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"The tale I wish to share with you tonight, dear audience, is not for the faint of heart. Tonight I speak of the stage, where stars may be born or burst, take their first steps and leave with broken legs, risk it all for fame, or... bet on a losing dog. For our tale rings a cautionary truth, where young stars, blinded by their own bright potential, fall victim to the whims of others far lost to the void. How this very star will rebirth itself, burning through the collision that ought to destroy it.
The part of Vincent will be played by Patrick. The part of Patrick will be played by Vincent."
Cracking one's skull open, enough to stun them but not kill them, was as impressive as keeping Patrick awake at all after his fit of blind rage. Only the occasional grunt, attempt of movement, told them they still had an audience.
You could call it a happy accident.
A great director leads his ensemble with precision and accuracy. With only two lead actors in various states of disarray, the director was left to improvise.
But alas, the stage was set – black curtains lining every window, leaving the normally homey cabin in a blanket of dark, only a well-placed flashlight illuminating the faces and forms of Patrick, playing Vincent, and Vincent, playing Patrick.
One man, hardly alive, sat in a chair wearing the same bloodstained clothes; only ever altered to ensure his pants were on. Beside him, Alastor's love, his good boy, done up well in a dark brown suit. Clean shaven, sharp, precise. No smile to be found.
More of a man now than he had been a week ago.
In his own theater black, Alastor clasped his hands together. He could call his style of dress fit for a funeral, if only to mourn the bright smile his boy should have never been allowed to lose.
Praying, deep down, he would emerge from the show half as bright as he once was.
"The purpose of this show will be to highlight the events that took place in the months Vincent Whittman began working with his new producers, specifically, Patrick. Just Patrick. Only their story together. It will not only be based on a true story, but replayed with accuracy and precision. No detail left unspoken."
One last look at Vincent, offering a soft nod. Earning one back, cold, in-character.
More of a performance than Patrick ever earned.
"We begin with Act One, which will consist of a brief backstory. The following retellings will be dramatized and drawn out to establish our characters. You may begin."
Vincent stepped forward, allowing his shoes to sink into the wood flooring below, each creak audible in silence that would otherwise make a falling pin sing. A hand fell onto the backrest of the chair Patrick sat upon. Gripping it, tight, as one would a prized pupil's shoulder.
Loud enough to hear the wood flex some more.
"We first properly met when Vincent came to us, with a pitch for a show New Orleans was yet to see." Vincent, playing the part of the other man, wore a fake smarmy smile to accent his narration. "Bob did not believe in his dream, merely his idea. I always believed in him. In 'The Vincent Whittman Show'."
The man in the brown suit let go, turning to walk a few paces away, pulling a cigar from his pocket and twirling it in his hand.
"Much of it was out of my hands. Bob wanted that twerp Gabriel to take the place of America's Golden Boy, so he got what he wanted." A barely hidden twinge of disgust, of anger, never properly settled. Just as in character as it ought to be; as Vincent turned around, facing both the nearly-dead man and the director. "But not for long."
Alastor stepped over to the flashlight, where it had been placed. "It is soon after he began his position as the host that Gabriel Anderson passed away from a tragic accident."
He cut the light, letting the dark of the cabin encase them in a warmth which laid in the unknown. Only a light shuffling and scraping spoke of what happened where there were no eyes to see it.
When Alastor turned the light back on, it was not the one from before, but a flashlight at another angle. Shining light onto Patrick, still tied up, still in one place, and illuminating Vincent's turned back, a table now in front of him.
"Following the death of the host, questions arose all throughout K-VOX: who would replace him? Patrick was quite enthusiastic about his choice, if anything, exasperated it took this long to consider it."
"We've gotta strike while the iron is hot, Bob!" The scene struck to life as Vincent motioned towards the other end of a desk with no guest in it. No Bob to speak of, no one even playing him. Just his imagination, brought by the memory of an outside perspective. "You loved the boy, we all did, but he's gone now. The world is spinning without him. Time is of the essence, and right now other networks see our ideas as ripe for the picking. We can't let this ruin us, we have to come back stronger. Better. Bigger. Brighter."
A beat passed, both the main actor and the director ignoring a shift from the chair, lazy movement, never enough to make a statement.
And Vincent continued, filling the gaps for unspoken dialog. "Who's fit for the job? Why, you already know my answer, Bob: the kid who came up with the idea in the first place. It should have been him from the start."
The lights once more dimmed, giving a second to breathe, stillness, acceptance.
"Following that meeting Vincent overheard, the job was deemed his. The Gabriel Anderson Show became The Vincent Whittman Show: Live and in Color."
Main light once more, honed on where the chair was yet to move. On Vincent walking in, faking yet another over the top smile.
"Ready for tonight? You got quite the crowd out there."
Silence. Outside of the slow, unsure, tilt of his head.
Something Vincent matched with a frown – a comical one, rolling his eyes. "Not much a talker, are you, Vince?" A taunt, making his way over and standing behind Patrick, gripping his shoulders with a shake. "You don't gotta worry about doing Gabriel's memory justice, kid. I looked over the script, you'll do great."
