember that actor from that Hell-enovela I like? The imp with the pretty eyes and dick-sucking lips? I love him so much! How much do you think I’d have to pay for a blow job? Ha. Just kidding.”   

“Fuck, I love when you talk dirty like that.”

“I always love the taste of your cock, mi amor.” 

Love. 

He uses the word love all too loosely, in Vox’s opinion. 

Valentino ‘loves’ this! Valentino ‘loves’ that. 

He’s a child. A disorganized, highly volatile, petty little child, throwing careless ‘loves’ around like a toddler does grains of sand at a playground.

Where he stands among these endless words for the wind, Vox still isn’t quite sure.

That’s what he hates. That’s what bothers him. 

Vox hates when things bother him.  

Every Valentine’s Day it’s the same. He jumps the same intricately lavish hoops, climbs the same inconceivably high mountains of cash, all to be spent on expensive presents and dinners under crystalline stars, only for him to get the same wicked smiles and dirty talk he always does. Which he’s come to accept is fine. It’s normal. Rhythmic. 

They go out, Vox pays, Valentino acts like an unappeasable spouse—his bitchy ‘wife’ Vox would say is an appropriate descriptor—they argue, they cool down, they shake the bed frame, they say nothing else.

The sex is good, at least. It always is. 

But there’s something… disappointingly lackluster in the way that February 14th— the day of ‘love!’ all about ‘love!’ that Valentino allegedly ‘loves!’ since it also happens to be his favorite holiday— always boils down to just another “good ol’ day with Val.”

Despite all of the hoops and all of the mountains, all begrudgingly conquered by him just to make what they have seem different for once, to make it feel different for once, it always ends roughly about the same, whether Vox spends $14,000 or $140,000.

He had nonchalantly told Valentino a few decades ago that he couldn’t do it that year. Couldn’t do Valentine’s Day. Something along the lines of being preoccupied with the launch of a new VoxTek laptop model and back-to-back meetings all day. 

Valentino had just shrugged.

“Fine. But I’m still taking my day off. Oh, don’t look at me like that, you know how much I love this holiday. I’m catching up on my Hell-enovelas then going to the club.”

“… Really? I mean. That’s fine, of course. Good. But really…? You’re sure…?”

“I’m not a fucking idiot. You’ll just get pissy if I distract you. We can do something another time. No te preocupes.”

Miraculously he had found time that evening, and in the end, footed a spectacularly migraine-inducing $27,756.86 bill for an expensive last minute dinner and shopping spree.

Not to mention he’d also lost his favorite lamp in an electrically-charged rage at the audacity because why the hell wouldn’t Valentino want to spend Valentine’s Day with him? 

The only silver lining that had come out of that particular Valentine’s Day failure was that his light bulbs were manufactured mostly glitch-proof now. The fact that Valentino had rode him for hours that evening like the greasiest professional bull-rider in all of existence didn’t hurt either. 

But that’s all in the past. 

Vox thinks this is the year it will all change.

No.

He knows it is.

Sitting at the top floor of Pride’s tallest skyscraper like a sparkling beacon of untouchable light, Diable Luxueux is infamously notorious for being one of the hardest restaurants in all of Hell to book a reservation for. Velvette had told him once that— allegedly —Carmilla Carmine’s request for a table had even been rejected, and the only person that’s ever actually been confirmed to have eaten there is Lucifer himself. 

Now, Vox thinks Lucifer’s a sheer and utter quack, don’t get him wrong, but he isn’t the King of Hell for nothing. The fact of the matter is that even high-ranking Overlords like Carmella Carmine, who’ve been around for centuries, had been turned down from Diable Luxueux before. 

And he has two reservations booked for tonight. On Valentine’s Day, nonetheless. 

With a bit of coercion and properly-executed blackmail—one of the restaurant’s managers happened to be a VoxTek investor with a few dues to pay—he had even ensured that his and Valentino’s seats were near the outer windows, so that they had the best view to see all of Pride.

Luxurious fine-dining over soft, picturesque candlelight, all while the poor and hopelessly disenfranchised suffer in the world below them. 

He’s ecstatic. 

It’s all just so… perfect. 

That isn’t all there is to his plans for tonight, though. No, not at all.

Hell’s Sirens, a group of famous operetta imp singers, are also in town this week, and he had booked them box seats. Comfortable, classy, and, best of all, private. They would get to hear a once-in-a-lifetime performance from singers renowned throughout all seven rings of Hell, enchanting them in beautiful Italian poetry and prose. 

Vox can see it so clearly. Hear Valentino’s voice in his accented lilt whispering to him so goddamn tenderly.

“This was wonderful, mi amor. Thank you for the evening.”

“… I love you.” 

It’s his goal.

It’s been his goal. 

Those three simple words, spoken to him in a perfunctorily, perfectly simple way. If he could get to hear them once, could let the reality of their meaning and spoken existence occupy his mind for only a few indiscernible moments, then maybe, Vox could learn to see the appeal of this god forsaken holiday. He might even learn to ‘love’ it too. 

Admittedly, things aren’t quite turning out how he’d envisioned. It’s only the start of their evening, however, so Vox allows himself a breath of grace and ironically prays for patience. 

He checks his watch. Then taps his foot in a rhythm of three moderately-paced beats. 

One. Two. Three. 

He checks his watch again. It ticks back at him.

One. Two. Three.

He really does like this watch. Tick tock.

One. Two. Three.

It’s his favorite one. Tick tock.

One. Two. Three.

An impressive midnight black Submariner Rolex with silver and red detailings. Tick tock. 

One. Two. Three.

A gift from Valentino, actually. Tick tock.

One. Two. Th—

“—Goddamnit Val,” he yells by the door. “If you don’t fucking hurry up, we’re gonna be late!”

Muffled Spanish erupts from the other side, and while he can barely understand it without the help of his translator modification—which he hates how is disgustingly inefficient—Vox definitely knows the words aren’t of a friendly or loving nature. 

So he yells back. 

“Hey, I understood some of that!” 

“Good! If you’re just gonna be pissy, you can go and eat dinner at your fancy little restaurant with someone else!” 

His eyes narrow.

“… Latino prick,” he mutters under his breath.

Wanting to avoid blowing a fuse, he counts to ten in his head. Twice.

He rubs at his face.

Why is he with him again? It’s not like Vox doesn’t have other options. Yes, Valentino has an endless supply of enticing sex workers on call for him at all times, and yes, Valentino also has a natural, noxiously charming charisma that lets him lure unsuspecting people into his bottomless ocean of depravity, but, no, that doesn’t mean Vox is utterly incapable of getting himself laid in comparison. Maybe he should just leave without him—

The door opens. He hears the click, click, click of heels coming down their expansive staircase. 

“Well…? What do you think? Sexy, no?” 

“You look…” 

He swallows. 

Endlessly long, smoothly toned legs. Midnight black, velvet bodysuit, shimmering hearts bedazzled at the edges, snugly fit. Sinfully cinched waist absolutely perfect for grabbing. Deep plunge of a collar only barely giving a peak of delicious heart-shaped nipples. 

He inhales. Then quivers. 

God, and the smell. The smell is fantastic too. Is that new? 

Looking up at red eyes covered by heart-shaped glasses, his dazed expression firmly drops. 

