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Alastor stared at the old television in the hotel lobby like it owed him something, as if waiting for a face he hadn’t seen in person for years but still knew like the scars beneath his clothes to appear. The screen stared back, blank and cold, reflecting only the empty chairs and the dim chandelier overhead.
It stayed silent.
His fingers drifted down to the photograph in his lap, brittle at the edges, the colors dulled by time and from years of being pulled out, looked at, but ultimately hidden away again. Two young sinners grinned back at him, caught mid-laugh, arms slung around each other with effortless familiarity. Vox and he, once inseparable.
That time felt like a lifetime ago.
Back then, the world felt weightless. They were close. Closer than most. During a time they had been something liminal—never lovers, not quite friends, more than either and less than both. There had been something in between—a tension, a possibility.
Now, that possibility had vanished like smoke.
Beside him, a newspaper lay discarded and creased, as if it had already served its cruel purpose. The headline still mocked him from the page:
“The Vees: Hell’s Power Couple Stronger Than Ever!”
The accompanying image showed Vox and Valentino after the Extermination, dancing together, smiling, having fun. Valentino's arms were looped around Vox possessively, like a claim staked and long since settled, as if he belonged at his side. And Vox—Vox looked happy . Radiant, even.
Like he had never known hurt. Like he had never stood in Alastor’s doorway years ago, heart in his throat, waiting for something that would never come.
Alastor’s fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. The bourbon trembled in the cut crystal, its amber hue catching the low light like fire. His reflection warped in its surface—small, distorted, alone.
I shut the door, I walked away
That’s what he did, wasn’t it? Yes. He had. He remembered that night with nauseating clarity. Vox had come to him, standing in his living room, looking out of place in Alastor’s space—voice stripped of its bravado, eyes pleading in a way he hadn’t understood back then. Alastor remembered the look he had given him—unguarded, open in a way that made his skin itch with something too close to fear.
Vox had offered something fragile, and Alastor, with his pride, his foolish detachment , had dismissed his feelings like they were nothing more than an unfunny joke. He, apparently a coward where it truly counted, had laughed it off, right into his face. Not cruelly, not exactly, nothing more than a deflection, but enough to cut through Vox’s heart like through the skin of one of his victims, and to bury whatever might’ve been blooming between them forever.
Took your light and let it fade.
He thought he was doing the right thing, that detachment would spare them both and that denying Vox’s affection, therefore pushing him back into a safer distance, was mercy. He convinced himself it was. That Vox deserved someone who could hold those feelings without flinching, someone who wouldn’t look at love like it was a trap door ready to snap.
To him, love—or whatever this fragile, delicate thing sparking between them back then—had been nothing but a temporary endeavor, fragile and unpredictable, and Alastor didn’t like things he couldn’t control. Love was for the foolish. For the weak, not meant for creatures proud like him. He wasn’t going to let himself be seen weak in any way—not even by his cherished best friend.
So he let it die. He let them die before it could grow into something real.
I just let go, I didn’t fight
He had let go when things started getting complicated after that. He hadn’t fought to keep their friendship alive after Vox couldn’t deal with the rejection and his fragile feelings being hurt. Vox’s bleeding pride wasn’t his responsibility.
When Vox stopped reaching out, Alastor didn’t chase after him. He told himself it was fine, that he didn’t need anyone. He buried it. Let the silence stretch long between them. Let his pride do the talking. Until there was nothing left between them but static.
He successfully convinced himself it was what he wanted. That losing Vox was better than letting him see the cracks. The rotting thing inside him that didn’t know how to want without destroying.
And now, the only thing that lingered was this ache—this tight, quiet ache behind his ribs that never really left. Now all he had were memories of the way they used to understand each other without needing to explain anything, something only they could do with their shared frequencies.
And I keep asking myself why.
He stared again at the photograph. Not the newspaper—the one in his hand. The moment before it had all fallen apart.
They used to spend nights curled around each other, not even physically touching, but the closeness lived in the cadence of their words. Vox had once said Alastor made Hell feel like Heaven. And Alastor, though he’d never admitted it, had found Vox’s company more than pleasing.
All that was left now were stories that didn’t include him. Nothing but echoes of a life he could have had, reflected in pictures and stories he heard about them. Stories about how good they were together. How happy Vox was with Valentino. People saying they made sense. That they looked right .
Alastor exhaled sharply, more of a hiss than a breath, and set the glass down with more force than necessary. The sound echoed in the empty room, a tiny punctuation to a moment already gone.
Why did I think you would just wait? Wait there for me? You wouldn’t break.