He leaned in, close to the other man's ear, leaning in more than he had to. "I knew you were the boy for the job."
His steps echoed as he turned to leave, to give the star time to prepare for his first night on air, live and in color. Given that said star had no words to repeat, there would be no use in relaying Vincent's speech, how he once sucked up to the men who, on this night, gave him everything he had been waiting for his entire life.
A night Alastor was not there to witness. Flicking the light off once more, he decided, it was not a detail important enough to act out again.
"And thus we conclude the backstory. Now we will begin our second act, which takes place not even two months ago, in the heart of December – when talks of holiday specials were of utmost importance behind the scenes. Details included, while often muddled by an alcoholic buzz, are crucial for understanding where our dear producer Patrick ended up today. Though first, we will take a glance at a fateful day in November, where the secrets truly began."
Alastor gave time for the set to rearrange again, only hovering a hand over the flashlight once walking ceased. When he did flick the light back on, to that same center scene, Patrick was sat behind the table, and Vincent was approaching him with a closed paper bag.
A detail Alastor only knew bits and pieces of, currently.
"Vincent Whittman, the man of the hour!"
Much like Vincent did on that day, Patrick jumped a little in his seat, though one could deem it was from the sheer volume and energy of Vincent entering the 'room'.
"Crowd's goddamn huge already and you still got fifteen minutes 'till the show starts! Why don't you sign some autographs?" He lifted his hands in the air, faux surrender as he chuckled softly. "I know, I know, you only sign on the first Tuesday of every month. Playing hard to get: it's a good strategy, I like it. Look, I got you those pills you asked for."
He tossed them on the table, towards a 'Vincent' who could barely sit still and breathe. Clearly, he had not asked for said pills. Once could infer that from the following language.
"It's the good shit that'll keep you from looking like shit. Should kick in by the time you go on stage." The cigar prop reentered, merely held, shown off. Met with a lack of amusement from their hardly-alive prop sat behind his 'desk'.
One who should be sneering with disgust, in an accurate retelling. Though he hardly played along. Only conscious enough to know when he was being rightfully mocked.
He stood there, with a half huff, fake smile visible to Alastor even with the turn of his head towards the desk and not the director. “Come on, why so shy? You think you're too good for a little extra boost? I know the type, kids who think they'll get by through sheer force of will, eager to prove they're better than the other druggies in the industry.”
Where Vincent had been faking a Boston accent throughout, his own northern tint, hardly ever honed in as only from Connecticut, seeped into his words. Purely fictional, then; added to drive the point home, the emotions felt in those moments.
Just as much as Vincent, no, ‘Patrick’, making his way around the table. Lunging forward to hold real Patrick, fake Vincent, by the jaw, propping it open, noses inches apart as they saw eye to eye.
“Why don't you just take a fuckin’ pill before you fall asleep on set–”
“In a perfect world, Patrick would have shoved the bottle down Vincent's throat, forcing down a taste of his own medicine.” Snappy, but not rough. Not as real Vincent perked up. Gentle, even, as their eyes met. “Unfortunately, we do not live in that perfect world, do we? And this detail is merely a fabrication of what we all desperately want to see.”
The narration, rather than leading the main actor astray, allowed him a breath. Timed, as he stood. Pushing back on the wood of the chair, rattling it. A spook more than a real threat, glaring until he faced his audience again.
A perfect smile, practiced and as charming as it had to be, even with a sinister tint. Even if cameras would seldom catch it, especially not here. "...Knock 'em dead, kid!” Mused as he turned around, leaving 'Vincent' there with the bag of unmarked pills, a look proud as ever on his face.
It is only once Vincent made his way past the light's expanse that he shared a look with Alastor. A frown, big eyes to match. Emotion. Pure, unlike uncontrolled anger, as justifiable as it was. A retelling, of one of the first lies, ever since Vincent promised not to lie to him anymore. And a slip up that would have justified said lie even more.
Alastor only nodded, offering a soft smile back. On an angle where it could not be seen by their guest.
You are doing good, Vincent, he wished to tell him. Many, many times over the past few months, years, for as long as they've known each other. But how could he, with prying eyes, danger at every corner?
Throwing his boy to the wolves, the only other option. As much as he had wished to protect him.
Another pause, as an arguably more important set change took place.
The start of December. Of everything arguably too important to miss out on. Everything Alastor ought to know.
“Christmas is upon us, any day now. For the week leading up to it and thereafter, we will now turn our attention to three important dates: the eighteenth, twenty-second, and thirtieth. We'll begin on the eighteenth, when the annual company holiday get together takes place, and the announcement of Vincent's nomination for the Shining Star award.”
Center stage light once more illuminated the two actors. One standing, with a new prop in hand: a champagne glass. Empty, though a visual representation just as much. The other actor was held up by Vincent's free arm, legs not quite planted on the floor. Gangly, tall and awkward. Acting as anyone drunk on too much champagne may.
