Chapter Text
Wisps of smoke wafted through the air as Vincent released another puff of smoke; a little something to ease his nerves before the big moment. He wasn’t nervous — never him — but his mind was allowed to run through various scenarios on how the big talk would go. All would end in his success of course. He had the confidence, he had the looks, and he had the potential; he just needed to make his future partner see it, and it would be the start of a blossoming partnership that would leave everything he touched basking in the spotlight.
The cigarette was snuffed out. No need to overindulge when the big question had yet to be popped. Smoker’s breath was unattractive, after all. Not to mention, there would be complaints of the bathroom smelling like cigarette smoke. Those thoughts crossed his mind briefly as he took a swig of liquid courage from his flask, ready to confront the big man himself and present the opportunity of a lifetime. In every possible future that Vox could foresee, none of them involved a rejection. He was just that confident.
Perhaps another swig of whiskey could do him some good.
After that was downed, Vincent inspected himself in the mirror. The oppressive brightness of the fluorescent lights above made for shitty lighting, but he still looked good. His raven hair was slicked and his suit was flawless; perfect for popping the big question to a most nonplussed individual. He even had his lucky shark pin on his lapel. It was time to shine bright.
With an inhale, Vincent tucked his flask away where it wouldn’t be seen. He’d rather not come off as an alcoholic in front of the man who could change his future.
Exiting the bathroom, he was met with the stilted voice of the receptionist. “Mr. Whittman, Mr. Stratford is waiting for you in his office.”
Vincent’s brow popped to his hairline as he checked the time. Shit. He’d been inspecting himself in the bathroom for longer than he’d thought. Just fantastic. With a quick wave to the lady at the front desk he hurried to the elevator, where he was brought to the top floor. Marching up to the office of the big man himself, he smoothed back his hair, took in a deep inhale, and gave the sturdy door a firm rap with his knuckles.
“Come in,” came the gruff voice from inside.
In a swift and smooth motion, Vincent let himself into the expansive office. In the far back was a silver-haired fossil who had to be closing in on his seventies soon enough. “Mr. Stratford! A pleasure to see you.” A confident hand thrust forward, expecting to be met likewise. When it wasn’t returned, he didn’t allow the insult to get to him, instead using the outstretched hand to smoothly pull out a chair and sit across from his superior.
Stratford quirked a brow, beady eyes scanning Vincent from head to toe in curiosity. “Hm. And you are?”
“Vincent Whittman,” replied the guest. “You actually may have heard about me! I work in your advertising department — advertising project manager, actually. You’re a busy man, though, I get it. This was the only way I was able to get a meeting with you.” The lack of recognition in the man’s eyes was insulting, but Vincent didn’t allow it to cause him any grief. He knew he could crack this guy.
Flashing a TV-worthy smile, Vincent continued. “It’s no secret that one of your anchors has a… problem.”
That sparked a bit of remembrance. “You mean Swalwell? That’s a matter for the board to handle.”
“I understand, Mr. Stratford,” Vincent replied, “but we both know he isn’t brand-safe. I mean, pulled over on a DUI? With a prostitute? The other stations are eating this up! If you ask me, you’re in need of a new face for the company. Someone you can rely on.”
Stratford remained silent, but Vox was ever confident. “Might I suggest my services? I have a squeaky-clean record, I have experience with being on TV—”
“On advertisements. There’s a difference.”
There was a falter, but Vincent remained steady. “I also have a voice made for television! And a face to boot! Everyone will love me. I just need a couple rounds in front of the camera and you’ll see I’m made for this. I won’t let you down.”
Stratford snorted. “You can’t let me down if I wasn’t expecting anything in the first place, Xavier.” Vincent rolled his shoulders back so he wouldn’t deflate on the spot. “Listen, I appreciate the… ambition you have, but I’m not giving up my star for… whoever you are. No one even knows your name.”