But he had. Not publicly, not dramatically, not in a way anyone else could see. Vox wasn’t like that. He always wore his mask to perfection for the public's eyes, but Alastor knew him like no other did. His hurt came through in small gestures. He had noticed the way his broadcasts had become less frequent for a while after their falling out, the way his voice had been thinner, how he sometimes couldn’t quite snap himself back into performance.
Alastor had seen it, recognized it. But still, he did nothing.
There was a stretch of time when Alastor knew Vox was waiting. Maybe hoping he’d come around.
He didn’t.
Because a part of him had foolishly believed Vox wouldn’t move on. He assumed, arrogantly, that someone like Vox would never be able to get over someone like him .
But, turned out, people didn’t wait forever. Not even his picture box.
Why didn’t I just see the truth? What was I trying to prove?
His thumb dragged over the surface of the photo again, slow and almost reverent, pausing over his own face. That version of him had been so certain of things he didn’t understand, had no idea what it meant to care for someone in a way that left you exposed. No idea what it meant to lose .
He had been so blind, so ignorant. He always thought himself above such feelings, had believed he was immune to sentiment, untouchable by love and longing. Safe in his distance. But distance didn’t protect you from what you never gave yourself permission to feel.
Love was weakness. Dependency. Only meant for creatures who hadn’t carved out their names in blood and fear. He’d worn pride like armor, untouchable and so damn effective that it kept everything else out, including the only thing that had ever really wanted in.
And now he sat here, alone, bitter, drowning in silence and alcohol, realizing he had never been untouchable at all.
The truth had been there all along, smiling beside him, only he’d refused to see it.
Now I understand, you’re supposed to be my man
Vox had wanted him. Not the performer, not the myth— him . The real, flawed Alastor. The one who hid behind a smile, who wrapped detachment around himself like a tailored suit. Vox had seen through it, yet still offered himself with terrifying sincerity.
Vox had loved him. He could see it now, laid bare in hindsight, like a secret written backward into every word Vox had ever said to him, voice low, his eyes flickering with uncharacteristic softness. The way his gaze lingered, unsure, waiting for something—permission, maybe. Hope. Alastor hadn’t known how to hold someone who offered themselves so freely.
And Vox had offered. God, had he offered. All those late nights, all the jokes laced with sincerity, all the silences thick with words they never dared speak. Vox was the kind of man who would’ve given him everything if Alastor had only reached out and taken it. And Alastor had known that, on some level. Had felt the shape of it, even if he’d pretended not to. Pretended it wasn’t there, or worse, didn’t matter.
But it had. God, it had. And he’d let it slip away, let him slip through his fingers.
Should have never left you lonely.
He swallowed hard, the taste of whiskey clinging to his tongue like rust. It burned going down his throat, but not enough. The pain was welcome. It reminded him that he still felt something, even if it was never enough to cauterize whatever hole had been left behind.
He remembered the last time Vox looked at him like he mattered . It hadn’t been angry or desperate. Just... tired. A kind of soft disappointment that curled around the edges of his smirk.
And now? Now, Vox wasn’t his anymore. He belonged to Valentino.
Now you’ve moved on and I’m still here
He hadn’t moved forward. He had calcified, locked in this loop of memory and regret, circling the same reel of “what ifs.” Clutching a photo like it could explain something, like it could talk back. Like it could erase years of silence.
He stared through the glass of whiskey, into its thick amber swirl, and thought maybe he could see some version of himself where he hadn’t fucked it all up.
Meanwhile, Vox was the one who had moved on, fully and completely, as ironic as that was. He had someone now—someone who wanted to be wanted, who allowed himself to be loved. Someone who smiled in photos, let himself be touched and fucked without hesitation. Valentino might be poison, but he knew how to claim something when he wanted it, and that was something Alastor could admire him for.
He tilted his head back, letting the room blur as the ache behind his eyes intensified.
Watching hope just disappear.
He remembered the first time he’d seen them together—truly seen them, even if it was just a chance glimpse. Not in the photographs or the headlines. Vox hadn’t even noticed him, his face turned up toward Valentino’s. And the way Vox had leaned into him, how he let himself be held… it wasn’t performative. It wasn’t the hollow indulgence Alastor had once assumed it was.
It was real.
And then there had been that smile. It wasn’t his showman smile, not the one for crowds. No, this was familiar, intimate, but too soft to be mere seduction.
It was the smile Alastor thought had been reserved for him, and him only. That laugh used to be his, for his jokes, for their late-night conversations, their teasing, their unspoken connection when they stayed up talking about nothing and everything in that strange, liminal space where neither of them had to perform.
But it wasn’t his anymore.
Now, Vox smiled for someone else. Laughed at someone else. Loved someone else.
And Alastor had no one to blame but himself, because deep down, in the pit where all truths eventually settled, he knew it was no one's fault but his own.
You were the one, I know that now.