Perfectly in character.
“This year is a record for VOX studios, and it's all thanks to America's Favorite Boy, Vincent Whittman!” Did it matter who made this speech? Not quite. Vincent would remember enough of it, the main driving force of his ego at the time. “But don't just take it from me! We got a letter from the network this morning, and Vinny over here's got a real chance of becoming this year's Louisiana's Shining Star, first at VOX to do so!”
Vincent faked cheering, pulling the other man around with the fake fanfare, only earning a zombie-like groan. If Patrick wished for death before, he was begging for it now.
“This kid is going places, and he's taking me with him! Tune in Tuesday… one more cheer for Vincent, hear hear!”
Drunkenly remembered, as Vincent acted out taking another sip of his drink. Turning to ‘Vincent’ to force it into his hand, insist he drink some more. As if he hasn't had enough.
As routine by now, the lights shut off, and Vincent set the scene once more.
“We turn our attention now to the twenty-second of December, prior to the annual holiday special, eager to see what important message Patrick thought to relay to Vincent hours before his important show.”
Another scene set in ‘his office’. His boring old office, with a bottle of pills out of their bag – unmarked, unfilled – left out to contemplate their existence. Purely visual, just as it was for Vincent to walk in with a cigar hanging from his mouth.
“There he is! Richard said your rehearsal went well yesterday. Sorry I had to miss it. You dip out early on Friday? Turned around and you just… vanished.”
The acting along with Vincent's fake accent brought about how fast Patrick spoke when overloading Vincent with information – something that could go easily missed by less trained ears. It was enough to make Patrick in the role of Vincent tilt his head in a wide-out stare, hardly moving outside of that.
Little that couldn't be fixed by more of this. “Ready for tonight? We're completely sold out. Why aren't you dressed yet? You start signing autographs in ten.” He leaned against the desk with one arm, hip propped closed to it. “The hell do you mean ‘you're not’? Whole goddamn city's out there clambering to get through the doors. Go sign some autographs and flash ‘em a smile, huh? Wouldn't want people to think you're ungrateful.”
There would be no verbal pushback from a man who could not even speak. It would not stop Vincent from lunging forward again.
Finger tips rougher than before, pressing down, in a time marks would not matter – when no one would see them, when skin that had little time to heal itself. “I didn't ask what you want, Vincent. You want to get the fuck out of here. I can see it. I see the look in your eyes because I have it too.” Pressing some more, at a weak cry, at tendons stretching and tense. A snap. His jaw, surely. A weak whine with no sympathy to earn from it. “You want to get out of this shitty, backwoods swamp town, and you want to go somewhere bigger. Somewhere better. And I'm working real hard to make that happen for us, but it's not gonna work if you can't pull your weight.” Something that must have been so sobering. “So get dressed, wipe that fucking look off your face, and go play nice with your fans out there. I'm not asking.”
When he let go of Patrick, the man went stumbling out of his chair unceremoniously, all as Vincent turned and left.
Always the one above calling the shots. Never giving the other man a chance to even think.
Lights off. Shift in set. Lights on. A second chair joining the middle table, now no longer propped up as a desk. Rather, where to hold a formal dinner where neither would eat.
“December thirtieth, the night of the banquet, where Vincent would earn his award. A night that would begin with simple pleasantries, the meeting of wives to coworkers. Vincent, all alone in his travels.”
“Nervous? I wouldn't be.” ‘Patrick’ chuckled as he looked at ‘Vincent’, giving a playful arm shove in the air. “I got a real good feeling about tonight.”
He waved an empty glass around, laughing, playing the part of a showboat. Not quite Patrick's style, though Vincent played the vague part of many.
“Where's that little fiancée of yours, hm?” Another tease, with one leg kicked over the other under the table, bouncing, impatient. “She's stringing you along, kid.”
More laughter, met with nothing, eerily silent if not from the warmth Vincent's acting brought to the room. All the man sitting before him could do is crease his brows, if not thinking it before, knowing his previous mentee was positively insane.
To the point of acting out an interruption, tilting his head to listen to a whisper, discreet yet important. “Excuse me,” he announced, standing up and tucking in his chair, leaving an arm open as if it would be taken. Leaving Vincent there to talk with the others, await his award without the presence of his producers who gave him this chance.
That much, any could see. How it set up a harrowing mistake before it could occur. Given no reason to relay what was said to him, about Patrick.
The chair remained, but the table moved, under the cover of dark. More props, new, temporary. Not to be used again.
“Vincent went about his time at the banquet, enjoying it as any champion should. After a dance, he broke away from the ballroom to relieve himself. What he found in the next room would shock any rookie in the industry, unlike his seasoned coworkers and their colleagues crowding the space.”
A long time put to the side, Alastor flicked on the angled light. It hit Patrick's back, but gave plenty of light to Vincent, at the table tucked back, leaning over lines of powder. Fake. A prop. But it hadn't been for the drunk young man that night.
“There he is! Vincent Whittman, Shining Star, America's Most Entertaining Boy.” Some embellishment; earned. “I was just about to go looking for you. Come over here, kid.”