“Plenty of unknowns like me have made a splash in the news industry,” Vincent insisted, folding his hands to keep them from shaking. “Just… give me a chance. Your ratings will only improve, I can assure you. I’m far more brand safe, and I know exactly what the people want. I’m in advertising, after all!”
There was not a hint of give in the big man’s face. “I’m sure that’s true, but people love Swalwell. We’re giving him a warning and a week to figure his shit out. We don’t need some unknown floundering on live television. Besides… this?” He gestured to Vincent’s face. “This isn’t marketable.”
Vincent blinked and, in a moment of weakness, touched his left eye. The iris was a stark blue, opposing the bright green of his right eye. “My… heterochromia?”
“Whatever it’s called, I don’t want it on TV,” Stratford grunted. “Betting on you might as well put me in cement shoes.”
“But—”
“I’d say this meeting is over with. I don’t want to hear this come up again, understood? Now make sure you talk to your supervisor before you retire for the day. We’re going to need your skills in advertising to put a pretty coat of paint on top of all this.”
Within just three minutes, the meeting was over with. It wasn’t the slam dunk Vincent was looking for. In fact, cement shoes sounded really appealing right around then.
He walked out of the building with his head held high and a smile on his face. The moment he exited, he rounded the building and slipped into the alleyway, where he proceeded to bury his face in his hands and scream his lungs out. Grabbing a piece of discarded trash, he hurled it at the wall, seething and hands shaking with barely-concealed rage. “Fuck!” His hands went to his perfectly combed hair, burying his fingers into the slicked locks and tugging and yanking with anger. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”
His face went back into his hands for another muffled scream before he sucked in a slow breath and dragged his hands down his face. His back hit the concrete behind him and he slid down onto the damp, fetid ground.
Some might believe Vincent to be way in over his head for thinking he could be the face of one of the largest news networks in the state, but to him, it was his shot as destiny. For years he had climbed the corporate ladder, vying for that coveted position that those on the top of the food chain so jealously guarded. It would perhaps take him another decade (a year or two shorter, if he was lucky) before he’d ever earn his way up as the face of the brand, but he didn’t want to wait a decade. He was certain that being an anchor was his destiny. All that power — that influence — was meant to be his. If only he could just put himself in front of the right people.
Unfortunately, he’d gone as high as he could go. With Stratford as the CEO of the company, as long as he turned his nose up at Vincent, no one else would even give him the time of day.
Worst of all: he had to go into work the next day. He’d have to face all the people who he’d told he wouldn’t be seeing again after he talked to the big guy upstairs. More droning years of the daily grind, patiently waiting for another opportunity in his ascent to the top. Maybe in half a decade, when he patiently bided his time, he could become lead advertising project manager.
Vincent stared at the wall ahead, taking in the shapes of the shadows. The alley was damp and a haven for starving raccoons and drug addicts alike. It’s where the trash hung out, inside dumpsters and on smoke breaks. Vincent could now count himself among them.
It was safe to say he was unhappy with his life. He had far too much ambition for the stifling environment he was trying to ascend. He wanted more, and he was willing to cheat his way to get there, but there was only so far backstabbing and sabotage could get him. Now he was stuck, and his one opportunity at becoming who was meant to be was dashed. Perhaps he’d get another in five years or so.
Something shifted in his vision. Vincent furrowed his brow, studying the shadows, only to find one was fluctuating against the wall. Its way of moving was slick and quick, but was too large to be the figure of a raccoon in the trash. It was then that Vincent realized he wasn’t alone.
Jumping to his feet, Vincent hurriedly dusted himself off, swearing under his breath. The last thing he wanted was for rumors to spread about him pitifully wallowing behind the company building because he got too big for his boots. By the time he was straightening his tie, his mismatched eyes were darting around to find the source of the shadow. When there was none to be found, Vincent released a slow, tired breath. “Alright.” He smoothed back his hair. “Time for the walk of shame back to my car.”