The realization had come too late. He hadn’t always known. Pride had kept the truth muffled, buried beneath bravado and fear. But now, the silence had cleared. And what remained was ugly in its clarity.
But now it was too late to fix anything, to reach across the void he’d dug with his own teeth. Vox had offered him a hand, once. And Alastor, idiot that he was, had recoiled from it like it burned. Because it had burned. Still kinda did.
Acceptance hadn’t come easily, but at one point, there was no longer denying the truth that sat bitter in his chest: Vox had been the one. The only one. The one who might have understood him. Might have loved him without question, despite his cruelty, despite his flawed self, thinking himself unable to feel love. He had never cared about his shortcomings before, and he had seen Alastor and wanted him regardless.
Vox could have accepted his love as not being the same unconditional one that other people felt. He would have eventually accepted his boundaries and learned to understand that things were different for him. Alastor was sure of that.
I’d change the past if I knew how.
But he didn’t.
Time didn’t rewind. There were no edits for real life, no rewinds. Just echoes, and the soft creases of a photograph pressed between trembling fingers. There was no taking back the night he’d shrugged off Vox’s trembling confession, no undoing the cruelty he wore like armor while Vox stood there, vulnerable and real and wanting .
He would give anything to go back and say it differently, do it differently. To hold on instead of walking away. But time didn’t forgive cowards. Time didn’t give second chances.
Now all he had was the weight of what he’d never said, never done, never let himself feel.
Now there was nothing but bitter regrets and this shattering grief that clawed its way up his throat every time he looked at that picture and saw the man who used to be his.
Along with the realization that, for the first time in forever, love didn’t feel like some distant thing other creatures experienced when they were foolish enough to give in to their baser instincts. He had never understood the concept until that love, that had probably always been there, was nothing more than a knife between the ribs, twisting gently every time he remembered what he could’ve had, tearing him apart from the inside.
I should have been stronger.
He closed his eyes and clutched the photograph tighter, as if the force of his longing could collapse time and undo the damage somehow, bring back what he’d lost. It crumpled beneath his trembling fingers, but Alastor didn't care. This was one of the last reminders of what it had felt like to be wanted. Not just feared. Not only respected. Wanted . In a way that stripped him bare and made him human .
He didn’t even know what to do with that kind of want until it was gone.
A brittle chuckle scraped from his throat like rust off metal, dry and joyless. It echoed in the empty room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling, a pathetic imitation of laughter. There was no humor in the sound—only the echo of pride collapsing under its own weight. It was the laugh of a man realizing too late that strength wasn’t in how much you could shut out, but in what you dared to let in.
And he hadn’t let anything in. Not even Vox.
He told himself that strength was about composure, being untouchable, and being above it all. But now, with the photo trembling in his hand, he understood it was nothing more than cowardice in disguise.
It could have been forever.
He'd never believed in forever. Not in the way love-blinded idiots whispered it like a spell to each other in the dark, as if words alone could outlast the ruin that came for everything eventually. It was a concept for fools who thought love could outlast time, as if it wouldn’t rot and decay like everything else down here.
In Hell, nothing lasted. That was the rule. Forever was a joke here, nothing but a cheap promise traded between desperate souls with nothing left to barter.
But Vox… Vox had been different.
With him, there had been a sliver of something terrifying and tender, something that could have lasted, if only Alastor had let it. Vox never asked for more than Alastor could give…until he finally did. But what if—what if Alastor had just met him halfway? What if he had tried, just once, to be the man Vox thought he could be?
Vox had made “forever” feel possible.
Somehow, in between late-night conversations and glances that lingered too long, in the quiet when neither of them spoke, in the safety of it all, Alastor had fallen without even knowing it. But he hadn’t been ready.
And now the thought of it—of what might’ve been if he’d just taken that one step—pressed down on him like a lead weight. Like all the air had been drained from the room, and he was choking on nothing but his own guilt.
What’s killing me the most, that no one ever knows, what I wouldn’t give
No one knew. No one could know.
Not Husk, who would just scoff and call him a fool for letting Vox slip through his fingers. Not Charlie, who would try to console him with sweet optimism that would only make it worse. Especially not Lucifer, who might take some cruel amusement in watching him suffer.
To everyone else, Alastor was still the smiling, sardonic bastard who didn’t need anyone, and he’d make sure it stayed that way.
He had always been careful to keep his heart locked behind a wall of deflection, making sure no one would ever see the cracks. Always hid his real emotions behind his smile. The whole damn point of becoming what he was had been to keep feelings out. To turn himself into something immune. He had chosen this. He had convinced himself he didn’t need love, that it wasn’t for him.
And yet here he was, decades later, broken by a photo and a man who no longer loved him.