He made his way over with only the slightest wobble to his step. Different from a drunk one, than Vincent's own that night. A crazed split in his smile, hungry, but more eager than anything else.
And a hand landed on the chair's back, gripping hard, a short but loud creak centering the room. Only, the man on the chair made no move to defend himself. Could not.
“C'mon, now, don't embarrass me in front of all my friends. They're all dying to meet you.” The grip on the chair moved to Patrick's neck – his shoulder, really. A friendly grip, with a friendly reminder of his place, with a thumb lodged into his throat as he turned to an audience of no one. “This is the one I've been telling you all about. My shining star. He's my ticket out of this god-awful place, aren't you, Vince.”
The closer they got to crucial events in Vincent's memory, the less the boy held back. Held more of a mock in his face accent, emphasized every little thing he hated to hear.
Made Patrick squirm and choke, even if they had a long way to go. Suffering more, through every moment Vincent wanted to kill him.
Now ‘Patrick’ let go, giving ‘Vincent’ little time to gasp before he spun around and began pushing the chair towards the table, towards the powdered prop. “Lighten up, Vincent, it's a party! Don't you want to be in with the big shots?” He huffed out a laugh, showing entirely too much teeth. “Didn't know my boy was gonna be such a stiff!”
The movement must have been just as fast as it was back then, pulling the switchblade out of his pocket and unsheathing it with a push of a button. It would be easy, so easy, to end it here. Where they weren't in a room surrounded by other men, right outside of a hall full of important people.
Those who would not take kindly to marble floors bathed in blood. Unlike Alastor.
The trick was flipping the blade around, ‘accidentally’ grazing the other man's palm before wrapping larger, weaker fingers around the handle. Holding fake Vincent's hand to point the weapon at himself, real Vincent. Close enough to graze his throat, not enough to leave a mark.
“Jesus Christ, kid, calm the fuck down.” Boston accent dramatized, moving his head without a care in the world. “We just wanted you to loosen up.”
And then a laugh. A raw, manic laugh, wracking his chest, tip of the knife grazing his neck until it cut thin, disjointed lines.
“Oh, and that award of yours? Of course you won!” The grip on the hand unwillingly holding the switchblade tightened, cracking the already weak fingers, earning another pained mewl. “I paid them off months ago.” Mouth growing crooked again, showing a crooked fang; weakening the grip on the blade with his own strength it hardly grazed him anymore. “I paid them off months ago. You were always gonna win, Vince. It's all part of the plan.”
He let the other man's hand go. A gamble, as the blade now laid in the hands of another, the hands of a man with his life on the line. Fighting, that instinctual human spirit, climbing for a way out.
The hands of a wordsmith with no spiel to spin.
No strength to even end himself. Cracked, shaking fingers, dropping the blade between them.
“That's what I fucking thought.”
What it was, he thought, left to interpretation. Though as Alastor lingered around the current flashlight, he wondered, if the contradiction fought itself for what would be more logical in that moment.
‘Vincent’ would not flee. The scene would end all the same.
Darkness blanketed them a little longer, this time. Props arranged, chair moved, table moved, and actors, inevitably, moved.
Vincent lingered off stage, near the director, for a moment longer than he should have. Taking a breath. More so, when Alastor rubbed his shoulders, near the nape of his neck.
You're doing good. But he could not tell him aloud. Not now.
Not when he had to clarify why he had ever been scared.
“The new year came and went, bringing about a change at the company. Now known across the city, state, and country for his face on the night show, one could not rationalize Vincent continuing on with the morning news – it simply wouldn't do. Patrick would find ways around this, though, Vincent had no way of expecting what this meant in return.”
Standard setup, with a centralized light and focus on the desk. Always Vincent's desk, Patrick knowing when and how to corner a man in his natural habitat, a predator on the prowl and always in motion.
“Vincent, good morning!” How was the rest of your break?”
The voice was once more loud enough to break ‘Vincent’ out of his trance, jostling up when ‘Patrick’ approached, not quite with a pep in his step but otherwise calm, cool, collected. And worst of all, smiling.
“You're fine, that's good.” Pleasant enough to greet anyone after a holiday break, well deserved and well rested. But less so, teetering on sinister once more, as he made his way over. Face to face with ‘Vincent’, but towering over him. Palms flush with the wood finish on his desk, making it creak as it shifted under his weight. “You know you could, I don't know, thank me for your late Christmas gift upstairs. Didn't you want off the news?”
The more Vincent mimicked Patrick, taking the time to study his voice aloud, the more he sounded like him. No need for a dramatic accent outside of passion. No need to play up what he knew from his own time in New York, a mixup as he spoke from time to time.
Scarily accurate to the producer, who now could not debate that impression, or anything it was used to say.
The grip on the table was tighter now. “Look, kid – pull the stick out of your ass. I'm not mad about the other night, alright? Maybe I was outta line, maybe I thought you were something you're not. The knife thing was ballsy, for sure. Tough. But that's what I like about you.”