Valentino’s brow is raised and there's an irritating smirk on his face. A self-righteous smirk. He knows Vox is ogling. 

“Go on,” his expression is saying, like he’s won some sort of non-existent competition. “Tell me I look good.”

Vox won’t give him that satisfaction. 

“… Fine.” He clears his throat. He cools his body. “Done then? It took you long enough. Let’s get going.”

Valentino’s face drops. Crossing his arms, he clicks his teeth, but follows him to the door anyway without much more of a fuss.  

The sound of impossibly high heels click, click, clicking on the floor echoes loudly throughout their shared mansion, filling the silence that had somehow creeped up between them. 

Eventually they reach their limousine where a worker opens the door for them. They sit on opposite ends. 

Inside the car, Vox already knows that he’s done something wrong. Valentino is sitting, uncharacteristically quiet, leaning against his palm, wistfully looking out of the limo’s tinted windows with bored eyes. Staring down at his watch like it’s a Van Gogh at an art gallery, he clears his throat, then mutters his loss. Sometimes one needs to lose to win, after all.

“Beautiful.”

“Hm?” He hears Valentino say. 

He wonders how much Valentino had gotten this for. Most likely a lot. Valentino likes expensive things. 

“I said,” he repeats, more slowly, more clearly. “You look beautiful.”

He looks up.

Valentino is giving him that look again, but it’s less irritating than before. More of a pleased smile than a self-righteous smirk. 

“See? Was that so hard?” 

A slender foot encased in tall heels brushes against his leg. 

“And you look so handsome, mi amor. I love a good black suit on you. It really screams ‘influential business mogul,’ no? You should wear it for me more often. Mm…” Valentino purrs, slowly brushing the foot up to his knee and not any further, making him squirm in his seat. “But I love your pinstripes, too. Don’t get me wrong.”

How he looks in black. His normal pinstripes. 

Valentino loves this. Valentino loves that.

It’s not quite what he wants to hear, but the night is still young yet. 

Needless to say, Diable Luxueux lives up to all of his expectations. 

The smooth piano playing in the background, the serving staff gliding gracefully on the floor, delivering shiny silver platters to customers like ice dancers, the picturesque candlelight. The view outside is also phenomenal, just like he’d expected.

He feels triumphant, sitting here. Like everyone that’s dining at Diable Luxueux, behind the thick glass windows, protected from the wretches down below, is a cut above the rest. Diamonds among heaps of coal. The view outside is lovely, yes. Undoubtedly so. The view right in front of him, however, doesn’t quite live up to what he’d expected.

It’s pissing Vox off, in all honesty.

“You ordered a burger?”

Valentino rolls his eyes at him, only making him more angry. 

“I love burgers. What, I can’t pick my own food?” 

He smiles, forcing out words behind gritted teeth. “I’m not saying that. Dear. I’m just pointing out how ridiculous it is. I mean, you saw how the waitress looked at you when we ordered. We go to one of the most expensive, hard to book restaurants in all of Hell, renowned for its French cuisine, and you order a burger? What are you, a fucking child?”

“Pu-lease.” Valentino blows a raspberry at him. “French ‘cuisine’ is just mierda marketed as gold. That waitress probably thinks I’m a fucking genius for not ordering whatever other garbage they have here, like you. Do you even know what andouillette is?” 

“No,” Vox answers with a glitchy huff, mentally going through his list of ways to control his anger. “But it sounds dignified, unlike you, with your little burger and fries.”

“Ha!” Valentino leans over the table, challenging him with a sharp, pointy smile. “‘Dignified,’ he says. My asshole probably tastes better than the shit that’s coming your way on a silver platter. Oh? And when your piece of shit meal comes, don’t expect me to share mine.”

“Fine by me.” 

Valentino says nothing as he sits back down, just pulls out a cigarette. He strikes it with his own inefficient lighter, having to flick the metal a few grating times, an action Vox knows that Valentino knows will make him furious beyond comprehension. 

A waitress flits by, clearly wanting to tell him that smoking isn’t allowed, but they both send her away with a biting ‘Fuck off.’ 

A cloud of pink smoke gets blown his way. Vox just shuts off his scent receptors. 

“God, look at you,” Valentino continues, lazily eyeing him from across the table. “Sitting so high and mighty over there just because you booked some fancy reservation for your own ego.”

He doesn’t fight the glitch that comes. 

“My ego? What, do you think I’m spending all of this money for my health, Mr. ‘Imported Chocolates and Expensive Wines Only?’ How can you, as one of Hell’s pickiest little pricks, not love this?”

“I just don’t.” Valentino narrows his eyes. “The fuck are you gonna do about it?”

“Oh, nothing!” He grits his teeth again. “I just wanted to point out how you’re so good at just giving out your ‘love’ to every other little fucking thing, right? So what’s next? The waiter? The pianist?”

“Alastor.”

He glitches again, cringing his neck with an aggressive jerk. “Now you’re really just trying to make me mad, honey—”

“—No, you fucking hijo de la gran puta. It’s Alastor. At your 6.”  

Vox turns around, nearly snapping his neck. He digs his claws into the table, choosing to ignore Valentino’s muttered, “Oh, brother. There he goes again…” 

Yes.

The radio son of a bitch is indeed there. Eating alone, perfectly content with that stupid little smile on his stupid fucking face, cutting away at a half-finished, blood-red steak. 

His systems, already tensed since their drive here, begin to overheat. 

He glares. Continues to glare. Eventually they do end up locking eyes.

Alastor obviously knows they’re there, but hasn’t cared to make a move at all, a fact which only infuriates him even more. His unnerving smile slowly shifts into a gnarly smirk, and he looks straight at Vox, all while continuing his bloody meal.

After he finishes, Alastor carefully puts down his silverware, wipes away at the remnants of blood dripping down his chin with his napkin, then promptly shoots Vox the middle finger.

The lightbulb to the pianist’s station erupts.

There’s a distant scream before the music stops altogether.

“Aw,” Valentino coos, taking one last drag before putting out his cigarette in Vox’s water. “What happened to Señor Digno? Where’s all your pissy ‘dignified’ shit now? Hm?”

He claws at the table again, leaving marks in the wood. “Shut the fuck up or I swear I’ll—”

Their meals arrive. It’s a mix of both good and bad timing. 

Valentino looks nothing but pleased with his little kiddie meal as he takes a sharp bite into the juicy burger. 

Vox doesn’t eat quite yet.

For one thing, Alastor is still there in his corner, helping himself to a glass of wine from the looks of it, and it makes him enraged beyond belief that he’s alive, eating and drinking with that smile on his face, in this allegedly exclusive fine-dining establishment, nonetheless. 

And for another…

“Andouillette is pork intestine,” Valentino says with a pleasant hum, biting into a fry. “Shaped into a nice uncircumcised gray sausage. The kind you’re eating there originated in Troyes. Interesting, no?”

“Thanks for the useless history lesson.” 

He pokes at it with his fork, his lip curling. It looks so… 

“Do you want a fry?”

“No,” Vox says immediately. He won’t let Valentino have more satisfaction in riling him up than he already does. He has his pride, after all.   

He tries the sausage. Quickly after, he orders a drink. A strong one. When it arrives, he downs it like water before trying again. 