Because now he knew. He had been wrong.
For one more chance.
His fingers traced over Vox’s face in the photograph, slow and reverent, like it was holy. Like it might vanish if he didn’t touch it carefully enough. His picture box, with that smug confidence that had once infuriated and fascinated Alastor in equal measure. If only he could reach across time and rewrite history with a single touch.
If he could claw back time with his bare hands, he would. Just one chance to do it differently. To not pull away when Vox touched his hand. To not deflect with a joke when Vox spoke in earnest. To not act like feeling something was the worst sin he could commit.
One chance to show that he’d felt it, too.
One chance to say the words. Even now, they sat heavy on his tongue, unspoken and aching.
One more kiss.
They had kissed once. Only once.
It had been nothing, even though it felt like everything. It had been half a dare, half a drunken mistake. Vox had leaned in, grinning that cocky grin, and Alastor hadn’t stopped him and let it happen.
It had been quick, but warm. A little messy, maybe, but that just made it more real. But the second it was over, he had laughed it off before he could let himself feel it, before he could let the warmth sink into his bones and rattle his core.
He'd claimed it meant nothing. Vox hadn’t argued.
But afterward, Alastor had stood in front of the mirror for hours, replaying it again and again, tracing the ghost of Vox’s mouth with his fingertips like it had branded him.
And maybe it had. Because he had felt the ground shift under him, and he didn’t know what to do with it.
Now, he’d give anything to feel it again. To let it mean something.
One more night.
The nights were always the worst.
It was when all those memories came creeping back in, settling in his brain like mold. Back then, the nights they had spent together had always been his favorite. Just them, side by side, filling the empty spaces with endless conversation, music, and whiskey. They could talk for hours, about nothing and everything.
He remembered how Vox’s leg would press against his sometimes, barely, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
Maybe he had realized.
Had Vox wanted more right from the start? Had he waited for Alastor, silently hoping he would finally see what was right in front of him, to realize the connection that had always been there?
Even one more fight.
He could still picture it—their last real argument. Vox had been furious, voice sharp with hurt after being rejected so carelessly. Alastor had ignored him, dismissed him. You never let anyone in, he had snapped, voice shaking more from hurt than anger. You think you’re above love, but you’re just afraid of it.
He had been right.
Alastor had been terrified—of being vulnerable, of needing someone, of being known. Yet he still had laughed at him during that time. Not because it was funny, but because it was true .
He had let Vox walk away with fire in his eyes and heartbreak in his voice. He had stood there, silent, believing it would pass.
It never did.
They still fought, here and there. Traded jabs through their media, but the heat had cooled. The spark had died, and it felt hollow, like it wasn’t them anymore. Even their rivalry felt like an echo now.
He’d kill for one more fight that meant something. One more time where Vox yelled at him like he cared.
I’d do anything and everything to bring you back again
But that kind of deal didn’t exist. Not even in Hell.
He would give everything—every scrap of power, every drop of influence, every damn soul in his collection—just to rewind the tape. Just to be back in that room, the one where Vox had looked at him like he mattered, and Alastor had pretended not to see.
But deals didn’t fix what you were too afraid to hold.
Still, even now, he could almost picture walking up to Vox, swallowing every ounce of pride, and saying everything he should’ve said years ago.
But Vox wasn’t his to bargain for anymore.
But you’re with him.
Vox wasn’t alone anymore. He was with him now.
Valentino had taken his place, had earned what Alastor had thrown away. It didn’t matter how cruel, perverted, or corrupt that moth was and how much Alastor resented him for it. He had done the one thing Alastor hadn’t.
He had said yes and now had what Alastor never dared reach for.
He wasn’t the one standing at Vox’s side now. He wasn’t the one making him smile, wasn’t the one holding him close, and wasn’t the one who got to see the warmth in his eyes anymore.
Valentino was. And that was the part that hurt the most.
Because no matter how much Alastor regretted it, no matter how much he wished he could go back and do it all over again—
Vox was with him , and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t be, even if Alastor hadn’t pushed him away.
There was no guarantee his twisted and wrong kind of love would’ve been enough.
He finished his drink in one long pull, then stared at the bottom of his empty glass, as if the answer to all his regrets could be found there. Nothing but emptiness greeted him.
He looked back at the photo instead. At Vox’s smile, now a memory warped with longing. It blurred behind a sting he refused to acknowledge. The picture trembled in his hand for a moment longer before he tore it straight down the center.
The sound was too loud in the quiet, but the silence that followed was deafening, as if it was deserved. Half of Vox’s face stared back at him before falling to the floor. Alastor closed his eyes as he stepped over it, making his way to his room.
And for the first time in a long, very long time—he dropped the smile.
I should have let you love me.