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The thick, sticky smell of Valentino’s smoke filled the room. Vox always complained that it got in his vents and in between his wires.
Untying his first set of arms from the bed frame, Valentino picked up another cigarette. Cigarettes always made him feel better. He took a drag, and the pink smoke filled the room again. He turned his head away from Vox’s stare.
Vox always looked like he had something to say after sex. He never said it.
Val gave the room a brief scan. It was impossible to tell what time it was since hell was eye-bleeding red all day long, but last he checked it was still early morning. Lights were down, and there was no slice of light from under the locked door, so VoxTek wasn’t open yet. Vox would leave soon. He always had work to do. Often, he’d leave Valentino in cold sheets, sore and vulnerable. Sometimes, Val would throw things at him and storm out in a flurry of sticky smoke and broken lamps. Things ended sourly often.
Vox’s staring always pissed Val off. He had kept on yanking Val’s chain. Val wished he’d stop doing that. Vox was still staring. He could practically visualise Vox: mouth open and about to talk, looking a mix of concerned and bitter, one fist clenched, one reaching out to smooth over Val’s wings.
Vox had done it again.
They had been in bed, Val tied down and Vox on him. The heat between them was fire; it closed the spaces between limbs and gave them a wicked taste for the other. It was one of the moments where Val could forget about the company and his stupid whores and all of the other shit. The fire got hotter, and in the throes of an orgasm he heard it.
“Alastor!” Vox had cried.
Val froze. Vox froze. The pleasure of lust had disappeared. Vox had scrambled onto the other side of the bed, and Val had untied himself and turned to face the wall.
Then Val lit up a cigarette.
The silence was awkward. Tense, uncomfortable and awkward. Vox took another drag from his cigarette and the nicotine in his veins overpowered the burning in his lungs. Vox said ‘Alastor’ like he was a billion dollars and an end to world hunger. He never said ‘Valentino’ like that. He said it like ‘Valentino’ was a word you could say during sex, like ‘whore’ or ‘slut’. And sure, Val was both of those things but he was more, too.
The empty feeling in Valentino’s chest widened, until no amount of smoke or nicotine or sex could ever fill it. Impossibly wide, his chest caved in like a supernova. Val shot up from the bed and his fingers itched for a cigarette, or a thin wrist to snap.
The wrist he found was Vox’s.
“You don’t think about anyone but that stupid deer, do you?”
Valentino couldn’t see anything apart from the irritating glow of Vox’s screen. He wanted to send his fist flying through Vox’s monitor. Instead, he got out of bed and stormed towards the door.
“Val, look I’m so-”
“SHUT UP! Shut up, shut up shut up SHUT UP.” Val screamed, wild and frenzied.
Two of Val’s arms reached his antennae, tugging fiercely. He stormed around the room, only half-aware he was still dragging Vox with him. He wanted to see Vox hurt. The feelings built up in his chest, hot and painful, and spilled out like magma through his mouth.
“All day FUCKING long, Alastor, Alastor, Alastor, do you ever have enough to say about him? God, you’ve got to be insane or something! When I first met you practically all you did was bounce on his meat all day long like he was the best thing since toilet paper! I hate him! And don’t think I haven’t seen your stupid little jacket, I’ve seen you sniff that thing. It’s disgusting! You are SO DAMN pathetic-”
Vox’s wrist broke free from his grip. With shoulders raised, he took a fumbling step back.
“You were his right hand man or something, weren’t you? But you wanted more. News flash, motherfucker! He didn’t want you! You weren’t his friend, or his business partner, you were his little doggy on a leash! Get over it!”
Uneasy quiet. Valentino, breath heaving, let his arms fall to his side in fists. The sudden anger at Vox had not yet worn off. If anything, he was more angry. He thought about ripping off the cover to his motherboard and crushing his tech brain with sharp claws.
“I am nobody’s dog, Valentino.” Came the venomous reply, after considerable silence.
There he went again. Saying ‘Valentino’ like it was bad gum; spitting it onto the floor for someone to step in. He was probably never like that with Alastor. Envy grew in Valentino’s chest like an infection. It clenched his throat like a tight collar.
The anger rose, then it fell again. He didn’t want a fight. He had a photoshoot in the afternoon. If he showed up with hickeys, Velvette would cover them up with a grumble. If he showed up with scratches and a black eye, Velvette would wring him out.
