Chapter Text
Vincent woke up that fateful morning from a restless slumber with a peculiar feeling in his gut, and it immediately set him unfavorably on edge.
He stared up at his bedroom ceiling, clenching and unclenching his meticulously manicured fingers. Scrubbed clean of all blood, and dirt, and even the slightest bits of dust that might have been left over from his last victim.
They were the hands he gestured with on air, the hands he wielded his microphone with, his cane, he had to keep them spotless. Everything had to be.
No one had discovered him yet, and they never would, as long as he continued to make himself impossible to suspect or doubt. He was the picture of truth worthiness to the world, and in return they gave him their worship and it made his blood sing. Made him live.
He clenched and unclenched his fingers, cracking his knuckles. Once, twice. He waited a beat before doing it again third time, willing the irritating feeling to subside.
He hated these strange bouts of doubt, always hanging around where they weren’t invited, always worming there way under his skin and meddling with his mind until he was a wreck of nerves and murderous impulses that made him far too reckless than was ideal.
The feeling didn’t subside.
It clung to him as he got dressed, filed his nails down (they were already short, but it was simply routine at this point) and picked lint carefully off of his blazer before stepping into his bathroom.
He combed his hair in an easy, mechanical rhythm, mind slipping through the normal beats of assessments and reviews. Programs for the day, lists to go over, people to have a word with.
He brushed his teeth for two minutes exactly, combed his hair down perfectly, and then scowled at his reflection, gripping the edges of his shining porcelain sink.
Spotless.
He needed to be spotless, his life must be spotless. The masses would never see the blood on his hands, they would never know that he knew the exact weight needed to be applied to someone’s throat to make it break under his fingertips.
He would do phenomenal today, he would be captivating, poised, charming.
Everything his viewers praised him for he would embody effortlessly.
He knew what the feeling was.
Dread. Cold and uncertain and viciously unwelcome. He didn’t know why this feeling was choosing today to strangle him, but he could hazard a guess.
He was not going to be in the spotlight today, he had found out the previous evening, and he had almost shattered his phone in his grip as Barbra had nervously broken the news.
It was pointless to stew, but he raged despite himself, the little control he maintained amidst the current, violent sea of his consciousness crumbling to pieces in this moment of silence as he crumpled in on himself.
Agonizing over this was idiotic, he knew, because he was above needlessly self flagellation, he was better than that. He had made himself better, sculpted himself into a man that was impossible to doubt.
He would speak to who he needed to, he would seduce or lie or kill whoever and however he could. Sure, he was still just a talk show host, but he had a rapt audience and his ratings were inarguably impressive. It didn’t matter that today he was stuck behind the camera instead of in front of one, where he belonged.
This changed nothing.
He simply had the convenient technical know how, and that bastard Micheal had called out last minute with some weak excuse of a family emergency so, needs must. He had to bend in this way, just temporarily, and then when Micheal returned he would pay with his blood.
He shifted his expression into an easy grin, channeling every bit of his charm into the glint of his teeth as he straightened back up in front of the mirror. He was going to shine, he always did, it was as easy as breathing.
He scratched the palm of his hand with his nails five times, exhaling after each red line was created, and then moved swiftly out of his bathroom. The feeling had dimmed now, and Vincent’s mood began to lift.
If they made him stick behind the camera he would make sure to film an unforgettable show, and then soon enough he would be back on his stage and the audience would belong to him once more.
As it was always meant to be.
The studio looked like it always did.
The people were standard and plain (too boring to be on air, never quite good enough, and nowhere near as good as him for the lucky few that got to be on camera, the undeserving fuckers), the lights were the same pesky too-bright fluorescents and the atmosphere was bustling as per usual.
Vincent grumbled to himself as he shoved open the door to his dressing room. He didn’t need to put in any effort to look camera ready this time, but he appreciated the few moments of silence regardless.
Whether he was in front of the camera or not, he was still performing. Sweet-talking, bantering with people so far beneath him they might as well have been buried. If he had it he way, they would be soon enough.
While his murders were constrained to people who he needed to kill to move upwards in the network, the impulse never really went away. He wanted their blood, he wanted their praise, he wanted their fevered devotion and then he wanted to slit their throats while they praise him for it.
Logically, he knew he was quite possibly deranged, that he was an evil, monstrous man, but he had never cared. He was loved by thousands, and if being a monster was what was necessary, he would stand beside the devil himself with his wickedness.
He looked at himself in the mirror, sitting down at his vanity and straightening his tie. It was then when his dressing room door swished open behind him, causing his spine to stiffen.
No one ever dared to enter while he was getting ready, every soul in the studio knew better. He usually locked it, too, but he had been too busy muttering about the unfairness of that day’s circumstances to remember.