His head tilted up, baring imperfect, yet effective fangs at the other, lower man.
“You're not weak.”
Even taking a step closer, licking those teeth, his other hand on the chair to make sure there wasn't a moment ‘Vincent’ wasn't looking at him.
“I've known it from the day you walked in here. You've got guts. You've got drive. You're smart and you're talented and you aren't afraid of it.” The look he gave was one of self-pleasure. Undeniable, no matter where it came from. “That's why I wanted you for this show from the beginning, not that fucking Anderson kid. He was weak. He was nothing. That's what his daddy was always saying, ever since he was born. That kid was a whimpy, spoiled pretty boy who couldn't take a hit.”
In the lighting Alastor saw his boy shift an undeniable shift, heard the soft growl every time he exhaled. The look in his eyes, so close to hunger, he'd believe his hand now enveloped around Patrick's neck would go in for the kill.
Draining him, wrapped in the praise he offered Vincent one fateful day, when it was all he ever wanted.
“Not you though, Vin.” A breathlessness, almost, followed him. “You're different. You're better. You're special.”
The squeeze tightened, holding it there for a count, enough to make the man's lifeless eyes bulge and almost begin to reach for the arm making up his attacker.
Vincent knew how to kill, how to choke an enemy to death – the very father who hated his son, spoken of moments ago. A victim of the same. Never quite as deserving, was he?
So Vincent let go, let Patrick gasp, surprised the husk of a man could even intake that much air still. But he had to, or the show would go on without him. “That's your schedule for the month,” he announced, slapping a booklet from his pocket onto the table. Not the real one. Never the real one. “Should be manageable with all that extra free time, yeah?”
His shoes clicked quietly as he turned, making his way out, back turned to a ‘Vincent’ who never quite caught the air.
“Oh, and Vincent?”
Similarly to the day, and to whenever someone would call out your name, their eyes met when ‘Patrick’ turned to look at his employee.
“Like I said, I'm not mad. But if you ever pull some shit like that again, I will ruin you.” Pointing to emphasize, “Don't fuck with me.”
He turned and walked out again. But there was no door to slam.
In fact, the only respite he would give the other man is the time it took to look around and walk back into the room, sliding various magazines and photos across the table in front of him. All meaningless.
“Smile, Vincent! You always look so goddamn miserable. This is what you've been working towards!” He pointed open handedly at the display, as if it could possibly ever mean anything, smile frantic and wide in a way Patrick's hardly ever was. “Getting the award was just the first step. You're blowing up, kid! Phone is ringing off the hook for people asking to be on your show.”
Getting up in his face again, “This is why we gotta move the talk show in front of a live audience. This is why we need a third show. The people want more of you. They can't get enough! You're a real big shot now. We can't,” slam on the table, “lose that momentum.”
A moment to breathe would be offered, spaced out by narration. Necessary. The poor boy practically shaking.
“What Patrick was not focused on, in that race to stay on top of the charts, was the little details. What made Vincent human, much like any other man in the office.”
“What's this week in February you got blocked off on the calendar?” He would only glance at the prop desk calendar, mostly keeping his eyes on ‘Vincent’. Chest wracking more than the man on death's doorstep. “Tch, your birthday? What's so important about your birthday that you have to take an entire week off for it?”
A week he had taken off work ever since he turned twenty-two nearly four years ago. More attentive executives knew this, cared. Vincent itched at the opportunity, every time the ritual came near.
It was that week now. A time in which Vincent should be resting, recovering, remarked and reclaimed by the love of his life. A promise to never fade, to never let go.
…Unorthodox methods of ‘recovery’ found them this year.
“A trip? You didn't clear that with us.” The same venom in Patrick's voice, he assumed, spat out of his boy's mouth now. “I've known your name since the day you walked into this building, kid. Watch your mouth before it gets you in trouble. A week is a long fucking time. Who's gonna do your shows?”
Anger boiled underneath ‘Patrick's skin, panting like a caged animal set loose. “My job to figure that out, hm?!”
There was no hall for ‘Vincent’ to walk out of, for ‘Patrick’ to follow him, no wall to push him up against. Accuracy was a myth, in an entanglement of props and actors both emotional and unresponsive. No script to follow outside of their memories, playing these scenes over and over and over in a lonely mind.
Instead Vincent kicked the table, sending papers flying as it fell with a loud thud. Still in one piece. Legs facing them, trapping them in that moment as Vincent put either hand on the side of Patrick's chair. Gripped it. Cracked it under the pressure.
“Wipe that attitude off your face. It's not a good look for you. Is all the fame getting to your head, Vincent? You're acting like a fucking brat.”
Teeth gritted so hard they grinded, caught on jagged edges, nearly growling again. With little joy to take in a time so powerless.
“I'll do whatever the fuck I want to you. I own you! You are nothing without me, do you understand? You are only here because of me.”
Ragged breath once more, face to face with the man who tried to breathe in his presence. Any moment could be his end, but shouldn't Patrick be smarter by now?