***
Vincent tried not to drink too heavily, as it tended to only lead to most questionable decisions, but that night was an exception. Straight hard liquor wasn’t his thing, but he couldn’t help but to buy an extra large bottle of the hard stuff. As soon as he got home, he poured himself a shot, ready to start the evening off right.
His apartment was nothing to complain about, but there was much left to be desired. It was a quaint little place with plenty of room. There were all the usual amenities and his fridge was never short on groceries, but Vincent was never content. Though he wasn’t struggling by any means, he wanted more. He wanted something sleeker and more modernized — a glimpse of the future he sought to lead one day.
For now, he just had a nice little apartment, the placeholder until he was able to push and shove his way to the top. It wasn’t great, but he didn’t have much choice otherwise.
As soon as the shot was poured, he pulled out his phone and switched over to a radio app. It took only one click to get to his favorite station: a talk show.
“And what a stunning display that was. However, if you want my opinion, folks, I’ve seen much better and from much smaller teams. There’s potential, but none of it’s realized! A bit disappointing. But that’s just me. Though, we all know I’m always right, ha ha!”
Vincent smiled at the familiar voice of Alastor Dupré filling his living room. TV may be his expertise, but radio was his nightly ritual. He’d caught Alastor on the radio years back, and he was immediately taken by his sass and sarcastic presentation. That kind of performance should have been reputational suicide to any brand, but Alastor was true to himself on his medium, making him the most popular radio show host in the state, and quickly rising to the top in the country.
The advertising specialist quite liked hearing Alastor’s voice and listening to his stories. He was funny, charming, interesting, and there was never a dull show. Not to mention his story: a man who came from nothing and rose to the top.
It was honestly inspiring.
“Now we get into your questions! I have a few lined up, and these are some good ones, let me tell you! For those of you who did not make it onto tonight’s show? Hmm… get more interesting problems.”
Vincent chuckled. He’d thought about writing to Alastor, but he’d decided against it. He didn’t need to air out his issues in front of everyone, and to be honest, he was a little wary of the kinds of things someone as brutally honest as Alastor would say. Vincent considered himself a hard-headed man who could stand up to any adversity, but even he would admit that he was susceptible to criticism.
Another shot was downed before Vincent settled on the couch and scrolled through his phone while he listened to Alastor. Occasionally Alastor would make a joke and it would get a laugh out of him, but mostly he just let Alastor’s voice settle over him like a pleasant song.
Two shots became three, which soon became five, which quickly became ten. He was positively drunk by the time he reached his last shot, and from the looks of things, he was preparing to down at least half the bottle. He released a slow, heavy sigh and rubbed his temples, reconsidering his life and all that had led up to that point. Was it too late to change careers? He was still thirty-five and had quite a few years ahead of him, but he’d worked so hard to get where he was now. The thought of starting over after a failed attempt to prove himself felt weak, but weakness clung to him like a bad smell. He just needed a little something more and he could finally have what he wanted. That missing ingredient evaded him, however, and he was left floundering for the power that was rightfully his.
Just as Vincent was pouring himself another shot, something caught his eye: a shadow that didn’t blend with the rest of its peers. It stood out as an almost humanoid figure, and in a moment of alarm, Vincent thought someone else was in his home.
Looking around wildly, he grabbed a nearby pocket knife and flicked it open, ready to defend himself if the time called for it. “Who’s there?”
No response was given, and the shadow certainly wasn’t of himself. It couldn’t be. He glanced back over his shoulder at the shade to inspect it some more, but when he went to approach, he was met with just the regular shadows on the wall. He blinked owlishly at the beige surface, feeling uneasy and confused. Was he losing his mind? Was rejection really that bad?