“Are you sure you don’t want just one delicious fry? Here, I’ll feed you. Open wide. Ahh.”

Chewing his food with a slight cringe before he swallows, Vox answers, slowly and clearly, behind gritted teeth. 

“I do not want your fucking fry.” 

“Well, whatever. It’s your loss.” Valentino stops to dab at the corners of his mouth. “Go hungry, then… Oh, you know what? These are really nice napkins. They don’t scratch at the skin, see? I love how soft the material is. Do you think they order them from somewhere?” 

Vox involuntarily glitches again. 

Deciding he needs space from his food and the table and Alastor and Valentino and Valentino’s words, he heads for the bathroom. 

Wonderful. 

The evening’s falling apart, and it’s only 7.30.

“Trouble in paradise, old friend?”

Of course he’s here. 

Vox turns off the sink, then quickly dries his hands. 

Carefully, he leans against the bathroom counter, watching Alastor enter a stall, humming a tune to himself while he does his business. 

He counts to ten in his mind. 

He barely gets to three when Vox decides he can’t hold back a second longer.

Slamming his fist against the counter with a loud thud, he makes sure Alastor can hear him well over the stall, his voice echoing around the bathroom with an electric boom as the lights flicker.

“What the fuck are you even doing here?” 

His only answer comes in the form of three unfazed tsk, tsk, tsk’s. A few moments later, the toilet flushes and the stall opens again.

“Can’t even wait ‘till after I’ve finished using the loo, hm?” Alastor says, headed for the sink. “Well, you’ve always been on the impatient side. Haven’t you, Vox?”

Washing his hands, smile entirely unchanging, Alastor continues his circular motions with a pleased sigh.

“Ah, yes. February 14th. The nationally regarded day of love. I’m sure you know that, since you’re out and about, dressed to the nines, with one of our fellow Overlords tonight of all nights. I can’t say I’m surprised that a man of his dalliances piques your interest. Though who am I to judge, hm?”

He grits his teeth. “You can go ahead and cut the shit. I know you,” he says with a brief stroke of confidence before glaring at Alastor’s reflection in the mirror. “You’re just as fucked up as the rest of us.”

“Of course.”

God, he wants to rip that smile right off the fucker’s face.

The light bulbs in the bathroom flicker blue, and the nearest one to them shatters.   

Alastor clicks his teeth before turning off the sink. “Temper, temper. Well to answer your question from earlier, I suppose it’s a weakness of mine, getting cheeky on these special occasions. All these happy couples, dudding up and cutting a rug. Simply darling, don’t you think?” 

That makes him pause.

He stops his glaring to raise a confused brow. 

“I thought you couldn’t care less about Valentine’s Day.”

“Come now, old friend, I thought you knew me.” Alastor’s smile somehow finds a way to grow. “Of course I, of all people, couldn’t care less about Valentine’s Day.”

It takes him a few moments before it hits him. 

The lights flicker again.

“You are such a fucking bastard.” 

“Ha, ha! Yes, well. Taking up space for two at a restaurant, when it should clearly belong to a duo of youngsters in love, has always been a fun little activity of mine on these days. Though I’m really not too fond of the food here if I’ll be honest. French ‘cuisine.’ At these exorbitant prices? What a sham!”

Vox only curls his lip, watching as Alastor heads for the door.

Like a mantra, he repeats the words in his mind.

I will not let Alastor get to me.

I will not blow a fuse here. 

Vox still hasn’t gotten what he wants—no, what he needs—out of this February 14th, and he’s already resigned himself to sit on an accomplished throne before the end of tonight.

He’ll finally get what he rightfully deserves if he can manage to keep his cool, finally get to see the end to his long-since-running marathon, finally get to hear his tender victory after accumulating years of biting losses.

He won’t let himself slip up. He can’t afford to.

And so, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed tight, he lets Alastor go without another word. Something pokes uncomfortably at his side. Vox is sure it’s a power outlet based on the electric thrum on his skin. 

“Though it’s not all bad,” Alastor chimes before making a timely exit. 

Vox gives him a look. 

“The burgers here are quite tasty.”

“Oh look! Velvette sent me a link to a news video. It’s about you.”

Vox paces forward, ignoring Valentino, but makes sure he can still hear his heels clicking on the pavement behind him. His blue screen illuminates the sidewalks devoid of light, and he ignores all the confused sinners wandering the streets, wondering where their power went. 

“… Local power outage in midtown, believed to have been caused by an electrical mishap at French eating establishment Diable Luxueux. More tonight…‘Having trouble with your relationship? Try—’”

There’s been a hitch to his plans. 

That much is obvious. 

But, he still has one last desperate card up his sleeve.

They still time to make the show. He still has time to salvage the evening and fix Valentine’s Day before Vox can mark this one in the books as yet another failure. The malls should still be open too, afterwards. He can take Valentino shopping somewhere if need be.

He walks a bit faster. 

With the power out, Vox can’t exactly teleport himself through a VoxTek landline to get his car and pick Valentino up. Not like that would have worked anyway. Cars were packing the streets like sardines, filling up the main roads so no one could possibly get through midtown by driving. 

But they can still walk. 

The opera should be nearby, Vox is quite sure.

Box seats. Classy, comfortable, and private.

Just a little bit—

“—Ugh, Vox, slow down,” Valentino groans behind him, the click, click, click of his heels eventually stopping. “Jesus fuck. I mean, you know how sexy I look in heels, but my feet fucking hurt.”

Vox whips around and glares at him. 

“Just—just take them off! We’re gonna miss the show!” 

“Um. No.” He waves a freshly-coated nail in the air. “I am not taking my fucking shoes off. The ground is dirty. Stop being so fucking dramatic. If this show’s so important to you—which I doubt because when have you ever cared about fucking opera?—then you can just go ahead without me and I’ll go home.”

“God, you are so fucking selfish, you know that?”

“Oh, and you’re not?” Valentino walks up to him, leaning down so they’re eye to eye, and pokes his chest. “News flash, puta! You’ve been acting like a bigger asshole than I have this whole date. If that’s what you even wanna call it. You’ve actually found a way to ruin my Valentine’s Day. Again. I actually care about this holiday, you know? Not like you’d care to know. It’s the only one I actually love—”

He can’t take it anymore. 

His voice cracks. 

“—God, what do I have to fucking do?” 

The street light flickers above them before going dark again. 

Valentino pulls his hand back, eyes wide like full bloody moons. 

Vox looks at him, chest heaving. His mind is melting and his circuits are overheating and for once, he doesn’t really know—and frankly doesn’t really care— about what the other is thinking. 

Not willing to wait any longer for any type of response, he repeats the question, voice raw.

“Huh? What do I have to do?” 

It’s silent. He thinks it’s funny for a small moment. Vox had actually managed to do the impossible.

Make Valentino be quiet. 

He doesn’t get to celebrate his victory long as the words start gushing out, his circuits heating more and more with every exhausted, expended syllable. 

“I—I spend all this money on you, and I dress nicely for you.” He grits his teeth. The light flickers again. “But it’s all the same. This is your favorite holiday, where it’s supposed to be about ‘love’ and actually ‘loving’ things instead of just fucking them raw until there’s nothing left, but it’s all still the same. We’re both still the same. It’s all just bullshit, isn’t it? ‘Oh, Vox, I love your suit,’” he mocks in a poor attempt at an accent. “‘Oh, mi amor, I love your cock down my throat!’”

