Chapter Text
~𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓸𝓯 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 ₭łⱠⱠ~
*****
KAMNOX - Bleed me Slow [Official Lyric Video]
~You turn your back, I chase the shadow
Lay me down like I′m your sin
Craving every twisted echo
Of the war you start beneath my skin
I lost myself in your madness
Now I worship every scar
Kissing knives instead of answers
Just to know where the devils are~
*****
Stale smoke hung in the air, creating a haze that lingered above the heads of a wide variety of patrons. In a place that thrived on dodging legalities, every manner of sin and social faux pas took place behind the closed doors of local speakeasies. That’s why Alastor loved it here. No one cared what the colour of your skin was, how much money your daddy had—or didn’t have, how high the skirts were hiked, nor if your chosen company had the same anatomy as you. There was freedom in these dark rooms filled with the thrumming beat of slow jazz and liberally poured drinks of questionable origin.
If someone did care—well, Alastor had ways of handling that. Somehow, no one ever questioned why random men would go missing after indulging too much during a night on the town. Men who would get too handsy with the female patrons. Men who didn’t know better than to keep their opinions to themselves. Men who would follow a tight ass and a pretty set of chocolatey doe eyes into a dark alley.
Leaning back against the bar with legs crossed, lit cigarette dangling from his limp, relaxed fingers, Alastor’s dark gaze scanned the crowded room. Despite the relaxed posture, there was something coiled tightly in his gut—a need—a hunger that no amount of greasy food or potent alcohol could quench. Or maybe he was just bored.
Spotting an old friend cutting it up on the dance floor, Alastor raised his glass of rye to her and tipped his head in greeting. The tiny blonde grinned widely and winked back at him—before performing an enthusiastic spin that sent her already obscenely short dress high enough to flash black lace garters. That girl was nothing but trouble. Alastor adored her.
“Hey, Al! Glad I caught you!” Speaking of enthusiasm and trouble, another prime example plopped down on the barstool right beside him. Turning to face the source of the bold, jovial voice that greeted him so casually, Alastor took a long drag off his cigarette as a smirk pulled at his lips.
“Did you, now? As far as I know, no one’s caught me yet…” His tone was low but teasing as Alastor allowed his eyes to roam down and then slowly up, taking in the whole picture that was Vincent Whittman.
Instead of his usual mundane, brown suit, the self-proclaimed ‘Star of Television’ now sported a brighter, nearly cream-colored twill blazer and matching slacks. His shoes could have used a fresh polish; the smudged, dark stains at the tips were unbecoming, but also hinted at activities best done in the cover of night. A striped brown tie, which had also been swapped out from drab black, provided a dashing contrast with the aquamarine vest he had adapted. The colorful vest also complemented, in Alastor’s humble opinion, Vincent’s best feature: those striking mismatched eyes. Which—in his more excitedly manic moments—would widen, shining like the sun-kissed ocean in shades of emerald and azure.
“And I doubt anyone ever will!” Vincent motioned to the bartender, pointing first at Alastor’s drink, then holding up two fingers. “You are quite the catch, Al. Always some skirt chasing your tail around, I’m sure!” His words were accompanied by a conspiratorial wink and a vague gesture toward the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. “Bet ol’ Mimzy would take you for a spin at least. Help you work out some frustration, if you know what I mean?”
Alastor scowled at the elbow that jabbed into his ribs, rolling his eyes as he picked up his drink and downed the rest of it in a single, swift motion. He would need a lot more whiskey this evening if he was going to make it through the night without ‘working out his frustration’ on this idiot. Vincent had a big mouth that tended to spout entirely too much macho-sounding drivel, but there was never really any heartfelt malice behind it. Alastor knew masks for what they were—as a man who wore his own in the form of a wide, charismatic smile—and easily forgave the television host for his.
“If you like her so much, perhaps you should ‘take her for a spin’. It would be rather entertaining to watch her shimmy and claw her way up your leg like a lamppost.” Alastor ground out his cigarette to the sound of Vincent’s loud, nervous laughter.
“Yeah—uh… I think I’ll pass on that one…” His cheeks flushed as his eyes lowered away from Alastor’s gaze, and he raised an arm, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Got to focus on my career now and all that. You know?” Vincent's last words were a squeaked-out excuse. Mimzy was a fine girl with seemingly endless energy and ample assets, but Alastor had seen the way those heterochromatic eyes followed his every move and the way he would grow so easily flustered at the slightest innuendo. No, he doubted Vincent would ever be truly content to settle down with an adorable little housewife and make a dozen noisy, miniature copies of himself. At least that was something they had in common.
“Mmhmmm.. Yes, your career.” Reaching out with both hands, Alastor straightened Vincent’s tie, yanking the knot tight up around his neck. The heat blooming in the man’s cheeks and the slightly panicked, widening eyes were entertaining enough to be worth the effort, earning him a small, pleased smirk. “Given the new attire, I presume that is going well?”