Just as he was turning to head elsewhere, he caught sight of something slithering past his feet; something that was not his own. “Shit!” he swore, stumbling back as a shroud of black slipped by him like a roach after the lights were turned on. Before he could think to do anything, the shade slipped out under the door. Vincent wasn’t sure what was in his head when he followed it, but when he opened the door and shouted “Wait! Stop! Come back!” he realized he had no hope of catching up with the entity. It was pitch black outside save for the glow of the street lamps overhead.
A frown cut across his face as he struggled to understand what he’d just seen. Vincent wasn’t one to believe in the supernatural, though even he had to admit what he’d witnessed was hard to explain. He really must have been seeing things. The alcohol was really putting the work in, it seemed. No need to go about freaking himself out when he was already drunk.
Vincent made the decision to stop drinking for the night. Changing out of his suit that he’d spent the entire evening in, he got into some comfortable clothes, turned off Alastor’s voice, and flopped onto the bed with a groan.
He passed out within two minutes of his head hitting the pillow, his thoughts lingering on that shadow.
***
Vincent was going to turn into an alcoholic at this rate. He took another swig of his flask and smoothed his hair back in the bathroom mirror. “Alright, you’ve got this,” he murmured to himself, smoothing his hair back. “No matter what they say, chin up and smile. Half of them don’t have the guts to do what you did. You’re better in every way.”
He released a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face in exhaustion. His sleep had been plentiful and he’d gotten a walk in before he came in, but he was not excited for what came next: the consequences of his failure, as well as his own arrogance. He could be too egotistical for his own good at times, and unfortunately, any attempts at sabotage and backstabbing weren’t going to go over so well in a building full of people.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Vincent put on a TV-worthy smile, grabbed his bag, and slipped out of the bathroom and into the hallway. It took about ten seconds into entering his workplace that he heard the first jeer.
“Well, if it isn’t the rising star. Did Stratford give you the job?” one of his coworkers teased.
Another butt in with a murmur that may or may not have been purposefully loud enough to reach Vincent’s ears. “Well, he’s still here, isn’t he?”
Vincent’s smile broke within seconds and he scowled at the two. He wasn’t going to bother with a performance in front of these chumps.
Word spread quickly throughout the building, it seemed. Stratford no doubt laughed with his colleagues about the ambitious upstart’s pitch, which trickled down to their lessers, which trickled down to the advertising department. There wasn’t one face in the room that wasn’t smug when he took his seat at his desk. Not many were fond of a man whose ambition grew too big for their own good and tried to skip the rest of the ladder that they’d all spent years — even decades in some cases — trying to climb.
“I see you decided to stay down here with the rest of the schmucks," his boss said in passing. “How humble of you, Vincent.”
Vincent didn’t bother hiding his flask this time as he took another swig.
***
It was no secret his superior wasn’t a fan of Vincent’s ambition, because he got an extra heavy workload that day. He spent the rest of the day making a mockup for some shitty commercial meant to distract from the sin of their star anchor. He was sick and tired of seeing the man’s face. If he could, he’d punch the guy’s teeth in. Maybe then Stratford may think twice about denying the most viable candidate he’d had in years a chance to make the company thrive.
He didn’t get out until late in the evening, and when he was finally free, the first thing he did was pull a cigarette from the pack and light it. Slumped against the building, he enjoyed the nicotine in his lungs with every inhale of his preferred poison. The sun had set and the sky was fading from a dark orange to the pitch black that Vincent had grown to loathe. The darkness just wasn’t his thing. It made him feel alone.
Alone. No matter how he tried to spin it, that’s what he was. Alone. His self-pity was running dry, but it didn’t change the feeling of isolation he felt whenever he went back to his apartment late at night and listened to the pep of Alastor’s voice or the drone of the TV on those particularly rough nights.
“Fuck my life,” he murmured, snuffing out the cigarette and flicking it onto the ground. The smell of petrichor was thick in the air. It would rain that night, and Vincent really should head home and get some sleep. Instead, he decided to seek out some more liquid comfort. His flask had run dry.