He’s shouting at this point. The lights flicker sporadically on and off. 

“For once. Just once. I wanted to hear that you ‘loved’ me. That I’m not wasting all this endless time on—on whatever this fucked up piece of shit relationship is. God, I know you’re a monster. And you know that I know you’re a monster. And we both know that I’m just as bad, but sometimes I think that—that I'm fucking worse.” 

Somehow, his feet lead him to the sidewalk’s edge. 

He sinks down onto the concrete. Then holds his face in his hands. 

“I’m worse because I actually love you.”

It takes a few moments. 

A few long moments. 

There’s nothing left in the tank, he thinks. He’s done. He’s said his peace. Now, all he wants to do is go home and recharge and forget all about this horrible evening and try again next year.

As his breath calms, circuits cooling down, he finally hears the familiar click, click, click of heels on the pavement. He’s surprised Valentino would willingly dirty his outfit to sit on the ground next to him. 

He’s not talking. Vox doesn’t expect him to. 

They sit together in silence. Then, after those few moments, where neither of them knows what to do or what to say, when the rest of Hell uncomfortably quiets itself for the smallest, most indefinite amount of time, Valentino does something that surprises him. 

He starts humming. 

It’s that one song. Vox knows the one. He’s listened to it so many times before—both willingly and unwillingly—that he knows all of the lyrics now, even if he still doesn’t understand them. 

It’s a slow song. In Spanish, of course. He’d be able to understand it perfectly if it were in English. He can hear the instruments in his mind, listen to the beat of strumming guitars and softly wailing violins. Valentino plays it on his loudspeaker every morning, always too loudly, sings it in the shower, always too energetically.

Vox wakes up to it. He goes back to sleep to it. When they argue, he misses it. When he works late at night, he sings it to himself in the quiet of his office. 

There’s no way he can feel worse than he already does, so he joins in, softly muttering the lyrics. His voice sounds terrible. 

Valentino stops. “You know this one?”

“You’ve played it every morning in the shower for the last two—no—three decades.” He spreads his legs out onto the street and stares down at them.  “… Of course I know it.” 

“Do you know what the lyrics mean?” 

He quickly shoots Valentino a look. Valentino shoots him one back. 

“Sing for me.”

‘No fucking way in Hell,’ he would have wanted to say. ‘Are you demented?’

But the fire in him is burning low. He’s not quite ready for banter disguised as an argument just yet. So he settles for a different approach. 

“You and I both know that my Spanish is complete shit.”

“Just sing it slowly,” Valentino coaxes. “Sentence by sentence. Then I’ll translate the words for you. I want you to understand them.”

He’s hesitant. Valentino looks at him.

It’s not a look he’s accustomed to. This one is soft. Gentle. Patient. Entirely out of character.

Vox thinks he might actually be serious. So he actually tries. 

He watches Valentino the entire time, watches his every action, every inflection on his face, from the slightest rise of an eyebrow in recognition, to the most minuscule cringe at a mispronounced word. It brings him a sickly sense of comfort at how much he likes watching him, how much he needs to watch him, every minute of everyday.

“You are…” Valentino’s eyes squint. He’s thinking. 

“The sadness of my eyes.”

Oh. The song is sad. 

He probably should have guessed that with the way it sounds. But it doesn’t feel fitting for Valentino, his favorite song being a sad one. Or maybe it does, and he’s just never noticed?

He continues slowly— terribly—but Valentino doesn’t mind. He doesn’t say anything about it, at least. 

“… Which cry in silence for your love.”

Another line. 

“I look in the mirror and see in my face…” 

His voice sounds a bit better now, he thinks. Of course his pronunciation is still bad. 

“The time I have suffered for your goodbye.”

It’s more natural as they go on. He sings. Valentino translates. They sit on the dirty concrete in the dark, avoiding glances from random passersby as seconds tick into minutes tick into eternity. 

“If it were possible…” 

“I would have so wanted you to live.”

He raises a brow. Valentino’s unfazed by the words. 

“For your loving eyes to have never closed.”

“And to be looking at them.”

They look at each other.

Vox could deduce the next lyrics well enough. Valentino’s favorite song is a sad one, as he’s come to learn, but he’s always liked the way the lines ring in his ear. So soft and gently poetic.

He tries his best to pronounce the words nothing but perfectly. 

Amor Eterno. 

“Eternal love.”

“Sooner or later, I will be with you to continue...”

Slowly, Valentino rests his chin on top of his head, muttering more soft translations even though Vox has already stopped singing. It must be uncomfortable. His head is sharp. 

“Loving each other.” 

He glances down at his watch.

They’ve missed their show. 

Vox had accepted long ago after his death, well before he had reached Hell’s point of no return with the bloody startup company that would eventually go on to become VoxTek Corp, that he would never see Heaven. 

He would never walk the rainbow streets to light, smell the crystal clear airs permeated with endless sun, taste the sweet fruits of God’s eternal garden. 

But this. 

Yes, this is Heaven. 

“Mm. That’s delicious.” 

He scarfs down another hot dog. 

They’re sitting on a park bench, midtown still electricity-deprived and disorganized, finding some semblance of entertainment in the two civilians arguing on the street across from them over a car crash. 

Vox had gotten food from the closest convenience store they could find, and was scarfing down shitty—and most likely past their freshness—hot dogs like they were his last meal in Hell.  

“See, now.” He burps into his hand. “‘Scuse me. This is what a sausage should taste like. I really—don’t you dare fucking say it.” 

Valentino’s smirk lessens, but it doesn’t drop. He takes a sip of his drink, relaxed on the bench with his legs crossed. 

“You should have just taken my fries when I offered. I can’t believe you really spent $150 on a pig shit hot dog at some overpriced French Restaurant. I thought I was supposed to be the one that makes bad decisions, no?”  

“Fuck off,” Vox spits back mid-chew. “I thought you’d like the place.” 

“I barely like French people, what makes you think I’d like their food?”

Eventually he swallows, wiping away the remnants of grease on his screen with his cheap brown napkin. 

“But it was expensive,” he argues before getting up to throw away his garbage. “You like expensive things. Here, give me that. You’re done, right?”

Valentino hands him his empty soda cup then shrugs. “True, but not all things that cost a pretty penny are actually pretty. I’d much rather take my chances with off-the-corner convenience lunches than whatever the fuck you had at that place.” 

He briefly glances down at his wrist with a frown. Then returns to his spot on the bench. 

“This watch was expensive.”

“Of course it was. But I got it because I thought it suited you and knew you’d like it, not because it was expensive. You really think I would spend $15,000 on a watch you wouldn’t like? Please.” 

Oh. 

“So. These last couple of Valentine’s Days…” 

Years worth. Decades worth. 

“Mm. Could’ve been better.” 

“You piece of shit,” Vox yells, smacking Valentino on the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like any of the stuff I planned. I could have saved so much money.”

“Hey, don’t get pissy at me, Mr. Crybaby,” Valentino bites back, sticking his tongue out. “I only went along with it because I thought you liked that shit. And before you want to argue about the shopping sprees, I took them as my payment for getting dragged to all the little ‘upperclass’ bull you were always spouting about.”