The room got colder.
Snatching his cigarettes from the bedside table, Val got up. Vox was still in bed.
The door slammed on his way out.
———
After a good 3 hours of torturing his whores, Val felt better. The shoot had gone well, luckily, because if anything else had gone wrong Angel Dust wouldn’t be able to leave his room, let alone crawl back to his stupid hotel.
He still felt that deep, black, chasm behind his ribcage. It was slowly filling up with bitter hatred and jealousy, but that was better than the empty nothing it was before.
What was so special about Alastor? Why did Alastor always feel like the main event, while Valentino was a cheap fuck for the meantime?
Vox was probably doing work. Val didn’t pretend to understand the crap he did in that office. He suspected most of it was looking at Alastor with his dick in his hands.
Val didn’t pretend to understand Vox’s obsession with Alastor. He remembered, in his first meeting with him, seeing the twinkle in his eye when he talked about the radio demon. That wasn’t heat or passion or sex, that was love. Real love.
Vox didn’t love Valentino like he loved Alastor.
Valentino might have loved Vox.
Valentino knew heat, passion and sex. He knew the hot feeling of an orgasm and the heat of a shivering body beneath him. He knew what it was like to leave someone, unconscious and bloody, in the sheets. He knew what it was like to wake up in cold sheets with only an imprint left behind. That was his comfort zone.
He wasn’t sure that he knew the gentle warmth of being in bed with someone after sex. He hadn’t ever seen a need for it. Before meeting Vox, he assumed it was for sappy virgins who blushed at holding hands. He laughed every time a new whore grabbed him by the wrist and asked him to cuddle. It was stupid.
So why did he want to be like that with Vox? To wake up next to him on a slow morning, to talk about something other than work? To be in love?
Loving Vox would be like loving a brick wall. Realistically, he wouldn’t wake up next to him on a slow morning because Vox got up perilously early to stare at a computer. He loved his work more than anything else, so most of their conversations would spiral back into the latest VoxTek product, trust us with your car insurance!
He couldn’t love Vox.
Valentino took a long drag from his cigarette with white knuckles. He needed a pale, shaking shoulder to put out his cigarette on.
—
Vox sat at his desk. Working.
He wasn’t actually working, but if he pulled up enough spreadsheets on his desktop monitor it would look like he was deep in thought about company stuff, not about his business-
Partner-with-benefits.
Valentino was mad.
Vox knew why.
The embarrassment and shame still coiled in him like sour milk. Vox had watched a lot of melodramatic soap operas (courtesy of Velvette and Valentino both), and saying somebody else’s name in bed was a cardinal sin of relationships.
Valentino probably didn’t care all that much, really. He had never seemed the jealous type.
Clicking absentmindedly at his computer, Vox thought about Valentino. Not about having sex with him, but the actual sinner.
Vox liked Valentino. He was hot. He had a way of breaking someone, mentally, that tickled Vox’s fancy. Vox found himself anticipating a new whore of Valentino’s, just to see the light leave their eyes slowly.
Vox wondered if the whores were better at sex than him. Not that he was jealous of his co-worker’s sex slaves. No way. But the best way to Valentino’s heart was through his dick, and the porn stars had to be good at sex to be, well, porn stars.
Vox wondered if Valentino’s heart should be a goal.
The thought of loving him was terrifying. Being with Val was like being with a bomb. Valentino had a wild temper when things went south, and if there was anything guaranteed to fail, it was Vox and love.
What do people do when they’re in love?
If Valentino and Vox fell in love, would they kiss? Vox didn’t particularly like kissing. Would they wake up next to each other? Vox got up early for work. He liked spending time with him, but Val’s hands always seemed to end up between someone’s legs. Vox only liked that during sex. Valentino certainly didn’t like talking about the company. Whenever Vox started gushing about a project he was proud of, Valentino would instantly stop paying attention.
Vox spent a lot of time thinking about Alastor.
He couldn’t love Valentino too.
—
Vox shuffled into the kitchen, back sore from hunching over his desk all day. Mid coffee, he slumped into the nearest chair and stamped his mug into the nearest coaster.
On the clean table was a small piece of card.
Tentatively, Vox reached over to it and snatched it. He knew who it was from.
Looking down at the pink cursive text in the card, Vox smiled.
The paper smelled of Val’s cigarettes.