He whipped his head around, scowling, ready to ruthlessly berate whatever intern had been foolish enough to enter without even knocking. Instead, his rage caught in his throat, withered, and died.
Because there, in the doorway, was the most beautiful man he had ever seen, in the flesh or on a screen.
He knew immediately that the feeling in his gut hadn’t been dread, or fear or even foreboding, it had been golden anticipation.
Something within him had been waiting for this moment his whole life.
This breathtaking stranger’s complexion was flawless, his jaw pronounced handsomely and curls thick and luscious draped over part of his face, framing his captivating, deep brown eyes, dark and bottomless.
His red suit was tailored to perfection, hugging every sharp curve of his body like it was trying to personally be the cause of Vincent’s premature heart failure.
On his plush lips was a thin, sly smile that showed just a hint of sharp teeth beneath.
Vincent prided himself on not fainting right then and there before the man spoke. His pulse roared, mind whirring at impossible speeds in an effort to keep himself cognizant.
“My apologies, good sir! It seems I have gotten rather turned around. I was told to go visit the man hosting me on the program today before we go on air, but no one will give me decent set of instructions. It’s my first time on air you see, and I have been trying doors for nearly twenty minutes now, and I have yet to be met with answers as to where his dressing room is located.”
His voice was silky smooth, a presenter’s voice, rich and enchanting. Just hearing him speak was like hearing a symphony unfold from front row seats of the theater, like being blessed with something undeniably great.
He was violently struck with urge to hear him reduced to whimpers, whines, yelps of pain or pleasure or better yet both.
He wanted to kiss him and then hit him to observe how violence would shade his pretty complexion, wanted to see his eyes water and then squeeze closed as he came.
It wasn’t just his voice either, it was the way he moved with each word, fluid and saturated with easy charisma. Fuck, it was addicting to watch. He had never met such a natural performer before, and he wasn’t even on the stage! He could scarcely believe he’d never been on camera before.
On camera, oh god, how would he look on film? All confidence and perfect angles and Vincent was getting the privilege of capturing all of him.
A scene filled his mind of Alastor bent over the talk show desk while Vincent took him, red recorder dot beaming the image out to thousands of his viewers who would sit there and have no choice to watch, completely scandalized but unable to look away.
Vincent blinked, speechless, engrossed in his perverted inner wonderings and the man cocked his head to the side, eyebrows raised. He didn’t look nervous, perhaps curious if anything. Slightly amused, slightly off put.
“Have I disrupted something? Dreadfully rude of me to enter without knocking first, to be sure. You’ll have to forgive me, all of my trial and error has made me weary of typical formalities, and you door was unlocked, which certainly…”
His peppy, barely apologetic, heavenly voice trailed off as his now-narrowed eyes took in Vincent’s dazed expression. His gaze felt less like care or attention and more like assessment.
He was being scrutinized, and there was something intimately searching about it, about having his skin be peeled backwards at someone else trying to take a good look.
He was used to people staring, asking for autographs, throwing themselves at him, but looking. Peering into him and then through him, trying to understand. That was new, and fuck, what a goddamn rush.
“Are you quite alright, my good fellow? You look an absolute fright.”
Vincent at last shook his head, snapping out of his daze and springing to his feet like a shot.
“On yes! You’re no imposition at all, banish the thought!”
Almost instantly he was invading the other man’s space.
His eyes were comically wide, his stare crudely intense, wanting to soak up as much of him as possible from sight alone.
He noticed a small black blemish by the man’s ear, a spot of dry skin on his upper lip. He wanted to catch it with his teeth, gnaw it off and then swallow it dry.
The other man flinched, almost imperceptibly, before grasping Vincent’s eager palm firmly. The television star’s smile was crooked, his usual charm evading him in place of his infatuation with how the other man looked shocked, however barely.
It pleased him to know he was having an affect on someone who clearly wasn’t used to being affected.
“The name’s Vincent Whitman! You might have heard of me, I’m the usual host for the 5pm news and 8pm talk show slots! I’ve grown a decent following these days… and you are?” He prompted.
“Alastor Beaumont. Pleasure.” The man’s- Alastor’s- tone was curt. Vincent nodded sharply, decidedly ignoring the other’s discomfort, rolling the name around in his head, curling their fingers together tighter.
“Alastor.” He tested the name on his tongue and found it fit perfectly there. All the better, he would be saying the name countless times for the rest of his life. In fact, no one else could utter the name. They were hardly deserving.
Others had seen him, of course, that was unavoidable, however unworthy they were to look upon him. What were his friends like? Had he ever been touched? How had he been touched?
The thought alone made his veins feel charged with murderous intention, but it also made his head spin with dizzying possibility.
Had he been with women? Men? What did he like? What did that eerie smile look like stretched around a moan? Vincent realized too late that his mouth was starting to water.