“But I took us to trendy things. Trendy events. Things popular with the masses. You like trendy things.”

“Mm, that’s more of Velvette’s department. I mean, opera?” Valentino shoots him a look. “I’d rather just go to a nightclub. Or a concert. Or stay at home. What language was it in?”

“Italian.”

Valentino makes a face. Vox lets out a sigh. 

“Fine. Noted.”

He presses forward. 

“But this is your favorite holiday,” Vox feels he has to remind him. “Why spend it doing something you don’t like? You’re selfish. You take what you want and throw away what you don’t. You force others to do things they don’t want, but hate getting forced yourself.”

“True.”

“So…? What then?”

Valentino only shrugs, clearly intent on not giving an answer. His wings are folded over him like a coat again, a clear sign that he’s cold. 

Vox sighs, retrieving his own outer jacket from off the back of the park bench.

“I think it’s time we went back.”

They walk back home together. Neither walks faster or slower than the other. Valentino’s legs are longer than his own by miles, but the heels he’s wearing tonight are sharp with a wicked arch, and Vox knows that they’re hurting his feet. With each block, he notices that Valentino has to make more and more stops to stretch his calves and massage his soles. 

So, against his better judgment, he suggests something.  

A few moments later, they resume a much slower journey back home. Valentino is smirking at him.  

“You’re a moth,” Vox says irritably, shifting his arms. “Aren’t you supposed to be able to fly? ”

His only response is a pleased hum, and Vox has no doubts that Valentino is clearly enjoying being carried bridal-style by him, in public no less. 

He clears his throat a few more steps into their walk. “So. For next Valentine’s Day.”

Valentino looks at him. 

“What’s something you’d actually enjoy doing? So I don’t have to spend a fucking week’s payroll on something you don’t actually like.” 

Vox is surprised by how fast the answer comes out. 

“An art gallery. Take me to an art gallery next time. Doesn’t have to be a fancy one.”

“… Really?” He blinks. “That’s all?”

“And don’t work that day.” Valentino lets out a scoff, wrapping around him tighter. “I don’t give a fuck if you have ‘back-to-back’ meetings with Satan and God. If you decide that a new laptop or phone model or whatever is more important than me, I will break it.” 

He stops for a few moments. One-sided memories re-enter his mind, quickly becoming whole. Then, ever-so-subtly, he leans into the fur of Valentino’s collar and inhales the faded perfume. 

He murmurs. “I’ll find a way around it.”

Valentino nods resolutely, then goes back to resting his chin on top of his head again. “Then dinner. No French food. No British food. It can be as cheap or as expensive as you want. That’s all.”

He thinks on those words. Then, he mentally slaps himself at how easy that all sounded. 

An art gallery and dinner. No working. 

Yes, he can definitely do that. 

They walk a few more blocks, just about 10 more minutes away from the outer gates of their mansion. Already past midtown, the electricity is back and cars are driving smoothly—well as smoothly as they can in Hell—down the roads again. A few beep at them. 

Vox supposes he could have just gotten them some type of transportation or called a servant to pick them up, but ultimately he decides against it. 

Valentino’s subdued, perfectly comfortable being carried like a little princess apparently, and Vox had worked himself into a rhythm, simultaneously focusing his eyes and feet so he didn’t trip or bump into anything. He can rough it out for another 10 minutes or so.

“Te amo.”

“What was that?” He mutters offhandedly, still entirely focused on the sidewalk. 

“I said…”

Valentino clings to him tighter. 

“‘I love you.’”

Oh. 

Oh. 

He stops for a bit. Valentino is looking at him. He swallows.  

“… Oh wow.”

“‘Oh wow?’” Valentino blinks, then raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms. “You have a meltdown in the middle of the street because I don’t say it enough and when I finally do, you fucking say ‘Oh wow?’”

“I—” He barely misses a crack in the ground. “Fuck! Why couldn’t you have just waited until we got back home? I have to focus here!” He grits his teeth, waving around a light post. “Look, I—shit. I love you too. Um. Mi amor eterno.” 

Valentino’s quiet. 

Vox cringes. He’s honestly not sure why he even tried with that one. 

“… Say that again.” 

Vox calms his breath. There’s not many obstacles in his path now, so he doesn’t have to focus on where he walks as much. Mindful of his pronunciation, he tries again slowly. 

“I love you too, mi amor eterno—”

Valentino kisses him. Vox stops walking altogether. The lights flicker blue. It’s awkward, what with him not having any lips, but it’s a kiss. A real genuine kiss. 

Valentino’s eyes are closed, so he decides to close his too, sinking into the fuzzy heat bundled in his arms. 

He pulls back first, then slowly, carefully continues his walk. 

Valentino’s face is close to his, and he feels a kiss being placed on the corner of his head. 

“Quiero que me hagas el amor.”

“Oh.” Vox shifts, eyebrows pinched together. “Um. Sí…?”

Valentino snorts, but there’s a relaxed smile on his face. 

“When we get home,” he leans in to whisper. “I want you to make love to me.” 

He doesn’t have to guess what that implies. He knows. He lets the words occupy his mind for a few indiscernible moments. 

Making love. Not just fucking. Sweet, genuine, normal love. 

Oh wow. 

Without another word, he picks up the pace. Somehow, their five minute walk home transforms into three.  

Vox rests his hands on Valentino’s waist. 

It’s a hesitant touch. He knows he wants this, but it’s mental agony. 

He’d ripped Valentino’s pretty little outfits to shreds plenty of times before, always with the intention to buy a new one in the sinful aftermath. He’d clawed and gripped at soft purple skin before, hard enough to bruise, painful enough to bleed, always without a hint of an apology. He’d licked and bit and squeezed pert heart-shaped nipples before, always earning him an offhanded complaint of pain come morning. He’d thrusted into the tight heat so hard the room had shook and the lights had flickered before, always earning them the ire of their third roommate down the hall. 

The bottom line is that they’d done this dance so many times before. 

So why is he so nervous now? 

He knows the answer, actually. And he knows Valentino knows too. 

It’s because it’s different now.

The dance isn’t their usual sweaty, messy dance, volatile and taking, swung to a hard-paced rhythm in a dizzy haze of blue electricity and pink smoke. 

It’s a soft dance now. A bolero instead of a tango. As sweet as strumming guitars and softly wailing violins. As giving as it is taking, timed to a pace as patient as a saint, innocently sinful in the eyes of God, sinfully innocent in the eyes of the Devil.  

“Are you nervous?” Valentino whispers, placing his hands over Vox’s. 

“Yes.” 

He guides Vox’s hands upwards, all the way up to the sculpted shoulder blades peaking through the soft black velvet. 

Valentino looks at him. Vox nods, knowing exactly what he wants. 

Slowly, his claws pull down the material, inch by inch. Valentino lets out a hiss. He smirks, continuing his journey. He moves down, past the expansive chest, past the puckered hearts, past the slender waist, until it all pools on the floor and his hands are free to rest on Valentino's sides again. 

His forehead lands on the smooth chest. He puffs hot breaths of air in the space between the two heart-shaped nipples. Unable to help himself, he closes his eyes and roves his hands up and down the long back, losing himself in his exploration of the soft, supple skin. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasps, brushing his hands over more and more skin. “So, so beautiful. I love—I love you.”