As he drove around aimlessly, looking for a good bar to wet his whistle, he noticed a curious place while stopped at a red light. It was a rehab center, one he’d familiarized himself with already. He’d heard from coworkers that it was one of the most kid-friendly places you could find in the city; not exactly a title one would slap onto a rehab center. The activities were childish and rehabilitation was run on hopes and prayers or some dumb shit like that.
Vincent paid no attention to it and merely drove off.
As he searched around boredly until he spotted something odd. Under the bright light of the street lamp was a shadow. Vincent slowed his car, blinked, and practically leaned out of his window to catch a glimpse of the shade. It was definitely a shadow, humanoid in shape, and just like the one he’d seen in his home, this one was cast from nothing.
“What the fuck?” he murmured, squinting to get a better look, before the shadow suddenly shrank and moved of its own accord. It slithered across the ground and disappeared under a couple of doors belonging to a little hole in the wall bar. Mimzy’s Jazz Lounge was scrawled over the top of the lounge with neon, and Vincent’s interest was piqued. There weren’t many cars there, but he wasn’t looking for a crowd. Besides, he could do with a bit of jazz.
Parking his car, Vincent shouldered his way through the doors to be met with a warm atmosphere. Though he was mainly looking for the shadow that had evaded him, he noticed that the place certainly had a Roaring 20s style to it that Vox could appreciate, even if it wasn’t exactly his style. He didn’t believe in living in the past when modern technology was the miracle that changed the current generations. Still, he liked the environment, and he especially enjoyed the music.
There was an actual jazz band playing in the far corner. The saxophone and trumpet were pleasant to listen to, but the real star of the show was the pianist. With little flares of dexterous fingers and riffs that charmed the small crowd of patrons, the guy stole the hearts of the crowd. Vincent found that instead of the shadow he was looking for, his eyes were drawn to the man at the center of the show.
The pianist was certainly a handsome man. He had to be perhaps a few years older than Vincent, curls of brown pairing wonderfully with olive brown skin and mocha eyes. He was certainly an old-fashioned man, wearing a waist coat in the 2020s over a nice dress shirt and black slacks. The biggest tell he was born in the wrong generation were his glasses, which were connected to a beaded chain that hung around his neck.
Vincent found himself struck by just how beautiful this man was. He didn’t particularly find himself attracted to those of the same sex, but when he looked upon the pianist, all he could think about was how he wanted to lay this man down and show him a good time.
Though, he couldn’t help but think he recognized the guy from somewhere.
Shaking his head, he walked over to the bar and sat himself at a stool. The shadow was forgotten in favor of a nice drink. Besides, he’d probably be kicked out if he was caught snooping around in search of a non-corporeal entity. “Do you know how to make an adios?” he asked.
The bartender, a shorter black gentleman, nodded with a gruff “yeah” before grabbing the necessary liquors. Vincent was just glad he wasn’t being called “fruity” for his choice in drink. He wasn’t in the mood to be ridiculed.
When he received his beverage, he nursed it slowly. He turned to watch the jazz band and, more eye-catchingly, their pianist. He had to squint to make out all of his blurry features, but as he drew closer, he got a good look at the man behind the keys. Fuck, he was pretty. Vincent wondered if there was a chance he could bring the guy home that night. The thought disgusted him as soon as it crossed his mind, and he discarded it immediately. When the song ended and the band took their break, Vincent quickly turned around so it didn’t look like he was leering at the piano and its artist this entire time. It was especially true when said artist took a seat several stools down.
That was when Vincent heard a very familiar voice.
“Bartender? A whisky, if you would.”
It clicked in Vincent’s head just who this was. He heard the voice every night on the radio. It wasn’t any wonder why he didn’t recognize the man when his face was hidden behind a non-video platform. That was, without a doubt, Alastor Dupré. Vincent forgot he didn’t do his show on the weekend, but he didn’t expect to see the man in a local watering hole like the one he found himself in.