“Maybe you're right. Maybe we need each other. You are my ticket out of here, after all.” Ragged laughter, just as much, splitting the structure of the wooden chair further beneath his grip. “But you've got secrets, Vincent Whittman, and I know all about them. Or should I say all about him? I'd h-hate for all t-that to come to the surface. What would the h-headlines say?”
Shakier than before, giving Patrick no space. Little control over what else he could do, what else he so eagerly wanted to do.
“Or should I say. All about him?”
Laughter, laughter and more laughter. Wracking him, overtaking him, Patrick given a front row seat as Vincent lost his marbles leading up to act three. Shoulder loose in raw emotion, losing himself, feeling for the first time in a long time.
“So what if he fucking knows? Oh, so what if he fucking know, oh… oh Patrick, you're fucked!”
Curtain close, as much as one could with only a light. Silence. Pure, raw, uncoordinated silence.
“The following and final act, I must warn, has been known to drive even the surest of individuals to madness. The ending may not be satisfying. It may not bring catharsis. The meaning of this production is to bring about the truths of what transpired the night of January twenty-ninth, through any means Patrick, played by Vincent, wishes to tell it.”
A third and final light, parallel to the previous angled one, for special scenes. Dimmer than the rest, giving the room a glow of darker yellow. More intimate. More dangerous.
It would not change the lack of differing scene. A desk, a chair – no, two chairs, and an array of various props along the table. Some of which were new, more important.
Real, dare one say. Quite the irony.
“I'll spare you all the pitch,” the false Patrick began, waving a shot glass in the air with his legs kicked up on the tabletop. “VOX POPULI is a stupid fucking pitch, just another talk show in a sea of endless talk shows. Who cares about the voice of the people or Latin proverbs? It's what Vincent Whittman is already known for. It's not gonna roll in the dough, it'll make audiences bored outta their fuckin’ skulls!”
His own show or plenty of others across America may add canned laughter in a time like this, where no audience was enough to replicate the sound of dedicated listeners.
Why bother, when all he needed was his boy to give him the honest truth, in any way he can?
“I told him to scram, work on the Valentine's Day Special script – you know, something people would tune in for without a doubt. And then he came back crawling to me, crying about his fucking birthday! Again!” His legs untangled and found their ground. “So I gave him a chance, a way out, a way to really explain himself.”
He rose now, still standing on the other side of the table. “Sit down.”
A useless command, as ‘Vincent’, forever obedient, sat still. As still as he could; swaying, though not quite squirming. ‘Patrick’ would still make his way over and around the table, prop glass set down, prop cigar in hand.
Around the chair, spun so naturally it needed no second thought. One hand on his shoulder. A flinch as he leaned in.
“You finally learned some respect. I'm proud of you. Asking permission is good.”
The growl, for once, was not from Vincent. Not at first. Though a good boy knows when his mate is in distress.
It is still something Vincent could recover from, in a memory come to life, so smooth it ran right past interruptions. “I just don't know if I can let you go, Vincent.” His head was close now, almost inches away from Patrick's ear. “A whole week off is asking a lot. What are you willing to do for it?”
The hand moved from his shoulder to caress the back of his neck, an almost purr of a dog-like growl leaving his throat. So close to that other man, who could only squirm at this touch. Too far forward or either side, he would fall.
Trapped. Equally so, because unlike Vincent, he would not have the chance to break away. To run off. To see his lover one last time.
“Tell me, Vincent: what are you willing to do for it?”
He licked his lips, inches away from Patrick's neck. Making him shiver. Gasp even. But in no time the real Vincent stood right back up, making his way back to the table. The props, cigar discarded, for good, for a glass. Two glasses.
“Vincent! There you are, you rascal.” The hearty laugh of a man with one too many drinks in his system left his throat, all as he leaned forward by the hips, bent just above his level. “What, don't look at me like that. Am I not allowed to visit? I thought there was cause for a celebration!”
Silence, outside of breaths only more strained. Weazy, like a man stabbed moments before and not miraculously held to the mortal plane for a week.
“A celebration for what? The end of an era, of course! Your last day in this office, if you really want it to be – and I know you really, really want it to be. Everything is going to be filmed at the second location now. Homier, more intimate, personal, private. Exciting! And isn't it your birthday this weekend? I seem to remember you saying something about that, it's on the tip of my tongue…”
The fake glass held close to him was empty, playfully drained, as the act suggested. The other one he held a few inches away, shaken just as playfully, liquid sloshing around.
Water. The singular bastion of saving the poorest of bastards for only the few minutes left they were needed for.
Though, Patrick didn't need to know that.
“What's one drink going to hurt? Got someone at home eager to see you?”
Joking of the fiancée would prove useless. They all knew it was a ruse, knew someone like Vincent was only pretending with any pretty woman who would play along. It's how men like them moved about, swam along their own ecosystem and came out on top.
Only after toying with the eager fish down below.
It's because he met no answer that it hardly mattered, the dinner planned for that night. Written on not only one, but two of Vincent's calendars, in Alastor's own handwriting. What did Patrick care?