Valentino swallows, trembling in his arms, and he can feel it. 

With his upper arms resting around Vox’s neck, trailing his shoulder blades, Valentino’s lower arms reach over to hold onto his waist too, drawing Vox that much closer into the heated body. 

He blinks at a sudden change in light. 

There’s a shadow hanging over him. 

“You—you’ve never done this before,” he mumbles, enjoying the darkness of Valentino’s wings cast over him, brushing at his sides like pink silk curtains. 

“There’s lots about this that we haven’t done before,” is Valentino’s only answer before he reaches to strip Vox of his jacket and undershirt. “Mi amor.”

“Mi amor eterno,” Vox answers back, letting his body become pliant so Valentino can accomplish his mission of skin-on-skin contact.  

He’s surprised at the moan he receives, and swallows hot air and moist saliva, closing his eyes as Valentino gently grinds on him. 

His breath hitches, and, unable to help himself, he reaches down for the lace thong that lovingly cups Valentino’s very noticeable erection. Pulling down on both sides, Vox eventually frees the purple cock from its confines, watching as it juts up proudly for him.

He’s never been able to notice before—never taken the time to notice before—how the thatch of black and white hair around the base of Valentino’s cock is neatly trimmed into the shape of a heart. 

Of course it is. 

His cock free now, Valentino continues his gyrations against him, his lower arms moving lower to grab at Vox’s hips, brushing their heated private areas, grinding up and down so artfully, so sensually enticing and slow, that Vox thinks he might die again. 

He’s so unbelievably hard. Unable to withstand the barrier between anymore, with a small growl, he unzips his slacks. 

Valentino grinds harder against his leg, reaching down for his belt and pulling at it, and Vox knows that he’s getting needfully impatient. 

He grits his teeth, hissing as his pants fall and Valentino quickly rids him of his boxers, the material brushing sensitive flesh. His own cock—dark gray like the rest of him, with electric blue veins towards the tip—is soon free, and both men waste no time in grinding their bared cocks against each other, letting sticky pre-fluids collect and mix together with every heated thrust and rotation.   

Almost simultaneously, while they grind their cocks, their balls, their everything together, both reach their hands over. Vox can feel Valentino squeezing his ass at the exact same time that he roves his fingertips up and down along the other’s, massaging the prickled skin. 

He squeezes the taut cheeks without scratching them. Vox hears a pleased hum and feels another playful squeeze to his own ass. He rolls his eyes, before they flutter at another brush of skin. 

“Just—just, ah,” he hisses, cracking open his eyes. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?” 

“You reached over first,” Valentino bites back, eyes closed in pleasure. “Mi amo— ai!” He yelps as Vox reaches his fingers inward, just barely circling his backside entrance. 

Vox absolutely delights in the flutter of Valentino’s wings around them, a string of Spanish curses leaving his mouth as he grips Vox’s shoulders, momentarily stopping his grinding. 

“Your arms are longer than mine. Clearly you reached first—”

Valentino kisses him, immediately including wet hot tongue in the exchange.

He moans.

His eyes flutter closed again and Vox loses himself in the taste of smoke and cherry mixing with electric currents, the sensations of their skin against the other, the orgasmic feeling of slowly making love without marring skin. 

They both pull back with a gasp, letting out more hitched, heated breaths. 

“—I want you, mi amor. I-I want you inside me,” Valentino gasps out unabashedly, grinding desperately against Vox, obviously out of a need to feel some release. “No more waiting.”

Vox blinks, his eyes wide, and his finger stops its playful circling. He wipes at the saliva collecting on the corner of his mouth, then looks up at the demon twitching in his arms. 

Valentino’s wings are vibrating so fast he can feel gusts of wind on his face and his antennae are twitching in a way he’s never seen before. 

“You’re really that close?” He whispers in surprise. “Already?”

They were only at the foreplay part. Neither of them had even sucked the other’s cock yet, and Valentino of the both of them was the one on the brink. 

Valentino nods quickly to his question, his eyes closed. He guides Vox’s hand up to his chest, urging him to squeeze the pronounced pectoral. 

“I want you so bad, mi amor. I want you to make love to me tonight and give me everything you’ve got.”

The words take longer for Vox to process than he expects. He nods, but his mind is far from working clearly. Still breathing heavily as he holds Valentino with one hand, grinding against him, while fondling his chest with the other, Valentino says the words that bring him back to the present. 

“I—I love you,” he gasps out. “Fuck, I love you so much. Te amo.”

The lights flicker from red to blue. 

He wastes no more time.

Scooping Valentino into his arms, Vox carries him bridal-style to the bed with ease, then gently lays him down so he’s fully bared for him to see and stare at and appreciate. Wings splayed out over the bed and legs spread for him, the thought crosses Vox’s mind that this might be the closest thing to an angel he’ll ever get. 

But he knows better. They both know better.

They’re both monsters, made even worse by the fact that they might actually genuinely love each other, knowing they’re monsters. 

Still, it doesn’t hurt to pretend. 

It’s Valentine’s Day, afterall. 

Heady with a tender power, there’s a building tightness in his chest at seeing Valentino so submissive on the bed, looking up at him, so dazed with love and affection, and Vox makes a command like the softest general. 

“Turn around. I don’t want this to hurt for either of us, mi amor eterno. ”

Not tonight, he wants to add but ultimately decides against. 

Eventually Valentino blinks, briefly smiling at the pet name, then dutifully nods. Rising onto wobbly knees, he stretches over the bed, with muscles and sinews flexed and his back impossibly arched, he braces himself onto his knees and hands, legs spread. 

He swallows. Somehow, someway, his cock feels like it’s getting harder than it already is. 

Vox wishes he could take just one picture, but mentally, he’s promised to be soft tonight, to be a dutiful, respectful lover. To make love. No underhanded tricks.

So instead, he simply appreciates—no treasures— the sight before him. He treasures the taut ass cheeks sticking up in the air, he treasures the way the sinfully tempting entrance puckers as Valentino spreads his legs even further, he treasures how the wet purple cock rubs at their sheets, coating them with clear glistening fluid.    

After a few moments, he glides forward. He gently holds onto both of Valentino’s legs, then sticks his tongue right into his sinful heat. 

“A-ah!” Valentino’s jerks shake the bed. “Fuck!”

He licks all the way into the delicious entrance, up and down, in and out, taking his time stretching it, roving both of his hands along Valentino’s long, long legs as he lets his tongue go wild. 

Sinful, salty, and maybe even a bit smoky? He can’t get enough of it. So instead of pulling his tongue out when Valentino moves to stretch or readjust his knees or arch his back from the pleasure, he only moves his head along with the other’s movements, keeping his tongue fully sheathed inside while his cock aches. 

So focused on the taste, Vox really only looks up when he hears Valentino’s voice. 

“V-Vox.” 

Valentino is giving him a look. He knows immediately what it means. 

Not without a bit of reluctance, Vox pulls his tongue out of the slicked hole, then stands on shaking legs, cock uncomfortably hard, and aims for the nightstand, where a photo of the two of them sit, collecting dust.