Vincent found the confidence to look over at Alastor, just in time for a little stout woman to walk over with a feathered boa around her neck and some jewelry that looked more appropriate in his great grandmother’s jewelry box.
“Alastor, you were fantastic tonight,” she complimented, laying a hand on his arm. “People love you like always. Are you up for a set later on?”
“Hmm, after a few more drinks,” Alastor replied after a moment of consideration.
The short woman pursed her lips. “Just remember you gotta pay for these this time. You’re banned from free drinks until you learn how not to drink your weight in liquor. Costing me too much, Alastor.”
Alastor pouted, though he didn’t appear too upset. “Alright. I suppose I can stick around for another set despite the absence of hospitality in this establishment.” He flashed a grin, this one leagues more charming than anything Vincent could ever pull off. “But only because I like you, Mimzy.”
Mimzy couldn’t help her smile. Alastor was as winsome in real life as he was on the radio. Vincent was drawn to him, so when Mimzy left, he took a shot at making a new acquaintance.
“Hey, bartender.” He beckoned the man closer, who boredly approached and awaited his order. “That guy down the bar over there. Get him another whiskey. My tab.”
The bartender considered him with a look that almost seemed wary, even judgemental, but he didn’t argue. He poured another few fingers of the hard stuff and went over to hand it to Alastor. He murmured a few things to the radio host, who perked up in surprise. Alastor immediately looked over at Vincent, eyeing him curiously. Vincent’s brain decided this was the perfect time to be awkward and he gave a little wave and the smile he’d been practicing for TV.
Alastor sipped his new whiskey, his eyes slowly dragging over Vox’s profile, evaluating him. Vincent’s smile strained as he felt like he was being inspected inside and out. He didn’t consider himself as someone easily star-struck, but there was a feeling inside him that knew he needed to impress this man.
If only Alastor would give him a chance.
Then, with one curl of a thin finger, Alastor beckoned Vincent over. The single motion held more authority and command over Vincent than he’d felt in his life. He was drawn to Alastor like a moth to a flame, and soon he was sitting beside the most famous radio host in the state, sharing a drink.
Alastor swirled his whiskey in his glass while he continued to observe Vincent, each crawl of his gaze threatening a shiver down his spine. Finally, Alastor spoke. “I must say, thank you for the drink. That’s five dollars I can save for a light breakfast tomorrow morning. So. To what do I owe the pleasure of a free drink?”
“I just wanted to say hi,” Vincent replied, folding his arms on the bar counter.
Alastor chuckled. “Well then.” He turned in his stool to face Vincent before putting on an ultra friendly smile. “Hello there!” In an instant the act passed and he turned back to his drink. “So, is this your way of flirting? Because if it is, I’m not interested.”
“Huh? Oh, no, absolutely not.” Vincent already knew sleeping with Alastor was one hell of a longshot, so he had to thank his lack of expectations for his absence of disappointment. He counted himself lucky for the rejection. He didn’t know what was getting into him, thinking about sleeping with other men. “I don’t swing that way. I just recognized your voice is all.”
Alastor quirked a brow in interest. “Ah, do I have a fan?”
“You could call me that.” Vincent took a sip of his own drink. Alastor’s eyes followed the motion, training on the swallow of his throat, which Vincent found to be a little uncomfortable. The piercing gaze settled on the drink.
“Well, I’m happy to see my fans have excellent taste in entertainment,” Alastor hummed, his gaze growing judgemental. “Though… your choice of drink could use some work.”
Vincent looked down at his drink, which was a vibrant blue color with cherries speared on a toothpick at the bottom of the glass. It wasn’t the first time he’d had his fruity little drinks judged, and he was ready to defend himself, even against someone he admired.
“Well not everyone can chug straight rubbing alcohol, Alastor,” he replied. “There’s nothing wrong with adding a little flavor to your life.” Besides, he liked cherries.