He would still put his own glass to the side. Free hand used to hold ‘Vincent's jaw, part it open, tilt his head back. Pour the poison down his throat. That sweet, sweet poison.
Vincent chuckled as he set that glass down, watching Patrick gasp like a fish out of water, given a puddle to lay in. It didn't mean he would not flop around endlessly – no, far from it. And the falcon circled, at no distance, for it knew its meal could not swim away.
“You even listening to me, Vince? You do an awful lot of complaining, Vince. It's getting tiring. Makes me even wonder if you want this, Vince.”
Of course he wanted this, one could say. Vincent Whittman has wanted this all his life. The fame. The success. When really, it was all that stupid show he never shut up about.
But what did Patrick know? What did Patrick care?
“Leaving so soon? What's the rush?” Of course, ‘Vincent’ made no effort to move. Circled and circled, stated down, cornered. “A bit rude after I gave you such an expensive pour… though, I should have expected this from you. You're ungrateful. Greedy and ungrateful. Always wanting more and never thinking of the people who get it for you.”
This would be where the ever benevolent Vincent Whittman, Alastor's Boy, would step in to defend himself. Speak of why he wants. Tell him that he's earned it. Perhaps, meet Patrick's face with the carpet, if all else fails.
But it would be ‘Patrick’ now, using gentle hands where Vincent only thought of violence.
Alastor's own, from the director's spot, already clenched and waiting.
But this was not his story to tell.
“I think it's time you learned a lesson in being appreciative.”
Up from the chair, Patrick would go, lifted under the arms and hoisted up onto the table. The chair, already splintered on some ends, kicked away for good measure.
“You've been teasing me for years now, Vincent. Ever since you came through these doors all those years ago and put on your blooming, innocent golden boy act, batting those pretty little lifeless eyes at anyone that would could be fooled into thinking you have a soul. And I've been patient!” A cackle, light earlier, wracked with airlessness and pain, sorrow, anger. The voice no longer an act. “I've bided my time, watched you whore yourself out to that god upstairs time and time again. But it's getting old, Vince. I think it's time you were taught a lesson.”
His lips locked with the neck of the living corpse before him. Warm, if only for the thin layer of blood still pumping through him. Otherwise a shell, no better than if the boy were to fool around with any of their other victims.
Even teasing a bite, mere fangs scraping skin, enough to draw blood. Proving, he was no better than the god he kneeled to.
“You've got a lot of lessons you need to learn. Subtlety is another one. Did you really think no one would find out? Spending all your time upstairs, following that old man around like some stupid puppy?”
Vincent's tone took a turn, almost transatlantic.
He would have told him that, wouldn't he? Maybe he has. Maybe the memory was muddled with.
“Hiding under his desk? What exactly were you doing under there, huh?” The assault on his neck continued, hips bucking forward a time or two. Needed. Deserved. “You aren't fooling anyone, Vincent. We all know. This whole fucking studio – anyone that matters, anyway. We all know you've been giving it up to him for years!”
A cruel chuckle, maw marked with bitter blood as it looked at Patrick's shaky form. Still clinging to life, still trying to get away. Eyes wide. Still framed well by wide glasses, however cracked.
“Don't get it wrong, we don't mind. It's pretty standard in our business. We've kept your little secret, played along with your little game of pretend. But you're being selfish. It's not fair. Share with the rest of us, why don't ya?”
Another rough few kisses, sucking the blood out of him.
“You owe to me, at least. I played along the most, pretended it was possible you have a soul, Vince.”
He panted, backing up just enough space to look Patrick in the eyes, hold his jaw apart. His broken jaw. Another mark of his own.
“You owe it to me, at least, after everything I've done for you. Everything I've given you.”
A parody, it must be, as Vincent pulled the other man forward by his broken jaw and met his lips. Rocking forward, like a dog in heat, helpless and thoughtless. And yet he chuckled as Patrick squirmed, not getting away, not even properly crying.
“Ohhh Alastor, Alastor, Alastor!” Another cruel chuckle, louder, in his face, more manic than one could ever wish it would be. “He's not coming to save you, baby! He's long gone. What's he gonna think when you come home ruined? Is he even gonna want you anymore? Seems like the possessive kind to me.”
And an incredibly patient man with years of practice under his sleeve. Oh, if his boy had any chance of being right…
“Don't worry. You'll have plenty of other options available. I've told you plenty of times, baby boy – everyone wants a piece of you.”
The restraint Alastor exercised deserved a reward of its own.
Vincent may as well have said anything now, while rutting into the nearly unconscious man. Would it matter in the end? Would it matter if he's still alive?
“I've tried to be patient, Vincent. I've tried to be nice. I've tried so many times. The pills would have made it so easy.” A growl. Louder, from the man who spoke it; the man who knew. “The coke would have made it easy, too, if you hadn't been so pissy at the banquet last month. We a-all could have had out f-fun with you then, huh! But you had to put on your little knife show, your tough guy act.”