He shivers when he strokes his cock with the cold lube, the pleasurable feeling of his hand just a fraction of what it will be once he’s blanketed in Valentino’s body. 

Looking over to the bed, he sees Valentino lying on his back again, staring at the ceiling with his hands behind his head, knees pointed up and locked together.

It would look more fitting if he were smoking, Vox thinks. 

Eventually, Valentino notices that Vox is clearly staring at him, but he doesn’t say anything. Nothing flirtatious or impatient or snappy. He only stares back at him with those full blood moons, the expression not unhappy, but really more… reflective, faraway. As though he’s in a reverie of sorts.

Yes, a secret reverie. 

Vox offers him a wordless smile. Valentino’s eyes relax and he offers one back. 

Then slowly— invitingly —he spreads his legs, giving him a full view of his wet, dripping, upright cock, beckoning him over with a curl of an index finger. 

Gladly taking the invitation, he crawls back onto the bed, making himself comfortable between Valentino’s legs, even trying his best to properly kiss at a raised kneecap. Then finally, he positions his cock by the hot, pulsing entrance. 

It’s almost funny, Vox thinks. 

He can’t remember the last time they did missionary.

“I love you,” he says gently. 

Valentino looks up at him with gentle, bedroom eyes. 

“I love you too.”  

He can’t help the soft moan that comes out. It’s almost cathartic. 

How many Valentine’s Days has it been, that he’s had with only the dream of those words at the forefront of his mind? How much goddamn money has he spent, not knowing that all Valentino really wanted was an art gallery and a simple dinner? 

Too many to count. Too much to say. 

So he makes a demand. 

Leaning close, he whispers. “Every time I thrust, I want you to say it.”

Valentino blinks. Then he smiles again, stroking Vox’s arm with a feather-light touch of encouragement. 

“Ok, mi amor.”

Slowly, Vox enters inside the pulsating heat. He can hear Valentino’s silent hiss, feel the way his arms tighten around his shoulder blades, see how his eyes flutter closed. Having danced this slow dance for long enough, he thrusts. 

One.

“A-ah,” Valentino gasps. “I love you.”

He moans in response, loving every sensation hitting him. He trembles, fighting the urge to thrust like a madman so Valentino can get more adjusted to his cock inside him. Another act of patience unfamiliar in this bed.

Two. 

He thrusts harder this time, legs shaking, wriggling his hips to try to push his cock deeper and deeper inside, all the way to his balls, desperate to feel closer, to quench the fire in his chest. 

“Fuck.” Valentino locks his hips in with his legs. “I—I love you, mi amor.”

He groans again, achingly hard at how natural the words sound coming out of those panting lips, how longingly guttural they are. His pace quickens and soon, like an insatiable animal eating his fill, he’s lost to the sinful heat below him and the angelic words pouring over him like honey in his ears.

“I l-love you. Oh god, I love you.”

“Do you?” He manages, thrusting so hard the bed frame groans and the lights flicker.  “Say it more for me… Till your voice goes raw.”

“Yes, I—Oh… oh, fuck! Faster, mi amor! Faster! I love you! I love you!” 

He pants, thrusting faster, plunging deeper into the tight, tight heat, the slick sounds of skin hitting skin melting together with their shaken breaths. He slightly adjusts his angle, letting Valentino’s wet cock rub against his stomach. 

“Keep saying it for me,” he pants, grabbing onto the smooth thighs and dragging Valentino across the bedsheets to him before plunging harder so he’s completely inside. “Don’t stop saying it.”

“Mi amor, mi amor! Ah… Ah! Te amo, te amo, te amo.”

Valentino’s nails squeeze into his shoulder-blades. He thrusts harder, grinding their pelvises against each other.

“My love. I’m… I’m close, my—my love.”

He leans over Valentino again, eyes fluttering closed as their long tongues intertwine with each other. Their saliva pools at the corners of both of their mouths, mixing to drip down onto Valentino’s chest, all the way to his nipples.

Briefly, he lets go of one thigh, letting his hand reach up so he can squeeze at the firm pectoral before lightly twisting at the puckered black heart.  

“I love you… fuck, I love you so much!”

“You’re,” he pants, unable to finish his words, before using both of his hands to grasp at Valentino’s perfect thighs. He roves them up and down before moving lower, reaching underneath the pliant body to squeeze at Valentino’s perfect, supple ass, lifting his hips up in the process for a better angle.   

“I… come inside me, mi amor…”

“You’re mine,” he continues with a hiss, thrusting so hard the lights continuously flicker on and off. “I love—I love you. Mi amor eterno. I love you so much, I love that this is all—all mine.”

“I’m yours, Vox. All yours. I—I want… I need you. Fill me with all of your love…”

He knows Valentino’s close with all the pre-cum collecting at the tip of his cock and the way his wings vibrate uncontrollably around them. Reaching down, he strokes the weeping head, timing each motion to his thrusts so they finish at the same time.  

Valentino’s hips jerk at the touch. Vox only drives his cock deeper and deeper into the tight heat, long-since unable to control himself and his primal desire to spill everything he has into the monster beneath him. 

He can feel it. He’s so close.

They’re so close.

Valentino draws his hips closer with his legs, then hugs him tightly to his body with both sets of arms as he continues to thrust and stroke. He reaches for Vox’s hand, holding it and squeezing. Their warm puffs of air mix, making the small gap of space between their bodies that much hotter. Hitches of breath and groans in the bed frame all come together like a symphony. 

Eventually, right before he knows he’s about to come, Vox hears Valentino’s final words before his peak.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, mi amor. I love you so much.”

He groans, finally spilling his seed. 

He thrusts a few more times, slowly riding the waves of the aftermath in less heated beats, really giving all that he can possibly give to the body under him before collapsing onto the smooth chest. 

Valentino’s arms and legs are still wrapped around him, refusing to let him go until all of his seed is inside, greedily taking everything in while they continue their warm embrace.

More sticky liquid pools onto his hand and over his fingers, where Vox’s stroking had eventually slowed to a stop, knowing that Valentino had reached his climax too.

It takes a few moments, a few heavy breaths and cooling glances, before Valentino finally decides to unlock his legs and arms, cum pouring out of him as Vox pulls out, sealing their evening with a final kiss.

Valentino is lying against him. 

Both of them are awake, bodies long-cooled, lying together on the mess of stained sheets—which Vox had actually tried to wipe down after dealing with a huffy Valentino, who didn’t take too kindly to his jerky, very unfamiliar, aftercare.

It’s nice. It’s quiet. Neither of them really has anything to say. 

Or that’s what Vox had thought.

“Was it good?”

It’s a weird question, Vox thinks. Valentino’s never asked it before. 

Valentino is nothing if not cocky. He knows the sex is always good. He never asks for reviews. Unfortunately for Vox, who always likes to knock people down a good peg or two when they’ve become too big for their britches, it’s hard to corner Valentino in this field. 

He gives him a once-over, trying to gauge what he’s thinking, but the expression is hard to place. 

“Having sex like that,” Valentino clarifies, eyes somewhere far away. “Do you prefer it? ‘Making love’ compared to the way we usually fuck like wild dogs.” 

Silence fills the room again. He thinks of multiple ways to answer the question, but finds that nothing is playing out in his head the way that he wants. He doesn’t know why, but Vox has an inclination that the future of his relationship depends on his response, so he decides to answer simply and truthfully.