Leaning in close enough that Vincent could smell the rye and smoke on Alastor’s breath, the radio host gazed up at him with bittersweet chocolate eyes, half-lidded and laced with long, thick, ebony lashes. "Hmm..? Seems you took my advice then, Weather Boy," he teased in a hushed, purring voice.
Vincent’s deepening blush brightened up his face like an overripe tomato as he struggled to breathe, let alone find words. The dark light glittering with amusement in Alastor's eyes held a feral hunger as he watched the sporadic bob of Vincent’s throat, swallowing audibly. “I— I uh… y—yeah! Sure, I did!” he sputtered out, attempting to bolster himself and regain some sort of control over the situation.
Leaning back so far on his stool that he threatened to topple over backwards, Vincent tried desperately to put some distance between himself and the predator stalking ever closer. He took in a deep breath and puffed up his chest as he grabbed the folded edges of his jacket firmly, clinging to them as if his life depended on it. The metal of his boat-shaped lapel pin glinted faintly as it caught the dim lights in the smoke-filled room. “I’m done being a little fish, time to swim with the sharks! I’m a news anchor now! You said that if I want it, I should just take it! And I did!”
There was a manic hysteria twinkling in Vincent’s eyes that Alastor recognized all too well. He had often caught the same expression staring back at him in reflective puddles—and from the blade of his knife, just before it swung down with a meaty thud and a wash of warm, wet crimson. Oh, Alastor couldn't wait to hear all about how Vincent Whittman had managed to ensnare this... promotion.
In a bold move, Vincent slipped off his stool, standing quickly and then wrapped an arm around Alastor’s shoulders, tugging him roughly against his side. “No more weather for me!” He extended his other hand out and upward in a dramatic gesture, reaching toward the ceiling like he was attempting to touch a distant star. “The sky's the limit, Al! Trust me! Someday you’ll see my name up in lights! I’m going to be the biggest thing this country’s ever seen!”
A low growl rumbled through clenched teeth as Alastor ducked down, twisting out of Vincent’s suffocating death-grip on his shoulder. Brushing invisible dust off his sleeves and shoulders with an imperceptible shudder, he straightened his clothing methodically. “Yes, well, something about you is certainly huge!” Alastor spat out with a hiss before he could school his words a bit more carefully.
Immediately, Vincent’s face burned like a hot iron, his ocean hues flicking down between his legs, only to quickly avert up to a glowing neon sign high above the bar. Following the movement of his eyes, Alastor caught a glimpse of exactly the focus and issue of Vincent’s embarrassment before the man could cross his legs and turn away to face the counter. “Your ego, you fucking degenerate!”
Snatching up his fresh drink, Alastor shifted around, crossing his free arm over his chest and gave Vincent his back with a huff. Despite himself, he cast a glance back at the other man over his shoulder, narrowed brown eyes landing directly on Vincent’s lap and tightly folded legs, which were doing a poor job of concealing his impropriety. A quick swig of whiskey hid the faint smirk that drew at his lips—that only spread wider upon taking in the anchorman’s hunched shoulders and downcast, mortified expression.
“It seems to me, that you could use some of that tension relief you mentioned earlier, darling.” Setting his glass back down on the bar, Alastor stepped closer, lowering his open hand down into Vincent’s field of vision. “Come, cher. Dance with me. It is a night to celebrate, is it not?” His tone, like his words, was warm and gentle, a rarity from Alastor that Vincent had only heard directed at women and cats.
At first, Vincent flinched away from the extended hand as if it were some strange, alien creature that had come down from above to lure him into unspeakable, torturous horrors. It even wriggled after a moment, like hungry tendrils beckoning him. Slowly, Vincent tore his gaze away from the harmless, rather dainty-looking hand that belonged to the shorter man with features soft enough to pass for feminine. Shimmering ocean eyes met burnished mahogany hues—and in the space between one heartbeat and the next—Alastor’s prey fell willingly into his grasp, unaware of the predator that hid behind those soulful doe eyes.
“Celebrate… yeah…” Vincent allowed himself to be swept off his barstool and to his feet, following the pull in a stupefied haze, his feet stumbling over one another as he shuffled towards the dance floor. Only once he was surrounded by hot, swaying masses, and those delicate hands landed on his hip and shoulder, did Vincent come to his senses. Crystal blue eyes widened, and he jerked away from the small, warm body nearly pressed against his. His gaze darted around at the couples entangled in one another as he took another step backwards, looking anywhere but at Alastor, who sighed heavily, shaking his head.
“Go on, then. I’ll find another partner.” There wasn’t any spite or malice in Alastor’s tone, only crushing disappointment. Despite all the wonderful, tantalizing, annoying, dangerous things Vincent was, there was one thing that irritated Alastor to no end. One thing that was glaringly, painfully obvious as he watched the man’s back as he walked away and got lost in the crowd. Vincent was a coward.