“You can unhand me now.” Vincent recoiled as if burned, realizing how tight his knuckles had been clenching and chuckled, taking a settling breath, willing his persona to seep back into his body.
“Sorry about that, got lost in thought! Haven’t had my joe yet, and I’ve been feeling so strange this whole morning. Just a bit of an off day is all.” Vincent explained with a bright smile, stepping back enough to give Alastor some room to breathe but not enough so that he couldn’t reach out and touch.
Alastor eyed him dryly, looking vaguely annoyed, but not disinterested. Vincent could work with that.
“I see. The weather, perhaps? They say a storm’s going to pass through within the next couple hours.” Alastor said conversationally, stepping away from Vincent and looking around his dressing room, his too-wide smile now more relaxed.
”Maybe. I think it has more to do with my sleep schedule. Demanding hours and all that junk, you know how it is.” Vincent shrugged.
Alastor only hummed in response, looking everywhere but Vincent’s own face, causing the television star’s left eye to twitch, just barely.
“My my, what a lovely dwelling this is. Such exorbitance. The network’s golden boy, hm?” The words were casual, his face neutral, but his eyes flashed as he leaned against Vincent’s dressing table. It took a second before he recognized he was supposed to respond, too caught up in his odd man’s simultaneous beauty and utter unreadability.
“Oh! Yeah, well, being the top earner at the studio certainly has its perks. Not that they aren’t hard-earned, of course.” Pride clung to his tone, thick and heavy, and why wouldn’t it? He was shining, as he was always meant to, and he would only get brighter.
Alastor chuckled lightly, humorlessly, eyes flicking to the various clippings of Vincent that were hung around the room, boasting of his talent and high ratings.
“Naturally, dear. I’m sure you work very hard for everything you have.”
Vincent nodded, missing Alastor’s sarcasm completely, gesturing to the most recently clipping hung right above his dressing table. It was him in his best suit, waving to the adoring audience, many of whom were in the throes of intense emotions, wailing or calling out to him.
“Gotta give the people what they want, Al!” The nickname felt right, the familiarity was welcomed, and he didn’t noticed the way Alastor’s lip curled in response.
“I’ve been at this game for years! It takes a lot of effort, but if you really know what you want no one can ever stop you from taking it.”
Alastor raised an eyebrow at his enthusiasm. “Is that so?”
Vincent’s cheeks colored. He raised a hand to his mouth, clearing his throat. Alastor eyes were back on him, and god, it was like being examined on a test table.
“Sorry, where are my manners! What is it you do? I’ve never seen you around here before, I would have remembered.” A bold thing to say perhaps, but Alastor brushed past it graciously.
“No, you wouldn’t have. I work on one of the lower levels of the building in the radio division. I have my own nightly broadcast.”
“Radio huh? How… quaint.” Vincent responded dumbly, unsure of where to continue. However wonderful it might be, it was a dying art, everyone knew that.
“Oh?” Alastor responded, a menacing lilt in his tone, air suddenly dropping a degree or two. Vincent held his hands up defensively, scrambling.
He was protective of his career, noted.
“No, no! I think it’s great! I mean… modern entertainment basically started with radio, after all! It’s a timeless art! Just… shame the audiences don’t feel the same.”
Alastor softened minutely at that, a bit of his previous iciness retreating. Vincent exhaled, not even realizing he’d been holding his breath.
“Quite. However, I have faith in them. My listeners are a loyal bunch, and I believe the smartest will never let such a beloved medium to collect dust.”
There was a fondness in his voice when he spoke about his craft that made Vincent want to purchase him a thousand radios. Hell, he’d build him an entire radio tower just to keep him sounding like that forever.
He would hunt down his broadcast and dig out his radio from his closet first thing when he got home. His pulse hammered in his ears at the prospect of listening to Alastor in the privacy of his own home, for hours.
Focus Whitman, he chided himself. This was not the time to get hysterical.
“Well, anyway! Enough of my meandering talk, you needed to get to someone, Bill, right? I’ll walk you to his room! It’s not far, but it’s a big studio and it’s easy to get turned around.”
Alastor pushed himself off the desk elegantly and made his way to the door without hurry, eyes shining. There was distrust there (not for long, if he could help it), but something else too, something frustratingly impossible to decipher.
Vincent longed to understand what was going on in his mind, longed to open a hole in his chest right that moment and reach inside just to get himself covered with him as quickly as possible.
He wanted to be drenched with Alastor, wanted to swim in his eyes, his scent (thick, earthy cologne with a spiced edge), his pretty mouth, wanted to bury himself down his throat and watch Alastor’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed around his-
“Well, lead the way, my dear!” Alastor chirped, and Vincent was catapulted back into reality. Beaming, he opened the door with an over-dramatic flourish and gave an exaggerated bow.
This earned a tiny, humored scoff from Alastor.
“After you!”