“No.”

Valentino rises from the bed, away from his side, to stare at him.

“No,” he repeats slowly. “I don’t.”

Slowly, Valentino’s once-neutral expression shifts.

This look Vox knows. It’s his normal shit-eating grin, paired with a sultry gleam, that Vox has long-since been accustomed to, and, while he finds it endearing for a brief moment, he eventually finds it’s pissing him off the more Valentino continues to look at him like that. 

“No…?” Valentino echoes. 

His eyebrows furrow. “Yes.”

“Yes no?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he spits tiredly. “You already know what I mean.”

“I just want a proper answer, mi amor. No need to get so pissy,” Valentino says with a shrug. “Throw a bitch a bone here.”

Vox grits his teeth, bidding a soft goodbye to his temporary moment of peace.  

“Yes and no,” he admits slowly. “I enjoyed that. But…”

Valentino leans in closer. “But…?”

He snorts, briefly closing his eyes at the honest truth of the matter. 

“I know I would lose my fucking mind if we had sex like that all the time. It’s too slow. Too much to think about. I have way too many things that preoccupy my life and my time other than having to be nice before and after I fuck you of all people.” 

He thinks it’s funny, how Vox immediately knows he’s said the right thing.  

Valentino’s relaxed back into the sheets with a satisfied smile, crossing his knees so he pulls more of the blanket to him like the selfish prick that he is. Eyes peacefully shut with his hands placed under his head like he’s at the beach, he lets out a long sigh. 

“Ah, perfecto. Light this for me, would you, papi?”

The end of a cigarette is placed in front of him. 

He blinks. 

“Where did you even get that?” 

“I have my ways.” 

Vox rolls his eyes, but lights it anyway with the spark of an electric blue heart.  

“Once a year,” Valentino says after taking a long drag and blowing the pink smoke right into his screen. 

Vox turns off his scent receptors, completely unscathed, then raises a brow. 

“Once a year?”

“We can do this once a year.”

Oh. 

He thinks about it. Eventually he nods his head left and right, then shrugs.

“Mm, alright. I think I can put up with being nice to you for sex once a year. Can’t say my aftercare will get any better, though. But…”

Valentino looks at him. 

He stops to think. Then, clearing his throat, he speaks in the objective, straight-to-the-point, way he reserves for business meetings and transactions.

“… You have to say ‘it’ to me at least once every few months. English or Spanish is acceptable. Via text message or through phone is also acceptable.”

Valentino blinks, eyes wide. “Really?”

He nods once. 

There’s a small gap of silence before Valentino’s shoulders begin to shake. Then he starts to laugh. Uncontrollably.

He grits his teeth. The lights flicker once.

Of course it pisses Vox off, the way Valentino has to clutch at his stomach and kick at the mattress because he finds the idea so goddamn hilarious, but he also knows that he’s quite literally demanded that a pimp say that he loves him every now and then, so he lets Valentino ride out a few more at his expense. 

Eventually, the laughter dies down into slow chuckles, which eventually stop altogether with a long drag of a cigarette. 

“… Ok, mi amor.” He blows a pink heart-shaped cloud in the air. “But you have to say ‘it’ back, and you have to call me ‘that’ name too.”

“I believe that can be arranged.”

Usually he would shake a client’s hand, but Vox knows all too well that Valentino would just laugh at him again if he tried.

“Bueno,” Valentino says with a satisfied smile, putting out his cigarette on the heart-shaped ash tray on their nightstand. Eventually he rests his head on Vox’s shoulder again, trailing a finger along his collar bone. “I don’t know why you’re so sensitive about it. I call you ‘mi amor’ all the fucking time.”

His lip curls. “You also call…” He grits his teeth, “Angel that.”

Valentino snorts. “I call him amorcito.”

“And? What’s the fucking difference?”

“Hm. Angel’s like my ‘honey.’ A dog that makes me really good fucking bank. But you’re my ‘love.’ It’s different. I think it is, at least. You’re not mine, technically.” The finger stops its trailing, resting right over Vox’s heart. “But you’re mine all the same.”

Huh.

Vox thinks about it for a moment. Wordlessly, he reaches over and rests his hand on Valentino’s waist, trailing it up and down.

“But,” Valentino continues, pursing his lips and talking to him like he’s the childish one in their relationship. “I’ll still say ‘it’ every now and then if it’s really that important to you, hm? Ok, mi amor?”

If it’s that important.

To you.

Now he really does just sound like a sensitive piss baby, doesn’t he? He inhales sharply through his teeth.

“… Wait, actually—”

“—I love you.” Valentino looks up at him tenderly. “Very much.”

He groans. 

Fuck it just sounds so good.

Valentino laughs. “I think we’ve just found a new kink of yours.”

He ignores him. To Hell with it, he would gladly take being a piss baby with a love kink if it meant he could hear those sweet words again, at least every now and then. After all, what’s a few months to all of eternity?

“Uh…” He thinks for a moment. “Ah. Yo te amo también, mi amor eterno.”

Valentino makes a face. Then rolls his eyes as he leans in closer.

Their mouths just a hair’s length away from each other, well-groomed nails pinch at the bottom corner of his screen, and Vox feels the smokey puffs of breath on his face. Feels the enticing body heat against his own. 

“I’m also,” Valentino whispers, his eyes eventually fluttering closed. “Going to teach you proper Spanish.”

They kiss. Slowly and sweetly. Vox can taste the cherry smoke on Valentino’s tongue.

Eventually they pull away from their last kiss of the night, staring into each other with sleepy eyes. He glances at the clock. 

Compared to their ones before, this Valentine’s Day definitely wasn’t the worst. Though, the next one, Vox knows with full confidence, is sure to be their best one yet.

He stifles a yawn. “So. You don’t like my Spanish?” He speaks with a fake voice, slowly and purposefully butchering every next word. “¿No gusta my Español?’”

“Shut the hell up.” 

“Well that’s not very bueno of you.”

In between a yawn, Valentino mutters halfhearted Spanish insults at him before curling deeper into the sheets. Vox recognizes one of them among the rest and smiles, joining him. 

“Yes, but I’m your ‘gringo.’”

Unsurprisingly, Valentino wakes Vox up long before he’s ready to be woken up. 

Why he even bothers setting alarms anymore is beyond him. Even after all this time he still isn’t sure whether Valentino either does this on purpose to piss him off, or if he just doesn’t care period. Reasons for one or the other always fluctuate, just like the fast rises and heavy falls of their opposingly oscillating tempers.

He’s in the shower now, playing his loudspeaker and singing unimaginably loudly for any time suitable before 8.00 am. 

It’s the song, of course.

Strumming guitars and softly wailing violins. 

“Tú eres la tristeza, ay, de mis ojos… Que lloran en silencio por tu amor…”

Pulling his phone from the nightstand, quietly humming along in a secret duet, he takes a peek through his bathroom camera and watches Valentino as he lathers his naked body with soap, singing without a care in the world. For a moment, he turns around, looks straight into the camera he knows is there, smiles, then continues the next lines.

“Amor Eterno…” 

With a smile that Vox knows Valentino will never see, he shuts off his phone, then goes back to sleep. 

-“I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.”