Alastor didn’t seem all that convinced. “Except when that flavor is added through syrup and sugar.”
Vincent let his lips tick up to a smirk. “Listen, if you want to drink like it’s the 1920s and prohibition is coming for your ass, be my guest. I just think life is too short to not try some of the sweeter things.”
There was a moment where Alastor adjusted his glasses to peer at his drink, and then he smiled. “Well, since you’re offering.” He plucked Vincent’s drink out of his hand and took a long, slow sip. Now it was Vincent who was fixated on the way Alastor’s throat moved as he swallowed. He was a tad dry in the mouth. Alastor handed back the beverage and hummed in consideration. “Not my thing… but I can learn to appreciate it.”
Vincent knew that if he responded, he would be breathless, so he took a second to school his expression and indulge in his (significantly emptier) drink. He couldn’t even be mad Alastor stole his drink. If anything, that kind of overstepping was a little attractive. “Always good to try something new, especially when it looks like you just stepped out of a period piece.”
Alastor laughed softly, and Vincent swore that voice was crafted by an angel. “You’re interesting,” said the radio host. “The eyes, your voice, that smile… I like you. You should come around and buy me drinks more often.” He stuck out a thin hand. “Alastor.”
Vincent blinked, looking down at the hand. Of course he already knew who Alastor was, but this wasn’t Alastor introducing himself. It was Alastor wanting to greet him and know his name. He wanted to know who he was and talk to him more. Fuck, alright then.
The hand was grasped in a strong, professional grip that Vincent had perfected over the years. “Vincent.”
“Vincent. I like that name.” Alastor flashed a grin that honestly should have landed him a spot as the face of a news station, and with a voice like that, he’d be a hit.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” replied Vincent.
“Oh, you wouldn’t want to be my acquaintance,” Alastor said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “People tend not to stick around when they’re with me. For their own sakes, of course. Walking alongside me can oftentimes be… hazardous.”
Vincent quirked a brow. “You’re not gonna stab me, are you?” When he was met with a simple “I don’t plan on it”, he couldn’t help his laugh. “Then if you’re talking about my mental health, I already listen to you regularly. My sanity is up for question.”
That earned him another chuckle. “Are you in show business?"
“I’m in advertising for New Orleans News.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to have you advertise for my show,” Alastor hummed. “You have quite the voice.”
Vincent blinked, surprised. “Oh. Oh! Thank you.” What was he supposed to say to someone he admired? Well, he wouldn’t hold back, that was for sure. “A compliment coming from the most iconic voice in radio.”
Alastor’s self-satisfied smile spoke of an arrogance that had yet to be tamed and an ego that loved to be stroked. Vincent reached the end of his glass and was about to motion for another, but Alastor got there before he did. “Old pal, would you get old Vincent here another glass of… whatever the hell that was? My tab.”
Vincent looked at Alastor in surprise, earning him a wink. With a smile, he took up his drink and held it up to Alastor, who quickly took the hint and clinked his glass against Vincent’s.
“Are you here every Saturday?” Vincent asked curiously.
“If I can help it,” replied Alastor, who returned a sly look. “Will you be back to flatter me some more?”
Vincent rested his chin on his hand. “If you’ll let me. Would you like to hear some more before your next set?”
Alastor smirked. It was a small, almost delicate thing, but it concealed something beneath that had Vincent so achingly curious. He wanted to know more, but there was a part of him that feared if he revealed what lay behind the curtain, he might not be the same. That smirk was something dangerous, and Vincent reflected on the radio host’s words. To make his acquaintance was something hazardous, but Vox was nothing if not a risk-taker and a forward-thinker.
He wouldn’t regret meeting Alastor. Even if everything went to shit, he knew the day he met the radio host would be one of the best of his life.
Alastor circled the rim of his glass with a single finger. “Alright, Vincent. If you know what you’re getting into, then… I’ll hear you out.”