Teeth near his neck again. The jugular. Encasing him like a well-fed predator.
“Not so tough now, are you?”
Instead he pushed him down, rutting hips pausing, if only to look down at the mess he made. At the man who barely responded, hadn't run his smart mouth for a week, all while Vincent himself spent the last hour mimicking him with no shred of falsehood.
Panting, smile wide and alive, uniquely Vincent Whittman, Alastor's Good And Only Boy.
Hands resting on the other man's belt. No hesitation. Only a mere dare.
“Vin… cent…”
“Aww, Don't cry, Patrick. If we're lucky, you won't even remember this tomorrow.”
So much more to say, so much more that could be said. But the fact of the matter is, no reality existed in which Patrick would not proceed to lower Vincent's pants, then his own, and take what he so believed was rightfully his. All the events of months at a time, following one obsession, led the golden boy astray.
Where the only victim should be the one laying on the table. And yet, the frazzled mind of the man above told another tale.
Of a madness he let drag on for far too long.
“And scene.”
Vincent perked up, chest still heaving, hands slowly rising from their previous iron grip on the item that once could have led to his ruin. Instead, he looked back at the director with only traces of a smile that once was. No lie, but still an act. Emotive, but not outside of the immersion.
Alastor stepped forward, just before he could possibly step into the light. Regarding the bloodied state of the boy. Hungry, in a way he feared he might never be again. Stupidly relieved to see even hints of that look in his eyes.
Though Alastor gathered all he had wanted to see, he figured the scene was due for a satisfying ending.
“Before we can include the final act, there will be a switch of roles. Starting in one minute, the role of Patrick will be played by himself, while the role of Alastor will be played by Vincent. Vincent, the character, may now rest.”
Vincent, forever the good boy he was, did not hesitate. Away from the light, off camera, Alastor caught the shuffling of one coat off for another on, thrown over the head. A boyish look. One Patrick would not see him slip into.
Never privy to the vulnerable side of Vincent again.
And yet, soon, he stepped back onto the stage.
No dialog would find him. None of Alastor's shock, nor his anger. The dramatic spiels of either conscious man. No word either have been able to repeat. It would not stop Vincent from making his way over to the man slumped on the table, no better than the meat they prepared together.
Quick to do all the things Vincent, as Alastor, as Vincent, yearned to do but never could in a setting too public. A hand around his neck. Another hand, closed fist. making contact with his face. Repeatedly.
Fuck the table, disregarded, falling forward with them as Vincent lunged forward. He wouldn't stop punching, as the slab of wood blocked out the world, blocked the director from his actor from his victim, well earned, a beating Alastor could pass to the next.
And wail on him he did, as one could imagine whether not there, not confirmed, not by the lack of light and life on their stage. Where what only existed was Vincent now, playing the fury of an old man who never thought he would find love again, made to see his lover in the wrong end of a world he has only ever loved with blind ignorance and beauty.
Dare.
Touch.
Mine.
He may have imagined it. Vincent may have repeated it. Would it matter when the boy's blind rage was so familiar, he may as well be pelted in rain as he worked twenty-one years of frustration out on a man whose name served as such a nasty reminder.
A reminder of all Vincent was not, and never would be.
Lost in it, they both became, as the trophy prop, fake as the weight in Vincent's hands, crashed down on a skull far too tortured. Clinging onto a life not meant to last, not meant to snap so easily.
And yet that satisfying crack filled the air. Nothing but the breaths of a boy far too broken following.
“And… scene.”
It dropped, absent-mindedly, no doubt in whatever blood was enough to pool around the man. If by any chance he lived, he may as well bleed out on their wooden floors, given nothing now that he served his one last purpose.
The last light flicked off. Another, not so distant, more… homey, soon filled the room. A dim lamp of warm orange, illuminating the mess of props in their living room, home to no one else, found itself littered in.
Alastor found his place on the carpet pushed to the side, in the light. Arms wide open, inviting. Looking over at a Vincent who stood, boyish reporter clothes splattered with blood.
A smile, not quite there. Default. Protective. Commonplace for a week before and now ongoing.
For a February fifth he should spend resting. Just as weak in the woods shrouded by rain as he was in the cabin with neighboring migrating spring birds. Those who sang, who would not be seen.
He still made his way over, into the arms of the old man who tried, tried to love him as he could. To understand a man who was a mere boy, still so different, so susceptible to the world around him regardless of Alastor's lessons.
He still held his boy, sunk to the floor with him, knees aching in a way he would not dare mention now. Letting Vincent straddle one of his legs. Misplaced energy. Always so energetic.
“Thank you, Vincent.” Their foreheads touched, caressing his cheek. “For… telling me. Everything.”
A smile, Vincent's smile, would still not reach him. Hold him up in the same way it effortlessly did, every day around Alastor, for years on end.
He still wrapped his arms around him. He still cried, sobbing, as real as any tears could be. Face to face. Never a shield, whimpering and snotty and shaking an undeniably still a child.
His boy.
Always Alastor's Boy.